Defiant Love

by Maura Seger

  Before Brenna could gather her wits to respond, a shadow fell across the pair. She turned, finding the two thegns closing the distance between them, their hands also on their weapons. Quickly, Brenna smiled to indicate she was in no way threatened. The thegns hesitated, scowling, before they shrugged and returned to their posts. If the lady wished to waste her time conversing with a Norman, so be it.

  "W-what did you say?" Brenna stammered when she was assured they would not be interrupted.

  "It runs," Guyon repeated amicably, gesturing to the ink. "I tried it myself not two days ago and, despite the merchant's glowing claims, it runs."

  The merchant had thoughtfully absented himself. Brenna and Guyon stood alone at the stall. Her fingers trembled slightly as she carefully set the ink jar back in its place.

  "I would not have thought you an expert on inks."

  "Nonetheless you may believe me," Guyon assured her. "Try the ink and it will spoil your work."

  Determined that this time she would not let her fear get the better of her, Brenna forced herself to face the Norman calmly. She even managed to sound faintly mocking as she said, "The merchant promised only that the ink was not too thick. He mentioned nothing at all of its thinness. You would have been wise to inquire, my lord."

  Guyon's eyes wandered over her as she spoke, lingering on her flushed cheeks and the ripe lips that trembled slightly under his gaze. Lord, but the girl was beautiful! His impression of the previous day was only strengthened further.

  Accustomed as he was to the lovely ladies of Normandy, this girl with her fiery spirit and determined pride touched him in a way he had never before known. It was as though he had stumbled upon the heart of a lion somehow housed in the body of a small, seductive kitten.

  Ruefully, he realized he was torn between a desire to strike out at her for the suspicion he glimpsed in her manner and which puzzled him greatly, and the almost irresistible need to shelter her in his arms, keeping her safe from all danger.

  This dual drive both to punish and protect sent his head spinning. It was all Guyon could do to keep his voice steady as he said, "The merchant has an apt defender in you, my lady. I came back today ready to make him eat the page I ruined."

  "You are copying a book?" Brenna asked, unable to hide her astonishment. No occupation seemed less likely for a proud Norman warrior whose every word and gesture spoke of strength and will barely held in check.

  "A life of Saint Luke," he confirmed, as though there was nothing at all remarkable in this activity. His manner seemed to indicate that every Norman lord preferred to spend his hours stooped over a manuscript desk rather than on the training field or in the dining hall. "It's almost finished. Next month I will present it to the monks at the abbey in my demesne. They have lent me many books from their library, and I feel it only right to contribute to the source."

  "You will forgive me," Brenna murmured stiffly, "if I am surprised at your interest. I had no idea many Normans could even read."

  "They can't," Guyon informed her, apparently not the least offended by her comment. "But I learned as a child, and have always enjoyed it." There was a teasing glimmer in the topaz eyes as he added, "What about you? Few women read, let alone copy books. How come you do it?"

  "Like you, I suppose," Brenna answered honestly. "From childhood, I've borrowed so many books that I feel duty-bound to provide them where I can. Besides, I enjoy the copying. It... takes my mind from other things...."

  "Like what?" Guyon asked, fingering a stack of vellum.

  Brenna looked away. She was all too aware of the heavily muscled arm lying so close to her. The sun-browned skin of his forearm was lightly covered in short, golden hairs. His hands were long and shapely, the nails well cared for. He wore a single ring, emblazoned with a symbol Brenna could not recognize. Searching for any excuse not to answer his question, she wondered out loud, "What does your ring mean?"

  Guyon stared at her curiously. He was silent for a moment before he said, "It belonged to my father. The crossed swords with eagle in flight are his family's arms. It was sent to me after his death."

  Realizing that she had inadvertently stumbled on a sensitive subject, Brenna bit her lip. She had seen the anger in Guyon's eyes when the Earl Harold brought up the matter of his birth. Would he think her as deliberately rude?

