Plague's Pawn

by Kate

The following is a work of fanfiction, and is not intended to infringe on the copyrights held by ABC Television, Gil Grant Productions, or any other holder of Covington Cross Copyrights. No profit is being made from this story drat! The author is simply continuing the story of the Greys (particularly one curly-haired second son) in her own warped way. Comments welcome -- pull up a PC and chat awhile.

The cool shade of late afternoon hugged the towering walls of Louvenford Castle, creating oblong patches of gloaming amid the sun-drenched grounds. Richard Grey listened to the gentle swish of long grass against his leather boots as he escorted Lady Olivia Hammond from the shadow of the massive stone edifice. He’d forgotten how the paths meandered about the castle in random fashion seemingly without direction, as they veered towards livery stable, smokehouse, gardens, and chapel. Admittedly, the last time he’d been to Louvenford, he’d been ten years old, aging his recollections a good eleven summers.

A glance at his companion revealed a serene profile composed, yet aristocratic in bearing. Though she was only a few years younger than his father, Lady Olivia appeared not to have aged at all during those intermittent years. Her skin was unusually smooth, belying a woman in her late forties. It contradicted the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and the lack of gray in her braided blonde hair.

Sensing his gaze, Lady Olivia glanced aside, a silky smile on her lips. "You’ve certainly grown from the scruffy-haired child, I remember, Richard," she remarked casually, though the touch of her eyes was anything but discreet.

Acutely uncomfortable, Richard felt sudden color bloom on his cheeks. It wasn’t the first time since his arrival yesterday that Lady Olivia had tossed him veiled comments. Not normally flustered by the female sex, Richard found himself increasingly bewildered by his hostess’s unusual candor. There were times he almost thought she played on his affections.

Amused by his discomfort, Lady Olivia diverted her comments to safer ground. "It was courteous of you to escort me for a walk while Armus and my husband discuss your father’s proposal."

Only too glad for the change in topic, Richard spoke quickly to cover his earlier embarrassment: "I’m only sorry my father couldn’t be here in person, Lady Olivia. If it weren’t for his sudden ailment "

"Yes, Armus said Sir Thomas was feeling poorly. Hopefully it’s nothing serious."

"The healer expects a full recovery," Richard assured. They had reached a break in the path. Rather than continue east towards the gardens, Lady Olivia veered away from the tailored landscape towards the wild tangle of forestland beyond the castle walls. Richard offered his hand, helping her traverse a small rock bed on the fringe of the treeline. Casting a skeptical glance over his shoulder, he considered the safe haven of Louvenford. "Lady Olivia, wouldn’t you rather view the gardens?"

"I’ve seen the gardens countless times, Richard, and much prefer the forest. Certainly a knight as skilled as you can protect me from a few wild rabbits?"

Uncertain if he was being mocked or teased, Richard frowned. With a light fluttering laugh, Lady Olivia pulled her hand free and disappeared beneath the trees. Richard followed in her wake, his mouth settled in a tight line. He knew how important this proposal was to Sir Thomas and to most of the farmers in the village. Without Sir Reginald’s land to provide an irrigation conduit between Chelsea Field and the village, the farmers stood to lose most of their crops. Sir Thomas’s offer for the parcel was more than fair. He’d even sent his sons with a gift a fine breeding stallion as testament of his sincerity. Unfortunately, Sir Reginald Hammond was also entertaining the interest of another party. Thus what Richard and Armus had perceived as a simple visit, transformed into a bartering game with the unexpected emergence of a second bidder.

"You look much too serious, Richard," Lady Olivia chastised as he drew abreast of her. "A handsome man shouldn’t set his face in such unbecoming lines." Her features altered, shifting from haughty composure to sly whimsicalness. The change left him uncomfortably on edge. Since arriving yesterday, he’d been unable to pigeonhole her changing moods. One moment the mistress of the castle appeared refined and dignified the next she taunted him with innuendo. Earlier, when he and Armus had shared a cup of spiced wine with she and her husband, Richard had caught her watching him when she thought him unaware. The touch of her eyes had been both disquieting and bold.

Clearing his throat, he sought to silence his unease. "Perhaps it’s just the matter of this visit, My Lady. Without your husband’s consent for his land, we lose a valuable resource for our villagers. The potential devastation to crops in that area has tripled since a mudslide destroyed our existing irrigation channels, last month."

Lady Olivia gave a backward flip of her hand. "You sound like a finance man, Richard not a knight."

"Managing my father’s estates for the last eight years has given me a very real appreciation of what loss can do. You don’t understand the implication to the villagers "

"I think I do," she said sharply, and again he heard the subtle shift in mood. Bracing her back against the ponderous trunk of an oak tree, Olivia regarded him steadily. She held her arms to her side, slender fingers gripping ridges of gnarled wood, her head tilted slightly to gaze up at him. "All this haggling and posturing for a piece of land, when very little of it is actually necessary. My husband debates with Armus, but he will do as I say."

Startled by her directness, Richard stepped forward. A bewildered frown drew his brows together. "Lady Olivia?"

"The land is mine, Richard, deeded from my father. It is not part of my dowry or even subject to my husband’s administration. He merely entertains your father’s bid as well as that of the other candidate as his position dictates, but the final decision rests with me."

Uncertain whether the news was good or bad, Richard smiled hesitantly. "Then you do understand how important this is," he said, taking another step forward.

"Your earnestness does you credit," Lady Olivia concurred. Sliding a hand onto his shoulder, she smiled up at him. The sunlight haloed the hair at her back, unearthing a few silver strands in the lush blonde braid. The light in her gray eyes was both calculating and amused. "I care little for coin or timber parcels "

"My father’s offered to give you one of the richest corridors on our estates, plus a percentage of all crop production irrigated by your land," Richard said firmly.

"Trinkets of meaningless value. I had another price in mind."

Without cause, he felt his mouth go dry. The weight of her hand on his shoulder was suddenly uncomfortable. Belatedly, he realized how close she was standing. Dropping his eyes, he saw the creamy swell of her breasts, straining against the material of her gown. Recoiling quickly, he took a step backwards, placing distance between them. "Price?" he echoed.

"You do want the land, Richard, don’t you?" Her gaze was pointed and direct.

Feeling the breath quicken in his lungs, Richard strove to regain his composure. "Lady Olivia, I if you’re suggesting "

"What I’m suggesting, is nothing that hasn’t been done one hundred times over between a bored mistress and a handsome knight. Don’t look so appalled, Richard. You should be flattered I’d be willing to release the land for a few nights in your bed."

"That’s preposterous!" Suddenly angry, Richard strode forward and gripped her roughly by the arm. He gave a short shake, intending to bring her to her senses. "Such licentious behavior is beneath a lady of breeding. My father’s offered to pay you fairly "

"I’m more interested in what you’re willing to pay," Lady Olivia countered, unaffected by his rough handling. The corners of her mouth lifted in a silken grin. "I would hazard to guess you’re far from innocent "

"That’s beside the point!" Richard snapped. He felt his temper slipping as the net he kept on his jumbled emotions, grew dangerously threadbare. As angry as he was, there was also something humiliating in what Lady Olivia proposed. "Despite the fact that bartering . . . my affection . . . is abhorrent and unethical in every imaginable way you’re a married woman."

"Is that what’s bothering you?" Chuckling softly, Olivia freed her arm, then leaned forward, locking her hands behind his neck. "I tend to get what I want, despite the constraints of proper society. You’d do well to remember that."

Repulsed, Richard grabbed her arms and flung them from his neck. "I think I should take you back to Louvenford," he said icily. "We’ve nothing more to discuss."

"For now," Lady Olivia agreed. The haughty composure had reclaimed her features, regal as the noon sun on her wheat-burnished hair. Brushing past him, she headed towards the castle, her demeanor unerringly victorious.

+++++

Armus Grey spared a brief smile for the serving wench who filled his wine cup, before refocusing his attention on his younger brother. It was unlike Richard normally so self-controlled to appear ill at ease in social company. Were it not for such an uncharacteristic display, Armus might appreciate seeing his overly confident brother clearly attempting to mask his nervousness.

Oblivious to the increasing din of the many guests gathered for dinner in the Great Hall of Louvenford Castle, Armus watched as Richard drummed his fingers against the table. The food on his plate served in ever-abundant courses had barely been touched. Beside him a heavy-jowled man slopped ale on the floor as he hefted his goblet in a toast to the Lord and Lady of Louvenford. There followed a boisterous chorus of "here-heres" as one after another of the twenty-odd guests seconded the toast. Most had come at the behest of Lady Olivia Hammond, who regularly entertained for the sheer pleasure of merriment. Armus grinned, adding his own loud commendation, while Richard responded in a more subdued voice.

Returning his goblet to the table, Armus leaned towards his younger sibling. "I’d be careful, t’were I you, little brother. One might think you aren’t as taken by Sir Reginald and his wife as the rest of us."

Scowling, Richard applied his fingers to the table in an irritated cadence. "I thought we were here to close a trade agreement for Father not indulge in frivolity."

With effort, Armus supressed a guffaw. Not only was his cocky younger brother displaying classic signs of anxiety, he also degraded a pass-time he normally found engaging. "I didn’t think I’d live to see the day when you frowned on a little diversion," Armus countered with a pointed grin. Claiming his knife, he carved a piece of mutton from the haunch section on his plate, and popped it into his mouth.

Annoyed, Richard increased his agitated assault on the table. "This isn’t diversion, it’s excess. It’s Lady Olivia flaunting her wealth like a common whore, for the gathered gentry. It’s repulsive."

Armus chuckled. "Said to the wrong man, that’s enough to get you killed. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a personal interest."

Falling silent, Richard leaned back in his chair. Absently, he used the tip of his knife to sift through the sections of meat on his plate. There was a slight tremor in his hand, unnatural for someone accustomed to wielding a sword without the slightest strain or hesitation. Around him, the festivities of Lord and Lady Hammond’s gala grew increasingly noisy. The heavy-jowled man grunted something at his dinner companion a bejeweled matron who cackled shrilly, and pawed his sleeve with a plump hand.

As though happening on something distasteful, Richard pressed his lips together. "We should leave tomorrow," he said quietly.

