His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (10 page)

Aric opened the cottage door for Nellwyn and hustled her inside.

Inside, Gwenyth rose to greet her cousin before he closed the door on them. And though he knew ’twas unfair, he sat beneath the eaves and listened, somehow vaguely concerned for Gwenyth.

“Nellwyn, I am surprised! Why are you not in London?”

“Those were our plans, but now I have the most wonderful news for you! Once I remembered you were but a short ride away, I rushed here to tell you!”

“What? Tell me.”

Aric grimaced at the excitement in Gwenyth’s voice. Did she still want to return to Penhurst, where her uncle treated her so ill? Did she believe that would change? Nay, and any good news Nellwyn brought Gwenyth ’twas, he feared, likely to be bad tidings for his wife.

“Well, the morn we meant to leave for London, my father rushed outside to stop us and insisted we celebrate. ‘Celebrate what?’ I asked, but he would not answer. When I dashed back into the keep—as much as this active babe allows me to dash—I found our little Lyssa smiling so brightly I thought ’twould blind me.”

“Lyssa?”

Hearing the confusion in Gwenyth’s voice, Aric swore. Clearly, she believed this overlong tale had something to do with her return to Penhurst.

“Aye, you silly goose. Lyssa! Oh, and now I shall cry, I am certain. Each time I think upon it—why, I am so happy I feel tears. And I should
not
cry, because Sir Rankin does tease me so mercilessly about my red nose when I do.”

“Lyssa makes you cry?” Impatience sounded in Gwenyth’s voice.

“Of course! ’Tis all we hoped for her. My sister is quite happy, and I daresay father is, as well. Mother is already planning—”

“Planning what?” his wife prodded.

“Oh, how foolish of me. Lyssa and Sir Penley are to be wed—and in London, no less!”

Even from outside, Aric felt Gwenyth’s silent shock deep in his bones. She had set her cap for the fop Sir Penley, hoping he would give her the kind of life her cousin Nellwyn led. Now she truly had nowhere to belong, except by his own side. While a part of him reveled in that fact for a reason he could not explain, another part felt guilt. To keep his sanity intact, he could never tell her of his past, of the family, wealth, and power he’d left behind, though ’twas her heart’s desire.

“Wonderful.” Gwenyth’s voice shook. “Wh-when?”

“Since the king has already sanctioned the match, I should think no later than St. Swithin’s Day. What troubles you, cousin? I should think you would be happy for my sister.”

Gwenyth paused. Aric could almost feel her gathering her resolve. “I wish her nothing but joy. ’Tis simply that I feel unwell today.”

A lie, Aric knew. Gwenyth had felt fine enough this morn to sew nearly half a gown from the scarlet silk. Indeed, she sounded much troubled.

“Oh, unwell? Perhaps, then, I should be away. Sir Rankin is forever warning me about all manner of ill that could befall his son. And as he ever reminds me, I must heed a man so important and wise.”

Aric wanted to vomit. Never did the woman miss an opportunity to mention the consequences of her husband and family, paltry as it was. The wench had not even inquired after Gwenyth’s health.

“Indeed,” agreed Gwenyth.

As Aric heard steps approaching the door, he stood. Soon the two women emerged, Nellwyn wearing a proud smile. Gwenyth’s shaken demeanor made him bite back a curse.

The vicious bitch. How he would love to see Nellwyn’s face if she could know the cousin she considered lesser had wed into the Neville family.

But that would never come to pass, Aric vowed, this time with a tinge of regret.

Within moments, Nellwyn was away with a smile and a jaunty wave. Gwenyth stared after her cousin, her face drawn, her eyes listless and unsettled.

Once the pregnant woman and her soldier disappeared into the forest, Gwenyth turned to him. The eaves cast a gentle shadow on her otherwise unhappy face. Her lips pursed, her cheeks taut beneath her blazing deep blue eyes, she turned to the cottage, entered, and slammed the door behind her.

Aric thought to follow until one of her shoes came flying out the window.

“That miserable wretch!” she yelled as one of his boots soared out the window as well, narrowly missing him.

“Gwenyth?” he inquired, peeking in the window and hoping none of their footwear would find the side of his head.

“Sir Penley is naught but a paunchy milk-livered maggot!” Aric heard his cup strike the cottage wall and grimaced.

She was more than a trifle angry.