  "Forgive me," she murmured apologetically. "I should not have mentioned it." Embarrassed by her lack of tact, Brenna turned away, pretending great interest in a display of quills.

  A lean brown hand reached out to take her by the chin. Gently but firmly she was forced to face Guyon. "It is my place to apologize, not yours. In fact I came here today hoping to find you so that I could do just that."

  "What made you think I might be here?" Brenna asked, too surprised by his touch even to wonder what he meant to apologize for.

  Guyon smiled. "Yesterday there was an ink stain on your finger. When I learned you had gone to the market, I remembered that. It was unusual enough to make me think you would turn up here."

  "Y-you're remarkably observant," Brenna murmured, struggling to hide her embarrassment. If he was that sharp-eyed, what else had he noticed?

  "Most men are, at least when it comes to beautiful women. Anyway," Guyon went on, noting the flush spreading over her delicate cheeks, "as I said, I want to apologize."

  Catching hold of herself, Brenna asked, "What for?"

  Laughter rumbled deep in Guyon's massive chest. He had been right to think she didn't know the rules of the game. But what a pleasure it would be to teach her! "Why for staring at you last evening, of course. I had the distinct impression you were... discomfited."

  "Not at all," Brenna insisted just a bit too hastily. Inexperienced though she was, she knew perfectly well he didn't really regret his actions in the Great Hall. He was merely using that as an excuse to talk with her. But to what end, she could not imagine.

  "Really," Guyon drawled. "Then why did you leave so early?"

  "I was tired... from the journey...."

  Fighting back a smile, he pretended to believe her. "I am relieved to know you were not distressed. Still, I would feel more comfortable if you would set me some task to be sure of your pardon."

  Falling into the spirit of his banter, Brenna made a show of considering this. "My sister is at the fabric market. Perhaps you should come back there with me. You could help pick out colors, consult on styles, match lace and trim. It would all be a great help."

  Guyon looked so aghast that she could not help laughing. From his expression, she might have asked him to walk through a wall of fire or stand live target for a volley of arrows. "If that is what you wish..." he began morosely, only to be saved by her kind heart refusing to torment him further.

  "I but tease you, my lord. In truth, I find such matters as tedious as you seem to." Gazing up at him, she smiled warmly without being aware of how her look affected the Norman. Mesmerized by sparkling gray-green eyes and an enchanting smile, he was having difficulty remembering to breath. Oblivious to his discomfort, Brenna added, "Let us agree that if you can find me a good ink, you will be pardoned. All right?"

  Against the tightness of his throat, Guyon muttered, "As you would, my lady." He rapped a hand hard against the wooden stall, summoning the merchant. The man emerged reluctantly from hiding, only to be at once reassured when Guyon ignored his excuses for the poor ink sold earlier and ordered him to bring out the best of his stock at once.

  Several inks were rejected for being too thin or gritty. One simply smelled bad. At last, Brenna found what she was looking for, an ink as smooth in texture, as thorough in coverage, and as quick to dry as that mixed by the monks near Winchester. Delighted, she settled down to haggle.

  Guyon watched in amusement as she beat the price steadily lower. From a high of a penny per jar, the merchant finally agreed to part with three jars and a new set of nubs in return for tuppence. Delighted with her bargain, Brenna selected two bright copper pennies from the cloth purse hanging at he
r belt and gave them to the man. She had rarely paid for any purchase in coin and found the experience much simpler than the usual barter. But some of her pleasure vanished when the merchant promptly insisted he could not sell Guyon ink at the same price.

  Daring much because of the easy mood he sensed flowing between the beautiful young girl and the handsome knight, the man insisted, "You can hardly expect me to give you as good a buy as I do such a charming lady, sir. Before her pretty bargaining, I am helpless."

  Afraid that Guyon would be angered by such blatant duplicity, Brenna was astonished when he did nothing more than laugh. "Aren't we all, man?" he asked, tossing an extra ha'penny onto the counter. Glancing down at Brenna, he added, "Still I could count the bargain well done."

