The Woman Inside (2 page)

With faces that could crack an egg, there was good reason that they remained
unwed. Certainly Uric was in no hurry to take any of them to wife.

“Perhaps you should forget the lady Annette and marry the queen’s witch
instead,” Roland joked. “She’s said to be a comely wench, and since the queen
commanded you to fetch her while you’re out here, it will give you plenty of
time to test her paces.”

Uric turned his face away and spat dust from his mouth. “She’d have to be a
legend to deal with my mother.” If she really were a witch it might even be a
good thing. A witch might possibly be the only creature that could stand up to
Maude.

His ogress of a mother was the reason he’d been forced to travel nearly every
road in the land, through sleet, storm and fog in search of a bride. He’d found
dozens willing, had brought home five at last count, only to have them run
squealing back to their fathers in mortal terror of his mother. At this point,
even a witch for a wife was beginning to sound appealing.

But was it too much to ask, he thought to himself wistfully, that the woman
he wed have some beauty? The woman he’d previously brought home had not, but
then he’d been in search of a sweet temper and a pure spirit to counteract his
mother. Having failed at that, was it too much to ask to find a woman who at
least had all her teeth?

It would all have been easier if he’d stayed a farmer’s son, he thought
bitterly. Elevation to the mistress of Wormhurst, a post his mother had
appropriated for herself after he was awarded the lands and title of baron, had
only deepened her vanity and need to control. Nor was she in any hurry to give
up her position to any wife of Uric’s, for the woman he married would have
complete control over all areas of his household.

His only choice was to marry a woman strong enough to stand up to Maude, yet
with heart enough not to become a dictator herself. As his stallion’s quick
stride ate up the distance between him and the castle, Uric had to ask himself,
did such a woman exist?

* * * *

“If you want to get a husband, you’ve got to learn to flirt.”

Ceylon rolled her head over to favor her friend Calisto with an amused stare.
“I don’t flirt.” The deep window seat she reclined in had an excellent view of
the courtyard, which she watched with idle curiosity. The day was grim, the wind
chill. Those who had to be about on errands walked quickly, their heads bent
against the brisk fall winds.

Unperturbed by Ceylon’s negative attitude, Calisto raised her brows. “You
don’t flirt, you dance like a drunken farmer and you own more leathers than
dresses. But....” She raised an authoritative finger. “I’ve yet to see you fail
at anything when you put your mind to it.”

Ceylon snorted softly and rested her wrist against her drawn up knee. “Yes,
I’m quite the woman, aren’t I?” she drawled. A small smile of self-mockery
curved her lips. “So pure, so radiant....” she quoted some of her more
determined suitors, the same men who hadn’t looked twice at her before her face
healed. Amazing how well they saw her now.

“Purity,” she said, “is overrated.”

Calisto jabbed her needle forcefully into the birthday dress she was sewing
for Ceylon and yelped. “Blasted bother.” She shook her hand and grimaced. “I
should have commissioned you some more arrows or something. Something less
painful.”

“Something more likely to be used,” Ceylon agreed helpfully.

“You’ll wear it or eat it.” Calisto tossed aside the green velvet and
considered her dark clad friend, a determined set to her mouth. “You need to be
nicer to them.”

Here it comes. Ceylon widened her eyes in mock attentiveness, even though
she’d heard this particular speech before. Never seen without her red hair
flawlessly arranged and never known to move faster than a lady-like walk,
surrounded by admiring suitors, Calisto was determined to mold Ceylon into a
woman more like herself. “I really should, shouldn’t I?”

Calisto ignored the sarcasm in her tone and stood to put away her sewing
things. She avoided looking at Ceylon. “For your own good, not theirs.”

Ceylon stiffened. So Calisto had decided to heal the healer, had she? Well,
all luck to her. “And flirting is to my good because...?”

The seamstress sighed. “At least you’ll be responding to them in a favorable
manner. This coldness of yours--”

Annoyed now, Ceylon sat up and dropped both feet to the floor. “And how is it
my fault that men see better than they think? If they wish to be stupid around
me I see no reason to encourage them.” Ever since her face had healed and men
had seen what had been hiding underneath, their attitudes toward her had
drastically changed. Men who had barely noticed her suddenly watched her with
hungry eyes. A few of the boys—now men—that had grown up taunting her had
reversed their tune and now attempted to pay her court. Old men, youths barely
old enough to leave their mamas; all of them followed her with their eyes
whenever she showed her face. Raven was practically the only one who didn’t
drool at the sight of her, but then he was vocal about his preference for buxom
blondes.

