His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (15 page)

“You are he?” Gwenyth had heard of this brave warrior, his prowess and cunning, his strength and bravery. All of England had.

“I am.”

Though Aric’s tone was not welcoming, Gwenyth pressed on, nearly unable to comprehend all he said. Until a new realization dawned…

“Your recently departed cousin Anne—you mean the queen of England!”

He grimaced. “I do.”

“And the Richard who has summoned you?
King
Richard?”

After a brief hesitation, he gave in. “Aye.”

Gwenyth felt a sudden need to lie down, for her head seemed to spin. Her strong, sensual husband was an earl? Not a sorcerer but an intelligent man who could provide a secure future for her—indeed, in grand style? ’Twas near certain their children would never starve and that she would not worry about having a roof over their heads. Part of her rejoiced.

The rest of her was too furious to care!

“When, pray tell, had you planned on sharing this truth with me? Upon the birth of our first child?”

“Gwenyth.” He turned to her with an agitated scowl. “To have a first child, we would have to share a bed.”

That she ignored. “Or perhaps upon my deathbed. Aye, when I would no longer have the strength to care for Penhurst’s villagers’ rebuffs and Nellwyn’s bragging. When it would no longer matter who Sir Penley wed. Or perhaps not even then. Isn’t that right,
my lord
?” she sneered.

Aric looked away from her. Had she imagined the flash of guilt upon his face? She hoped not. She wanted the devious pox-ridden mongrel to suffer and rot!

“As I have told you more than once, I consider that part of my life over. I saw no reason before now to tell you of a life I planned never to return to. ’Twas not done to anger you but to help me find peace.”

“Peace? What drivel is this? Warriors and earls know battle and leadership.”

“And that is why I left. I had experienced both war and power before. I wanted no more of either.”

“You
left
of your own will? Are you mad—or merely senseless?”

Aric blasted her with a warning glare from a face suddenly ruddy with emotion. She heeded it not.

Gwenyth tossed up her hands. “You planned to keep this all from me forever so I might never have a choice. So I would be forced to endure the life you wanted, never mind what my heard desired.”

“’Twas not my intent, little dragon.”

She grunted her disbelief. “You thought of me not at all and apparently never will.”

Before he could reply, Gwenyth set her mare at a gallop and left Aric behind, almost wishing it could be forever.

* * * *

Staring at her husband’s back as he swayed in the saddle with irritating grace, Gwenyth resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. She was weary and hot after four days of constant travel north, too much so to take careful note of the changing countryside. More, she was tired of Aric’s completely ignoring her, while Kieran chattered away about nothing important. She was afraid of what lay ahead.

Most of all, she was afraid of the reason she could not bring herself to hate Aric completely for his duplicity.

During the journey, Aric had said precious little else about his home, Northwell. In fact, the closer they drew, the less he said. Still, knowing ’twas home to a part of the great Neville family made the castle sound grand indeed. But part of Gwenyth wondered if Aric would continue to withdraw as they drew closer to his past. Would they ever recapture the closeness they had shared at the cottage that had so warmed her heart? Would he ever want to touch her again, as she still longed to feel him?

The fact he seemed wholly disinterested in both made her heart ache and her fears multiply. She had every reason to be angry with
him
, so why was he not speaking to
her
?

“Spring has never been so lovely,” Kieran said as he rode up beside her. “Do you not agree?”

She shot him a withering stare. “If I could but rest for a moment to enjoy it, I might.”

Kieran laughed. “Do you always speak your mind so plainly?”

Before Gwenyth could reply, Aric did so as he rode ahead of them. “Always.”

Scowling at Aric’s back, she declared, “I see no reason to behave as though I have not a thought or opinion of my own, even if others do.”

Aric stiffened. Without a glance in her direction, he rode ahead, Dog following obediently, leaving her to Kieran’s dubious mercy.

“’Tis certain you are in no danger of that, good lady,” Kieran returned, gently teasing.

Gwenyth leaned toward him on her saddle. “What of you? Do you see any reason to submit to silence when your thought might be of import?”

With a considering stare, Kieran appeared to mull over her question before he finally shook his head. “I suppose not.”

