“Is she not a beauty?”
“Indeed, my lord, words fail me.”
Lord Throckton chuckled with pride and continued through the assembly like a horse through high grass.
Blaidd looked at the dais again—and got a second, even stronger jolt of shock that made him check his step.
What the devil was that wench doing seated at the high table? Wasn’t she a servant? This meant she couldn’t be, and if she wasn’t, what the devil was she? What had she been doing at the gate?
Perhaps she was a friend of Lady Laelia’s, and her interrogation of him had been her idea of a joke.
But then why would she be seated while Lord Throckton still stood?
The woman’s blue-eyed gaze locked on to him, and even from this distance, he could tell that she was amused by his surprise. As she continued to regard him with that mocking merriment, energy and determination fairly hummed in Blaidd’s veins. Whoever she was, and whatever she thought she was doing, she was going to rue the day she’d made Sir Blaidd Morgan feel like a fool.
Lord Throckton reached the dais ahead of him and took the blond beauty’s hand, leading her a little forward. “This is my daughter, Lady Laelia. Laelia, this is Sir Blaidd Morgan, from the king’s court.”
The lady didn’t raise her head or her eyes—a blessed change from being looked at as if he were a trained bear sent solely for someone’s amusement, Blaidd decided.
He bowed low and took her right hand, as limp and cool as a fish in a basket, and brought it to his lips to kiss. “My lady, reports of your beauty don’t begin to do you justice,” he said as he straightened.
It was an easy, unoriginal compliment. Usually he enjoyed exerting himself for a lady’s good regard, especially a beautiful one, but it must be the presence of that insolent wench that made his mind incapable of coming up with better flattery.
“You’re most welcome to our hall,” Lady Laelia replied, raising grass-green eyes to look at him, her tone high-pitched and breathless, like a little girl’s. Or a woman trying to sound younger than she was.
He couldn’t remember anybody ever saying how old Lady Laelia was.
The brown-haired young woman loudly—and rudely—cleared her throat. Was she some sort of mad relative? That would explain her place, and her bizarre behavior.
Lord Throckton’s thick gray brows lowered and he frowned as he looked at her. “Sir Blaidd, this is Rebecca. My other daughter.”
Daughter?
No one had ever mentioned that Lord Throckton had another daughter, perhaps because she wasn’t as beautiful as her sister, and was decidedly insolent.
Her lack of beauty might explain her rudeness, though. Envy may have twisted her into a bitter shrew.
“What, no compliment for me, Sir Blaidd?” Lady Rebecca asked as she tilted her head and gave him a merry smile. “Granted, I’m no match for Laelia, but aren’t all you courtiers trained in flattery? Surely you won’t disappoint me.”
Rising to the challenge, Blaidd laid his hand over his heart and let his voice drop to the low, sultry tone he usually reserved for a clandestine rendezvous. “Far be it from me to disappoint a lady, in anything.”
He strode toward her, reached out, took her hand and lifted it to his lips. He pressed a gentle kiss upon her knuckles, then raised his eyes to regard her. “You, my lady, are the most surprising young woman I have ever met.”
Her cheeks flushing, she tugged her hand away. “Hardly a compliment, sir knight. I’m not impressed.”
He lifted the corners of his mouth in the sort of lazy smile he gave a woman after they had made love. “I assure you, a man likes to be surprised by a woman, and a truly surprising woman is a very rare creature.”
For the briefest of moments, her eyes widened in shock, and he wanted to shout with triumph.
Then her eyes flashed with that scornful fire that was becoming familiar. “Creature?” she demanded. “Is that what women are to you—creatures?”
He tensed and became the knight who had won many tournaments. “Women who would make a mockery of a stranger and a guest are creatures to me, yes.”
“Becca, I think we’re heard quite enough from you at the moment,” Lord Throckton declared. He strode past her and sat in his thronelike chair. “This man is our guest and should be treated accordingly.”
She turned away from Blaidd to address her father. “I’m treating him as I treat all the men who come to see Laelia.”
