“I do.” He glared at the bit of sausage on her fork now resting uselessly on her plate.
“Why?” She tucked both hands in her lap and leaned toward him to await his explanation.
He thought about how much distance he liked to maintain from the Fury at all times — ten miles being the barest minimum, the other side of the channel in the midst of war with Imperial France being closer to ideal — but said, “Parts of the castle were built in the thirteenth century. Say, I’m famished, aren’t you? Do eat. We’ll chat later.” So much later, he prayed, as to be, well, never.
“I take it the doorways are low and stairways narrow.”
“Among other things, yes.” He said. “My ancestors were shorter.” He plugged his own gob with something and chewed.
“Whereas The Graces has high ceilings and lovely, open spaces,” she said and took up her knife and fork-with-sausage.
Clun pointed to his mouth with his empty fork to indicate ‘Can’t talk like a savage with mouth full, must wait till I’ve swallowed.’
He chewed slowly.
Surely, she’d eat something if he took his time. But no. She waited. He swallowed his thoroughly masticated cud even though it was a cheek full of dried husks by the time it went rasping down his throat. He croaked, “The Graces is in more comfortable proportions, yes. With modern conveniences.”
“It’s a lovely home, so happily situated and designed. Still, I’d like to visit the castle and meet your mother,” she said, finally nipping the tidbit daintily off her fork.
‘Meet your mother.’
Clun’s heart stopped. He felt his heart muscle clench like a fist in his chest as she uttered those last three words. Nor was he able to breathe. So, his lungs must’ve collapsed from the shock as well. He wondered how long it would take for the rest of his vital organs to follow suit and shut off so he could fall to the floor insensible and die in peace.
She sipped her tea and dabbed her lips with her linen napkin before she said, “It will be awkward, I grant you, to meet her wearing her cast-off clothes. It cannot be helped. I pray that she has a sense of humor.”
Finally, his chest eased enough for him to breathe. First, he dismissed the footmen from the room and had them close the door on their way out.
“After we wed, we may wish to travel,” he replied carefully. “Then you’ll want time to settle in here and in London and to become accustomed to married life, don’t you think? Perhaps you’ll see her sometime afterward.”
Looong afterward. At her wake perhaps.
“Don’t be silly. It would be better to make Lady Clun’s acquaintance soon so we may dispense with the usual formalities. Given the awkward circumstances, for which I take full responsibility,” she added magnanimously, “a formal wedding invitation is quite out of the question.”
Clun’s heart now overcompensated for its previous inactivity and pumped gallons of blood into his head, causing a dangerous throbbing pressure behind his eyes. There was no anticipating the trouble that would come of a prenuptial meeting, particularly if the Fury disliked her.
“I’m not convinced that’s a good idea.”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “In what way could it be a bad idea, Clun?”
Through the pounding in his ears and the throbbing behind his eyes, he nevertheless sensed his betrothed digging in her slim little heels and panicked. Seeing her mulish expression, he renewed his effort to avert a prenuptial introduction.
“It would be a bad idea in innumerable ways.”
“Oh? Well, if you won’t, perhaps—”
“You mustn’t dash off to introduce yourself willy-nilly to my mother, Bess,” he commanded. He massaged his temples. If only he could kiss away her skepticism. Dread now warred with an equally alarming, far baser inclination to sweep the table clear and have at her. At least that might distract her from her current line of questioning.
“Mustn’t I?”
“Absolutely not. Promise me you won’t call on the baroness. You don’t know her.”
“And how will I, if we never meet?”
“Promise me, Bess. Please.”
She regarded him, clearly amused by his agitation. “Very well, I promise, so long as you promise to take me to the castle and introduce us yourself. Really, Clun, I can’t think why I’d offend her.”
“That is not my concern.”
“Then what is?”
He brushed aside her question in the same irritating manner she avoided any number of his by offering an airy “It’s a long story, Bess.” Changing the subject, he teased, “Am I to understand that you would marry me for my castle?”
“Perhaps I would, if I were permitted to see it.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come,” Clun said.