Armus attacked his dinner with increased relish, bypassing the mutton for game birds and brown bread. Slicing a chunk of cheese from the thick slab on his plate, he considered his somber younger brother. The flush of color on Richard’s skin was unnatural, as though fever suffused his flesh. Concerned, Armus narrowed his eyes. "Are you feeling ill?"

Surprised, Richard drew back. "Of course not," he responded quickly. A trifle too quickly to be taken seriously.

Armus scowled. Though it was unlikely Richard grew afflicted with the same ailment that plagued their father, it was not altogether impossible. Since returning from his walk with Lady Olivia earlier that afternoon he’d been notably uneasy. Originally Armus had construed his anxiety as the strain of awaiting Sir Reginald’s decision, but now he wondered if it didn’t stem from something physical. For the first time he took note of the slight tremor in his brother’s hand.

Perturbed by the circumspect examination, Richard stabbed a piece of game fowl with his knife. "You’re grasping at straws, Armus," he muttered.

"If that’s the case, perhaps you’d care to explain your suddenly sour disposition."

Still not meeting the other’s eyes, Richard shrugged. "It’s this excess. First Sir Reginald tells us he’s entertaining another prospect for the land, then Lady Olivia subjects us to a social gathering, orchestrated for the sole purpose of flaunting her wealth."

As he spoke, Richard’s words grew increasingly bitter, causing Armus to question the source of his animosity. Twisting a chunk of meat from the mutton haunch, the older man propped both elbows on the table and pulled the fatty section apart. "I say again there’s something personal about your anger." Grease-coated fingers guided the oily mass into his mouth as his eyes slewed aside. "While I’ve known you to be disagreeable at times, you generally have cause."

Richard ignored the light sting of the words and shoved his plate away. Around him, the din of the hall swelled to greater proportions as an unending flow of wine and ale coaxed Lady Olivia’s guests to jovial interaction. Richard had to admit that although the gala was thrown together with little more than a day’s notice, the Mistress of Louvenford made the event seem effortless. Garlands of lush greens draped the deep windowsills, while fresh cut flowers dotted the many platters of fruits, pastries, breads and cheeses laden on the heavy tables. The servants kept heaping plates of mutton and fowl circulating among the gentry, stopping every few seconds to offer strong wine or ale. Seated at the center table, raised two steps above the others, the Lord and Lady of Louvenford sat with their chosen guests. Throughout the evening Richard felt the touch of Lady Olivia’s cool gray eyes sometimes in bold amusement, others in sly challenge. The memory of what she proposed left him feeling alternately hot and cold, as his emotions ran the gamut from anger to shame.

Exhaling loudly, he slipped his fingers into the ragged tangle of his long hair, sweeping the bangs from his eyes. The habitual nervous gesture said more for his state of mind then all the carefully worded half-truths he might offer. Slumping back in his chair, he turned a sharp gaze on his brother. Though he was loathed to admit it, Richard knew his physical condition was on a steady decline. Since returning from the forest with Lady Olivia, he’d been troubled by headaches and chills with increasing frequency. If perchance he was to suffer the same fate as his father, he and Armus needed to seal the transaction with Sir Reginald quickly. "What did Lord Hammond have to say?" he asked.

Having dispensed with the mutton, Armus licked his fingers.

Unlike Richard, who was plagued with a riotous mass of brown curls, Armus was blessed with soft wheat-colored hair. Even now, snagged by the shifting glow of torchlight and hearth, it glinted like spun gold. An observer might think the two one tall and broad, the other deceptively slender were unrelated for all their differences in appearance. "He was wholly attentive," Armus returned. Dipping his hands in a finger bowl, he flecked the grease away, then speared an apple with his knife. "He thought our offer sound, but reinforced the fact there was another party interested in the land as well."

"Did he say who?"

Armus shook his head. "He wouldn’t tell me just that the man valued the land as highly as we did. He also led me to believe his wife would be the deciding factor on whether or not Father’s proposal is accepted. Apparently, the parcel is deeded directly to Lady Olivia, and Sir Reginald is merely an intercessor."

Richard muttered something unintelligible. Though Armus failed to catch the words, unmistakable venom lingered in the tone.

Unfazed, the blonde-haired man continued: "Apparently the Mistress of Louvenford is rather shrewd in matters of finance. From the general gossip and comments I’ve overheard since arriving, it would seem Lady Olivia generally gets what she wants."

Inwardly annoyed, Richard closed his eyes. So the Mistress of Louvenford was skilled in manipulating others. How far would she play her game, he wondered? Surely she wouldn’t deny his father’s proposal simply because he was unwilling to lie with her? The woman was nearly as old as Sir Thomas and while she wasn’t unattractive, the very thought of forced relations was revolting. For the first time, Richard considered how a woman must feel when a man forced his attentions on her. It was odd and unbalancing to be on the receiving end of a situation he normally controlled.

Before he could ponder the matter further, Armus nudged him in the ribs, directing his attention to the front of the hall. Richard followed his brother’s gaze, noting a black-cloaked man who drew abreast of the table where Lord and Lady Hammond were seated. In courtly fashion, the newcomer paid his respects, pausing to hover theatrically over Lady Olivia’s hand. Though his back was turned, there was something disturbingly familiar about him.

"Six pence says he’s our competition for the land," Armus said aside. The flat inflection of his voice indicated he sensed the familiarity too. Richard was about to comment on it when the man turned, revealing the blunt, chiseled lines of his face.

"Damn it all to hell." The breath whistled through Richard’s teeth in a hiss of displeasure.

Beside him, Armus cursed softly. "John Mullens," he said tightly.

Richard met his gaze. "Something tells me the price of Sir Reginald’s land has just increased dramatically."

+++++

Pale slivers of melon-colored light bled through the narrow windows in Richard’s bedchamber, dragging him awake. With a soft moan for the disturbance, he shifted on the straw-filled pallet, turning his back to the door and burrowing beneath the faded blankets. Though the edges were frayed, the material threadbare, it would be unseemly to complain. With all the guests staying at Louvenford, quarters were at a premium. Even so, Richard was certain Lady Olivia had assigned him the worse chambers in the castle purely out of malice.

Closing his eyes against the invasion of anemic morning light, he sought to recapture the elusive phantom of sleep. There, he might forget the whisper of cold that had tormented him throughout the night. Though the early summer air was warm, chills riddled his body with increasing frequency, making him long for the warmth of heavier blankets and the soft cocoon of his own bed.

He had almost fallen into the grip of blissful slumber when he heard a faint rustling behind him. A hand settled on his shoulder the touch so unexpected, he jerked abruptly about, pulling himself to a sitting position. Startled, he looked into the composed gray eyes of Lady Olivia Hammond.

The touch of her gaze was both frost and fire. Similarly, he sensed amusement and controlled disdain in the haughty set of her shoulders; the upward curve of her full lips. Incensed by her presence, he struggled to remain calm. If he ever hoped to obtain the parcel of ground for Sir Thomas he needed her favor. Repressing both irritation and a series of mounting chills, Richard swallowed hard, hoping for equanimity. "Is it your habit to intrude in your guests’ bedchambers, My Lady?"

Adopting languid ease, she perched on the edge of the bed as though intending a lengthy visitation. "Only those I find enchanting," she returned smoothly. One hand shifted to rest upon his leg, just above the knee. Richard could feel the heat of her flesh through the threadbare blankets her touch like molten fire on his chilled skin. Involuntarily he tensed. Her eyes dropped, lingering on his chest, where his nightshirt gaped wide and unlaced. "I thought you might change your mind about our . . . discussion . . . now that you know the identity of the other candidate for the land."

"John Mullens?" With deliberate slowness, Richard removed her hand from his leg. "I can’t believe you’d side with a man like Mullens simply to spite me. He’d use the land to put a stranglehold on the village."

"Pity," Olivia intoned without feeling.

Richard glared, his mouth compressing into a rigid line. "Lady Olivia, my father has made you a fair offer. You’ve known me since I was a child, and aren’t likely to gain any greater acquaintance then you already have. No one need know about our discussion. Your husband "

"My husband would have you drawn and quartered for even suggesting I’d behaved improperly," Olivia snapped sharply. "I’m not a fool, Richard. I’m a respected noblewoman married to a favorite of the King. You, on the other hand, are a second son with a reputation for wanton behavior. If you so much as whisper any indiscretion on my part, I’ll say you tried to force yourself on me."

Appalled, Richard shoved away from her. "Damn you, woman!" He was half out of the bed when he realized he was mostly unclothed. With a curse of resignation, he leaned back against the wall. A dull ache bloomed behind his eyes, spreading roots deep into his skull. Wincing against the unexpected pain, he considered her. "You are the devil’s whore," he mumbled bitterly.

Unaffected by the slur, she maintained a steady gaze. "Irregardless, I’m accustomed to getting what I want." Shifting, she leaned close and kissed him on the lips. The unexpected touch of her mouth on his was so heated with fire, Richard was momentarily too shocked to respond. When he would have wrenched away, she drew back, the sliver of a smile playing about her lips. "You don’t look well, Richard. It’s amazing the harm that can befall someone who displeases me." Tracing a finger along the curve of his cheek, she rose to her feet, gradually letting her hand fall away. "I’ve yet to make a decision about the land your father desires. T’were I you, I’d use the time to reconsider your options. There really is only one."

Struggling to repress his revulsion, Richard bit down on his lip. It took every ounce of control he had to maintain a civil tongue. "At least we agree on that, Lady Olivia, though we may differ on the choice. Your audacity is staggering."

Bestowing a slight inclination of her head, Lady Olivia retreated to the door. With her back turned, she looked as young and comely as any maid of eighteen summers. It was only when she turned and Richard caught the jaded lines of her face, that her true age became apparent. Hesitating with her hand poised on the latch, she let her eyes rake over him, her gaze as sinuous as the slithering path of a snake. Despite his resolve to the contrary, Richard felt heat rush to his face. "The next time I visit, perhaps you’d be so good as to forgo the nightshirt," she purred softly. "When you come to your senses, I’ll dispense with it anyway."

Cursing, Richard ground his teeth together. He heard the door scrape open, then close, as the aged seductress slipped from the room. Only then did he allow the tightly wound tension to uncoil from his muscles. Only then did he succumb to the tremors riddling his body; the spike of renewed pain in his head; the icy draft that made him wrap his arms close in an effort to trap escaping heat. Miserable, he drew his legs to his chest and bowed his forehead to his knees.

