A Warrior's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  She halted abruptly, then faced him, her chest heaving as if she had just run miles, her bodice gaping with each breath. “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “I was worried about you. I thought you might be ill. That wine—”

  She straightened even more, and if her expressioa could have killed, he would have been stone-cold on the cobblestones. “Do you think I am drunk?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Good. It would take more than that thin red stuff to make me drunk.”

  He should have guessed Aileas could drink any other woman under the bench, too. “Forgive me,” he said with a courteous little bow.

  “Now you have done your duty and you may return to your charming companion.”

  “Who is very concerned that you are jealous of her when you should not be,” he said gently. He came closer: “I fear you misunderstand my relationship with my cousin.”

  Her response was a harsh bark of a laugh. “I fear I understand all too well, my lord.”

  Her answer and its implication made his hands curl into fists as he fought to control himself. “No, you don’t,” he said. enunciating each word.

  “Tell me, Sir George, why... why you are not marrying her?” Her question began defiantly, but he caught the tremulous repetition that told him what he wanted to know.

  “If I wanted to marry Margot, I could have done so before this,” he reminded her. “I want you.”

  “Why?” The word was flung at him accusingly.

  Instead of answering with words, he reached out and pulled her into his embrace, looking intently into the dark pools of her eyes before giving in to the irrepressible desire to kiss her.

  For a moment, he thought she might pull away—but she didn’t. She responded in kind, with that untamed urgency he had felt from her before, an urgency that seemed to reach into him and release something he had long tried to suppress.

  Fiercely, he drove his tongue into the wet warmth of her mouth, the contact thrilling in a way totally new to him. Her strong arms tightened about him, and she pressed herself along his body, a low moan escaping her lips.

  He broke their kiss to trail his mouth along the fine curve of her jaw and down her slender neck toward her gaping bodice. “I want you, Aileas,” he murmured “God’s wounds, I want you.”

  Only half-aware of what he was doing as he claimed her mouth again, he pushed her back against the chapel wall.

  Then, with a boldness that shocked him, she reached inside his tunic and shirt to rub her fingers lightly over his nipples. “Oh God, Aileas,” he moaned, bending to kiss the flesh of her exposed breasts, wanting to give her something of the pleasure she was rousing in him.

  “You there! Have you no respect—”

  Aileas gasped and George spun around to behold Sir Thomas Dugall bearing down on them. The outraged nobleman hesitated for a moment, his expression growing even more angry, then he barked, “Stay here,” to the two men with him, as if they were his hunting hounds. He strode toward his daughter and her betrothed.

  Between the passionate excitement she had been experiencing and the shock of seeing her father, Aileas could scarcely draw breath. She had seen her father angry before, of course, but he had never looked so wrathful as he did at this moment.

  What had happened here? Why was it every time Sir George kissed her, she seemed to lose all control?

  “Daughter, what is the meaning of this?”

  “Sir, I—” George began.

  “How dare you accost my daughter as if she were a common whore!” he growled. Then her father raised his gloved hand and smote Sir George full on the face, sending him staggering.

  Sir George recovered swiftly, straightening, his back to them. Aileas feared he would retaliate in kind, in which case her father would surely draw his sword and kill him. She quickly stepped between them. “Father! He didn’t!”

  “Forgive me for any overzealousness, Sir Thomas,” Sir George said lightly behind her. “I must plead the impatience of a bridegroom as my excuse for any liberties I have taken.”

  Aileas turned to stare at him and found him leaning back against the chapel wall as if nothing much were amiss at all.

  How could he be so cool in the face of her father’s anger? She was trembling, terrified for him—and he was smiling!

  “I think you are not the man for my daughter after all,” Sir Thomas declared.

  “Oh, I think my actions, as inexcusable as they are, would indicate otherwise, don’t you?” He crossed his arms, his expression enigmatic. “Need I remind you, Sir Thomas, the marriage agreement has been signed. You have given me your word.”

  “You are an impertinent rogue!”

  “I am Sir George de Gramercie, Sir Thomas, and I am betrothed to your daughter.”

  Her father’s eyes narrowed as he abruptly turned on his heel to face Aileas. “Do you want him still?”

  Aileas regarded her father steadily, knowing that once again, she had a choice to make. “Yes,” she replied softly.

  “Well then, marry him,” her father snapped. “But if he ever lays a hand on you or causes you pain in any way, you are to come home to me at once. No blame shall attach to you.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Get to bed!”

  Aileas didn’t linger but obeyed at once, while Sir Thomas turned his glaring gray eyes on Sir George. “If you ever hurt my daughter, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly, as I am not stupid, nor hard of hearing,” Sir George said.