Tyler Rodwell appeared in the doorway of the morning room and cleared his throat.
“Roddy, come in. You’ve met my lady.”
“Your servant.” Roddy bowed and smiled. She smiled back much too warmly, in Clun’s opinion. Then again, Roddy was the damned charmer in the family. Perhaps he could dissuade Elizabeth from seeking out Lady Clun.
“Lady Elizabeth wishes to see the castle and meet my mother,” the baron said evenly.
Much to Roddy’s credit, he didn’t flinch, gasp, whistle or grimace when he heard the news. He replied, “Unfortunately, her ladyship is not at home. The baroness has gone to visit friends or so she told her staff before leaving a few days ago.”
“What a shame,” his lordship said, careful not to crow. “All the same, I might as well take Lady Elizabeth to see the old pile today.”
“Would you like the gig or a carriage?”
“Bess?”
Elizabeth gave Clun a brilliant smile, “The gig. The day is fair and I would like to see more of the countryside.”
The baron smiled back, happy to make her happy and utterly giddy the Gorgon14 was gone.
* * *
Elizabeth admired Clun’s skill handling the ribbons. The bay gelding harnessed between the gig’s limbers was fresh and feisty when the baron snapped the reins to send the gig smartly around the courtyard, through the Triumphal Entry and on the way to Wales. He handled the horse with finesse, giving him his head but keeping his high spirits in check.
Although in gloves, Lord Clun’s hands captivated her. He had very attractive, capable-looking hands. They were large and elegantly proportioned, like the rest of him, with long, strong fingers. The pronounced, well-rounded muscularity at the base of his thumbs and the heels of his palms resembled the rest of the man. More unnerving, she knew how those hands felt when he guided her, or lifted her or let them rest on her waist. She liked his hands, especially when they handled her.
She sat pressed against him, there being precious little room left for her on the seat. Tucked at his side, she was happy to share his warmth. The day was fair with few clouds. Roddy predicted rain by nightfall, given the dank chill in the air, so it would be a brief visit.
Wind teased at her borrowed bonnet. It was a simple chip straw affair with a gingham ribbon that lent it dash when tied beneath her chin just so. The wind also tossed the ends of Clun’s simply-tied neckcloth and tousled his over-long black hair beneath the low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat he wore.
They traveled on a road that climbed gradually to a low rise. From this vantage point, she saw green, undulating fields traversed by a long, sinuous grassy mound. The embankment stretched north to south as far as the eye could see.
They passed through it at a low notch. Along the west side of the ancient earthwork ran a deep depression, which made it taller on that side.
“What an odd ditch that was.”
“It’s part of Offa’s Dyke.”
“King Offa of Mercia?”
“Had the thing dug and piled up along his border to keep the Welsh out. Most of my de Sayre ancestors married Welsh nobility.”
“So here you are anyway,” she teased.
“Yes, it took us, what,”
he paused to calculate, “five centuries, but we’ve had the last laugh on old King Offa.”
“Hard to imagine anyone thinking a ditch and berm could keep your people out.”
“Recall we were shorter then,” he smiled at her, “and the embankment taller.”
“Nevertheless.”
“Just so,” he chuckled. They exchanged smiles.
“Have you a Welsh name?”
“I answer to Gwilym, also Guillaume in French and William,” he replied. “Which will you use?”
“Hmm, I prefer William.”
“And you, my lady?”
“You’ve already made free with my name and taken further liberties giving me a pet name.”
“Would you rather I give you another, say, Eliza, Betsy or Beth?”
“Call me Bess when you are happy with me,” she said and peeped at him beyond the brim of her bonnet. “Elizabeth when vexed and ‘my lady’ will do when you’re in a teasing mood.”
“Very well,” he said, “my lady.”
Chapter 11
In which our heroine is enchanted by a giant in a castle.
Time flew by as they teased and flirted on their way west. Before Elizabeth knew it, Lord Clun urged the bay on a long uphill grade toward a crenelated castle that crowned an imposing ridge. They approached from the northeast where the castle’s walls rose above a sheer rock face that defied all comers. The road circled around this daunting medieval façade, past the largest tower to make a final ascent into the castle’s landscaped grounds facing the south.
