A Warrior's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  Then he gripped his fist in sudden resolution and grinned. What was it he had said to Richard? That Aileas Dugall would attract a man who liked a challenge?

  Normally, George preferred to leave the challenges to somebody else, but here, today, he recognized what he felt: the pleasing thrill of entering a contest he would undoubtedly win.

  For he was going to show that overgrown, overbearing red-haired ruffian how a gentleman wooed a lady.

  As always when Aileas was disturbed, she hurried to the apple orchard. Passing Sir George’s soldiers as they unloaded his baggage cart, she noticed there were several chests and bundles, far more than she might have expected. How much clothing did one man need? she thought with a derisive sniff.

  Rufus didn’t care what he wore. In fact, he didn’t seem to care about much of anything, beyond his weapons and fighting. And her. Despite his reaction there in the courtyard, she knew he cared about her.

  Once in the orchard outside the castle, she climbed to the top of the tallest tree. Soon the apple trees would all be in snowy bloom, but for now, only the beginnings of green leaves were visible.

  With a sigh, she surveyed the surrounding countryside, her gaze resting on the hill near Sir George’s castle. On a clear day, it would be visible from here. If she were to marry him, she would be comfortably close to her home.

  Rufus’s family’s estate lay far to the north and west, nearly at the border with Wales. She wouldn’t like to be so far away.

  The bark was damp and slightly slick, but this tree was as familiar to her as her bedchamber, and as comfortable. Easing herself onto the highest branch that would bear her weight, she stared glumly at the west tower.

  Men! They were all unfathomable, including her father. Couldn’t he see that she would sooner marry a peacock than Sir George de Gramercie? He was far from her ideal.

  Rufus was her ideal. A bold, fierce warrior who treated her as he would a man. Or at least a squire, she admitted to herself. Still, that was better than being treated as if she were no more than a mere woman, a simpering, weak creature totally under a man’s domination.

  If that was what Sir George wanted in a bride, he had certainly come to the wrong castle!

  Surely that was not what Rufus wanted.

  She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully, recalling the change in his expression when she hinted that he should ask for her hand. He had been surprised and... and dismayed.

  The surprise she could, perhaps, understand. This talk of weddings and marriage took her aback, too.

  But why should he feel dismayed? It could not be that he didn’t know the affection she felt for him. Did he think Sir George likely to stand a chance with her? Did he feel her father would favor Sir George over him? To be sure, the proximity of her father’s land to that of Sir George was something in his favor, but when it came to the personal attributes of the men themselves...

  Her gaze lit on the corner of the stone wall that surrounded the orchard, the precise spot where Sir George had been standing when she had hit him with the rotten apples.

  His handsome face had twisted with rage. He had looked so angry she had been afraid he would drag her out of the tree and pummel her within an inch of her life. Indeed, she had been so frightened she had jumped out of the tree and taken to her heels.

  Her gaze followed her route. There had stood the holly bush, now gone, where she had torn her skirt. She had dashed over the low rise and into the castle, not stopping until she was in the farthest corner of the hayloft over the stables.,

  If she were Sir George’s opponent on a field of battle and saw that expression on his face, she would surely fear for her life.

  But that had been long ago. Perhaps he had lost that capacity for fire and bold action.

  Aileas scowled. She dare not refuse her father’s command directly, for she knew how he would react to that, and it wasn’t good. No, she would have to be subtle. She would have to find a way to show him that Sir George simply would not suit.

  Oh, what was the matter with Rufus? she thought as she laid her chin in her hand. She couldn’t begin to count the happy times they had shared, riding or shooting. She had watched him practice his jousting and swordplay, and he had always respected her advice on how to improve.

  They were always together, or at least most of the time. Even if he often seemed to forget she was there, like the times he and the other men talked about their jaunts into the village and to one establishment in particular.

  When they talked about what they did with their women.