He made for the door and opened it. “Gwenyth…”

“I have a very important question to ask you.” She imitated a man’s voice he could only assume was intended to be Sir Penley’s. “I wonder now what that spleeny idle-headed miscreant sought to ask. How best to earn my contempt for eternity?”

She picked up a pitcher of water from beside the little table he had recently repaired and sent it sailing into the wall. It crashed with a great clatter. Soon the pungent stench of wet thatch filled the room. Aric had known for some time his bride was a firebrand. Today, she showed it beyond his expectations.

“‘I shall count the moments.’” She again aped Sir Penley. “No doubt the whey-faced fool-licker counted the moments until I was well and truly gone so he could ask for my cousin’s hand in marriage.” She stomped her feet in fury. “I hope the match brings him—all of them—naught but misery!”

Gwenyth whirled and reached for the table itself, then lifted it above her head. Aric stepped in front of her and jerked the table from her grasp.

“Enough, Gwenyth. Penley is a coxcomb, and you are better off without him.”

The laugh she gave him lay somewhere between contemptuous and hysterical. “Aye, ’tis better off I am here, where I shall meet no one, go nowhere, and have no home or servants of my own.”

“This is your home,” he reminded her. Would the wench never accept that fact?

“All this? A woman could scarcely hope for more.” She flung her arms wide, gesturing to the four walls about them.

Aric found his ire rising. Her continued insults of the home he had built for solace and shelter irked him nearly beyond words. Why had fate not blessed him with a less clamorous wife? And why did she continue to refuse to accept the fact they were man and wife in all ways except one?

He planned to change that soon.

“Stop this foolish chatter—”

“You.” She turned narrowed eyes upon him. “The fault lies with you, as well. You could have refused to wed me.”

“I should have let them murder you at my feet?”

“You should have insisted returning me to Penhurst and wedding me to Sir Penley would appease you enough to make rain.”

“Gwenyth, that is utter witlessness.”

“So now you call me witless? And why not? ’Twould seem I am everyone’s whipping boy today. Of course you should join the others in their unkindness.”

Aric had heard enough. The wench had insulted him with her words before. Likening him to Sir Penley and her family was enough to send his temper upward.

“When was I unkind to you, my lady?”

He advanced on her. Her hands on her hips, she squared her shoulders and stood directly in his path.

“Was I unkind to you when I wed you, rather than see you dead?” he asked, his silent steps taking him ever closer to her challenging glare.

“Was I unkind when I gave up my bed for your comfort? Or when I danced with you?”

Gwenyth only glared at him, and somehow that made him angrier. As he reached her, he clasped his hands about her shoulders.

“Have you nothing to say to your husband?” he goaded.

“Piss off!” she shot back, tossing her black hair.

Aric restrained his anger—barely. “I think not. Here we will stay until you remember ’tis who you spoke vows with, until you forget that weakling Sir Penley and accept me.”

“Be prepared to wait until old age sets in.”

“I think not.” He jerked her close, then cupped her jaw with his hands. “I think you shall start now.”

He sought and covered her lips with his own. Her damp mouth met his with a catch of breath, a parting of lips. Aric pressed his advantage with the reckless urging of his tongue against her own.

She tasted better than he remembered, like purity and wine, sunshine and vivid red passion. And he wanted her, every smoldering, temperamental, provocative inch of her. A fierce, ravenous hunger seized him, plunging him into a primitive impulse to possess.

Her tongue began to mate with his, uncertainly at first. Aric spurred her closer, against his rising arousal, and stroked her mouth again. Gwenyth responded in a rush, nipping with her teeth, her lips answering his pursuit until their kisses melded in a demanding union. She moaned, inching up on the tips of her toes to meet him.

Burying his fingers in the thick silk of her dark hair, Aric again positioned her lush mouth beneath his own, then angled his head to reap her warm taste to the fullest. Need gripped him with such force he hardly remembered wanting so keenly. He fed himself on her sweet lips, his pleasure spiraling as he locked her within his arms, a tempest of desire raging.

He had to taste her skin. The craving surged within him, possessed him. Aric lifted his mouth from hers and laved her neck with kisses in a blind haze of need. Gwenyth gasped when his teeth found her earlobe and drew it into his mouth for a teasing pull.

As his appetite for her inciting mouth returned, Aric reached for her again. He found naught but air.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. His wife stood across the room, her chest heaving, her eyes fearful and accusing at once.

