Defiant (25 page)

His body seemed to tense all at once. “My mother did not want me.”

She stopped. From his tall boots to his straight hair, she took in his towering form. Despite the issues between the two of them, he was a handsome, well-built man. He was kind to animals—cared passionately for his hawk—and had compassion on people.

“Your mother would have been proud of you, I’m sure.”

“My mother was too busy parading about in frilly jewels to have much regard for her bastard son.”

The words were spoken without guile, but bitterness came through in his voice all the same. Her heart inexplicably went out to him. She touched his forearm.

He flinched and stared down at her fingers. Her sapphire ring glittered and her skin was soft and white in contrast to his rough homespun garment. “My mother’s hands were well kept like yours.”

Her mouth rounded into an “oh.” Without overthinking it, she placed her hand firmly on his chest and gazed up at him. “Your mother
should
have been proud of you, Jared, even if she wasn’t.” The words fell out of her lips before she could stop them.

His hand topped hers and pressed it farther into his torso.

“You are"—she glanced upward at Aeliana—"good with birds.”

His shoulders relaxed by a small fraction. “I like the thrill of the hunt. A falconer and his bird develop a relationship that is different from that of having a dog or some other pet.”

It was a different side of him that somehow made him seem more real, more human. Not at all the dunderhead she had thought him to be when they were at the brothel or the brute she had witnessed at the church.

How odd to relate to a man in such a manner. Almost as a friend.

“I know many falconers lose their birds. I suppose a hawk is different from a dog because she can fly free at any time,” she said, trying to concentrate on the conversation and not the confusing jumble of emotions he made her feel.

Aeliana, Gwyneth noted, had perched on a limb above them. The hawk lifted into flight again when Jared began walking.

“One must make her realize that her life is better with you than without you.” Turning abruptly, he winked at her. Winked! “Not unlike a wife.”

She lifted her chin. “I do not wish to be
trained.”

“Peace, wife. I was just beginning to enjoy the hunt.”

Trained? Courted? The man made her daft.

She wanted to grouse at him but knew that doing so would not win her the favor from him that she needed. If they could forge some sort of cordial relationship, then mayhap he would allow her to tend to her duties at the keep and she would be able to see about the ladies in the prison.

The morning fled as Jared told of how Aeliana had been with him her whole life and how they had bonded in an uncanny way. Once the conversation started, they shared a pleasant morning. He passionately shared information on hawk training. The tension between them eased and Gwyneth was reluctant to return to the keep.

She indicated the prey bag. “The hunt was productive this morning. ”

Jared’s chest puffed out. His body bent backward as he shielded his eyes with his hand and gazed up at the bird with unabashed admiration. “My Aeliana is a wonderful hunter. Never had a bird like her before.”

That he took such pride in his hawk intrigued Gwyneth.

“Is it possible for me to hold her as you do on your wrist?”

“Perhaps. I do not have another glove today but on the morrow I will bring one.”

Gwyneth smiled. This would be easier than she’d thought.

She would bend Jared to her will and he would help her attend to her people. She would gain Aeliana’s trust enough to be able to sneak out of the keep at night. If she were able to go about her duties, mayhap life would not be so bad after all. She would get to the prison and see Elizabeth and the others to safety.

Jared might be a problem, but she could work around him. As she did with all other men.

She’d kissed him to get his attention and talk him into allowing her to speak! Of all the outrageous, conniving things.

Worse: It had worked.

He had received a missive from someone who knew something about Rafe’s green boots. He should be combing the town looking for ways to clear his name afore he was discovered, not kissing his wife and instructing her on the finer points of falconry. And certainly not talking about his mother.

Gwyneth had claimed that his mother should be proud of him. His chest ached at the thought. His mother cared about parties and gowns and jewels. Not about the child she’d given birth to.

Leaves crunched as they walked back toward the keep.

His new wife was making him daft. Her scent, her soft steps, the rustle of her skirt, all called to him. The consummation, disaster that it had been, did not count at all. And sleeping beside her last night—holding her, kissing her, combing her hair, touching her softly but not forcing himself on her—had been a test of extreme measure.

She lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the morning sun and squinted up at the hawk. The way she paid attention to Aeliana, gazed at her in admiration, intrigued him. Likely it was some ruse, but it certainly didn’t seem faked. In his experience, beautiful women were interested in ribbons and jewels and fancy hairstyles, not in something as practical and useful as hunting.

She twisted and stretched backward, further following the flight of the hawk. The curve of her waist and the swell of her hips made his groin tighten. Even wearing a plain kirtle, she was stunning. Her high cheekbones and wide blue eyes set her face apart from other women’s. Her luscious body would tempt a monk.

Last night the way her hand had curled on his chest and her hair had fanned across his shoulder had made his body feel frighteningly alive. Hungry.

Of all things, Gwyneth was a temptress. Even in the plain brown kirtle.

Nay.

Especially in the plain brown kirtle.

He took a tight grip on his staff, vowing to not allow her to push him into doing or saying anything he would later regret. They needed to get going. He would head into town—hours later than he had planned—and look for clues for finding Rafe’s murderer. His disguise in plain sight would not last long. Soon the authorities would be after him.

He tamped down the surge of rage at the unfairness he had suffered. Of how the scars on his legs still burned.

Gwyneth walked slightly behind him, and he could only see her out of the corner of his eye, but it didn’t help. He could hear the way her hips swayed within her dress.

She distracted him as no woman ever had done. His thoughts strayed all too often to her legs or her neck or her hair.

It would be good to remember the traitorous nature of women—of how they pretended one thing while planning another—just as she had with her kiss. He had already told her too much and if she put the pieces together, she would turn him in herself.

Aeliana rode on his shoulder, his skin protected by the leather padding he always wore, and he carried the bag with the bird’s prey inside.

He dropped the day’s kill off at the kitchens. A flurry of excitement by the cook and servants set pots banging and fires burning. He found a young lad to take Aeliana, grabbed a white linen cloth from a peg, then headed back out to the bailey.

“Where are we going?” Gwyneth asked as they walked under the portcullis and onto the road away from the keep.

For his own peace of mind and to keep himself from blathering out any more about himself, he considered taking back his approval for her to speak. He blew out a breath. She had given him no reason to do so and the thought bit into his sense of fairness.

“To the village,” he said, knowing it would not truly answer her question.

He handed her the cloth. “I wish you to wear this.”

“This?” She unfolded the linen, her brows drawing together.

“To cover your hair while we travel.” Avoiding all public attention would be best. The hurly-burly with the brank had shown what a spectacle a beautiful woman like Gwyneth was to the townspeople.

“Oh.” A keen look lit in her eyes. “Should I have retrieved my basket? Some spices for the meat would make the stew taste better. Perhaps we could stop at the—”

“Nay.”

Her look of anticipation dropped away. “As you wish, my lord.” She folded the linen deftly and tied it around her head like a scarf, completely covering her treasure of silver-gold hair.

Her outright acceptance of his decision irritated him even more than if she had verbally sparred with him.

He slid a sideways glance her direction, taking in the soft creaminess of her skin, the blue of her eyes, the pink bow of her mouth. She was a manipulative siren, not a compliant, congenial helpmate. For her to pretend to be interested in something as mundane and housewifery as spices for the kitchen made him suspicious. Undoubtedly, she wished to purchase herbs that would render a man dead, not make him a tasty meal.

Mayhap he should lock her in a tower or send her to a nunnery instead of keeping her by his side all the day long. That is, of a certain, what an intelligent man would do.

He gave her a harsh look. She smiled sweetly in return, looking like a misunderstood angel in her white linen hair cloth and modest attire. Blast it all. ‘Twould be better if she dressed like the vixen that she was.

A cart loaded with turnips rumbled down the cobbled street toward them. It slowed as it passed; the jaws of the two men in the front dropped as they took note of Gwyneth.

“'allo, there, lovely lady—”

Not attention already!

