His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (27 page)

Beside her, Aric stiffened. He sighed, raking a hand through the long strands of his tawny hair. “Aye.”

“And Northumberland’s accusing you of treason sits no better with you, I think.”

“He is an ass.”

“Aye.” She smiled wryly. “And fen-sucked as well.”

The quiet rumble of Aric’s laughter set her at ease.

“Come to bed,” she whispered.

Aric looked up at her from the chair, his gray gaze a tangle of appreciation, lust, and something warm. She drank it in as he rose and followed her to the bed, his hand still clutched in hers.

They lay side by side as Aric touched her face and kissed her mouth. With welcome, she urged him to a deeper joining. He loved her well and with care but with urgency. After, they lay together in perfect silence. By morn, she hoped his trouble had found succor and that she had helped ease his burden.

When she rose with the sun, it was to the sight of Aric staring out over the crashing ocean once again, his expression distraught. Panic nudged her. Would nothing relieve his mind?

“Aric?” she called from the bed, holding the sheet above her naked breasts.

He hesitated, then looked at her with bleak eyes. That he had not slept all night was clear. Gray eyes rimmed in red met her gaze in the predawn light. The set of his wide, proud shoulders seemed stooped and weary. Concern needled her as he rose slowly and made his way to her, his sharp features inexplicably heavy.

“I must ask you something,” he said as he sat on the bed beside her.

’Twas important—deeply, though his words did not say so. She reached out to place a comforting hand upon his arm. “Of course.”

With a seemingly grateful nod, he sighed. “As you heard the other day from Northumberland, war is on its way. Within weeks. I have been called to choose sides. My conscience will not allow me to fight for King Richard.”

“But why—”

“Do not ask me the one question I cannot answer.”

If anything, Aric’s face became bleaker, more remote, until it resembled the roughhewn stones protecting Northwell from the sea behind it. Concern and a strange anxiety formed a hard knot in her stomach.

“Will you fight for Henry Tudor, then?” The very idea of open treason frightened her. What would become of Aric if the Tudor man did not emerge the victor?

He would die a traitor.

Gwenyth’s knot of fear grew to the size of a boulder and threatened to crush her with its weight.

Aric’s reply cut into her trepidation. “Nay. I fight for no one.”

No one?
“Are you not likely to be branded a traitor anyway?”

“It is certain.”

His words were like a blow to her belly. Gwenyth felt herself lose air as something cold and terrified exploded within her. Panic began to claw at her belly.

“King Richard will see you dead,” she argued.

He nodded slowly. “’Tis no less than I deserve.”

Deserve?
“You cannot mean this. Any of this! ’Tis foolishness to do nothing and see yourself die. Pick up a sword. Close your eyes and choose a side.”

His eyes slid shut, and a furrow of pain wrinkled his wide brow. “I cannot. That is why I must ask you a question.”

Confusion, concern, and alarm all raced through her with each heartbeat. Aric planned to allow himself a traitor’s execution and his most pressing concern was to ask her a question?

“Nay. I will not have this! You are my husband.”

He cupped her cheek with a tender hand. “And I will be until I am dead, but you must listen to me.

“I must think of Northwell’s interest. The people here are my responsibility. Stephen wants to support King Richard, so I have given him back the run of the castle. He will raise an army to meet Henry Tudor’s. Northwell itself remains loyal to the crown, as does my brother. None of them suffer for my allegiances.”

“
What?
This is our home! You cannot give it away—”

“I must and I did. And if you remain here, King Richard will find you when he comes looking for me. I believe he may take you prisoner or harm you to draw me out, and I cannot allow that. You are my responsibility, too.”

Gwenyth felt herself frowning. Aric spoke too quietly, was thrusting information on her too quickly. She felt numb and uncertain, despite the cloying fear that pervaded her.

“I do not understand.”

“I am asking you to return with me to the cottage. If King Richard’s soldiers find me there, I can argue your innocence or send you back to your uncle. He will take you in again now that you are a Neville and can add to his consequence.”

“Leave Northwell? Leave being a lady for dirt floors and a cruel family?” At his nod, she cried. “Do I mean nothing to you?”

