The Christmas Knight (14 page)

“Your walkabout. I told him that you took one alone every afternoon somewheres around the lake, but that didn’t appease him at all. I’ve seen many a man angry in my life, but I can wait a spell before seeing it again from that one.”

“He didn’t hurt anyone, did he?”

“Hurt? The man didn’t yell, but that kind doesn’t have to in order to get his point across,” Constance said with a hint of warning as she started to spread the garments across Bronwyn’s bed. “I think it was our
lack
of concern that made him most upset. He was baffled that no one was with you or knew your exact whereabouts. Seems you made an impression on the new lord. Are you sure that’s wise?”

Bronwyn remained mum. Constance was too observant of human nature and she was already sniffing out the possibility that more had occurred than just nursing between her and Ranulf. Unfortunately, more had.

“Then again, maybe it’s the new lord who’s been making the impressions,” Constance prodded.

Bronwyn was immediately suspicious. She had never known Constance to be indirect when she had something to say. “Not really. He was unconscious nearly the whole time.”

“What about when you and he ate by the hearth? I was the one who picked up the tray,” Constance revealed, hinting of her level knowledge.

Probably volunteered just to snoop
, Bronwyn thought to herself as she let go a sigh. Out of everyone, Constance knew her longest and best in the world and therefore felt justified as a self-appointed guardian. There was no way she was going to just take a hint and let it drop. Sighing, Bronwyn dipped her shoulders down into the now lukewarm water one last time. “If you must know, he is unbelievably aggravating. He refused to eat in bed and even made me help him dress.”

There, that should keep Constance quiet.

“I guess if you take a man’s shirt off, you can help him put it back on,” Constance countered with a shrug.

“Did I forget to mention stubborn, aloof, and unsocial?”
And loyal, kind, and generous
, Bronwyn added to herself.

“You like him.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not the only one who thinks so. There was a lot of talk in the kitchens.”

Bronwyn stared at her toes pressing the cloth padding on the other end of the tub. She was losing the argument. “Go back to your cohorts and stop trying to see things that are not there. Trust me. The new lord doesn’t like secrets, and in case you and everyone else forgot, he thinks I’m Lily.”

“I didn’t and we’ve been keeping your secret. And in case
you
forgot, deceit is not something that you’re very good at,” Constance huffed. Gathering Bronwyn’s soiled gown to take down to the laundress, she pointed at the garments she laid out on the bed. “That’s all there is for you to wear. The rest of your things went to Syndlear.”

“Thank you, Constance. Tell Ackart I said hello,” Bronwyn managed to get out just before the door closed.

She spied the door as she compelled her body to get up out of the water. Constance was a servant, but the woman considered her and her sisters as daughters, and if she felt her opinion had not been heard, she was not above barging back in and speaking her peace.

Bronwyn grabbed a nearby cloth and began to dab her body dry. Constance was right to worry. Her attraction to Ranulf had been instant. Even angry, pacing back and forth on top of the tower, his well-muscled body had moved with an easy grace, both effortless and assured. Then when he looked down, her heart had lurched. There was a lean dark presence to him that could be felt even at a distance. And yet, when the wind ruffled the short waves of his dark hair, it wasn’t authority and command she saw, but a man who knew what it was like to stand on the precipice of hell and survive. He was a kindred spirit.

Even when they argued, she had felt it. He was someone with whom she could be herself. But she hadn’t been prepared for the overwhelming need to physically touch and be touched by him. That she couldn’t explain. Never had a man affected her sensibilities, but to deny Ranulf could was naïve.

He entranced her. Hell, he simply had to look at her and she was captivated. And every encounter, every argument, every single thing that had happened between them seemed only to make her long for him more. She had only one choice. Lock herself away. She would stay in her room until dawn and then ride to Syndlear. In three days, Ranulf de Gunnar would be a problem no more.

Jerking the large cloth around her, Bronwyn shoved the end just over her left breast to keep it from falling. Smells were coming from the kitchens and she was hungry. If she was going to sneak down and get some food and drink before the crowd arrived, she would have to hurry.