“Unlike our friend”—she gestured toward Aric, riding much ahead of them now—“you see the need to voice your opinions and hear those of others. A more pig-brained, mulish varlet I have yet to meet.”

Kieran shook his head, wearing an amused grimace. “Well, no one ever said wedded life was naught but bliss.”

She snorted. “A husband would, at least, have to speak to his wife to have a blissful marriage.”

“True enough,” Kieran admitted, then hesitated, his smile fading. “But Aric… He has had much disappointment of late. I gather your sudden marriage was not a simple one.”

Truer words had ne’er been spoken. She stated the obvious anyway. “’Twould appear that is no secret.”

Shrugging, Kieran went on. “There is much of Aric you do not know—”

“Because he does not tell me.”

“Aye, but he would be agreeable to any kindness you can give him. Honestly.”

Though the anger in her wanted to fling the words back in his face, her curiosity wanted more information. “This difficulty you speak of… Is that why he chose to leave a home of such importance and exaltation?”

He responded with a stare that held restraint and chiding at once. “That truth must be borne between you two.”

From that, Gwenyth feared Kieran’s revelations, slight as they were, had ended—unless she could think of another manner to promote his unwitting confidences.

“Of course,” she assured him. “And someday soon, I hope Aric will tell me all.” Gwenyth smiled brightly, nearly certain that day would never come. “Until them, tell me of you. Do you hail from the north of England as well?”

“Nay, good lady. I spent my young years in Ireland learnin’ to be a scamp and a rogue.” He dipped into a brogue, but the smile she expected never came. Pain flashed across his features, then disappeared. “After eight summers, my mother brought me to the Earl of Rothgate and bid the good man to train me as a knight.”

“For whom do you fight?”

“For whomever offers the most exciting battle.” A glowing grin punctuated his strange reply.

Battle, exciting?

“Sir, I do not understand. In what way does battle excite you?”

Kieran looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “In every way. A man must keep his wits about him during the whirl of activity. It requires strength and speed. Each battle seems to test a knight more than the last. The heady rush of emotion and fervor—”

“And you enjoy this?” She frowned, uncomprehending.

“Aye. Nothing like the freedom and discipline combined to set a man’s heart soaring.”

A man’s heart soaring?
Gwenyth bit her lip as a terrible thought occurred to her. “All men feel as you do?”

“Oh, nay. Yon husband there”—he gestured toward Aric, still riding ahead—“would now rather spend his time engaged in other activities. He battles well, better than most every man in England, and once, he seemed to enjoy the fight.” Kieran paused as if seeking an answer. He shrugged. “But no more.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Gwenyth asked, “Did you meet Aric while aiding him to wage war on his enemies?”

“Such imagination,” he teased. “Nay, Aric and I, along with Drake, trained together as knights with the Earl of Rothgate. We’ve been close, like brothers, since.”

“Is that why he will leave his solitude so he might help Drake?”

Kieran lifted a shoulder in response. “Again, you shall have to ask him.”

Gwenyth wanted to tell Kieran he was proving to be of little help in her quest for information, but she knew that was his purpose. Still, it did not stop her frustration from climbing.

She chose another topic. “Who else lives at his castle?”

After a pause, Kieran supplied, “His brother, Stephen. And his…stepmother, Rowena.”

“He told me once he and Stephen have little in common.”

Kieran’s blue eyes flashed with surprise. “Indeed. Stephen is a fool. Young. He has much to learn, though he sees this not.”

“And Rowena? Are she and Aric civil to one another?”

“At times.”

Gwenyth nodded. Such made sense. The woman who had sought to take his mother’s place would not be welcomed, particularly since his parents had loved so well.

Had her father wed again after her mother’s terrible death, it would have angered her more like than not.

When she turned to say such to Kieran, he looked as though he wanted to say something more, then decided against it. She clenched her fists in frustration as he said, “That is enough for now. Since you believe Aric must talk to you to make your marriage one of bliss, I should think you might spend your time asking
him
questions, rather than me.”

With a mocking nod, he urged his mount forward to Aric’s side.

