When she managed to stand, her legs fought to support the wobbly bulk of her weight. She swayed heavily across the room, stumbling, not knowing where to go. Furiously, she wiped her wet eyes on the sleeve of her simple gown staining it with tears. She kept rubbing until her face stung and burned with redness. Sinking wearily into a chair, she knew she was indeed a fool.
Dining tables were laid out with a simple, but elegant fare. The scent of herbed potatoes, hens roasted and glazed with honey, and loaves of freshly baked bread wafted through the main hall to stir the appetites of those gathered. Wolfe’s stomach churned, although he let nothing show on his stiff face. He narrowed his piercing gaze, staring out from the head table to scan briefly over the crowd. Seeing a woman, slight in build and hair as dark as the night, he frowned. Leaning toward Robert, he pushed his friend in the arm to gain his attention. His expression gave away nothing.
“Is that your sister?” Wolfe whispered with a tilt of his chin. The woman looked a bit like a servant, but he could see no one else whom he didn’t readily know, and Lord Wolfram was well familiar with the many women of the keep. No unusual maidens in his hall matched the description he carried in his head. There was no flash of pink hair. Where he hoped Ginevra was able to find a cure for her baldness, he couldn’t imagine what it would be.
Robert followed his friend’s gaze with a smirk. “Nay, that is Lora, her handmaiden.”
“I didn’t think it was,” Wolfe answered with a touch of disappointment. Robert tried not to smile. Wolfe tried to look nonchalant, bored even, but to a man who’d known him since childhood he wouldn’t be able to hide his agitation. His jaw tightened as he took one sip too many from his goblet of ale.
“That,” Robert said in delight, as he pointed toward the tower stairwell, “is Gin.”
With a gulp and a sickness to his stomach, Wolfe followed the steady nod of his friend over the sea of heads. At the end of the stairwell was the baroness, her self-possessed cheekbones sinking into her face as her lips puckered in censure. It was a look Wolfe remembered the woman wearing often when he was a child. Wolfe chuckled at the absurdly charged disapproval on her face, but then the woman stepped to the side. His breath caught slightly and he fell silent.
His bride wore a simple tunic of light green with a slender waist that hugged to her body, a body only slightly bulging with feminine curves. The sleeves were tightly fitted to the wrists with decorative buttons up the side and the rounded neck of the gown would have exposed the small tops of her breast if not for the large barbette that fitted around her face to cover her neck. Her head was also covered with a thick hood so that none of her hair showed. Atop the cover was a thin circlet of gold, holding the gauzy short veil in place.
Ginevra gazed at the carona that lighted the hall. Briefly, he followed her eyes to the lighted candleholder along the ceiling. But, just as quickly, his notice traveled back to her. His eyes narrowed into piercing slits.
She stepped forward and he saw that her complexion appeared smooth and her emerald eyes sparkled with a disobedient intensity. As Lady Jayne turned, she moved to frantically fan her fingers at the girl’s face. Ginevra tolerantly paused, smiling at the woman. The gesture lit up her face with the careless perfection of her bow lips. Wolfe could see the impression of straight, even, white teeth.
Robert made a noise. Wolfe glanced to the side, knowing his friend had seen his stunned look. Robert frowned slightly, before turning his gaze to his little sister. Clearing his throat, he leaned to his friend.
“Pity she is still so young,” Robert put forth tactfully. Taking a slow drink of mead, he set his goblet on the table with forced indifference.
“She is well past the age to be married,” Wolfe answered, only to add silently, And to receive a man’s attentions.
“Yea, but look at her. I begged my parents to wait, to not marry you to a small child. But, alas, they wished for this alliance as badly as the earl.”
Wolfe turned back with a deepening scowl. Tilting his head, he noted the slight roundness to Ginevra’s features. He felt disgust for his first initial appreciation of her form.
She isn’t slightly curved, he thought in disdain. She is shaped like a child--a thin, willowy child.
