A Warrior's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  “Do you doubt that possibility?” she asked, derisive mockery in her eyes.

  “She does seem singularly blind to my charms,” he continued, as if he thought her deaf, too. “Why else? To please her doting father?” Before she could respond, he shook his head briskly, like a dog just out of water. “No, that cannot be. Sir Thomas does not dote.” He began to pace, pausing every so often to transfix her with a quizzical, blue-eyed gaze. “Why, my dear, why do you come so anxiously to my bedchamber and ask me to stay?”

  Suddenly he halted, and his expression altered in a fraction of a moment to something hard and cold that made her feel as if she had underestimated the power inherent in the man before her. “Could Red Rufus’s hasty departure be a cause?” he said, his voice as cold as ice on the millpond. “I do not take other men’s leavings.”

  Shocked by the change in him, she could make no answer.

  Then, so suddenly she had to wonder if her eyes had been playing tricks on her, his countenance resumed its usual calm and cool demeanor. “But he is gone away.”

  “He does not want me and I do not want him.”

  He continued to scrutinize her like a tutor examining a student. “Is that so?”

  “Yes!” she cried, so fervently George wished he could believe her. Then she clasped her hands together tightly and looked at him. To his surprise, he saw a yearning that was both pleading and defiant and went straight to his lonely heart. He could guess what she was feeling: a need that she did not want to acknowledge, even to herself.

  He knew that because he felt the same.

  Her gaze faltered. “Please stay,” she whispered, her voice as gentle and soft as any woman’s could be.

  “Why?” he asked again, doing all he could to keep his breathing steady and not take her in his arms to hold her against him and tell her that he understood.

  “Because...because I ask you to.”

  At that moment, he would have done anything she asked of him, no matter what the price, even leaving her forever.

  He turned on his heel and strode to the window, bunching his fists as he fought to regain mastery of himself.

  What was she doing to him, this defiant, pleading woman who acted like no woman he had ever known, and yet who made him feel such need and desire it was as if every other feeling he had ever experienced had been but a pale shadow of those that filled him now?

  But he knew, too well, what strong emotions could do, and he would dominate them.

  Unfortunately, the longer she stayed in the bedchamber, the harder it was for him to force the memory of their shared kiss from his mind, or the remembrance of her yielding, and the more difficult it became to accept the notion that she did not want to be his wife.

  When he could trust himself to speak calmly, he turned around and leaned against the sill of the window.

  “While any better explanation you can offer for this unforeseen request is sure to be fascinating, I do have duties I can be attending to at home. Forgive me if I astonish you with that idea, but it is so.”

  She took a deep breath. “Sir George,” she began, her voice sounding reasonable, “I fear I have been very discourteous. Please allow me to improve your impression. As for marriage, neither of us need make a decision in haste.”

  “What else must I do to impress my worthiness upon you, my lady?” he inquired. “Slay a dragon, like my famous namesake? Perform a series of tasks like the labors of Hercules? Or perhaps you wish to see if I will pensh in the attempt and so rid you of my troublesome presence?”

  Aileas’s lips twitched as if she would smile, but her voice was serious when she said, “No, I have no desire to set you to impossible tasks.”

  “Because I already have one, no doubt.”

  “What is that?”

  “To make you like me.”

  Again her gaze faltered and she twisted her hands anxiously.

  “What is it?” he asked gently, moving as close to her as he dared. “Aileas, tell me. Do you want me to go away so you will not be troubled with more talk of marriage?”

  Against his lackadaisical manner, she was impervious. Against his sarcasm, she was silent. But now, when he sounded so kind and sincerely concerned, she answered honestly. “I don’t understand why you would want me.”

  He reached out and took her chin in his hand, his blue eyes gazing at her with serious intensity. “Do you not?”

  She shook her head. “I am not like other women.”

  His smile made her heart race. “Exactly, Aileas,” he murmured. “You are not like other women.” Then he pulled her into his strong, encircling arms. “So I do want you,” he whispered before his lips pressed down upon hers.

  But not as before, in the wood. Here, he was gentle. Tender—and yet she could sense, beneath the tenderness, a passion as fierce as any she could hope for. It was only that Sir George was keeping it in check, for the moment.

  A wild excitement swept through her, warming her blood and sending it throbbing throughout her suddenly weightless body.

  Their kiss deepened, his lips moving now with a firm surety over hers. She felt his hands cup her buttocks and his hips ground into hers while a low moan escaped her lips.

  When he pulled away, she almost cried out in protest.

  “My first qualification to be your husband, my lady,” George said softly, smiling down into her halfclosed eyes. “I will be an excellent lover.” He began to stroke her arms.

  “I can tell,” she breathed before he kissed her again, his passionate embrace urging her own willing response.

  Then his lips left her mouth, trailing along her chin as he began to caress her back. “I will cherish you as few noblemen cherish their wives.”

  His mouth reached the top of her breasts while his fingers played with the plait of her hair, undoing the thong that tied it, then loosening the thick mass until it fell about her shoulders. “I will be a good father,” he murmured.

  She could only nod.

  “There has been another man in your heart.”