Some of those men had been more than cruel. Eville had actually held her down
and rubbed dung into her face when they were both children. Dung face, he’d
called her. That’s the kind of men who wanted her now.

A familiar constriction banded her chest. She was the same person behind the
now flawless skin. The same changing green eyes and facial structure. Her smile
was as white, when it showed, and hadn’t her dark hair always been as shiny and
mink soft? It was her face they wanted now, not the woman she’d always been. If
she were scarred tomorrow they’d want nothing to do with her.

Their hypocrisy sickened her.

Unwilling to voice words she’d said many times before, Ceylon dismissed the
entire subject with one comment. “At least they no longer stare because I’m
ugly.” There was comfort in that.

Ceylon looked out the solar window at the gray day beyond. A red bird flew by
as she watched; a bright flash of color against the rain-swollen clouds. Would
that she could fly away, too.

Instead, she got to strip and try on the dress her friend had made.

“I’m not sure about this.” Ceylon tugged at the square bodice of her new
green gown. Air danced across far too much of her exposed bosom. No matter how
nice she looked with the gold embroidered belt about her slim hips or how well
the cut showed off her figure, it just didn’t feel natural. “It needs more
cloth, I think.” A lot more. If Eville ever saw her in this she could kiss her
virtue good-bye.

“It needs nothing,” Calisto contradicted her with a grin as she pulled her
from the stool. “Let me help you off with that. We don’t want to disturb the hem
pins.”

Ceylon threw on a loose peasant top and carelessly knotted the matching skirt
at her waist as she waited for her clothes to be finished. The loose shirt was
far too big and kept sagging from her shoulder, but it wouldn’t be long before
she’d have her clothes back.

Calisto had snatched away the leathers she’d arrived in the minute she’d
changed, determined that she would walk out of here looking like a lady. In
light of Calisto’s excitement, Ceylon allowed her to think she was in charge.
Let her have her moment, Ceylon though wryly. She’d waited long enough.

Besides, she had concerns of her own.

Ceylon doubted she had the personality to carry off the makeover Calisto had
given her. In the past, because of her marked face, she’d faded into
invisibility whenever men in the room caught sight of Calisto; hardly
surprising, for she was a true beauty. Nor did she hold it against her friend—it
wasn’t as if she could help it.

Besides, now she had the opposite problem. She didn’t want Eville or his
brothers drooling over her. If she’d had her way she would have gladly skipped
the dinner Lady Tennyson was giving, but she’d been practically commanded to
appear. Ever since she’d cured her daughter’s vicious pimples, Lady Tennyson had
practically fawned over Ceylon, spreading the word of her daughter’s cure far
and wide. Now she was intent on securing Ceylon’s exclusive services as her
private beauty consultant. Leery of being trapped in the castle on a daily basis
with Lady Tennyson’s leering sons, Ceylon had been quietly fighting her fate.
Only her position as an important healer had kept her safe so far, but she
wasn’t sure how much longer she could resist without invoking her ladyship’s
disfavor.

Oblivious to Ceylon’s thoughts, Calisto gave her a brilliant smile. “You look
wonderful. Now if you just manage to keep your backside away from Eville’s
pinching hands, you’ll do beautifully.”

“My confidence has leapt to new heights, thank you, Cali,” Ceylon said in her
driest tone. “Expecting rough waters, are we?”

About to respond, Calisto shrieked in outrage instead and darted to her feet,
for she’d just caught sight of her white monkey dragging one of Ceylon’s
favorite boots out of the bedroom. “Lancet! Stop!”

Caught up in his favorite game and thrilled to have an audience, Lancet
flashed her a wicked grin and darted through the door flap, screeching all the
way.

“Rotten beggar!” Furious, for last time it had taken a week for her to find
her purloined boot, and only then in a sorry condition deep in the stables,
Ceylon hiked her borrowed skirts and dashed after him.

