Page 3 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Two

Sir William Cavendish spun around, his breath catching as he stared at the woman he’d waited so long to see. He’d been expecting a well-bred, proper young lady, not this wild sprite who looked as if she’d just stepped out of the madhouse. Tall and willowy, Isobel Marston moved with grace, keeping her elfin chin up. But her raven-black hair was unconfined by coif or hat and straggled about her face and shoulders. Disturbing green eyes stared at him intently beneath dark, lustrous lashes. Her flawless skin was pale, with shadows around the eyes and beneath the cheekbones, and she wore a worn skirt and bodice, haphazardly laced and with several of the waist tabs hanging off.

No wealthy young lady, this. More like a guttersnipe. Will could barely keep the astonishment from his face. Astonishment laced with anger.

“Had we expected you, Sir William, we would have made her more presentable. ’Tis pointless bedecking her in finery on an ordinary day—as you see, she tends to ruin clothes.”

Fie on the fellow for discussing Edward’s sister as if she were less than a person! Will had learned a lot about her, and about his friend’s home, Marston House, during those grim days in the Lowlands. He’d been eager to meet the accomplished young woman whom Edward held in such high esteem.

He stood before her and proffered his hand. She stared at it as if it were some new kind of vegetable, then raised her bewitching green eyes to his.

Master Pike cleared his throat. “My apologies. Since her illness began, she has forgotten her manners. Shake hands with Sir William, Isobel.”

She cowered, then took Will’s hand. And failed to let go.

What thoughts passed behind those beautiful, unfathomable eyes? She had no polite smile for him, no maidenly blush. Mayhap, after all, he should not have insisted on seeing her when she was so clearly not in her right mind. He gently disengaged his hand.

“It’s Orpheus, returned from the underworld.” She sounded like some actor in a Greek tragedy, proclaiming their lines. “Don’t look behind you, or Eurydice will sink back into the depths, and you’ll never see her on the earth again.”

Baffled, Will looked at Pike.

He smiled sympathetically. “Be not alarmed. She rarely speaks two words of sense together. When she’s like this, I doubt she’ll understand the tidings you bring—though you may attempt it if you wish. Sit down, Isobel.” Pike raised his voice when he spoke to her, enunciating every syllable clearly. “Sir William has something to tell you.”

The young woman settled herself obediently onto the high-backed settle, and continued to stare silently at Will. Then she gazed around the room, a slight frown between her brows as if she were looking for something.

“Mistress Marston, let me make myself known to you.” He was determined not to lose face in front of Hubert Pike, nor to fail in his quest. Not when he’d come so far, and been through so much. “I am Sir William Cavendish. I served as a soldier with your brother.”

There was no response. She looked to have forgotten his existence. He approached the settle and crouched before her, ignoring the protest from his injured leg. “You remember your brother, Edward, Isobel? It must be around seven months since last you saw him.”

She focused on him again. Encouraged, he continued, “I regret—I bring you bad tidings. Your brother died during a raid. I got him to the surgeon, did what I could, but his injuries were too severe.”

He paused and swallowed hard. The scene of carnage after that raid at Venlo had never left him. The blood, the sickly color of Edward’s face, the sheer horror of it all. He’d been so shocked by his friend’s wounds that he’d not even noticed his own. Until the surgeon had pointed it out—after which point, he remembered but little.

He cleared his throat. “Before your brother died, he bade me take good care of you.”

A sharply indrawn breath from Pike distracted him. Of course, the man would not welcome any interference in his dealings with Isobel. But Will was bound by a deathbed promise, and too hardened by his recent experiences to give a farthing for Pike’s feelings.

Still no response from Isobel, who continued staring dazedly around her, as if she knew not where she was. Had she any idea of the significance of what he’d just said?

He turned to Pike. “I have Edward’s rapier outside, strapped to my horse. Mayhap that will push the message home. Shall I have my saddlebags brought in at the same time, if your offer of a bed for the night still stands?”

Not that he had any great desire to spend more time in the company of Master Pike and his insane patient, but weariness and pain were starting to take their toll.

The gigantic manservant fetched his belongings, but Will refused to entrust Edward’s sword to him. He’d had a box made to accommodate it, and carried it reverently into the parlor, like a sacred relic. He set the box down in front of Isobel.

She stared at him, avidly. “Sir—what, pray, have you done with my harpsichord?”

“I—” He caught Pike’s attention, but the man just shrugged. “I’ve done nothing. I didn’t come here to speak of musical instruments. Isobel—”

As he looked into her blank but delicate face, his gut twisted. Was he attempting the impossible in making her comprehend her brother’s death? Was he the only one left to mourn Edward’s passing? Pike’s sympathetic expression was unconvincing, and Isobel was trapped in a world of her own—unknowing, unseeing.

Seating himself on the settle beside her, he made a final effort. “Mistress Marston—Isobel—your brother, Edward, is dead. He charged me to give you this, in remembrance of him.”

When she reached for the box, optimism stirred. Until she smiled and exclaimed, “Pandora’s box! I have always wondered what Hope looked like.” She opened the lid.

A tragedy that a woman so clearly out of her wits—and with little in the way of genuine hope—should look to an ancient myth in search of that valuable thing.

Jaw set, Will looked at Pike. “Wherefore does she cite so many classical references?”