by Shayla Black
“But—”
“Out!” he roared.
Tears stinging her eyes, Gwenyth ran out the door, down the stairs, and into the inner bailey. She darted behind the chapel as tears ran down her face unchecked.
Spotting the tunnel entrance, Gwenyth hunched down to wriggle inside. Ten feet away stood Sir Penley looking tall and elegant in his finery. His light brown hair gleamed in the sun, and his straight, thin nose was perfectly in profile. She would miss his tender heart, his smile. She began to cry harder.
Bristling braies, what was she to do now? Her love was lost to her, and she was wed to a sullen eremite who might well practice the devil’s work instead of God’s! She was chained by the bonds of marriage to a man who could never give her the home and family of her dreams.
* * * *
At the crackle of leaves beneath quick feet, Aric rose and peered out the window. His wife had returned quickly from Penhurst and, judging by her red, swollen eyes, none too happily.
Christ’s blood, female tears. He who had made war all his life—and made a name for himself doing it—felt uncertain at the sight of her tears. He sighed, trying to decide what Drake or Kieran would do, besides laugh until their man parts turned blue at his discomfort.
Lady Gwenyth trounced through the door and slammed it behind her. Without a glance in his direction, she sat on the edge of the bed, her back toward him. He watched her shoulders shake, though she made no sound. Aric frowned. No wails, no catching of breath?
He leaned to the side in order to catch a glimpse of the outline of her face. Gwenyth’s milk-smooth cheeks were splotchy and mottled red. Her small square chin quivered. She was indeed crying.
Backing away, Aric turned and made his way to the door. Outside, he settled himself in a chair under the cottage’s thatched eaves. He retrieved his half-formed wooden carving from beside the chair and his knife from his belt.
Whittling absently, he let her cry alone. She needed privacy to battle her uncle’s ill-treatment of her and time to conquer her sorrow. Who knew better than he that such feeling was best harnessed alone?
Still, her sobs, which had grown louder, disquieted him. Why he could not say. He turned his attention back to his carving.
Minutes later, he realized all was silent once more and rose to peer inside the dwelling’s window. She had flung herself across the tidy bed in his absence. His pillow was quite wet, his bedcovers tousled. But her still body and occasional indrawn breath told him the crying had stopped.
Aric entered the domain to fetch her a cup of water from the bucket and a cloth from the table. He returned to Gwenyth’s side and paused. Part of him felt an inexplicable urge to touch her, though he knew she would not welcome it.
Frowning, he cleared his throat. “Water?”
She jerked upright and whirled to face him. Strands of her long chestnut hair clung to her wet, spiked lashes, to her moist, red mouth. By God, she looked beautiful with her hair a wild tangle and her blue eyes raging. Nothing cool or controlled about Lady Gwenyth. Unlike Rowena, his wife had no passion lacking in her blood.
The very thought heated him. Gripping the cloth in his hand, he stifled a staggering urge to brush the soft strands of hair from her face and kiss her senseless.
“Tha-thank you,” she replied finally, taking the cup from his hand.
As their fingers brushed, Aric’s skin burned and desire poured through him. Stunned, he jerked his hand away.
Lady Gwenyth gazed at him with red-rimmed, cautious eyes, then lifted the cup to her mouth. Closing her eyes, she drank deeply. Aric could scarcely lift his gaze from her beautiful face, red nose and all.
Finally, she took the cup away from her wide mouth and held it between tense fingers. “I do not understand how he could do this. I am family.”
For a long moment, Aric said nothing. He did not want to become embroiled in her problems. He cared nothing for the petty baron’s machinations.
But Gwenyth’s beseeching eyes made it impossible to remain mute. “As I told you, I feared he would not welcome you back.”
“Aye, you did,” she said, fresh tears flooding her eyes. “I never believed my own uncle would threaten to kill me.”
Since Aric knew all too painfully the lengths a man would go to further his own ends, family be damned, he was not surprised in the least. But with that thought, came a disturbing certainty: Lady Gwenyth had nowhere else to go. She, along with her passions, her prejudices, and her pulchritude, was here to stay. His new bride certainly did not want to hear that truth any more than he wanted to think it.