Though Aric’s plight weighed upon her, certainly there must be another solution, one that would see him safe and keep her from the poverty and neglect that had marred most of her life. And because he refused to tell her why he would not pick up a sword for King Richard or Henry Tudor, she was expected to change her life, to return to the poor cottage and be happy?

Apparently, she meant little to him at all.

“Gwenyth—”

“I will not return there.” Tears stung her eyes. “You cannot give me everything my heart desires, then rip it away from me as if it meant nothing! Just fight. You can keep Northwell and your life. We can stay here and all will be well.”

Shaking his head, Aric rose from the bed slowly. “I have told you I cannot.”

“What reason can be worth your life and mine?”

“Honor. If a man has none, he is worth nothing.”

“What is honorable about refusing to fight? It shall look nothing less than cowardly and cost us everything. Everything! I will not go back to the cottage.”

“Then I shall take you elsewhere. Be ready to leave come morn.”

Before she could sputter an objection, Aric left the room.

Her mouth gaping open, she followed him out the chamber door into the narrow hall. “What mean you, elsewhere? Where do you think to take me?”

Her stubborn husband said naught. He simply kept walking toward the stairs.

“I asked you a question, you boil-brained beast!”

Still not a word from the man.

“I will not go!”

As her words echoed off the stones about her, Aric disappeared down the stairs, not to return to her that night.

* * * *

Dawn broke a bleak gray over the foggy shore behind Northwell. Aric looked at Gwenyth, mounted on the horse beside him. Between them, Dog wagged his gray tail.

Fury described his wife’s look well. Those blue eyes that so intrigued him flashed like bolts of lightning that would as soon strike him dead.

Aye, and why not? He now took her from Northwell and wealth and her role as chatelaine—the things she had long sought.

But he could do naught else to protect Gwenyth in the wake of his decision to stay away from the battlefield.

“I do not wish to leave here, you simple-witted buffoon,” she snapped. “Let me stay!”

He sighed, weary after a long eve of nightmares filled with children screaming for help in the night. “I have already said that is not possible. Danger will soon come to Northwell.”

“Did you have to tell the servants I was no longer welcome here?” The fists at her side seemed strangely in keeping with the tears shimmering in her eyes.

“Would you have come if I had not?”

Nay. And that was the point.

Aric knew she had long coveted the very things her cousin Nellwyn had in marriage to Sir Rankin—a fine home, a bevy of servants at her call, and money aplenty. And these things he had given to her of late. ’Twas little surprise she resisted parting with them, even though he, her lord husband, had asked her to come with him. Had even given her a choice!

Nay, she did not surprise him. Yet somehow her decision hurt in places he could not comprehend, in ways he did not want to understand.

“Why can you not stay and fight? Why rip our lives asunder over honor that no one will care for but you?”

A new wave of anger hit him, even as he told himself she could not possibly understand the underhanded politics that had led to this inevitable war. Nor could she see that a man’s honor was all he had once the trappings of castle, title, and money were stripped away. Aric knew he had done wrong in chasing ambition. It had cost a ten-year-old boy his life. From now on, the only death he would be responsible for was his own—even if it was as a traitor.

“Gwenyth, I will not fight, and that is all.”

As they left Northwell’s outer walls and headed south and west, toward Yorkshire dales, he wondered if, after journey’s end, he would ever see her again.

The thought he might not saddened and angered him at once.

They broke their journey that night at a small inn. Silence reigned. It did not escape his notice that she asked not where they journeyed.

As he lay beside her in the small bed, feeling her sleeping form curl up to him for warmth, he wrestled with himself. He wanted her; his body could never lie about that. Something within him craved her touch, her taste. Yet he held back. Touching her would be like a sweet, sharp pain. He would enjoy it even as it hurt him. He was a fool for hoping women everywhere didn’t want their husbands to battle for power and wealth and the king’s favor.

What a useless wishing!

Several afternoons later, Hartwich Hall came into view. From the inn, he had sent Guilford word to await them. ’Twas no surprise when he rode into the outer bailey to find his mentor, along with Drake and Kieran.

“Aric, my boy.” Guilford stepped forward in greeting, then cast his rheumy gaze toward Gwenyth. “Is this lovely woman your lady wife?”