  Her body began to grow warm as she tried to picture herself doing some of the more interesting things they had described with Rufus. Somehow, that wasn’t easy.

  Now, Sir George, him she could see moving in such a manner, caressing a woman’s naked body with slow and agonizing strokes until she begged for him. She could envision a woman sliding her tongue along his flesh, or nibbling lightly on his ear, or—

  She shook her head to clear it. Just because Rufus did most things hastily didn’t mean he would that, too.

  The main thing to remember was that she and Rufus were comfortable together. Why, they had laughed and joked together a thousand times, as her brothers did together.

  Brothers. He treated her as her brothers treated one another.

  He didn’t think of her as a woman! He thought of her as his squire, or his companion, not as a woman to be wooed.

  Certain she had found the answer, Aileas smacked her hands together so suddenly she nearly fell out of the tree. A quick grab at an upper branch saved her from tumbling to her doom, but that was not why she was breathing so hard.

  She glanced down at her clothes. The breeches beneath the skirt. The tunic that was her older brother’s castoff. She lifted her hand to her hair in its untidy braid, then laid her palms against her sun-browned cheeks.

  Her brow furrowed with thought. She would have to change. She would have to show Rufus that she was a woman. A woman fit to be his wife. Willing to be his wife. Anxious to be his wife.

  A moment’s doubt assailed her. What did she know of being a woman, beyond the most basic physical differences? She didn’t know how to dress or arrange her hair, or how to walk the way the few women who visited Dugall Castle did. Indeed, she had often wondered what those women would do if a mad bull chased after them, since they seemed unable to walk quickly, let alone run.

  Then her confidence returned. How hard could it be? She did own gowns, two of them. One she had possessed for years, and the other—the other her father had purchased for her last year. Had he been thinking of her marriage even then?

  Well, the idea of marriage didn’t disturb her in itself. She would simply have to ensure that she was married to the right man.

  And that meant Rufus Hamerton.

  Feeling better now that he had washed off the grime of the journey, and attired in a new scarlet tunic that brushed the top of his finest boots, George paused on the threshold of the hall and surveyed the gathering.

  As was to be expected in Sir Thomas’s hall, there were no ladies present.

  What he did see were several men of Rufus’s build and temperament, if not hair color, lounging about, waiting for the evening meal. Several were discussing the day’s training exercise, and in one corner, there was a lively conversation concerning the swordplay to be done on the morrow.

  Sir Thomas prided himself on his ability to find and train the finest fighting men in England, and although he was not the only lord with such aspirations, he was perhaps the most competitive in that regard. With excellent results, George thought. Every man here looked well able to defend himself.

  It occurred to George that Aileas Dugall must have met many different men in the years of her growing up, for Sir Thomas had refused to send her away to be fostered. While that bespoke a tender sentiment not readily apparent in Sir Thomas, George couldn’t help thinking it might have been better for her development if he had done so. Surely Aileas would have benefited from a woman’s
teaching.

  It might be better just to forget the whole notion of wooing Aileas Dugall, he thought as he watched the men. If she wanted Rufus, let her have him. If he didn’t want her, that was none of George’s business.

  Then, behind him, George heard the familiar rustle of a skirt. He turned to see Aileas poised on the steps behind him.

  She wore a simple gown of dark green velvet that did not quite fit properly, for it hung far too loosely at the neckline, exposing the tops of her undoubtedly fine breasts, while the rest of her bodice clung to her slender, shapely waist. Long cuffs lined with paler green silk sarcenet fell nearly to the floor, while the skirt flared out from her narrow hips.

  Her hair was dressed in the now familiar braid, a little tidier, and someone had attempted to entwine green ribbons in it, with somewhat less than satisfactory results. Several stray hairs had escaped to brush her glowing cheeks.

  Then he noticed that she still wore the same mud-encrusted boots.

  She smiled warmly, and he was pleased—until he realized she was not smiling at him but at Rufus Hamerton, who was in the midst of a particularly boisterous group of men standing near the hearth.

