A Warrior's Bride Page 10

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then it will do.”

  Suddenly, the hall fell silent, so that when Sir Richard cleared his throat, it sounded like a clap of thunder on a quiet afternoon. He gazed over George’s shoulder, his expression one of wariness—and surprise. “Here is the lady now, my lord.”

  George turned on his heel and saw Aileas standing at the bottom of the tower stairs. She wore that same green dress, and her hair, long and unbound, hung nearly to her waist, rippling in waves, thick and luxurious, the kind of hair a man could bury his hands in. Her fearless brown eyes shone in the light of the flambeaux, and she had a proud, defiant expression that belonged on the face of a queen. No timid maid this, but a woman of passion and fire and spirit.

  The sudden silence in the hall made him aware that his men were likewise spellbound by this unexpected and unusual vision. George gave Richard and Herbert a quick glance, to realize that his stewards were surveying his wife-to-be not with admiration but with blatant disapproval.

  A few men began to whisper, their tone snide, and a muffled snicker reached his ears. George fastened a keen eye on the men, who quickly fell silent again. Herbert bowed and hurried out of the hall as if George’s look had been an order to go.

  George turned back to face Aileas—and had to subdue the urge to groan aloud, for he saw the cause of those reactions. She was wearing that same green gown, which exposed more than it should, was tight where it should not be, and whose cuffs had not been cleaned.

  Didn’t she have something else to wear?

  Then he met Aileas’s gaze as she looked around the hall, and there was something in her eyes, beneath the pride and defiance, that made him believe she realized how ridiculous she looked. He would not have her feel humiliated in his hall for all the world. “Lady Aileas,” he said in his most respectful tone and with his most sincere smile as he approached her. “You look lovely.”

  “Sir George,” she acknowledged coldly, the pain of her embarrassment buried deep inside her. She saw the men’s reactions and the mocking laughter lurking on the steward’s face, try as he might to hide it. She knew she looked like a fool.

  But Aileas had borne the brunt of mockery before. No woman with six older brothers would be spared such treatment, and so she was quite capable of hiding her regret at her wardrobe choice beneath a visage of austere dignity.

  Nevertheless, she could not help but be pleased with the respect in Sir George’s tone, although she could have done without the pity in his eyes, which pricked her pride. Therefore, when he took her arm to lead her into the hall, she would have him know she was not a fool or blind to the faults of this hideous garment. “I know exactly how I look,” she whispered, even as she tried not to trip over the unfamiliarly long skirt.

  He gave her a startled glance and was about to speak when Lady Margot swept into view at the other end of the hall. wearing the most lovely gown of ivory silk embellished with scarlet embroidery, her waist encased in a chain belt of what looked like gold, and her thin silken scarf barely concealing her bountiful raven hair. “Come,” he said eagerly, taking Aileas’s arm almost roughly, “I would have you meet my cousin.”

  “The poor old widow?” Aileas asked archly as he led her down the center of the hall.

  He gave her a curious glance, but by this time, they were before the lady. “Lady Aileas Dugall, allow me to present my cousin, Lady Margot de Pontypoole.”

  Lady Margot curtsied very prettily, and Aileas did her best.

  “I am delighted to meet you,” Lady Margot said; smiling at Aileas with apparent friendly sincerity.

  “Sir George led me to believe that you would be considerably older,” Aileas declared.

  George’s smile became somewhat pained. “I never—”

  “He told you I was an old widow woman, did he?” said Lady Margot, looking at George, the expression in her eyes teasing. “Compared to you, my dear, I am old.”

  George smiled again, and Aileas felt that her remark had been neatly turned aside. “I have never seen you looking better, Margot,” her betrothed said. “I am shocked that no man has offered to marry you.”

  “Who told you they have not?” she chided playfully, her voice as warm and sweet as honey. “Since you did not deign to pursue me, there was no one else worth taking.”

  “Ah, but my manners are too rough for your taste,” George answered.

  Lady Margot laughed prettily, while Aileas listened in stunned surprise. How could anyone consider Sir George’s manners “rough”? .

