by Shayla Black
The soldier pressed his blade against Lady Gwenyth’s throat, his grin broadening. Aric knew they would indeed kill her, without haste or remorse.
More senseless death was not something he could tolerate.
“Do not touch her.” As his fist tightened about the hilt of his knife, Aric leveled a glare at Dagbert.
“What say you, sorcerer?” Dagbert asked, easing his knife from the arched expanse of Lady Gwenyth’s throat.
She trembled, Aric saw. And she fought it, if the strain in her arms and face was any indication. Somehow the thought of the black-toothed ruffian causing her fear angered Aric as nothing had in his blissful months alone.
“I say you release her now and leave my sight.”
“And ye will take ’er to wife and stop the drought plaguing Lord Capshaw?” asked Dagbert.
He could no more stop a drought than he could predict the rain. “Nay, this is foolishness.”
Dagbert scratched his head. “Does she displease ye?”
Lady Gwenyth’s startled gaze flew to his face. Silently she pleaded with him, though he sensed she rarely pleaded for anything. That square chin told the story of her stubborn nature—that and those vivid, keen eyes.
“She’s the comeliest wench at Penhurst Castle,” Dagbert added.
That he could believe, but it did not change his answer. “I’ve no wish for a wife.”
With a shrug, Dagbert brought the knife back to the frightened lady’s pale neck. Her pulse raced beneath the sharp steel, and Aric’s own heartbeat quickened.
“If she ain’t well-pleasing enough to take to wife, then we’ll see ’er dead. The Lord Capshaw asks only that ye end the drought in return.”
Lord Capshaw apparently was a superstitious baron, willing to sacrifice his own niece to bring prosperity back to the castle. The baron was also willing to kill her if she failed to win the sorcerer’s favor and end the drought. Aric wondered how he could possibly respond to such idiocy.
“Leave her here with me and be gone with you.”
“Ye accept her, then, as Lord Capshaw’s offerin’? Dagbert lowered his knife a fraction, his hand hovering somewhere around Lady Gwenyth’s breast. Those blue eyes of hers colored with indignation.
“Aye. Leave her to me.” Aric gritted his teeth in irritation.
What he would do with her once Dagbert and the baron’s other cowards left was anyone’s guess. He could solve only one problem at a time.
“Nay, I must see ye wed all proper-like. Lord Capshaw insisted.”
Aric found his patience thinning. “I told you, I have no wish for a wife.”
“The baron gave me but two options, a wife or a corpse. ’Tis for ye to decide, but I’ll not risk me arse in crossing a man like Lord Capshaw.”
“So you would rather cross a sorcerer?” Aric raised a brow in question.
Dagbert lifted the slabs of his shoulders in disdain. “I don’t believe in your rabble-rubble.”
“Don’t you? How do you explain the dog?”
At Aric’s shrill whistle, the half dog, half wolf emerged from the cottage’s shadows, his gray-brown ears up on end, his sharp teeth bared. The small crowd drew back at the animal’s approach, their expressions ranging from piqued interest to panic as the animal padded beyond a cluster of flowered toadflax and across the soft dirt to heel at Aric’s side.
The dog growled, and the priest crossed himself. The servant pointed, his eyes wide with fear. Dagbert’s face gave away little, except that he turned a shade paler.
To Aric’s surprise, Lady Gwenyth’s face held almost no fear. Did she sense the animal’s goodness, or did she not know the beast had once ravaged the countryside?
“He tamed the devil’s own and took him for a pet, a sure sign of evil,” the holy man claimed.
“The dog, he might be from the devil,” Dagbert conceded, casting furtive glances at the mutt, “but ye don’t have any more powers than me. ’Tis a sense for these things I have. Now take the wench to wife, or I kill her.”
Aric looked about for another means of thwarting Dagbert. The servant, pitifully dressed, did no more than clutch Lady Gwenyth’s wrist and stare at the ground. If he was not mistaken, the beefy man was the one the castlefolk called Mute. Aric assumed the man could not speak. Little help there. The holy man merely clutched his Bible to his chest, wearing an expression of outraged righteousness. Aric sighed. He had to try, anyway.