“Wolfe,” Robert asserted. Wolfe turned toward his friend, a scowl lining his eyes. Robert continued protectively, “She’s my little sister, my only sister. When I lay dying, she stayed by my bedside. I care for her deeply. Promise me, out of reverence of our friendship, that you’ll be easy with her tomorrow eve. Give me your word that you won’t do the things you’ve done with others. She’s just a child, not a maidservant whore. She knows little if anything about being in a man’s bed.”
Wolfe felt his stomach lurch in disgust. Robert’s words didn’t offend him, for they always spoke freely to the other. All the same, they did disturb him greatly. He’d momentarily forgotten that tomorrow he was to wed with the girl-child. His face tightened in thought. He couldn’t force himself on Ginevra. The closer she came to him, the more he could pick out her childish features. He searched her for them. His mind added them to her when he couldn’t find enough. And then, his mind stopped, for her eyes found him.
Ginevra’s gaze narrowed slightly, the smile wavered on her lips but stayed intact. Wolfe realized with amazement that she glared at him, but no one else seemed to notice it. The image of Sarra flitted guiltily through his brain. He almost succeeded in convincing himself that Ginevra hadn’t been the one on the roof. Then, glancing at Robert as the man cleared his throat expectantly, Wolfe realized the man awaited an answer.
“Rest your mind, friend. I won’t touch her until she is of age to be bedded, and when that day comes, I’ll treat her as the lady she is.” Wolfe gave his promise gruffly. He thought of her purple hair covered by the veil. Well, she’d kept her promise to try and find a way to hide her tresses of shame. He remembered the matching lock she sent him that now rested abovestairs in his trunk and shivered in repulsion. As children, their dyed hair had been amusing. However, as adults it was unspeakable. Leaning closer to whisper to Robert, he said, “But, don’t tell that the match isn’t consummated. I won’t have my father swinging for my head over it.”
“I owe you, Wolfe,” Robert whispered with a sigh of relief.
Wolfe’s word was binding. Ginevra would never have to face his insatiable appetites. Robert opened his mouth to speak, but there was no time for more words. Wolfe ignored him as he stood to greet his intended.
Ginevra eyed her future husband. He was more handsome that she first thought, elegantly dressed as a nobleman in an overtunic of blue velvet lined with golden buttons over one of the sleeves, which held an attached sweep of material that flowed down from his arm to his elbow. The tunic had slits at the side, showing off his tightly fitted breeches. He searched her face, the gaze becoming so intense it caused her limbs to shake. Strange feelings worked their way to her stomach, feeling much like nerves, yet warmer. A hush fell over the hall and she felt the knights staring at her back. Servants gathered to watch with curious stares.
Vaguely, she heard her brother offer introductions. It was more of a formality for the benefit of the crowd. Smiling through her anger toward Wolfe, Ginevra curtsied graciously.
Wolfe bent at the waist, bowing in return. Then, stepping down from the platform, he offered her his stiff arm. Ginevra shivered at his nearness and the feelings in her stomach only increased. He towered over her. Her heart raced, panicked, sending a chill over her body. She wanted to run, to scream. Her lips parted as she took in deep breaths. The sound of lusty laughter filtered through her mind. It was the sound of his lover, haunting her.
She detected the fine, clean scent of his flesh. His eyes narrowed, watching her expectantly for the brief instant she hesitated. She detected easily the honor and duty in him. It was all he cared about. It was the only reason he stood before her now. Her gaze darted away from him. Having no choice, she placed her fingers on his arm. An obscure jolt filtered throughou
t her skin. She frowned, irritated by the unfamiliar sensations as they made their way over her. Without a word, Wolfe led Ginevra to her seat.
Wolfe was polite enough to place her by her brother. Robert smiled kindly at her and leaned over to squeeze her chilled hand. She smiled back weakly, unable to speak. Immediately, the hall began to dine. Murmurs of talk and then louder bolts of laughter drifted around them as the men jested in merriment at the lower tables. Ginevra sighed in relief. The attention was once again off of her. Almost shy, she turned to look at Wolfe. His eyes were dark as he acknowledged her attention.
“M’lord,” Ginevra asked, her throat tight as she tried to force the word. When he raised his eyebrow in question, she stammered weakly, “Would you like me to pour your drink?”
“The servants have already seen to it,” he answered a bit too harshly. When she paled in horror, feeling like an idiot, he softened his tone, “But thank you for the thought.”
