The Faithful Heart Read online

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright ©2011 by Merry Farmer

  Smashwords Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Pehr Graphic Design

  www.facebook.com/pehrdesign

  [email protected]

  Romance Fatal Serif font used with permission from Juan Casco www.juancasco.net

  Castle courtesy of Getty Images

  The Faithful Heart

  By Merry Farmer

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks once again to my wonderful editor, Alison Dasho. I couldn’t do this without her. Thanks also to my dear friend, Jonathan Longstaff, for creating yet another gorgeous cover design. Special thanks to my critique partners, Julie Tague and Jes Bunsick, to Carly Cole for “The Smirk Report”, and all of my fabulous friends online who remind me why I love writing so much.

  For Kristine

  I wasn’t born with a sister, but I did find one along the way.

  Thanks for everything!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  The Courageous Heart

  The Faithful Heart

  Chapter One

  Coventry, 1192

  Madeline had never done anything bad in her life. Until now. She yanked the dull gray wimple off of her head and threw it behind a bush, praying that the shadows in the convent gardens would hide her. She crept through the darkness, keeping her hands and body pressed against the wall on her way to the gate. It would be locked this late at night but with the dark to cover her she might be able to climb it and make her escape unnoticed.

  An owl hooted nearby and she gasped, eyes flying wide. She held her breath at the flutter of wings that followed and squeezed her eyes shut again, pressing into the wall as if she could become one with the stone. The convent garden was silent but for the rustle of the Spring breeze and the owl. Still she listened, frozen.

  Only when she was close to passing out did she let out her breath and resume creeping. Dread over what she was doing, what she had been forced to do, made every step precarious, every pebble a mountain. The gate that separated the prison of the convent from the promise of the outside world loomed like a titan in the dark. She’d worried so much about reaching it without being seen that she hadn’t given much thought to scaling it. Now that she was here its height and the thick iron spikes lining the top gave her second thoughts. She’d climbed trees and walls every day as a child, and brought her father’s wrath down on herself for it, but this challenge gave her pause.

  “All problems look bigger in the dark.”

  Madeline yelped and spun to press her back against the great iron gate at the whisper behind her. The tiny form of Sister Bernadette shifted out of the shadows. The serene old nun stared at her as if they had met in the cloisters at midday.

  “Sister Bernadette, I can explain.” Madeline wasn’t sure how she found her voice. “I was just-”

  “You’ve no need to explain, child.” Sister Bernadette’s wrinkled face glowed in the moonlight.

  “But-”

  “If I had a handsome young man waiting for me on the other side I would run as well.”

  Madeline closed her gaping mouth and blinked at the woman. She had tried so hard to be good, to obey the rules and forget what was in her heart, but Sister Bernadette knew her too well. All of her resolve, all of the fortitude she had built up since her trip to Derby, since meeting the enigma that was Jack Tanner, melted around her.

  “I have to go back to him.” She rushed to grasp Sister Bernadette’s hands. Tears that she had been holding back through months of prayer and punishment flowed. “I can’t live without him, Sister Bernadette. I tried, truly I did, but I can’t.”

  “I know, child.” The gentle nun put one frail arm around her shoulders.

  “I tried,” she repeated. “I tried to be strong when Mother Superior told me it was a sin to speak of him. I tried to forget him when father refused to let me leave the order. I tried to obey, but….” She gulped at the memories of the confinements, the involuntary fasts, the days on end of prayer on her knees on cold stone floors all winter that had been imposed on her for her rebelliousness. “Oh, Sister Bernadette,” she broke down, “I love him.”

  “I know you do.” Sister Bernadette dropped her whisper to the mere hint of sound, walking Madeline to the gate. “You are young, my dear, and the hearts of young women should be filled with love.”

  “But I’ve tried to fill my heart with love. With love of God.” Madeline sniffled, wiping her face on the sleeve of her threadbare habit. “It’s what my father wanted.”

  Sister Bernadette patted her back. “How can a father expect his young daughter to be faithful to God when she has the love of a handsome red-headed young man?”

  Madeline could only stare back at the woman. “Sister Bernadette!” she squeaked, “How can you say that?”

  “Easily, my child,” she laughed with a lilt that matched the Spring breeze and smoothed a hand along Madeline’s close-cropped hair. “Was it not your Jack who used to tell you that he never thought you were a nun?”

  “Yes.” The memory of Jack’s sly smirk and wink as he held her close and stole a kiss, the only kiss she had ever had in her life, brought her to tears. Jack had flirted with her, said delicious, irreverent things to her, had even rescued her from the tower where Lord Alfred of Buxton had imprisoned her, but he had never once treated her like a nun. “Oh Sister, my father will never approve of Jack. He only believes in power and rules. If he finds out I’ve left the convent….”