  The two men grinned as though they somehow understood each other. Perplexed, Brenna turned away, only to find Guyon quickly at her side. "There's a stand selling cider not far from here," he said. "Would you like some?"

  Brenna hesitated, puzzled by her failure to immediately reject the idea. Always before she had avoided being in the company of any man, other than her father or brothers, if she could possibly help it. But Guyon's presence made her feel content and yet somehow excited at the same time. With a start,

  Brenna realized she did not want to end the interlude. His frequent smiles and gentle voice, added to his relaxed manner with the merchant and his interest in books, had all combined to still her fear.

  Commenting on how thirsty she was, Brenna allowed as to how cider seemed a good idea. Followed by the thegns, they strolled toward the center of the market where food and drink were offered. Along the way, they passed oracles offering to cast horoscopes or tell fortunes, magicians performing marvels for astonished audiences, even a healer who claimed he could pull a tooth, cure the ague, or mend broken bones all with equal skill.

  The crowds grew denser and even more raucous as they neared the stands from which tantalizing aromas wafted. Young girls paraded with trays of breads and sweets slung round their necks. Boys turned chunks of chicken and pork over charcoal braziers. In a particularly shady spot, oysters were being shucked. Having finished their cider and returned the mugs, Guyon steered her toward the seafood.

  "Do you like oysters?"

  Brenna's nose wrinkled. "Cooked, not raw."

  "Then you're missing the best part." He laughed down at her. "You can never tell when you'll open one and find a pearl. They turn up in the unlikeliest places."

  Frowning at him, Brenna tried to figure out what she was missing in his words. Her attention was quickly distracted by a pile of fresh crayfish nearby. Two old women were turning skewers of the succulent shellfish over a fragrant woodfire. The smell alone was enough to make Brenna's stomach rumble.

  Following her eyes, Guyon grinned. "That's a weakness we share. Come on." Moments later, Brenna and the Norman stood side by side, rapidly downing a pile of sweet pink morsels and laughing at each other like co-conspirators. "They will wonder in the Hall tonight why we have no appetite for supper," Brenna warned.

  "They will see me ignore the food and presume I ponder some great matter of state," Guyon teased.

  "And my sister will worry over my poor appetite," Brenna rejoined, "and tell me once again that I spend too much time with my books."

  "Do you?"

  Halted in the act of licking a finger, Brenna stared up at him. "Do I what?"

  "Spend too much time with your books?"

  She looked away, uncomfortable with the question. "That depends."

  "On what?" he persisted, his tone too gentle to give offense.

  "Some people," Brenna ventured, "don't think it's proper for a young girl to be concerned with ideas. They think we should be interested in nothing more than children and needlework and suchlike." Without pausing to wonder why his opinion was suddenly so important to her, she looked up at him almost imploringly. "You don't think that, do you?"

  "No," Guyon assured her. A surge of relief spread through Brenna, only to be abruptly halted as he qualified, "Provided she doesn't shut herself off from the other pleasures life offers."

  His eyes were unexpectedly tender as he studied her. "I'd wager you've never even been kissed, have you?"

  Brenna flushed painfully. Her contentment with his company vanished. "Of course not! Well-brought up young ladies don't go around getting kissed. That's no more accepted here than in Normandy. Surely you know that!"

  A silent laugh quirked Guyon's usually stern mouth. Teasingly, he said, "I know that in Normandy you and I wouldn't be walking in the market like this, not even with your trusted shadows." He shot a glance back toward the two watchful thegns.

  Brenna's blush deepened. Did he think her poorly behaved because she had agreed to accompany him? Dismay clawed at her. "Then I will take my leave, sir, before I further violate the sense of propriety you so belatedly display."

  Guyon was helpless to stop the roar of laughter that broke from him. Trust his lion-hearted kitten to be purring one moment and spitting the next! Catching his breath, he made haste to soothe her. "I meant no criticism of your customs, my lady. Believe me. Allow me to admit that in some ways England is more enlightened than Normandy."