  “Yes...no...” she confessed. Nobody else had ever made her feel this way. Had even so much as kissed her, let alone aroused such indescribable sensations.

  “I will make you forget him, Aileas.”

  His hand moved up, cupping her breast as he continued to kiss the naked flesh of her neck. “Yes,” she gasped.

  “Marry me. Be my wife. Come to my bed.”

  “Yes,” she sighed, helpless to refuse.

  “Let the wedding be soon.”

  “Yes...”

  “Very soon.”

  “Yes...”

  Suddenly, he stopped and stepped back, leaving her breathless, stunned, staring. “I want you, Aileas,” he reiterated firmly, and for a shocked moment, she could not believe he could sound so matter-of-fact after what he had been doing...making her ,feel...

  Aileas forced herself to think, to let her mind move beyond the sensations that still raged within her aroused body. To do that, she had to look away from him, from the yearning expression in his eyes, the desire on his face, his sensual lips.

  Her father thought Sir George was a good man and would be a good husband. Rufus didn’t want her. But what really mattered, she knew, was her opinion of the man before her.

  No man had ever made her feel as desired as Sir George did, and he was not the conceited, ineffective simpleton she had thought him. He was a fine fighter, a bold warrior, and handsome and elegant as few men were.

  Taking a deep breath, Aileas made her decision. “I believe I would rather marry you than not.”

  “Hardly a vigorous approval, my lady,” Sir George remarked calmly, although inwardly, he was anything .but calm. He wanted to wed her very much—just how much was surprising even to himself. Truly, she was quite unlike any woman he had ever met, and the thought that this wild, untamed creature would come to him of her own volition was intensely thrilling. _

  Nevertheless, he dared not sound as if she could hurt him with a negative answer.
His pride gave him the strength to sound cool and to mask his great pleasure that she had not refused.

  “I believe you would make a good husband.”

  He had hoped for a less prosaic response. “Is there no other reason, my lady?” he asked, trying to make her acknowledge that primitive hunger they so evidently shared.

  “No,” she replied, but she blushed a bright red, and he knew that might be a more truthful response than anything she could say.

  “You do like me, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she confessed, albeit reluctantly and still without looking at him. “I like you.”

  “I am very glad you have accepted me, Aileas.”

  “I... I shall tell my father what we have decided.”

  “And I will stay, but only for tonight, when I will sign the marriage contract,” George replied, yearning to take her in his arms again, but wary of destroying what he had so far accomplished. She wanted him for her husband, and that had to be enough, for now. “I shall go home tomorrow to prepare for the wedding, and my bride.”

  “Very well, Sir George,” she replied softly. She went to the door and opened it, lingering a moment to look back at him with desire-darkened eyes.

  After she left, George had to sit down until his equanimity was restored. Then, whistling, he went to find his men to have them bring back the feather bed.

  Sir Thomas made the announcement of the betrothal of his daughter to Sir George de Gramercie in the hall that night. If he was surprised, no man could tell. As for his garrison, they appreciated the extra ration of wine while truly sorry for the loss of such a fine companion.

  Aileas told herself she had made a wise decision, and Sir George, sitting beside her, so outwardly calm, envisioned his father smiling down on him with approval.

  Some days later, Rufus heard about Aileas Dugall’s impending marriage as he sat in his cousin’s manor far from Dugall Castle.

  He did not sleep that night.

  Chapter Six

  The moment Herbert Jolliet spotted his brother’s entourage, he tried to kick his mare to a gallop. Unfortunately, the beast was unused to such a speed and only broke into a bone-jarring trot. Despite his discomfort, Herbert continued to urge it forward as fast as it would go.

  “Brother!” Sir Richard cried, genuinely surprised at the appearance of his sibling, who was being jostled in his saddle like a bag of turnips because of his unaccustomed haste. His hair was disheveled, his cloak askew, and his mouth hung open. He looked disgraceful.

  Whatever was wrong, surely there was no need for such a spectacle. Nevertheless, Richard put a welcoming smile on his face.

  “What brings you out to meet me?” he asked jovially, pulling his horse to a halt in front of his escort.

  Sir George’s men, clad in their tunics of scarlet and green, also came to a stop behind him. They began to murmur their surprise and Richard wished his brother had fallen from his horse and broken his neck before he caused any speculation, unless he proved to have something truly important to relate.

  Herbert likewise tugged on his horse’s reins to halt the animal. “I have something of great import to tell you!” he declared breathlessly.

  “I guessed as much from your unexpected appearance,” Richard answered. His tone was civil, but he ran a disgusted gaze over his brother that the men behind him would not see. “Ride ahead with me, and you can tell me this important news as we continue toward Ravensloft.”

  Herbert nodded, then tried to turn his horse on the narrow roadway. He was no horseman, however, and finally Richard grabbed the reins and pulled the horse around. Then together they rode ahead at a more sedate and dignified pace.

  When they were out of earshot of Sir George’s soldiers, Richard scowled. “Can you never learn to be subtle, fool?” he demanded quietly. He glanced over his shoulder at his escort. “These men have no need to know our business.”

  “Everybody already knows what I am about to tell, except you,” Herbert retorted. “Sir George is to be married.”