“Good Father, would you wed two unwilling people to each other?”
The priest puffed out his thin chest. “Lady Gwenyth can rid you of Satan’s evil with her purity. It is my duty and God’s will.”
“And what if I should place a hex on you?” Aric crossed his arms over his chest in what had always been a most intimidating stance.
If possible, the little man puffed out further. “God will protect me from evil like you.”
Christ’s blood! Now what?
Dagbert snickered. Aric speared the odious man with a lethal glare but found his gaze ensnared by Lady Gwenyth, instead. Her heated eyes, her soft mouth, the tempting curve of her breast—and her sharp tongue. Lord, he hated to think of that.
“Well,” Dagbert prompted, “shall I see her wed or dead this day?”
Why did the world have to intrude upon his peace now, just when the nightmares were beginning to abate?
Aric sighed. “You shall see her wed.”
* * * *
It seemed to Gwenyth as if the whole matter ended in moments. No matter how she’d protested to the tops of the oak and alder trees above or kicked the gluttons beside her, Mute and that wretched cur Dagbert had held tight.
The towering, thick-chested stranger was now her husband, his thatch-roofed shanty her home.
With the vows now spoken, Dagbert sneered at her. “Don’t ye come back to Penhurst, or the baron says he’ll kill ye himself.”
With that, Dagbert and the others retreated back into the forest, leaving her alone with the imposing sorcerer.
The golden-maned man the Church saw as her husband turned his broad frame about and headed toward his tiny dwelling, his feet falling silently on the soft spring earth. Gwenyth stared, openmouthed, at his retreat. Had he nothing to say to her? Nothing at all?
She could not remember a time she had been more scared—or more angry.
“Could you not have done something to stop Dagbert’s madness?” she ranted, following the silent stranger. “Why did you allow this foolish wedding to happen?”
He turned back and stared at her, his strong, wide face sharp with question, his icy gray eyes challenging.
The silence dragged on. And on. Gwenyth gritted her teeth, and her nails dug into the callused flesh of her palms. She had never been one to keep her patience or hold her tongue. And at the moment, restraining either seemed impossible.
“Well, say something, you fen-sucked lout!”
Surprise crossed his chiseled tawny features. “Fen-sucked?”
Was that all he had to say? He had married her against her will. God’s nightgown, it seemed he had married her against his own will! And he spoke first of her choice of insults, instead of their preposterous exchange of vows? The man hadn’t seemed shy of wits earlier. Why wouldn’t the coxcomb make sense now?
“Aye, fen-sucked, fly-bitten, and beef-brained. Why did you wed me?”
Turning away, he flung the door to his shanty open and ducked to step inside. “Should I have seen you dead?”
“Of course not, you tottering horn-beast,” she shouted at his back. “You should have talked them out of this fool-born idea, promised to lift the drought, or fought your way out.”
“I tried to reason with them, if you recall,” he said through clenched teeth, his voice deep and tight.
Oh, and was he angry now? ’Twas a state he should finally reach, her having arrived long before! “Tried? Is that what you call it? My cousin’s unborn babe could have said more to stop this farce.”
He whirled on her again, hovering just
inside the doorway, the simple green tunic covering his massive chest mere inches from her face. His eyes resembled angry storm clouds as he stared down at her. “And what did you try?”
“I-I told them I wanted this not. I kicked, railed, I screamed—”
“Aye, and everyone between here and London heard you.”
Gwenyth gasped, and the beast turned away with a smile, evidenced by a flash of surprisingly straight teeth and the curve of his wide mouth, before retreating inside the little cottage. With much foot stomping, she followed. The oaf would feel the full measure of her fury!
At the door, she stopped as her gaze fell upon the dwelling’s interior. A ramshackle bed sat upon the dirt floor next to a blackened pit of a hearth. A pair of his braies lay strewn across the single chair, and a tiny table with a teetering leg and a pitcher with a broken handle filled the rest of the small space. The lone window had no glass. Nay! Gwenyth closed her eyes in despair.