“I know,” he said softly. “Lord Capshaw is a fen-sucked varlet, and I am surprised you have not mentioned such as yet.”
Gwenyth bit her lip, but a smile crept up her cheeks, until each dimpled most charmingly. Finally, she let out a small laugh that had him smiling in return. “Aye, fen-sucked for sure.”
CHAPTER THREE
A silent evening gave way to a troubled night. Come the bright spring morn, Gwenyth began plotting ways to persuade Aric into lifting the drought. If he had such power, she must cajole him to use it so she might visit Penhurst and win Sir Penley and perhaps even her uncle’s approval. No method came immediately to mind.
At a sudden, cheerful “hello” from outside the shanty’s window, Gwenyth paused. The greeting had come from a female voice she had not expected to hear again for a long while—if ever.
Gwenyth rose from her cross-legged position on the little bed and gazed out the window—and into the round face of her cousin Nellwyn.
Dashing across the room to admit uncle Bardrick’s elder daughter, Gwenyth prayed the woman had some good tidings from Penhurst. Hopeful, she opened the door.
Nellwyn entered the cottage with a quick glance about. A stilted smile followed. Her cousin’s gown was of the finest silk, though Nellwyn would soon outgrow it because of the babe due three months hence. As she crossed the room, she lifted her skirts so they would not touch the dirt floor.
Her cousin looked radiant, nearly glowing. Her light brown hair was swept up in curls that framed her pleasant face and pale blue eyes. Gwenyth’s own dress was little better than a dirt-stained rag. She had no others with which to replace it, and Aric did not appear to have the funds to rectify that.
Then there was Aric himself, a vital flesh-and-blood reminder she held little value to the people of Penhurst. Now that Nellwyn had come, she felt suddenly glad Aric had wandered into the forest, as he often did.
As was her cousin’s wont, Nellwyn greeted her with a hug. “Oh, Gwenyth, how good it is to see you! My dear husband and I have come to visit on our way to London. Can you imagine? I have never been there, and I think I shall faint from the excitement. We are to stay for Parliament! My dear Sir Rankin says there is much Lancastrian intrigue swirling about the Yorkist crown, and that is why we travel, but who cares when there is so much entertainment to enjoy?” She laughed.
Gwenyth did her best to smile. While she wished good fortune for her cousin, she could not deny she wanted some of it for herself.
“But you—” Nellwyn broke into her thoughts. “Father tells me you have a new husband. Where, pray tell is he?
Reeling with the news that her cousin would take a coveted journey to London, Gwenyth merely shrugged. How she had always longed to visit that place of excitement, see the mass of people, take in the court intrigues. Perhaps Sir Penley would take her someday—if she could become his wife.
“Is he not here?” Nellwyn asked, wearing a puzzled frown.
“Nay, he often…” Disappears would have been the truth, though she was loath to say it. Nellwyn’s life was so clearly perfect, while her own might never be more than misery. “He often hunts.”
“Oh, a sporting man, I see. Well, I shall probably come back to Penhurst on our journey home. Perhaps I will meet him then. What manner of man is he?”
Though she felt certain her uncle had told her cousin all the details of this ridiculous marriage, she refused to adm
it Bardrick had bartered her to a sorcerer to ease the drought. Gwenyth hated her embarrassment and vowed Nellwyn would never see it.
“He is a…quiet man. And so far, a kind one.”
“Wonderful! You shall do all the speaking and be allowed anything you desire.” Nellwyn giggled.
Despite her melancholy, Gwenyth could not help but laugh in return. “Exactly as I plan.”
After seating her cousin on the room’s lone chair, Gwenyth sat atop the bed. Outside, she heard Aric’s footsteps and prayed he had not heard her conversation. She prayed even harder he would leave again. She did not want Nellwyn to meet her silent husband. Though he was disturbingly handsome, gruffly gentle, and well spoken, his position was a lowly one. This marriage was but one more reason for Nellwyn to pity her.
Thankfully, her cousin remained oblivious to Aric’s presence under the eaves.
