Ronan's Bride (3 page)

“‘Tis an honor, sir. I have admired you and your brother from childhood. My father and I witnessed two of your tourneys.”

“Your father, does he live?”

“No milord.” The boy looked away. “He was killed in a brawl when one of the armies passed through. He owned the Tavern and attempted to break up a scuffle.”

“Your mother?”

The boy shrugged.

Ronan left it at that. “When the kitchens are in order, bring me wine and some sustenance.”

“Yes, milord.”

The other lads had left and were apparently bringing up the possessions and trunks belonging to Sefare. The main solar bedchamber also opened into the hallway. Lads passed by, lugging all that those knights of Sefare’s had kept protected for her.

Daykin finally was able to leave.

Ronan turned and reached for the spigot. Shutting off the tap, through a trickle persisted. He stripped down until every inch of his large hewn frame was exposed. Nevertheless, he did not look at it as he got in the tub. Unbinding his long hair first, he still made sure he was turned from light and any doors as he removed his mask.

He soaped and washed the thick mane first, then roughly scrubbed his body. Washing his face, his fingers went from his brow and down the scars over the side. For a moment, his hands went down, lax in the water, and he stared at the murky soap lined surface, glad there was nothing reflecting back at him.

Thumps and thuds could be heard in the bedchamber across. The trickle from the spout and muffled noise from outside, persisted. Though even the rough interior of the old castle was softened by candles he had lit, his battle hardened body scarcely registered the coldness of the water he sat in.

Ronan seldom thought of it as, body, muscle and bone, instead it was part of the weapon and armor of Ronan. He could not afford to think of it in that manner.

The firmly ridged muscles in his stomach and abdomen tightened. His built narrower there, before the wide span of chest and back muscle. Ronan lifted only his fingers from the milky water—eyeing the dark hue, calluses mingled with the scars that many knights had, and those from the events surrounding his family’s death, his and Pagan’s capture, torture, and years in the tower.

Next, he had a mental picture of the woman he had privately watched arrive at Dunnewicke, and eyed up close only when confronted with her before and during the wedding vows. She had been gowned in long sleeved purple velvet, with silver encrusted neckline, and silver in the low belt on her hips. That day her hair was half-piled white blond curls, caught in a crownlet of silver and azure gems, that matched her eyes. He had registered her small stature and milk white skin, the light hue of her eyes, whilst noting that hair flowed to her trim waist in a fall of curls.

In the light, even next to a honey tone of Illara, who was gold and red hues of sun, Sefare had been silvery and white—bright as a star in the heavens. Her slim nose, pale pink lips and overall loveliness had evoked such a feeling of longing in Ronan that his guts twisted. It reminded him of what he was so swiftly, that he had growled at her, hated her, for a moment, because she personified all he could not have.

Her flinching from him was a reminder, if nothing else had been.

A knock on the chamber door jerked Ronan out of his thoughts, but not his dark mood. Thinking it Daykin with his wine, he barked, “Enter.”

“This was placed by the door, and as I had need to speak wi—“

The moment he heard Sefare’s voice, Ronan had turned his head and covered his face with his hands, his long mane sliding forward. Behind that, he bellowed loud enough to shake the windows, “Get out! Get out!”

There was a rattle and then a thunk, a scurrying sound, before the door slammed closed. Enraged, Ronan rose from the water, stepping out and jerking up the toweling. While he wrapped it around his hips, the door flung wide again and a wide-eyed Daykin skidded through it.

“My Lord—?”

Turning his head away, still enraged. Ronan snarled, “You are to stand watch at that door whenever I bathe or sleep! Never, let anyone pass inside, nor pass yourself, unless I summon you by name. Is that clear!”

At the end of that roar, Daykin choked, “Aye, My Lord. Clear. I pledge, milord.”

Growling curses, vibrating with fury, Ronan hissed, “Then be about it!”

The door slammed again.

Swiftly Ronan began to dress, yanking on the shirt, pulling the ties. His breeches were next, doing the leather laces, tucking the linen shirt in, and then sitting to don his boots. Fingers actually trembling, his breath pushing out as if he’d ran miles, Ronan got them on, cross tied, and stood to don his fingerless gloves.

Still cursing, still rattling the room and rumbling with the foulest words he could summon, he jerked the comb through his wet mane, secured it at the base of his head, twisted the length rope like, and tied it off.

He donned the softer mask, a supple leather one that covered him from forehead to jaw, the space cut out U shape for his mouth and having strips to bridge across his nose. Yanking the buckles tight at the back of his head, he then pulled on the light gray cloak, his arms through the sleeves, and the cowl drawn up. Ronan strode across the distance, threw the bar from the door so hard it cracked against the stone wall—and hit the oak surface with his palm, causing the door to open so swiftly, the echo of it meeting the wall ricochet through the castle.

At first he did not see her, in order to aim his rage in the direction he intended to. His gaze took in the massive curtained bed near the fireplace, a series of arched windows with green glass round the room, seats beneath them. There were screens here and there, chair, bench, small table, and a fire was laid. It lit on three long rolled up Turkish carpets and several bales of fur, piles of cloth bolts, and items he could not begin to discern. The trunks were scattered about, lids back, two of which seemed to overflow with jewels, pearls, silver and gold cups, plates and chains, all manner of sparkling riches.

“Speak!” He barked, his eyes at last narrowing on a figure seated on the window seat amid another pile. Her back was to him and he could see her knees bent, feet under her gown, and her arms around herself.

“I had need to ask, My Lord—Sir…ah…”

“Ronan,” he growled, making out her shorn hair, that her head was slightly bowed.

“Ronan, I meant to enquire, if you were… keeping me?”

Keeping her?

