Weston’s gaze lingered on her as she proceeded from the gatehouse and onto the frozen road beyond. It was muddy in patches, icy in others, and Amalie found herself dodging those areas as she moved down the road. Weston trudged on beside her, stomping through the mud and ice in his enormous knee-high boots.
He kept looking at her from the corner of his eye, wondering if he had been too harsh with her on the subject of Owyn. When he shouldn’t have cared about her beyond his normal duties as commander of Hedingham, he realized he was concerned about building some manner of acquaintance with the woman and he would never be able to do that with Owyn always around.
She was already attached to the soldier, for good reason, and Weston found that threatening somehow. He had seen her face light up when she had seen Owyn, a smile so radiant that it outshined the sun. It was utterly beautiful. He was aware that he wanted to see that smile as well when she looked at him. He had no idea why, but he did.
Weston and Amalie had no more than a few exchanges between them and those exchanges had been unpleasant more than pleasant. It wasn’t as if Weston knew her personally or deeply, so explaining his attraction to her was more of an instinct than anything else. He couldn’t explain it any more than that.
“With the ground so saturated, perhaps it would be better if we returned to Hedingham for your palfrey,” he suggested.
She leapt over a muddy puddle, took a couple of steps, and leapt over another. “No need,” she said steadily. “I would rather walk.”
He watched her dodge yet another puddle. “You are not walking,” he pointed out. “You are leaping like a deer.”
Skirts and cloak gathered up in both hands, she looked at him as he made leaping motions with his hand. He wriggled his eyebrows to punctuate it. She looked away, repressing the urge to grin at his expression. As irritated as she was with him, it didn’t dull the man’s charm as he wielded it like a sword against her. The more he would thrust, the weaker her parry.
“I am not leaping,” she said as she skipped over a patch of snow.
“Aye, you are. It would be better to return for the horses.”
She shook her head, gesturing on ahead. “We are nearly at the town as it is,” she pointed out the obvious with a series of poorly constructed buildings about fifty feet away. Then she looked at him. “Did you bring money?”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Money?” he repeated. “What for?”
“Because I want to buy things,” she bit her lip, thinking now that she was going to punish him for being so insistent on escorting her. She would spend all of his money, which would assure that he would never insist on escorting her into town again. “As my escort, it is your duty to bring money. Surely you did not expect me to bring money.”
He puckered his lips thoughtfully as he scratched his cheek. “I thought we were going to go walking in the meadows. I did not think I would need my purse for the deer and birds.”
“You are a poor planner.”
“How is that?”
“You should be prepared for anything.”
He eyed her. “I am coming to see that is the truth with you around.”
She couldn’t help the grin that creased her lips as she leapt over another puddle. Weston saw it and he was enchanted. He wanted to keep the momentum going.
“What monumental purchase do you intend to make that I need to bring about an entire treasury?” he asked.
She shrugged coyly, eyes still on the road. “I am not sure yet.”
“Diamond? Rubies?”
“I would not let you off so easily,” she shot back. “Perhaps I wish to buy a small country. What will you do then since you are so poorly prepared?”
He was thrilled that she was responding to his attempts at humor. Rolling his eyes, he muttered as he looked away. “Sell you off to the highest bidder and let some other fool take his chances with your unreasonable demands.”
She snorted. “You had the opportunity to pass me off to Owyn.”
He grinned, meeting her eye. It was the first time they had openly smiled at one another, a bright moment in a week that had been full of desolation and darkness. He was having difficulty believing this was the same woman who had tried to take her life just a few days ago.
“I am sure Owyn would not refuse you,” he said. “But whether or not he has the means to buy you anything you wish is another matter.”
She lifted her eyebrows at him. “And you do?”
He shrugged. “Most knights are not poor, lady,” he said. “It costs a great deal of money to maintain this profession.”
Given that her brother was an earl as well as a knight, she knew that. “Then your family is wealthy?”
