The Christmas Knight (19 page)

“How? Who did this to you?”

Bronwyn sensed his anger and it was rising. She reached out to stroke his cheek to calm him, but it didn’t help. “It was my fault, Ranulf. I was clumsy and not looking. I knew there was exposed metal on the tub I was using so if you are searching for someone to blame, then you have only me. I would tell you if it were otherwise.”

Ranulf released her arm and rose to his feet to head for the basin of water on the small table by the bed. He grabbed the drying cloth and forcefully dunked it into the cool water. Seeing her with an injury that was obviously causing her enormous pain was tearing him up inside. He would rather be stabbed a dozen times than to see her hurt.

“It was just an accident. There is no reason to be so angry,” Bronwyn repeated.

“There are plenty of reasons for my anger, the least of which is you being in a tub known to be dangerous.”

Bronwyn felt her own temper start to flare. “Well, then I am the one paying for my mistake. I have not complained. It is
you
who are making this more serious than it is.”

Ranulf returned by her side and dropped back down to his knees. Retaking her arm, he lightly tapped the red skin. Each time she flinched despite her desperate attempts not to. “Where is that powder you used on me? You sent that woman to get it from your room, is it still here?”

At the idea of his using that stuff on her, Bronwyn yanked her arm out of his grasp. “That is completely unnecessary. The wound will heal on its own.” Ranulf’s ominous auburn gaze bore into her own. Few times in her life had she been around someone truly angry, and right now, his fury was aimed at her. Bronwyn shrank back. “You have no right to be cross with me.”

“I have
every
right to be mad at you. Or are you going to deny that
this
was the reason you pulled away this afternoon? Not shame.”

Bronwyn held his gaze. He was right, but he was also wrong. “And what was your excuse? Or are you going to deny walking away, whispering how you wished you could take it all back. That our kiss never happened.”

Ranulf paused, hovering the cloth above her arm for a second before he let go and fell back against his heels. “I admit I was upset.”

Bronwyn’s brows rose. “No, my lord, you were livid. At me.”

“Well, I’m not anymore.”

Bronwyn wanted to laugh aloud. He was done being mad so she should be. He admitted his anger, apologized—not for insulting her—but for an injury he had nothing to do with, and now that he was ready to drop the argument, she was supposed to just happily do so as well. She shook her head and chuckled. “Truce?”

“Ask me after you give me the black powder.”

Bronwyn recoiled. “No, Ranulf. That stuff is only to be used for emergencies and this small scratch is far from that.”

“Look at it, angel. It is red and angry and you know that it is too late to be just cleaned and bound. By tomorrow night, that
scratch
will be much more. You have no choice, for I’m not giving you any. So where’s the powder?”

Wanting it now just to be over with, Bronwyn used her chin to point toward the large, engraved chest in front of her bed. “You’ll need to make a paste.”

Ranulf opened the top and rummaged for a second, hampered by the dim light, finally pulling out a small bag and the wooden cup it was sitting in. She watched as he poured the contents into the mug.

Suddenly she was desperate for conversation to divert her mind off what was about to happen. “I guess this Twelfthtide, you have a lot to celebrate. You have much to thank God about.”

Ranulf snorted. “I’m not thanking God. More like something else.”

“But what about your title? These lands? Hunswick?”

“I didn’t want them. They were forced on me.”

“Forced? I understood that you and the king were friends. That he brought you back to his lands in Normandy and gave you the opportunity to gather wealth and men.”

Ranulf finished mixing and went back to the chest. He pulled out a clean dry cloth and started ripping it into three narrow strips. “The reason the king asked me to serve as a commander in his army was to ease his conscience. As far as Twelfthtide,” he said, pausing to point at his scar and missing eye, “I don’t celebrate it. God abandoned me so I have abandoned him.”

Bronwyn’s jaw visibly dropped as Ranulf scooped up her elbow for the third time. “You lived! You still possess your sight, and your hearing, and your ability to move. You are still handsome…and yet you think God abandoned you? You are wrong, Ranulf. You are incredibly wrong. God saved you.”