Jared stiffened, and he gave them both fierce glares until they sped up again.

He reached to adjust her scarf so that more of her forehead was covered.

She blinked and pulled slightly back when his hands touched her face. “What are you—”

“Shush.”

A line formed betwixt her brows, but she did not finish her question or fight him as he tucked a wayward strand of hair beneath her covering. Perhaps he should insist she mask her face as well. He could not very easily ask covert questions about Rafe with everyone staring at his wife.

“Do not speak with any other men,” he instructed.

“I didn’t!”

“I do not want you causing another public hurly-burly.”

“I wasn’t! You were the one who—”

“I do not want men challenging my rights as your lord.”

“They weren’t!”

He glowered at her.

“I had naught to do with the men looking at me.”

“Do not dress in ways that attract attention.”

She glanced down at her plain kirtle and blinked a few times.

“The lady of the keep should dress in a respectable manner so that men do not leer at her.”

She laid a hand gently on his shoulder and looked up at him. Her blue eyes were guileless. Likely she had practiced for hours to be able to give just that look to a man. “If you dislike my clothing, my lord, I will wear whatever pleases you.”

Why was she being so bloody congenial? He knew she was doing it apurpose. Likely to drive him daft. Or get him to trust her so that she could get away with murder.

He shrugged her hand away.

“Which of my garments displeases you? I will have the maids burn it when we return to the keep.”

He looked her up and down. Her plain dress elegantly swept her curves.

“Is it the brown kirtle?”

“Nay!”

“The yellow shift?”

“Nay!”

“My wimple?”

“Nay!”

“Then?”

Her clothing was perfectly respectable. Modest. Plain, even. Furthermore, except for one sapphire ring, she wore no jewelry nor any kohl or rouge as the harlots or the ladies of the queen’s court were inclined to do. Her natural brilliance set her apart from other women, not any outlandish behavior on her part.

His ravings about her clothing were unfair even to his own ears.

“What you are wearing is acceptable,” he groused and marched farther down the street, picking up the pace for both of them.

“As you wish, my lord.”

As you wish, my lord.
Why did the woman have to be so bloody vexing! “Do not pretend softness when you feel none for me,” he growled.

She lowered her eyes and bowed her head. “Aye, my lord.”

He huffed. Why did she not snap at him? Of a truth, her prickliness had been easier to deal with than her submissiveness. When she was fighting him, he could justify himself, but he had no weapons against a woman being soft and adaptable. Even Aeliana seemed to welcome Gwyneth’s presence this morning. Traitorous bird.

Shops lined the streets and a flurry of motion went on around them. Children ran back and forth kicking sticks. Vendors plied their wares in the streets, pushing carts and holding up everything from cooking pots to embroidered sleeves. Several men gazed at Gwyneth, but Jared grasped her arm and none called out to her.

He rubbed his thigh, feeling the bumpy scar that ran from his knee to his groin. If he was recognized, he would be thrown back into prison. Bloody nuisance to have a beautiful wife who attracted attention just by walking down the path.

He pulled his hood up so that his face was in shadows and felt a surge of outrage. He was innocent, by God! He should not have to hide while the killer was free to roam.

She looked at one shop longingly, but Jared shook his head and pulled her forward through the crowded street.

He needed to stop thinking about his wife and find out what the man knew about his brother’s boots.

But even now he could feel the skin of her lips on his. His groin tightened as the taste of the sweet nectar of her mouth lingered unbidden in his mind. If he thought he could trust her to not gather poisonous plants or rally every man on the grounds into taking up arms against him, he’d send her back to the keep to do something, anything besides keeping her tightly by his side. ‘Twas excruciating.

“Hey! Hey, pretty girl! Look at me, pretty girl!” a street performer called to her as he did a handstand. “Leave your lord and be my bride, pretty girl. I’ll stand on my head for you.”

Even knowing the man’s contemptible and outrageous speech was just part of his act, Jared latched on to Gwyneth’s upper arm and marched her past him like a prisoner.