The way Lady Laelia’s lips turned down seemed to confirm that.
“Damn it, Becca, that’s the trouble! When will you learn to behave? Why can’t you be more like your sister?”
“Because I am not my sister?”
“You know what I mean!” Throckton gestured at the seat to his right. “Sit down, Sir Blaidd, sit down. Don’t mind Rebecca. Where’s the damn priest? Let’s have grace.”
Wondering if this sort of exchange occurred frequently, and deciding that it probably did, if they would speak that way in front of a stranger, Blaidd did as he was told, taking the place accorded to honored guests. That also put him between Lord Throckton and Lady Laelia. Lady Rebecca was to her father’s left and, miraculously, once the grace was said, she seemed content to be silent.
Or maybe it was the fact that the conversation, such as it was, consisted of her father’s descriptions of the vast array of suitors who had sought Lady Laelia’s hand. Whenever there was a lull in the recitation, Laelia stayed silent or answered Blaidd’s questions as briefly as possible, no matter how he exerted himself to be charming.
If somebody were to tell him this place was bewitched and everything he did had the opposite effect than usual—repelling rather than attracting a woman—he could believe it. On the other hand, he had to stay at Throckton Castle for some time, so if courting the lady was an uphill climb, it would give him a good excuse to linger.
He looked around the hall for Trev and found him engaged in conversation with a serving maid who looked a little younger than the squire. She had a jug of wine balanced on her hip and swayed while winding a lock of ruddy-brown hair around her finger.
Ah, the universal sign of feminine interest. Perhaps a reminder of their duties as guests wouldn’t be amiss. And perhaps it would have been better if he’d come here alone, Blaidd thought.
“Then I sent that young buck packing,” Lord Throckton declared, interrupting his musings. The man’s voice was slurred from the copious amount of wine that seemed necessary to keep his throat lubricated for the long enumeration. “That was the last of them till you.”
That meant his recitation must be at an end, thank God, Blaidd realized as he turned to his host with a smile pasted on his face.
Lord Throckton put his broad hands on the table and heaved himself to his feet. Blaidd started to rise, too, but Lord Throckton waved him back down. “Just off to the garderobe. That French wine goes right through my English guts.” He gave Blaidd a rather sodden wink. “But it tastes too good not to drink it.”
With that, he made his way out of the hall, leaving only an empty chair between Blaidd and Lady Rebecca.
He couldn’t resist the temptation. “So, my lady,” he said to her, “do you often play castle guard?”
She regarded him steadily, obviously not the least embarrassed by his question. “No, sir knight.”
“But today you thought to amuse yourself at my expense?”
“Not only myself. The garrison enjoyed it, too. I’m sorry you didn’t see the humor in it.”
He didn’t believe she was sorry at all. “Nobody likes to be made a fool of.”
“No, and handsome young knights with all the world at their feet most of all. But humility is good for the soul, is it not, sir?”
“Yes, it is. It’s a pity you don’t possess that quality yourself.”
She reared back slightly. “How can you say that? Of course I’m humble. How could I not be, when I must compare myself to my sister every day?”
“What else could it be
but arrogance to think you have the right to make a knight play the fool?”
“If I am arrogant, what are you—a man who smiles at every woman he meets as if she must be fairly salivating with desire for him?”
“Becca!” Lady Laelia gasped.
Blaidd had forgotten she was there. “It’s all right, my lady,” he assured her. “I take no offense.”
Nevertheless, Lady Laelia’s expression hardened and her lips thinned. No soft and gentle maiden was she now; she was at war. He had seen women at such battles often enough to recognize the signs.
“If you’re so disposed to talk, sister,” she said through clenched teeth, “why don’t you tell him about the time you fell out of the apple tree?”
Lady Rebecca flushed as her eyes flashed with anger. Blaidd suddenly had the sensation that he was caught between two enemy lines, without even a dagger to fight with.
“Would you like to hear that story, Sir Blaidd?” Lady Rebecca asked with a serenity distinctly at odds with the look in her eyes. “It’s really terribly amusing.”
