His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) Page 7

  “How did you come by that scar? And all the others?”

  He lifted a tawny brow in question. “Do they bother you?”

  Gwenyth frowned. He cared what she thought of his appearance? Or did he mock her?

  “Nay,” she answered finally. “’Tis surprised I am, is all. I did not imagine that…” a sorcerer would have such warlike scars, she started to say. But his reply to that would tell her nothing.

  “Whence came you?” she queried instead.

  He hesitated. “Yorkshire.”

  Recognition flashed through her. “Aye, ’tis in your voice, that northern slur. But what manner of man are you? A sorcerer, truly?”

  “What do you believe?”

  What indeed? “I cannot credit a man of the black arts with a warrior’s wounds.”

  Again, a pause that told her Aric was measuring his words carefully. “I have known battle.”

  “More than once, ’twould appear. Yet you battle no more. Did you leave a baron’s service?”

  “Nay.” He crossed his strong arms over the width of his chest.

  “Were you trained for battle?”

  Once more, a pause. “Aye.”

  Gwenyth peered at her husband, her frustration rising. He answered her questions, yet managed to give her little information. “You were a mercenary, then? And left behind your means?”

  “Nay.”

  She balled her fists in frustration. “Might I have an answer of more than one word, you ruttish varlet?”

  Suddenly, Aric turned away and retrieved the ax. “Gwenyth, it matters not about my past, for that is done. You and I are wed, and we will stay wed. I’ll not be accused of madness or impotence. The past is a place I can never return, and I prefer to live my life here.”

  His answer gave her pause, not only because of the implacable tone, but the ease with which he had read her thoughts. Those words, coupled with his nightmares, told her something was unwell in his past. Had he run from someone? Something?

  “Here, in a shanty? You have talent as a warrior, yet you choose to live like a pauper? Such makes no sense! Have you always lived thus?”

  Aric locked his jaw, anger tightening his features. “Nay.”

  His reply filled her with surprise and hope. “You have lived in a castle?”

  “Aye.”

  Renewed vexation swept her. “Are we back to a single word again, as if you have no more word-stock than a child? If you mean to stay married to me and can take me from this terrible place, can we not go? Half my days I have dreamed of my own castle and my own lands. Servants and villagers who need me, as does my husband, to oversee it all. You look strong enough for battle, and if you have been trained, I could help you—”

  “Nay. Everything comes with a price, Gwenyth. Some are too high. Here we stay.”

  With his harsh, disheartening words, he threw the ax to the ground and disappeared into the forest.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  For many long hours, Aric stayed away from their cottage, and Gwenyth could hardly contain her fury. How could the hugger-mugger announce his intent to keep her here, trapped in obscure poverty, then saunter away, only to return in the depths of night as she tossed and turned in his bed? Did he not realize he threatened her dreams of a future as a respected lady, dreams that included a loving husband and giggling children with plenty to eat?

  Shortly after dawn, Gwenyth glared at her husband—the man she swore would not have a permanent place in her life—as he calmly ate a hunk of dark, dry bread, then sipped some wine. Did he mean to say nothing of his absence? His declaration?

  Aric turned his attention to a small slab of cheese, seemingly impervious to her glare. That gorbellied gudgeon!

  Marching to the hearth, Gwenyth resolved he would listen well and grant her an annulment. He would release her this very day!

  “Hear me, you surly urchin-snouted scut. You may mean to remain here for the rest of your fruitless days, aspiring to naught, but do not think you will keep me here to sink into nothingness with you! I came into this world a baron’s daughter, and I will not waste my life on a man who strives to be no more than an outcast.”

  Aric took a swallow of beans and again sipped his wine, then fastened his unreadable gaze upon her. Setting his cup aside, he regarded her with thoughtful eyes. “Gwenyth, you must accept what you cannot change. We are bound. This is our home.”

  “Only because you bind me here to you. England is a large land. If you are a well-trained foot soldier, there is money to be made, perhaps a knightship—”

  “Nay.”