* * * *

Uric looked up to see a wild apparition dashing down the wooden stairs
leading to the upper room of a house built against the bailey wall. Shouting
threats at the white animal she chased, it seemed all she could do to keep her
clothes from falling off. Her roar of outrage sounded across the bailey as the
monkey leap from the stairs and into the nearest espaliered pear.

“Bloody cheat!” she yelled as she dashed down the stairs after it, completely
oblivious to dozen or so mounted strangers watching her with fascination. “Come
back with my boot!”

The monkey noticed the riders before she did and froze in indecision—a
tactical error. With a whoop of triumph, the girl swooped down on him—her
mistake. For as she snatched away her boot, her skirt, only lightly tied, chose
that moment to surrender to gravity. In the confusion of the moment she
neglected to drop the boot, and as she sank to the ground in an attempt to keep
the skirt around her hips, her shirt slipped to dangerous new lows.

Only then, when she was down on her knees and in danger of an involuntary
disrobing, did she notice the hooves of Uric’s stallion.

Utterly fascinated, Uric watched as her brilliant green eyes tracked up
Behemoth’s long black legs, past the hair-feathered fetlocks, skipped up Uric’s
leg and finally settled on his face.

Her lips parted. For a moment it seemed as if she wanted to drink him in, so
thirsty was her expression. Never had he seen such heated desire in the eyes of
a woman.

A beautiful, hopefully available young woman. With all her teeth. He flashed
her his best smile.

Instead of smiling back, she stiffened, and an expression of dread and most
likely mortification crossed her face as she looked down. Her hand tightened on
her clothes. Hot color stained her fair skin as her brows lowered. “I could use
some assistance,” she informed him sternly.

He couldn’t prevent a grin of amusement. There she was, dressed like a
peasant—a half naked one at that—sitting in the dust at his feet, and she
ordered him around like a queen. Chuckles surrounded him as he swung down from
his mount. “Anything for you, fair maid.”

And she was fair, he noted as he bent to gather her into his arms. More than
fair with those snapping green eyes and pretty pink lips.

“Put me down!” she hissed as he hefted her easily, her panicked gaze swinging
to his men even as she gripped his leather armor. “I can walk.”

“True, but I doubt you can remain dressed,” he countered, a wide smile on his
face as he glimpsed the tops of her breasts. Pink color stained there, too. Like
the blush of the rarest pink pearl. “But if that’s what you wish....” He
pretended to lower her.

“No!” She clung to him, no doubt knowing that the act of setting her down
would expose more than her pretty bare feet to view. “I-I....” She glanced
toward the stairs she’d descended in such a rush. “I need to go up there.”

Satisfied that he’d made his point, Uric mounted the steps with her. “What is
your name, sweet?”

Her brows drew together forbiddingly at the endearment. “Healer Ceylon,” she
informed him, her mouth set in a firm line.

Dimples appeared at the corners of his mouth. Better and better.

She was embarrassed, and prickly with it; he could understand that. The idea
that she could be quite different under other circumstances teased him. A
smiling, laughing Ceylon would be something to look forward to.

Uric looked her over, already planning their first night. Fire she had, and
it was a fire he’d like to test the heat of. When was the last time he’d felt
such an instant attraction to a woman?

“And what does your man call you?” he inquired, intensely curious. Pray God
she had no such thing.

She looked away and locked her jaw. When she spoke her tone was low and even.
“I have none.” And then she snapped, “And I like it that way!”

“Pity,” he murmured as he pushed aside the door flap and set her on her feet.
Temporarily blinded by the dimness inside, he could only guess that her gasp
signaled the loss of some of her clothing. The image brought a wide smile to his
face. “Until later, sweet Ceylon.”

* * * *

“You left me with him on purpose!”

Calisto smiled smugly. “Of course, I did.” She sighed dramatically as she
pressed a hand to her breast. “Have you ever seen a face like that in your
life?”

“I was almost naked!” Ceylon nearly shouted, using temper to mask the reason
for her flushed skin. Her heart was still beating far too fast, and no wonder.
The moment she’d lain eyes on the man she thought it might stop. With close
cropped curls of gold fleece and eyes the blue of deepest flame, of course the
man had been handsome. Too handsome. Likely he knew it.