  Subduing the urge to scowl, George approached her and bowed. “How lovely you look,” he whispered in a low, seductive voice, giving her the most charming smile he could muster. “That color suits you to perfection.”

  She flushed, the pink tinging her dusky cheeks, and his smile grew more sincere. “Indeed, I thought an angel had descended when I saw you.”

  Her brown eyes flashed with scorn and her lip curled up in a sneer. “Angels,” she hissed, “wear white.”

  “Of course. My wits were addled by your beauty.” She stared at him as if he were mad, but he ignored her expression. “My lady, allow me to escort you to your place at table,” he said as he took her hand and placed it on his arm.

  She flinched.

  He put his other hand over top, trapping hers.

  Then Rufus, his thick red brows furrowed, broke away from his group, which had fallen silent, and took a step toward them. “Aileas?”

  “Good evening, Rufus,” she said, pulling away from George. “Good evening,” she said to the other men, some of whom were staring with open mouths.

  “God’s wounds, Aileas!” Rufus declared loudly, running his gaze over her in a manner that struck George as singularly impertinent. “I didn’t know you owned a decent dress.” He started to grin like a monkey and the other men chuckled quietly.

  “As you can see, I do,” she answered sullenly, picking at the sleeve. Obviously she was not aware that such a movement pushed her breasts together in a very fascinating way.

  Then, to George’s dismay, she slid a sly glance at him before addressing Rufus in a loud, conspiratorial whisper. “Although some might not agree, I think I look like a fool.”

  What was next between those two? Winking? Exchanging kisses in a dark corner?

  Maybe they already had.

  George felt himself flushing in anger and fought to keep his expression mundane as he strolled toward the high table and casually leaned against it, assuming a languid air. “I think it a very charming gown, although I must say I hope you do not catch a chill.”

  “What do you mean?” Aileas demanded, facing him as the men smothered their guffaws.

  Then Sir Thomas marched into the hall, accompanied by a priest who looked as if he could wield a sword or mace as well as any man in the hall. Sir Thomas caught sight of his daughter and halted so abruptly the priest nearly collided with him. “Aileas?”

  She spun on her heel to face him, and George watched her regain her composure with admirable swiftness. “Yes, Father?”

  George was pleased to note that Sir Thomas could be momentarily dumbfounded. “Aileas, um, you have not seated our guest.”

  “Oh, yes.” She turned to George, and he could detect the contempt in her eyes if not her words. “You are to sit on my father’s right,” Aileas commanded, pointing imperiously.

  “Naturally,” he drawled in response and without moving. She could not order him like a servant, not in the presence of these other men. Indeed, not ever. “And you sit...?”

  “Beside you,” she answered brusquely.

  At once George straightened and went to his place, courteously holding the chair out for Aileas to sit. She marched around the table and slumped into her chair like a peevish child, obviously unaware that her gaping bodice gave him an excellent view of her very lovely breasts.

  George swallowed hard while telling himself that, although her petulance was not a good sign, the night was yet young.

  Rufus bowed briefly and retired to another table, something George was pleased to see. He didn’t think he could bear to try to converse with the fellow during the meal. It was going to be difficult enough to maintain an indifferent demeanor.

  The priest said a brief grace, notable for its odd, bloodthirsty tone as he called upon God to bless those in the hall and smite their enemies. When he finished, the hall immediately burst into cacophonous sound, as if shouting were the preferred method of communication. Huge hounds rooted among the rushes, seeking discarded food and the bones the men tossed away. The rushlights, cheap and smoky, did little to lessen the deepening gloom.

  The food, while plain, was plentiful enough. No doubt Sir Thomas realized men could not do battle on empty stomachs, or train well, either. A page refilled his goblet and quickly moved on.