  Brenna stared at him uncertainly. She wanted to believe him, but this tall, compelling man filled her with such strange sensations... Instinctively, she shied away.

  Guyon's hand shot out. Careful not to grip her too hard, he kept hold of her slender arm as he said, "Stay with me, Brenna."

  The fervency of his tone startled him. Always before he had viewed women as an amusement to be enjoyed when time and circumstances permitted, or otherwise forgotten. With so much to occupy him at the palace, this was hardly the moment to linger flirting with a beautiful young girl. Especially not one highborn and gently reared whom he could not expect in all honor to take to his bed. Yet he could not bear the thought of seeing her walk away.

  Brenna stared up at him. Seeing the sincerity in his gaze, she hesitated.

  Guyon moved at once to consolidate his victory. "Aren't those fresh honey cakes I smell? You can't mean to go off without one?"

  Confessing to a special fondness for honey cakes, Brenna gave in gracefully. Moments later, as she licked a crumb of the sweet from her upper lip, all tension had left her. Laughing, she said, "We set a poor example, my lord. Any child watching us would swear that gluttony is a virtue."

  Guyon shrugged, a devilish gleam in his eye. "Then I'll have to reform my ways, my lady, since I now have some hope of children in the not too distant future." His words surprised Guyon himself. After all these years of nimbly avoiding a commitment to any woman, why was he suddenly speaking of children?

  Brenna was powerless to keep the dismay from her voice. "I did not realize you were married."

  "I am not," he said quickly, too puzzled by his own behavior to pursue the subject further.

  Then he must be betrothed, Brenna thought. Much of her pleasure in the day vanished as she found herself wondering what the lady was like. Beautiful no doubt, and of good birth. Though he was bastard born, Guyon had clearly risen to great power and wealth. High in the favor of his Duke, he could claim almost any lady as his bride. Whoever she was, she undoubtedly didn't go around with ink stains on her fingers, chattering about books and pens.

  Morosely, Brenna wished she had listened when Edythe tried to give her some instruction on the art of conversing with men. She had dismissed it as beneath her interest, never guessing that she would one day want very much to be thought charming and worthy of attention.

  Observing the expressions flitting across the lovely face, Guyon was hard-pressed to restrain a smile. He had a very clear idea of what was going on behind those enchanting gray-green eyes. Innocence and instinct were warring within her, and he savored both.

  Taking a deep breath, Brenna told herself to think of Guyon as no different from her father or brothers. Any other feelings he roused in her came too close to the dark center of her fears, and had best to be ignored. Bright
ly, she began to speak of the court and the delight she was finding in her first visit there.

  The sudden shift in her behavior made Guyon frown. One moment it was clear that she was very much aware of him as a man. The next she appeared to treat him as no more than an old family acquaintance. Just beginning to gauge the full extent of Brenna's inexperience, he resolved to convince her there was no need to hold him at arm's length.

  Calling on all his diplomatic skills, he soon had her laughing at stories of his own experiences at various courts. He had traveled widely, both for the Duke and himself, and was familiar with places Brenna had only dreamt about. Encouraged by her eager questions, Guyon described his journeys to Paris and Rome, even as far away as the Saracen lands where he had spent two years amassing the beginnings of his wealth.

  When he was once again certain that she was fully relaxed with him, Guyon suggested Brenna allow him to escort her back to the palace.

  "In company with your watchdogs, of course," he teased, nodding toward the nearby thegns. "I swear they've barely blinked since I came on the scene."

  Brenna glanced up at the sun, finding it much farther west than she had expected. "It is late. My sister will be wondering what's happened to me." It surprised her how much of the day was gone. Soon the lords and ladies would be assembling once again in the Great Hall. She really did have to get back.

  At the pen next to the market, she and Guyon reclaimed their horses from the sokeman charged with guarding them. They followed the river road past the ancient city walls some believed had been built by the Romans mentioned in Holy Writ. Whoever had possessed the skill to pile those precisely hewn blocks of stone one upon the other might also have built the straight roads that crisscrossed England.