Spring's Fury Read Free

your laces."
    Nicola did as asked, and the girl loosened the knot. But, instead of drawing the string tighter, Tilda pulled it free of the gown altogether. Nicola drew a breath and glanced over her shoulder at the guards. Where any woman would have recognized this as unnecessary and a blatant attempt to stall, it flew unnoticed over the heads of men.
    She looked back at Tilda and saw the pretty girl's lips rise in a triumphant smile. Four months of separation had dimmed Nicola's recall of how much her closest companion enjoyed tweaking those who thought they could control her. And, God forbid that Tilda came to hate someone; her revenge could be vicious.
    As the smaller girl smoothed and patted the creases from the now loose garments, Nicola bent her head as if to watch. "Will de Ocslade come?" she whispered.
    "Do I look like a nobleman's confidante?" Tilda hissed into the folds of the gown as she rethreaded the lace. "You asked no more of me than to deliver your message." She glanced up with a disbelieving frown. "Why do you care? You surely do not mean to marry him," Her words were barely audible.
    "I must," Nicola breathed. "I cannot give Ashby to FitzHenry. Hugh, I can control."
    "Nay, not. Too canny." Tilda's whispered warning came around the string in her mouth as she drew its frayed end into a point.
    Nicola let a lift of her brows shrug for her. "Then, I'll marry the little man and make myself a widow." A widowed noblewoman sometimes bought control of her estate from the king. Only in that way could a woman manage her own properties with no man at her side.
    Tilda blinked, arms outstretched as she evened the string in its eyelets. "Let me straighten your collar, Lady Ashby." She stood on tiptoe to do so, leaning close to whisper, "You are mad. Those women have hair on their chin and grown heirs."
    Nicola clenched her fists, not wanting to hear that her plot was flawed; she already knew that. "Little maid," she said aloud, "do you know my tale? Although I tell Lord Rannulf I am betrothed to Hugh de Ocslade, my warden would force me to wed his brother, Gilliam FitzHenry. It matters naught to him that this is the man who murdered my father. Tell me, am I the only one who sees no justice in this?"
    "Lady Ashby," one of the guards called, "say no more or I shall remove the maid."
    "Consider me muzzled," Nicola said, shooting the man a hard look.
    Tilda smoothed the gowns over Nicola's slender waist and hips. "There, that is much better. Now, you sit and eat, while I comb your hair."
    She handed the tall girl her tray, and Nicola settled onto the stool facing the wall opposite the door. Tilda stood behind her, her back to the guards. "Why, Lady Ashby, you have no eating knife."
    When Nicola looked up, there was no surprise in her friend's face. "Aye, my warden keeps me disarmed, not even allowing me something as puny as a table knife." She tilted her head to one side, her fingers caressing the pin that held her mantle in place.
    This piece was the only thing of her father's that she knew to survive her home's destruction. Its garnet-studded head was as thick as two fingers, and it fit into her palm like a dagger's hilt. The narrow tongue that kept the pin fastened in her mantle's shoulder was longer than her hand, and sharpened to a fine point. She was hardly disarmed. "I manage well enough without one."
    "I can see that you do," Tilda said, slowly drawing her comb through Nicola's hair. With her second stroke, she leaned forward and whispered, "I have your pack."
    Her words brought Nicola around so suddenly, the petite commoner took a startled step back. The guards leapt toward them, hands on hilts. Nicola glanced at them and clapped a hand to her head.
    "Have a care," she chided in her most arrogant tone. "How much will my bridegroom like me if I am bald?"
    The men relaxed and stepped back into the doorway.
    "My pardon, Lady Ashby," Tilda said with a gay laugh, "but you have difficult hair."
    Nicola could not restrain her