Ginevra nodded and refused to speak to him again. Glancing over at her mother, who kept a sharp eye on her every move, she saw Lady Jayne nod in approval. She turned to the trencher laid before her and pushed a potato around her plate with a spoon. Glancing at Wolfe, she saw that he also had his own dish. It was odd, that. They should’ve been forced to share their meal as was customary. Dropping her spoon, she picked up her goblet and took a sip of elderberry wine. It tasted strange and she forced herself to swallow. She couldn’t eat. Her fingers shook. Blind hatred built in her chest, as she heard the echo of the maid’s laughter in her head.
Ginevra looked sharply over the gathered hall and couldn’t help but wonder which of the maids had been in his arms. There were several in the keep to choose from. A tall, willowy redhead with skin the color of cream. A short, plump brunette with curls blustering from her small head in disarray. Even an extremely large blonde Viking woman, who was twice her intended’s age, didn’t escape Ginevra’s bitter scrutiny. When none returned her bold stares, she sighed in frustration.
Ginevra turned back to her trencher purposefully keeping her eyes away from her husband-to-be, though she longed to study him. She caught a glimpse of his strong hand as he reached to scoop up a potato. Robert leaned to her and she felt his hand on her arm. She smiled slightly at her brother, not really hearing what he said but answering nonetheless.
“I trust your journey was well, m’lady,” Wolfe asserted politely when he caught her eyes wandering to his face. Another emotion warred with the bitterness inside her at the sound of his voice. When he looked at her, she felt as if the world stopped.
“Pleasant enough, m’lord,” she answered tersely. She allowed a glare to surface in her eyes.
Stiffly, Wolfe nodded and turned away from her. Ginevra shivered. Outside, she remained calm. Inside, she wept. As she forced herself to make a great show of eating, Wolfe didn’t deign to speak to her again.
Not knowing what led her feet past her tower bedchamber to the roof, Ginevra continued to climb. Hesitating briefly by the opening to the platform, her ears strained against the night wind. Above her was naught but silence and she slumped her shoulders in relief. Unmindful of the frosty current of air that churned around her tunic gown, she crossed bravely over the stone to the edge. This time her limbs didn’t tremble as she walked over the great height.
The moon was full and shone brightly over the land. Her fingers strayed to the battlements to press along the unforgiving stone. For a moment, she wished it would crumble and take her with it. The wind picked up, blowing the circlet of gold from her head. With a gasp, she watched it fly away. But too quickly it was gone.
With a disdainful shake of her head, she gripped the hairpiece on her long tresses and yanked it from the locks. Then, pulling deftly at the comb that bound her hair to the nape of her neck, she defiantly ripped it out. Instantly, her hair flew about her in the wind. She reached out her hands and took a cleansing breath, leaning into the battlements for support. The short veil slipped from her fingers to fly over the night. She let it go, not caring if the headpiece was ever recovered. Then, with an impish smirk, she let go of the fitted hood. For a moment, the freedom of night overwhelmed her senses and she grinned recklessly at the moon.
The freedom was short-lived.
Ginevra gasped in surprise as a hand darted from the darkness to clasp her outstretched wrist. Another firmly wrapped about her waist. Burning from the overly familiar hold, she didn’t think to fight the powerful fire that scorched her within her captor’s touch. The force of the grip swung her around so she landed roughly in the folds of a warmly cloaked chest. Her forearms came up against rigidly unforgiving muscles, her chin bounced off a linen clad chest. His body molded to hers and she felt him all along her form. Jolting to her senses with feminine alarm, she pushed frantically at the immobile chest.
Wolfe grunted, not expecting her to fight him. He was used to pushing women from him, not fighting to keep them near. His grip loosened some and with a deft movement she slipped from his arms. Her wide emerald eyes flashed with fright. Quickly she backed away, stumbling toward the edge. Her hand flew out to stop him from following her.
Instinctively, his hand shot out to keep her from plunging over the side of the tower as she tumbled backward. Ginevra gasped in panic, her eyes rounding in shock, as her upper torso dangled over the side. Her honeyed locks flew about her shoulders, crashing forward to hide her face, as she reached for him to pull her to safety.
