Mary Reed McCall (14 page)

A long swim in the pond had done a little better. The place was barren of any human life so late at night, and she’d shed her clothing gratefully, sliding into the cool embrace of the moonlit water. The frogs and crickets chirping on the banks had soon forgotten that she’d disturbed them, taking up their resounding night chorus once more. Floating there, she’d been neither Gwynne the woman nor Gwynne the warrior any longer. She just was.

But now, as she approached her room, the jittery feeling inside her began to return. The hour was late and all who lived at the castle were abed—but one very important difference marked this night.

Tonight Aidan would be sleeping in the tiny chamber connected to her own.

With any luck he was asleep already. She could just slip in unnoticed, exchange her wet smock for a dry one, and climb into her pallet with none the wiser. She usually rose before dawn; if she planned it well, she and Aidan would
never cross paths during the nights that Lady Helene’s visit necessitated his stay in the tiny chamber.

Approaching her door, she slowed, hoping to hear a snore or other evidence of his slumber. All was silent. She took a few more steps, the tallow candle she gripped lighting the way. It cast eerie shadows on the wall, stretching as full and long as the peaceful silence that had descended over the castle.

The door creaked slightly as she entered, and wincing, she pulled it shut behind her and padded over to her bed. Before proceeding with preparations for bed, she glanced over at the curtain that served as a partition between her chamber and Aidan’s room. The fabric was as always before, hanging still and undisturbed.

He must be asleep, then.

Relief mingled with a hint of regret. ’Twas better this way, of course. It was what she’d planned, even—and yet a part of her couldn’t help wanting to see him again. She’d done everything in her power to put his kisses from her mind tonight, but the thought of them kept coming back to tempt her.

Even now, she relived the moments, felt again the soft, teasing caress of his lips against hers, the warm, languorous swell of desire swirling through her…

Squeezing her eyes shut at the memory, she turned to set the candle in its holder by her bed. Then, tossing her cloak on the chair, she reached into the trunk full of clothing that Aidan had provided and took out a clean shift. Unlacing her bliaud, she removed it and its smock, as well as her own soaked masculine tunic and breeches worn beneath. All that remained was her shirt. Released from her breeches, the creamy fabric hung halfway down her thighs, and, like her other garments, it was damp from her swim. But something made her pause before removing it.

Hesitantly, she lifted her hands to her body, high up,
near her breasts, and let her palms slide slowly down her sides past her hips. She was a tool of combat, her muscles firm and strong. But she wasn’t all warrior, she decided; her breasts, small as they were, rounded out, as did the gentle flare of her hips. Was she so different from other women, then? When Aidan kissed her, had he felt the same kind of desire that she had, fierce and true?

His kiss had been like nothing she’d ever known before, leaving her hot and cold at the same time, tingling with a strange need for something more—what, she didn’t know for certain. She only knew that it had felt good. So good and—

“Gwynne?”

Her breath caught as she tensed and spun to face the curtain. Aidan had pushed the crimson fabric aside, and now he stood in the doorway, shirtless, his face shadowed in the flickering light of the candle behind her. He lifted one arm, leaning it against the door jamb.

“I was worried about you,” he murmured. She couldn’t read his expression clearly in the gloom. But his eyes…his eyes showed everything, glowing deep and intense with emotion.

“I—I’m fine,” she said, her voice sounding throaty. “I went for a swim.”

“I can see that.” His mouth edged up on one side as his gaze traveled a leisurely path from her toes, up her bare legs to the clinging fabric of her shirt. A rush of heat filled her as she realized, suddenly, that the wet garment outlined every contour of her body as if she were naked before him.

She looked at him uncertainly, anxious about what to say or do. She should try to entice him to kiss her again, she knew; Marrok’s command had been to use every weapon at her disposal, including feminine wiles, to lull him into complacency. But she couldn’t seem to move
when he looked at her like that, though her pulse leapt in her throat and her breathing came shallow. Desperate to do something—anything—to parlay this moment into the kind of temptation she’d been ordered to initiate, she shifted her shoulder, allowing the damp fabric to slip down and bare her skin.

At first Aidan didn’t react, but then, as he gazed at her, his expression shifted again, his mouth tightening and his eyes turning dark. He swallowed, and she watched his hand clench into a fist where it rested high up on the doorway.

“Gwynne, I—” He glanced away, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. When he looked at her again, she recognized the hard and fast purpose in his gaze.

“I just wanted to wish you goodnight,” he finished, not waiting for her to respond before he nodded once more and murmured, “Sleep well.” Then he stepped back into the dark of his chamber and let the curtain swish down into place between them.

She stood without moving for several long moments before numbly blowing out the candle and changing into her dry smock. Then she climbed into bed, trying to ignore the strange pain spreading through her. Pulling the covers up to her chin, she rolled onto her side, her heart thudding with slow, achy beats.

