“This is not my doing, my lady,” he said neutrally. “Kiss the sword and we shall be done with it. Then I am to take you to London to meet your husband.”
The lady shook her head. “But… but you do not understand. I will not. I cannot.”
“Why?”
She wouldn’t answer him and he was suddenly seized with anger. The fingers of his left hand bit into her upper arm. “Are you compromised?”
She gasped in shock at the suggestion. “No, my lord, I swear it,” she insisted. “But… I will not marry de Winter.”
Hugh gazed at her, baffled by her words, thinking it was surely another ploy. She was trying all avenues to resist this marriage. Before he could reply, however, a voice filled the stale air of the priory.
“Hugh!”
Lady Katharine de Winter strolled into the hall, leaning heavily on her cane. Behind her came a procession of properly submissive ladies-in-waiting with their severe wimples and pale faces.
“Get off of that woman, you beast,” she told her son. “What are you doing to her?”
Hugh pushed himself off of Devereux, making sure that Andrew had a grip on her. His dark brown eyes warmed to his mother as he approached her.
“Darling,” he kissed her on both cheeks. “How good to see you. You are as lovely as ever.”
She let her youngest flatter her. “I can see that you waited for me.” She cast a long glance in the direction of the lady, picking herself off the floor with Andrew’s assistance. “What is she doing on the ground?”
Hugh took his mother’s elbow and they began to walk towards the altar. “Nothing to worry over, Mother.”
“Hmmm,” Lady Katharine carefully inspected the disheveled woman from a short distance. “That is not what I think. I think someone has worked this young woman over.” She paused before the knights, her sharp brown eyes scrutinizing every one of them. “Can anyone tell me what has truly happened here?”
Andrew had known Lady Katharine since childhood. His soft blue eyes twinkled at her. “The lady is reluctant to marry, my lady,” he said. “We are simply helping her fulfill the pledge.”
A withered eyebrow lifted. “Abusing the lady is not the same as helping her,” she said flatly. Her wizened brown eyes peered more closely at the girl. “Lady Devereux, I have seen you since you were a child. I know your father. I have always known that you would be a match for one of my sons, although I sorely doubt the youngest is worthy of you and the oldest lacks the time and effort for the undertaking. Would you kindly explain why these men tell me you are reluctant to marry?”
Devereux faced the elderly woman with as much dignity as she could muster. From the instant she had been informed of her betrothal to Davyss de Winter until this very moment, the entire event had been a nightmare. Now, in front of these strangers, she must explain herself. She had no choice.
“I do not want to marry your son, my lady,” she said quietly.
“Why not? And speak up, girl. My ears are not as they used to be.”
Devereux started to reply, more loudly, but she glanced at the men surrounding her and the words died in her throat. She took a deep breath as she gazed into ancient, wise eyes.
“May I speak with you privately, my lady?” she asked.
Katharine cocked what was left of her eyebrow. “You will speak here. There is nothing you can tell me that these men cannot hear.”
Something in the woman’s attitude fired a spark in Devereux; there was no kindness, no compassion. Just like the men surrounding her. The realization fed her resistance and her attempt to be moderately tactful disappeared.
“Because your son supports a tyrant of a king,” she said through clenched teeth. “I will not marry one so entrenched in oppression and politics.”
The knights stirred in outrage but none spoke; they would leave that to Lady de Winter, whose tongue could cut more deeply than the sharpest knife. The old woman’s eyes glittered with unspoken intensity as she sized up the blonde woman a few feet away; there was calculation to the gaze as she dissected the statement for both content and intent. She made her move accordingly.
“Your statement could be considered treacherous but I will give you the benefit of the doubt,” Lady Katharine replied after a moment. “Since I believe that every woman should be given the right to speak her mind, I will give you that same courtesy. Tell me, then, Lady Devereux, why you would make this slanderous and uneducated statement about my son?”
It was a direct slap but Devereux would not back down. She was not weak by nature and would not let this bird-like woman, no matter how powerful, push her around. Lady Katharine had already done quite enough of that when she forced Devereux’s father into a marriage contract. It had been a shock to Devereux those months ago when her father had informed her of the agreement. It made no sense, in any arena.
“It is not uneducated, my lady, I assure you,” she said as evenly as she could manage. “There is not a man, woman or child in this country who does not know the name Davyss de Winter. Everyone knows that he is the king’s champion and that men fear his power and wrath.” She took a step towards the frail old woman, her bright gray eyes glimmering with more curiosity than defiance. “I am the daughter of a minor noble. I have no great rank or power, nor do I come with a dowry of a thousand fighting men. I am not a particularly suitable match for your son and I would ask why you seem so determined for me to be his wife.”
Lady de Winter met Devereux’s gaze with equal force. “For precisely the reasons you have indicated,” she said quietly. “You are not politically connected. You cannot betray my son to an enemy who has coerced you or your father into submission. You do not come to this marriage with a secret agenda for power or money. You only bring yourself.”
“That makes little sense to a politically connected family such as the de Winters.”