  “Indeed they are,” Lady Margot continued, “for you are forcing us to stand far too long.”

  “Forgive me!” he cried at once. He held out his arm for Lady Margot, who seemed very eager to take it. “Oh, but here is Herbert Jolliet,” he said, gesturing toward the steward, who had returned to the hall. “I know he is looking forward to meeting you again. I fear I must force you to stand awhile yet, but you may sit, Lady Aileas.”

  Sir George let go of her arm and sauntered away with Lady Margot, leaving his bride-to-be standing alone. She turned and marched toward the dais, until the estate steward moved to block her path.

  “They are like brother and sister, my lady,” Sir Richard noted, holding out his arm as if he would escort her the rest of the way to her seat, a matter of a few feet.

  “Indeed?” Aileas replied dispassionately, not taking his arm.

  “Allow me to escort you to the table,” the steward said, and Aileas felt she had no choice but to comply without being even more blatantly rude.

  Aileas assumed the chair to the right of the largest one at the table—undoubtedly Sir George’s—would be her father’s, so she paused at the seat to the left of the center chair.

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” Sir Richard said, “that seat is for Sir Thomas. You have the favored seat.” His arm came around her, indicating where she was to sit.

  “Oh,” she murmured, surprised by this honor. She moved quickly to her place, noting with some satisfaction that Sir Richard was not to sit at the high table, for he moved to the table nearest. There was something about the man she did not like, although she would be hard-pressed to say exactly what.

  Sir Thomas entered the hall, trailed by his men, and Aileas was pleased to see that Sir George abandoned Lady Margot with the same speed he had her. For all his apparent polish, it seemed Sir George de Gramercie could be rude, too.

  Then she watched as he led her father toward the demurely smiling Lady Margot, and more introductions were made. To her chagrin, her father nodded politely and seemed pleased to meet her, while his men were all grinning like besotted simpletons.

  Including Sir George de Gramercie.

  Chapter Eight

  Aileas had never been so disgruntled in her entire life.

  Wasn’t she the bride here? Yet every man around her seemed besotted by Lady Margot de Pontypoole, including her father and the bridegroom. She might as well have been in another country for all the attention they paid her as the meal progressed.

  Her gaze roved over the hall, taking in the fine tapestries that moved ever so slightly in the warm air, the faces that glowed like bronze statues in the golden light of the flambeaux and candles, the fresh white linen, the gleaming silver goblets and polished wooden trenchers, the large, nearly waked hounds that grazed beneath the tables. A host of lovely smells rose about her, too, from the spiced dishes that arrived in endless array to the rushes on the floor. Servants and pages scurried about, constantly bringing new dishes or filling goblets. Voices hummed and buzzed about her, with snatches of laughter reaching her. Somewhere nearby were minstrels, for she could discern the playing of instruments above the other noise.

  If only she could leave the high table and sit with the men of her father’s household. They were having a merry time, eating and drinking and talking and laughing. Surely being there would be infinitely better than having to sit in exile beside Sir George. She couldn’t even talk to her father without having her betrothed
in the way.

  How was she going to feel tomorrow, when her father had left for home? He did not intend to remain for the wedding feast. When she had proposed arriving at Ravensloft a day early, he had agreed with this condition. He truly did not like to be away from his castle for more than a day.

  She stabbed at the roast duck before her with her dagger and shoved the tasty morsel into her mouth, washing it down with a gulp of wine. Once again, her cuff snagged on the trencher, and a smear of grease soiled it.

  Frowning, Aileas went to wipe it clean with the fine linen napkin at her elbow, then decided it would not be worth the ruin to the napkin. What did it matter how her gown looked? Nobody cared.

  After tomorrow, when she was married, she would. dress as she pleased.

  If she was married.

  She ripped off a piece of the fine white bread and began to chew it meditatively as she once again scanned the hall. Her one consolation at the moment was that Sir Richard and his brother had retired already, before the seventh course. Why, she had no idea and didn’t care. They made her nervous, those two, as if they knew in great detail everything she could not do.