He looked away, gazing across the snowy landscape. “Wealthy enough.”
“Where are you from?”
“My family has lived at Netherghyll Castle in Yorkshire for over two hundred years,” he told her. “My grandfather is Baron Cononley, Constable of North Yorkshire and the Northern Dales. He commands a large army.”
“Will you inherit the title?”
“I will.” The conversation had switched to him and he was suddenly very uncomfortable. He didn’t want to speak of himself or his family, not in the least. “I suppose I should return to the castle and collect my purse if you truly wish to go on a purchasing offensive.”
Subject successfully diverted, Amalie grinned, casting him a sidelong glance. “No need,” she said. “The merchants in town know me. They know they will be paid.”
“Ah,” Weston nodded. “I take it you have done this before.”
She wriggled her well-shaped eyebrows. “Not me,” she said. “My brother. He had his favorite merchants. There is a woman in town that makes sticky buns with cinnamon, honey and butter. They are decadent and my brother would often buy out her entire stock.”
He wondered if mention of her brother would bring about bitter memories so he tried to stay away from any mention of him.
“Still,” he said, “I should return to collect my purse.”
She shook her head, leapt over another puddle, and slipped. He caught her before she could hit the ground. When she looked at him in apology, he merely shook his head at her.
“Fortunate for you that my reflexes are fast,” he set her on her feet. “If you will not let me get the horses, will you at least let me carry you so that you will not fall?”
She straightened her cloak. “Absolutely not,” she sniffed, looking around and realizing they were on the edge of the main avenue of the small village. The first thing that caught her eye was the stall with the cinnamon buns and she gathered her skirts with determination. “Come along, de Royans.”
With a lifted eyebrow and a grin, he followed.
In spite of the big snow drifts and extremely muddy avenue, the street was crowded with vendors and customers. People were everywhere conducting business under crisp, sunny skies. Weston followed Amalie across the mud, watching her slide twice before regaining her balance.
He knew it was inevitable that she was going to end up on her arse at some point but he was helpless as long as she so willfully refused his assistance. He wished she wouldn’t refuse him; he was thinking of any excuse he could come across to get her back into his arms. He hadn’t been around her more than a half hour and, already, he was succumbing to the attraction he felt for her. It was growing by the moment.
Weston could smell the cinnamon in the air as he approached the baker’s stall. Amalie was already accepting one of the sticky-sweet buns from the woman, showing more joy than she had exhibited the entire time Weston had known her. She pulled off a piece and popped it in her mouth, groaning with delight as she chewed. Noticing de Royans standing next to her, she offered him the bun.
Weston waved her off. “No, thank you.”
She only held up the bun higher, waving it in his face tauntingly. “You cannot resist.”
Her humor was enchanting but he didn’t crack. “Aye, I can.”
“No, you
cannot. Taste it and you will be enslaved to its delights forever.”
He gave her a half-grin, then. “Then I most certainly will not taste it. I do not wish to be enslaved by a piece of food.”
“Please?”
His grin grew. “Why is it so important that I taste it?”
She shrugged, without a good answer, and lowered the bun. But before she could take another bite, he suddenly grasped her wrist with surely the biggest gloved hand she had ever seen. It covered most of her forearm. He pulled her arm up until the bun met with his mouth. Their eyes met and Amalie watched as he took a big bite of the tasty treat.
Even when he began to chew, their gazes were still locked, an oddly fluid warmth beginning to flow between them. Amalie could feel herself getting sucked in to the dark blue eyes, the excruciatingly handsome features, and for a brief second she allowed herself the weakness of giving in to whatever charm the man radiated. It was a truly delicious sensation.
Before she became too upswept in it, fear and disorientation swept her and she yanked her hand away, averting her gaze nervously. Something about de Royans made her nervous and giddy at the same time and she had no idea how to gracefully deal with it.
