by Shayla Black
She sniffed and continued. “My father went to London soon after that. We received word within a fortnight that he began drinking ale one eve and ne’er stopped.”
Warm tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Then your uncle came to Penhurst?”
Gwenyth swiped her tears aside. “Aye. Uncle Bardrick and Aunt Welsa came and brought Nellwyn and Lyssa with them. I had never met them. I believed they would treat me as family, though life without my parents frightened me. ’Twas only the thought I was not completely alone that saved me in the weeks before their arrival. But when they came, I wished with all my might they would leave.”
“They were cruel?” Aric’s sharp tone took her aback.
“Only to the serfs, many of whom have starved in the last few years. To me, they were indifferent. Other than the fact they gave my chamber to Nellwyn and Lyssa and assigned me kitchen duties, they took little notice of me at all—at least until Sir Penley came.”
“Your uncle invited him to Penhurst?”
“Aye, with the purpose of luring him to wed Lyssa, I see now. I stood in his way.”
Aric squeezed her hand gently. “You did, little dragon. But you must not fear. I will make certain you are fed and clothed and have a warm, dry bed. I can even tend the cooking, though you must never tell anyone.”
She smiled, despite her sad remembrances. “Would no one fear the sorcerer then?”
With a laugh, he rubbed her sensitive palm with his thumb. “Something like that. Can I bribe you for silence with a rabbit stew and warm bread?”
In mock seriousness, she considered it. “For now, I suppose. But you shall have to bribe me often and well.”
Chuckling, he raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips. Her skin began to tingle.
“Always, little dragon,” he vowed, rising to his feet. “Always.”
Gwenyth followed Aric back to their shanty somehow more at peace than she had been in years.
* * * *
Midnight settled inside the cottage. Slouched uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair, Aric propped his feet up on the bed and watched Gwenyth sleep.
His wife looked peaceful with her dark lashes resting against the pale beauty of her cheeks. Her mahogany hair spread all about her in a dark, glossy sheen, hinting at the tempestuous nature that so intrigued him. The blankets she had recently sewn covered the rest, but his imagination had shown him her naked form many, many times.
But ’twas not that which disturbed him this night.
Rolling his shoulders to ease tension, he considered their earlier conversation. Not only did she put too much faith in the goodness of her cousins, she had a blind devotion to family, despite their ill-treatment of her, something he did not understand.
What he understood less, however, was why he had revealed anything about himself. Gwenyth should know nothing of him. He should have remained mute on the subject of family. Though he had not called his brother, Stephen, by name, revealing details of his past could only lead Gwenyth to want more knowledge—to expect it, even. Worse, he had barely restrained the urge to tell her of Guilford, his wise teacher, Drake and his friend’s trouble with his father’s murder, as well as Kieran’s pranking, devil-may-care nature that hid terrible pain.
As Gwenyth had spoken of her mother and father, some part of him had yearned to tell her of the blood oath he and Drake and Kieran shared to always protect one another. Lately, Aric had done naught to honor that vow. Still, he felt solace at knowing if he was truly needed, Guilford would send word.
And in the future, he must watch his tongue around sweet Gwenyth or find all his secrets revealed.
That decided, Aric closed his eyes. For once, sleep came easily.
So did the nightmares.
The sun shone high in the sky. In the distance, London was abuzz with news of the impending coronation. On a hillside, Aric sat on the early autumn grass. Bees buzzed from blossom to blossom. Birds chimed happily in harmony with children’s laughter.
Scampering from behind the swaying trees, two golden-haired boys ran, chasing one another across the landscape—young Edward, soon to be England’s next king, and his younger brother, Richard, Duke of York.
Their joyful, excited voices carried in muted whispers on the breeze, punctuated by an occasional giggle or shriek. Aric waved. The boy Richard waved in return, then resumed his play.
The Tower of London soared into the sky behind them, looking clean and stately in the brilliant sunshine.