For half her life, she had lain upon the cold stone floor every night at Penhurst and wished to reclaim her position as lady of the castle, of the fine home she’d been born to. Most of all, she yearned for a place where she belonged, where the people within saw her as a prize, not a burden, something her Uncle Bardrick had taken great pains to remind her she was.
She’d always known he much enjoyed being Lord Capshaw and showing his two daughters off as great ladies. Still, she had imagined he would see his brother’s only child well wed. Hadn’t he brought the exceedingly handsome Sir Penley Fairfax to the keep for just that cause?
She had thought so for the past fortnight. Now she knew better, damn Uncle Bardrick’s eyes!
Instead, he had married her off to the only man within twenty miles who frightened everyone, even Sir Penley. He had married her to a pauper of reputedly dark powers.
Gwenyth shivered as her memory dredged up the tales of his powers. His taming of the wild dog that had slaughtered pigs, chickens, and even cows all over the village had started the rumors of his magical abilities. That alone made people suspicious. Uncle Bardrick’s cook had exchanged cross words with the lone warlock over the purchase of food, then promptly died the next day. The castlefolk thought that all too eerie. And then the drought started soon thereafter, and had not been eased by blessed rain in nearly six months. That convinced everyone the hermit was a sorcerer. ’Twas likely true, she acknowledged with a sigh.
Bristling braies, had she been hasty-witted in insulting him? What would he do to her now?
“Well, do you plan to stand in the door all night or come inside?” asked the stranger.
What choice did she have? ’Twas either die by Uncle Bardrick’s hand or test fate with the sorcerer. “I shall come in, but do not assume I mean to be your wife.”
With tiny steps, Gwenyth made her way into the dwelling, treading on the tips of her toes through the dirt to the room’s lone chair. She stared at the seat, currently occupied by his undergarments, wondering how she could stay with the man for even one night. This was—indeed, he was—everything she did not want, even if he was handsome in that overpoweringly male way.
The man did nothing to move his undergarments from the chair. Weary and impatient, Gwenyth tapped her toes against the earthen floor and waited. Finally, he heaved a giant sigh and crossed the room to retrieve his braies. She sat.
“As you can see, I did not expect a lady.”
“Are you certain?” She needled. “Your paltry protests against this union make me think you lie, hermit.”
He stretched his solid length out on the small bed, nearly engulfing the mattress. His long, muscled legs, encased in clean brown hose, were mere inches from her knee. Gwenyth swallowed. The man was certainly big enough and likely strong, too. Would he expect her to do her wifely duty by him on that small, no doubt flea-ridden bed?
“Actually, my lady, I wanted no one here, least of all someone so free with her tongue. But what is done, is done.”
Gwenyth’s mouth fell open at his insult. “If you wanted your peace, you should have fought for it! Instead, you showed all the mettle of a posy. And should you think—”
The sorcerer was off the bed and across the floor before she could blink. He stood in front of her chair, grabbed both her arms, and hauled her to her feet, flush against him.
My, he was certainly showing his mettle now. Those gray eyes of his were dark as charcoal, menacing in his golden face.
“You have insulted me and my home at every turn. I wanted neither you nor your tireless mouth here in my shelter. I tried to reason with your fine friend Dagbert to no avail. I surrendered my bachelor state to save your pretty neck, and you yell at me? God, woman! Has no one told you what a harpy harridan you are?”
Uncle Bardrick had told her that nearly every day since coming to Penhurst ten summers ago to bury her father and assume the castle’s duties. “Why can you not be more like your cousins Nellwyn and Lyssa?” he would ask. She could not be such a paragon of demure virtue, no matter how she tried. Pleasing Uncle Bardrick and his vain wife, Welsa, without her temper showing seemed impossible. She’d given up trying long ago.
“I humbly beg your pardon, kind sir.”
Her attempt at a decorous tone sounded more acidic than modest as she leaned into him and unleashed her temper. Gwenyth hardly cared if the sorcerer could turn her into a toad. It could not be worse than the position she now found herself in.
“In the last hour, I have been threatened, unwillingly wed, and insulted. Pray forgive me if that makes me a trifle irritable, you ass.”
