Knights

by Linda Lael Miller

  The water was cold when Gloriana awakened; perhaps that was why her senses were instantly and acutely attuned, rather than languorous from what must have been a long nap. She knew almost before opening her eyes that she was not alone in thecourtyard.

  He was sitting on the stone bench, watching her, his broad shoulders slightly stooped, his hands loosely clasped and dangling between his knees. His fair hair gleamed in the changing light, and his eyes, troubled, were a fierce Nordic blue. They were, she thought as something sharp and warm pierced her heart, the eyes of a Viking.

  “My lord,” she said shyly, with an inclination of her head. Her hair was wet through, clammy against her cheeks and her neck.

  She swallowed hard. Over the years of their marriage, she had rehearsed this meeting a hundred times, nay a thousand, but now, when it mattered, all the pretty words had fled. In her imaginings, Kenbrook had been the grandest of men, full of valor, handsome beyond bearing, strong as the proud warhorse he managed so easily. And her imaginings paled before the vital reality of the man himself.

  The girlish adulation she had always felt for him was quite real, however, and now it had doubled and redoubled just since she had opened her eyes and found him there, watching her.

  “You are Gloriana?” he asked, almost as if he hoped she would say she was someone else. His voice sounded hoarse, and he looked quite stunned, perhaps even feverish as he studied her,

  “Yes, my lord,” she said meekly.

  “We must talk.” There was no anger in the way he spoke, but she sensed reluctance in him and a sort of troubled resolution. Lord Kenbrook cleared his throat. “Not while you are in a state of near nakedness, of course.”

  Gloriana flushed with a combination of indignation and despair. Some men, she thought, would be pleased to come upon their wives in such a condition. No doubt he found her wanting, and it was unfair of him to judge her so swiftly. He had not seen her dressed in green, after all, with her hair brushed and braided through with ribbon. “We did not expect you, my lord,” she said moderately. “If you had written, or sent a courier, preparations might have been made.”

  He had continued to stare at her, and she had the very clear impression that he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “You are not at all as I thought you would be,” he remarked.

  Gloriana was stung, but she made herself smile, and that dispelled some of the terrible nervousness that had heretofore tangled her tongue and scattered her thoughts. “I see,” she murmured.

  Dane made no move to rise from the bench. “You do not see,” he said with some impatience and, to Gloriana’s way of thinking, rather presumptuously. “You are twenty years of age—an old woman by anyone’s reckoning. I did not think to find you so—fetching.”

  He’d struck close to the bone with that first comment, but he’d also called her “fetching.” Gloriana was both injured and exultant.

  “How very generous of you,” she said, for she tended toward sauciness and had never entirely curtailed that quality. “To pronounce me fit to look upon, I mean.”

  Dane’s golden eyebrows drew together in a frown. He stood but did not move toward Gloriana, who still huddled, shivering, in her tub. “You are also somewhat impudent,” he said, with an air of distraction, as though cataloging the characteristics of a temperamental horse. “No doubt, Gareth has allowed you to do whatever you pleased while I was away—my brother has ever been indulgent, with women, with children, with servants.” He paused, and a muscle flexed in his jaw. “I only hope it is not too late to render you suitable for the proper purposes of God and man,” he finished.

  Then, turning on one heel, Dane St. Gregory, fifth baron of Kenbrook and first husband of Gloriana St. Gregory, strode into the bedchamber. Moments later, the outer door slammed.

  “I hate him,” Gloriana marveled. She sank beneath the water but, with no hope of drowning, finally rose above it again. Methodically, trembling with the chill of an English afternoon fading to evening, she washed her hair, scrubbed the rest of her body, and climbed out of her bath. After a cursory toweling with a bit of rough cloth reserved for the purpose, she took her chemise, a sturdy garment made of undyed muslin, from the bush where she’d left it and wrenched it on over her head.

  She was seated on the bench, where Dane had been, combing the tangles out of her hair and cursing under her breath with every tug, when Edward came out of her room and into the courtyard. He carried a clean kirtle of the palest blue, which he tossed to her, and then leaned with one foot braced against the end of the bench while she put on the gown.