As he stared at the sky, a black cloud enveloped the sun. ’Twas clear rain threatened. Within moments, silence descended. The birds’ cheerful songs ceased. The breeze stilled. The bees fled.
Aric looked about the shadowed hillside for Edward and Richard to warn them of the bad weather.
They had vanished.
Around him, grass had died, trees rotted. The Tower of London appeared suddenly red and ominous. The city behind the grand tower was hushed, as if shocked into muteness. And the silence ate at him. Where were those boys? What had ceased their laughter?
Aric woke with a start, gasping. Wiping the sweat from his face, he rose and answered his own question. Murder had stopped the boys’ laughter. Their own uncle, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, had arranged for their murders through an ambitious knave named Sir James Tyrell, so he might seek the crown for himself, and seek it he did. Richard wore it even now.
Sighing, Aric stood and cursed. He had pleaded with Sir Thomas More to discover the truth that all London—indeed, all England—sought in vain. But he had not known the truth could be so painful. How could he ever have believed King Richard’s lies?
Stifled by the humid air within the small dwelling, Aric left Gwenyth sleeping peacefully and retreated to his chair beneath the cottage eaves. As the night wind washed over him, his thoughts continued to race.
He could not, now or ever, return to Northwell, to Richard’s court, to politics and war and ambition. It all came to naught and resulted in senseless death. Aric wanted no part of any of that again.
Resolved, he stood and ambled toward the cottage window. Aric peered inside at his wife and wrestled with the one truth he could not escape: He could give Gwenyth the life she sought—indeed, a life beyond her dreams.
The Nevilles had castles, servants, money, and power aplenty. He himself had a fortune, three titles, and a small army. If he brought her home, Gwenyth would indeed be important, very much needed. Nellwyn would have nothing to lord over her younger cousin, her Uncle Bardrick would kick himself for not forcing Lyssa to become the sorcerer’s wife, and Gwenyth would certainly be glad she had seen the last of sniveling Sir Penley.
The thought made him smile, but the smile faded quickly beneath the crushing weight of fact.
If he wanted to maintain his soundness of mind, such as it was, he could not return to his former life. Not for Gwenyth. Not ever.
* * * *
The next morn, Gwenyth completed the touches on her scarlet silk dress. Aric marveled at her tiny, perfect stitches, the simple but elegant gown of her creation. Although ladies learned young the skills of sewing, such patience and talent always surprised him.
Gwenyth would make a fine chatelaine. She knew her role and would be firm when needed, but she also had heart. The people of Northwell would respond to her with great favor.
Cease! He reminded himself. He could never take Gwenyth to his home, for all the reasons he had already considered.
Sighing, Aric wandered out into the midday sun and sat in his chair beneath the eaves. He could not deny Gwenyth had suffered greatly of late in her family’s and friends’ rejections. Nor could he deny she deserved better. He simply could not give it to her.
As a husband, he could provide her protection, shelter, and food, along with an occasional gift. But the funds he had received from the sale of his armor were dwindling. Soon he would have to find a way to earn a wage, for returning to battle was no option. Still, he would provide for his wife.
He frowned. The past few days had taken a toll on Gwenyth. The fiery wench with whom he had spoken vows had grown increasingly quiet. Her melancholy on the hill last eve gave him pause. ’Twould not do at all.
Seized by an idea, Aric wandered into the cottage and rummaged through a pile of his belongings. When he found the object he sought, he enclosed it in his palm, its cool surface soon warming in his grasp.
Aye, Gwenyth, his wife, was worthy of this token. She would value it. God willing, ’twould make her happy for a time.
He turned about in search of her. Everything—his breathing, his very heartbeat—ceased when he saw her.
Gwenyth rounded the corner wearing her new red gown. The garment hugged her full breasts, dipped with the sharp curve of her small waist, and flared out over the lush swell of her hips. The vivid color made her skin seem brighter, clearer, her eyes a more stunning shade of blue. Aye, and her lips—how very red and moist and full they looked. And Aric felt with every muscle in his being how badly he wanted to taste her mouth again.
