The Hostage of Glenorchy by Gleeson Kristin

Author:Gleeson, Kristin [Gleeson, Kristin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780993156793
Google: A2gVDAEACAAJ
Publisher: An Tig Beag Press
Published: 2016-04-19T22:00:00+00:00

She was still thinking about her encounter with Iain after she’d left the kitchen and made her way to the music room. As she neared the door to the hall, it opened and Jennet, the steward’s wife, appeared. Her face was flushed and strands of hair drifted around her head. A well-kissed woman was the first thought that came to Abby’s mind, casting her eye to the swollen lips. And perhaps more than just well kissed.

Jennet lifted her chin a fraction. “My husband asked me to inspect the tapestries in the hall, since he knows I am well skilled with a needle.”

Abby gave a small bow. “Of course, Mistress Douglas.”

Jennet gave her a nod and rushed off down the corridor. Abby stood there watching her retreat. A moment later the hall door opened again and Ewan appeared. His haughty demeanour was lacking Rory’s sneering quality and convinced her it was the laird’s oldest twin.

Ewan stopped short and stared at Abby. “Ye’re the new musician, am I right?”

She executed a deep bow. “Yes, I am.”

He glanced down the corridor, frowned and eyed her closely. “My father speaks highly of your skills and I’m sure he would hate tae lose ye. But things can happen tae change his mind.”

“I will do anything to ensure his good opinion, Master Ewan.”

He nodded slowly. “I’m glad ye have a good grasp of how things work in this household.”

“I do, most certainly,” said Abby. She gave him another bow. “I’m sorry, but I must be on my way. The Lady Margaret will be expecting me in the music room.”

She turned and walked the remaining distance to the music room door, conscious of his eyes following her. Once at the door she opened it hastily and slipped inside, and breathed a sigh of relief. She turned and saw the Comte de Damville standing in the middle of the room. There was no sign of Margaret.

“Ah, bon, le beau musicien est arrivé.”

Abby tensed and swept him a deep bow, using the moment to gather her thoughts. “Seigneur.”

“They told me you would be here to instruct one of the ladies,” he said in French. “I thought I would beg a moment of your time before the lesson.”

“Of course, Seigneur.” She looked at him directly, trying to keep her face as free from concern as possible.

“Yes, you see, I have a bit of a dilemma. I cannot place you immediately at court and I pride myself on my memory. Where did you say your father was from?”

“Lorraine, Seigneur.”

“And the name again?”

“De Villier.”

“And the given name?”

She sniffed. “Charles,” she said, her tone matter of fact.

“You see, that is my problem. I know no one at court, from Lorraine or otherwise, called Charles de Villier.”

“My father is not at court, Seigneur. I am the only one at court.”

“I see. So, your father, one Charles de Villier, presumably a lower sort of nobleman, remains in Lorraine, while you are a musician for the Scots Queen.”

“It’s my mother, you see. She was a Scots.”

“Ah. Of course.

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