Ronan's Bride

by Gayle Eden

  Ronan's Bride

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  RONAN'S BRIDE

  GAYLE EDEN

  Copyright © 2009-2012 Gayle Eden (reissued 2012)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The right of Gayle Eden to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First E-book Edition 2009

  First Edition

  All characters in this publication are purely fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published by Air Castle Books at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition

  Chapter One

  Sefare stood atop the ancient Keep, her aqua eyes peering beyond the thick forest and hills, to the road winding up toward the castle. Ronan of Duhamel, the Crimson Knight, rode astride his white destrier, before two lines of armored guards, knights, plainer clothed males, and what appeared to be wagons of goods. No doubt, armor and weapons, and the last few, people in the one cart pulled by a team of oxen.

  He apparently survived the judicial duel and melee, and more importantly, was obviously cleared of both treason and whatever other crimes one faces for escaping the tower and setting on a path of righteous vengeance.

  Sefare thought of what her friend Illara had said of Ronan, her brother in law. A man like her husband, Pagan, called the Black Knight, the beast of Northumberland. Of Ronan, she confided; he is that armor and that mask, inside and out. He has a heart for his brother, mayhap for me, but be warned, my friend, be aware, that Ronan is the flame left from the fire that burned his home, killed his kin, and he is the red blood that they shed. He is in some ways, the blood scourged from himself once captured, and of himself and Pagan in the tower. The steel—the armor, its red emblazon, is as skin to him.

  Sefare rubbed her arms. They were too far away to see ought but the highest towers of the old castle. A mild wind ruffled her blond hair, shorn to her nape and curling around her face now, as Ronan had ordered her to disguise herself before sending her from Dunnewicke that night.

  This man, the Crimson Knight, the man who lived half his life under another name to exact vengeance, justice for himself and his family, was her husband. A man, who, like his brother, survived hell but even apparently absolved, could not show his face to the world. He was a stranger to Sefare.

  * * * *

  Ronan of Duhamel had not sent his bride to his richest castle. Nay, he had sent her to a virtual fortress—a rugged stronghold with thick towering walls of dark gray stone. An ancient keep that had seen its share of sieges and survived them.

  Sefare, the former widow of the Italian Count, Baiardo di Matteo, a cruel man some years her senior—was so weary and ragged from the hard riding the guards did to reach it, that she hadn’t cared what it was they brought her to. It had been pitch dark upon arriving, and it was not until morning that she had viewed the massive old castle as a whole.

  It was nothing like the chateaus and fortress’ she had lived in before. It reminded her of some seasoned and indestructible old knight—a giant looking down on the budding and thickening forests around its outer defense walls, daring anyone to challenge it.

  For a woman of petite size, its rugged exterior, high beam ceilings, and heavy interior, was quite a sight. The interior stairs were carved out of sheer rock, and no delicate furnishings or trappings relieved the heavy iron candelabras, massive chairs and benches. The archways and warrens leading to chambers and hidden quarters, halls and such, were wide enough for an army to pass through.

  She swiftly gathered it was more a military bastion than home, and soon discovered from a few of her husband’s knights, that it had been used as both a prison and a stronghold for standing against enemies. The impregnable appearance gave her no reason to doubt this truth. From the moat to the highest towers, and slits or murder holes, with their sliding iron shutters, it would keep a prisoner in, or enemy out. There was an entire sub chamber and tunnels, which she had no desire to explore, fearing to come upon forgotten prisoners—or un-ransomed corpses. Her husband certainly had chosen a place no one would expect her to dwell in.

  Her husband…

  That phrase connected to Ronan of Duhamel, was a strange one for Sefare. He’d wed her under duress—for her protection, and likely, because his brother Pagan de Chevel, ask it of him. He’d wed her to protect her against her husband’s uncle, Guardi, who wished to force her back to Italy—to have her and her wealth, to visit more of that dominating family’s possessive cruelty on her…

  When she had stood in the chapel at Dunnewicke and let her friend Illara talk her into uniting with Ronan, who was, like his brother, famous for his prowess on the battlefield and at Tourneys…terribly intimidating—known from England, Spain, to Italy, and the holy land, as the Crimson Knight, Sefare had been thinking only of her freedom.

  That very eve, all the reasons he and his brother had lived most of their lives under false names, on vengeance toward their enemies, for absolution of their family—slaughtered, falsely accused of treason… was about to culminate in a life or death duel.

  Sefare had barely an hour to hear the whole of the story, particularly the part of why the brothers were cloaked and masked always—a tale filled with torment and loss, and of amazing courage and bravery.

  She had come to England and offered those knights who were pledged to her, for the judicial duel at Dunnewicke, on their behalf. And Illara, wed to Ronan’s brother, was also in need of defense for murder, for killing a baron who was a breath from killing Pagan on the tourney field.