Weston saw her reaction but he knew he hadn’t imagined the warmth that had sparked between them just seconds earlier. It was inappropriate, wrong and undesirable, in any fashion, to imagine something more between the two of them. They were two different worlds and philosophies apart. But he was imagining it nonetheless.
“You are correct, my lady,” he said in his deep, sweet voice. “I am now a slave to a piece of bread.”
Even though she wasn’t looking at him, she giggled. “As I have been for several years now,” she turned away from the stall and, with the bun still in her hand, began to move down the avenue. “Do not feel so badly about it, de Royans. Good food has enslaved many a man.”
He watched her lowered head, studying the fall of her hair and the shape of her head.
“Weston,” he said quietly.
She came to a stop in the middle of the mucky road, turning to him curiously. “What did you say?”
His dark blue eyes glittered at her. “My name is Weston,” he said quietly. “I would be honored if you call me by my name, my lady.”
She stared at him, her features washing with confusion. He thought she looked frightened and he was fearful that he had overstepped himself. When she replied, it was carefully worded.
“Although I am flattered, I am not sure it is appropriate,” she said quietly, some of the joy so recently acquired fading from her manner. “I have never heard of a jailor and captive becoming familiar on a first-name basis.”
He lifted an eyebrow, approaching her with his hands coming to rest on his hips. “That is something else we must discuss,” he said. “At no time have I called you a captive. I am not entirely sure where you received that impression.”
Her brow furrowed. “My brother fled because the barons who oppose the king sentenced him to death for his support of Richard,” she pointed out. “I did not flee with him and Bolingbroke confiscated Hedingham. What else am I if I am not a prisoner?”
Weston’s dark blue eyes glittered at her. “A guest,” he said quietly. “To me, you are a guest, my lady. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Can I leave if I wish it?”
He nodded. “I will not stop you. Do you have some place else you wish to go?”
Amalie was surprised by his answer; she hadn’t expected it in the least. “I… I suppose I could go to my mother.”
“Where is your mother?”
“She has her own properties in east Essex. I have not seen her in years.”
“Why not?”
She sighed faintly. “Because my mother does not acknowledge that she bore a daughter,” she said, shrugging. “She has only ever acknowledged my brother as if he is an only child. I was sent to foster when I was three years old, returning to Hedingham two years ago. I am not entirely sure my brother wanted me here but he could not refuse my mother. She did not want me to live with her so she sent me to him. I am the child and sister that no one wants to be burdened with, apparently.”
It seemed like a sad tale, Weston thought, but he didn’t comment. He was coming to feel more and more pity for the woman who had not known much kindness in life. In a sense, he felt akin to her because their family ties were much the same; parents they did not bond with, general unhappiness, and then the added insult of an attack by a man who was supposed to show her respect based simply on the chivalric code. Weston’s mood dampened, thinking of her story that seemed to grow darker by the moment.
Before he could reply, however, the sounds of horses and men suddenly distracted him and he turned to see several armed men on horseback escorting an expensive carriage.
And it was heading right for them.
Chapter Six
The soldiers escorting the carriage were well-armed and clad in expensive tunics bearing colors of green and yellow. There was a well-dressed knight in the lead, snapping orders to the driver of the carriage to plot a smooth path through the road that was in impossible shape. The driver did his best but the carriage lurched and jerked through the mud.
Weston reached out to pull Amalie out of the road but she seemed distracted by the sight of the carriage. When she didn’t move fast enough, he tugged on her arm and quickly moved her to the edge of the street. She fussed at him but he ignored her, more concerned with the heavily armed men now making their way down the street.
Weston was armed but, for Amalie’s sake, he didn’t want to get into any manner of conflict. He wasn’t sure, given her fragile mental state, that she would take it well. More than that, it would be just him against several armed men. As good as he was, the odds were not in his favor.
The big chargers splashed in the mud, causing Amalie to jump back to avoid being hit by the frigid goop. But she was waving at the carriage and a dark head suddenly popped out from one of the windows along with a gloved hand. Someone in the carriage was waving back.