For the first time in his life he felt trapped in a situation that was utterly hopeless. He could no more do as Lady Olivia asked, then he could sell his soul for a farthing. Worse, he could not stand idly by while the Mistress of Louvenford gave her land to John Mullens. For his father and the countless villagers who relied on the protection of the Grey family, Richard was honor bound to do what was necessary to procure the ground. Sickened, his mind muddled with growing illness, Richard was uncertain what path to take. Under different circumstances he might discuss the situation with Armus, but he was too embarrassed to consider that alternative now.

Rising, he dressed with effort, his joints plagued by the stabbing aches that accompanied affliction. The tremors in his hands intensified, until he curled his fingers into his palms, drawing shuddering breaths in an effort to regain his composure. By the time he descended to the lower bowels of the castle he’d managed to regain a sufficient measure of poise. Still, there was little he could do to alter the bleached hue of his complexion. The scent of food drew him to the Great Hall, but soured his stomach the moment he approached the table.

Once again, Lady Olivia’s guests had gathered, milling in a chattering throng of scented gowns and embroidered tunics. Richard shied from the breakfast tables, keeping the food as far away from him as possible. He spared passing nods for the noblemen and their consorts who hailed him with false smiles and pretentious greetings. The strain of forced civility weighed on him heavily, making him thankful when he encountered Armus just entering the room.

"Brother!" With a smile that brought the first true measure of warmth to the gathering, Armus clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Don’t tell me you’ve eaten without me."

Tight-lipped, Richard shook his head. Too late he realized his mistake. Armus’s eyes tracked over his face noting the pale flush of his skin; the faint ring of shadow beneath his leaf-green eyes. "Richard " The hand tightened on his shoulder. " there is something wrong. You look unwell."

"I would too, if I’d lost the bartering edge on Sir Reginald’s land," a new voice intoned smoothly. The smug satisfaction of the words identified the speaker long before Richard and Armus turned. Of one accord, the brothers stiffened.

"Haven’t you a rock to slither under?" Richard asked bluntly.

Amused, John Mullens allowed one corner of his mouth to curl in a wolfish grin. He inclined his head in mock acknowledgement. "A pleasure, Richard. But then it always is, when I can best Sir Thomas or one of his sniveling whelps. You’re out of your depth, boy."

Angered, Richard took a step forward. Immediately, Armus stayed him with a restraining hand. "I don’t recall a decision being made about the ground," the blonde-haired man said coolly, hoping the calm rationality of his voice would offset his younger brother’s quarrelsome temper.

Mullens glanced from one to the other. It was obvious his words had little effect on levelheaded Armus, thus he directed his next barb to Richard. "Word at Louvenford is Lady Olivia has taken a strong dislike to a certain green-eyed knight. Though I can’t account for the reasoning, I’d hazard it’s sound, no matter the source."

Surprisingly, Richard remained unflustered. "Kitchen gossip becomes you, Baron Mullens." His own lips curled in a goading grin. "It befits a conniving worm."

Mullens chuckled. "You’ve a tart tongue, Richard. Something to admire, even if the rest of you is sodden with dung."

"The Devil take you!" Richard snapped.

"Enough of this!" Sensing the limit of his brother’s restraint, Armus stepped between them. "The two of you can bait one another until Michaelmas, but it isn’t going to change the outcome of Lord Hammond’s decision. As difficult as it may be, I suggest we conduct ourselves cordially, as befitting guests. If that means avoiding one another until the matter is settled, then so be it."

Squaring his shoulders, Mullens spared the briefest glance for the fair-haired giant. "I fear my stomach sours in your company, so I’ll take my leave before I lose my appetite altogether." It was only too clear he considered Richard his primary sparring partner, and took perverse delight in the antagonistic exchange. Turning, he hesitated momentarily and glanced over his shoulder. "You know, Richard, you look decidedly unwell . . ." His lips pulled back from his teeth in a snide grin. " . . . not nearly as pretty as normal. Still I’d wager any man with a fancy for boys would consider you worth the effort."

"Let it go," Armus warned when Richard lurched forward. His hand descended on his brother’s shoulder, holding him in place until Mullens moved away. Beneath his fingertips, Armus could feel a restrained quiver in Richard’s tightly bunched muscles. The tremor had as much to do with infirmity as it did with rage.

Armus tightened his grip. He could feel the soft brush of Richard’s long hair against his knuckles. Moving his hand, he extended his arm until his fingers settled on Richard’s opposite shoulder. Leaning close, he imparted words he hoped would instill wisdom: "He’s baiting you, Richard. You should know by now, it’s a game you can’t win."

Scowling, Richard tugged free. With effort, he put the insult behind him. "That might be, but he’s right about one thing Lady Olivia has developed a marked dislike for me, and I fear that may influence her decision."

Armus cocked a brow. "What’s this all about?"

But Richard merely shook his head and moved into the throng. He needed to escape the breakfast table with its sickening odor of excessive food. Needed to escape Armus and his disquieting gaze. But most of all, he needed to flee the accusation which silently insinuated, he may have cost his father and the villagers their only chance at evading misfortune.

+++++

"We understand your hesitation," Armus said politely, inclining his head towards his host. Standing beside his brother in the solar of Louvenford Castle, he took leave of Lord Hammond. Many of Lady Olivia’s other guests had already departed, sensing an end to the spontaneous festivities. Worried that Richard succumbed to the same ailment that afflicted Sir Thomas, Armus deemed it time to depart as well. "Our father’s offer remains, " he informed Sir Reginald cordially. "When you reach a decision about the land, please send word to Covington Cross."

"Of course." Extending his hand, Sir Reginald gripped Armus’s large palm in his. Though his smile was sincere, it dimmed slightly when he turned to Richard. "Perhaps it’s well you’re leaving now," he remarked aside to Armus. "Your younger brother grows sickly."

Richard fluffed off the concern with a shake of his head. "It’s nothing," he assured, though the mere sound of his voice ignited a clamorous pain within his temples. Drawing back, he took his leave. "Forgive me, Sir Reginald I think the air outside might suit better. I’ll wait for my brother by the horses."

With a slight frown, Armus watched him leave. The day had lengthened to afternoon, prompting Armus to suggest they depart before it grew too late. Richard’s increasing agitation made him itch to be away. And, if there truly were friction between he and the lady of the castle, Armus deemed it best to place distance between them before irreparable damage could be done. The last thing he needed was to have Sir Thomas’s proposal rejected because of some offhand comment Richard made in the heat of frustration. Additionally, the presence of John Mullens coupled with Richard’s declining health, made early departure a step shy of imperative. Nodding attentively to his host, Armus offered his best diplomatic smile. "My father has long been a faithful friend to your family, Sir Reginald. He asks nothing selfishly."

"You needn’t remind me of Sir Thomas’s motives," Lord Hammond returned just as earnestly. "In all fairness, I must admit the decision about the land rests solely with my wife. I have of course, conveyed your interests to her, and will lend my own voice should she wish advice. I’m uncertain why she delays the resolution, but it shan’t be for much longer, I’m sure. Please inform Sir Thomas his answer will be forthcoming."

Once again Armus inclined his head. "It’s been an honor visiting with you, Sir. Please convey my regards to your wife."

Departing, Armus found his brother outside by the horses. Richard stood next to his mount, arms folded over his saddle, head bowed against the worn leather. The long tangle of his hair glinted with unruly snarls of copper and gold, as the noonday sun picked highlights from the brown curls. Dressed modestly in a loose white tunic, black breeches and boots, and a sleeveless gray jerkin, Richard looked more squire than knight. Only the wide angled cuffs of his black gauntlets added a measure of courtly decorum to his attire.

As Armus drew nearer, gravel crunched beneath his boots, drawing Richard’s head up with a jerk. "Resting?" Armus queried lightly.

"Waiting," Richard responded quickly. Gathering the reins, he swung onto the back of his black charger. "I trust you’ve bid our host goodbye?"

Up close, Armus noticed a fringe of sweat stippled his upper lip. The lines of Richard’s face were unnaturally drawn, making the older man reevaluate the wisdom of undertaking the trek. "Richard, perhaps we should remain until you’re feeling better."

"I feel fine," Richard lied. His fingers curled possessively around the reins to silence their tremor. "Could we go please? It’s two day’s journey to Covington Cross, and I’m anxious to be home."

Though unconvinced, Armus nodded. He was disappointed they hadn’t managed to obtain a firm decision from the Hammonds, but was more concerned with his brother’s health. Mounting his own horse, he set a moderate pace from the castle. Richard followed silently as he picked his way through the forest. The hours lengthened and grew broken only by the melodic clop of hoofbeats, the elfin whisper of a fickle breeze, and the occasional grating rasp of Richard’s cough.

When night descended, Armus prepared camp in a bower of rowan and yew. A short foraging venture produced three quail, which he plucked and cooked above an open fire. Richard sat huddled by a tree, wrapped in the folds of a cloak he’d procured from his bedroll. When Armus offered him a portion of the fowl, he shook his head mutely, green eyes owlishly large in the gathering gloom. Armus ate silently, disturbed by his brother’s lack of appetite. He knew Richard had eaten nothing that day, and little the previous eve. Though Richard might wield a sword with the same strength as a larger man, he was too slender to avoid eating for long.

With the full descent of night, Armus listened to the crackle and hiss of the flames. Though the he found the heat on his face uncomfortable, he noted Richard moved closer to the fire in a presumable effort to ward away chill. Standing, Armus retrieved his own cloak and returned to drape it over his brother’s shoulders.

Startled, Richard glanced up at him. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to keep you warm." Crouching beside him, Armus let his hands linger on Richard’s shoulders. "This isn’t any passing illness, Richard."

Stubborn as ever, Richard scowled. "You’re being foolish. It’s nothing to fret over."

"Then why are you shaking?"

Only belatedly realizing his trembling was visible, Richard swallowed hard. Glancing away, he huddled deeper into the double layer of cloaks. Armus watched his profile, noting the sweeping veil of lashes as his gaze dipped to the ground. "I’ll be fine," he whispered. "Everything runs its course, given time."

"Richard " Unwilling to abandon the topic, Armus raised his hand and brushed the soft curtain of hair from his brother’s face. "This needn’t be so difficult, little brother. There’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re ill."