  Yet everything happened too quick, even the information Illara had given her was rushed. Her introduction to Ronan was rushed—if one could call his hostile hearing of her need for his help, that. And, the wedding, her being secreted from Dunnewicke hasty…

  It was only when she had arrived here, rested, and began the uncertain wait with Ronan’s men—to discover if they all survived the duel and melee and were absolved, that what she had been told began to sink in.

  Sefare had her own troubles, her own uncertainties. She did not think it entirely selfish to be preoccupied with them then; considering she had had good reason to believe her dead husband’s uncle was dangerous.

  There was much on her mind aside the fact that she did not know if this husband would live or die in the melee. It helped that legally she was his bride. Simply Lady Sefare, wife of a knight, although that complex past of his, the one kept hidden, made him aristocracy through bloodlines on his mother’s side. He was still in essence, Lord Ronan, through his fifes. Landed gentry, even if over half went to the king, before the Tourney, to pay fines, to bribe, to play the well-known game of favor. At the very least, to beg fairness, a fair chance to absolve themselves and clear their family names.

  His wealth was gained from rich prizes at the tourney, from hiring his sword, and carefully playing those who took part in betraying his family years earlier, until their lands were mortgaged to him, their rents and incomes and rich fields, their goods, in his possession. How much of that he sent to the king and forfeited, she did not know, but Illara hinted it was substantial.

  The hasty wedding had only meant to Sefare, at the time
, that she could not be forced back to Italy. That her husband’s uncle, had no claim on her. It had only meant—freedom.

  She had forfeited what her husband had left her—wanted nothing of his nor that family. She had some wealth of her own, which she and those knights who had fled with her, had taken with them. Having been so long in the grip of her husband’s hand, fleeing had become an obsessive goal, after his death.

  Illara’s plea for her to come to Dunnewicke with any help had reached her at the right time. She could not have guessed that she would find herself wed, disguised and spirited off again—as Ronan insisted, for her own safety.

  Many mornings since, as now, she stood atop the old castle, peering into the distance, beyond the forests and hills—things began to sink into her mind about the knight she had wed.

  The horrors of his boyhood and past, the scars that were the reason he wore a mask—the burning for vengeance and justice. His ruthless skill that brought him renowned, as the Crimson Knight, which, he ate and breathed for many years.

  Aye, Sefare thought too, of those hard as steel gray eyes that pierced her upon meeting. When he had growled at what he had thought was her flinching from him. Apparently, because of the mask and scars. When he had snarled at her, he said he’d wished no bride, and as he put it emphatically, not one who looked as she did.

  He had towered above her scant five feet height by a foot, and with a knight’s powerful build and brawn. With that mask, which left only eyes and the downward U exposing lips and chin exposed, it had given her pause. Not enough to back out of her only chance at freedom, but enough to promise him, he could put her away, should he live, or that she would do a wife’s duty and ask nothing further of him, than the protection of his name.

  What she could see of him, like his brother, was long raven hair, which he twined and corded into a rope down his broad back. What she remembered were those harsh gray eyes, like a sharpened blade of a sword. His knight’s body and frame was of muscled, long legs, broad shoulders, and chest. The kind of warrior’s brawn that could wield a broadsword and fight for days…

  Her attractiveness seemed mocking to him, as if a deliberate insult.

  She was not vain, and had too at times past, cursed what others considered her beauty. She knew it was why Baiardo had wed her, why the uncle wanted her. Her slight stature and fairness was unfortunately some idyllic picture of defenseless and saintly womanhood. It was also, why some laughed and snorted when she tried to point out, that like Illara, she had been trained to fight by Lord John, Illara’s father. She had a learned mind, educated by Ysoria, Illara’s mother, who taught most of the young females, daughters and wives of knights in that country. She had other assets, other skills—and she once… had dreams.

  To her dead husband, she had needed no assets save her looks. So long as she gowned herself richly and wore her jewels in company, was subservient to himself and his relatives. When she rebelled at being displayed, he had to restrain her into submission for his beatings, whippings—and for his sexual appetites in private, because she detested his brutal assaults.

  The entire di Matteo family was a polished and sparkling jewel on the surface. In private, the men ruled their females through corporal discipline, as they viewed it, and yet arrogantly displaying their attractiveness and riches in public. For someone like Sefare, loved as a child, able to fight, given the chance, it was a nightmare existence.

  Her small stature was only one disadvantage against her husband, who was a warrior and much older and larger. She had been cut off from her parents too, who had remained in the Holy land, eventually dying there.

  In a large noble Di Matteo family, where the females seemed to fully expect her to obey, to submit to anything, to be thankful to be a Countess and chosen—she’d found herself trapped. Soon, simply surviving became uppermost.

  Freedom… became an obsession.

  There was her half-brother, Mshai who had come to England and mysteriously vanished amid circumstance that she half suspected the Count had traitorously maneuvered. Yet essentially, she had been alone.

  Perhaps, only her friend Illara, who had shared that childhood and young girlhood in Egypt, their freedoms, love and joy, would understand what enduring had been like.