Ranulf was thrown by the vehemence of her accusation. He had always considered himself unlucky and never thought that his survival alone made him fortunate, and retaining the will to live, even more so. Rattled, he redirected the conversation. “And what about you? Why are you still at Hunswick? You are far past the typical marrying age of a noblewoman. Or are you letting your scars keep you from accepting?”

“No, my scars have nothing to do with my lack of wedded state.” He was close to the truth, dancing all around it, but he hadn’t stumbled on it yet. But he would if he ever met her younger sisters. He, just like the rest, would gravitate toward them, forgetting he ever once had any interest in her. The only reason she was getting this rare bit of attention now was because Edythe and Lily were not around.

“What about your sisters? Do they have scars as well?”

Bronwyn shook her head and smiled genuinely. “No, but my parents lived in fear that it could happen again. My father had studied as a mason in his youth before helping King William fight the Anglo-Saxons. As a result, he spent his fortune creating back stairs to every floor in Syndlear. He ordered two buckets of water to be kept in every bedroom and even rebuilt portions of the keep walls to create fire holes for our safety. But we only ever used them for storage.”

Ranulf returned to her side. “Buckets of water, huh? I guess that explains why I stepped in the one placed by the door.”

Bronwyn smiled, imagining the event. “Habit. I don’t know if I could sleep without knowing they were right there.”

“Are your sisters like you?”

The question was innocent, but a reminder nonetheless. “No. I am the dull one. I have no color while my sisters are infused with it. Edythe is sensible, but possesses a fiery Scottish temper when riled. My other sister has both beauty and a sweet disposition. Life favors her, L…Bronwyn is just luckier than most,” she finished, catching her near mistake just in time. She would have to be more careful.

“Well, they couldn’t compare to you.”

It sounded good and it was nice that he believed it, but it wasn’t reality. “I doubt you would feel that way if you ever met my younger sister.”

“You’re wrong,” Ranulf argued. Then he held her arm steady and smoothed the black paste on the injury.

Bronwyn could not help herself and cried out as the wicked concoction came into contact with her raw flesh. Immediately, Ranulf bound the arm and then masterfully picked her up and slid into her seat, cuddling her on his lap as her cries slowly receded. He wanted to do more. To kiss her and force her mind on to more pleasant things, but he refused to give in to what he knew was a personal desire rather than a mutual one. Tonight, he had been given a second chance, and this time, he was going to remain in control.

Bronwyn sniffled and glanced at her bound arm. “Another scar,” she sighed.

He tucked back a long lock of her hair behind her shoulder. “You are so very beautiful. How you view and treat the world around you…that kind of beauty is more enticing than any I’ve ever known.”

Bronwyn lay still against his chest. Of all the things she didn’t want to hear, especially from him. “Please, don’t ever say that to me again.”

“Why? It’s true. No other woman can compare to you and I will never be attracted to another.”

Bronwyn pulled back and slipped off his lap, avoiding his grasp. She faked a laugh to mask her pain and said, “No one should ever say those words to someone else. You should know that better than anyone. Beauty is fleeting and there is
always
another whose physical appearance can capture even the most devoted of hearts.”

Ranulf sat quietly, his expression grim. He wanted to refute her comment, for he had met many other supposedly gorgeous women, who fit every man’s dream of a goddess. Every man but him.

Ranulf reached over and plucked his leggings and shoes off the chair next to him. He pulled them both on and then looped his belt around his waist. If he stayed, he would try to convince her of the sincerity behind his words. But before he bedded Bronwyn, she needed to end the lies between them.

Tomorrow they were going to talk. From now on, there would be no secrets, no deceit—only the truth.

Lillabet rocked back and forth in her room at Syndlear, clutching her mother’s tapestry for comfort. Daylight would soon arrive. She hadn’t been able to sleep, nor would she be able to until she made things right. Until today, she had no idea how much Bronwyn had been shielding her and Edythe about Luc Craven. Bronwyn had glossed over the encounters she had with the man. Lily had always understood that Luc was very unpleasant—too unpleasant to consider marrying, but until today, she had no idea just how horrific that possibility was.