  Deciding that he would take the offensive, George turned to Aileas. “Sir Rufus seems to admire you,” he noted dispassionately as he bit into some meat that made him wonder how long it had been cooked. “He appeared very surprised when you entered, though, as if he didn’t think you could look so beautiful.”

  Aileas tore off a large chunk of bread from the nearest loaf and proceeded to push the entire piece into her mouth, unknowingly dragging the cuffs of her gown through her trencher. It was all George could do to keep silent about that and not wince, especially when she apparently missed his criticism and turned to him with a delighted expression. “Do you think so?” she asked, her mouth full.

  They both glanced at Red Rufus, who was now, he noted smugly, primarily interested in the food the servants served, as if he and the others at his table were engaged in a contest to see who could shove the most food into their mouths in the shortest time. Good for him.

  “You and he have been friends for some time, I presume,” he noted.

  “He’s been here ten years,” Aileas replied before wiping her lips with the back of her hand and belching.

  Surely no noblewoman could be that lacking in proper eating habits, George thought, masking his disgust as he carefully cut a slice of meat and set it in his trencher. Aileas glanced at him, another disdainful smile on her lips, then she turned away and—yes!—winked at Rufus.

  Who did not wink back.

  George smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I suppose a stout fellow like Sir Rufus is good at wrestling,” he observed.

  “Rufus is good at many things,” Aileas replied, divesting a capon of its leg.

  “I daresay. And fighting of any kind.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can he read?”

  Aileas stopped chewing and looked at him incredulously. “Read?” she said, her mouth full of capon. “Why should he read? He’s not a priest.”

  “Obviously,” George replied lightly. “The rule of chastity would be quite beyond him, I’m sure. He’s the sort of fellow that has a different woman every night of the week, provided he can pay them, of course.”

  Aileas’s eyes narrowed as she kept chewing, regarding him suspiciously.

  “Forgive me, Lady Aileas, for speaking of such things in front of a lady.”

  She glared at him even more suspiciously.

  He held her gaze, regarding her steadily, and then he smiled very, very slowly.

  Stunned by how warm Sir George’s knowing smile and shrewd gaze made her feel, Aileas tried to swallow—and instea
d began to choke.

  Instantly Sir George began to pat her back, and in a moment, she spit the offending piece of meat out and cursed softly.

  “What the devil happened?” her father demanded, eyeing her crossly. He had been in the midst of discussing the seige of Acre with Father Denziel—again—and he was not happy to be interrupted.

  “A piece of meat went down the wrong way,” Aileas explained, all the while acutely aware that Sir George’s hand was still on her back. Not moving. Just...there. Warm and strong, as it had been when he had held her hand to his muscular forearm. Again she caught that pleasing scent, a fruity and spicy aroma that reminded her of festive feasts and mulled wine.

  It must be the herbs sprinkled on the rushes.

  Her father returned his attention to the priest and Aileas moved her shoulders until her companion removed his hand. “I am quite all right, Sir George,” she snapped, surprised to discover that she could still feel the pressure of his palm on her skin. Indeed, she felt as if she might as well be naked in front of him.

  It had to be this damned gown, she thought, shivering. She was indeed naked beneath it, for while she did own two gowns, she had forgotten that she didn’t have proper undergarments. Nor did she have a maid to help her get into it. She had done her best to tie the laces herself, yet she feared they might come undone any minute.

  She grabbed the neck of her dress and tugged it up. It kept slipping lower. And as for the sleeves, she would have done well to hack them off before she had ventured downstairs.

  No matter what her father wanted, she vowed, this would be the last time she dressed like this. Why, she had nearly tripped on the hem on the stairs. She could have broken her neck.

  She wouldn’t risk that, not even for the pleasantly complimentary look on Sir George’s—Rufus’s—face when she came into the hall.

  But Rufus hadn’t met her gaze since.

  Why? Surely he knew that she preferred him to this perfumed, overdressed popinjay with his fine embroidered tunic who sat beside her, eating as daintily as a nun.