A Warrior's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  Could his deference be because Sir George was rich? Did Rufus feel that he didn’t deserve her because his family lacked wealth?

  Yet what was that if he cared for her as she did him? He must know that she had little regard for wealth or station; the man himself was all in all.

  “I am glad you are quite recovered,” Sir George said softly.

  She risked a glance at his face, to find that he was smiling at her again, regarding her with his very astute eyes, so different from Rufus’s amiable brown ones.

  Which, come to think of it, were not unlike those of one of her father’s hunting hounds.

  She quickly turned her scrutiny to the hall and spotted Rufus, deep in conversation with the armorer. They were probably discussing the merits of buying a new sword rather than repairing his old one.

  She wished she could join them. She wished Rufus would look at her and wave for her to come to their table. Indeed, she wished Rufus would just look at her.

  Anything to turn her attention away from this man beside her, whom, she vowed, she would not like, no matter how he smiled at her.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, Aileas, wearing her customary garments of shirt, shortened skirt, breeches and belted tunic, hurried up the narrow stairs leading to Sir George’s bedchamber, a pile of clean linen in her hands. If anyone saw her, they would assume she was taking the linen to his room. While that was a servant’s task, it would be at least some excuse for what she was about to do.

  Which was sneak into his chamber and see what he had brought that could possibly require so much baggage. As for the reason behind her curiosity, she told herself she was searching for more reasons to prove his unsuitability as her husband.

  She stifled a yawn. The sounds of loud laughter and male conversation from the hall bad prevented her from falling asleep for a long time after she had retired. That and venturing below to see what all the noise was about. She had seen Sir George in the middle of a boisterous gaggle of soldiers, apparently regaling them with tales of his exploits at several tournaments.

  It had not pleased her to see Rufus paying rapt attention.

  It would have been better to have found him sulking in the corner, looking envious or angry. Instead, he had looked positively... admiring.

  But then, Sir George was an easy man to admire when it came to storytelling. In his deep, mellifluous voice, he told his tales with droll, self-deprecating humor, not bragging bravado. A few simple words or actions sketched a person for his audience, and his plain recitation—so different from the flowery stories of minstrels—proved unusually fascinating. Even she had lingered and—

  She had to find proof that while he might have participated in tournaments and apparently with some distinction, he was too used to soft living to suit her.

  She reached his bedchamber and quickly slipped inside. She closed the door, then turned to look into the formerly barren room.

  The sight that met her eyes made her lean back against the door and clutch the linen to her chest as she stared, openmouthed.

  It was as if she had suddenly been transported to a sultan’s palace. On top of the simple bedstead was the thickest, softest-looking feather bed Aileas had ever seen or imagined, covered with fine blankets and a fur coverlet, as well as several brightly colored cushions.

  On the floor was a carpet, as colorful as any of the cushions, and so thick it seemed incredible that one was supposed to step on it. A bronze brazier, piled high with coals, stood in a corner. A small, finely carved table was by the window, and the basin and ewer her father had provided sat upon it. In another corner stood a large wooden tub.

  He must have bathed yesterday, which would explain the unique, intriguing scent that had beguiled her nostrils all through dinner last night.

  Her gaze returned to the transformed bed. What would it be like to sleep on such a soft thing, to sink into its depths and be as warm and snug as a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes?

  Pressing her lips together, she reminded herself that she wasn’t a baby, but a woman.

  Skirting the carpet, Aileas went toward the table and caught that now familiar scent. She set down the linen on the stool and picked up something wrapped in a piece of cloth from which the scent seemed to emanate. She unwrapped the cloth to discover a small piece of scented soap, then lifted it to her nose. Yes, that was what he had smelled like last night, when he was beside her. He must have used this soap when he bathed. It had glided all over his naked, wet body....

  She dropped the soap as if it were one of the hot coals from the brazier. Suddenly anxious to get out of this sinfully luxurious den of iniquity, she quickly wrapped the soap again, all the while trying not to actually touch it.