“I did not tell you to touch me,” she whispered.

Her stricken expression told Aric his kiss, given in anger, had been a tactical mistake, for it had done little except raise her guard again. Gritting his teeth, he called, “Gwenyth—”

“Nay! Say nothing. Why keep me here? Make rain and let me be.”

“We have discussed this. You have nowhere to go. We have spoken vows. I am sorry that displeases you, but it changes naught, Gwenyth.
I
can change naught. Sir Penley will wed Lady Lyssa and make her a miserable husband. Lady Nellwyn will continue to flaunt her good fortune at every opportunity. But know this: Lyssa will soon seek lovers, and Nellwyn will someday learn of her husband’s bad nature.

“Do you not see your life could be worse? I have not beaten you, demanded hard labor, or pressed my rights as a husband to share your bed. I have done my best to see to your comfort. Hell, I have even cooked for you! If you can find nothing good in any of that, you are a foolish woman indeed.”

CHAPTER SIX

Gwenyth sat upon the hill behind Aric’s cottage, watching the sun set and the stars rise. The moon appeared, glowing with the brilliance of a hundred candles. Cool wind struck her face, bringing with it the scents of grass and wildflowers, of fresh leaves and the nearby forest.

She cared for none of nature’s beauty now.

For hours, Gwenyth had been sitting, thinking of all Aric had said earlier. She came to the ugly, unfortunate conclusion he was right. She had nowhere to go now that Sir Penley had asked Lyssa to wife. Gwenyth also could not deny she and Aric had spoken vows. As for Lyssa’s soon seeking lovers and Nellwyn’s discovering some terrible nature of Sir Rankin’s, Gwenyth could only hope Aric was wrong. Though she envied her cousins, she did want them happy and well settled with the best of men, despite what she might have said in anger.

The rest of Aric’s angry speech could not be denied, either. He could indeed have been much harder on her, raping her to obtain his husbandly rights, beating her for her lamentable lack of cooking skills. Certainly she had fared well during her teary times. Bardrick had always laughed scornfully at a woman’s tears. Aric, at least, had understood—aye, even been gentle.

In truth, everything about the man this far had pleased her—except his lack of concern about security and future. And though she did not seek money for itself, she wanted to reclaim her position as a lady. She wanted the kind of life her cousins led, the life that would have been hers had her parents not perished. And she wanted family, secure in both love and home. Raising babes in a dirt cottage, with seemingly few funds and a father giving no thought to the future, was unthinkable.

Of a sudden, Gwenyth heard footsteps behind her, firm and heavy and unhurried. Aric. She was not surprised when he sat beside her, his knees bent and spread wide, and began plucking at the green grass between his feet.

“You have been gone a long time, Gwenyth. Night has fallen, and you have not supped.”

Was he concerned about her, or merely seeing after what he regarded as his? “I do not hunger.”

He nodded, then gazed up at the moon. “Nellwyn upset you.”

Pausing, Gwenyth considered his words. “Nay, just her news. Until this morn, I believed for years Uncle Bardrick would see me well wed to a good, kind knight or baron and restored to my rank as a lady, despite the fact he treated me as a servant more oft than not. I am his only niece.”

“Your beauty was at odds with his ambitions for his very plain daughters, so he wed you away. Can you not see he banished you not out of spite but fear?”

“Nellwyn and Lyssa are not plain,” Gwenyth defended. “Besides, you have not seen Lyssa.”

Aric sent her a skeptical stare, visible in the golden moonlight. “Aye, little dragon, Nellwyn is plain, and if her sister looks anything like her, neither has much hope of ensnaring a man with her charms whilst you are about.”

Gwenyth frowned at him, determined not to be swayed by his praise. “Do you insult my cousins in one breath and flatter me in the next?”

“I but speak the truth. Nellwyn knows she possesses not one tenth of your beauty. ’Tis why she comes to torment you with her good fortune.”

Gwenyth regarded him with outrage. “What rot! She alone has been kind to me in the years since my parents died.”

“Kind for her own purposes. Besides, Nellwyn’s chattering mouth alone could drive a man to flee his castle and country. ’Tis no wonder Sir Rankin has so many lemans.”

“How would you know such?” Gwenyth stared at Aric, uncertainty spilling within her. He had spoken before as if he knew Sir Rankin. Certainly he claimed to know Sir Penley. Who was Aric? Who had he been in the past?