Blaidd was quite sure it was anything but. “I think I have listened to enough stories for tonight. May we have some music instead?”
Lady Rebecca continued to regard him with her steadfast and bold gaze. “I’ve heard that Welshmen are excellent singers. Perhaps you would prove the point, sir knight?”
“He’s a noble guest, not some troubadour,” Lady Laelia protested.
Blaidd gave them both a friendly smile to show he took no offense. “It’s true that most Welshman can sing, something we are justly proud of. If you wish to hear my humble attempt at a ballad, I’ll be happy to oblige you.”
Lord Throckton came staggering back and threw himself into his chair. He looked from one daughter to the other, and his eyes narrowed. “What’s been going on?”
“Becca has—”
“Been my usual annoying self,” she interrupted. “Sir Blaidd has just offered to sing us a Welsh ballad.”
“Has he now?” Lord Throckton cried, ignoring the first part of her comments. “Wonderful! I’ve always wanted to hear a Welshman sing. But before that, what do you say to some dancing?” He shouted at the young serving woman Trev had been talking to. “Meg, fetch Rebecca’s harp! Bran, Tom, take down the tables!”
It became too noisy for conversation as Meg disappeared up the stairs leading to the household apartments. The two male servants the lord had addressed quickly marshaled some others to help them take down the tables. The high table they would leave for last.
“Your daughter plays the harp?” Blaidd asked when the worst of the noise abated.
“Aye, and well, too.” Lord Throckton leaned toward Laelia, forcing Blaidd back in his chair. “But not so well as my Laelia dances!”
That explained the urgency to have dancing. The man wanted his daughter’s talents on display.
Meg reappeared, bearing a small stringed instrument. The reverent way she gave it to Lady Rebecca suggested that she was particular in its handling, as if it were very valuable. Yet the harp was plain, and although the wood had been polished to a bright sheen, it did not look to be worth much in itself. It must be the value its possessor placed on it that made the servant treat it with so much care.
While Lady Rebecca tuned the instrument, Blaidd rose and held out his hand to Laelia. She limply placed hers in his and allowed him to lead her to the cleared space.
Then Lady Rebecca began to play.
How she played! Her fingers flew along the strings, coaxing out marvelous sounds and quick rhythms perfect for a round dance. As she played, she bent over the instrument, swaying, lost in the music with the true joy of the naturally gifted.
If she were in Wales, she would be far more valued than Lady Laelia for her talent. As for Lady Laelia’s dancing, it was excellent, but she moved with all the joy of a soldier on a long forced march.
The dance came to an end and, applauding enthusiastically, Blaidd left Lady Laelia and approached her sister. “That was wonderful, my lady. You play very well indeed. If you dance as well as you play, you would astonish even the court. I hope you will dance next with me.”
Instead of being pleased, Lady Rebecca looked as if she’d like to strike him dead on the spot. She slowly got to her feet, clutching her harp so tightly her knuckles whitened. “If you will excuse me, Sir Blaidd, I’m going to retire.”
Then she limped out of the hall.
Chapter Three
Slipping into the cool darkness of the chapel was like diving into the river at night, Becca reflected as she closed the heavy door behind her. Before her accident, during the warm summer months, she would sometimes sneak out of the castle for a night dip in the pond below the mill.
That sort of risky escapade had ended with the tumble out of the tree.
Putting those happier, carefree days from her mind, Becca moved forward slowly, one hand against the cold stone wall to guide her steps, the hem of her garments slapping against her booted ankles and making small sounds in the stillness.
The air smelled of damp and incense, and a single votive candle burned in a niche holding a statue of the Blessed Virgin. Weak shafts of moonlight penetrated the narrow windows, and one feeble beam illuminated the altar.
Becca knelt before it, the stones hard and cold and unyielding, and pressed her hands together.
“Dear Father in Heaven,” she prayed, “let it be a fine day tomorrow, so that I may ride out. Let me leave the castle for a little while.”