"I’m fine."

Puffing out his cheeks, Armus exhaled a frustrated breath of air. "Of course you are," he said sharply. Standing, he returned to his side of the fire. "You might at least try getting some sleep. We’ve a full day of riding tomorrow."

Grunting something unintelligible, Richard retrieved his bedroll and pulled it close to the fire. Turning his back on Armus, he wrapped himself in his cloak, and settled for the night. Alone in the darkness, Armus contented himself with listening to the night sounds of the forest until he heard his brother’s even breathing. When he knew Richard had drifted to sleep, he located his own bedding and rolled it out beside his younger sibling. Lying on his back, Armus crossed his arms over his chest, and quietly contemplated the patches of night sky visible through the shifting leaves overhead. In time, he too, slipped into welcoming slumber.

+++++

Armus came awake with a grunt, aware of a pressure on his chest. The sky was still dark, engorged by a glittering array of awakening stars. The breeze had cooled, growing almost frigid at the edges, as it became weighted with the icy breath of the enveloping night. Disoriented, it took Armus a moment to identify what had awakened him. Almost immediately he became aware of his brother’s body curled against his. Seeking warmth, Richard had huddled against him, pillowing his head on Armus’s broad chest.

Briefly, Armus recalled a frightened eight-year-old boy curled in his bed. As a child, Richard had been gawky all legs and limbs, with an angelic face and a mop of snarled curls. It had been nothing for Armus to find him in his bed, whenever he’d been troubled by bad dreams. Now, with his brother’s shoulder tucked beneath his arm, the memory of that closeness returned. He could feel the tremors in Richard’s body his flesh raging with heat, despite the punishing chills that plagued him.

"Richard " Armus pulled him closer, adjusting the cloak around his shoulders. Beneath the silver face of the moon, the white sleeves of Richard’s tunic glowed as though imbued with faerie-light. Armus tucked the coarse cloak around his brother’s body, blocking the intrusion of cold air. Though his ministrations were gentle, Richard moaned softly. "Ssh," Armus whispered gently. "Go back to sleep, little brother. I’ve got you." Rolling onto his side, he pulled Richard against him, cradling his slighter form in the enveloping cocoon of his larger body.

Richard shuddered once, then stilled, his head pillowed by Armus’s thick biceps. His lashes fluttered. " . . . cold . . ." he mumbled.

"I know." Gently, Armus tracked comforting fingers across his cheek. Using his palm, he smoothed the sweaty bangs from Richard’s brow. The blonde-haired man let his hand linger, gauging the torrid measure of heat in Richard’s flesh. Biting his lip, he drew away momentarily to stoke life into the fire. His brother made a plaintive sound and coughed weakly. Once again Armus wrapped him in his arms, drawing him closer to the newly awakened flames.

Turning his head to Armus’s chest, Richard burrowed against him. " . . . God, Armus, I’m so cold . . . I-I can’t get warm . . ."

"It’s the fever." Disturbed by Richard’s uncharacteristic dependency, Armus bowed his brow against his brother’s hair. He could smell the heat of illness on Richard’s flesh, along with the scent that was distinctively his a mesh of leather, milled soap, and the thin reek of oil from his sword. "Try to sleep, Richard. I promise, I’ll be here."

It was all Armus could do to keep from shuddering. Though their father had taken ill, that malady was nothing even remotely similar to the one plaguing Richard. Armus felt his stomach tighten as he considered drawing his knife and bleeding Richard. Though he wasn’t a skilled physician he’d seen the procedure done often enough to duplicate it. There was little alternative if he hoped to remove the poisonous blood from his brother before it spread further.

When Richard shifted and moaned, Armus knew he couldn’t possibly proceed. How could he inflict greater pain when his brother already battled severe discomfort? Cursing their luck at being so far from Covington Cross, Armus cradled Richard’s head against his chest. Gently, he stroked his fingers over the other’s flesh, coaxing the corded muscle in neck and shoulders to relax. When he felt Richard slump against him, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Hours later, he awoke to the gray light of dawn. His own sleep had been restless and brief, consumed by fragmented dreams and multiplying worries over his younger sibling. Stirring, he tried not to rouse Richard, but even that guarded movement brought the other awake.

Blinking groggily, Richard moved his head on Armus’s chest. Through the intervening layers of clothing and protective cloaks, he could feel the chill touch of dew-saturated ground. The cocoon of his brother’s body provided a pocket of warmth he was loathed to abandon, but the insistent pressure of his bladder made him sit up.

Rising beside him, Armus held a steadying hand to his shoulder. "You look like a child’s rag-doll," he commented lightly. When Richard’s eyes slid in his direction, he grinned indulgently. "But weigh considerably more. It’s been sometime since I’ve slept with a companion nestled on my chest."

Richard offered a wan smile. "I’m sorry I’m not female and amoral. If it helps you’re not my first choice for bedmate either."

Armus snorted. "This from a man who slept like a cat curled on a warm lap. Look here " Slipping a finger beneath Richard’s chin, Armus turned his face for inspection. Using his free hand, he guided dew-dampened strands of hair from Richard’s cheek. Beneath his fingertips he could feel the flawless texture of his brother’s skin no longer seared by heat, but blessedly cool. "I think the fever’s passed. Will you eat something, if I manage to conjure up breakfast?"

Richard tried not to appear impatient. "At the moment all I care about is relieving myself."

"Very well." Armus pulled him to his feet, maintaining a stabilizing hand until he was certain Richard wasn’t going to stumble. "Do you need help?"

Annoyed, Richard glared. "Armus there are certain things a man does alone, no matter how ill he might be."

Shrugging off his brother’s long cloak, Richard kept his own wrapped about him as he ventured into the trees. A short distance away, his back turned, he unlaced his breeches and released his bladder. Almost immediately pain shot through his abdomen, cutting off the flow of urine. Gasping, Richard bent double, sucking down a ragged breath. As quickly as the pain surfaced, it flitted away, leaving him unsteady and dazed. Shaken, he glanced over his shoulder, but Armus was busy tending the fire. Before his brother could ponder over his delay, Richard emptied his bladder and laced his breeches.

"Are you all right?" Armus asked when he’d returned. "You look paler than before."

Squatting near the flames, Richard hugged his arms close to his chest. "You’re full of compliments this morning," he mumbled. Raising his eyes, he glanced at his brother. "Let’s just eat and start moving. I want to get home."

Armus nodded. It went without saying, he felt the same.

+++++

Richard ate little but managed to keep the food down. Once underway, he forced himself to maintain a steady pace beside Armus, unwilling to slow their journey. Twice during the morning hours, however, he was overcome by a fit of coughing. Each time, Armus drew rein, halting their progress until Richard waved him forward. During the second occurrence, the sharp tang of copper flooded his mouth. Wiping a hand across his lips, Richard glanced down to find his glove stained bright red. Each cough thereafter brought a fresh bubbling of blood to the back of his throat. Despite his own alarm, Richard kept the sickly discharge, and his growing fear hidden from Armus.

When they camped that night, he huddled into his cloak, rolling away from his brother, enforcing his desire for privacy. Though he secretly longed for the warm protection of Armus’s embrace, Richard feared infecting him. Pulling his cloak up about his ears for added warmth, he ducked his head beneath the coarse fabric, shivering in the summer air. Feigning sleep, he waited until he heard Armus’s steady breathing, then allowed the breath to whistle through his teeth in a tortured sigh. A coughing spasm followed. Earlier that day, he’d torn a scrap of material from his neck scarf to mute the torturous hacking. Pressing it to his mouth, Richard collected the blood seeping between his lips. "Oh God . . ." With a groan, he rolled onto his back.

His mother had died from a similar sickness.

His mother had died of the plague.

+++++

The following day proceeded in similar fashion, with Richard speaking less and keeping an even greater distance from Armus. The coughing grew worse, accompanied by a spattering of blood inside his mouth, each time a spasm took hold. He no longer made the effort to deny he was ill, or to suggest the illness was trifling. By the end of the second day it was all he could do to sit his saddle. Exhausted, he fell into a leaden sleep by the fire, curled in a fetus-like ball. When Armus attempted to comfort him, he drew away as though his brother’s touch brought pain. The following morning he clawed onto his horse, barely managing to sit up, as the animal plodded through the tree-lined passages of Tiner Forest. Shortly after noon, the ivy-encrusted walls of Covington Cross breached the horizon.

Richard swallowed hard, dislodging the slick lump of blood in his throat. "I need to enter by the back," he whispered. His voice was shorn, cracked at the edges. " the postern in the lower level."

Concerned, Armus glanced aside. "What nonsense is this? That doorway hasn’t been used in years it leads directly to the dungeons."

Fighting fatigue, Richard drew rein beside his brother. His eyes were pain-narrowed slits green irises like marbled glass in the waxen shell of his face. The mere effort of speech made him grimace. "You should do the same. I . . . I may have infected you."

Armus’s gaze was earnest. "It’s possible, but I’ve never felt better. Besides you may not be contagious."

Richard bowed his head. Shuddering, he drew a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob. The long waves of his hair concealed his face from view, prompting Armus to place a hand over his on the reins. Too tired to shrug him off, Richard closed his eyes. "You shouldn’t touch me," he whispered, unwilling to meet his brother’s worried glance.

Wordlessly, Armus squeezed his hand. Somehow the simple gesture gave Richard the courage to continue. With a mute glance for his brother, he nudged his horse forward. Over the last hour, the saddle had grown painfully uncomfortable as marked tenderness developed in his groin. Now, each slight nuance of the horse brought a ripple of crippling agony between his legs. Biting his lip to stifle a cry, Richard forced himself to continue eyes locked on the towering walls of his ancestral home.

Eventually the protective shelter of the courtyard surrounded him. He was vaguely aware of dismounting; of his brother’s strong arms holding him up when he would have crumbled listlessly to the ground. His chin sagged to his chest as Armus pulled him through the postern, aiding him through the stone corridors of the lower reaches of the castle. Here, the air was cold and damp, snaking beneath his collar; effortlessly penetrating the thin sleeves of his summer tunic. Shivering, he pointed to the dungeon. "There "

Armus gave a short jerk of surprise. "What?"