When she had slipped past unseen by the guard posted to her as she did every day for her afternoon walks, Luc Craven had confronted her, demanding to see Bronwyn. Lily had tried to toy with him, as was her habit to control the situation with any man, but this time her tricks had not worked. And that was when she made her biggest mistake. She had let it slip that Bronwyn was not there. Instantly, the baron’s mild demeanor changed and he had become enraged, declaring that there was no place Bronwyn could hide he would not find her.

For the first time in her life, Lillabet had felt and still continued to feel true fear. Luc had sworn Bronwyn would be his.
Never
, Lily vowed to herself once again. Never would she let her sister be a victim to such a man.

She had been purposefully naïve to the unpleasantness of the world for too long, with no inclination of changing. She hadn’t realized that naïveté came with a price, and this time the cost of innocence was too high.

Tomorrow, whether Lord
Deadeye
liked it or not, she and Edythe were returning to Hunswick. It was her turn to protect her sisters and make the sacrifice. Tomorrow, she was finally going to grow up.

T
HURSDAY
, D
ECEMBER
23, 1154
T
WELFTHTIDE
E
NTERTAINMENT

Ranulf stirred in his bed and opened his eye, relieved to see daylight filling his solar. The sounds of several items falling off a cart, followed by an assortment of shouts and grunts, confirmed that the castle was awake and alive with activity. He must have finally fallen asleep just before dawn.

Groaning, Ranulf squeezed his eyelid back shut, feeling the weight of his fatigue more than usual. Sleep was not something he received overwhelming amounts of, but never had his mind been plagued with repeating thoughts and conversations…not to mention a physical need near painful. Supposedly the priest assigned to Hunswick wasn’t going to arrive until tomorrow, which meant one more night of unrest, and of haunting memories of Bronwyn lying asleep on her back…naked.

The argument outside was escalating. Ranulf threw off the coverlet and moved toward the window, searching the bailey for the source of the commotion. As he suspected, a cart had toppled, but it looked like the situation was being rectified without interference. Ranulf was about to step away when he spied Bronwyn and Tyr standing just outside the stables, laughing. The sight rankled him enormously.

The woman showed no signs of sleeplessness, nothing to indicate that last night bothered her in the least. If anything, she looked refreshed, wearing a bright gold gown created more for court than a goose hunt. Tyr must have said something funny because Bronwyn threw her head back to laugh, freeing some of her tawny locks from its snood. Renewed pains of jealousy began to crack Ranulf’s carefully controlled exterior. He knew it was ridiculous never to want another man to appreciate her beauty, to know her laughter, but until Bronwyn was his in every sense of the word, he would not be at ease.

Then Tyr reached up and brushed something off her cheek and Ranulf’s self-discipline exploded into a rushing torrent of anger and possessiveness. His best friend! On his land, touching his woman!

Unthinking, Ranulf snatched his tunic and wrenched it over his head. After pulling on his leggings and shoes, he grabbed his belt and sword, fastening them as he exited the room. He ignored the servant, who had been patiently waiting just outside the door for instructions, and bounded down the stairs with only one thought—pummeling his soon-to-be ex-friend.

A warm wind hit his face as soon as he left the Tower Keep, and it was filled with humidity. A storm was brewing and behind it was the winter weather that should have arrived weeks ago. Marching toward the stables, he saw Tyr and Bronwyn still conversing. Upon seeing him, Tyr issued his typical lopsided grin of welcome. Bronwyn, however, showed little expression. She just stared questioningly at him with aggravating composure.

“Where’s my horse?” he asked directly.

Tyr stepped inside to see that Pertinax was saddled. Bronwyn pointed to Ranulf’s shoulder. “Are you sure coming is wise?”

Ranulf plucked her wrist out of the air, just below where he had bandaged it. “I know you shouldn’t be.”

Bronwyn arched her brows and gave her arm a firm tug to reclaim her limb. “I am only riding to show your men the most populated places along the lakeshore for geese. They will be doing the work. You, on the other hand, shouldn’t be working a bow with that shoulder for at least another week.”

“I came not to hunt,” he growled. “I have seen little of Hunswick beyond that of the Great Hall and my bedchambers and it is time I see the lands that were thrust upon me.”

