Suzanne Robinson by Lord of Enchantment Read Free Book Online Page B

but remained at the door, arms folded over her bosom. Pen entered her chamber. Still muttering under her breath, she tiptoed past the curtained bed that contained Tristan. Placing the clothes on a chest, she crept to the bed and drew back the hangings to reveal a rumpled pile of covers surrounding a long body.
    “Good. It would be a blessing if you slept for the next three weeks.”
    She scowled at the tangle of soft locks just above the covers. In the torchlight last night they had gleamed like polished ebony. Saints, what was she thinking? The owner of those locks had accused her of dishonesty and carelessness with the lives of her folk. She, who had devoted herself to the welfare of Highcliffe, who scraped and saved and racked her wits for means to their survival.
    She was trying to teach Ponder Cutwell a lesson so that he’d stop trying to force her off the island. Who was Tristan to pronounce her stratagem worthless and foolish? He knew nothing of how few were the choices of people like Twistle and Dibbler.
    “Cursed interfering arrogance,” she hissed.
    She yanked the hangings together. “Sir No-Name.”
    Why had she been cursed with this disapproving invader? That storm, it had been some evil enchantment, a phantasm that brought him to Penance to wreak havoc with her peace. He was interfering with the life she’d worked so hard to build, a life far happier than the one she’d left.
    Now she could hardly remember her old home in England. It had been too long since she’d left. Of course, her leaving had been a necessity. Too manycareless mistakes on her part had revealed her gift. Saints, but people caught the fever of the mad just because she’d been given a gift from God. They accused her of mischief and sorceries when all she did was know things. Even Mother and Father had been frightened. For no reason at all. Well, not no reason, for they would have suffered along with her if she’d been condemned for using sorcery.
    Pen remembered her errand and set a pair of newly polished boots beside the bed. She loved Highcliffe and the wild beauty of Penance Isle. She even loved battling Ponder Cutwell. But she had to admit that, after five years, she’d grown lonely despite the company of her servants and the villagers who lived beyond the castle walls. There was no one to share the burdens of Highcliffe, no one with whom she could talk as a friend. Efforts to discuss the doings of court and country came to naught when the only candidates were the likes of Nany, Twistle, Dibbler.
    Cousin Osbert, who had inherited her father’s title, wrote of the queen, her ministers, and Parliament to her. But neither Wheedle nor Turnip realized the dangers to England from the Catholic kings of France and Spain, nor the death threat that was Mary Queen of Scots. Pen sighed as she stared at the dark blue velvet bed hangings. Now she had some idea of how beleaguered Queen Elizabeth must feel.
    If only Tristan had been an old man. She could have endured an old man. But she couldn’t spend more than a few minutes in his company without suffering both fear and some kind of titillating possession. Her gift hadn’t failed her in its warning. In the past it had saved her life, though she’d been forced to leave home as well.
    In the end, she’d acquiesced to her exile when shewas fifteen, because of the young men—like Will. By then she’d realized how impossible it would be for her to bear the company of noblemen who strutted about with their pride hanging from their sleeves, their swords always ready for drawing. And these same strutting coxcombs, how quickly their swaggering turned to slinking when they found out about her. How could she respect a man who feared her?
    But now she wished Tristan feared her. Pen picked up her skirts, and with a last glance at the bed left the chamber, still grumbling. She picked up her pails while Nany stood by in red-nosed disapproval. She handed one to her nurse.
    “Come, Nany, time to feed