With effort Richard pulled away from him and stumbled towards the heavy door. Cut from massive stone, the barricade had a barred window no greater than two foot square, set near the top. Richard closed his hands over the metal rods and shoved inward, dropping to one knee as the door gave way. Instantly, Armus was behind him, gripping him beneath the armpits and pulling him to his feet. "Damn it, Richard what the hell are you doing?"

Too tired to resist, Richard sagged against him. "I-I can’t risk infecting the castle."

Perturbed by his brother’s obstinacy, Armus allowed irritation to slip through in his voice. "Infect the castle with what?"

Richard coughed weakly, cupping the blood-saturated handkerchief in his hand. By rumpling the cloth in a ball, his brother was no wiser to the stains soiling its surface. "Armus, I’m too tired to argue. Just . . . leave me here, and tell Father we’ve returned. He needs to keep his distance and y-you need to keep yours from the others. Please I-I have to sit down."

The naked vulnerability in Richard’s voice prompted Armus to comply. Though the stone cell was hardly the quarters he would have chosen for his brother, it presented the only option at present. With a disgusted glance for the filthy, straw-littered floor, Armus helped Richard to the biscuit-thin pallet in the corner. The coarse covering of homespun had long since worn to threadbare strands, allowing moldy straw to poke through the bedding. Overhead, diminishing beams of light pierced a small window, infusing the cell with a glow like watered sun. Oblivious to all but the punishing effects of his illness, Richard crumbled gratefully on the tattered pallet. Shuddering, he rolled onto his back, tossing one gauntlet-covered wrist across his eyes.

Armus gripped his shoulder. "I won’t be long. I promise."

Not trusting his voice, Richard nodded. He heard the tread of his brother’s footfalls as Armus moved away. Left alone in the cell, he curled in on himself rolling onto his side and wrapping his arms close to his chest. It hurt to move his legs. The tenderness in his groin had spread, inching down the constricting muscles of his inner thighs. Moaning softly, he rolled his head against the pallet. He could smell blood from the cloth clutched in his hand; taste the perpetual copper of irreversible sickness in his mouth. It had been eight years since his mother had died eight years since the plague had last taken a life in England. He’d been thirteen when she’d toiled with the disease. Too young to remember much of anything, except that she’d vomited blood. She hadn’t wanted him or any of her children to see her in such a horrid state, but he’d crept into her room one night frightened when he found his father holding her, as she’d dispelled blood from stomach and lungs, her tears mingling with those of Sir Thomas.

It had been a miracle no one else in the castle had contracted the deadly disease. There were tales of healers dropping ill at the bedside of plague victims, so quickly did the malady strike. Wife deserted husband and mother children, as victims were left to die in their own body fluids. It had been a time of madness and rage a time when loyalty and compassion were trampled beneath the hideous demon of fear.

Feeling the first roiling stab of nausea, Richard bit his lip to stifle a cry. His throat was already raw from coughing up blood. He didn’t think he could survive the brutal torrent of vomiting. Armus had left the door ajar, making him wish for the sound of voices in the corridor. He wouldn’t feel so alone if he could just hear his father’s voice through the barred window if he could feel Sir Thomas’s powerful presence, and know he was near. Though Richard had never been overly demonstrative with his affection, there were occasions when he longed for his father’s comfort.

As though in mockery of his need, an icy draft scuttled through the doorway, making him flinch from the cold. Huddling against the pallet, he drew his legs to his chest, groaning as the movement kindled pain in his groin. Closing his eyes, he folded his hand against his mouth, coughing into the blood-fouled cloth. The spasm was longer this time, making his lungs rattle. Unable to bear the searing fire in his chest, he gasped aloud.

"Richard!"

Unprepared for his father’s voice, Richard shrank from the sound. It took him a moment to orient a moment to realize Sir Thomas had entered the dungeon and was crouching at his side, face creased with concern. Warm, gentle hands grasped his arms.

"No!" Recoiling violently, Richard wrenched from his grip, pressing back against the wall. "Stay away from me! Don’t you realize what I have?"

Sir Thomas Grey stared blankly. The man who huddled in the corner like a frightened animal, was a pale phantom of his normally vibrant, cocky son. This Richard had enormous green eyes, ringed by the pallid pink cream of illness. This Richard shuddered as though afflicted with an unspeakable malady the high bones of his cheeks gouged by slashes of horrific shadow. Thomas stretched out his hand hoping to comfort, but Richard flinched away. Behind him, Thomas could feel the presence of his oldest son, as Armus hovered in the background.

"How long has he been ill?" Though Thomas’s blue eyes remained fixed on his second son, he directed his query to Armus.

"It started about four days ago," the blonde-haired man supplied, taking a step closer. "He’s gotten progressively worse, but admittedly, I’ve done little in the way of treatment."

Richard uttered a choked sound half sob; half laughter. "There is no remedy," he whispered bitterly. Twisting his face away, he turned towards the wall.

Not to be put off, Thomas reached forward and lightly touched his cheek. "There is always a treatment."

Unable to retreat further, Richard closed his eyes, permitting the touch. His father’s fingertips were warm and gentle as they tracked over his sweat-stained cheek. Undone by the touch, he shuddered, biting his lip to stifle a cry. It took all his remaining strength not to surrender and fling himself into his father’s arms. "You shouldn’t . . . have come . . ." he said with difficulty.

Sensing a crack in his son’s impenetrable walls, Thomas shifted, easing forward to sit on the pallet. Shoulder to shoulder, he could feel the heat radiating from Richard’s body. Slowly he curled his fingers around Richard’s forearm, squeezing to impart comfort and assurance. The flesh beneath the white linen sleeve was chill to the touch. Gently he slid his fingers over his son’s wrist, trying to coax the ball of Richard’s hand to relax. One by one, the long fingers loosened, until Thomas pried them back from the palm. The crumpled, blood-soiled cloth tumbled free.

"You see " Richard croaked, glancing from the cloth to his father. " it’s the plague."

Unprepared for the sight of so much blood, Armus gave a short gasp of surprise, but Thomas remained unaffected. Hooking his arm around his son’s shoulders, he pulled Richard against him. "If it was the plague, you’d be dead by now." Raising his free hand, he cupped Richard’s neck, guiding his head against his chest. "There hasn’t been a case of pestilence in England for over eight years, thus I think it unlikely you’d contract it now."

"But I "

"Ssh," Thomas soothed, massaging his thumb over the taut cords of his son’s neck. Pressing his forehead to the crown of Richard’s hair, he lowered his voice to a placating murmur. "If you’re so worried about others coming in contact with you, you’ll stay in my chambers."

Richard coughed weakly, folding the soiled cloth against his lips. A tremor ran through his body. "I should stay here."

Trying not to appear alarmed by the fresh smattering of blood on the rumpled material, Thomas spoke hastily. "Richard, it’s cold and damp, and there is no hearth for a fire. I simply won’t allow my son to remain in the dungeon." With a swift glance for Armus, the Lord of Covington Cross conveyed silent concern. "Armus, summon the healer to my chambers quickly please. And " he added when he saw Richard about to protest, " try to avoid as many people as possible, until we determine the nature of this illness."

With a short nod of his head, Armus departed, leaving Thomas alone with his son. No longer insistent on maintaining distance, Richard curled willingly against his father’s chest. He coughed again, the sound producing a phlegmy rattle in his lungs. Rubbing his thumb over the taut cords of the younger man’s neck, Thomas tried to coax him to relax. He could feel the quivering tension in the other’s body; hear the soft, labored hiss of his breath. Though sweat dampened the long waves of hair at the nape of Richard’s neck, his skin was unnaturally cold. "Richard, if I help you to stand, can you walk to my chambers?"

Mutely, Richard nodded. Thomas heard him draw a trembling breath, as though trying to find the resolve to move. Very slowly, he straightened his legs. Spurred by the cautious rigidity of his movements, Thomas placed a hand on his thigh. Immediately, Richard grimaced, drawing his legs protectively back to his body, like a tortoise retreating into a shell.

"Son " Sliding his palm across the hard muscle of Richard’s thigh, Thomas’s fingers encountered a lump on the inner side. The breath whistled through his teeth as he recalled the egg-shaped swellings on Anne’s neck and thighs. Involuntarily, he wrenched his hand back as though stung.

Richard gave a short choked cry and tried to pull away. "It is the plague!" he cried.

"No!" Recovering, Thomas held him in a possessive grip. "I won’t second-guess this," he whispered fiercely. "Let’s get you to my chambers you’ll be warm and safe there. I won’t leave you, Richard. No matter what this confounded malady proves to be, I promise I’ll stay with you."

Not trusting his voice, Richard could only nod. Aided by his father, he managed to stand, though the action left him trembling with fatigue. Thomas gripped his arm, hooking it over his shoulders, while lending support. He kept his own arm secure around Richard’s waist, holding him upright when he would have stumbled. With concentrated effort, the two men traversed the stone corridors, trekking up three flights of stairs to the upper level of the castle. Once in his chambers, Thomas led his son through an adjoining study to the sleeping area. Here, a massive bed and six-foot high hearth were accentuated by plush braided rugs, and richly embroidered tapestries. With a glance for the barren hearth, Thomas eased Richard onto the bed. The younger man folded gratefully into the cushioning embrace of the feather-stuffed mattress, groaning softly as Thomas released him.

"I’ll have the servants start a fire," Thomas said soothingly, noting how his son shivered, despite the warm summer temperatures.

Richard rolled his head against the pillow. "N-No servants."

"Very well, I’ll start it myself."

When Thomas moved to draw away, Richard caught his wrist. "Don’t leave," he whispered. Surprised, Thomas sat on the edge of the bed. There was something about the combination of unbending steel and naked vulnerability in his normally self-reliant son, that twisted his heart inside out. While his other children had always been fairly free in expressing themselves, Richard had never been overly demonstrative with his emotions. This brief glimpse of uncharacteristic dependence was oddly unsettling. Wetting his lips, Thomas twisted his hand around until he clasped Richard’s palm in his. "I told you I wouldn’t leave," he said softly. Prying the blood-soaked cloth from Richard’s fingers, he tugged his son’s gauntlets free. "You’ll feel better out of these clothes and in a nightshirt " As he talked, Thomas loosened the laces on Richard’s wrist cuff. But Richard shook his head.