  Then, from outside the tower, she heard shouts of encouragement and the familiar clang of sword on sword.

  Practice time in the inner ward. She would go there and tell her father what she had seen.

  She was quite sure he would share her less-than-flattering opinion of a man who surrounded himself with such opulent decadence:

  Even if he did smell most pleasant.

  Unfortunately, Sir Thomas was not in attendance at the sword practice today, as Aileas realized the moment she rounded the corner and saw the men in the inner ward. Cheering encouragement, they had gathered around two combatants circling each other.

  A practice engagement. Her father allowed such things, for while it was enjoyable for the men watching, they also learned by example. A wry smile grew on her face, for she knew the soldiers well enough to guess that several wagers had probably already been made, as well.

  Curious and wondering who she would bet on to win if she possessed any money, she ventured forward. The men who noticed her moved aside, until she could see who was fighting.

  It was Rufus, stripped to the waist and sweating profusely, and an astonishingly composed, half-naked Sir George, whose well-made leather breeches clung to him like a second skin, although Aileas would have been hard-pressed to find any evidence of sweat on his body.

  It was a surprisingly good body, too. Whoever would have guessed that beneath the sumptuous clothing were such broad, muscular shoulders, lean, sinewy arms, narrow waist and long, strong legs? He had to be stronger and in better condition than she had suspected, too, for while Rufus was panting and glazed with perspiration, Sir George didn’t even look winded.

  She also noticed that he made Rufus, who lifted a broadsword as another man would a dagger and who usually dispatched his opponents in minutes, look clumsy and sluggish. It didn’t take her long to see why.

  Sir George was so light on his feet, it was almost as if he were dancing with Rufus, not waiting for him to strike. When Rufus did bring down his weapon. Sir George was no longer where he had been moments before, but someplace else.

  When Sir George lifted his own sword, he did so with a strength and dexterity Aileas would never have suspected he possessed. Then he grinned with what looked like amusement and swiftly moved away again with lithe, graceful steps.

  He was a far better warrior than she ever would have given him credit for.

  She came a little closer and watched more carefully to see that she hadn’t been quite correct in her appraisal of Sir George’s expression, for while a smile constantly lurked about his lips, there was a gleam of competitive determination in his eyes.

  So, he did care if he triumphed or not, even if he masked his feelings very well—unlike Rufus, who at that very moment gave a shout of annoyed frustration and charged like a bear with a bur in its paw. As he swung wildly, Sir George twisted abruptly and stuck out his foot, an intricate maneuver that sent Rufus sprawling in the dirt.

  Before he could get up, Sir George sheathed his sword and held out his hand to assist his opponent to his feet.

  “I don’t want your help,” Rufus grumbled, staggering slowly upright. “Where did you learn that?”

  “A friend of my father’s taught me. Urien Fitzroy—perhaps you’ve heard of him?” Sir Geo
rge replied with a smile and elegant shrug of his broad shoulders. “An amazing fellow and quite a teacher, I assure you.”

  Rufus grunted his acceptance of Sir George’s appraisal.

  Then Sir George caught sight of her.

  “Lady Aileas!” he cried with what seemed genuine pleasure. “I didn’t expect—” He glanced down self-consciously. “Excuse me,” he muttered as he immediately went to retrieve his tunic.

  “Aileas, did you get a look at that move?” Rufus demanded, panting, not a whit embarrassed by his half-naked state.

  And why should he be? Aileas asked herself. She had watched him, and every other soldier here, practice similarly attired, or unattired, a thousand times. Besides, she had six older brothers, so surely she should be acquainted with the male body.

  But why would Rufus not look directly at her?

  “Show me how you did that,” Rufus ordered, turning toward Sir George again without waiting for her to reply.

  Sir George, now wearing his tunic, sauntered toward them, his sheathed sword and finely worked leather sword belt held loosely in his hand.

