Kingslayer's Daughter Read online

  Her companion choked on his ale. “Twenty years?”

  She focused her attention on the pie, the taste of bitter memories in her mouth. After a short time in Birmingham she discovered what Reginald North actually required was an indentured servant.

  “The hours were long, the responsibilities enormous,” she rambled on in an effort to erase the shock from Munro’s face. “If I made a mistake with a remedy, Reginald stood to lose his license or be prosecuted.”

  She pushed aside the half-eaten pie. By way of thanks, her husband used her hard every night to satisfy his male urges. He never failed to remind her as he grunted and strained that she was the daughter of a whore.

  She couldn’t meet Munro’s gaze, afraid he might see the truth, but her tongue refused to be still. The practice of apothecary had kept her from total despair. “I quickly developed a deep appreciation for the medicinal arts. My knowledge of Latin proved a boon in deciphering the Pharmacopoeia. I love extracting essences, grinding powders and concocting remedies to make folk well. Fermentation and distillation fascinate me.”

  Munro stared. “Ye’re remarkable,” he rasped.

  Sarah had no idea how to respond to such a compliment.

  * * *

  Munro couldn’t recall ever meeting a more interesting woman. It was fun to flirt with his sister’s friends, but they were immature young lasses—hardly surprising since Jewel was a few years younger than he was.

  Females weren’t permitted to enrol at the University of Edinburgh, and he preferred not to consort with the loose women of the city many of his fellow students boasted of bedding.

  Across from him in a noisy coaching inn sat Sarah North—beautiful, intelligent, appealing in every way, and clearly nonplussed by compliments. The more they talked, the more enamored he became. He sensed a deep sadness that he attributed to her marriage to a brutish husband many years her senior. He doubted she’d known pleasure in the marriage bed.

  If ever a woman needed a man to make her laugh, to make her body sing, to make her happy, it was Sarah. Though he’d known her only a short time, he wanted to be that man. His heart knew she was the one for him.

  However, in the back of his mind lay the sobering reality she had commitments in Birmingham. It was unlikely she’d be interested in giving up her new-found independence and a prosperous apothecary shop to follow him to the wilds of Scotland. As well, he had responsibilities as the heir to his father’s earldom.

  But he had to try. “Do ye like Birmingham?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “It’s a very prosperous town,” she replied. “It’s home to many wealthy iron merchants who control a network of forges and furnaces that stretch from Cheshire to South Wales. They sell manufactured goods as far afield as the West Indies and employ a highly skilled workforce. It’s a good place for an apothecary shop.”

  Munro was more interested in the movement of her lips than in what she was actually saying, but he searched for a way to continue the conversation. “I understand it was a hotbed of Puritanism during the Civil War,” he said. “Wasn’t there a famous battle fought there between Parliamentarians and Royalists? As I recall, Prince Rupert burned the town because they’d supplied swords to the Parliamentary army.”

  Alarmed when the color drained from her face, he reached to take her hand. “Are ye unwell? Ye didna finish the pie.”

  She yanked her hand from his grasp and knocked over the chair in her hurry to stand. “Yes. I’m afraid I must retire.”

  She was gone before Munro could get to his feet and bid her goodnight.

  * * *

  Sarah thought the years of stifling sobs in pillows were over and done when Reginald died, but her mother slept inches away in the same bed. Waking her would lead to more grief. She had no sane explanation for her tears, and doubted Mary Ward would be sympathetic.

  I am crying for a man I can never have, though I don’t wish to marry again anyway.

  Reginald’s false flattery had persuaded her into marriage, but she’d never felt the same physical and emotional attraction to him that she felt for Munro. The notion of discussing such a quandary with a woman who’d borne three children out of wedlock bordered on lunacy. She’d long ago ceased fretting over the reasons a mother would abandon her daughters in favor of living in a prison with a traitor.

  If ever I bore a child…

  The stark reality that she was barren tore a bigger hole in her heart. All of Reginald’s rutting had been for nothing, save to increase his disdain.

  Munro Pendray would want children.