  “Come, Gloriana,” he said, taking out a small knife and undertaking to clean his fingernails with its point, “you’ll do better to dry your hair by the fire. You could be taken by a fever if you catch a chill.”

  Gloriana did not move. She was not fragile like other people; sickness had passed her over more times than she could count. Still, for all her physical strength, she wasn’t impervious to emotion, and she teetered on the brink of tears.

  “Glory?” Edward persisted.

  “I’m all right,” she said, somewhat snappishly, combing with a vengeance now and refusing to meet his gaze. She would not let him see her weep, though he had ever been her friend; her pride was bruised and she was too vulnerable.

  Edward came and crouched before her, looking up into her face, robbing her of the last vestige of privacy. “Why do you lie?” he asked. At the same time, he reached out and took her hand, the one that had wielded the comb, and held it still. “Have the servants been carrying tales? By God, I’ll have them flogged, every one, if they’ve uttered a word to cause you hurt.”

  A sense of dread came over Gloriana, like a wintry shadow thrown across her spirit. “What is there to carry tales about?” she asked, in a small voice, bracing herself for the answer. She had known all was not right, of course, by her husband’s greeting, but there was clearly more to the matter.

  Much more.

  “Tell me, Edward,” she whispered when he hesitated.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then raised himself up far enough to take a seat beside her on the bench. He held both her hands in his, stroking the knuckles with his thumbs. “I suppose it will be kinder, if you hear the news from me,” he said. The pain in his face was genuine. “It’s not as if such things don’t happen, as if other men don’t—”

  Gloriana squeezed his fingers hard.

  “Dane’s brought his mistress home from the Continent,” Edward said, forcing the words out in a reluctant rush.

  Gloriana felt the color drain from her face; rage followed shock, and she rose to her feet, only to be pulled back down by Edward. It was true that other men kept mistresses, and even sired children with them, but Gloriana’s view of marriage was not conventional. She’d seen the warm relationship between her father. Cyrus, and her mother, the gentle Edwenna, and the noble union shared by Gareth and his beloved Elaina. She wanted that kind of dedication, that kind of love, for herself and Dane, and she would settle for nothing less.

  “Oh, Edward,” she whispered, and sagged against him, her sodden hair tumbling over his tunic. “Whatever shall I do?”

  He kissed her temple, her oldest and dearest friend, the boy she thought of as her brother, and wrapped his arms around her. “The solution is simple,” he said tenderly. “You shall divorce the rogue and marry me.”

  Chapter 2

  One of the massive doors of Gareth’s study stood ajar, a sure sign that Lord Hadleigh expected a visit. Dane was still ruffled from his encounter with Gloriana when he stepped over the threshold.

  Gareth, apparently unaware of his brother’s presence, stood at one of the windows with both hands braced upon the sill, gazing toward the abbey. His thoughts could have been no plainer if they’d been written in letters of fire—even now, then, Gareth pined for his fey Elaina.

  “Is she still with the nuns?” Dane asked. He spoke quietly, but his voice came out sounding rough.

  His brother’s broad, sturdy
shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, as if in response to a cudgel blow, and he turned at last to face Kenbrook.

  “She is no better,” he said with a nod, and though he smiled, both his words and his eyes brimmed with sorrow. “But no worse. We must be thankful for whatever blessings heaven deigns to grant us.”

  Dane crossed the room and stood before his brother. For a long moment, the two men simply looked at each other in silence, thinking their own thoughts and sharing no part of them.

  Gareth, a score older than Dane, had been a second father to him and to Edward, since their sire had been a knight, in service to the King, and thus kept himself far from Hadleigh Castle most of the time. Their father had fallen in a skirmish with the Irish when Edward was still learning to walk, and sadly, his heirs had not missed him overmuch, for he had been a stranger to them.

  “Ii is good to have you home again,” Gareth said at last, and cleared his throat. He reached out to lay a hand on Dane’s shoulder. “You look well and, God be thanked, whole. Tell me—have you looked upon your wife? I dare say our Gloriana has fulfilled every promise of loveliness and virtue.”

