His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (11 page)

He grimaced. “Gossip, little dragon. Naught more. But if Lady Lyssa can talk at the same speed as her sister, Sir Penley may soon find the war between the Yorks and the Lancasters less active than the war at home.”

Somehow Aric’s explanation regarding his knowledge did not ring true, but she also knew he would tell her naught else. “Lyssa speaks sparingly.”

With a grin, Aric turned to her. “And why should she not? Nellwyn can say enough for both of them and still keep talking.”

Gwenyth gave him a mock punch in the arm. “Stop. You are terrible to speak so of my only family. And should I ever meet your family, what would you say if I were to speak so terribly of them?”

Aric paused, his silence so long Gwenyth thought he might not answer her at all. Wind swept the hill as crickets chirped, frogs croaked, and stars twinkled. Still, her husband picked at the grass beneath them. Then he sighed.

“My parents are gone and I have no sisters. If you knew my younger brother, you would soon see any pestering he receives is much needed.”

Never had Aric shared anything about himself with her. The fact he had told her this warmed some place inside her she could not quite name.

“I should like to meet your brother.”

Without pause, he shook his head. “That day will never come, Gwenyth. As I’ve said, the past is in the past.”

Aye, he had said that, but she could scarce believe he intended never to see his only family again. “Do you not miss your brother?”

Aric cocked his head in apparent consideration. “He is…younger and given to foolish fits of temper. We have little in common.”

“But he is family!”

With a shrug, Aric returned her stare. “I have friends for whom I have great affection. They are like family.”

“And yet you plan never to see them again?” She pointed out his illogic. “Surely you miss them?”

A musing smile flitted across his mouth, and something warmed his stone-colored eyes to a soft gray. “Aye, that I do. But what of you?” He turned to her quickly. “’Tis clear you miss your parents still.”

A pang of emptiness settled in her belly when she thought of their ten-year absence in her life. “I miss them each day.”

Aric nodded and reached for her hand, lacing her fingers between his larger, warmer ones. “Tell me of your life with them.”

Did he really wish to know? Gwenyth peered into his hawkish face. The warrior countenance she could scarce credit on a sorcerer appeared attentive and curious.

“Life as a child was…free of cares. There was laughter, little war, and festivals aplenty. The serfs had much to eat and decent homes. My father would not tolerate cruelty to anyone.” She smiled, even as tears gathered in her eyes. “And he could always spare a moment for me.”

“And your mother?” Aric prompted.

“My mother taught me to sew and keep a castle in order. She and my father taught me to read and cipher. Often, they would let me sleep between them and would kiss me awake.”

“What happened?” Aric’s gentle voice encouraged her to go on.

“When I was eight years, Mother died trying to bring a son into the world. She had never had good fortune in birthing. All died within a week, except me. The last one took my mother with him.”

Again, Gwenyth could feel the pain of her father’s saying her mother was no more. She had run screaming toward the solar, only to be barred by her father and the midwife. Never had she seen her mother again. Ten years later, her tears still came easily.

She sniffed and continued. “My father went to London soon after that. We received word within a fortnight that he began drinking ale one eve and ne’er stopped.”

Warm tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Then your uncle came to Penhurst?”

Gwenyth swiped her tears aside. “Aye. Uncle Bardrick and Aunt Welsa came and brought Nellwyn and Lyssa with them. I had never met them. I believed they would treat me as family, though life without my parents frightened me. ’Twas only the thought I was not completely alone that saved me in the weeks before their arrival. But when they came, I wished with all my might they would leave.”

“They were cruel?” Aric’s sharp tone took her aback.

“Only to the serfs, many of whom have starved in the last few years. To me, they were indifferent. Other than the fact they gave my chamber to Nellwyn and Lyssa and assigned me kitchen duties, they took little notice of me at all—at least until Sir Penley came.”

“Your uncle invited him to Penhurst?”

“Aye, with the purpose of luring him to wed Lyssa, I see now. I stood in his way.”

Aric squeezed her hand gently. “You did, little dragon. But you must not fear. I will make certain you are fed and clothed and have a warm, dry bed. I can even tend the cooking, though you must never tell anyone.”