"Later," he said quietly. He tugged his wrist free. "Just stay here . . . while I sleep . . ."

Thomas swallowed hard. The vulnerability had returned to his son’s voice. Twisting around, the older man braced his back against the headboard, stretching his legs over the mattress. Richard curled against him, pushing the pillow into his lap to gain closer contact. Somewhat possessively, Thomas trailed his hand over his son’s arm, feeling the minute shiver of muscle beneath his fingertips. He heard a sighing breath escape his son’s lips; watched as Richard’s gossamer-fine lashes slowly drew over his eyes. In time, the tremors riddling his body became less frequent and the quivering hitch of his breath evened into a steady flow.

Thomas rubbed his eyes. It hadn’t been that long ago he’d lain in this same bed, sick with fever. The healer had mixed herbal remedies into his food and draped his bedchamber with milkweed and rosemary. Yesterday was the first he’d felt half-human, leaving his chambers, like a monk departing a sequestered Order. Now it appeared, he was to embrace seclusion a second time.

With a glance at his sleeping son, Thomas thought again about the lumps he’d felt on Richard’s thigh. It wasn’t possible his son had contracted the plague, and yet those nodules felt much like the growths Anne had experienced shortly before she’d died. Richard had been but thirteen then a child squire forced to pretend hardened masculinity. The burden of premature adulthood had grown even greater when Armus had departed for the Holy Land shortly after Anne’s death. Forced into the role of eldest son, Richard suddenly found himself managing Sir Thomas’s estates and overseeing men twice his age.

No wonder he’s so damn cocky, Thomas thought with a half-grin. An endearing glance at his son induced a constricted lump in his throat. Gently, Thomas threaded his fingers into the long snarled waves of Richard’s hair. He started abruptly when the door opened. The tread of Armus’s boots preceded his presence in the chamber. Thomas glanced up as the blonde-haired man rounded the corner.

"Well?" he prompted when he realized Armus was alone. "Where’s the healer?"

"Gone to the village, I’m afraid." Approaching the bed, Armus glanced down at his sleeping brother. His eyes flitted from the younger man to their father. "There was an accident a cart overturned and a child was crushed beneath it. Should I send word that the healer is needed here?"

"No." Sadly, Thomas shook his head. "He’ll return as soon as he’s able, I’m certain." The movement of his hand continued at the base of Richard’s neck small, soothing circles that kept his son relaxed and sleeping. He was silent for a moment, his eyes lingering on the gaunt lines of Richard’s face. A side-ways glance at Armus sent his mind reeling on another track. "You say he’s been ill for four days?"

Armus grunted, his own thoughts scattering at the query. "More or less."

"And yet you feel fine?"

When Armus nodded, Sir Thomas frowned. His hand slid from Richard’s neck, trailing over his back, gently rubbing away knotted bands of tension. Lost in the gray haze of sleep, Richard groaned softly. "Was anyone else at Louvenford ill?" Thomas asked his eldest son.

Briefly, Armus considered. "Not that I saw. Father about Louvenford and Lord Hammond’s land "

"We’ll talk about it later," Thomas said distractedly. Gnawing on his bottom lip, he glanced to his stricken son. It was so unlike Richard to be ill. Even as a child, he’d been sick infrequently. When a malady did strike, it was normally brief, caused by some excess of wine or ale. More often than not when his headstrong son was incapacitated, it was due to a physical injury a broken bone or wound from a sword. Richard had been fine when he’d left for Louvenford. "Armus " Thomas said thoughtfully. "I want you to go back to Louvenford, and see if there’s been any word of illness. Take Cedric with you. I don’t want to cause alarm, so keep Richard’s condition to yourself. Above all, be discreet."

Armus glanced at his brother. "And Richard?" he asked.

Thomas’s face was grave. "If the healer hasn’t returned by Eventide, I’ll commence a bleeding. For now, I’m afraid, it’s all we can do."

When Armus left the room, Thomas sat quietly, wondering if perhaps he wasn’t the cause of his son’s illness. He’d been sick with fever for three days before Richard had left to visit the Hammonds and although that affliction was trivial compared to the ailment that plagued his son, the timing seemed more than coincidental. Thomas cursed softly, sickened by the thought.

Unexpectedly, Richard stirred, seized by a fit of coughing. Pushing to one elbow, he bent forward still dazed with sleep, as the spasm shook his body. Gripping the pillow, he buried his face against the cool white fabric, muffling the torturous hacking.

"Richard !"

Richard felt Thomas’s hand on his shoulder, but even the pressure of his father’s fingers couldn’t mute the sharp knife of agony in his lungs. It felt as though a fire-heated blade gouged his chest sadistically plundering flesh and bone. Crying aloud, Richard tightened his grip on the pillow, as if that might somehow ease the punishing torment. Slowly the spasm lessened the horrific hacking fading to a weak cough, then ceasing altogether. Gasping, Richard rolled onto his back.

"Dear Lord!" Horrified, Thomas gripped his son’s shoulder. Blood ran from Richard’s mouth; was smeared across his cheek in red-veined threads. The pillow was saturated. A glistening patch of crimson marred the ivory material like a bloom of disease. For a brief moment Thomas experienced a flashback, recalling a similar occurrence with a dying Anne. Was it possible he was to lose his son too? "This can’t be happening," he mumbled, unaware he’d spoken aloud.

Breathing heavily, Richard dragged trembling fingers across his mouth. "God, it hurts!" he choked.

As though coming to his senses, Thomas smoothed a hand over his son’s brow. His throat constricted when he realized there were tears on Richard’s cheeks glinting softly silver in the shadowy haze of the chamber. The sight of his proud son reduced to tears made Thomas want to weep. "Try to relax," he urged. "I know it hurts, but the more you struggle "

"I " Gripping his father’s arm, Richard drew a wheezing breath. " feel like . . . can’t breathe."

"Take slow breaths," Thomas said as calmly as he could. The rise and fall of Richard’s chest had quickened dramatically, his breath coming in short, rattling bursts. Reassuringly, Thomas stroked the back of his fingers against the younger man’s temple, ignoring the racing cadence of his own heart. "Calmly, Richard. I’m right here. I " But Thomas’s words were cut abruptly short when Richard cried aloud.

Clutching both hands over his stomach, Richard rolled to the side of the bed and retched. His body convulsed as searing cramps plundered his abdomen, pushing blood and fluid through his throat. Already torn raw from the coughing spasm, the rancid sting of bile and blood against the soft tissue of his esophagus made him half push from the bed. It was all Thomas could do to reach him in time to keep him from tumbling from the raised mattress. The onslaught of vomiting was so abrupt and so merciless, it left Richard sucking down jagged gulps of air, his entire body drenched in sweat. His stomach constricted again and again as blood gushed from his mouth onto the stone floor. He was vaguely aware of his father’s strong arms wrapped about his trembling body; of Sir Thomas’s voice near his ear, reassuring him in soothing tones. His fingers dug into the thick padding of the mattress, contorting with each ruthless contraction of his stomach. Finally, when there was nothing left but dry air to push against the back of his throat, the seizure ended. Exhausted, the younger man crumpled against his father.

White-faced, Thomas cradled him close to his chest. He could feel a trickle of blood seeping from Richard’s mouth, spreading into the woven fabric of his tunic. Shaken, Thomas tightened his grip on his son.

"Is this how Mother felt . . . before she died?" Richard asked in a broken voice. His entire body shook as the punishing effects of the illness stripped away the last remaining residue of his strength.

Burying his face against Thomas’s chest, he wept.

+++++

Thomas paced in his chambers, careful the tread of his boots was no louder than a whisper. Three hours past, Richard had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, but not before another painful bout of vomiting. Thinking he would feel better unclothed, Thomas managed to undress his son and slip one of his own nightshirts over his head. Though they were matched in height, Thomas was considerably broader across the chest. As a result, the soft material tended to slide from Richard’s shoulder. Even now as he lay curled on his side the long tumbled waves of his hair concealing his face one shoulder lay bare and exposed to the air. For a brief time Richard had been troubled by unbearable heat, but he was shivering again as the fever swung in reverse. Crossing to the bed, Thomas caught the edge of the nightshirt and tugged it over his shoulder, then did the same with the blankets. Through it all, Richard never stirred.

Nerves frayed by his son’s unexplained illness, Thomas released a pent up breath. Briefly he recalled the lumps he’d seen on Richard’s inner thighs and groin while undressing him. A purplish blotch had surrounded each fleshy nodule, fading to brown-yellow as it spread outward from the mass of diseased skin. Coupled with the coughing spasms and the amount of blood he’d lost vomiting, the symptoms of his illness were remarkably like the malady that had killed Anne the plague. It just wasn’t possible.

"Thomas?"

The Lord of Covington Cross jerked at the intrusion of the voice behind him. Turning from the bed, he was both relieved and horrified to find Lady Elizabeth Leland in his chambers. With thoughts of Anne still swirling in his mind, it was oddly inappropriate to find his lover so near. Worse, she’d walked into his chambers with no care for the isolation instructions he’d placed on his rooms. "You shouldn’t be here," he said crisply. Yet even the frost-like edge of his voice couldn’t conceal his relief at having found someone to share his misgivings with.

Setting aside her riding cloak, Elizabeth strode into the room, dismissing his objection with a pointed glance. There was a scrap of parchment clutched in her hand, which she now slipped into her sleeve. Approaching the bed, she stood at his side glancing down at Richard. "Eleanor told me what happened. She’s just left for the village to see if there’s any word on the healer." Leaning forward, Elizabeth pressed the back of her hand to Richard’s cheek. "His fever’s high. Have you tried compresses of cool water?"

Thomas cast a glance to a small table opposite the bed, where a bowl and pitcher had been placed. Cloth compresses were piled beside the pitcher, most used. "It isn’t helping," Thomas said quietly. He wasn’t aware of the tortured doubt that slipped through in his voice of the circles under his own eyes that betrayed his growing concern. With a sigh he laced nervous fingers through his long hair, sweeping the silver strands from his brow. "I don’t understand it, Elizabeth. Not at all. He couldn’t possibly have what I fear and yet the symptoms are all there. It’s like reliving Anne’s death with my son."