What in heaven’s name was she doing?

She was completely out of her element, that much was clear. The humiliating truth beat relentlessly at her, hammering its message over and over into her brain: she couldn’t tempt Aidan if her very life depended on it. She’d stood half-naked in front of him, her clothing wet and clinging to every meager curve she possessed—and he hadn’t even been enticed enough to cross the room and try to kiss her again.

You’re a freak of nature,
the harsh voice inside of her grated,
a tool of war. What makes you think you could tempt any man? Aidan has Lady Helene with all of her beauty and softness to fill his senses—he has no use for a woman like you
.

Gwynne’s eyelids burned with the knowledge, so she squeezed them shut, clenching her teeth until the voice began to fade. But it was no use. She couldn’t hide from it altogether. The truth remained, biting and scratching at her from the inside out…

Leaving her with no escape.

Aidan sat on his pallet and then forced himself to lie down, his muscles screaming in protest against the action, his groin burning with a hot, heavy erection the likes of which he’d never endured before. He wanted to go to her. God, he wanted to go to her.

It was all he could do not to jump up and rip aside the curtain—to take her in his arms and fill her with all the passion blazing inside him. She’d been so beautiful standing there in the candlelight, her hard nipples jutting from under the wet fabric, her smooth legs, so long and powerful, rising up to disappear in the shadows beneath her shirt…

Groaning, Aidan clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, rolling so that his back was to the curtain. It had taken every bit of will he possessed to let that curtain fall back into place between them. To shield her from his gaze. But he’d had no choice. He couldn’t allow himself to indulge his own desires—not with his betrothed sleeping a mere twenty paces down the corridor.

His and Diana’s future success was contingent on his marriage to Helene. He couldn’t be the same kind of selfish brute his father had been, caring only for his own
needs at the expense of his family’s well-being. He wouldn’t. He had to stay away from Gwynne…

But God in heaven help him, he thought, staring into the endless dark. For he feared that it was going to be the most difficult thing he’d ever had to do.

G
wynne paced the confines of her chamber, glad that Aidan had woken and left his room hours earlier; she was impatient for her morning session with Old Alana to begin, and she needed no spectators—particularly Aidan himself—for what she hoped would happen here today.

’Twas a fine turn of events, she thought, actually to
want
to commence her meeting with Alana. If anyone had told her a month ago that she’d feel this way about her feminine comportment lessons, he’d have received naught but a hard cuff on the head for it. Yet now here she stood, itching for the old woman to arrive.

It had been a long night. She’d finally managed to fall asleep a few hours after seeing Aidan, but only by deliberately forcing herself to stop thinking about her shortcomings. She hadn’t been able to entice Aidan to kiss her last night, ’twas true; no amount of wishing could change that fact. But she’d decided in those cold, dark hours just before dawn that there was something she could do about it
today—and she was about to take that step as soon as Alana decided to arrive.

As if on cue, the chamber door creaked open and the old maidservant shuffled into the room. Alana came to a halt just inside the portal, pulling the door shut before her perceptive gaze swept first over Gwynne and then the rest of the chamber.

“I trust you slept well last night?” she asked in her gravelly voice, her mouth flirting with a smile.

Gwynne scowled. “Well enough.” Her hand was clamped down on the back of the chair near where she was standing, and noticing the nervous grip, she let go and came around to plunk herself into the seat. “I’ve been waiting nigh on half an hour for you,” she complained. “What kept you?”

“I was seeing to the preparations for tonight’s celebration.” Alana looked askance at Gwynne and moved slowly toward the bed, which was straightened, already, in the meticulous way of a soldier. Sitting down on it with a sigh, she added, “It promises to be a fine event. Perfect for showing off your newly acquired skills, I’d say—though Lord Sutcliffe told me that the premise of seeking a husband for you among the English nobles attending is naught but a ruse.”

Gwynne looked at the floor, the dark feeling inside her chest coiling tighter. “Aye. I still don’t like it. But I’ve agreed to go along with the plan, so I’ve no choice but to attend.” She glanced over at the old woman. “Which brings me to what I wish to discuss with you today.”

“What is it?”

Gwynne shifted uncomfortably in her seat and looked down to the wooden slats of the floor again. “I—I need you to teach me how to look—” She swallowed, trying not to grimace. “How to look like a real lady. Not just the wearing of a gown, but I want to look…pretty.”

Alana folded her gnarled hands, one over the other, not responding for what seemed like an eternity, other than to nod and make some indefinite humming sound in her throat.

“What—do you think the result will be so difficult to achieve, then?” Gwynne finally burst out, sounding harsher than she’d intended, thanks to the strain of those very thoughts running endlessly through her mind these past twelve hours.

Alana stilled, fixing Gwynne with her calm gaze. “Not necessarily. ’Twill depend on what you’re willing to do to make it happen.”