Dragging in a draught of air, he noted she had brushed her hair to a dark, silky gloss, and it lay in a straight sheen to her hips. ’Twas all he could do to remember the token in his hand, not throw it aside in favor of seducing her.
“Do you like it?” she asked quietly.
He paused, openmouthed, clearly stunned. “Aye, you look…beautiful.”
Aric appeared at a loss for words. Gwenyth bit her lip to hold in a smile. He liked it! Perhaps he even thought she looked well in it. Though she wasn’t certain why his opinion was important, she found it was.
“Thank you. The fabric is the—”
“Nay,” he interrupted, stepping closer. His warm gray gaze caressed her. “You give the gown light.”
Gwenyth could not restrain her smile at his compliment.
“Yet I know how it could shine more.”
More? She frowned at him. She had only a simple white chemise, lacking any ruffle, to give her sleeves. The material required for the gown had left none for the headdress. And her sewing could always be improved…
“’Tis the best I can do,” she admitted finally.
“And well you have done, Gwenyth. Now it is my turn.”
With those intriguing words, he stepped to her, so close she could see the thick muscles of his arms and the pulse beating at his throat. From his fist he unfurled something shiny and silver.
When she caught sight of it, she gasped. “Sweet Mary.”
’Twas a pendant of a small sundial with a shimmering ruby in its center, suspended from a silver chain. Did he mean to give such a gift to her?
Holding her breath, Gwenyth waited as Aric leaned in and lifted the stunning amulet above her head. The moment she bowed her head, he placed it around her neck. The cool silver settled on her skin and nestled just above the valley between her breasts, exposed now by the low, square neckline of her gown. The red of the stone and the red of the gown were nearly identical, as if they had been made for one another. Shock nearly silenced her.
“’Tis most beautiful, Aric,” she vowed, raising her gaze to him. “I scarce know what to say. Thank you.”
His smile softened his angled warrior’s face. “If it pleases you, you need say nothing.”
“Indeed! I shall want to wear it every day.”
No one since her parents had given her a gift of any kind, for any reason. Aye, Nellwyn had given her cast-off clothing and trinkets, but never anything that was all hers—and never anything so valuable.
Whence did Aric come by such a costly item? She frowned. Had he stolen it from someone at the Mayday festival? Nay. No one there would own such an expensive trinket except Nellwyn or Aunt Welsa, and neither owned such. She would know.
So where had Aric found such an item? And why had he chosen to give it to her now?
Lost in her ruminations, it took Gwenyth a moment to realize Aric had paused, his brow furrowed, his expression seeking.
“My mother wore it nearly each day as well,” he said, as if knowing her questions. “After God took her back into His keeping, I carried it with me always.”
Gwenyth stared at him, again in shock. This costly pendant had been his mother’s. Was such possible?
Allowing her gaze to roam his face for any sign of falsehood, Gwenyth could not help but remember other contradictions about her hermit husband. The well-spoken English, his air of quiet but unyielding command, the combat scars coupled with his admission of receiving some battle training. Had he perhaps been trained as a knight? Mayhap come from such a family, who had since lost castle or fortune? ’Twas certainly possible.
“Your mother must have received great joy from such an item,” Gwenyth fished, hoping Aric would reveal more.
Again, he paused. Gwenyth’s heart leaped, for he always paused before revealing anything of import.
“This pendant was her favorite,” he said slowly. “Though I know not if ’twas because she found it lovely or because my father gave it to her.”
His father. Gwenyth nodded, her mind racing. Perhaps his father had once been an important knight or lord. Had Aric’s mother the man’s leman? ’Twould explain more of Aric’s circumstances and the appearance of such a gift. Still, curiosity ate at her. She wanted to know more about her husband. But she also knew she must word her questions with care, else Aric would not answer.
“Why did your father give your mother this gift?”
His gaze wandered to someplace far away, and a frown settled over his features. “I know not. My mother told me he gave it to her so she might know what time each day to meet him for their trysts.”