  When the Count died in battle, still suffering from his beating the night he had departed, Sefare had known she must swiftly flee. It was only when his young uncle had begun to dominate her, to hint at his plans for her, that she had openly rebelled.

  Locking her in her chambers had not gained him acquiescence. Moreover, having played passive to survive her existence with the Count, he had thought her subdued and like the rest of the females. His rage at her defiance was immeasurable. She knew he would force her. He had the power to do as he pleased, to arrange whatever scheme he needed to. If she did not flee, rape was another means the males employed to strip the females of any notion they were anything more than possessions.

  Sefare hoped that Guardi would be satisfied with her giving up her widow’s rights to any holdings or possessions. She had writ that on the wedding night and given it to the priest for delivering. She prayed that would be enough. That, and the fact that she was the wife of Ronan of Duhamel now. A knight even he would have heard of.

  If—Ronan decided to keep her.

  She chewed her lip, hearing the small number of sentry who had dwelled at the castle, releasing the chains of the drawbridge. She remembered Ronan had snarled too, that he did not beat women.

  That at least was a comfort.

  A sudden bitter smile turned her soft pink lips darker. She considered the irony of her own armor. Would to God that her husband had scarred her face instead of her back, she would have been shunned, as flawed. Which was a blessing compared to the other. There were times she would rather he had killed her and be done with it, rather than strip from her all the dignity, pride—and romantic dreams, she’d came to him with.

  The woman who remained was too fragmented for Sefare to be at peace with, to even recognize. Her aversions, her fears, her mistrust of intimacies, were abhorrent to her and not natural. However, they were intertwined, because of her years wed to the Count.

  Straightening her shoulders, drawing in a deep, steady, breath, Sefare echoed one thought in her mind. She had made a bargain and Ronan had given her his name, a new life, and perhaps some semblance of freedom. Whether he intended to live through that duel, to see her again or not, he had done the first kindness she had known in many years. A selfless act, in spite of his fierceness. If he sent her away, she was sure t’would be in safety. If he kept her, she was certain it was because she had vowed to fill the role of wife—dutifully—within the limits of his not desiring her to start with, resenting her, likely. And, her own raw mistrust.

  It was all unknown, all too uncertain, and mostly supposition on her part. He may not beat women, but he resented her for several reasons and had been fierce in it.

  She turned as the party drew closer. Sefare headed below to the solar and bedchambers. She would await his decision with outward calm, because again she was alone in life. Her knights, upon their marriage, were oathed to Ronan.

  As she and her husband were in essence strangers, she could hope on his sense of honor. However, as a woman who experienced subjugation on the surface, she would not count on it. At one time, the word honor meant everything idealistic and wonderful—thanks to Lord John and those, she had admired. However, reality was seldom a reflection of that.

  Chapter Two

  Ronan crossed the drawbridge slightly ahead of his party, with Ualtar, the Celt, beside him. They had camped early the night before, having collected men and women along the way to employ at the castle. He gave Ualtar the task of seeing them assigned according to their skills whenever they arrived, from the grooms to the guards, Ualtar would act as his man-at-arms cum steward.

  Nodding to the guards, he had sent with Sefare, who greeted him stationed at the bridge. Ronan glanced at Ualtar. The man’s darkness and uniq
ue markings set him apart as much as his accents and deadly skill with weapons; and his black hair braided in thin strips, the swirls and markings on his upper arms.

  The Celt’s wrists were banded with leather cuffs and leather across his palm, as he was apt to fight with short axe as much as sword. Handsome in a hard and rugged manner, he also had a pierced ear and nostril. He’d been with Ronan and Pagan so long, long enough to have saved their lives and vise versa, that Ronan and he had the same uncanny way of communicating without words, as Ronan shared with Pagan.

  He was very much aware that his brother, Pagan, had asked Ualtar to go with him—but both were aware that the Celt, with his rebel heart and soul, was too fiercely independent to do anything or stay with anyone he did not want to. All of their men were in a sense, free, paid well but gathered over the years from the outcasts, outlawed in various countries, and hardest of the most hardened spirits.

  Thus as they reached the keep, and men held the warhorses reins as they dismounted, Ronan knew the Celt lingered whilst the courtyard filled with the people and wagons, because Ualtar was not letting go of an argument they had the night before.

  Removing his helm, running his hand down the ties of his ever-present facemask, out of habit, Ronan welcomed the spring air on his uncovered head and would be glad to bathe and remove his armor. He had deliberately worn it because he recognized word of whom he and Pagan really were had already spread across the land. He did not want anyone to assume that the Black Beast of Northumberland and the Crimson Knight weren’t those same brothers who earned their fame through battle and tourney—nor did he mean them to imagine that winning absolution for those unjustly accused and killed, was going to suddenly erase their own torment.

  There were still those who wished to best them as champions. Those who would see them murdered, because they had named the betrayers to the king. There would be those who paid well to see both he and Pagan truly dead.