Kingslayer's Daughter Page 5

  She pulled her hand away. “I fear Mr. Battersby is getting impatient. Goodbye.”

  He watched her go, wondering if she knew she was taking a piece of his heart with her.

  * * *

  Sarah supposed it wasn’t surprising her mother suddenly seemed wide awake, since she’d slept all day. Mary Ward chatted with Battersby as his carriage covered the short distance to the shop. Sarah didn’t have the will to carry on a conversation and her mother’s comments seemed polite enough.

  She resolved before long to pry out the answers to questions that had nagged at her since she was a child. But for the moment, she was incapable of thinking about anything other than Munro Pendray.

  She’d seen the hurt in his eyes, but how much more hurtful for him to one day discover who and what she was. Cutting off any chance of further contact had been the right decision, painful though it was. With Munro there might have been a chance for happiness, for joy—if she wasn’t the illegitimate daughter of a kingslayer.

  The bell tinkled as she unlocked the door of the shop. The familiar sound steadied her frayed nerves. She inhaled the comforting aromas of herbs and essences.

  A glance at the headmaster revealed he seemed pleased with what he saw as he gazed about at the shelves, cupboards, bottles and other paraphernalia. She was glad she’d tidied up before leaving for Chepstow.

  Her mother leaned heavily on the counter, her burst of energy seemingly fizzled out.

  “I’ll be back in a few moments,” Sarah told Battersby, deeming it wiser to let him peruse her little kingdom by himself. It was unlikely a schoolmaster would steal anything. “I’ll just get my mother settled upstairs.”

  “Yes, yes,” he replied, adjusting his pince-nez to examine the label on an apothecary jar. “By all means. This is fascinating.”

  A Long Night

  Munro sat on the edge of the bed in the inn, gripping the mattress, unable to summon the will to even remove his boots.

  He clamped a hand on his knee to stop the insistent trembling that echoed the beating of his troubled heart.

  His parents had assured him repeatedly that when a man met his soul mate, he’d know it. However…

  “Something’s wrong,” he muttered over and over until he became aware he was talking to himself.

  A tap at the door heralded a scullery lad with a taper to light the candles. He allowed the boy entry and watched with disinterest as flames flickered and shadows loomed on the walls of the small room.

  He stuck out a foot. “Will ye give me a hand, laddie?”

  Once relieved of his boots, he flipped the obliging lad a coin and nodded in response to a polite goodnight.

  He didn’t move as night encroached.

  There had to be an explanation for Sarah’s rejection. “My feelings apparently are nay reciprocated.”

  He pondered that for a long while. He considered himself reasonably attractive, having inherited his mother’s raven hair and his father’s rugged features. It was evidently a mistake to think Sarah enjoyed his company. Yet, the longing in her eyes said otherwise.

  “It must be she doesna like Scots.”

  It didn’t take long to dismiss that notion—it made no sense in light of her ready laughter at his brogue.

  “She’s afraid of men because of her late husband.”

  He gathered the linens in his fists, angered such cowards existed in the world. But surely she realized he was honorable and had been brought up to respect women.

  “She’s ashamed of her mother.”

  Mary Ward was definitely odd, but then she too was recently widowed. By the skeletal look of her, he’d warrant she hadn’t had a decent meal in many a year. He pondered the possible nature of hard times that had driven parents to leave three daughters in the care of a stranger and go off to Chepstow, of all places. From what he knew of the town it consisted of naught but an ancient castle. Despite being abandoned, Sarah had traveled all the way to South Wales to visit her father’s grave, but didn’t even know the whereabouts of her sisters. The prospect of unraveling that knotty problem made him slightly dizzy.

  “She’s worried about finding a suitable apprentice.”

  But he’d offered to assist with that, and her initiative in approaching Battersby had set the endeavor in motion.

  Sarah was an enigma.

  She was hiding something, always careful never to reveal too much. If he wanted her, he had to find out what it was and convince her it made no difference to his feelings.