  She buried her face deeper in the pillow, determined to banish the Scot from her mind and ponder instead the procurement of an apprentice.

  Headmaster

  When Sarah and her mother failed to appear for breakfast the next morning, Munro fidgeted with the cuffs of his jacket. He finally ate the fresh bread and cheese he’d been served, worried the ladies were going to lose their seats on the coach if they didn’t arrive soon.

  At the very least, they’d missed breakfast and food was hard to come by en route. Perhaps Sarah hadn’t regained her appetite.

  He left the dining room intending to make sure his satchel had been loaded before rushing upstairs to chivvy the women along. His luggage was indeed strapped in the rear basket—right next to Sarah’s portmanteau. His spirits fell. There was only one possible explanation. They had avoided him.

  He’d been a perfect gentleman, so he dismissed the notion as unreasonable and strode to the coach.

  The driver and guard tipped their hats. “Cuttin’ it a bit fine, sir,” the coachman said with a grin.

  He smiled weakly and climbed the steps into the coach. Two things fell into proper order. Mother and daughter were in their seats. A tall gentleman sat across from Mrs. Ward, his nose buried in a gazette. The seat opposite Sarah was vacant.

  His relief was short-lived. Both women greeted him with barely a nod, and Sarah’s pale face was set in a rigid scowl.

  He’d evidently done something to annoy her—but what? It was doubly perplexing because he hadn’t judged her a woman who took offense easily. “Good morning, Mrs. Ward,” he offered as he settled into the uncomfortable seat. “I trust ye slept well.”

  Mary grunted.

  Undeterred, he smiled broadly. “Good morning, Sarah. Are ye feeling better?”

  She glanced at him briefly and mumbled, “Good morning, Mr. Pendray. I’m well, thank you.”

  Her cool demeanor churned his gut.

  The man seated next to him cleared his throat loudly and rustled his gazette, as if polite greetings between fellow passengers were an unwelcome irritation.

  The prospect of hours of uncomfortable silence loomed large, so Munro determined to do his best to dispel it. “Munro Pendray’s the name, sir,” he said to his companion as the coach got underway. “Keeping up with current affairs, I see.”

  The man sighed as if dealing with a pesky bairn, and lowered the gazette to his lap. “It’s imperative a professional man acquaint himself with what’s going on in the world. Nathaniel Battersby, Head Master of King Edward’s School. And you’re a Scot.”

  Munro wasn’t sure whether Battersby was inferring a Scot wouldn’t be interested in world affairs, but the pompous man’s remarks did prompt a brief lifting of Sarah’s frown.

  “A big school, is it?” he asked, confident his question would provoke a reaction.

  Battersby removed his pince-nez and looked down his long nose at Munro. “My dear sir, King Edward’s School is a major center of learning for boys in Birmingham. I take it you haven’t visited our great city?”

  “Nay, I havna,” Munro replied, laying the brogue on heavily. “Which King Edward would that be then?”

  Even Mary Ward’s lips twitched, but Sarah frowned.

  Battersby rose to the challenge. “Edward VI in 1552. The school opened in a building that formerly belonged to the Guild of the Holy Cross on New Street. Now we have over 200 boys and a Prep School.”

&
nbsp; “So, ye dinna allow lasses?”

  Sarah’s mouth fell open and she shook her head slightly.

  Cleary exasperated, Battersby took up his gazette. “Lasses, as you so colorfully put it, do not need instruction in the classics and sciences in order to prepare for a life of domesticity.”

  Sarah clenched her jaw.

  Munro couldn’t resist baiting the man, though he got the feeling from Sarah’s reaction he was a prominent figure in Birmingham. “’Twas the same when I studied law at Edinburgh University.”

  He allowed a moment or two for that piece of information to sink into the headmaster’s brain, then continued. “’Tis a great pity, in my opinion. I personally ken a capable woman who can read the Pharmacopoeia in Latin and who operates her own apothecary shop.”

  Battersby settled the pince-nez back on his nose. “In what godforsaken backwater is that allowed?”