Turning from the bed, Thomas sank into a chair, dropping his face in to his hands. As the day ventured towards Eventide, the shadows in the room lengthened and grew, contorting into shapes both bloated and fantastical. Earlier, Thomas had kindled a fire in the hearth, hoping to warm his son. Now, that dancing light cast flickering wraiths of amber and gold on the stone floor and tapestry-draped walls, shifting with near-liquid ease. Leaning forward, propping his elbows on his knees, Thomas lifted a stricken glance. "I can’t lose him, Elizabeth. I just can’t."

"Thomas " The hem of her flowing gown whispered against the flagstone as she crossed to his side. Kneeling by the chair, Elizabeth gripped her lover’s arm. "You mustn’t think in such dreadful terms, Thomas. For Richard’s sake, you must be positive and you must be rested."

"I can’t "

"You’ve been ill yourself and need your strength. I’ll stay with him while you sleep."

Miserable, Thomas allowed his eyes to track to the bed. Richard was still curled on his side, his back turned. Exhausted by illness and tears, he’d barely moved since he’d fallen asleep. With any luck he’d rest through most of the night.

Yet another night, Thomas thought. The plague would have taken Richard’s life by now. Anne had barely survived three days. Yet if it wasn’t the plague if it wasn’t the black pestilence that had taken his wife, then what dread illness afflicted his son?

"Please, Thomas " Elizabeth insisted, gripping his arm. "It’s better if you rest now, while Richard is asleep."

There was logic at least, in that. With a resigned nod, Thomas glanced at the cot he’d had the servants leave outside his chambers. Once they’d departed, he’d moved it within, placing it at the edge of his study, where he could see both door and bed. "Rouse me if he wakens or the healer arrives," Thomas told his lover. He didn’t realize how tired he was until he lay on the welcoming pallet and allowed the long, exhaustive hours of the day to wash over him.

Quietly, Elizabeth assumed vigil at Richard’s bedside, using the chair Thomas had drawn close for just such a purpose. Although she was closest to Cedric of all Sir Thomas’s children, she felt an innate fondness for Thomas’s second son. He’d been perhaps the hardest to gauge as her relationship with Thomas deepened. Cedric was so easily accepting, and Eleanor while not overly congenial, was at least consistent in her snubs. Armus was both peacekeeper and diplomat, ready to ease the passage for anyone who made his father happy. But Richard for a man with a sword-edged temper, he was remarkably adept at concealing his feelings when he chose. It had taken her months before she’d felt comfortable in his presence months before she’d realized he maintained walls with most people even members of his family.

And then she’d seen him smile.

The change that came over his face when he smiled was remarkable part elfin delight; part mischievous imp. She could still see the crinkled lines at the corners of his green eyes, the dimple that sank deep into his cheek, his teeth straight and white. The first time Richard had smiled at her, Elizabeth had known there was no longer any need to feel awkward in his presence. Looking at him now with the flush of fever high on his cheeks; his brown hair creating a riotous fan of curls against the pillowcase, she felt suddenly protective, as if he were her own son.

Almost reluctantly she pulled the folded parchment from her sleeve. One thin finger traced over the wax seal of Louvenford. Eleanor had given her the missive before she ascended the stairs to Thomas’s chambers. It had arrived by courier shortly before her own entrance. Addressed to Richard, she had intended to place it by his bedside, but now she realized it could hold information pertaining to his illness. What if some malady had been discovered at Louvenford shortly after his departure, and Lord Hammond wrote to warn him of that occurrence? Shivering, Elizabeth rubbed her palms against her sleeves.

She would tell Thomas of the missive when he awoke and let him decide whether or not it should be opened. With a glance for the young man on the bed, Elizabeth said a silent prayer the parchment contained good news.

+++++

Cedric frowned as he fed a stick to the fire. Already darkness had descended, cloaking Tiner Forest in mist-tipped gloaming. The moist breath of the trees was threaded with veins of silver cooling fog that coiled about his ankles and conjured insubstantial phantoms against the trunks of beech and elm. On another night he might appreciate the voice of the forest nocturnal whisperings of wind and leaf; the lonely hoot of an owl; the rustling foray of a small animal in the underbrush but tonight all he could think of was Richard.

Neither he nor Eleanor had been allowed to see their brother, and that perhaps more than anything, indicated the seriousness of his illness. It was odd to think of Richard incapacitated. Richard, who always had a quick word and offhand grin. Only last week they’d practiced swords together, and while Cedric was certain Richard had let him score a point or two, he also knew Richard drilled him harder than anyone else in the yard.

The clutch of dread settled in his stomach as he glanced from the flames to Armus, seated on the opposite side. "What do you expect we’ll find at Louvenford?" he asked his brother.

Tinted with fire and darkness, Armus’s fair hair glimmered with a ripple of amber. Shadows creased his face, hollowing his eyes, until only a glint of blue remained. "An answer, I hope," he replied, shifting slightly, forcing the gloaming from his face. "There has to be something to explain why Richard became so ill."

"And if there’s not?"

Armus scowled. He didn’t want to consider such a dreadful possibility. Though Richard had only been thirteen when he left for the Holy Land, they’d easily regained the closeness they’d shared in childhood. He’d been back but a mere six months, yet it felt like he’d never left. Reserved at first, Richard had eventually abolished his carefully constructed walls. Though the man was nothing like the child Armus had left behind, glimmers of that younger brother still remained. The four years of age separating them sometimes seemed like four days and others four decades. Armus was close with all his siblings, but the bond he shared with Richard was rooted in the realm of long ago. Apprehensively, he glanced at his brother.

Cedric watched with wide questioning blue eyes eyes that mirrored his need for assurance. Sometimes the combination of ink-black hair and ivory-pale skin made the younger man appear otherworldly. Looking at him now his straight black hair spilled haphazardly across his brow Armus could easily visualize his younger brother riding a flesh-colored horse over a moonlit landscape. He thought of old tales of changelings, pookas, and Named creatures. "Don’t worry, Cedric," he said with as much conviction as he could muster. "It will all work out in the end."

Cedric nodded, seemingly convinced by his brother’s optimistic logic, though inwardly he chafed to be away. Darkness or not, he wanted to ride at breakneck speed for Louvenford castle, demanding an explanation for Richard’s illness of anyone within earshot. Armus, however, said they must exercise caution in seeking answers. Cedric failed to understand how discretion could be an issue when his brother’s life was in the balance. Still, he made an effort to restrain himself and bow to Armus’s greater wisdom. Cedric knew the restriction had to be difficult for Armus as well. He was not immune to the special bond that existed between his two older brothers a bond which defied Armus’s eight-year absence. While Richard never permitted any glimpse of insecurity or need in Cedric’s presence, Cedric was certain Armus had witnessed both. Rather than experience jealousy, Cedric respected the closeness of his siblings. The Richard he knew was headstrong, domineering and a trifle arrogant. The Richard Armus knew, combined those same characteristics, with the softer traits of doubt, dependence and the occasional need for guidance.

Sighing softly, Cedric rubbed stiff fingers against his temple. Time moved much too slowly for his liking. The dawn, and Louvenford seemed horribly distant.

+++++

Struggling to silence his mounting concern, Thomas held a clean kerchief to Richard’s mouth, while his son succumbed to a rigorous bout of coughing. Exhausted, barely able to support himself, Richard relied on his father’s bracing arm across his back to hold him upright. Somewhere in the dizzying haze of his mind, he heard the soothing cadence of Thomas’s voice. Grappling for the security of that comforting sound, Richard closed his eyes, feeling the burn of hot blood against his lacerated throat; the staggering sear of fire in his lungs. Like a whirlwind it passed intense torture for a brief time, followed by the concentrated ease of departure. With a sob of relief, Richard turned his head, burying his face against Thomas’s neck.

He felt the reassuring stroke of firm fingers in the sweaty knot of his hair; the touch of cool lips against his temple. Thomas’s arm tightened around his back.

"I’ve got you, Son," his father whispered near his ear. Richard was afraid to move unwilling to rekindle the violent seizure of coughing which had awakened him from a sound sleep. There was something intrinsically comforting about being held by his father as though he were a small child. It no longer mattered that illness stripped away his reserve and natural tendency for independence. He wanted to remain in the protective pocket of safety his father had created with both presence and voice an enveloping warmth that allowed Richard the delusion of freedom from pain, even if only briefly. He felt Thomas’s fingers track over the sleeve of his nightshirt, slipping beneath the cuff at his wrist. Warm flesh brushed his skin fingers that were firm and whole, assuring with the sheer pressure of intrinsic strength. Slowly those fingers rubbed across his arm, causing a ghost shiver to trickle down his spine. Richard moaned softly at the contact, burrowing closer to his father.

Thomas bowed his head. "Richard, I promise we’ll find a way out of this . . . a way to make you better. Please, Son you must be strong. Try to fight this thing " This demon, he wanted to spit. This infernal hellish nightmare, I’d strangle with my bare hands if it only had substance. I’d fight a maddened boar, armed with only a kitchen knife, rather then watch you suffer this agony. "Lie back," he coaxed, gently striving to disentangle himself, but Richard held tight refusing to release his hold.

"No," he croaked, in a broken voice. Trembling fingers curled into Thomas’s tunic, surprisingly strong, despite his exhaustive state. "Just let me stay like this for a while," he whispered, leaving Thomas slightly off kilter.

The older man opted for humor when Richard’s vulnerability would have brought tears to his eyes. He hugged him closer. "Can I tease you about this when you’re better?" A moment’s pause. " in front of Armus and Cedric?"

Richard gave a short snort of laughter. Shifting, he curled his arm around his father’s neck, resting his head against the soft padding of Thomas’s lambswool tunic. "I’ll deny everything," he returned in a murmur. Then: "Thank you for sending Lady Elizabeth on an errand. I prefer she not see me like this."

"What? Curled up against me like a kitten?" Thomas chuckled, knowing it wasn’t what his son meant. His fingers feathered the long waves of Richard’s ragged hair. "Richard " his voice changed, suddenly serious. "I sent her to the kitchen for . . . some implements. Eleanor returned and the healer is still detained in the village. I could summon the barber, but I think I’m just as skilled in certain matters of surgery."

Richard coughed weakly. "You mean bleeding?" He didn’t sound surprised and only vaguely concerned. "Just restrict any cutting to my arms. I have enough problems below the belt." Even as he spoke, Richard felt a needling discomfort in his groin. He winced slightly, causing Thomas to fixate on the other side-effect of his illness.