  “Then release me! Choose a hellish life if you wish, but do not make me live in this terrible nether realm with you.”

  Aric sighed. “Your Uncle Bardrick wants you not at Penhurst. You have nowhere else to go and no one to take you in.”

  Gwenyth stepped closer, willing Aric to understand her needs, her desperation. “That is where you are wrong. When I was at Penhurst last, Sir Penley all but told me he wished to wed me and—”

  “Nay!” Aric stood, abandoning his breakfast to glower at her. “You are my wife. We will have no more talk of annulments or of Sir Penley the buffoon.”

  “You know him not,” Gwenyth insisted hotly.

  Aric raised a challenging brow in answer but said nothing, giving her no reason, no hope for her tomorrows.

  Tears stung her eyes. “Why punish me for a marriage I wanted not?”

  He frowned, concern softening his hard features. “I seek not to punish you but to help you understand fate has chosen this path for us. Now we must walk it. All will be well, I vow.”

  “I despise it here,” she sobbed, turning away from him and lowering her face into her hands.

  Her life was ruined, all because of Aric’s stubborn nature and her uncle’s ambition for Lyssa. ’Twas not fair she should be denied everything—a castle, gracious servants, a place at court, her family, and most of all a husband who understood her and cared. The husband Uncle Bardrick had chosen for her angered, comforted, and confused her at once. What was she to do?

  Aric said nothing, merely stepped behind her and put his arms around her. Somehow his solace only made her hurt worse, for he meant nothing by the gesture except to cease her tears, she was sure. Still, he stroked a gentle hand down the tangled length of her hair and whispered softly, “Easy now. The sun will still rise on the morrow, and we will live as well as needed here.”

  As well as he needed or as well as she? Gwenyth wondered, hot tears spilling down her cheeks.

  Aric held her tighter. The solid feel of his arms about her, of his beating heart at her shoulder, distracted her worried mind. The rhythm of his breathing, the cadence of his hand stroking her hair slowly soothed her.

  Gwenyth turned to him, wet-eyed and confused.

  “Cry not,” he said softly. “You will be safe here, and if it pleases you, you may cast any slur upon my head you desire.”

  Despite her tears, Gwenyth smiled. The corners of his mouth lifted in return, even as the warm breadth of his hands continued to caress her hair.

  “There, a smile. Much better, for you would not want everyone to see you saddened at the Mayday festival.”

  Surprise jolted her. “The festival? You would take me, though everyone there despises and fears you?”

  Aric shrugged. “Their opinions matter not. If going to the festival will please you, then go we shall.”

  Mayday was her favorite time of year, from the weather to the joy of the festival’s merchants, visitors, and excitement. Gwenyth saw no reason to refuse Aric’s offer. Though the difficulties of this curious marriage would be here still upon their return, she could not resist the urge to be gone from this shanty and her husband’s unsettling proximity.

  “It pleases me much. Thank you.”

  Aric nodded and assisted her outside. In the morning sunshine, he clasped her hand in his own large one and led her toward the village.

  They walked in quiet broken only by their breathing,
an occasional bird, and the movement of soft earth beneath their feet. Determined to do nothing more than enjoy this day, Gwenyth felt a peculiar peace settle over her as they made their way toward the village. She did not question why, but she felt safe and somewhat understood, for Aric seemed to know she wished to attend the Mayday festival. Was it his black magic or his occasionally kind heart that told him so? Who was Aric?

  By the time they arrived, the revelry was well underway. Merchants shouted through the dust at passing customers, trying to lure them closer. Parents showed their children the maypole, which declared to one and all the location of the festival. The scents of roasting meat hung in the air like a promise of good tidings to come. Gwenyth felt her excitement bubbling, and she turned to Aric and smiled.

  His gaze touched her face and lowered to her mouth. The gray of his eyes darkened like storm-filled clouds. Her heart struck her chest with the force of a battering ram, and Gwenyth knew it had naught to do with the excitement of the gathering.

  Why did some foolish part of her want to be his wife in every way, despite the fact she would be miserable sharing the life and home he had chosen?