This prospect captivated Elizabeth. The castle’s foundation stood above a series of terraced flower gardens with sculpted yews marching downhill. Birds sang and flitted while the season’s last butterflies winked with bright flashes of color in the air.
“Oh my.”
The baron leaned forward to peek around her bonnet as she gazed right and left in delight. He examined her so closely it unsettled her. She never imagined he simply enjoyed watching her eyes dance with pleasure.
* * *
Clun followed the road to the castle’s formal entrance, a deep-set, Norman doorway with concentric arches sculpted from a single, massive slab of stone incised with zigzag patterns. Only the most prosperous in the thirteenth century could afford such craftsmanship. And Carreg Castle made abundantly clear that de Sayres had prospered from the start.
To Clun, it merely reminded him to duck under the lowest archways or risk cracking his forehead.
He tied off the horse’s leads and leapt from the gig to help Elizabeth disembark. He grasped her waist, plucked her up without effort and gently returned her to earth flustered. Clun waited while she fluffed and straightened her crumpled gown. And he looked forward to crumpling her again on their return.
A footman trotted out to greet his lordship. “Lady Clun is not at home, my lord,” he said. “Shall I fetch ap Rhys?”
“No need, Peters, thank you. Have someone see to my horse and rig, will you? We’ll be leaving again this afternoon.”
Clun took Elizabeth to the aviary first, knowing she would enjoy its exotic birds, though not for the reason the Fury did. His mother enjoyed her parrots and macaws because they could be taught to repeat what she said, as if seconding her opinions.
The aviary stood tucked into the castle’s foundation. From a distance, its framework looked like delicate filigree. As they approached it, the structure became a gargantuan, glassed-in birdcage. He led her to its wrought iron and glass door and bowed her inside. After securing the outer door, he opened an inner door and warm air enveloped them.
Exotic trees with splayed, waxy green leaves arched high overhead. Squat, broad-leaved fan palms and lace-like ferns grew in dense profusion. Somewhere in their midst, a fountain played and plashed. Sunlight filtered through the foliage so the air seemed to have a brilliant verdant cast. In the midst of this jungle, jewel-bright parrots and macaws flickered from place to place. They took delight in climbing up and vaulting into the air from high branches strewn with ropes of vine. Ear-piercing squawks and almost human calls punctuated the atmosphere.
The birds fascinated Elizabeth. Clun found them entertaining, too, though they screeched the Fury’s pet phrases in chilling approximations of his mother’s voice.
“Wretched creature!” An iridescent blue with yellow belly scolded while flapping its wings to settle on a perch. “Go away!”
Another commanded, “Come back!”
“Wretched creature,” another chanted before it groomed the lime green feathers on its back.
“Horrid thing,” a blue, red and yellow macaw called out. “Bad boy!”
“You’re a pretty bird,” a bright turquoise parrot screeched from a perch above Elizabeth’s head.
She watched the bird shimmy up the vine, fluffing its feathers in an arrogant display of its finery and sighed, “How very beautiful!”
“Indeed you are,” Clun purred without thinking. With a start, he realized what he’d said. She hadn’t heard him. His inadvertent bit of drivel passed unremarked, and he shook off his momentary lapse into God-knows-what.
After the aviary, they walked to the formal garden. It was late in the season for butterflies, but a hardy few still flitted among the last flowers.
“Clun, this is heaven.”
“Hardly,” he said thinking of his early life and the gothic horror usually in residence. He watched Elizabeth as she took in the orderly yews, lined up like infantry in review.
She turned back to him. “Don’t move,” she ordered. “There’s a flutterby on you.”
He stilled.
She pointed to his shoulder and he turned his head slightly to look. A bright yellow and blue butterfly slowly fanned its wings on his coat. After a moment, it sailed into the air, winking away in the light.
“Flutterby, my lady?”