  Then the impudent fellow shoved himself away from the chapel wall and sauntered off without another word.

  “Are you all right, my lady?” Elma asked timidly as she regarded her mistress, who stalked into the bedchamber like a man who had lost his finest hawk.

  “Perfectly,” Lady Aileas replied.

  “You look a little flushed”

  “I’m tired.”

  That was a barefaced lie, Elma thought. She tried again. “Would you like me to fetch you some wine?”

  “I think I have had quite enough. Please, leave me.”

  “But you’ll need help—”

  “I can undress myself. Good night.”

  Elma knew there was nothing else to say, so she reluctantly left this most puzzling of women.

  When she was gone, Aileas let out a long, weary, trembling sigh and collapsed onto the bed.

  What in the name of the saints was happening?

  Did Sir George want to marry her or not?

  Did she want to marry him?

  Did it matter what either of them wanted tonight, when the marriage contract was already signed?

  Sighing again, she rose and went to the window. Could she climb out of this window and leave this place? Then she wouldn’t have to worry that she was about to do something she would regret for the rest of her life.

  If she tried to climb out of here, she would surely fall and break her neck.

  Which would be one end to her dilemma, she thought with a sad and rueful smile.

  She leaned her elbows on the stone ledge and regarded the surrounding countryside. It all seemed so peaceful after the noise of the hall, where the men were still celebrating. Lady Margot, she had noted as she had hurried through the hall to the stairs, had apparently retired.

  In the village, light could be seen shining palely from a window or open door. Somewhere an owl hooted.

  Below, she caught the murmur of voices and saw two men talking together. One she immediately recognized as Sir George, the other Sir Richard. She watched as Sir George bade the other good-night, then strolled away with his easy, athletic gait toward the barracks.

  Why did he want her? She could not believe he would want her for herself alone. She was too different from the type of woman he no doubt preferred, the beautiful, demure, witty ones, like Lady Margot.

  Just to form an alliance with her father? That could be—yet he would get no land, and her dowry, while not small, was not sizable, either. Surely a man
of his attributes could have his choice of many richer, more educated, beautiful women.

  Why her?

  If she knew the answer to that, then she might feel comfortable here, instead of feeling that she didn’t belong. She knew that she was different. She had spent too much time in the company of her brothers and her father’s soldiers to be like other women.

  Sir George made her feel like a woman, especially when he took her in his arms and kissed her. Surely that boded well for her marriage.

  Then she recalled the times her brothers and their friends had spoken of their lovers.

  She moved away from the window and began to smile a different smile. A pleased smile. A triumphant smile.

  Maybe she didn’t know how to eat with the proper etiquette. Maybe she didn’t dress like Lady Margot de Pontypoole. Maybe she was abysmally ignorant of many things most women of her station knew how to do.

  But there were some things she did know, precisely because she had spent so much time in the company of men. Surely her husband would overlook those other faults in view of her exceptional knowledge.

  Chapter Nine

  At noon the next day, with the sun shining brightly in a cloudless sky, George made sure to put a very pleased and contented smile on his face as he arrived at the chapel. He would not have anyone think he was less than delighted by the step he was about to take.

  Another step on the journey had begun that horrible moment when he realized that his father was truly dead and he was now the lord of Ravensloft, with all the attendant privileges—and duties.

  The wedding ceremony would take place inside the chapel, attended by those guests of higher rank. Outside, men-at-arms and other retainers would assemble in the courtyard until after the ceremony’s conclusion, whereupon they would follow the wedding party into the hall for the feast. Several of his men and those of Sir Thomas were already milling about. A few saluted, others bowed or tugged their forelock, but all grinned, no doubt anticipating the celebrations and feast.

  George wished that he, too, had only to anticipate carefree revelry. Certainly he had been a guest at enough weddings to share in their current mood. Now that he was the groom, however, he felt completely different.

  He could not help wondering if he had chosen his bride unwisely. Perhaps he would have done better to pick a younger, more amenable woman, one less defiant and proud, who would easily bend herself to her husband’s ways. One who knew how to dress properly and eat properly and speak when spoken to.

  One who would probably squeal in horror at the sight of a man’s naked body and have to be cajoled into the nuptial bed. Who would then lie stiffly terrified as he took her, no matter how gentle he was.

  Who would not meet him with exciting, feverish passion.

  Yet who would not also enrage him, as he had not been enraged in years.

  George entered the dim, incense-scented stone building. A few candles on the bare altar and the sunlight pouring in through tall, narrow windows of stained glass illuminated the inner room, casting a muted light of yellow, red and blue that seemed somehow more holy than natural sunlight.