“Well, as you can see”—Nellwyn’s hands cupped her rounding stomach—“the babe is growing. I’m certain it will be a son, and my dear Sir Rankin is beside himself. He’s been the most indulgent husband during this time. I fear I shall grow quite used to it and become spoiled. What kind of wife will I be to him then? Certainly not a useful one!” Nellwyn smiled cheerfully.
“Indeed. But should you grow useless and fat, he will have no one to blame but himself,” Gwenyth teased.
“You are right!” Nellwyn giggled, then grabbed Gwenyth’s hands in a rush of excitement. “Though we have oft discussed names for the babe, we have not decided upon one. I feel so fortunate that Sir Rankin allows for my opinion. Indeed, he even seeks it in this matter.”
Holding in a sigh, Gwenyth regarded her cousin. She yearned so deeply for a caring husband and the return of the world into which she was born that an ache pulsed within her.
“Of course,” Nellwyn continued, “we shall have to determine a name all too soon. By the saints, I can hardly let Sir Rankin’s heir go nameless, at least not for too long.”
“That is true,” Gwenyth agreed as her cousin smiled widely.
“And I did not tell you of the king’s gift,” Nellwyn said, changing subjects. “King Richard himself gave my husband another castle! Is that not exciting? ’Tis our third one now, and I know not how we will keep up with everything. As it is, we already have more land than Sir Rankin can oversee. I should be thankful, I suppose, for that means we shall never go hungry—though certainly I have more servants than I can direct in a day. I can scarcely remember their names, much less all their duties. And with this growing babe, I have felt naught but weariness. I am overwrought, I tell you.”
Gwenyth struggled to hide her envy at Nellwyn’s good fortune. Could her cousin not see her misery? Could Nellwyn not understand Gwenyth would give nearly anything to possess those same challenges?
Though she felt certain Nellwyn made no attempt to dishearten her, just listening to her cousin’s chatter made her heart feel as low as if it rested between her feet.
“Anyway,” Nellwyn said after gathering another breath, “Sir Rankin says we will visit this Corbridge Castle come autumn. I can only pray the resident steward is competent.
“Oh, and I’m to meet the king whilst we are in London, as well as his queen, Anne. Sir Rankin believes we may even sup with them. I vow I shall faint!”
“Would he expect different from a breeding woman?”
Nellwyn glanced at her with smiling reproach. “I’m told he is quite somber and would disapprove. If I embarrassed Sir Rankin in such a manner, I do not know that he would forgive me—at least, not in the first ten minutes.”
As her cousin laughed, Gwenyth smiled, even as sadness pervaded her. ’Twas not that she disliked Nellwyn or wanted to see her unhappy. Nay. She simply wished she could have a similar life, respected in a grand castle, a chatelaine everyone looked to for comfort and direction. She yearned to be respected and doted on by a husband.
As it was now, she had only Aric, who seemed happier ignoring her for most of the day. She had no servants to lead, no tapestries to see hung, and no hope of returning to Penhurst unless she could persuade Aric to make rain.
Nellwyn sighed, looking quite serious for the first time in Gwenyth’s memory. “Of course, Sir Rankin tells me there is a rumor about court that Queen Anne suffers from ill health and may not live long. Certainly she will have no more heirs. My husband frets about who shall rule England if King Richard does not remarry and have a son, for that upstart Henry Tudor is ever keen to gain the throne. But I always remind Sir Rankin that such is unlikely to happen. There is much time for the king to get a new wife breeding. He is not an old man. And even if he does not produce a new heir, a new king would certainly value a man as brave and loyal as Sir Rankin.”
Gwenyth nodded, wondering why Nellwyn had come to visit. True, she alone had been compassionate in the last ten years. Now she questioned whether the woman’s benevolence was designed to please others or to recollect her own good fortune.
That could not be so, Gwenyth mentally chastised herself. Nellwyn had oft helped her with household chores in the past and had given her leftover scraps of food and nearly new dresses. Still, her cousin’s presence made her feel out of sorts.
She rose, desperately wanting her cousin—Gwenyth’s biggest reminder of her poor fate—gone. “You’re looking tired, Nellwyn. Perhaps you should return to Penhurst for a rest.” At the least, she should give her mouth a rest, Gwenyth thought unkindly, then rebuked herself silently. What ill humor ailed her?