“Just about anything, at this point,” she mumbled, glad that Alana hadn’t felt the need to ask her why she wished to be helped so.

“Very well, then,” Alana nodded, pushing herself to her feet and shuffling closer—close enough to reach out and rub a wavy lock of Gwynne’s hair between her thumb and finger. “You will need to release many of your old ways for this to work, child, at least for the amount of time you wish to maintain the appearance you desire. ’Tis a transformation we undertake. Are you willing to do that—to be schooled by me?”

Gwynne twisted her head to look up at the old woman, a strange sense of peace enveloping her at the thought of giving herself over to Alana’s guidance. ’Twas but a fulfillment of her duty, she thought, that was all. Her desire to look more feminine, to be more alluring to Aidan, had no other basis to it but that.

“Aye, Alana. I will do as you say,” Gwynne murmured, as if to herself, blinking back that heat that stung the back of her eyes. “Just teach me how to be beautiful.”

Aidan made his way to the end of the great hall, stopping here and there to talk with guests as he went, before
finally taking a position near the jutting stonework of the hearth. He sipped at his spiced wine, looking around the chamber. As instructed, the minstrels continued to play an array of pleasant tunes, just as they had while the two score of noble guests had made their entrances into the main keep this past hour. Nearly everyone had arrived already—the first time all of the nobles had deigned to gather at Dunston since Father’s execution. Now the hall echoed with the muted sounds of their conversations as they awaited the start of the feasting.

Everyone, that was, but Gwynne.

Aidan glanced again to the stairway that led to the upper bedchambers, only just stopping himself from going up there to bring her down. What the devil was taking her so long? After last night he almost dreaded seeing her again, knowing as he did how difficult it would be to keep his thoughts from straying to the way she’d looked then, standing before him in the candlelight, her damp shirt clinging to sweet curves and giving him tempting glimpses of shadow. Even now, the memory of it sent a lance of desire through him, making him shift with restlessness.

But no matter his reaction to her, she needed to come down, and soon. She was virtually the guest of honor. Distasteful as it was, he should be showing her off to the nobles if he wanted to maintain the illusion of her as a potential bride for one of them. Many of the bachelor lords were interested, he knew; overheard snippets of conversation as he’d mingled with his guests had made that clear. It seemed that even though they believed tainted de Brice blood ran through her veins, Gwynne was deemed an acceptable match, thanks to his upcoming nuptials to Lady Helene de Jardens.

’Twas amazing how the power of that name and his imminent connection to it had shifted perceptions about him
among King Henry’s elite; the change was so compelling that a part of him couldn’t even fault Diana for her schemes to get Helene here early and save him from any distractions. He understood why his sister would do everything she could to ensure that his marriage came to pass. ’Twould be Diana’s only chance at respectability again, after having had to face the decline of her own worth as a bride, along with their family’s good name, when Father had committed his treason. Aye, his marriage to Helene was a forgone conclusion—he had to go through with it in a few weeks, whether he liked it or not.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to fulfill his life-debt to Gwynne in the meantime.

After glancing around the hall to ensure that everyone seemed content, Aidan swung his gaze to Helene, who stood, graceful as always, chatting with Lady Anne Herrick, the daughter of the Marquess of Wellesley. Helene outshone the Marquess’s daughter like a torch to a firefly. His betrothed was one of the loveliest women in England; of that there was no doubt. And her sweetness surpassed her beauty, though he’d had a difficult time believing that possible when he’d first met her, years ago.

His father, still a political force before the discovery of his treason, had consulted with the duke and arranged the match between them; it had been only a few months after the Welsh attack that had left him wounded, and Gwynne, so far as he knew, dead. Even so, his father had been furious to learn of his only son’s illicit meetings with a common Welsh girl. The betrothal had been the earl’s attempt to seal Aidan’s fate in a way that he saw fit—and Aidan had been too distraught over the death of the woman he’d loved to protest overmuch.

Once Father’s treason had come to light, his betrothal to Helene had been all that had kept the de Brice family from complete ruination. Oh, the duke had done his best
to break the marriage contract between them—but Helene, believing herself already in love with him, had wept and begged King Henry for intervention. The king had complied, unable to refuse his gentle cousin a boon in her favor. He’d declared the betrothal valid and allowed Aidan to continue his fostering with Rexford de Vere. Then, once he’d proved himself in battle, the king had taken him on as his champion in the wars against the Welsh.

Over the years, Aidan had let Helene maintain her fantasy about loving him, though he knew that it couldn’t be true. She didn’t really know him. Not the real him. That had belonged to Gwynne alone, and when she’d been taken from him, it had been as if he’d died as well. But he had known that Helene deserved a life of happiness, and so he hadn’t told her that he would never—could never—love her back. ’Twould have been a cruel repayment for her generosity.