For a moment, Wolfe gripped her, stunned by the beauty of her young features swept in a sea of moonlit hair. She looked mythical in the moonlight, like an angel he had unwittingly caught. Coming to his senses, he yanked her once more into the safe folds of his chest and held her steadily against him. Her slender shoulders shook underneath his palms and her heart beat like that of a captured bird’s.
Ginevra nestled into him. His fingers trembled as he smoothed back the beauty of her golden hair, but Wolfe denied them the pleasure of threading into the long locks. Already he smelled the scent of lavender and rosemary coming from her and he could feel the slight silken strands, as they wrapped around him in an embrace she would never willingly give.
Wolfe looked down. Framed in moonlight, she looked like a grown woman. Solemn, violent eyes stared back at him through glittering green. Her mouth turned into a disapproving frown as she jerked to be let go.
But you’re not a woman, he reminded himself regretfully, hearing Robert’s words in his head. He relinquished his hold on her slender body, afraid of what he would do if he kept her too close.
“What are you doing?” she heaved in breathlessness when she was released from his arms. It took her a moment to step away. When her feet were steadied on the stone, she swatted needlessly at his hand. “Are you trying to kill me? Not wanting to wed me is one thing, but to push me from the tower! Are you mad?”
“You were going to jump,” he defended irritably. Fire flew from his eyes as he glared back at her. Placing his hands on his hips, he dared her to defy him. She did so, easily. He ignored the self-reproach in his stomach, as his gaze flitted longingly to her pouting lips. “I saved you!”
“Jump?” Her tone fell incredulously over him and her jaw dropped in amazement. Looking at him as if he were demented, she said carefully, “Are you daft? Why would I jump? I have no wish for death. It’s a feeble-minded out.”
“But, you threw your headpiece over.” He motioned to the side of the tower. His words lacked conviction as her eyebrow arched on her forehead. “And your arms were widespread.”
“I hate that headpiece my mother makes me wear and I was feeling the wind!” she spat back in girlish defiance. She shook her head as she wrinkled her nose at him in disgust. Then, warily she looked over his shoulder. Wolfe saw her searching the night. There was no need. They were alone. Waving her hand in dismissal, she curtsied. “I’m sorry, m’lord. I didn’t realize this roof was for your own personal--what have you.”
With a stiff nod and a snarl, she tried to skirt past him. His hand
shot out, catching her before she could walk away. His grip bit into the tender flesh of her upper arm. Ginevra moaned in surprise. Turning defiantly to him, her eyes burned him with their hatred.
“Unhand me!”
“Mind your tone, woman,” he hissed back.
Suddenly, she laughed. It was a cruel sound, as she shook her head at him. “You are not my husband yet. I can still deny you. If you remember, you kissed my cheek when I was a babe. If I wanted to I could deny this marriage.”
His gut tensed. She wouldn’t dare to deny him, would she? He knew that the kiss alone was not enough to call off the betrothal. But, if she were to contest it, it would be a blight on their family’s names and an embarrassment to all involved.
“Do you forget that we rectified that little matter when last we met?” If he looked carefully at her eyes, he could still see the little wood sprite of a girl she had been.
“There were no witnesses,” she answered with a clever tilt to her head. “Who is to say you didn’t imagine it? For it didn’t affect me at all, m’lord. I vaguely recall aught about you. In fact, I’ve not thought of you more than once or twice over the years.”
Wolfe’s gaze dropped to her lips as she spoke, entranced. Chuckling, he drawled sarcastically, “I see you were able to fix your hair, but I’m sorry about your face. Mayhap in time it will still go away.”
Ginevra gasped at the deliberate insult. Her hand automatically flew to touch her cheek. Wolfe frowned as he pretended to study her. Tears came to her eyes but she blinked them back. Wolfe pretended not to notice.
“That is it!” Her hurt made her word come out in a rage. “I’m calling this farce of a wedding off. Did you honestly believe I’d do myself to death over you? You don’t want me and I certainly have never wanted to wed with you. There is naught--”
Emerald Knight Page 6