  Dane had hoped the subject of Gloriana would not come up quite so quickly. He was still reeling from the sight of the woman reclining beneath a layer of yellow rose petals, presumably naked. He had expected something very different—a shriveled female, someone barren and bitter, and perhaps toothless, with wrinkles and streaks of gray in her hair.

  But Gloriana was beautiful, breathtakingly so. And where she was concerned, Kenbrook’s thoughts, usually so well marshaled, were ajumble. “Yes,” he muttered, averting his eyes. He had seen so little of her, but he could imagine the rest only too vividly.

  Finally, he managed a pained smile and touched his brother’s arm. “Sit down, Gareth,” he said. “There are matters we must discuss.”

  Frowning slightly, Gareth took a seat behind the large, unornamented oak table that served as his desk. Dane perched on a high stool nearby, catching one foot in the lowest rung as he had always done.

  “I do hope,” Gareth said gravely, “that you are not about to tell me you cannot stay in England. You are sorely needed here, Dane.” He gestured in the direction of the hall, rising beyond the shining waters of the lake. “Kenbrook is falling into ruin, the roads are choked with bandits, and our troubles with Merrymont continue. Without your help, I fear we shall soon have naught but chaos.”

  Merrymont was a neighboring baron, and the enmity between his household and Hadleigh’s went back for generations. Dane doubted that anyone remembered what had caused the original disagreement, but enough had happened since to ensure ongoing hostilities. “I intend to stay,” he said.

  Gareth heaved a sigh of relief. “Good tidings, indeed,” he replied, settling back in his hard chair and assessing Dane again, very thoughtfully. “What is it, then? Say what you must, brother—we have rejoicing to do, what with your return and Edward’s impending knighthood—and when you’ve made your speech, we’ll both join your rowdy men at the tavern.” He paused, and a sparkle glinted in his eyes. “Unless you want to spend the remains of the day with Gloriana, of course.”

  Dane swore under his breath. “No,” he said wearily, shoving splayed fingers through his hair. “But we must speak of my wife, ’tis true.” He paused, in misery, and then blurted, “I wish to annul the marriage to Gloriana.”

  The color drained from Gareth’s face, and he seemed coiled in his chair, like a beast about to spring. “On what grounds?” he rasped. “By God, Dane, if you dare to impugn the lady’s morals—”

  Dane felt a throbbing in the side of his neck, along with a sensation of rising heat. “I do not,” he interrupted sharply. “How could I, when I have not laid eyes on her in three and ten years? And that is exactly my point—Gloriana and I are strangers. We have no love for each other, as you and Elaina have, and I shall not spend whatever is left of my life with a woman I neither know nor care about. I wish to marry another.”

  An awful silence fell, during which Gareth remained in his chair, though Dane had the distinct impression that his brother was barely restraining himself from violence. Finally, Lord Hadleigh spoke.

  “You are a knight,” he said. “Where is your honor?”

  The word struck Dane in the belly and quivered there like the point of a lance, even though he’d long since worked that question through for himself. “Where is the honor in sharing a house with one woman and loving another?” he asked. “Tell me, Gareth—shall I do either lady credit by making one a mistress and forcing the other to wear the meaningless mantle of ’wife’?”

  At last, Gareth hoisted himself from his chair, and though he kept a careful distance, Dane noted that his brother’s hands were curled into loose fists. “You are a fool,” Gareth said. “No other kind of man would spurn such a one as Gloriana.”

  “If you are so taken with the lady,” Dane suggested evenly, moving off the stool, “then marry her yourself,”

  Gareth turned away. “Damn your eyes, Dane, you know that is impossible.”

  “What I know,” Dane pressed, though gently, “is that your wife is moonstruck, now weeping, now laughing, now wandering off into the countryside like a witless child. I know that she has never given you a single heir. Elaina would be none the wiser, Gareth, if you put her aside and took another wife. Or have her requirements changed since I went away? Does Elaina ask more of you these days than occasional visits and pretty trinkets?”