  “None of it makes any sense,” he rasped as he crawled onto the bed and drifted off to sleep, unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

  * * *

  Sarah longed for her bed and had no patience for her mother’s complaints about the cramped accommodations above the shop. This from a woman who’d lived in a prison for twelve years. “Yes, there’s just the one bed. Only my husband and I lived here. It’s the best I can offer. Now, I must go down to speak with the headmaster. Thank you for suggesting I approach him.”

  She had a feeling from the answering frown that her mother had forgotten making the suggestion, but there was no time to waste.

  She hurried down the stairs and took a deep breath before reentering the shop.

  Battersby was poking about in one of a myriad of herb drawers. “I have to confess to being impressed, Mrs. North,” he said, his fingertips under his nose. “I suggest you come to the school tomorrow to meet young Giles. Sad case. Parents died in a fire that started in a smithy next door to their shop. His father was a mercer. These conflagrations happen all too frequently, as you know, but when a family can no longer pay the fees…” He sighed. “What is one to do? You’ll find him a willing lad—keen to learn.”

  Sarah’s heart went out to the boy she’d yet to meet. She knew what it was to be left alone to face a sometimes terrifying world. She wondered what would have happened to Giles if she hadn’t come along. It was doubtful Battersby would have done anything to help him. After all, no fees…

  “Certainly,” she replied. “In the morning?”

  “Yes. Ten o’clock, then we can be done well before luncheon.” He took out his pocket watch. “Goodness. The night porter will wonder what’s become of me. Goodnight.”

  Not surprised the headmaster would want her off the school premises by the time luncheon was served, she bade him farewell and locked the door behind him.

  As darkness stole into the silent shop, she paused by the counter and inhaled again the soothing scents of lavender for headaches, oil of cloves for toothaches, rosemary for sore muscles.

  Despite her exhaustion, she doubted she would get much sleep with her mother in the same bed. In addition, she’d be kept awake by the exciting prospect of acquiring an apprentice more quickly than she’d anticipated.

  And then there was Munro Pendray. The infuriating man’s smile, wit and rugged good looks would haunt her dreams for many a day. Not to mention the memory of his leg…

  Cease!

  A cup of camomile tea might help her sleep, but she didn’t have the energy to relight the fire in the workshop. Reginald had taken care of such things, and sparking flint was a skill she wasn’t yet proficient at.

  It was tempting to curl up on the pallet in the workroom, a place she’d often found refuge, whereas the upstairs room…

  When she climbed wearily to the top of the steps, she found her mother sprawled across the bed, sound asleep, clad in the same shift she’d worn for days.

  It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  Munro woke from a fitful sleep sometime in the night. The candles had burned down and his limbs were stiff. It eventually penetrated his fogged brain that he was lying atop the linens, still fully clothed.

  He undressed and climbed between the sheets.

  Getting back to sleep proved elusive. The nagging problems he’d pondered earlier recurred over and over.

  Now, there were new questions. He wondered if Battersby had been impressed enough wit
h the shop to help Sarah. Munro had been in apothecary shops before but never paid much attention. He remembered the aromas. Lavender in particular.

  It was a eureka moment. Lavender was the scent that clung to Sarah.

  He conjured a vision of her distilling essences, grinding herbs, taking delight in easing pain.

  He hoped she was in a warm bed. The chill left his veins when he thought of curling his body around hers, sharing his heat, touching intimate places.

  He turned over onto his belly in an effort to discourage the arousal his erotic visions had stirred.

  On the morrow, he’d inquire how far it was to the shop. It would be advisable to go in the morning, before she had a chance to escape.

  That notion sobered him. He’d be better off swallowing his pride and accepting she didn’t want anything to do with him. There were many eligible lasses in the Lowlands who’d be only too thrilled to wed Munro Pendray.

  He finally fell asleep, resolved to take the next stagecoach to Shrewsbury and forget all about Sarah North.

