A Warrior's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  “Good men, the Jolliets,” Sir Thomas continued with a hint of approval. “Trustworthy.”

  “Absolutely.” George agreed.

  “No doubt your father’s affairs were in excellent order.”

  “Yes, Sir Thomas.”

  “Too bad you couldn’t get home sooner.”

  “I came as quickly as I could,” George said. Then he chose the one excuse for his delayed arrival at his father’s deathbed that Sir Thomas could understand, and that would surely put an end to this painful topic, which he had no desire to discuss with near strangers—or anyone else, for that matter. “I was dutybound to stay with Baron DeGuerre until after Candlemas.”

  Sir Thomas nodded and took another gulp. “Still, a pity.”

  George sipped slowly and tried not to be annoyed by Sir Thomas’s unforgiving, judgmental tone.

  “So, you want to marry Aileas,” Sir Thomas announced suddenly.

  George nearly choked. “I have decided to marry,” he replied truthfully.

  “Why Aileas?”

  It had not seemed to occur to Sir Thomas that there might be other ladies George could marry. “My father thought she would be a good choice for me,” he answered honestly.

  “She doesn’t get any land when she marries,” the older man declared.

  “I would not ask you for any.” Knowing better, he thought wryly.

  “Good. She does get a dowry, of course. Movable goods.”

  “Delightful—but of course, the true prize will be Aileas herself.”

  Sir Thomas stared at George as if he had suddenly started to speak Greek. “Save that kind of nonsense for her, boy, although she’ll probably laugh in your face,” he growled. “She is a prize, as I well know. Especially if you’re ever under seige. Give her a bow and send her to the battlements, and you’ll be glad you did.”

  George prevented himself from saying that he would never, ever, send a woman to the battlements, and certainly not his wife. “I’m sure she is a worthy woman.”

  “Aye, she is.” Sir Thomas leaned forward, his back still absolutely straight, and fixed his hawklike gaze on George. “I’ll be honest with you, George, because I always liked your father. I hope she takes you, but if she says no, that’ll be the end of it.”

  “I would not have any woman feel she is being compelled to marry me against her will,” George replied, some of his annoyance creeping into his eloquent voice.

  Then Aileas entered the hall. George was pleased to see her present and unharmed, although despite the presence of guests, her hair was just as disheveled and she wore the most bizarre combination of male and female clothing George had ever seen.

  Her shirt beneath the short leather tunic was definitely rough homespun. The sleeves of her undergarment, from wrist to elbow, were wrapped in leather thongs of the type favored by archers. Her skirt was too short, revealing—to his astonishment—men’s breeches, as well as boots thick with mud, which she took no pains to dislodge before marching toward them.

  That was not all that made George stare at her. For one thing, although he thought he detected a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, she actually seemed subdued. Perhaps that was explained by the repressive presence of Sir Thomas.

  Or that of the brawny brute of a fellow with a florid face and red hair accompanying her. He was the type of man, George thought, who probably subsisted entirely on ale and underdone beef.

  Then he saw her cast a surreptitious glance at her companion and a secretive little smile played about her lips.

  Could it be that she cared for this lout, who looked as if he were totally unacquainted with the concept of soap, let alone its use?

  And who was also ignoring her, staring instead at her father’s guest in a manner so blatantly rude, George was exceedingly tempted to draw his sword and show the oaf the error of his ways.

  Reflecting that this might not endear him to Sir Thomas and Aileas, who were, regardless of whatever else they might become in future, his neighbors, he refrained and assumed his most cool, unruffled demeanor. If Aileas Dugall wanted this red-haired ruffian, he would gladly take his leave and search elsewhere for a bride.

  “Daughter, this is Sir George de Gramercie,” Sir Thomas announced. “Sir George, Lady Aileas.”

  “Welcome, Sir George,” the young woman replied politely, with not one sign that they had met earlier that day. Nor did she curtsy, even when George bowed.

  When he rose, he smiled at her with his most charming and meaningless smile, the one he usually reserved for empty-headed nobles in the royal court.

  Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she straightened her shoulders defiantly. “This is Rufus Hamerton,” she declared, pointing at the red-haired fellow, who managed something like a bow. “Sir Rufus Hamerton,” she amended.

  George smiled at him, too.

  Aileas had never seen such a bland smile, so distinctly at odds with the shrewd intelligence burning in his blue eyes and the subtle derision there. Did he think her a fool that she wouldn’t note the disparity? And why did he say nothing about meeting her before? Surely he recognized her.

  Was he being chivalrous, thinking her father would be angry at her little joke? She eyed Sir George again, suddenly certain she had not fooled him one bit, either here or on the road. He had known exactly to whom he was talking—and yet he had accused her of having a lover! How dare he, the vain, overdressed—

  Rufus shifted beside her.

  If Sir George had thought to say such an outrageous thing back on the road, shouldn’t he be wondering about Rufus? she thought angrily. Shouldn’t he be a little curious? Or did he assume she was sitting about like other useless young ladies of wealth and nobility, waiting for any knight capable of movement to offer. marriage?

  And how was it he seemed so lazy and strangely insipid here, compared to the gracious, yet masculine, warrior on the road?

  “Fetch two more goblets,” Sir Thomas ordered the page, who jumped to obey immediately. “Sit down, Rufus. Aileas, join us.”

  A silence ensued as the boy returned with the required goblets and nervously poured out the wine, then scurried back to a corner.

  “You remember Sir George, Aileas?” Sir Thomas demanded.

  “Yes, Father, I do,” she replied. She gave their guest a sidelong glance and watched as he drank his wine elegantly, his long, slender fingers lightly holding the stem of the goblet. Every other man of her acquaintance clutched a goblet as he would a weapon.

  “You’ve been gone a long time,” Rufus observed before reaching for his wine and downing a large gulp, his swallows distinctly audible.

  “Yes. I’ve been serving the Baron DeGuerre,” Sir George drawled languidly. “When I was called home, I had no idea my father’s condition was so serious. He was ill quite often. Indeed, after he seemed to have passed away, I pressed my dagger to his fingertip just to ensure that the priest hadn’t made a mistake. My father was, however, completely and utterly dead.”

  His tone was so matter-of-fact and his smile so continuously banal, Aileas didn’t know what to make of him. Rufus simply stared at him, dumbfounded, and Sir Thomas’s expression was nearly as stunned.

  “I’m sure you will agree, Sir Thomas, that I would have been negligent in my duty to the baron if I came home too soon. You would not want your sons, whom I understand are all from home in the service of various and sundry noble lords, to rush to your bedside unless you were in imminent danger of dying.”

  Sir Thomas cleared his throat. “No, no, I wouldn’t.”

  “I didn’t think so. Now, if you will be so kind as to show me where I am to sleep, I believe I should retire and change for the evening meal, which I’m certain will be absolutely delightful.” He ran an appraising gaze over Rufus. “And I think I should wash.”

  “Yes, yes, as you wish,” Sir Thomas muttered. “You there!” He snapped his fingers at the page boy, who once again ran forward. “Take Sir George to the bedchamber in the west tower.”

  The boy nod
ded and bowed, and Sir George rose. “Separate sleeping quarters for guests?” he inquired lightly. “How modern.” He made a deep and graceful obeisance. “Sir Thomas, I thank you for your kind welcome. Sir Rufus, good day. Lady Aileas, a pleasure. I look forward to seeing you at supper.”

  Aileas watched Sir George stroll away. The moment he disappeared from sight up the curving stone stairway leading to the upper tower, she turned toward her father. “How could any man speak so of his father’s death?” she demanded.

  Sir Thomas didn’t answer right away. Indeed, Aileas suspected he, too, was wondering what kind of man he had invited into his castle, for there was a singularly incredulous look on his face. Then he cleared his throat and his face resumed its usual stern expression. “He has been gone for many years. He has indeed been in the service of Baron DeGuerre.”