  “Forgive me for appearing so poorly dressed, my lady,” Sir George said when he joined them. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I should wash.”

  Aileas tried not to think about that soap. “In truth, I...I must not stay,” she stammered, “I...I only came to...” She couldn’t very well say she came to denounce Sir George’s lavish bedchamber to her father. “I came to see if you would all care for some refreshment.”

  Rufus frowned. “It’s early yet.”

  “Delightful suggestion,” Sir George replied. “Provided you will join us, my lady.” He raised his patrician eyebrows quizzically.

  “We’re supposed to practice until noon,” Rufus reminded her.

  Aileas colored, for he was quite right. Her father had very strict ideas about keeping to a regular training schedule.

  Sir George gave Rufus a slightly condemning look. “It is very kind of her to offer refreshments to a guest. who surely is not bound by her father’s strictures regarding how he spends his day. And to tell the truth, I am extremely—” he paused and smiled ever so slowly “—thirsty.”

  Aileas’s mouth went as dry as a riverbed in a drought under the force of his gaze. “I...I should have remembered before. I have to speak with the falconer. One of the pages can get you some wine. I’m sure you’ll find one in the hall. Or the kitchen. Just ask—” Aileas realized she was babbling and snapped her mouth shut before she made herself completely ridiculous. Mercifully, he stopped looking at her. She could think better when he wasn’t.

  “So you can show me that move,” Rufus declared triumphantly.

  “Gladly,” Sir George replied gallantly, giving her another long, slow smile, his blue-eyed gaze as intense as ever.

  Suddenly Aileas thought she should get away from Sir George de Gramercie at once. Maybe then she would stop thinking it was a pity he had put on his clothes.

  “Since I am to be deprived of your company, I might as well show this simple little trick to your friend,” he said with sincere disappointment. The look in his eyes changed ever so slightly, as if he were reaching in to touch her very heart—which began to beat faster in response.

  “After the noon meal, we could go riding together, if you like, Sir George,” she offered impetuously, then silently cursed herself for a fool. She shouldn’t be alone with this man. Not today and not ever, with his blue eyes and his smiles and his handsome face and astonishingly fine body!

  “I would like that very much, my lady.” Then he spoke quietly, so that only she could hear. “So much, I can almost forgive Rufus for being so rude.” Aileas realized with a barely perceptible start that she had forgotten all about Rufus. “Until later, my lady.”

  He strolled back to join the others and Aileas hurried away. She rounded the keep, then hesitated. After first ensuring nobody was nearby to see her, she peered around the building to watch the men again, her heart pounding and the blood throbbing in her ears.

  Rufus was already on the ground. “Show me again,” he demanded petulantly as he lumbered to his feet.

  “It’s quite simple, really,” Sir George said, feinting with his sword, then kicking out and twisting with all the suppleness of an eel.

  Rufus landed hard on his rear and let out a bellow of frustration. Sir George leaned over to help him to his feet, then whispered something in Rufus’s ear. They both burst out laughing.

  “I’m glad you are such fast friends,” Aileas muttered as she turned on her heel and marched away, determined to find her father, tell him what she had seen, and even more determined to be quite cool and composed when she went riding with Sir George, for only a coward would run away and hide from an opponent.

  Yes, Sir George was her enemy, for it was Rufus she wanted, despite Sir George’s winning ways.

  Having changed his less-than-pristine tunic for another in a more sombre shade of blue, George sauntered toward the stable, his mood quite pleasant. He had undoubtedly proved his prowess as a swordsman to Aileas that morning. Now she would know that while Rufus might have the advantage of size, he had the advantage of skill and experience.

  Not that he need fear any competition from Rufus. Not anymore.

  He smiled to himself as he thought of the pile of linen he had found on the stool in his bedchamber. Someone had been in his room, and he could guess who—someone who had apparently investigated his scented soap, a costly indulgence all the way from Constantinople.