  Words To Live By

  Sarah rose at dawn. It was at least an hour’s walk to the school. Shivering in the early morning chill, she struggled to strike a spark to get the kindling going in the upstairs hearth.

  “Good thing you set the fire before you left,” her mother said, coming to warm her backside by the fledgling flames.

  It was scant praise, but Sarah would take it. She went downstairs and eventually got the wood-stove to light. Bracing herself against an anticipated blast of cold air, she opened the back door and hurried to fill the kettle from the pump in the walled yard.

  Reginald had taken care of these manual tasks. The upstairs room was usually warm and the kettle boiling by the time she got out of bed. She’d have to learn to fend for herself, but life would be easier in every other way with her brute of a husband gone. “I don’t suppose Munro Pendray lights his own fires,” she grumbled.

  Good grief! Would the Scot haunt her days as well as her nights?

  She hauled the kettle upstairs and set it on the hob. “I’ll make oatmeal,” she announced, relieved when there was no grumbling in reply.

  The question of what to do with her mother weighed heavily. Training an apprentice and operating the shop would take all her time and energy. Worrying about Mary Ward would be a distraction; distracted apothecaries made mistakes.

  Two more souls to feed and clothe. The apprentice was an investment in the future. Her mother could earn her keep by cleaning the shop and the apartment. The prospect of leaving the woman alone with the medicinals made Sarah shudder.

  And what would a young apprentice think of Mary Ward?

  She shook her head as the kettle boiled. She hadn’t met the lad yet and was getting ahead of herself. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” she muttered, retrieving oatmeal and a pot from the cupboard.

  She cringed when Mary cackled, “That was your father’s favorite saying.”

  * * *

  “Not till Thursday,” the landlord informed Munro when he inquired about stagecoaches to Shrewsbury. “Just once a week. Hope thou’s not in a rush.”

  “Nay,” he replied. “My father attended the Shrewsbury School in his youth and I thought to pay a visit there on my way to Flintshire.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Strict discipline, I heard tell.”

  “Calvinist,” he confirmed.

  “Thy father must be gentry then, if his family could afford the fees,” the publican remarked.

  Munro might have taken the time to explain that his Welsh great-grandmother had paid the fees, but he was reluctant to divulge too much of his background. Not that he knew a lot. His father was always tight-lipped about the Welsh branch of the family. He shrugged off the question and asked, “I can keep my room here until Thursday?”

  “Thou’s welcome.”

  “I have laundry.”

  “O’ course. The morrow’s Mrs. Richards’ washing day, and I’ll give thee the name of an ostler in Shrewsbury who’ll gladly lend thee a horse for a good price. No coaches to North Wales.”

  He’d suspected such would be the case and thanked the landlord for his thoughtfulness, then went to the empty dining room.

  The scullery lad who’d removed his boots was having trouble generating a spark to light a fire in the hearth. Judging by the anxious glances over his shoulder, the boy feared his master’s ire if he didn’t get the fire going.

  Munro hunkered down beside him, took the flint and soon had the kindling crackling. “Gently does it,” he explained, demonstrating again. “Dinna strike too hard.”

  “My thanks, sir,” the lad replied. “I’m new at this.”

  Munro stood. “Ye’re welcome. One good deed deserves another. What’s yer name?”

  The boy came to his feet, took hold of the poker and nudged the logs closer to the struggling flames. “Luke. Art thou a Puritan, sir?”

  His mode of speech was reminiscent of Mary Ward and he could readily believe she was a staunch Puritan. But Sarah? “My father was brought up Calvinist, and served in the Parliamentary army,” he answered, “but my mother’s a Royalist. So there ye have it. Why do ye ask?”

  “There’s mostly Puritans here in Birmingham. But thou art from foreign climes. My mother was a Puritan,” Luke explained. “God rest her soul. She used to say the same thing thou just said about good deeds.”

  Munro fished out a penny and passed it into the boy’s hand. “She was right, and I’ll wager she also told ye to be frugal with coin.”