  “You were not born for this life, my child.” Sister Bernadette laid a hand on the side of her flushed face with a wistful smile. “It was wrong of your father to lock you away here. You were meant for a different world.”

  “I know, but-”

  Her protest was cut short as Sister Bernadette drew a loop of iron keys from her belt and stepped past her towards the gate. In nothing but the moonlight she found the key that fit the lock, turned it, and pushed the gate open.

  “But what will happen to you?” Madeline gasped.

  “To me?”

  “What will you say when they find out I’m gone? What will you do if my father comes here looking for answers?” She blanched at the thought and glanced back towards the imposing stone of the convent, second-guessing her decision to run.

  Sister Bernadette laughed. The sparkle in the old nun’s eyes reminded Madeline of why in this p
rison full of gloomy nuns intent on their vows she had never felt alone. “A love like yours should never fear reproach from a mere earthly father.” She shook her head. “Have faith in that if nothing else. Besides, who will tell him how you escaped?” She reached into her pocket again and took out a small coin-purse. “I think it is time I took a vow of silence.”

  “Oh no, Sister Bernadette.” She tried to give the money back when the purse was pressed into her hands.

  “How I choose to show my devotion is no concern of yours,” she cut the protest short. “Now go, my dear. Derby is a long way off. You have quite a journey ahead of you.”

  Madeline wavered, glancing over her shoulder at the rippling field that surrounded the convent. The town of Coventry was half a day’s walk. She had planned to keep to the edge of the forest, to sneak her way back home to Derby, traveling at night so as not to be seen. A few coins could buy her a place on a farmer’s cart or a merchant’s wagon. A few coins could take her to Jack that much sooner.

  She closed her hand around the purse and gave Sister Bernadette one last fierce hug. “I’ll never forget you.” The words caught in her throat. “You’ve saved my life.”

  The old nun laughed and let her go, walking her through the convent gate and into the world. “Go now, my dear one, but be careful. You’re not free yet.”

  Derbyshire

  Kedleridge Hall was nowhere near as grand as Windale Manor. It contained one fair-sized room downstairs with a large fireplace and tiny windows as well as a pantry and a closet of a bedroom where Kedleridge’s steward slept. The master bedroom upstairs wasn’t more than a square box with one shuttered window, a fireplace and a large bed hung with old curtains. But as the former peasant Jack Tanner, now Lord John of Kedleridge, rolled over in bed and squinted bleary eyes at the morning light seeping in through the shutters, he swore it was the best place on earth.

  Jack let out a sigh and buried his face in the large pillow that had come with the bed. Four months since Prince John had made him a nob after the mess with Buxton and he was sure beyond any doubt that this was the best part of the job. The bed. No more sleeping out on a cold forest floor with creaking trees over his head, the way there had been with Ethan. No more searching around Derby Castle for an extra blanket like he’d had to do when Buxton was sheriff. He had his own bed now, all his own. Not that he would’ve have minded sharing it.

  He tossed to his back and threw a bare arm over his face to cover his eyes. The crucifix from the rose quartz rosary wound around his left wrist dangled by his ear. He grinned as it brushed his jaw, imagining it was the caress of a certain green-eyed nun. He lowered his hand to his chest and unwound the rosary, taking its beads in both hands and fondling them.

  “Hail Madeline, full of grace….” He fingered the beads, bringing them to his lips with a saucy sparkle in his eyes. “Blessed art thou among women and blessed is each delicious freckle on your face.” He grinned at the bittersweet memory of creamy skin, a touch of strawberry-blonde hair under a heavy gray wimple, and ran the beads across his smiling mouth. He remembered the way the freckles played across her face, the way he had seen more on her wrists and caught himself imagining that she was covered with freckles all over. All over. He flicked out his tongue and sucked on the rosary’s pink beads as he remembered the way she had tasted the one sweet time he had kissed her. Eyes closed, he slipped a hand under the covers to help his imagination down its wicked path.

  A knock at the door interrupted him mid-stroke and he jerked as if splashed with cold water. The door opened and his dour-faced steward stepped in carrying a pitcher of steaming water and a towel. “Good morning, my lord,” he nodded, face serious, eyes averted.

  “Oy!” Jack scrambled to sit up, hiding the evidence of what he’d been about to do under layers of blankets. “Don’t call me that, mate.”

  “Yes, sir.” Even with his eyes averted Jack was sure the man could read his thoughts. Simon McFarland knew everything. He set the pitcher and towel on a small table beside the bed. Simon’s short hair stuck up at odd angles. His goatee was impeccably trimmed and his clothes so tidy even Ethan’s faithful servant Toby would have been impressed. But it was Simon’s eyes that Jack couldn’t figure out. Their pale blue depths never smiled.