Lady Katharine lifted a sparse brow. “It makes perfect sense. My son does not need a woman attempting to bend him to her will for her, or her family’s, political gain,” she paused a moment, studying Lady Devereux’s exquisite face. The woman was genuinely beautiful in spite of the fact that she had been roughed over. “He needs someone strong and unconnected and true. He needs someone to keep his attention and show him that the true meaning of manhood comes from dedication to one woman, not the plaything of many. You are this person.”
For the first time since being cornered in her father’s home, Devereux felt her defiant stance waver. As Lady Katharine explained things, it made perfect sense. But it did not erase facts.
“How would you know that I am true?” she was genuinely curious.
The old expression was confident. “Because I have watched you grow up and, as I have said, I know your father. I have known your family for quite some time. You are aware of this, lady.”
Devereux nodded faintly. “I know that you rule this shire. Your family has for generations. Everyone knows of the de Winter might.”
“Then you are aware that I speak with some knowledge when I say that I know of you and of your character. You are the mistress of The House of Hope, a poorhouse that provides to the needy of the shire. You are held in high regard for your generosity and charity.”
Devereux was growing increasingly perplexed. “Generosity and kindness do not necessarily seal a suitable match,” she replied with less boldness and more awe. “The de Winter family came to these shores with William the Bastard. My family is Saxon, a conquered people. My mother died a few years ago and it has only been my father and I since that time. I tend the poorhouse and help my father manage the small village of people that depend upon us for their lives. A marriage into the House of de Winter is beyond my comprehension. I do not want to be involved in a family that so allies itself with the king.”
“Why not?”
Her tone turned cold. “Because I do not believe in his absolute rule. I believe the country should be governed by the people as a whole, not by a monarchy that cares little for its subjects.”
> Lady Katharine almost looked amused. “Are you so sure of all things?”
Devereux was not so arrogant that she presumed to know everything. But she was resolute in her opinion.
“I am not, Lady de Winter,” she said with some hesitation. “’Tis simply that I believe the Earl of Leicester is a man of the people, a man who understands how a country should be governed. It is his ideals that I support, not a king whose sense of entitlement is only exceeded by his arrogance.”
One could have heard a pin drop in that cold, unfeeling chapel, surrounded by stone and effigies of barons long dead. Devereux was feeling increasingly uncomfortable as Lady Katharine simply stared at her. Then, something odd happened; the harsh glare faded from the old woman’s eyes and she reached out, patting Devereux on her tender cheek.
“I like this one,” she said to the men surrounding them. “Tell Davyss that I will expect him to treat her well. She will bear sons of character and strength.” She refocused on Devereux, the twinkle in her eye once again hardening in a frightening manner. “You will now kiss the sword. Let us be done with this.”
Devereux very nearly refused again; defiance shot up her spine and she could feel herself stiffen with the force of rebellion. But more than the threat from the knights and the physical battle that had consumed the majority of their acquaintance, the look in Lady de Winter’s eyes suggested that she would not tolerate any further disobedience. Devereux didn’t know why she suddenly felt herself submitting. The power in the old lady’s eyes was unwavering and unkind. Devereux knew when she was beaten.
Lady de Winter did not wait for any words of agreement or refusal; she crooked a gnarled finger at Hugh, who brought about Lespada and held it to Devereux’s lips. With her bright gray eyes still focused on the old woman she instinctively respected and naturally feared, she brushed the cold steel with her soft pink lips. Without any further struggle or fanfare, it was finally done.
And with that, Lady Katharine de Winter turned around and headed for the door of the priory. Hugh followed his mother to the entry, speaking softly with her and helping her through the portal as her ladies congregated around her. Then he turned around, his dark gaze suddenly focusing on something just over Devereux’s right shoulder.
There was a figure in the shadows, something he’d not noticed until his mother just mentioned it. He instantly recognized the shape, and was silenced from speaking when a massive hand lifted to quiet him. It did not take Hugh long to deduce that his mother’s arrival must have been a diversion so they would not have seen Davyss enter the priory; they had all been focused on the snarling bride and Lady de Winter, so much so that they would not have given thought to a vaporous figure in the darkness. And it was from that darkness that Davyss had witnessed the entire ceremony.
So his brother had decided to come after all. Hugh wisely assumed that the man would want time alone with his new bride, if for no other reason than to set her straight on the course their marriage would take after her natty little display of manners. Snapping his fingers at the knights, he jabbed a thumb at the door.
“Gather your mounts and secure transportation for the lady,” he commanded. “I will join you in a moment.”
Devereux was still standing near the altar with Lollardly; she was frankly a bit dumbfounded from her conversation with Lady de Winter. She was still trying to reconcile the event in her own mind. But the old priest eyed her critically as he moved past her and Devereux gazed back as if daring the man to speak harshly to her. She was still upset with him for going along with this travesty of a marriage ceremony.
Surprisingly, she did not try to run when the knights moved out. She stood where they had left her, watching her father bolt from the chapel and thinking the man to be a horrible coward. She knew he had only married her to de Winter to be part and parcel to the de Winter fortune. He was greedy that way. Feeling the least bit abandoned and, not surprisingly, exhausted in the light of her embattled wedding ceremony, she watched with some trepidation as the knights and the priest filed from the hall.
