A Warrior's Bride Page 9

  Chapter Seven

  Sometime later, after Aileas and her father had been shown the fortifications of Ravensloft, Aileas followed a bright-eyed maidservant up the tower stairs to dress for the evening meal.

  “I thought the other building contained the guest apartments,” Aileas remarked, taking the shallow steps two at a time to keep up with the briskly trotting servant.

  “Oh, the one across the way?” the maid asked. She was rather short and pretty, with tawny hair and snapping black eyes and a wide smile. “It does. But Sir George thought that you might as well use his bedchamber, to save moving your baggage after the wedding. He’s already had what he needs taken out and left the rest.”

  “Oh.” It made sense, of course, but Aileas had never slept in a man’s private bedchamber before, and this information both excited and frightened her.

  All her emotions seemed to be a mass of confusion lately. Today, she could blame such a state on fatigue and unfamiliar surroundings. She feared it would be some time yet before she could retire and think over the events that had recently passed, as well as ponder the man she was about to marry.

  Ever since she had arrived, she had been too aware of his presence to be completely composed. Whenever he touched her or even brushed her sleeve, she became hot and flustered in a manner quite new to her. She could only hope nobody else noticed.

  “Here you are, my lady,” the maidservant said as she pushed open the door and stood back to let Aileas enter the airy upper chamber.

  The room was easily the size of three bedchamber at her father’s castle, she thought as she moved past the servant to the center of the chamber. Beautiful tapestries covered the stone walls, and white linen shutters were open to let in the fresh spring breeze. A thick carpet lay upon the stone floor.

  Two windows looked out onto the inner courtyard; near one stood a delicately carved table of a size that would have been necessary if she had possessed more than one brush and comb, which she rarely used. A similarly delicate stool, which she suspected would collapse if she ever dared to sit on it, stood before it. Near the other window was a more sturdy table bearing a bronze basin and ewer wonderfully wrought. A tall candleholder held a dozen of the finest beeswax candles, and a brazier, piled with coal, was across the room, beside the bed.

  Aileas swallowed hard and her gaze seemed pulled to the most impressive piece of furniture in the room. The large bed was made of age-darkened oak, with a feather bed even thicker than the one Sir George had brought to her father’s castle. The coverings were as rich as those she had seen before, and as beautiful, in shiny shades of deep red and blue and green, shimmering like a lake in the sunshine. The tall posts had been carved with the shapes of vines and leaves, and heavy damask curtains, to keep out the night air, hung about it.

  “Is something the matter, my lady?”

  How could she begin to explain the effect the sight of such ostentatious luxury had upon her? Part of her wanted to examine everything in exquisite detail, yet another part, which spoke in her father’s voice, reminded her such extravagance was a sinful waste.

  Aileas regarded the maidservant lingering in the doorway. “You may leave.”

  The young woman glanced about and there was an awkwardness to her manner that Aileas didn’t understand.

  “If you please, my lady,” she began, “Sir George said I’m to be your maidservant from now on.”

  Aileas turned away to mask her confusion and uncertainty. She had never had a maidservant; her father deemed such use of servants another waste.

  “I assure you, my lady, I’ll work hard. You’ll see.”

  “I’m sure you would.”

  “Besides, my lady,” the young woman said matter-of-factly, “it’s my lord’s orders.”

  Aileas didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want or need a maid, yet if Sir George had given an order, it should be obeyed.

  The maidservant waited expectantly.

  “Since it is your lord’s order,” Aileas said at last, “I will accept your service. What is your name?”

  “Elma, my lady,” the maid replied happily. “And I’m glad you’re agreeable, I must say,” she went on, coming farther into the room to stand near Aileas. “I was trained as a lady’s maid, you see, in another household. But then that lady died, so I came home. Sir George was kind enough to give me a place in the hall, but that’s not what I’m used to.”

  “I see,” Aileas replied, thinking the life here at Ravensloft was not what she was used to, either.