  Gareth was a long time in facing his brother again, and when he did, there were tears glistening in his eyes. “I love Elaina,” he said simply, fiercely. “What glib remedy have you to offer for that, Kenbrook?”

  Dane met Gareth’s gaze directly, though he wanted to do otherwise. He had known, after all, that the interview would be difficult, and he had steeled himself for it.

  “None,” he replied coolly. “I, too, am fond of Elaina. She was ever kind to me, and I would defend her against any foe—you must know that. But her mind is unstable, Gareth. It wouldn’t matter to her if you kept a harem, as long as you continued to visit her at the abbey as you’ve always done.”

  Gareth sighed. “On this subject, I fear we shall never agree,” he said.

  “Will you tell me, then, that you have not been with a woman since Elaina’s confinement began?” Dane put the question gently, but he spoke with a brother’s frankness and with every expectation of an answer.

  “Would that I were so noble,” Gareth said, his countenance grim. There was a ewer of wine on the corner of his table, along with a half-dozen wooden cups. He poured two portions and handed one to Dane.

  Kenbrook took a sip and winced. It was crude and vinegary stuff, after what he’d sampled in France and Italy. “You speak as one who repents of sin,” he said to Gareth. “I am your brother, not your confessor. I make no judgments and dispense no penance.”

  A semblance of a smile played on Gareth’s mouth, and the wine, bad as it was, had restored some of his color. “How is it,” he asked wryly, “that we speak of my marriage, when it is your own that is imperiled?”

  “Gloriana will be happier without me,” Dane said.

  Gareth made a harumph sound and looked thoughtful as he refilled his wine cup. “She may kill you, thus ending the dilemma for both of you.”

  Dane chuckled and reached for the ewer. The wine was no better than before, but with each draft, the taste bothered him less and less. The tension in his belly and between his shoulder blades began to ease.

  “She’ll thank me, the fair Gloriana, for my wisdom and foresight,” he said with restored confidence. “If not today, then tomorrow.”

  Gareth arched one eyebrow, and his expression was skeptical. “Just what do you intend to do with Gloriana?”

  “There are two choices,” Dane replied. “I can send her to a nunnery or marry her off to someone else.” He paused, frowning. “I don’t care much for that idea, though—getting Gloriana another husband, I mean. Can’t be sure he’d b
e good to her. But if she became a nun—”

  Gareth laughed outright. “Gloriana?” he marveled. “You have been away too long, brother, and you know little of the ways of women.” He held up one hand when Dane started to protest this last, and effectively silenced him. By then, Gareth’s mirth had subsided to a glimmer in his eyes. “I do not speak of charming the creatures, Dane—I have no doubt that you are an accomplished womanizer. However, it would seem to me that your understanding of how they think, these daughters of Eve, is in woeful error. And there is still the matter of the dowry.”

  Dane narrowed his eyes. “The dowry?”

  Gareth leaned against the windowsill, his still-muscular arms folded. “Have you forgotten, Dane? We were given gold when the marriage contract was made, a great deal of it. Gloriana is rich in her own rightshe inherited considerable land, jewels, the house in the village, and several properties in London. Perhaps you are ready to part with your wife’s legacy, but that still leaves the question of the gold. It has gone, Dane, and long since—we spent it, on debts and soldiers, bribes and taxes. If you spurn Gloriana, we must return every penny, in full measure, with interest.”

  Dane sat on the stool again. Gloriana’s fortune was not a consideration and had never been, but the dowry was something else. No honorable man squandered a woman’s bride-price and then put her aside, even when she had other means, both financial and physical, of attracting another husband. The money had to be repaid, and that might take years.

  Gareth came to stand beside Dane, and slapped him on the shoulder. “There’s no sense in worrying about it now,” he said. “You have come home, after too long an absence. Tomorrow, our young brother becomes a knight. There will be time enough later to undo this coil and set matters aright.”

  At length, Dane let out a rough sigh and then nodded. “To the tavern,” he said.