  Aileas was even more confused. She knew enough of the baron to realize that he wouldn’t countenance having a buffoon in his company for long.

  Rufus smirked at Aileas, then turned a carefully interested eye on her father. “Who would condone having such a fool near him?” he mused aloud.

  “He was the best fighter to come out of this country, save for my sons, of course. Don’t be deceived by his lack of size. He’s thin, but he’s wiry—and quicker on his feet than any man I’ve ever seen.”

  “Quite frankly, Father, I find it difficult to believe he was ever anything but what we have just seen.”

  “That’s where you’d be wrong,” Sir Thomas growled. “George is no fool, whatever he may seem.” Her father set down his wine. “Rufus, see that the men are told the watchword for tonight. It’s alliance.”

  Rufus rose and bowed to them both before striding from the hall.

  Aileas rose to leave, too, until her father ordered her to sit back down and regarded her with a speculative gaze. “What do you think of him for a husband?”

  “He will do very well—for someone else,” Aileas replied bluntly.

  “I want you to marry him.” It was not a wish or an opinion. It was a command. “His lands border ours, and he is a great favorite of DeGuerre,” her father reminded her unnecessarily and before she could speak. “He’s a rich man, with powerful friends, despite what he seems.”

  Aileas’s hands balled into fists and she raised her eyes defiantly. “Father, I just thought—”

  “You just thought? Did I ask you what you just thought? Granted the fellow’s gone a little soft, perhaps, but that can change. A few weeks here, and he’ll be what he was.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “It is up to me to decide who you will marry. Remember that, Aileas.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “You will wear your best gown tonight, and you will accord Sir George the courtesy his rank deserves,” Sir Thomas ordered.

  “Yes, Father.”

  His tone softened ever so slightly as he said, “Now you may go.”

  Aileas gave no indication of her feelings as she left the hall, but she hurried to where Rufus would be speaking with the guards. She waited beside the gate until he came out of the gatehouse, then grabbed his arm and pulled him into the shadows. “He’s ordered me to marry him!” she declared. “As if I were a chitd!”

  Rufus looked down at the angry young woman and suddenly realized that they were speaking of an event that was very likely to occur. What Sir Thomas ordered always came about.

  Even his daughter’s wedding, Rufus assumed.

  It had to happen sometime, of course. He had known that for years, in an abstract sort of way, although he had never seriously considered the matter, just as he rarely even considered Aileas a woman. She was more like a squire or page to him than a woman.

  Now that he was forced to think of her as a marriageable female, he realized that he would be very sorry to lose such a friend.

  Aileas married. To that peacock Sir George.

  “What do you think of him?” he asked quietly. It would be worse if she was forced to marry someone she couldn’t even respect, let alone like.

  “He’s very well dressed,” she said scornfully.

  “Your father says he’s a good fighter.”

  “I will believe that when I witness it for myself.”

  “He does have powerful friends.”

  “So do jesters.”

  “He’s rich.”

  “He won’t be for long if he continues to spend so much on his clothes.”

  “Do you truly believe your father will force you to marry him?”

  Aileas’s steadfast gaze did not falter. “Unless someone better asks for me first.”

  Chapter Three

  Suddenly Rufus felt sick, for there could be no mistaking the significance of Aileas’s words or the unexpected yearning in her eyes.

  She wanted him to ask for her.

  But he could never marry Aileas. Indeed, the idea had never occurred to him in all the years he had lived at Dugall Castle. If it had, it would have seemed preposterous. He would as soon consider marrying Sir Thomas as he would his daughter.

  Rufus wanted a womanly woman, a soft, tenderhearted creature who would soothe his brow when he was anxious, not offer to wrestle. A woman who would serve him his food and drink and anxiously await his opinion on their merits, not someone who wolfed down bread, meat and ale like a starving foot soldier. A woman who could do her best to soften his anger, not tell him to stop acting like a spoiled brat. Who would defer to him as head of the household, not answer back impertinently. Who would be pliant and loving and welcoming in bed.