Tyr reemerged from the stables pulling the reins attached to three horses. He tossed Ranulf his and handed Bronwyn the straps to a brown mare. Taking them, she sauntered closer to Ranulf’s side, her deep mist-colored eyes sparkling with defiance. “I don’t know what has you so riled, but if you cannot at least pretend to be pleasant, then I suggest you stay rather than ruin the outing for everyone.”

Before he could conjure a smart retort, Tyr joined them. “Doesn’t her ladyship look beautiful this morning?”

Ranulf raked her up and down and scowled. “What she is, is too damn bright to go hunting.”

With an intentional snub that said more than any words she could have mustered, Bronwyn turned from Ranulf and favored Tyr with a placating smile. “Thank you. It’s not true, but I appreciate your attempt to make me feel otherwise.”

Ranulf forced his jaw to unclench. Bronwyn’s deflection was not an attempt at being demure; she truly did not see herself as the vision she was. And why should she? Even her father had not seen it, mostly because he saw himself in her, and he had a definite preference for dark-haired women. Unfortunately, Tyr did recognize the beauty before him.

Bronwyn was stunning, intentionally so, almost as if she were personally daring his men to avoid her allure. Her hair had returned to its netted coiffure. A gold band adorned with pearls came around her forehead, disappearing at the nape of her neck behind the matching snood. She wore only one piece of jewelry, a long gold necklace supporting a pearl cross with a sizable ruby in the middle. Her silk dress shimmered with a subtle woven pattern of flowers. Ranulf hadn’t seen cloth that fine since he left the king’s estates in Normandy.

The style of her bliaut was also different. While it did not reveal the amount of kirtle as her other outfits, the sleeves beckoned a man’s imagination as they fitted down her shapely arms ending in a wide opening, lined with pearls. The neckline was round, not high nor deep, and was unadorned. The waist hugged her perfectly and the braided belt rested easily on her hips. Any man who had been unaware of her physical curves before was fully cognizant of them now.

The overall effect was mesmerizing, alluring, captivating. Not only to him, but to every man around her, driving Ranulf insane. “I doubt another woman in two hundred miles even knows of silk’s existence and you’re wearing it to go hunting,” he grumbled as he moved his horse out into the bailey. He knew he was being unreasonable, but more and more he thought of Bronwyn as his and his alone. That no one else understood this only flamed his jealousy.

Bronwyn reared back, stung by his harshness. A clouded expression overcame her face as hurt transformed into anger. “The dress so happens not to be mine, but my sister’s.
My
clothes went to Syndlear after
you
ordered us to leave Hunswick!”

Grabbing the horn of the saddle, she swung her leg over the brown mare’s back, fighting the gold fabric, which refused to lie nicely behind her. Finally, after arranging the hem so that it draped in such a way it would neither tug when she rode nor bunch immodestly, she sat regally and stared down at him, as if she were sitting upon a throne. “And as far as the material being silk, it was the last thing given to us by my father. We received word only the day before your arrival that he had died on route back to England.”

The mentioning of Laon’s death hit Ranulf with unexpected force and he had no idea how to respond. Saying anything and not revealing that he had been with her father when he had passed would feel like a lie and they had enough of those between them. So he said no words of comfort, gave no apologies, offered nothing to show he cared. He knew that in doing so inflicted pain, but the truth would have hurt her more. Unable to continue seeing the growing sadness in her eyes and know that he was the cause, Ranulf silently mounted Pertinax and kicked his steed toward the gatehouse, leaving Tyr, Bronwyn, and the rest to follow.

A half hour later, Ranulf brooded in silence as the group moved beyond Hunswick and closer to the spot where he first spied her. Her sorrow had not left her eyes, but his men had been oblivious. Indulging them, Bronwyn had chatted congenially, answering questions lightly and enchantingly. His men were infatuated and their every sigh, every verbal fumble only confirmed their condition. Ranulf was just about to halt the ceaseless line of questions when Bronwyn did it for him.

Stopping at a small clearing nestled against the lake’s shoreline, she called out to Tyr, “The geese typically gather just beyond the next bend. I need to check something and will join you in a moment.”

