Scoundrel of Dunborough by Margaret Moore Page B

time.
    That had to be Gerrard’s doing. No one else would have the authority to send a soldier to stand guard over her house.
    In spite of all that she had said to him, he had sent men to protect her. Perhaps there really were thieves and outlaws about, and perhaps Gerrard was a better man than she gave him credit for.
    Or perhaps he had simply wanted to demonstrate his authority.
    It was likely the latter.
    She dressed quickly, not looking at the scarlet gown that she’d thrown over the chest, before she went below. She hurried into the main room to pick up the candleholder she’d dropped, a little embarrassed that she’d brandished it like some kind of crazed harpy, but only a little. After all, Gerrard might have tried to kiss her again.
    To her surprise, the bronze holder was farther from the door than she expected. Perhaps she’d imagined that Gerrard was standing so close to her last night.
    However far away he’d been, she was sure she’d seen lustful desire flashing in his dark eyes, a need that seemed to call out to—
    Someone knocked on the door.
    If that was Gerrard, what would she say to him?
    Maybe she should pretend she hadn’t heard it.
    Yet if she didn’t answer, he might barge in anyway, as he had last night.
    She went to the door and threw it open, startling Lizabet, who nearly dropped the basket she was carrying. “Oh, Sister! You gave me such a turn!”
    “I’m sorry. Good morning, Lizabet. May I help you?”
    “It’s me been sent to help you, Sister. Gerrard says I’m to do the laundry and meals and anything else you need for the few days that you’re here.”
    How was Celeste going to search the house if Lizabet was there? And who was Gerrard to determine how long she would be in Dunborough?
    The maidservant gave her a friendly smile. “And he’s ordered that there’s to be two men every night to guard the house.” The young woman clutched her basket tighter. “I must say I’m glad of it, Sister! There was a band of outlaws in the wood this past summer, terrible men the lot of them, and while most of them were caught, we can’t be sure they all were and, well, men like that, if they heard about you staying here alone, and with the stories about your father’s money, well...”
    “Yes, I see.” So there might really be thieves in the vicinity.
    Guilt and shame arose within Celeste as she remembered the accusations she’d hurled at Gerrard. Unfortunately, the words couldn’t be called back.
    “I’m grateful that he sent you, Lizabet, and the guards, too,” she said as she opened the door to let the servant enter.
    * * *
    As Lizabet went into the D’Orleau house, Gerrard was sitting on the dais in the castle’s hall, waiting for the middle-aged sergeant at arms to finish his report about the night’s watch. He was also stifling the urge to yawn.
    He’d lain awake most of the night tossing and turning, trying not to think about women, or red silk gowns, or soft lips and harsh retorts. He didn’t regret sending the guards. He only regretted losing his temper. That was a weakness and something he must learn to control.
    “All was quiet here and at the D’Orleau house,” the gray-bearded Ralph said, his muscular body stiffly at attention, as if he were facing Gerrard’s father.
    “Good,” Gerrard replied, hoping it wouldn’t be much longer before the men realized that he aimed to be a different sort of leader from his father or his older brother, or even Roland, who never seemed to relax around anyone.
    “Are the men mustered for patrol?” he asked, getting to his feet. He’d already broken his fast and it was time to be doing something.
    “Yes, sir. The weather’s looking a bit chancy, though, sir. You might want to hold off a day or so.”
    Gerrard inclined his head to acknowledge that he’d heard the sergeant at arms’s concern, then continued toward the door. If it appeared a storm was brewing, the patrol wouldn’t ride out. If it seemed as if rain was