Her voice turned grim. “If I can’t, grant me the grace to guard my tongue and not say hateful things I regret the moment they leave my lips. Help me not to be jealous of Laelia, Father. She can’t help it if she is beautiful and I’m not. Help me to overcome my anger and bitterness because I can’t hope to have a suitor like…”
She drew a deep breath and her knuckles whitened. “To have any man want me,” she corrected. “I don’t want to make people hate me but to have yet another knight ride up to our gate seeking Laelia and to know that it will never be thus for me is getting so hard to bear!” Her voice began to rise again with her rancor. “And when such a man smiles so, and has a voice that makes me feel like I’m wrapped in a velvet cloak and cradled in his arms… When the merest touch of his lips to my hand heats my blood near to boiling—”
Her breath caught and, ashamed, she bowed her head. “Oh, God, take away these lustful thoughts and feelings! Please, God, let me accept my fate and be quiet.”
In the silence following her fervent plea, she heard the chapel door creak open. Then the dull thud as it closed.
Startled, she tried to stand quickly despite her twisted and shortened leg, which had not healed properly and never would. A spasm of pain racked her at the sudden motion, but she pressed her lips together to make no sound as she cautiously continued to rise. Turning, she swiftly searched the small building.
A man stood silhouetted against the window to her left. There could be no mistaking who it was; no one else in Throckton Castle wore his hair to his shoulders.
Was this God’s idea of a joke, to send her the very man who roused such lust and remorse and bitter jealousy in her while she was at prayer?
It crossed her mind to flee, but her pride simply wouldn’t permit her to hobble from the chapel like a crippled coward. “What do you want, Sir Blaidd?” she demanded, her voice loud in the quiet.
“How did you know who it was?” he inquired as he walked toward her.
She squared her shoulders. “Your hair is very distinctive, in a savage sort of way. And everyone who has ever stayed here and attended chapel knows how that door creaks, and would take care to prevent it if they wanted to enter in secret.”
He came to a halt a few feet away. “I have no need to be secretive. I was looking for my squire and saw you slip in here. I thought it might be a good time to apologize for any offense I’ve caused you.”
He sounded absolutely, completely sincere. Yet he didn’t have to apologize at all, and she
couldn’t think of any other knight who’d stoop to express regret to anyone, let alone her.
“You didn’t know I was crippled,” she said. She decided she could be a little magnanimous, too. “I’m sorry if I upset a guest in my father’s house. In hindsight, it wasn’t the behavior of a lady.”
“What say we begin anew, my lady?”
She made her away around the simple wooden altar that bore a carved wooden crucifix until it was between them, like a defensive wall. “Very well, Sir Blaidd, I agree. We’ll forget my insolence at the gate and your request to dance, and begin again.”
“Excellent!”
He sounded as if he was truly pleased, which would mean he would have been disappointed if she’d refused. That was unexpected. And rather delightful.
Perhaps she was making too much of his apology and enthusiastic tone. Maybe he simply wanted to avoid conflict of any kind while he was a guest of her father’s, which would be wise. “Now that we’ve come to an understanding, Sir Blaidd, you should leave. It isn’t seemly for us to be here alone together.”
“I suppose not. But first, will you answer one question?”
She didn’t see any harm in that, since she could always refuse when she heard what it was. She nodded in agreement.
“Do you play the gatekeeper often, or was that a special welcome?”
“No, not often.” She wasn’t going to admit that she’d watched the knight and his squire riding up to the gatehouse through a loophole after the sentry called out that someone was approaching. She wouldn’t confess that she’d turned to Dobbin and wryly said, “Here comes another one. Let me see if he’s as arrogant as the rest.”
Dobbin had started to protest, but she’d given him a devilish grin and he’d thrown up his hands in surrender.
Sir Blaidd bowed. “Then I’m honored I had at least that much to single me out from the vast horde who’ve come to see your sister.”
“Yes, sir knight, you’re one of many.”
“So you wanted to confront me and take my measure first, before your younger sister. I hope I passed muster, for no doubt your opinion means a great deal to Lady Laelia.”
Margaret Moore - [Warrior 14] Page 3