Nellwyn stood and smiled, though Gwenyth could see she had piqued the other woman. Guilt needled her.
“Perhaps you are right. The midwife has told me too much dirt in the air is not good for the babe.”
Shame and anger blazed through Gwenyth at her cousin’s intimation that her home was not good enough. It wasn’t, but ’twas not Nellwyn’s place to say so. Still, the innocent insult gave Gwenyth an idea.
“If you’re going to remain at Penhurst for a time, perhaps I could visit you there on the morrow, since the dirt is harmful.”
The smile fell from Nellwyn’s face. “Oh, I should love that, but Sir Rankin has made plans that we should leave before the dawn. London awaits, after all.”
Gwenyth resisted an urge to close her eyes in misery and cry again. Not before Nellwyn. Never before perfect, blessed Nellwyn!
“Of course,” she said finally. “Perhaps I should visit you at Penhurst when you make your way back from London.”
Her cousin shrugged, her smile stiff. “Perhaps. Well, I am off. Wish me luck in London!”
Before Gwenyth could reply, Nellwyn had exited the cottage, mounted her dappled gray, and set off for Penhurst with a foot soldier behind her.
Gwenyth closed the door, turned to the bed, and plopped down onto the straw mattress. She would not cry. Not again. These two days past had seen too much of that. If her tears flowed as freely as a river, Aric might well oust her from his presence, as well. Somehow, the thought dismayed her.
* * * *
After the chatty female visitor departed, Aric entered the cottage, uncertain what he might find. A morose Gwenyth somehow surprised him. She would let that boasting sow dishearten her?
With a frown, Aric sat in the room’s sole chair, directly across from his wife, who had her unhappy face resting in her hands. Her expression changed to something blank but tense when he caught her gaze. Gwenyth’s expressive eyes, however, told him she was truly upset.
Aric battled with himself. ’Twas true he had no wish for, no use for, a wife in his solitary life. Having her here disrupted his peace in a manner no one ever had, yet he did not mind her beneath his roof—except at night.
The torment of his nightmares had been compounded by the torment of his unexpected desire for her. Aye, he wanted her something fierce. The thought of surrounding himself with all that fire, getting this passionate woman to yield herself to him, made his blood run hot.
The fervor with which she approached people fascinated him. Guessing her feelings was
never a feat, for she seemed to have no thought of hiding them, as did nearly everyone else he’d ever known.
It seemed impossible to deny her comfort. Aric sighed.
“Who was she?” he asked.
She dropped her hands to her sides. “Nellwyn. My Uncle Bardrick’s elder daughter.”
“And she finds herself well pleased to be wedded, breeding, and traveling to London, from what I heard.”
Gwenyth bit her bottom lip, then said, “Aye. And why should she not?”
He paused. “Not everything is always as it seems, Gwenyth.”
“How can you say thus? ’Tis clear how lucky she is—an adoring husband, not one grand castle but three, and a babe on the way!”
He could hardly tell her Sir Rankin loved a good wench—sometimes several at once—or that Corbridge Castle was little more than rubble next to a dried-up river on inhospitable lands near the Scottish border. He could say none of those things without revealing himself. He would never expose his past and his life to Gwenyth, since he meant never to return to Northwell, Richard’s murdering machinations, and Rowena’s scheming.
Instead, he said, “Your lady cousin is too chatty by far and possesses a backside larger than Penhurst’s barn. Perhaps she is envious of you.”
“Of me?” Shock overtook Gwenyth’s face. “Whatever on earth for?”
“Your beauty. Your quick wit,” he offered.
She shrugged, though her cheeks flushed pink. “Your thoughts are kind indeed, but Nellwyn has a wonderful life, one I so want. One I might have had if Uncle Bardrick had allowed me to wed Sir Penley.”
“Sir Penley?” he asked, suspicion taking hold.
“Aye, Sir Penley Fairfax from—”
Aric laughed. His uncontained mirth spilled forth before Gwenyth could finish her sentence. She had hoped to wed cowardly, sniveling Sir Penley?
Rising, Gwenyth angrily placed her fists on her hips. “And just why is Sir Penley funny?”