  “Now, I’m to help you dress.” Aileas’s plain brown leather chest had been placed near the door and she couldn’t help noticing that there were five other brightly painted chests beside it. “Those are Sir George’s things,” the maidservant said helpfully.

  “So many?”

  Elma laughed softly. “Sir George likes to dress fine, my lady. And why not? A good-looking man like that, eh? Not that he dallies with the maidservants, my lady. No, we’re not for him, I assure you.”

  Aileas was relieved, even though it had never crossed her mind that Sir George, like many nobles, would think nothing of seducing his maidservants, until Elma pronounced George good-looking.

  Elma bustled over to Aileas’s chest and threw up the lid. “What gown would you like?”

  Aileas cursed the flush she felt stealing over her features. “I suppose this is necessary?” she demanded. “I’m perfectly comfortable in these clothes.”

  Elma regarded her with a somewhat wary expression. “There’s blood on your skirt,” she noted, nodding at the spot where some of the pheasants’ blood must have dripped onto her from the brace tied to her saddle.

  “Oh, yes, I didn’t see that. Well then, the green one,” she said reluctantly. She despised that green velvet gown, with its awkward sleeves and tight waist. She would far rather wear what she had on, blood or no blood.

  Elma pulled out the gown and shook it, surveying it critically. “I hate to say this, my lady, but whoever packed this didn’t know what they were doing. It’s all wrinkled.” Then she looked closely at the cuffs. “It should have been cleaned, too.”

  “I packed the chest,” Aileas replied.

  The maid blushed. “Forgive me, my lady. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Then obviously I cannot wear the gown,” Aileas interrupted, attempting to sound sorry for this unforeseen outcome. “I shall simply have to wear what I’ve got on.”

  “With the breeches, too, my lady?” Elma asked timidly.

  “No, I can do without them.”

  “But your skirt will be too...” The maidservant hesitated, and Aileas quickly realized the problem. She had cut off her skirt at midcalf so that it was easier to walk without tripping and to mount her horse without the bulk of unnecessary fabric. Without her breeches, however, she would be exposing her bare legs.

  “Well, Elma,” she said, “since you are trained as a lady’s maid, what is worse, bare skin or wrinkles and a food stain or two around the cuff?”

  She was sure it would be the wrinkles and stains, but to her chagrin, the maid did not hesitate before replying, “Bare legs.”

  Aileas was very tempted to override the maid’s opinion, until she reflected that Elma probably knew more about such things than she did. “Then it will have to be the gown,” Aileas answered with a sigh of resignation.

  Before she could don the hated garment, however, a shout came from the vicinity of the gate. It didn’t sound urgent enough to be an alarm, but Aileas hurried to look out the window nonetheless.

  Another group entered the courtyard, but there was no familiar redhead leading it.

  What had she expected—Rufus coming to demand that she marry him instead? He had already made his choice, just as she had made hers, and she would be content.

  What she did see was a slender woman wearing a gown the color of daffodils, which peeked out from beneath a plum-colored hooded cloak trimmed with ermine. She rode upon a palfrey at the front of a guard of five men, each att
ired in chain mail and overtunics of sapphire blue, their horses’ accoutrements colored to match. The woman pushed back her hood, revealing both a silken yellow scarf, which matched her dress and was held in place by a circlet of silver, and, as Aileas could tell even from this height, a very beautiful face.

  “That’s Lady Margot,” Elma noted from behind her.

  “Who?” Aileas demanded, not hiding her surprise. Wasn’t Lady Margot old and destitute? This woman was clearly neither.

  “She’s Sir George’s cousin, and come for the wedding.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Aileas said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I was expecting someone older, though.”

  “Well, she’s about two years older than his lordship. She was married very young, poor creature, to a man who was her father’s choice.” Elma leaned closer and whispered, “They were not happy together. Everyone said it was a mercy when her husband fell off his horse and died.”

  “Including Sir George?” Aileas couldn’t help asking.