“Amalie!” came a cry and the door suddenly jerked open. A dark-haired young woman appeared, smiling brightly. She waved again as she began to climb out of the cab that was still moving. “It has been too long, darling! I have missed you!”
Realizing that her driver was not stopping, the young woman snapped at him and the carriage came to an unsteady halt. The woman edged her way onto the muddied avenue and in Amalie’s direction. She and Amalie came together near the edge of the road, hugging one another happily.
“What brings you to Hedingham?” Amalie asked. “You are far from your home.”
The woman shrugged; she was rather plain in appearance, colorless in spite of the dark hair and light eyes. She was also rather tall for a woman, with gangly long arms, and she wore expensive clothing. Given the new carriage and host of well-dressed soldiers, it was apparent that she came from money.
“’Tis not too far,” she said. “Halstead is only a few miles to the south. I came into town to see Brigid.”
Amalie knew exactly who she was speaking of. “Of course,” she said. “I had forgotten; she is sewing your wedding dress, is she not? The woman sews beautiful garments.”
The woman nodded eagerly. “She has been working on it diligently,” she said. “I have come for some alterations. My wedding is the first of September, you know. You are coming, aren’t you?”
For the first time, Amalie looked uncomfortable. She smiled, semi-nodded and semi-shrugged, as if unable or unwilling to make the commitment. “I would love nothing better, of course,” she held her friend’s hands tightly. “But… well, with what has happened with Robert, I am not sure that….”
The young woman cut her off. “Nonsense,” she said firmly. “Even my father says it is rubbish; all of it. He says the only reason Bolingbroke took possession of Hedingham is because it is rich and powerful. Father says that all he wants is the riches and he is trying to kill your brother to get it, but Mother sa
ys that Father is jealous because he was not asked to occupy Hedingham. Bolingbroke is more powerful so he took the spoils.”
Amalie’s smile gradually morphed into something horrified as her friend chattered on. She knew that Weston was standing just a few feet away, hearing everything terrible word that the woman was saying. So she did the only thing she could do; she turned to Weston to introduce her friend, mostly so Cecily would not say anything more that could be construed as a knock against Weston’s loyalties.
“Sir Weston,” she said politely, steadily. “This is the Lady Cecily Brundon. Her father is Lord Sudbury and Cecily is marrying Sir Michael Hollington, a knight under Thomas de Mowbray’s command. Cece, this is Sir Weston de Royans, the current commander of Hedingham Castle and Bolingbroke’s knight.”
Cecily politely greeted Weston but the fact that she had been spouting off at the mouth did not go unnoticed. In fact, she seemed quite horrified by it as she clutched at her friend and tried desperately to change the subject away from the occupation of Hedingham. Her pale face was even paler as she and Amalie exchanged anxious glances.
“Surely Sir Weston will allow you to attend the wedding,” she said to Amalie. “Perhaps… perhaps you can even come and stay with my husband and I for a time after we are married. I would love to have you as my guest.”
Amalie knew she made the offer because Hedingham was occupied with men that did not view Amalie’s brother in a favorable light. It was a hostile environment. Considering one of the subjects of her most recent conversation with Weston had been the fact that he did not consider her a prisoner, Amalie was emboldened by Cecily’s offer. It brought about the fact that she was still invited to the wedding even after her brother’s flight from England.
Still, she wasn’t sure she wanted to attend, not after everything that had happened since that dark and fateful night. Her social standing was already damaged by her brother’s behavior and she would become a social outcast completely once her condition was known.
Moreover, her child would be due around that time. Perhaps it was better not to enjoy the last remnants of a world she would eventually be exiled from. It would only remind her that she would never have wedding, nor would she enjoy the benefits of a reputable husband. Her life, in many ways, was over even if the frozen pond hadn’t ended it.
Lords of the Kingdom Page 6