She sent the older man a direct stare. “Not by choice, my lord.”

Holding a groan, Aric saw Guilford’s brow rise in speculation. Kieran laughed. Drake followed.

Grimacing, Aric dismounted and turned to help Gwenyth down. She ignored him and slid down under her own power, sparing a pat on the head to a panting Dog but not a glance for him.

A feeling he could scarce understand churned inside him, loud like a drumbeat. “Gwenyth, this is Guilford, Earl of Rothgate.”

She sent him a brief curtsy. “’Twould be a pleasure, my lord, under better circumstances.”

Gwenyth stretched after such a grueling ride, trying to gain her footing on wobbling legs, then approached Kieran. “How fare you, sir? I thought you in battle.”

“Aye, I should have liked such, but Guilford has called me here.”

“To fight for King Richard?” The acidic note in her voice did not escape Aric’s notice.

“What else?” He shrugged. “It shall be as good a fight as any.”

Gwenyth shook her head, then settled a concerning gaze on his dark, tight-jawed friend. “I presume you are Drake MacDougall.”

He fixed her with a stare that had intimidated many a man. Gwenyth flinched not an inch. “I presume you are Aric’s wife.”

She raised her chin proudly. “I am Gwenyth, not merely the dimwit’s chattel.”

Drake’s frown deepened. “Clearly not.”

Kieran chuckled once more. “I told you she was no demure maid.”

With a tilt of her head, Gwenyth regarded the dark man’s solemn face with seeming regret. “I am sorry. I meant only to inquire as to your health. Are you faring well?”

His tormented friend’s gaze rose in question. Aric met the stare. With a silent nod, he confirmed Gwenyth knew all.

“I-I thank you for your concern.” Drake stumbled over the words, as if he had not expected them. I am nearly mended now.”

For a mended man, his eyes looked haunted.

“I wish you well,” she said softly.

Though Drake nodded, the granite of his expression changed not. Aric wondered if anything, anyone, would ever reach the man’s iron heart again.

“We all wish the brigand well,” said Kieran, coming toward Gwenyth. “’Tis a pleasure to see you again, sweet lady.”

As Kieran took Gwenyth’s hand and raised it to his lips, Aric stepped beside them and glared at his friend with annoyance.

Kieran merely lingered over Gwenyth’s palm, then sent him a jaunty smile.

The noise in his head grew louder. Aric knew he should not feel a churning or charging in his gut at the thought of another man’s touching Gwenyth. She cared for her future, her position at a fine castle, as all women did. ’Twas not the man who mattered, only what he could provide.

He was twice the fool for wishing otherwise.

Behind him, Guilford cleared his throat, and Aric turned to face his mentor.

“Aric, I am sure your bride would like to see her temporary home when you are able to pull these two swains from her.”

Gwenyth’s gaze flew to Aric, prickly with anger. “You mean to leave me here?”

“Aye.” He nodded.

“While the war goes on about you?”

Aric gritted his teeth. “Aye.”

“While people are dying, you mean to do no more than hide in your cottage?”

“Gwenyth…” he warned, his ire rising.

“And leave me, your wife, in the care of strangers?”

“Enough! You had no wish to return to the cottage—”

“Who possessing sanity would?” she interrupted.

“Nor did you want to return to Penhurst.” He went on as if she had said naught. “Northwell is too dangerous. Guilford can protect you whilst you stay and enjoy the castle life you—”
want more than your own husband,
he started to say. Then he stopped himself, conscious that Guilford, Drake, and Kieran all watched with great interest.

The noise in his head grew so loud he wondered if it would burst from his ears. He wanted it to cease, to leave him in peace. It continued until he thought he might lose his mind.

He took a deep breath and willed his voice to something toneless. “Here you will stay.”

With that, he made his way into the keep without looking to see if Gwenyth or the others followed.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Late that night, Gwenyth lay abed in the comfortable chambers she had been assigned, waiting for her husband. Searching for the moon, she rolled toward the tall, thin window, the crunch of straw and the smell of fresh moss from the mattress blooming in the crisp air. She saw nothing and surmised the moon must be beyond its zenith, the night nearly morn.