  Munro’s heart swelled when Sarah blushed prettily.

  “Why, sir, in yer own great city of Birmingham,” he replied. “Have ye nay heard o’ North’s Apothecary Shop?”

  “On Edgbaston Street,” Sarah declared, “near St. Martin’s if you’re ever in need of medicinals, sir.”

  Battersby stared at her, apparently at a loss for words, then sought refuge in his gazette.

  Munro took a risk. Grinning at Sarah, he settled lower in the seat, folded his arms and stretched out his legs. The wool of her skirts and his trews prevented skin touching skin, but he was encouraged when she made no attempt to move her leg away from his.

  * * *

  Sarah knew it was foolhardy to allow Munro to press his leg against hers. It was a blatant and inappropriate act on his part—but the wickedness of it produced peculiar sensations in very private places.

  She’d spent a lifetime hiding in the shadows. Even during the happy years at Blue Coat, she’d shied away from friendships, afraid of censure. After her marriage, she’d feared Reginald might reveal her parentage to one of his drunken cronies. The consequences of making a mistake with a remedy was a constant worry. Most of all she’d been terrified of her husband’s bullying.

  Now had come the added burden of an unpredictable mother she didn’t know.

  In contrast, Munro Pendray seemed to delight in everything and everybody. He’d doggedly enthused over Ravenscroft’s tales, even after they became tedious. He was obviously enjoying tweaking the headmaster’s pompous nose, clearly unaware of the man’s standing in Birmingham society. Sarah’s throat constricted the moment Battersby revealed his name.

  Munro was genuinely interested and impressed by her accomplishments. Most men would have politely excused themselves from her presence at the first mention of hard times befalling her family.

  If she’d been brought up in the bosom of a loving family, she too might be more confident and outgoing.

  However, men controlled the world. She was a woman with a dubious history who belonged in the shadows to which she planned to retreat as soon as they arrived in Birmingham. In the meanwhile, she was terrifyingly exhilarated to be the wanton whose leg rubbed against a man’s with every lurch of the coach on the rutted track.

  * * *

  After hours in a cramped coach with a raging arousal, a sweating Munro began to doubt the wisdom of touching Sarah in the first place.

  His nose seemed to be perpetually wrinkled. He wasn’t sure if it was Mary Ward or Nathaniel Battersby who suffered from flatulence—or perhaps both—but the occasional trumpets had given rise to delightful patches of red on Sarah’s cheeks.

  Battersby had an annoying habit of constantly producing a watch from the pocket of his long waistcoat. Was he timing the wind-blasts? Munro wouldn’t have deemed him a man who’d favor the garment made popular by King Charles. Nathaniel was a Puritan name and the patterned waistcoat and fancy gold timepiece didn’t suit him. He paid scant attention to the dial before returning the watch to its nest.

  Munro’s outstretched position rendered it impossible to hide the bulge at his groin, despite numerous attempts to keep his long coat from falling open. Sarah’s furtive, blushing glances confirmed his suspicion she knew he wanted her. He borrowed the snoring headmaster’s gazette and pretended to read before setting it on his lap, but the deuced thing eventually slipped to the floor of the coach and the chances of retrieving it were non-existent.

  The prospect of Battersby’s annoyance was at least a source of amusement.

  No matter how many times he folded and unfolded his arms across his chest, he couldn’t think of anything except Sarah lying beneath him, unclothed, whispering endearments—in Latin, for God’s sake.

  He was afraid that if he moved his leg and sat up straight, she might think…

  He didn’t know what she might think, and he didn’t care. The friction of her calf against his was too wonderful to bring to an end. Unless he was mistaken, the lust in her eyes was confirmation she liked it too.

  He longed to broach the subject of what he’d said or done to offend her the previous evening, but the stifling coach wasn’t a conducive place for private heart-to-heart conversations.

  He’d have to be content to wait until Birmingham and hope she’d forgiven him.

  Goodbye

  It was still light when the coach pulled into the cobblestone courtyard of The Swan hours later, but Sarah was physically and emotionally drained.