She smiled, despite her sad remembrances. “Would no one fear the sorcerer then?”

With a laugh, he rubbed her sensitive palm with his thumb. “Something like that. Can I bribe you for silence with a rabbit stew and warm bread?”

In mock seriousness, she considered it. “For now, I suppose. But you shall have to bribe me often and well.”

Chuckling, he raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips. Her skin began to tingle.

“Always, little dragon,” he vowed, rising to his feet. “Always.”

Gwenyth followed Aric back to their shanty somehow more at peace than she had been in years.

* * * *

Midnight settled inside the cottage. Slouched uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair, Aric propped his feet up on the bed and watched Gwenyth sleep.

His wife looked peaceful with her dark lashes resting against the pale beauty of her cheeks. Her mahogany hair spread all about her in a dark, glossy sheen, hinting at the tempestuous nature that so intrigued him. The blankets she had recently sewn covered the rest, but his imagination had shown him her naked form many, many times.

But ’twas not that which disturbed him this night.

Rolling his shoulders to ease tension, he considered their earlier conversation. Not only did she put too much faith in the goodness of her cousins, she had a blind devotion to family, despite their ill-treatment of her, something he did not understand.

What he understood less, however, was why he had revealed anything about himself. Gwenyth should know nothing of him. He should have remained mute on the subject of family. Though he had not called his brother, Stephen, by name, revealing details of his past could only lead Gwenyth to want more knowledge—to expect it, even. Worse, he had barely restrained the urge to tell her of Guilford, his wise teacher, Drake and his friend’s trouble with his father’s murder, as well as Kieran’s pranking, devil-may-care nature that hid terrible pain.

As Gwenyth had spoken of her mother and father, some part of him had yearned to tell her of the blood oath he and Drake and Kieran shared to always protect one another. Lately, Aric had done naught to honor that vow. Still, he felt solace at knowing if he was truly needed, Guilford would send word.

And in the future, he must watch his tongue around sweet Gwenyth or find all his secrets revealed.

That decided, Aric closed his eyes. For once, sleep came easily.

So did the nightmares.

The sun shone high in the sky. In the distance, London was abuzz with news of the impending coronation. On a hillside, Aric sat on the early autumn grass. Bees buzzed from blossom to blossom. Birds chimed happily in harmony with children’s laughter.

Scampering from behind the swaying trees, two golden-haired boys ran, chasing one another across the landscape—young Edward, soon to be England’s next king, and his younger brother, Richard, Duke of York.

Their joyful, excited voices carried in muted whispers on the breeze, punctuated by an occasional giggle or shriek. Aric waved. The boy Richard waved in return, then resumed his play.

The Tower of London soared into the sky behind them, looking clean and stately in the brilliant sunshine.

As he stared at the sky, a black cloud enveloped the sun. ’Twas clear rain threatened. Within moments, silence descended. The birds’ cheerful songs ceased. The breeze stilled. The bees fled.

Aric looked about the shadowed hillside for Edward and Richard to warn them of the bad weather.

They had vanished.

Around him, grass had died, trees rotted. The Tower of London appeared suddenly red and ominous. The city behind the grand tower was hushed, as if shocked into muteness. And the silence ate at him. Where were those boys? What had ceased their laughter?

Aric woke with a start, gasping. Wiping the sweat from his face, he rose and answered his own question. Murder had stopped the boys’ laughter. Their own uncle, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, had arranged for their murders through an ambitious knave named Sir James Tyrell, so he might seek the crown for himself, and seek it he did. Richard wore it even now.

Sighing, Aric stood and cursed. He had pleaded with Sir Thomas More to discover the truth that all London—indeed, all England—sought in vain. But he had not known the truth could be so painful. How could he ever have believed King Richard’s lies?

Stifled by the humid air within the small dwelling, Aric left Gwenyth sleeping peacefully and retreated to his chair beneath the cottage eaves. As the night wind washed over him, his thoughts continued to race.

He could not, now or ever, return to Northwell, to Richard’s court, to politics and war and ambition. It all came to naught and resulted in senseless death. Aric wanted no part of any of that again.