Yet ’tis nothing compared to what she would think if she knew you were harboring England’s most dangerous enemy within your walls
. Aidan’s hand clamped down on the stem of his goblet. Tilting his head back, he took a healthy swallow. Kevyn had been right, damn it. He was playing with fire here, and if he wasn’t very careful, many others less deserving of it than he stood a good chance of being burned.

“’Tis quite a triumph, bringing all the nobles to Dunston again. It’s been, what, nigh on ten years since they’ve gathered here, hasn’t it?”

Aidan glanced over at the man who’d spoken; ’twas his mentor, Rexford de Vere, the fourth Earl of Warrick, who had raised him, for all intents and purposes, from the age of fifteen. A rush of happy warmth filled Aidan as he faced the man who had been more of a father to him than his own sire.

“’Tis a change, I’ll grant you that,” he answered, tak
ing another drink and gesturing back to the gathering. “Though I cannot claim sole responsibility for their acceptance of my invitation. ’Tis due to my imminent marriage to Lady Helene, more like.”

“Perhaps—though there is also great curiosity about the mysterious Welsh cousin you plan to present here tonight.” Lord Warrick glanced around the chamber before looking back at Aidan. “Who exactly is she, Aidan, and why wasn’t I told of her before?”

“She’s a distant relative of my mother’s,” Aidan said glibly, pretending an interest in what the mummers were doing at the far end of the hall and hoping that his expression didn’t reveal his guilt over the lie. “And ’tis as I’ve said—Welsh rebels ransacked her home once they learned of her English blood ties—especially her connection, remote as it is, to me. Her family was killed, so I decided that it would be best to bring her here for a while, to try to get her settled on safer ground.”

He took another drink and went silent, feeling the weight of his mentor’s stare. He hated lying to Rex, but ’twas better that he didn’t know the truth. King Henry was notorious for handing down swift punishments upon discovery of treachery—and if Gwynne’s true identity was discovered, Aidan didn’t want his old friend swallowed up in the shame and death that would undoubtedly result.

After a long silence, Lord Warrick turned to view the crowd as well, taking a sip from his wine as he did before asking, “So, then—why hasn’t this…kinswoman of yours made her appearance yet?”

“Her name is Gwynne,” Aidan answered, wincing at Rex’s cool tone, “and I cannot say what is keeping her.” He gestured his friend forward, steering him back into the crowd, toward where Diana had joined Helene, after Lady Anne had moved off to speak with another guest. He
hoped that a new conversation with the women would distract his mentor from his inquiries about Gwynne.

“My lady,” he said to Helene, as they approached, “I trust that you remember my foster father, Rexford de Vere, the Earl of Warrick? He will be staying on at Dunston tonight after the celebration.”

Helene gave him a welcoming smile, the expression reaching up to sparkle in her blue eyes. “Of course I remember you, Lord Warrick. ’Tis a great pleasure to see you again. Aidan never tires of telling me tales of his years with you—and of the many adventures you undertook together, once his training time ended.”

“Call me Rexford, please, my lady,” Lord Warrick murmured, bending over her hand. “And I would be honored if you would consider me your humble servant, eager to serve and defend you.”

Helene’s gentle laughter spilled forth like a bubbling stream. “Oh, sir, you are too kind. Pray God I shall never need to call upon your services of defense, Rexford,” she said, still smiling. Then she turned her vibrant gaze on Aidan. “I know that I will not, once my dear Aidan and I are married. Then, I trust, he shall champion me against all who try to bring me harm.”

Aidan cleared his throat, wanting to wither under her obvious adoration. Forcing a smile, he readied to make some kind of response, when someone knocked into him from behind. It caused him to lurch forward, and he muttered a curse. After righting himself, he whirled to face the miscreant, scowling when he saw that it was young Stephen de Segrave, the Marquess of Haslowe.

The marquess lifted his cup in greeting to Aidan, showing a face already ruddy from too much ale. “Ah, Sutcliffe—I didn’t see you there, man.”

Lord Haslowe was the same age as Aidan, yet he enjoyed nearly unsurpassed favor in the kingdom, thanks to
his family’s overflowing coffers and their decades of loyal service to the Crown. Stephen, however, preferred his cups to any honorable activity, a fact borne out in his current condition. After nodding to Rex, the marquess took in the ladies as well, and Aidan’s back stiffened at the leering expression on his face as his stare traveled too slowly over Diana’s lush form.

“Lady Diana, it has been far too long,” the marquess murmured, taking her hand in his free one to plant a wet kiss on her palm.

She yanked away, frowning with distaste, and Aidan stepped up to block the man’s further view of her.

“Enjoying yourself, are you, Haslowe?” he asked coolly.

The marquess recoiled almost imperceptibly. But he recouped quickly enough to grasp the arm of a serving boy, grabbing the ale pitcher out of his hands to refill his cup before shoving the container back at the boy, sloshing ale all over him.