“As a child, that’s what I called them. I couldn’t say butterfly properly. Was I so wrong? What sense is there in calling that magical creature ‘butterfly’? It doesn’t resemble a fly. Nor does one associate it with butter unless you consider pollen buttery, I suppose. I think butterfly is a misnomer, whereas flutterby suits it nicely.”
“Flutterby,” he tested it and laughed. “’Pon my word, Bess, you are a treasure.”
He gathered her in his arms for a rocking, affectionate hug of the variety Cook provided. It was the only innocent physical thing he could think to do to demonstrate his delight with her. When not being obstreperous or over-curious, he had to admit, she was a pleasant female to have on hand. He released her eventually, as he knew he must.
Spying something on the ground, she bent down to look at an odd, dew-covered pink flower growing off the path, “And what is this?”
“That little monster is the common sundew,” he informed her. “The sticky dew you see entices insects so it may trap and eat the hapless. It prefers bogs but, with the rain hereabouts, it grows where it will. My mother finds them fascinating.”
Not surprising, he thought, if one knew the Fury, who enjoyed setting her own traps. Luckily, Clun had grown too large too quickly for her to eat away at him with her caustic clinginess.
But why dwell on gloomy topics? They were at the castle, the Fury was not, and their day together had exceeded the baron’s most hopeful prognostics.
Elizabeth wandered down the path.
From a distance behind, he heard Dafydd ap Rhys call out, “Lord Clun?”
She turned back.
Clun said, “Go on, I’ll find you, Bess. Don’t fall into any sundews.” She smiled at him and strolled out of sight. He wished he could bundle her behind a yew to make sure the Fury’s familiar caught no glimpse of her.
“Don’t trouble yourself, ap Rhys,” he called out to the castle’s de facto seneschal. Despite his hint and fervent desire, Clun was joined by the lanky Welshman.
“Good day, your lordship. I only just heard you were here,” ap Rhys apologized as he bowed. “Are you needing me?”
“Not at a
ll. I wanted to see the castle. I’ll be leaving shortly.”
Ap Rhys looked down the path, reluctant to accept the implied dismissal.
“That will be all, thank you.” Clun said pointblank and blocked his view. Ap Rhys finally bowed and turned back to leave as he’d come, looking once over his shoulder.
Clun waited till he walked out of sight then strode down the path to find his free-ranging fiancée.
* * *
It happened at the castle when Lord Clun said ‘flutteRrrby’ and rocked her back and forth in his arms, laughing. That was the precise moment Elizabeth knew she loved William Tyler de Sayre.
It began with his laughter. His rumbling amusement flowed deep and dark, like oak sap honey. When he abandoned himself to mirth, his eyes screwed up, his brows rose, his mouth, often a hard line of reproach, softened and curved up to reveal white teeth. His laugh sounded sweet and delicious and, as it subsided, it thinned the way honey did when drawn from the honey pot. Even more enchanting was the lone dimple in his left cheek. It started deep with his hearty laugh and smoothed away as he cooed himself slowly back to a quiet, happy huffing.
Finally, he purred in his deep, rolling, Welch-infused voice, “Oh, Bess dear, you are a treasure.”
‘DeaRrr’ he said, and ‘tRreasuRrrre.’ The sentiment rolled down her spine with his Rr’s.
Spoken with unalloyed affection, those few words melted her heart first. Then he gathered her in his arms without warning and gave her an affectionate bear hug as he rumbled. She stiffened in surprise, but he drew her up tight against him anyway and rocked her gently. He said nothing more; Elizabeth didn’t mind.
In a heartbeat, the rest of her melted. Melted. Even her knees softened like butter in the sun and turned all creamy. Her spine began to dissolve next and she had to throw her arms around his neck, just to keep herself upright on her feet. This was, she realized, exactly how she wanted to feel in a man’s embrace, like a delightful surprise.
She tried to pull back and check his impertinence. He merely clucked, tucked her head into the hollow below his jaw and chuckled till everything that had melted formed a pool of heat low in her belly.
The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) Page 11