* * * *

After a fortnight’s journey, the familiar walls of Northwell came into view, jutting up from the edge of a windswept cliff. The castle sprawled across a strip of land, seeming to defy the mighty sea directly at its back while lording over the village below. Twilight bathed the massive towers and outer walls in a vivid orange, flushing the stones with soft color. Flags with the Neville coat of arms, held stiff by the breeze, flew from the east and west turret towers.

At the sight of his ancestral home, Aric waited for pride or gladness. Instead, he felt nothing except a pang of dread. He had never meant to return to this world where fathers betrayed sons, where greed usurped goodness, where a man killed his young nephews and seized the crown for himself—and no one stopped him.

For the dozenth time in nearly as many days, Aric asked himself why he had come. His answer was always the same: Drake. For the man who was more like a brother, Aric would see his blood oath upheld, would walk through wind, rain, fire. Drake would do no less for him.

At his side, Aric caught sight of Gwenyth. Her bowed pink mouth hung open in awe as she stared at Northwell. She would be happy here. The people would come to like and respect her forthright manner, despite the fact their first glimpse of their new mistress would be with windblown hair and a much-rumpled red silk dress.

That rapt look on her face shredded his gut. Aye, he wanted Gwenyth provided for, and somewhere in the past few weeks, her happiness had become absurdly important to him.

But, damnation, he did not want to be back at Northwell.

Within moments, he and Kieran and Gwenyth were spotted by sentries. A shout resounded before a small party met them at the gatehouse entrance. Dog growled in warning, and Aric stayed the mutt with a soothing whisper.

Apprehension biting into his stomach, Aric watched Stephen approach, looking as young and lanky as ever with his shaggy sandy hair and mischievous brown eyes. Rowena stood at his side, her hand upon his arm, slender, regal, ethereal as always, her smooth face unreadable. Reginald, the elderly steward, and Baswain, the rotund porter, stood abreast of Stephen and Rowena, who wore disapproving scowls, which Aric avoided.

In silence, Aric brought his horse to a halt, casting his gaze about the garrison. Naught within this part of the castle had changed. The soldiers standing about the lower bailey clutched mugs of ale and reveled in their laughter. They had grown round bellies in his absence. He scowled.

“Aric, you’ve returned!” said his brother. “’Tis good to see you again.”

“Stephen,” he greeted coolly, then turned to help Gwenyth dismount.

His brother seemed to notice nothing amiss in the indifferent greeting. Nor did Aric expect he would. ’Twas simply Stephen’s way.

“Sir Kieran,” he heard Stephen say next. “Good to see you, as well.”

His friend nodded. “Young Stephen. You’ve grown quite tall since I last saw you three…perhaps four years ago.”

As Aric turned with Gwenyth’s hand in his, he saw Stephen square his spindly shoulders and puff out his lean chest. “I am twenty years now.”

“My, that old? ’Tis certain such advanced age will bring on infirmity at any moment,” Kieran teased.

Stephen laughed. Then silence fell over the gathering. To Aric’s surprise, Rowena filled it.

“Sir Kieran,” she greeted, the breeze lifting the golden hair about her shoulders, “I trust all is well with you.”

“If I were any happier the king would surely grow suspicious.”

Her wan smile showed little appreciation for his friend’s humor. But then Rowena had never thought life something to laugh at. She had little appreciation for much beyond money and power. Her final act of betrayal had proven that.

“Aric,” she acknowledged, her cool, pale eyes assessing him.

Her gaze might have been avaricious or aloof. The woman’s expressions had ever been a mystery to him. Mayhap that explained why he so appreciated Gwenyth’s readable countenance. He never had to guess long to know what she thought, and she never hid from him.

His former betrothed was like a pond. The surface remained placid, but beneath the still, murky waters lay a life the mere observer could scarce comprehend. Gwenyth, on the other hand, was like the sea—stormy, ever-changing, rarely leaving one to guess what took place within her depths.

Suddenly, he felt very glad for their differences.

“Rowena.” He returned her greeting with even less warmth.

He had always suspected she would stay within the circle of his powerful family even after the death of her husband, Aric’s own father. To be proven correct, as evidenced by the fact she clung to his younger brother with a possessive air, only annoyed him more. Then he noted the way she was staring at Gwenyth, civil but not welcoming, with a hint of disdain thrown in.