Reaching over the tub to get her brush beside the empty basin of rose water, Bronwyn felt the sharp pain of exposed metal tearing flesh. Yanking her arm back, she examined the wound located on the soft inner flesh of her left upper forearm. To treat it meant calling for help and then people—more specifically her self-appointed overseer—would hover around her for the next few days. And the closer it got to Christmas, the less she needed to be watched.

To keep blood from dripping everywhere, she pressed her arm against the cloth wrapped around her body and looked for something to bandage the wound. Spying her mending bag sitting by the bed, she pulled out a long strip of fabric and bound the cut as best she could alone. It wasn’t great, but at least blood was no longer running down her arm.

She moved to get dressed and a wave of momentary apprehension swept through her as she realized what clothes Constance had laid out. The vibrant jeweled gown was made from a rich deep blue silk. Bolts of blue, green, and silver material had been sent by her father several months ago, soon after he arrived in the Byzantine-influenced Normandy. The pearl trim along the dark hem and sleeves was far from simple, but it didn’t qualify as ornate either. Coupled with a soft, somewhat sheer off-white chainse underneath, the ensemble was incredibly beautiful. And it was not hers.

Bronwyn felt trapped. She needed
her
clothes. She preferred them. Quiet unexciting colors enabled her to blend into the background. Lillabet liked to stand out and catch every man’s eye. Not her.

Bronwyn considered calling for Constance and demanding another gown, but immediately dismissed the idea. The meddlesome woman would see her arm and demand explanations. Then it occurred to Bronwyn that since she didn’t intend on seeing anyone, it really mattered very little as to what she put on.

Bronwyn fingered the elaborate, gathered sleeve of the cream-colored chainse and then slipped it over her head. Next, she donned the bliaut and secured the loose gold belt over her hips. With the gown’s low neckline and with the diaphanous nature of the chainse, Bronwyn felt a flash of wantonness surge through her and she wondered just what Ranulf would think or do if he saw her.

Vanquishing the thought, she grabbed her brush and sat down by the fire, repeating long hard strokes as her hair dried. She wouldn’t describe her wayward locks as curly, but the tight waves could create a wild look if she didn’t tame them through regular brushing.

A whiff of fresh-baked bread entered the room and Bronwyn’s stomach growled in response. Food for the evening’s meal was being brought into the Great Hall.

Bronwyn fingered her now barely damp locks and decided she didn’t have time to finish drying and styling them before everyone would arrive. Besides her arm hurt and braiding the heavy locks would only further aggravate the wound.

Bronwyn quickly yanked on her slippers and snuck down the back staircase leading into the Great Hall. Slowly, she nudged open the door and peeked inside.

Hunswick’s Great Hall would never be considered large, but Bronwyn couldn’t imagine one that was lovelier. To her immediate left were weapons attached in decorative patterns to the wall. Across from her at the other narrow end of the rectangular-shaped room were the buttery and a covered passage that connected the Hall directly to the kitchens. Along the long wall to her right were six arched-shaped stained glass windows and placed majestically in the middle of them were the main doors, carved by one of Hunswick’s own villagers. The old man had been unable to walk, but his ability with wood had been a rare gift.

Opposite the windows was an enormous hearth circled with six padded chairs that matched the two in the solar. She and her sisters used to sit in those chairs and talk for hours with her father and their friend, Lord Anscombe. For the past few months, the three on the right had remained empty, but despite their vacancy, everyone understood they were not to be removed.

Bronwyn glanced around. Usually only a few tables were set up in the Hall, but several more had been added using temporary trestles, no doubt to support the new lord and his men. The sky was not yet dark, but all the rushlights were lit, both those on wall brackets and those impaled on iron candelabras. But with the exception of a couple of servants going back and forth between the buttery and the kitchens to bring in food before everyone arrived, the Hall was empty.

Bronwyn slipped into the room and headed toward the first table, hoping the fare would not be as sparse as it had been last night. Regardless, she intended to take what she could and return immediately to her room.