Resolved, he stood and ambled toward the cottage window. Aric peered inside at his wife and wrestled with the one truth he could not escape: He could give Gwenyth the life she sought—indeed, a life beyond her dreams.

The Nevilles had castles, servants, money, and power aplenty. He himself had a fortune, three titles, and a small army. If he brought her home, Gwenyth would indeed be important, very much needed. Nellwyn would have nothing to lord over her younger cousin, her Uncle Bardrick would kick himself for not forcing Lyssa to become the sorcerer’s wife, and Gwenyth would certainly be glad she had seen the last of sniveling Sir Penley.

The thought made him smile, but the smile faded quickly beneath the crushing weight of fact.

If he wanted to maintain his soundness of mind, such as it was, he could not return to his former life. Not for Gwenyth. Not ever.

* * * *

The next morn, Gwenyth completed the touches on her scarlet silk dress. Aric marveled at her tiny, perfect stitches, the simple but elegant gown of her creation. Although ladies learned young the skills of sewing, such patience and talent always surprised him.

Gwenyth would make a fine chatelaine. She knew her role and would be firm when needed, but she also had heart. The people of Northwell would respond to her with great favor.

Cease!
He reminded himself. He could never take Gwenyth to his home, for all the reasons he had already considered.

Sighing, Aric wandered out into the midday sun and sat in his chair beneath the eaves. He could not deny Gwenyth had suffered greatly of late in her family’s and friends’ rejections. Nor could he deny she deserved better. He simply could not give it to her.

As a husband, he could provide her protection, shelter, and food, along with an occasional gift. But the funds he had received from the sale of his armor were dwindling. Soon he would have to find a way to earn a wage, for returning to battle was no option. Still, he would provide for his wife.

He frowned. The past few days had taken a toll on Gwenyth. The fiery wench with whom he had spoken vows had grown increasingly quiet. Her melancholy on the hill last eve gave him pause. ’Twould not do at all.

Seized by an idea, Aric wandered into the cottage and rummaged through a pile of his belongings. When he found the object he sought, he enclosed it in his palm, its cool surface soon warming in his grasp.

Aye, Gwenyth, his wife, was worthy of this token. She would value it. God willing, ’twould make her happy for a time.

He turned about in search of her. Everything—his breathing, his very heartbeat—ceased when he saw her.

Gwenyth rounded the corner wearing her new red gown. The garment hugged her full breasts, dipped with the sharp curve of her small waist, and flared out over the lush swell of her hips. The vivid color made her skin seem brighter, clearer, her eyes a more stunning shade of blue. Aye, and her lips—how very red and moist and full they looked. And Aric felt with every muscle in his being how badly he wanted to taste her mouth again.

Dragging in a draught of air, he noted she had brushed her hair to a dark, silky gloss, and it lay in a straight sheen to her hips. ’Twas all he could do to remember the token in his hand, not throw it aside in favor of seducing her.

“Do you like it?” she asked quietly.

He paused, openmouthed, clearly stunned. “Aye, you look…beautiful.”

Aric appeared at a loss for words. Gwenyth bit her lip to hold in a smile. He liked it! Perhaps he even thought she looked well in it. Though she wasn’t certain why his opinion was important, she found it was.

“Thank you. The fabric is the—”

“Nay,” he interrupted, stepping closer. His warm gray gaze caressed her. “You give the gown light.”

Gwenyth could not restrain her smile at his compliment.

“Yet I know how it could shine more.”

More? She frowned at him. She had only a simple white chemise, lacking any ruffle, to give her sleeves. The material required for the gown had left none for the headdress. And her sewing could always be improved…

“’Tis the best I can do,” she admitted finally.

“And well you have done, Gwenyth. Now it is my turn.”

With those intriguing words, he stepped to her, so close she could see the thick muscles of his arms and the pulse beating at his throat. From his fist he unfurled something shiny and silver.

When she caught sight of it, she gasped. “Sweet Mary.”

’Twas a pendant of a small sundial with a shimmering ruby in its center, suspended from a silver chain. Did he mean to give such a gift to her?