  “I don’t know,” Elma said with a shrug. “He wasn’t here.”

  “She doesn’t look very impoverished, either,” Aileas remarked. “Her men are very finely dressed.”

  Elma giggled. “Impoverished? Who told you that?”

  Aileas did not reply, telling herself she was not pleased with this servant’s sudden familiarity.

  “She was left quite a fortune in her own right,” Elma said in a more deferential manner. “There are some who say her father took pity on her just before the wedding and made sure it would go that way.” Elma leaned even closer. “And some say she had a hand in her husband’s death, but I don’t believe it. She’s a sweet lady and Sir George adores her.”

  Aileas glanced sharply at Elma, who blushed and giggled. “As a cousin, of course. Here he comes now!”

  Aileas watched as George hurried toward the new arrival. “George!” Lady Margot cried in a dulcet, extremely feminine voice. Her joyful tinkle of a laugh reached to the tower windows.

  George answered with his own deep, rich laugh, something Aileas had never heard before, and she could see a warm, welcoming smile on his handsome face. “I thought you might miss my wedding. Naturally you would blame me for not giving you enough notice, and then I should never hear the end of it.” He reached up to help Lady Margot dismount, clasping her about her narrow waist.

  Lady Margot gave him a kiss of greeting on each cheek, rising on tiptoe to do so. Entirely proper, really, but Aileas’s hands bunched into fists.

  “You are looking very well, Margot. I do believe riding agrees with you.”

  “It does not,” the lady replied firmly. “It’s so uncomfortable.”

  Aileas’s lip curled in a sneer, and she was sure she had the measure of the lady in that moment. Anyone who did not care for riding was an idiot.

  The beautiful Lady Margot laughed again and took hold of George’s arm. Their voices lowered so that Aileas couldn’t hear them, and their heads nearly touched as George bent to listen. No doubt he didn’t want to miss a word of everything Lady Margot was saying in those womanly, silvery tones while escorting her inside the hall.

  Aileas forced her hands to straighten and wiped her sweating palms on her skirt. “Smooth out those wrinkles as best you can, Elma,” she said firmly, turning to face the maid.

  If any warrior had seen her face at this instant, he would have recognized her expression at once.

  Aileas Dugall was ready to do battle.

  George surveyed the hall, now prepared for the evening meal, and tried to feel pleased. The tables had been set up and spread with pristine white cloths. Delicious odors emanated from the kitchen corridor, where Gaston was sure to have concocted a superb feast.

  George could easily guess Sir Thomas’s reaction to the furnishings and the meal: he would condemn the apparently wanton extravagance and the money spent on such unessential items, even though it was all in honor of his daughter’s marriage.

  Naturally, Sir Thomas had said nothing about the money spent on the fortifications of Ravensloft Castle as George had conducted them about it before they had finally retired to prepare for the evening’s feast, leaving George free to greet the few guests who had been able to come on such short notice and who had arrived after Sir Thomas’s party. Fortunately, Margot was one of them. He was quite sure that with Margot’s help, Aileas would lose some of her rougher ways.

  George sauntered past the high table, where he would sit in the center, Aileas on his right, her father on his left

  Despite Margot’s comfortable presence, ladies would be distinctly lacking, both at the high table and the hall in general. This didn’t please George, for ladies assured a more civil tone to such proceedings. Without them, the celebration would surely have something of the soldiers’ barracks about it, despite the fine linen and excellent cuisine.

  No doubt Aileas would feel more at home under such circumstances, he reflected with a disgruntled frown as he leaned back against the hearth.

  No decent woman would dress as she did, and ride astride at the head of a company of soldiers, as well as insist upon joining her father and her betrothed on a tour of the fortifications the day before her wedding. She had asked all sorts of questions, too. A properly demure noblewoman wouldn’t have opened her mouth.

  Not even when her remarks were pertinent, succinct and usually complimentary.