  Figuring he had nothing to lose since his steward knew everything anyhow, Jack threw back the bedclothes and swung his legs in their tattered drawers around to plant his feet on the floor. “Simon, for the last time, just call me Jack, alright?” He ran a hand over his face to rub away the last vestiges of sleep.

  Simon stared at him with a flat expression. “Do you have a preference for what you would like to wear today, my lord?” he asked without hint of humor.

  “Whatever, I don’t care.” Jack stood and set the rosary on the table before pouring steaming water from the pitcher into a wide ceramic bowl. Now there was another thing that he could get used to. Simon brought him a bath every morning. He splashed warm water on his face, rubbing it before reaching for a towel. There was nothing like a quick splash of water in the morning to wake a bloke up. He dipped the towel in the bowl and wrung it out before running the damp cloth over his bare chest and arms as he walked to the small shuttered window. As Simon lifted the lid of the chest that held his clothes, Jack threw open the shutters. The bright morning sunlight streamed down on the orchard that stretched away from the back of the house and down the hill.

  The orchard was the crowning glory of Kedleridge. It hadn’t looked like much when he had taken possession of the estate along with his title months ago. But as Spring had arrived its rows of trees had sprouted soft green buds. Those buds had spread and blossomed. Now, as Jack leaned, bare-chested, out the window and drew in a deep lungful of fragrant air, those rows and rows of trees were dripping with white and pink flowers and buzzing with honeybees as far as the eye could see. He grinned in the morning sunshine and glanced down to see some of the servants of the household heading from the kitchen towards the house itself.

  “Oy! Morning Imogene, morning Alice,” he called down to the two buxom young sisters who carried covered trays in their arms. “That my breakfast?”

  “Good morning, my lord.” They shot flirtatious glances up to him, giggling and whispering to each other as they dipped curtsies. “It is indeed, my lord.” Imogene batted her eyelashes, her eyes straying to his broad, bare chest with its peppering of ginger hair.

  “Don’t call me that!” He sent them a saucy smile as they walked on and into the house. He leaned further out the window to watch their backsides as long as he could, laughing at himself and shaking his head. He then turned his face up to the sun and shut his eyes for a moment so that he could let the warm Spring rays seep through his skin.

  He must have been the luckiest man alive. In prison for stealing horses one minute, right-hand man to Sir Crispin of Huntingdon the next, and a lord in his own right with Kedleridge as his very own the next. Every girl at Kedleridge seemed to be prettier than the last and he’d had plenty of offers from them. The temptation to accept was almost more than he could bear. It kept him up nights in sweet agony.

  He pulled his body back in the window, still shaking his head and wondering what was holding him back from sampling a few of the tastier fruits that Kedleridge had to offer, hungry as he was. One glance to the rosary sitting on his bedside table told him the answer.

  He sighed and turned to find Simon standing right behind him, the barest hint of a disapproving frown interrupting his otherwise stoic features. “Alright, Simon, what gives? Why’dja wake me up so early?” He tossed the used towel over to his unmade bed and reached for the clothes that Simon held.

  “The Earl of Derby sent word that he needs you at the castle as soon as possible, my lord.” Simon’s voice was even, his accent perfect, and his eyes cold. “He is expecting the royal emissary by noon.”

  “Right.” Jack nodded, chucking off his drawers and changing in front of the man. He reached for the plain black chausses that Simon held an
d pulled them on, followed by a plain black shirt. He may have been a lord now, but as far as he was concerned he was still Crispin’s man and as such he still felt as though he should wear Crispin’s colors. “Did he, uh, say if he knew what the emissary is after yet?” he asked. It was the first time since Crispin had taken office as Sheriff that anyone in London felt they needed to check up. Neither Crispin nor Jack had been able to figure out what to make of it.

  His thoughts were distracted by the tunic that Simon presented. “Aw, no!” He rolled his eyes and rested his weight on one hip, crossing his arms at the sight of the thing. It was brocade with blue birds embroidered on rich gold and it nearly scraped the floor when he wore it. Since he hadn’t had a chance to come up with his own standard or colors yet the tunic was one that had belonged to the former Lord of Kedleridge. The man had been taller than him and had had terrible taste. “Simon,” Jack whined, “don’t make me wear that. I look like I’m wearin’ a bloody kirtle in it.”

  “It befits your station, my lord,” Simon answered, a single blink the closest he ever came to a facial expression.

  “Yeah, well the last Lord of Kedleridge must have been a pussy,” Jack complained. “Blue birds? Oy, who wants to follow a blue bird into battle, mate?”

  Simon’s face was a mask. “The bluebird has been the ensign of Kedleridge for years,” he explained curtly. “Before your arrival, my lord.”

  Jack’s face went hot with shame. He swallowed hard, trying to sidestep his own stupidity. “Don’t I have anything just plain black anymore?” He moved towards his chest to see for himself.