Aye, Gwenyth decided, Aric’s mother had been a nobleman’s leman. But whose? And for how long? Had Aric known his father well? The questions gnawed at Gwenyth, piling her frustration into a mountain of inquisitiveness.
“Did your mother and father love well?” she asked carefully.
Would he answer or refuse her questions? Gwenyth bit her lip as she waited through long moments of silence.
“Aye. After my mother’s death, even after he took a young wife, my father spoke often of her with fondness.”
The strong tones of his voice gentled as he spoke of his parents’ love for one another. Gwenyth felt tears sting her eyes. She wanted such a love for herself. Did Aric seek that kind of bond, too?
Placing her palm over the warm ruby, Gwenyth regarded Aric with a mixture of hope and fear she could not quite understand. “Why did you give such a gift to me?”
Aric scowled. “Do you not like it?”
“I like it,” she assured. “Never have I seen anything so lovely. ’Tis simply that…well, the pendant was your mother’s, of import to her—and of import to you. Why share it with me?”
His lips curling upward, Aric reached for her and placed his hand at the back of her neck. His warm fingers settled against her skin, attuning her senses to his scent, his heartbeat. The pad of his thumb caressed her cheek and left tingles in its wake.
“You are my wife, and I vowed to share all I have with you when we wed.”
Gwenyth’s heart warmed. Though Aric had little of value to give her, he had gifted her with one of his most precious possessions. That fact lay in his eyes.
“Thank you,” she said again, feeling suddenly warmed.
He nodded. Then his smile turned mischievous. “And if you would like to remember what time to meet me for a tryst or two, I would have no complaints.”
“Aric…” Heat spiked within her. Her warning sounded more like a breathy plea.
His intimate whisper became a breath as he bent closer, closer, until his mouth was a moment away from hers. Gwenyth’s hands shook as she raised them to his shoulders, whether to ward him off or pull him closer, she wasn’t sure.
She did neither. Time passed in moments registered by her unsteady heartbeat. As he loomed above her, Aric’s eyes darkened, seeming without beginning and without end. Her world became a swirl of misty, mesmerizing gray.
; Then he inched closer again, and his lips covered hers, a mere shimmer of breaths. Beguiled by his touch, her lashes fluttered shut as his mouth slid across hers, nibbled and teased, warmed as he sampled her slowly, as if he were a man with infinite patience. Gwenyth swayed against the solid breadth of his chest, her limbs suddenly heavy, her thoughts receding.
Again, his mouth covered hers, sensitizing her to the feel of his touch, to his rich scent surrounding her. His other hand joined the first at the back of her neck until he cupped her jaw and gently brought her lips more firmly beneath his.
Her pulse skipped a beat as he made her mouth his gentle captive again. Gwenyth strained closer, utterly willing. Some distant part of her warned she could not remain here with Aric, but another insisted on allowing the indulgence of his exploring lips as he parted hers and eased his way inside.
The small fire his touch had started flickered and fanned into something stronger as his tongue circled about her own, then drifted away to leave a warm, damp trail to the base of her throat.
He murmured something—what, she knew not. Sighing her answer, Gwenyth reached out to him and pulled him closer, reeling with a surprising need to feel his kiss again. Aric obliged her, feathering his silky mouth over hers once more as he eased her down to sit upon his narrow bed. For a moment, she thought to protest. An endless, needy kiss quelled anything she had been about to say.
Fluid pleasure filled her when his hands left her face to skim her shoulders and the curve of her waist, his thumb barely brushing her breast on its descent.
Tingles spread across her skin, dug deep into her bones. She gasped at the sensations, uncertain of this new magic he gave her. As she looped her arms about his neck and arched toward him, Aric met her hungrily, his mouth angling over hers once more for another drugging kiss that left her feeling limp and enlivened at once.
When he lowered her to the mattress, she wallowed in the feel of him, so substantial and strong, above her. At that moment, he seemed her entire world, her very own champion. She felt dizzied by his unwavering mouth, hazed by his warmth and need. To him, she gave all his kiss sought, eager to please.