  George’s reverie was disturbed by the sound of someone approaching, and he looked up to see Richard Jolliet ambling toward him, a pleased smile on his face as he ran a cursory gaze over George’s clothing, which included a white linen shirt beneath a finely embroidered scarlet tunic, scarlet hose and black boots.

  “I thought you’d still be dressing, my lord,” the steward remarked. “That tunic’s rather plain for you, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t want to dazzle the bride too much,” George replied lightly, and with a smile. There was no need for anyone to know that he had any doubts about his marriage to Lady Aileas.

  The men of the garrison began filing into the hall and taking their places, their conversation a steady hum. Too interested in the feast to come, they paid little heed to the familiar sight of Sir George and his steward talking together.

  “Ah, of course!” Richard replied with a chuckle, a deep bass rumble that began in his chest and expanded to fill the room. “I should have known. But I’m sure she’s already overwhelmed by your magnificence.”

  “She is not the kind of woman to be easily overwhelmed,” George replied, a hint of his doubts entering his tone.

  “Is she not?” he asked, and George couldn’t tell if the steward intended that response to be serious or not. “Nevertheless, I understand the lady was favorably impressed by Ravensloft”

  “I believe she was.”

  “I had it on good authority—Herbert overheard one of Sir Thomas’s men say so.”

  “I’m glad to know it,” George answered honestly, “for she certainly asked a lot of questions.” Then, deciding he was sounding much too serious, he said jovially, “Spare me an inquiring mind, Richard! So tedious to have to think of the answers—or evasions, where necessary.”

  “Evasions were required?”

  “I didn’t think either Sir Thomas or his daughter would approve the sum I spent on the masonry, so when Aileas asked me about it, I fear the answer was somewhat less than completely accurate.” He sighed with a dismay that was not a complete fabrication. “Fortunately, Sir Thomas required much less effort.”

  “He asked no questions?”

  “Not as many as she did, I am relieved to say.”

  Richard shook his head, feigning sorrow, or so George thought. “Sir George,” he warned, “this does not bode well. Honesty in a marriage is to be desired above all things.”

  “You sound very sure of that for a man who’s never had a wife,” George answered lightly.

  Richard chortled again. “Indeed, you are right! However, my lord, it doesn’t take a great deal of percepti
on to see that she’s one of the more forthright of her sex, and therefore, I doubt she’ll countenance evasion from anyone. Even you.”

  George shrugged his shoulders. “It is my opinion that no man should ever be completely honest with his wife, about anything, if he wishes to ensure domestic tranquillity.”

  “And is the wife never to be completely honest with her husband, my lord?”

  “Of course she should.”

  “That hardly seems fair.”

  “We are not talking about a court of law, Sir Richard,” George said with an airily dismissive wave of his hand. “We’re talking about marriage. Besides, why would she ever want to lie? There would be no point dissembling about the price of a new gown, or hair ribbons, or the linen.”

  Richard frowned, although his eyes continued to sparkle with merriment. “I fear you are very mistaken about the majority of the fairer sex, Sir George. I believe most of them lie all the time. They’re taught to do it from the cradle, whether to maintain domestic tranquillity or from fear of punishment.

  “Forgive my impertinence, my lord, but I think you should appreciate Lady AHeas’s honesty. It must be terrible to be married to a woman you cannot trust, especially if she is to oversee your household and all the attendant expenses.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Richard.” George pushed away from the hearth and clapped a friendly hand on Richard’s shoulder. “I’m sure any daughter of Sir Thomas Dugall would never dream of being dishonest, even if she does dress rather oddly.”

  “Sir George!” Both men turned to see Herbert Jolliet hurrying toward them, his face red and worried.

  “What is it?” George demanded.

  “It’s the dowry, my lord. It’s not what you expected and—”

  George made a wry face. “I might have guessed Sir Thomas’s idea of movable goods is not quite the same as mine,” he said, envisioning rough, unspun wool and sheep-tallow candles instead of fine linen sheets and pure beeswax candles. “Is it worth five hundred marks?”