She was just passing the hearth chairs when a hand snuck out and grasped her right arm. The grip was strong, firm, and while not painful, there was no give in the clasp. She knew without looking who it was, the one person she had both longed for and not wanted to see.

Was fate telling her something? Or was it just cruel?

She suspected the latter.

Ranulf had been slumped down in one of the hearth chairs, studying the flicker of the flames, when he heard the light squeak of a door opening. He had assumed it was Tyr who had earlier contrived a reason to leave the Hall due to Ranulf’s foul mood. Shifting just enough to verify his friend’s return, Ranulf instead had glimpsed the very person behind his agitation—Bronwyn.

His mood had been rotten since she had left him that morning, her departing comments haunting him.
I’ve been kissed before and will be again. My reasons for returning your embrace are far more interesting than that of just curiosity.
The comfounding declaration had gripped his thoughts, just as she had intended. Still he could not stop wondering, just what could those reasons be?

He had assumed Bronwyn hoped he would seek her out and ask just that, but when he finally had ventured out of his solar, he had learned she was gone! And no one knew where or when she would return. The whole castle was oblivious to her recent attack and therefore had no reason to interfere with her daily jaunts. And Bronwyn, he was learning, was extraordinarily stubborn, and was no doubt walking alone just to prove to herself that she could, despite the potential danger. He knew, because it would be something he would do.

Ranulf had been about to mount Pertinax and go find Bronwyn when he had been told of her return. So he had ventured into the Hall and waited for her to seek him out. And while he waited, he dealt with people, each who had mundane questions, most of which he could not answer. But not one villager had shied away from him. No one had looked at him strangely or even seemed to care in the slightest about his eye or his scars. Just like Bronwyn.

Though he would never admit it to anyone, he missed her.

His whole life, even before his accident, he had coveted his privacy. But for reasons he could not fathom, the entire day had felt incredibly lonely without her around. So when he saw Bronwyn step slowly into the Hall and glance around, looking beautiful, almost unearthly, so many emotions hit him at one time that he had sat frozen, staring, unable to move or speak.

She had bathed and was wearing a deep blue gown that obviously did not belong to her. Instead of loosely draping over her frame as did her other bliaut, this one hugged every curve of her body, hinting at the treasures beneath. It had been made for someone of her height, but of a slighter build. No doubt one of her sisters. Yet it was not the dress, but her hair, that truly captivated him. Falling off her shoulders in waves of dark gold, it framed her oval face and, if possible, made her storm-colored eyes seem even larger and more beautiful.

Ranulf sat riveted, unable to look anywhere else as a wave of possession hit him so hard that it almost caused him to jump up and order her back to her room, jealous that others might see and take pleasure in her beauty. He had never been one to share and he wasn’t about to share Bronwyn. Ever. She was his. She had been his since the moment she had kissed him, maybe since the moment she had first looked at him and did not look away.

Having sight with only his right eye created a large expanse of nothing to his left. Yet everything in his life—from fighting to just pouring a mug of ale—required him to respond as if he still could see with the precision of two eyes. It had been difficult to learn, but over the years, his other senses filled in many of the gaps. One of them was knowing exactly where something—or someone—was when they were near. Reaching out for Bronwyn’s arm had been instinctive. So was his reaction.

Back and forth his thumb caressed the soft skin. It was like silk. He found himself struggling not to pull her down onto his lap and discover if her whole body could be just as delicate and intoxicating as that of her wrist.

He glanced up and saw apprehension reflecting back in her deep blue depths. It had been a long time since he had kissed a woman—really kissed her—as he had that morning. Maybe he was deluding himself. At the time he had believed Bronwyn to be affected by his touch, but in truth, he had no basis to believe in his sexual prowess. Only her response. And she
had
responded in his arms. Hell, she had initiated the embrace, something he still didn’t understand.

Her stormy eyes pierced his with unspoken questions, so he asked one of his own. “Why?”

Bronwyn swallowed. His thumb was drawing small circles on her wrist, making it very difficult to think, let alone speak. The hypnotic caress was tender, sensual…almost possessive. Forcing herself to speak, Bronwyn returned the question. “Why what, my lord?”