  And never had she felt more lacking than now. She had grown ever more aware that not only did she not dress like Lady Margot or act like Lady Margot, but neither did she eat like Lady Margot, or Sir George. They toyed with the food laid before them as if actually consuming food were the last thing they should consider, and certainly less important than polite and witty conversation.

  She felt completely out of place, even though whenever she looked at George, he smiled at her with a hint of boyish mischievousness in his eyes that would have charmed her, if she could have thought of anything brilliantly clever to say.

  A burst of trilling, feminine laughter drew her attention back to Sir George, her father and Lady Margot. “If you insist, Sir Thomas.” Lady Margot was saying regretfully, “but I really am quite certain George’s men can take care of your horses well enough.”

  “Be that as it may,” her father said with only a hint of his normally stern tone, “I always make it a practice to see that the beasts are fed and watered and properly bedded down for the night.”

  This was true. He always did, at home or away, for he never completely trusted any except his sons, even in so small a thing.

  Her father rose and glanced at her. “If you will excuse me, I’ll return shortly,” he said, then bowed and marched off the dais. He strode down the side of the hall, nodding at two of his men to accompany him. Those selected gave their companions rueful glances, but there was no question of remaining behind.

  “My, he is a commanding presence, is he not?” Lady Margot said, gazing at Sir George and leaning over Sir Thomas’s chair while emitting another charming laugh. “Quite overpowering.”

  George, acutely aware that Aileas had not said three words since the meal began, moved his head toward his betrothed and gave Margot a significant look. Fortunately, she caught on at once. “A very fine man, too,” she said sincerely.

  Aileas crammed another piece of bread in her mouth.

  His betrothed didn’t seem to be listening, but George knew better. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the furrow in her brow and the way she avoided coming into contact with even so much as his elbow. The few times he had caught her eye, she had looked so stern and severe, he had had the unpleasant sensation that he was marrying a serjeant-at-arms, not the woman who had been so passionate and desirable. He had hoped that her father’s presence might explain her attitude; unfortunately, that esteemed gentleman’s departure had not noticeably lightened her mood.

  Margot made a little frown. “You know, George, I really must- protest this marriage,” she announced gravely.

  “Why?” George asked, seeing the teasing look in her eye and hoping that Aileas would realize she was only joking.

  “I have it on the best authority that several young ladies of marriageable age were quite beside themselves when they heard word of your nuptials,” Margot replied.

  “Name one,” he challenged.

  “The Earl of Dunstable’s daughter.”

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about.” He turned toward Aileas, who was taking yet another enormous gulp of his finest French wine. At this rate, she wouldn’t be able to get up when the meal was over. “Margot delights in tormenting me in this fashion.”

  “You seem to enjoy it,” Aileas replied coldly. She turned a disapproving face to him, looking so like her father at that moment that George took refuge in a gulp of wine himself.

  What was the matter with her? Margot was being charming and friendly, and Aileas was treating her with such obvious discourtesy it was embarrassing. He would not have Margot feel unwelcome in his home.

  “Do you truly not remember Isobel de Barlough?” Lady Margot asked archly, apparently immune to Aileas’s reaction, or rising above it. “She will be devastated to be forgotten.”

  “Isobel de Barlough? Is she the one who sniffles all the time?”

  Margot laughed delicately. “She suffers much from colds.” She leaned over Sir Thomas’s chair again and spoke directly to Aileas, who finally looked at her. “Indeed, my dear, I can think of several young ladies who have probably wept into their pillows after they heard you had captured this valiant knight Once, at a tournament, two women tried to pull out each other’s hair over him.”

  Aileas shrugged and turned her attention to a boisterous group of her father’s men who had burst into an extremely ribald song.

  George decided it might be best to ignore Aileas as one would a sulky child. Her rudeness had distressed Margot, and now he feared his cousin might not want to remain at Ravensloft after the wedding, and that was absolutely necessary. “Who was that?” he mused aloud.