For a moment, the meaning of that escaped him, and it stole his anger enough time for her to add, “As wife, that is.”

Ronan’s hands curled into fists at his sides while his gaze bore into that mop of curls.

“— and if we shall dwell here, long?”

Grunting on a half growl, he uttered, “This is no home to grow comfortable in, My Lady. ‘Tis a defense against any attack and a determent should your dead husband’s family not be satisfied that you are no longer their concern. We will reside here, until my messenger brings word that your late husband’s uncle is satisfied.”

“Then, where will we live?”

”I know not,” he snarled. “But wherever it be, let me make one thing plain. You will not come near me unless summoned!”

Her back stiffened. He watched her head rise as if she now stared across the room. Even though his words seemed harsh, even to himself in the silence that hung next, he saw her arms unfold and witnessed her rising, before she walked slowly toward the far window. Her small frame was now silhouetted from the lowering of the sun. Hands at her sides, fists curled, much like his own were, it still cast its rays over her white blond head and seemed to mock him from afar, particularly when she braced herself and lifted her chin.

Her voice was not trembling, but simply the soft tones of before as she offered, “I shall run the household as is my duty for the duration then. I should not wish you to think me unmindful of what your selfless kindness has brought upon you. I understand from your Page, that there was victory at Dunnewicke, and when you could have lived in peace—”

“There is never peace,” he grit.

“Aye, not for most, there is not.” Her shoulder moved as if she shrugged, and went on, “I shall be the least burden to you as I am able. Moreover, I beg your pardon for my thoughtless intrusion before. It was not insensitivity, but rather that having waited, I was not certain if the promise I made you in the chapel—that you may send me from you, was your desire, or that my bargain, should you stay wed, that I would full fill duties…”

When those words trailed off, his nostrils flared. Ronan was too angry still to wonder if it was because of his appearance, or what the knights’ had told him of her husband, that made the word duty appear to mean, within limits—in her speech.

He retorted, “The people I have engaged for the time being will need direction. My men will hunt, guard, and scout, and be on alert for both of our enemies. But other than staying out of my way, and using common sense not to put yourself in danger, I expect no duty from you.”

She turned, slow enough for him to have left the room should he desire. However, since he was cloaked and masked, he simply stood as he was and watched until she faced him across the distance.

It was no less difficult to eye her womanly figure in the form-fitting gown, petite as it was, and no less hard to ignore her light eyes finding his in the mask. Nor, to note the symmetry of her face, those pink lips that looked dewy from her having laved them.

She asked unexpectedly “Did Illara really don armor and ride in the melee?”

“Aye.”

Her smile transformed her face in painfully beautiful ways. She murmured, “We used to dream of that, when Lord John was alive. I think he would be proud… of her, at least.”

Her smile faded, and as it did, it gave Ronan insight that from the time he had met her, she was masked with her own protective façade. No doubt, to endure her life before.

Before he could soften however, he merely added, “She is with child.”

White teeth sank into those pink lips, and the merest hint of tears shone in her eyes before she looked away a moment. “I’m glad she’s to be blessed. I am happy for her, beyond words.”

Silence stretched until she turned to look again at him. And, had cleared her expression. “There are spices and such I brought with me, which will enhance the meals here. Am I to expect you to dine with me at the Lord’s Table, or would you prefer—”

“I will dine at it when time and work allows.”

“Of course,” she returned at his cutting off her speech. Then, “This is at your disposal.” Her hand swept over the trunks and bales, “To partake as you have need or want. I had more, precious books and delicate vials of scent, all manner of luxuries, before the Count bestowed them upon his sisters. However, ‘tis riches enough, and truthfully, without meaning compared to freedom. I took it not because I priced freedom below it, but rather that my parents dowered it to me—in better faith than my dead husband returned.”

Her gaze went to a trunk as yet not opened. “That one, holds those things more precious.”

Ronan waited until she looked at him again. “I have ten times that, even after paying fines and bribes.”

She smiled poorly. “Your pardon then. T’was a paltry offer by comparison, but only meant in the spirit of my gratefulness to you.”

Feeling the bastard for having said that, he returned, “A knight does not require much, save to bribe, ransom or pay his scutage, but when my men leave my service or wish to raise themselves, ‘tis my duty to award them according to service with fife or something of worth. ‘Tis not goods I prized, but the manner and from whom I obtained them—that gave me satisfaction. Your treasure is more personal, and that motivated my answer.”

Her head ducked slightly. “A thoughtful consideration, My Lord.”

Somewhere in the lower castle, there was dragging and sounds of the main servants, booted feet running, and a clang of something falling to the floor unfolded. Ronan was aware of his empty belly, and food growing cold in the next room.

His gaze unchecked went to the high, large bed, before going back to her. His stomach as tight as it had been in the bath. “My meal grows cold.” He turned and headed through the door.

Her voice reached him as she had apparently come forth to close the door he had slammed open, “Thank you, Ronan of Duhamel…for keeping me.”

Ronan swallowed thickly, standing still while the door closed much softer in its slot. He watched sparks wisp up from the fire and cursed himself for his weaknesses.

He had not meant to keep her, and had said as much to Ualtar.

Chapter Three

Sefare introduced a drink called Kava to the population in the castle, though most of the men who had seen the Holy land knew of the pungent qahwa, wine of the bean. The drink was her one request upon wakening, and after they broke evening fast. Mixed with thick cream, it was brewed in an elaborate pot that had been among her things, along with a grinder.

As soon as possible, she began acquainting herself with the staff inside the castle, finding them knowledgeable, hardworking, and able to adapt to the ancient kitchen—which was connected to the main castle only via an arched hall. There were seven females and ten males inside, of mature age, and many young lads from eight to upper teens who did all manner of work.