  Aileas do any of those things? He couldn’t even imagine it. And especially not in bed. Why, it would be like...like sleeping with a younger brother. At that thought, it was all he could do to keep the disgust from his face. “I... I have other duties to attend to,” he stammered as he backed away, then turned and hurried off.

  Leaving Aileas alone in the shadow of the wall.

  George slowly surveyed the room in which he was to sleep. It was as bare and comfortable as that of a penitential priest, he thought glumly. No feather bed, only ropes slung across the bed frame for him to sleep upon. A bare minimum of blankets. No brazier. No tapestries. One stool. “Am I to be martyred for marriage?” he muttered aloud.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord?” the page asked timidly behind him.

  He had forgotten the boy was there. “Sir Thomas doesn’t believe in luxury, does he?” he replied, turning toward the lad and grinning. “No matter. Knowing Sir Thomas as I do, I came prepared.”

  The boy’s expression remained stoic, and George decided it would be better to send the lad back to his duties. “You may go.”

  The page did as he was told while George sighed and rubbed his arms for warmth, thankful he had thought to include his own feather bed, warm coverlet, brazier, coal and even a carpet in his baggage. He did not intend to wake up frozen to the bed, and wished Herbert Jolliet, his household steward, was here to see that George had not been foolish to bring such necessities.

  He went to the narrow window and looked out over the castle walls, past the village to the hills and meadows beyond. On a very clear day, he could probably see his own castle from the battlements on the other side of the tower.

  Ravensloft was not as massive as Sir Thomas’s fortress, and no castle could ever really be called comfortable, but his hall was certainly more welcoming than this one.

  What would Aileas Dugall make of his home? She would find it vastly different, but whether she would view it with approval or not, he couldn’t say.

  Just as he couldn’t say how she would react to the suggestion that a bath and a decent gown might improve her appearance. She might even be quite pretty, properly groomed and attired. Moreover, there was a sparkle of alluring fire in her eyes and an uninhibited frankness in her manner that made her one of the more fascinating young women he had met in recent memory.

  Why, he was actually getting aroused as he thought about her. George had never imagined Aileas Dugall could excite him a
s she was doing now—and she was not even in the room.

  Maybe she was still in the hall with Sir Rufus Hamerton.

  A rare scowl crossed George’s face. Apparently she preferred a big, stocky, ill-mannered lout, who seemed oblivious to her regard, to a courteous, well-dressed gentleman. All Hamerton’s attention had been focused on him, although George had seen no hint of envy or jealousy or even concern for Aileas in the oaf’s manner. Hamerton’s regard had been more a sense of one warrior determining the fighting capacity of another.

  Let him speculate all he would, for George had no doubt that should they ever meet in combat or at a tournament, he would triumph. With his experience, he could easily guess the kind of fighter Rufus would be—the kind who thought brawn all that counted, who would use his size and his weight to good advantage, but who would be completely outdone by a more seasoned, quick-thinking, fast-moving opponent.

  Poor Aileas, if she felt a regard that was not reciprocated, George mused. Unrequited love was a fool’s game, and one he had never played himself. Indeed, he thought such a thing betrayed a most humiliating lack of self-respect and marveled that a woman of Aileas Dugall’s impertinent pride could fall prey to it.

  Especially since George was quite sure Rufus Hamerton was the type of fellow who thought a slap on a woman’s rump and a “How about it?” all that was required when wooing.

  Or perhaps they were just friends.

  Catching a slight movement in the shadows below, George leaned forward to look out the window. Rufus. Hamerton was striding away like a man on an important mission. A few moments later, Aileas appeared, hurrying in the opposite direction toward the castle’s main gate.

  What was this? A cozy little meeting between friends—or lovers? Perhaps he had been wrong about Rufus Hamerton’s lack of affection for his lord’s daughter, and the fellow was very clever at hiding it, as unlikely as that seemed. George ground his fist into his hand as he thought that perhaps he had not been so far off when he made his joke back there on the road about Aileas having a secret rendezvous.