  Sir Thomas’s cowed pages or any other servant would surely never dare to touch any of a guest’s personal belongings, let alone unwrap one.

  Aileas would face no such strictures. Indeed, he could believe she would disobey almost any rule that did not apply directly to her.

  Therefore, Aileas had investigated his soap. Perhaps even lifted it gingerly to her shapely nose and smelled it.

  He wondered if she liked the scent, then grinned. She had to, if for no other reason than it would be a most pleasant change from the host of unpleasant odors lingering in the hall, the result of too many unwashed bodies.

  What else had she touched in his room? What did she think of the bed? Had it crossed her mind that she could share it with him? That together they could sink into its soft depths, while he kissed and. caressed and made love with her?

  God’s holy rood, he had better get control of his thoughts, George thought wryly, or he was going to be most uncomfortable in the saddle!

  He rounded the corner of the stable and saw Aileas already astride a huge black stallion. He quickened his pace and smiled when she spotted him. “Is that the beast that so callously abandoned you yesterday?” he asked jovially.

  “This is Demon,” she acknowledged, her expression inscrutable.

  As if in answer to its name or to prove its worthiness, the horse started to prance impatiently.

  George was very impressed with the ease with which Aileas maintained control over the animal. “We missed you at the noon meal.”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Your father did not join us, either,” he noted.

  “No,” she said with a frown. “Apparently he has gone after poachers. He won’t be back until the evening.”

  “I pity the man who dares to poach on his lands.”

  “So you should,” she answered coolly.

  “If you excuse me, I’ll fetch my horse.” Before he could enter the stable, however, a groom came out leading his own stallion, a brown horse nearly a hand smaller than Demon. “This is Apollo,” he said by way of introduction as he swung himself into the saddle. “Shall we?”

  “By all means,” Aileas replied, and then she punched her heels into the sides of her horse, which leapt into a gallop.

  George stared, dumbfounded, as she rode out of the gate at a breakneck pace, soldiers and servants scattering in her path. Then, with a determined expression, he urged his own horse forward, calling out his apologies to the people as he ga
lloped after her.

  Aileas led him a merry chase, first along the main road through the village, sending the villagers running as she had those in the castle, then across the muddy fields, where peasants were sowing the first crops, before galloping along a woodland path that bordered the river.

  Despite her horse’s speed and the rough course, she kept glancing over her shoulder, obviously seeing if he was keeping up. He was—barely.

  They crossed a large meadow on the side of a hill where several sheep were grazing, until the progress of the two riders interrupted them. The animals bleated in alarm and scattered. A young shepherd, startled out of an afternoon’s slumber, jumped to his feet and stared at them.

  Aileas and her horse plunged into a wood at the top of the hill. As George and Apollo entered the sheltered gloom, George told himself this chase was madness. He was risking his horse and his neck following the headstrong Aileas, who obviously knew the terrain well. If she wanted to behave in such an immature way, he decided as he pulled his horse to a halt, let her. As for him, he was getting hot and upset, two states he deplored.

  Then he saw Aileas’s horse slow. She slipped from its back and, with a challenging glance, led it into a group of willow trees, beside a stream or creek, no doubt.

  He was thirsty, he realized, and a cool drink would do wonders toward restoring his equanimity, so he, too, dismounted and followed her through the trees. There was indeed a babbling brook there, and he saw her horse drinking. Tethering Apollo to one of the willows where he could still reach the brook, George looked around for her.

  “You ride well.”

  Startled by the voice coming from behind him, he turned to find her leaning against one of the willows, her face slightly hidden by the slender, budding branches, her arms crossed and her expression as disgruntled as her tone had been.

  “So do you, but I don’t think the guards, the villagers or the peasants trying to sow their crop would appreciate that fact.”

  She scowled as she pushed herself from the tree and came toward him, moving aside the curtain of branches. “I don’t want to marry you,” she announced.