  Startled, Richard yanked on his reins, halting his horse so abruptly he almost fell off his saddle. Incredulous, he stared into the face that was like his own, except thinner and more sallow. “What?”

  Herbert nodded. “To Aileas Dugall. Tomorrow!”

  Richard punched the side of his horse, which began walking again. “That’s impossible!”

  “Is it?” Herbert demanded in a tone nearly as cynical as his brother’s had been. “Then someone had better tell Sir George, because he’s been preparing for it ever since he returned from Dugall Castle.”

  “His father tried to get him married off for fifteen years. Why should he marry now that his father’s dead?”

  “How should I know?” Herbert whined. “But he is.”

  Richard stared at the road ahead. “I used to fear his father would take another wife,” he murmured pensively. “I never thought he...”

  “What are we going to do?” Herbert asked. “A wife in Ravensloft is—”

  “I know what it is,” Richard growled. “It’s trouble. Keep quiet while I think.”

  Herbert obeyed, sullenly regarding his brother as he maneuvered his horse away from some underbrush that encroached on the road.

  “What about Elma?” Richard asked suddenly.

  “She’s going to be the new mistress’s maidservant.”

  “How did she manage that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know much, do you?” Richard sneered. “I would have thought Aileas Dugall would be the last woman George would choose, if he did decide to wed. She’s a barbarian, like her father.”

  Herbert’s eyes widened with interest. “What do you mean?”

  “Sounds interesting, does she? Well, take care, dear brother. She’s not soft, like Lisette. She’s as hard as iron and probably as tough as old leather. We’ll have to take care for the next little while, till we know the lay of the land. Do you understand me?”

  Herbert nodded slowly.

  “Tell Elma that, too. We must be cautious and do nothing that arouses suspicion, or we could all wind up with a noose around our necks.”

  Instinctively Herbert’s hand went to his throat while Richard Jolliet, trusted steward to Sir George de Gramercie and friend to all, rode thoughtfully at his side.

  George ran his hand through his hair and tried to make sense of the list of foodstuffs written on the parchment before him. Although it was early in the day, he was already seated at a large, dark table in his solar, a room more notable for its comfort than its size. The tapestries that usually covered the walls had been removed to be cleaned and, since George had ordered that those in the hall be done first, had yet to be replaced.

  A thick carpet still covered the floor, however, and George’s oak chair was made soft with cushions. The windows were large, curving at the top like those of a cathedral, so the room was bright and fragrant with spring breezes.

  Unfortunately, George was in no humor to take pleasure in such comforts. He was trying to figure out what had gone wrong.

  Gaston, his cook, had told the household steward what he needed, and Herbert Jolliet had dutifully recorded and ordered the items. Thinking that was all that needed to be done, George had given Herbert permission to ride out to meet his brother. Now, however, Gaston was in a state approaching a fit, for he claimed that he had asked for twenty dozen eggs and had instead received only eighteen.

  George looked at the list again, but he could barely make out the words, for Herbert wrote in a singularly cramped hand. “So we’ll eat fewer eggs,” he muttered in exasperation as he shoved back the chair and stood, laying a hand on the small of his back and stretching like a cat after a nap.

  He strolled to the window and looked out, scanning the road leading to Ravensloft Castle.

  No sign of Sir Thomas and his party, at least on the main road. He had spent the whole of the past fortnight in anxious preparation for his marriage, and thought to see Sir Thomas and his
daughter tomorrow, just before the wedding. Although George had invited them to arrive earlier, his future father-in-law had refused to spend more than one day away from his castle.

  At least that had been the plan agreed upon before his departure from Dugall Castle. It would be just like Sir Thomas to mount a surprise attack by arriving early and by an obscure route. He might not even use the main gate, but the smaller one to the south, to test the guards’ readiness.

  George leaned against the cool stone frame and sighed pensively.

  What the devil was he doing, marrying Aileas Dugall? To be sure, she was different and exciting, but what else did he know of her, except that she dressed outlandishly and acted in no way ladylike?

  She was also incredibly capable of arousing his emotions as few people could, and surely that was not good.

  If he had been wise, he would have taken more time to consider this betrothal. He would have lingered at Dugall Castle and learned more about Aileas. He would have waited before signing the marriage contract.

  He would have been calm and not carried away by the idea of Aileas Dugall in his bed.

  But he had done none of those things, he thought as he sighed heavily and pushed himself away from the wall. “Too late now,” he murmured.

  “My lord?”

  He was startled to discover a maidservant standing in the doorway. It was Elma, a. young woman about Aileas’s age whom George had chosen to be a maidservant to his bride.

  Elma was clever and quick, neat and polite. She had been a lady’s maid before coming to live in Ravensloft and seemed eager to assume her new position.

  “What is it?” he asked warily, fearing another domestic disaster.

  “Nothing bad, my lord,” Elma replied. The reason for Sir George’s unaccustomed manner and sudden zeal to have everything perfect about his castle was certainly no secret, and his tension had been the talk of the servants and soldiers since his return—albeit with sympathetic understanding, for he was like many another bridegroom in that regard. “It’s Sir Richard back from London, and Herbert Jolliet with him.”