  “Let me see...” Margot’s shapely brows contracted with concentration. “Wasn’t it Lady Jane Pomphrey and her friend? Or, at least, they were friends. They haven’t spoken to each other since.”

  Suddenly Aileas shoved back her chair and rose with surprising majesty for one who had imbibed five full goblets of wine.

  “Are you ill?” George asked, rising, too.

  “I need some air,” Aileas replied. She gave Margot a cold, fierce look. “Fresh air.”

  With that, she began to walk away. She stumbled once, but quickly righted herself before George could even get out of his chair to assist her. Then she marched out of the hall as her father had before her.

  George noted that the hall had fallen conspicuously quiet. “I had better go after her,” he muttered as the door banged shut behind her. The assembly began to talk again, albeit in subdued and incredulous whispers.

  “George, I’m so sorry!” Margot said softly. “I didn’t mean to upset her.”

  “I know,” he replied with a wan smile. “She is the most temperamental woman I have ever met.”

  “You should go after her.”

  “It certainly wouldn’t do to find the bride passed out in the courtyard,” he noted quietly as he rose.

  Margot leaned forward and grabbed his sleeve. “Tell her she has no reason to be jealous of me.”

  This time, it was George’s turn to stare. “Is that why...?” He felt like a fool for not seeing it himself. He had been too intent on impressing Sir Thomas with talk of his friends at court and the plans to add yet more to his castle. He hadn’t paid much attention to Aileas at all.

  Again, Margot nodded. “Absolutely.”

  He bowed gallantly. “I shall do as you command, my lady, and after my hot-tempered bride go L”

  “Hush!” Elma hissed to her companions as they stood in the shadowed recess between the stables and storehouse. “Somebody’s coming.”

  They watched Sir Thomas stride past, and Herbert heaved a sigh of relief. “I’ll be glad when he’s gone home.”

  “But his daughter stays behind,” Richard reminded them.

  “Are you sure? She doesn’t look very happy about it,” Herbert noted. “And if Sir George
finds out about the dowry...”

  “What about it?” Richard demanded.

  “It’s not household goods at all.”

  Elma and Richard stared at him. “Well, what is it?” Richard asked impatiently.

  “It’s weapons—swords, bows and arrows, lances.”

  “God’s wounds!” Elma said softly. “What kind of mistress are we going to have?”

  “Maybe that saucy girl will get angry enough to leave. Maybe he’ll marry Margot de Pontypoole instead.”

  “Lady Aileas won’t leave,” Elma said, shaking her head. “She wants him.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Herbert demanded in a whining whisper.

  Elma shrugged. “I just am. I’ve been watching her. She’s jealous about Lady Margot, too.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Richard confirmed. “This could work very well for us, if she is unsure of her place here. We just have to do what we’ve planned all along—get her trust and keep it, especially you, Elma.”

  Elma nodded.

  “What if Sir George’s new wife wants to examine the books of account?” Herbert demanded. “She’d be perfectly within her rights to do it. I can’t say no.”

  “What if she does?” Richard retorted. “She won’t find anything amiss, unless you’ve been caretess.” His eyes narrowed ominously. “You haven’t, have you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then we shouldn’t have anything to fear. She’s only a woman, after all. The important thing is to keep a cool head and watch which way the wind blows. If the marriage is troubled, so much the better for us and our plans.”

  “I agree,” Elma said. “Now, I had best get back before I’m missed. Something tells me the lady may wish to retire early tonight.”

  “And you will be a sympathetic, friendly servant,” Richard added.

  “Of course,” Elma said with a throaty laugh as she slipped out of the shadows and back to the hall.

  The two men waited a few moments, then went their separate ways.

  George wasn’t quite sure where to look for Aileas, once he had ascertained that she had not passed out in the courtyard. It took him several minutes to discover her pacing beside the chapel, looking more like a soldier on guard duty than a woman on the eve before her wedding as the silvery light of the moon shone down on her. “Aiteas?” he called out softly. “Are you all right?”