  Luke tucked the money in his pocket and grinned in reply. “For a rainy day.”

  Munro tousled the boy’s blonde curls, fearing there’d be many rainy days in Luke’s life. “Aye.”

  He found a seat and lingered over the smoked ham and bread, toying with the idea of going back to bed. However, there was nothing to do in his room except brood on Sarah’s rejection. The brief encounter with Luke underscored how fortunate he was to have loving parents and a secure home.

  Fresh air was what he needed. A Sunday morning walk would do him good. He sought out Richards. “Can ye direct me to St. Martin’s?” he asked.

  Satisfied he understood the general direction, he retrieved his cloak and hat from his room. The late September air carried a hint of autumn chill. Outside, he inhaled deeply and set off for Edgbaston Street, avoiding pondering the reasons he’d chosen the church close to Sarah’s shop.

  After a five minute walk, he found himself outside North’s Apothecary. The dark green wood of the exterior looked pleasing. The square panes of bullseye glass rendered the window impossible to see through, and the CLOSED sign hanging in the shaded door wasn’t a surprise. It was Sunday after all.

  Usually a man of action, he dithered. The street was full of people, most of them probably heading for St. Martin’s. Hammering on the door would attract attention, and there was no guarantee Sarah would open for him.

  Jaw clenched, he continued his walk towards the church.

  * * *

  Sarah fussed with the ribbons of her bonnet. “This is a disaster,” she complained. “The bow simply doesn’t look right and my hair is sticking out all over the place.”

  “Sit,” her mother ordered, pointing to the bed.

  Seething with frustration, Sarah perched on the edge of the bed where she’d hardly slept at all, wondering why she was allowing her mother to tinker with the recalcitrant hat.

  “There, take a look.”

  Expecting to have to wrestle with the bow once more, Sarah was pleasantly surprised by the elegant woman who stared back from the looking glass. She was about to offer her thanks when they heard a loud rapping on the door of the shop. “The sign says we’re closed on Sundays,” she said. “Ignore it. They’ll go away.”

  Whoever it was knocked again, more insistently.

  “They’re going to shatter the glass,” she fumed.

  “Mayhap it’s that Pendray fellow,” her mother said.

  Hope warre
d with uncertainty in Sarah’s breast. “I don’t intend to see him again,” she murmured.

  Mary Ward gaped. “Why-ever not? Such a nice young man. Handsome too.”

  The annoying knocking came again. Seizing the chance to avoid answering her mother, Sarah slid the rolled indenture into her pocket and grabbed the key. “I’ll see to it and set off now.”

  She hurried downstairs and pulled open the shade covering the door glass, ready to give her unwelcome visitor a piece of her mind.

  She gripped the doorknob when she set eyes on Battersby’s driver, the private carriage parked behind him on the street.

  “The headmaster sent me to fetch you,” the scowling man shouted. “Feared I’d be obliged to bang the door down.”

  “I’m sorry,” she babbled. “We’re closed on Sundays…and I thought…well…never mind…I’ll just…can you wait five minutes? I wasn’t expecting…”

  He rolled his eyes. “Best get a move on. Mr. Battersby don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  It wasn’t yet nine o’clock. She was tempted to protest, but he cocked his head in the direction of the carriage. “You can’t trust the urchins in this neck o’ the woods.”

  Sarah had always found the precincts around St. Martin’s a safe place to do business, the urchins friendly and from solid merchant families, but the driver would only get more agitated if she argued. She turned the key in the lock, stepped out into the street and locked up behind her.

  With one foot on the step of the carriage, she glanced towards St. Martin’s, just for luck. A tall, broad-shouldered man had paused, looking up at the spire. She was certain it was Munro. He’d obviously walked past the shop without knocking. An irrational sense of disappointment settled in her heart.

  Apprentice

  Munro lingered at the rear of the church, waiting impatiently for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark interior. People walked respectfully up and down both aisles, conversing in hushed tones, but the whispered conversations echoed off the lofty nave.