The tawny-haired hulk shook his head, grunted, and turned away without another word.
“What mean you by that? That grunt?”
The man to whom she found herself married said nothing. Indeed, he glanced not her way at all, but trod to the charred hearth, started a fire, and set a beaten kettle above it.
Moments later, the rich aroma of warming broth invaded her senses. Gwenyth ignored the fact the air was tinged with not just the familiar scent but also with something woodsy and earthy that could belong only to him. She focused on her anger instead.
“My life is in complete disarray, and you mean to make broth?”
He spared her but a glance over his shoulder, his brow lifted in irritation, before he turned his attention back to the kettle.
Argh! She had been much yelled at within Penhurst’s walls. Even the cook’s spoon across her hands she had learned to tolerate. But she hated to be ignored.
“Have you gone mute now? Grim only begins to describe the trying state of our affairs. Of our very lives! At a time like this, you find nothing more pressing than to make broth whilst you grunt? Have I wed something better suited to the barn?”
Still, he said nothing, did not even bother himself with a glare in her direction. Gwenyth fisted her hands at her sides and stomped across the cottage toward him, venting a measure of her frustration.
She spoke to the imposing width of his tight-muscled back. “Can you not hear I am speaking to you, or are you always this crude in your manners? ’Twould explain why you are unmarried, despite being past your youth.” She threw her arms up. “Well, that and this dwelling. Have you no rushes for the floor? No servant about to see to your comforts?” Silence. “Can you even speak the king’s English?”
The blasted slow-wit still said nothing. Lord, how she wanted to kick his shin, step on his toes, beat some sense into his thick skull.
Still, ’twas not a good plan. Not only was she unlikely to cause him much pain, but the remembrance that many thought him a sorcerer stayed her—barely. She drew in a deep, calming breath, knowing she must try to reason with him somehow.
Behind him, Gwenyth cleared her throat, then touched a hand to his arm. “Clearly, you see I do not belong here. What comforts can you provide a lady? My…good man—”
“Aric,” he said finally, his teeth gritted.
“What say you?”
Aric turned to face his new bride, who he had known for less than an
hour, a bride who had not known his name until moments ago. The lithe length of her body was tense with fury, her brow furrowed with confusion. Her full, extraordinary mouth turned down in a frown.
By the saints, what was he to do with the woman?
She talked more than any female he’d ever known, few of her words something other than an insult or curse. She thought him and his home beneath her and wanted nothing more than to be gone. What would the luscious, shrewish Lady Gwenyth say if she knew he had just made her the Countess of Belford?
Clearly, she needed time to adjust to wedded life. ’Twas to be expected, he supposed. Still, Aric found it disconcerting that his ignorance about the flavor of her opulent mouth tugged at him almost as much as the fact she was now his wife—a very spirited one who thought him a fen-sucked barn animal.
As he turned away from her to pour his broth, Aric grimaced, wondering what the night would bring.
* * * *
The cheeky wench—his wife, Aric amended—could sleep anywhere. He envied her that. Oh, she had struggled to stay awake, but once the rhythm of slumber had overtaken her, she had scarcely stirred.
Trying to adjust his numb backside on the hard wooden chair to a more comfortable position, he eyed the woman he had wed hours ago. She lay in his bed on her stomach, her arms sprawled about her head, her fingers tangled in her thick, dark tresses. She looked peaceful, but not angelic. Never that.
The slash of her bold raven brows and the sensual mouth would never bespeak innocence. Her square jaw and surprising height merely added to her fierce image. The softly rounded curve of her buttocks, lifting slightly as she moved in her sleep, also reminded him she was far indeed from being a child.
Aric cursed, then shifted again to accommodate the expanding front of his hose.
She could not stay here. No matter that he found his blood heating for her now. He craved peace, which, Lord knew, he would never find with her impudent mouth constantly achatter and her feminine allure close at hand.
Yet he could not force her to return to Penhurst Castle, where her uncle, the superstitious baron, might well see her life ended. Though the saucy lady had both rankled and scorned him, he could not wish death upon her. His life had been filled with too much of that.