  Munro looked as tired as she felt.

  Battersby stirred and searched about for his gazette.

  “I believe it slipped to the floor while ye were sleeping,” Munro muttered, winking at Sarah.

  She peered through the dust-covered window, feigning interest in something in the courtyard, hoping the fuming headmaster wouldn’t perceive her amusement. He’d have to wait for the other passengers to disembark if he thought to retrieve his paper.

  Her snoring mother suddenly sat bolt upright. “Are we there?”

  “Aye, Mrs. Ward,” Munro replied. “Yer journey’s end.” He stepped down from the coach, and leaned in to offer Sarah his hand. “If ye’ll wait a wee while, I’ll secure a room then escort ye to yer shop.”

  Her stiff knees faltered as she stood, reaching for his hand.

  Munro put his hands on her waist and lifted her safely from the coach. She gripped his broad shoulders, feeling like she was flying. He didn’t remove his hands even when she was back on her feet. They stood inches apart. The need in his eyes promised a kiss.

  She swayed, staring at his lips, wanting him to kiss her, but terrified he might. She should refuse his offer of an escort. The shop wasn’t far away, but it would soon be dark and two weary women with luggage would be easy prey for cutpurses, murderers, or rapists.

  “Is someone going to help me down?” her mother asked.

  Munro flared his nostrils. “I’ve been remiss,” he murmured with a wistful smile, turning to assist her mother.

  She instantly missed the warm strength of his big hands.

  He lifted her mother down as if she weighed nothing, which wasn’t far from the truth. It wasn’t surprising Mary Ward wolfed down food as if every meal were her last.

  Battersby descended, crumpled gazette in hand, and stalked towards the inn’s foyer.

  Munro ushered Sarah and her mother to follow. They retrieved their luggage, then he left them to speak to the landlord.

  The headmaster hovered nearby, apparently waiting impatiently for someone.

  “He’d be a help finding an apprentice,” her mother whispered unexpectedly.

  Of course! She’d been apprehensive about recruiting a man for the position, but Battersby had hundreds of boys in his charge. Boys with an education. Many apprentices began as boys. A boy would have no objection to sleeping in the back room of the shop.

  The pedantic schoolmaster suddenly seemed like a gift from God; the guild wouldn’t quibble with anyone the influential Battersby recommended.

  She had a curious urge to kiss her mother, but time was of the essence. Squaring her shoulders, she cleare
d her throat, walked to the headmaster and asked, “May I have a moment of your time, sir?”

  * * *

  When Munro returned to the foyer, he was taken aback to see Sarah engaged in conversation with Nathaniel Battersby. Not wishing to intrude, he hung back, wondering what they were discussing.

  After a few minutes, Sarah approached him. “The headmaster has graciously offered to take us home in his carriage, which will save you having to walk there and back.”

  A knot tightened in his gut. “I am quite prepared to do so, Sarah. What’s going on?”

  She avoided looking at him. “Nothing is going on, as you put it, Mr. Pendray. The headmaster has a recently orphaned boy in mind who might have the makings of a suitable apprentice, but he wants to see the shop first.”

  He felt guilty that he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. She’d demonstrated gumption in thinking the headmaster might prove useful in regards finding an apprentice. But why was she still insisting on calling him by his surname? “Well, perhaps tomorrow I can come by and see your enterprise for myself. Edgbaston Street, you said.”

  “I’m afraid for the next while I’ll be very busy getting my mother settled and finding an apprentice. Then I’ll have to get the Guild’s approval. You’ll probably have left the city by the time I reopen the shop.” She held out her hand. “I’ll say goodbye now.”

  A man of ready wit, Munro suddenly found himself speechless. He took hold of her hand, filled with an urge to pull her into his embrace and rain kisses on her face until she confessed to feeling the alchemy between them.

  Instead, he brushed a polite kiss on her knuckles, and inhaled the elusive scent he couldn’t name but would never forget. “I dinna ken what to say, Sarah,” he rasped. “I thought…”