  Suddenly, Aric released her hand and retrieved several coins from a pouch hidden inside his tunic. “Buy us some of the sweetmeats over there.”

  Gwenyth took the coins but frowned. Certainly reading her expression, he added, “I’ve a bit of business to attend to, but I will meet you here directly. And see if the old woman sells wine as well.”

  At her nod, Aric turned away into the crowd, which parted on either side of him, giving him a wide berth. As usual, her husband seemed completely oblivious to the stir he caused and the whispers behind his back.

  Shrugging, Gwenyth did as Aric had bid and bit into her own sweetmeat. The succulent flavor burst into her mouth, reminding her how hungry she had indeed been.

  About her, people began to dance when a lute player struck up a light tune. Soon, someone joined in with words that were too far away to hear but drew a bawdy laugh from the surrounding crowd. Quickly, another of the jongleurs shook a shiny set of bells, while a third lifted a double flute to his mouth and released a merry melody.

  Swaying with the music, Gwenyth looked about for Aric, wishing he would return. She loved to dance, loved to feel the music within her, guiding her foot to its rhythm.

  As if thought of him conjured him up, the crowd scrambled about, and Aric strode between the villagers with a long-legged gait, a smile, and a wreath of greenery in his hands. The spring breeze lifted the tawny strands of his hair and whipped them about his wide shoulders. Those gray eyes she was beginning to know well seemed fixed on her alone, as if no one else at the festival existed. She found herself smiling in return.

  Then he placed the wreath upon her head. The ivy and ribbons cascaded down past her shoulders.

  “For me?”

  “Pray tell me you did not think I would wear it.”

  Gwenyth laughed. “Nay.”

  “And a good thing,” he insisted, sending her a teasing grin that made her belly turn over in flops.

  “Did you get a sweetmeat for me?” he asked.

  “Aye.” Flustered, Gwenyth held it out to him. Instead of taking it from her grip, he bent and took a bite. His tongue grazed one of her fingers and she shivered.

  “And wine?” he asked after swallowing the bite.

  “Oh, aye.”

  Nearly having forgotten the brew, she retrieved it from the peddler and gave it to Aric. He finished the goblet with a toss of his head and several long swallows. Gwenyth watched the broad column of his throat working. The sinew roping the sides of his neck told a tale of strength she well knew extended down his arms, his chest, his belly…and lower. Flushing at her own thoughts, she turned away.

  Aric plucked the sweetmeat out of her hand and finished it hastily. Then he surprised her by grabbing her hand. “Come. Let us dance. The music is merry.”

  Gwenyth smiled again even more brightly. Once more, he understood and granted her wishes, more than her own aunt and uncle ever had. Such courtesy made her feel warm all over when he led her to the dancing crowd. The other revelers made a broad path between themselves and Aric. Before it could anger her, Aric moved her into the steps of a ductia. As he twirled her about, she laughed and marveled that a man so tall and formidable could move with such fluid grace.

  The musicians played on. She and Aric danced through the afternoon, taking only a brief respite for more wine, along with a hearty serving of roast goose. He seemed to know every dance. Whether round, line, or for couples, he was well versed in all the steps. Where had this hermit learned such? Indeed, where had he learned to speak and do battle as well?

  Before she could ask, another song came to an end. His face slick with sweat, Aric raked the hair from his eyes, then urged her off the floor.

  “Have you danced enough, my lady?”

  Near breathless, she nodded, clutching the wreath to her head. “Should I dance more, I fear my feet will fall off.”

  He laughed, a sound so deep and bounteous Gwenyth felt it vibrate deep within her. Still, she could feel his hand upon her waist guiding her, his other hand enclosing her own. His touch made her quiver.

  “Since you will need your feet for another day,” he said, “we should indeed stop dancing.”

  “Aye.”

  “Come, then.” He grabbed her hand again and pulled her to his side.

  The musk of his skin, so close now, eclipsed all the other smells. She could detect nothing but the leather of his boots and the bedeviling scent of woodsy, earthy man. Indeed, she could seem to see nothing but the rise and fall of his massive chest, covered only by a white tunic.