All except for Hugh; he marched upon her with an expression of hostility. Since all he had known from her since the moment of their association was violence, she hardly blamed him.
“You will wait here until we can bring about suitable transportation for the trip to Castle Acre Castle,” he eyed her. “If you give me your word that you will not try to escape, I will not bind you.”
She gave him a look that suggested she was bored with his statement. “If I wanted to flee, your bindings could not hold me,” she fired back. “Go get your horses. I am not going anywhere.”
“Do I have your word, lady?”
“I said it, did I not?”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is enough of an answer for you. Do you doubt me?”
Hugh almost entered into an argument with her that would undoubtedly end in some manner of fist in his eye. But he caught himself in time, begging off for the sheer reason that Davyss was only a few feet away; he knew his brother would handle this banshee of a woman and they would all be the better for it. Still insulted with the fact that his charming and debonair self had not melted her with a first glance, he cast her a withering glare and quit the chapel.
When it was finally cold and empty, Devereux emitted a pent up sigh. Like a bubble of tension bursting, she suddenly felt deflated. She realized that tears were close to the surface but angrily chased them away, feeling despondent and disoriented.
She would wait for the knights to return to take her to her prison of Castle Acre Castle. It wasn’t far from her berg, the great castle with the massive ramparts. Lady Katharine de Winter lived there at times; when she was not in residence, there were always groups of soldiers in and out of the place. Sometimes they would come into town and wreak havoc in the taverns. Devereux had spent her life knowing when to stay indoors and locked away when the soldiers were about. She had spent her life staying clear of the knights and other warriors who would, at times, pass through her town. She had never even seen her husband although she knew he had spent time at Castle Acre Castle periodically. She had often heard rumor to that effect. Now she was a part of that world she had attempted to stay clear of. She tried not to hate her father for it.
From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the altar. It was beautifully carved and had the rarity of a cushion before it on which to kneel. Devereux found herself wondering where the priests were that usually inhabited this priory. She wondered if de Winter’s knights had chased them off. With another heavy sigh, she made her way to the altar, gazing up at the gold-encrusted cross and wondering how drastically her life was going to change from this point.
Soft boot falls suddenly distracted her and she turned to see an unfamiliar knight entering the sanctuary. He was a colossal man, dressed from head to toe in armor and mail and weaponry. He was without his helm and as he emerged into the weak light, Devereux could see his very handsome features; his dark hair was in need of a cut, a bit shaggy and curly, and a dark beard embraced his granite jaw.
The longer she stared at him the more she realized that he was, in fact, extraordinarily handsome. It was something of a shock. Devereux continued to watch with a mixture of apprehension and fascination as the knight drew closer, his hazel eyes fixed on her flushed and weary face. It was a piercing gaze that sucked her in, holding her fast until she could hardly breathe.
“I apologize for disturbing you, my lady,” he said. “Were you praying?”
His voice was deep and silky, like sweet wine. Devereux felt an odd flush of heat at the sound of his delicious tone, momentarily speechless as he gazed upon her. She managed to shake her head, however, and the knight came to stand several feet away. Even when he gazed toward the altar and crossed himself reverently, she couldn’t take her eyes from him.
Davyss felt her stare, turning to look at her again. Christ, if she wasn’t the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; even more beautiful at close range. She had
long, straight blonde hair that was thick and silky, and eyes of the most amazing color. They were a shade of blue that was so pale that they were silver. Big and bottomless, he could see the fringe of soft lashes brush against her brow bone every time she blinked. And her face was sweet and round. He had witnessed the wedding ceremony from the shadows, stifling the roar of laughter as Hugh and Andrew had wrestled with her in an attempt to force her to kiss his sword.
But the more he watched, the more curious and strangely mesmerized he became with this woman who was now his wife. She was a hellion, a misfit, and he should have been disgusted with her behavior. But her spirit impressed him strangely, a woman who was not afraid to speak her mind or resist men twice her petite size. And when he witnessed the confrontation between her and his mother, calculated though it had been for his benefit, it had oddly cemented the deal. For some reason, he was no longer reluctant. But she clearly still was.
When the lady had finally kissed the sword to seal the marriage, Davyss realized he could no longer stay away. In spite of his own reluctance, he realized he had to discover her for himself.
“My lady is… weary,” he cocked an eyebrow at her slovenly state. “May I assist?”
Devereux’s bright gray eyes regarded him. “Nay, my lord,” she turned away, her cheeks flushing and her confusion growing.
He continued to gaze at her, the marvelous blonde hair that cascaded from her head to her thighs. “Then why do you stand here if you are not praying?” he asked.
She shrugged weakly, refusing to look at him. “I was left here.”
“By whom?”
She didn’t reply. Davyss’ eyes roved her body with interest, noting that she was deliciously curvaceous. She was petite in height, clad in some sort of rough garment, a leather girdle binding her small waist and emphasizing her full breasts. She looked like an angel but dressed like a peasant. He found himself shaking his head with awe, hardly believing this woman was his wife. She was a most startling paradox.
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