Ranulf gave a quick tug on the reins, halting the large destrier, and signaled Tyr to keep moving. Then he waited till the group passed before prodding Pertinax toward the very spot where he had first spied her. He remembered that day perfectly, including the man who had attacked her. The memory served as a sharp reminder that he had yet to find out just who her tormenter was and if she was still in danger.

Asking her would be fruitless. She first would have to own up to her identity, and she wasn’t about to do that with the sparks of animosity flying between them. He needed to get his possessiveness under control and that wouldn’t happen until he knew she was his. Not just in his own mind, but in everyone else’s.

Bronwyn issued Ranulf a look of surprise as he slipped off his horse and tied it to the same bush she had used for her own mount. His comment about her choice of dress had hurt deeply.

She, too, had received material for a gown from her father. Hers was a shimmering dark silver, which accentuated her eyes, but it had been one of the few things she had packed and taken to Syndlear. Still, she had spent extra time that morning preparing her hair and had especially chosen Lily’s yellow dress because she thought it might make her appear more like the women of court whom Ranulf had been with the past few years. It was a little snug and the color didn’t suit her like it did her dark-haired sister, still Bronwyn thought she looked pretty.

But Ranulf had hated it. Everything in his demeanor and expression screamed for her to go back to her room and change. Pride had caused her to snap back, and as a result, a gulf of misunderstanding now lay between them. He had ignored her so she had done the same, keeping her conversations with his men or Tyr, whom she found affable and very interesting. And today, very informative.

She kept her back toward Ranulf and pulled at one of the leafless orange and yellow flowers covering a bush just to the side of her tree.

“What is that you are picking?”

“Witch hazel,” Bronwyn answered as she spun the slender dark yellow stem in her hand. She inhaled its scent and sighed. “It grows in the winter when so few flowers do. That’s why my mother loved it. It’s bright and pretty and it smells sweet, like spring.”

“So you planted it near her favorite tree.”

Bronwyn turned just her head around. “How did you know this was her favorite tree?”

Ranulf shrugged. Bronwyn’s wistful expression matched that of the tune she had been singing, the haunting sounds of remembrance. “I saw you here before.”

“That’s right. You were here that day.”

Ranulf didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Instead he waved his arm at the view. “I can see why you like this spot.”

Bronwyn strolled closer to the water’s edge. Boulders randomly lined the shoreline and extended into the water. As a child she used to jump from rock to rock. “This is where I come to think. After my mother passed, I would come here every day and just cry. His lordship—your cousin—knew but he never said anything, never stopped me. He knew that for some reason it gave me comfort. I am going to miss it.”

Ranulf moved to stand by her left side, bringing her back into his limited line of sight. “I’m not an ogre. You can continue coming here in the future.”

Bronwyn nodded and gave him a quick placating smile. “So, tell me, just how long have you known the king…I mean personally?”

Ranulf pivoted and followed her with his vision as she went back to the prickly bush to pick more flowers. She was shutting him out and he didn’t know just what it was she was protecting or why. But pressing would not gain her trust. “Not long and yet forever,” he finally answered.

Bronwyn’s mouth curved into an unconscious smile. “You know, that is exactly how I feel about you.”

As soon as the words popped out, Bronwyn immediately bit her bottom lip. She shouldn’t have said her thoughts aloud, but in a way she was glad she did. She wanted Ranulf to know after she left for Scotland that he hadn’t been just anyone and that his company these past few days had been important to her.

“I’ve wondered what you were thinking about that day, before that man…disturbed you,” Ranulf remarked, taking a risk, encouraged by her admission.

“It doesn’t matter now,” she answered with a semi-shrug. “But you should know that I will always be grateful for your interference that afternoon. I normally can handle men and have been protecting my younger sisters for years, but I’m afraid to think of what would have happened if you had not been there.” She paused and took a deep breath, seeking the courage to continue. “I have never needed saving before. People always come to me for help. It is nice to know there is someone else who will take my place.”

Her small speech rattled Ranulf, but it shouldn’t have. After that first day, ordering her and her family off his property, of
course
she believed he wanted her gone. He hadn’t talked of marriage and that was because she hadn’t been truthful with him about who she was. And she wasn’t ever going to admit to her identity while believing she was going to have to leave.

He gave in to the compulsion to pull her into his arms. “You’re not leaving.”