Slipping his hand beneath the bedcovers, Thomas encountered the linen edge of Richard’s nightshirt. Carefully, he pushed the material back from the younger man’s thigh. Beneath his fingertips, he could feel the raised nodules protruding from Richard’s flesh no larger than before, but increased in number. As his hand tracked inward, cupping Richard’s thigh, he felt his son flinch. He was about to push the blankets aside for a closer look when he heard the release of a door latch.

"Thomas?" Lady Elizabeth’s voice drifted from the adjoining study even as she entered the chambers.

With a groan at having to release his father, Richard disentangled himself and lay back against the pillows. Not nearly as comforting as his father’s broad chest, the cushioning softness allowed him to maintain a certain measure of dignity nonetheless. Managing a weak smile, he watched as Lady Elizabeth stepped to the foot of his bed. Wordlessly, she passed Thomas a wooden tray laden with bowls, knives and bandages, then went immediately to Richard’s side. Her fingers were long and slender much like his mother’s and he enjoyed the feel of them against his forehead, as she checked for fever.

"You don’t feel as flushed," she told him. "If I have the servants fetch a bowl of soup, will you try to eat something?"

Richard hesitated. The thought of food soured his stomach, but he knew his limited strength wouldn’t last much longer without some form of nourishment. Almost reluctantly, he nodded.

Elizabeth smiled, glad to see him make the effort. That alone was an improvement over the shell of the man she’d observed when first entering the chamber. The memory made her recall another. Slipping her fingers beneath her sleeve she withdrew the parchment addressed to him. "This came earlier today," she explained, passing the missive to him. "You were sleeping when it arrived."

Thomas recognized the wax seal as Richard accepted the letter. "From Louvenford?" he guessed.

Uneasily, Richard nodded. He hadn’t explained the awkward situation Lady Olivia had placed him in, nor his failure to procure the land for Sir Thomas. Surely if Lord Hammond was writing, he would address his answer to Thomas himself, or at the very least Armus. A missive from Louvenford, addressed to him, was unusual in itself.

"Perhaps it has something to do with your illness," Lady Elizabeth suggested.

Richard swallowed hard. He glanced at his father. "There’s something I haven’t told you," he said with difficulty. Briefly his eyes dropped to his hands. "Armus presented your offer for the land as requested, but "

"Not now," Thomas instructed softly. Strong fingers closed over Richard’s arm, imparting a reassuring squeeze. "We’ll discuss business when you’re well. I think perhaps Elizabeth is right, and some malady has struck Louvenford. Perhaps that missive explains its nature."

So why isn’t it addressed to Armus? As eldest he was the emissary to Louvenford. Richard could see the question lingering in his father’s eyes. Rolling his fingers into his palm, he pressed his fist against his lips to suppress a cough. There was no blood this time, just the sting of copper at the back of his throat. Thomas passed him a clean cloth from a nearby table, and Richard tucked it into his hand. Bracing his back against the headboard, he slipped his finger beneath the wax seal, unfolding the stiff parchment. An unfamiliar yet distinctively feminine hand flowed over the page:

Dearest Richard:

By now you are feeling the effects of wine laced with carefully chosen herbs. I say "carefully" chosen, because these plants are not commonly used, nor widely known, to any but a select few who secretly practice the arcane arts. A decade ago, your symptoms would have prompted your family to denounce and abandon you as a plague victim. The same villagers you now strive to protect would have turned on you, demanding your death by the violent act of dismemberment and burning. These same villagers can be incited to similar wrath today, should they believe Plague lingers within the walls of Covington Cross. That unfortunate incident would require the death of all who have come in contact with you including family members and servants. Such a high price to pay for a few nights spent appeasing a lady’s vanity!

By the time you receive this missive, the effects of the toxin will already have begun to subside towards remission. Once that occurs, you will have four days to right the wrong you have done. Four days in which to return to Louvenford and seal the proposal I made, in the manner suggested. Should you fail to do so, at the end of that time, the malady will return in greater force. It will then be my great pleasure to incite rumors of Plague within Covington Cross, placing the safety of your family and servants on your shoulders. If you will not think of yourself, have a care for those you love. Do as I ask, and I will provide medicinals to counteract the toxin, as well as sign over the land to your father. Many men would consider themselves fortunate, faced with such a dilemma. Count yourself blessed I fancy young men with comely features. Wrath, after all, is much worse than affection.

O.

"Well?" Thomas prompted when Richard had silently read through the letter. His son’s face had gone from ashen to a sickly shade of gray as he’d digested the message. Certain the news couldn’t be good, Thomas laid a hand on his knee and gave a small shake to draw his attention.

Richard’s eyes met his, pained and filled with self-recrimination. "I’ve made a mess of things," he said in a strained whisper. His hand fell to the side, exposing the flowing lines of the parchment. Uncertainly, Thomas reached for the letter. When Richard made no move to stop him, he tugged it free. "Read it aloud," Richard instructed.

Still doubtful, Thomas complied. Once or twice he saw his son flinch, scrunching his eyes closed as points of the missive were driven home. When he was through, Thomas glanced from his consort to his son. "Richard, am I to believe these threats come from Lady Olivia?"

Unable to meet his eyes, Richard nodded.

"Poison?" Thomas asked appalled. "Treachery? Richard, what did you do to this woman?"

"What did I do?" The heated outburst was so violent, it immediately reduced Richard to a reflexive bout of coughing. Pressing the cloth to his mouth, he bent forward, folding one arm across his middle as the brutal hacking brought him close to tears.

"Richard I’m sorry." Wrapping an arm about his shoulders, Thomas held him through the seizure, hating himself for each punishing shudder coursing through his son’s slender body. "I’m so sorry, Richard I wasn’t thinking. That was thoughtless and foolish of me. It’s just, I’ve known Lady Olivia for nigh on twenty years "

"I’ve known her longer," Lady Elizabeth said quietly.

Surprised, Thomas glanced up. Richard drew a rattling breath, and sagged against his father. With trembling fingers he wiped the blood from his mouth, tilting his head on Thomas’s shoulder to gaze at the Mistress of Leland Castle.

"Olivia is my first husband’s half-sister," she explained, "And I’ve always suspected she knew a thing or two about potions and incantations. Her marriage to Sir Reginald placed her above suspicion, but certain rumors persist despite the passage of time." Hesitating, Elizabeth looked steadily at Richard. "Olivia’s fondness for herbal lore and folk remedies isn’t her only fault. A greater weakness is her promiscuous appreciation for handsome young men."

Mortified, Richard bowed his head. Thomas felt him tense in his embrace. "Richard?" he queried.

Richard kept his eyes lowered, feeling the hot flush of shame spread over his cheeks. "I don’t want to talk about this," he mumbled. " it’s too embarrassing."

Thomas exchanged a glance with Elizabeth. Based on the missive in his hand and the revealing facts she’d just shared, he had a fairly good idea of what was troubling his son. He scanned the letter a second time. Such a high price to pay for a few nights spent appeasing a lady’s vanity, Olivia had written. Thomas wet his lips. "Richard, what did she wish of you?"

Uncomfortable, Richard pushed away, falling back against the pillows. He glanced at the ceiling; at the dark shroud of night beyond the windows; the implements Lady Elizabeth had secured for the bleeding anywhere but at Sir Thomas and his guest. The sting of color on his cheeks made him feel as though the fever had returned. "The land is hers, deeded directly from her father," Richard explained with difficulty. "She was quite willing to sign it over, but she didn’t want your money or promises of harvested crops." Expelling a breath, Richard swore softly. "I should have just bloody done what she wanted," he mumbled.

Thomas fixed him with a pointed gaze. "And what was that?"

Richard lowered his eyes. Tiredly he rubbed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. "She wanted me to lie with her," he admitted awkwardly " just a few nights in her bed and she would have signed the land over. Armus and I shared wine with Lady Olivia and her husband when we first arrived, at her behest. In all likelihood, mine was drugged. From the very start, she must have planned " he faltered, unable to finish. Biting down on his lip, he glanced at his father. "John Mullens showed up later, flaunting his own offer for the land. I’m sorry, Father." Miserable, Richard looked at his hands. "I should have just done as she asked. I’d be handing you the deed right now, rather than offering excuses."

"And I’d take a strap to you for having lost your senses!" Thomas snapped appalled. "Really, Richard, have you ever known me to condone blackmail? What makes you think I’d feel differently, when my own son is involved?"

"But I "

"You’d service this whore, then she’d turn around and hand Mullens the deed. Worse, she might decide to retain the lawful rights to the land, permitting us the use, based solely on your compliance with her needs."

Richard blanched. "I hadn’t considered that."

Irritated, Thomas stood. His face darkened, clouding with controlled anger as he paced restlessly at the foot of the bed. "This . . . shrew . . . thinks she can play licentious games, using her position as Mistress of Louvenford to place her above reproach. The very thought she’d make such a immoral proposal to my son, while he’s conducting business on my behalf " Unable to finish, Thomas sputtered to an enraged halt. Something about the righteous indignation on his face was almost comical, causing Richard to lose sight of the problem.

"Actually, Father . . . she’s not entirely without appeal," he offered with a lop-sided grin, "And it has been some time since I’ve had the leisure of dalliance, though I fear her age might cause her to expire before I was through . . ."

Thomas’s head swiveled about like a hawk zeroing in on prey. Despite the black severity of that gaze, Richard chuckled. "I must be feeling better," he commented lightly.

"I think you are both being dreadfully vain about the whole matter," Lady Elizabeth inserted before either could utter another word. She glanced sharply from one to the other. "Granted, Olivia Hammond needs to be taken to task for attempting such a profligate overture, but the situation is no different from the treatment men have subjected women to for countless years and without a moment’s thought for any injustice, I might add."

"I beg your pardon!" Thomas objected hotly. "I have never tried to blackmail anyone, much less a member of the fairer sex whether or not it was within my power to do so. And I object to such manipulations being used on my son especially when he’s attempting to carry out my bidding."

Lady Elizabeth’s lips curled in a casual smile. "Then perhaps you should find a less attractive son or at the very least, one who knows how to use his comeliness to advantage." Though she addressed the words to Thomas, she glanced pointedly at Richard, causing him to shift restlessly.</