  “I have something for you,” Aric said, leading her away from the revelers and back toward the merchants.

  Gwenyth followed along in the waning afternoon sun, her anticipation building. Laughter echoed from the shadows of ancient trees as children played. Men gathered about in a circle, cheering on two others locked in a battle of fists.

  Gwenyth grimaced and looked away, only to find Aric standing before the fabric peddler from whom he had purchased the woolens only two days past. Had he forgotten something?

  The old merchant, reserved in his demeanor before, now regarded Aric with a wide, welcoming smile. Gwenyth took it in with a frown until the man handed her husband a shiny red bundle. She peered at it in confusion. Then recognition dawned.

  The scarlet silk!

  She turned to Aric, wide-eyed and breathless, as he handed her the cloth. “You bought this for me?”

  He smiled at her whisper. “Aye, for you. I expect you to begin sewing soon.”

  “On the morrow,” she agreed. “How did you afford—”

  “Nay.” He halted her with a gesture of his hand. “Do not question, simply enjoy.”

  Gwenyth swallowed a lump of pleasure and launched herself into his arms. “Thank you.”

  Aric held her against him, only the crush of the silk between them. In that moment, she enjoyed the strength of his embrace nearly as much as she enjoyed his gift. He grasped her tightly, his hands spread wide across her back, his chin upon her shoulder. Beneath her hands, his arms felt tense, and she wondered if he had thought of kissing her again.

  She could think of little else.

  * * * *

  Three mornings later, Gwenyth’s fleshy cousin Nellwyn emerged from the forest on a fine dappled gray, with a foot soldier in tow.

  Hearing their clatter, Aric looked up from his carving of Gwenyth naked and swore. It had been a fine morning to commune with his thoughts, decide how best to win his wife’s charms, and listen to her hum excitedly as she sewed upon her red silk.

  Now, as he watched her expectant cousin-by-marriage dismount her horse and settle the folds of her green silk gown about her, he felt certain she would only bring trouble.

  She eyed him with open curiosity, as if any objection he might have to such scrutiny was of no import. With a sharp smile, he stood, ris
ing to his full height. Taken aback, the lady placed a fluttering hand to her chest as her eyes widened.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered.

  Her pale blue gaze lingered on his shoulders, then flitted down to his belly and legs, as she assessed him like any fruit in a marketplace.

  “Do I meet with your disapproval, my lady?”

  Clearly jolted by his words, Nellwyn jerked her gaze back to his face. “Nay, good sir. I but seek my cousin Gwenyth. You must be her new husband,” she said and extended her hand.

  Hiding his irritation, Aric reached for her fingers and brought them a breath short of his lips. If she noticed the slight, she said nothing, did nothing, except stare. “I am Aric.”

  “Merely Aric?” She frowned. “No surname at all?”

  Aric rolled his eyes. As if he would tell the ambitious woman he was the Earl of Belford and a Neville, as well. She would keep company with his wife for an altogether different reason if she knew that.

  He held in a sneer. “Merely Aric.”

  “I see. Well, I am Lady Nellwyn Brinkley,” she said with great pride.

  Clearly, the woman expected some exaltation for her rank. Aric simply nodded. ’Twas clear from her scowl he had earned Lady Nellwyn’s pique. The thought made him smile.

  “Gwenyth is inside,” he said instead.

  As the woman moved toward the cottage door, she insisted, “You are fortunate to have her for a wife, you know. She is hard-working, possessed of a sharp mind, and of excellent breeding, as well.”

  Aric stared at the woman without comment. It was hardly his wife’s breeding that impressed him. After all, he could not confess he had scarce heard of Lord Capshaw or this obscure little barony before moving here. But Gwenyth herself pleased him, and, wretched family or no, he knew Guilford would approve as well. Since he had ever sought his mentor’s good opinion, Guilford’s approval would please him indeed. As well, Drake would like her lively conversation, while Kieran would drool over her beauty like a mutt with a fresh bone.