  He rubbed his temples, as if by doing so he could think with better clarity. Perhaps it would help if he said a prayer.

  “Fatigued, George?”

  Startled, he realized Margot was standing near the statue of the Virgin Mary.

  Margot looked lovely, as Margot always did. She wore a simple, but elegant, gown of pale green silk with a darker overtunic of emerald samite. Her scarf was likewise green, of a shimmering fabric that moved when she breathed Her face, framed by that delicate scarf, was pale, and he did not think he was the only one fatigued. The journey here must have been tiring for her, for she did not like to travel. She always gave that as an excuse when he had asked her to visit before.

  He gave his cousin a warm, brotherly smile. “A little. Too much fine food last night, I fear.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “Yes,” he said, coming to join her near the statue.

  Margot’s gaze grew more intense. “Did you reassure her?”

  “I tried to,” he said, fearing this was not quite the truth.

  Margot nodded, apparently satisfied. “Good.”

  “Margot?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have a great favor to ask of you.”

  She smiled. “Oh?”

  “I would like you to stay here for awhile, to help Aileas.”

  “To help her do what?” she asked, obviously puzzled.

  “You saw her last night,” he said, the words coming in a rush, for he had not given full voice to his opinion concerning his bride before. “She eats like the roughest man in my retinue. She has no proper c!othes—usually she wears the most incredible combination of breeches, tunics and skirts you can imagine. She has no notion of decorum or etiquette. I want you to help her learn to be a lady.”

  “She is a lady,” Margot pointed out, turning away from him and brushing her fingertips over the wooden kneeling rail before the sacred statue, “for she is a lord’s daughter.”

  “Don’t dissemble now, Margot!” he pleaded softly. “I mean a proper lady. A respectable lady.”

  “So I am to be a teacher, like a nun in a convent?” she asked, her face still averted.

  “Margot, please, I need your help. There is no one else I can ask. Won’t you do this for me?” he pleaded fervently, reaching out to take her cool hand in his.

  She turned toward him then, and he couldn’t perceive what she was thinking, whether she would agree or tell him that she had to go back and manage her own household. “Why do you not do it yourself?” she asked softly, regarding him steadily.

  He dropped her hand and shrugged. “I cannot. I have not the patience.”

  “But you were always the peacemaker,” she reminded him.

  “That is an easy thing to be when one doesn’t have any particular affection for the people quarreling,” he observed.

  She came close to him, so that he could detect the attar of roses she always wore, despite the constant presence of incense. “Then you have a ‘particular affection’ for Aileas Dugall?” she asked softly, looking at him with a sympathetic expression.

  “I betieve so,” he confessed.

  “I am glad to hear it, since you are to marry her.” She walked past him toward the altar.

  “Margot?”

  “Since you ask this of me, George, I will stay.”

  “Thank you, cousin,” he said, with happiness and considerable relief. With Margot to show her the proper way to do things, Aileas’s faults could surely be corrected.

  Margot looked at him over her shoulder. “My pleasure, cousin.”

  Father Adolphus, a short, rotund priest dressed in fine vestments, came bustling out of a door at the side of the chapel, followed by his clerk. He started when he saw Lady Margot, and then Sir George. “My lady, my lord, .you are rather early.”

  George heard the chapel door open and glanced back to see Richard and Herbert Jolliet enter. “A little, perhaps. I suppose I am as impatient as any bridegroom.”

  “And I came to say a prayer to the Holy Virgin to bless my cousin and his new wife,” Lady Margot said with a lovely smile.

  The priest beamed. “A very kind sentiment, my lady.”

  Margot went to stand beside the stewards as other wedding guests began to file into the small building. Soon, the only people missing were the bride and her father.

  When an excited murmur ran through the gathering, George knew that Sir Thomas and Aileas were at the door.

  He turned to look at them—and his jaw nearly dropped at the sight.

  It seemed Aileas did own one dress that fit, after all, a lovely gown of eggshell-colored brocade. The square neckline could not have been more appropriately placed, and it, like the long, flowing sleeves, was trimmed with gold embroidery. Her long hair had been adorned with a garland of spring blossoms. A supple girdle of embossed leather hung about her narrow hips and seem
ed to emphasize their womanly sway as her father, attired in severe black, led her forward.

  God’s holy heaven, she looked like a woodland nymph or some kind of spirit of nature come to earth as a beautiful bride. George smiled, suddenly sure he was making no mistake taking Aileas Dugall for his bride.

  Aileas clung to her father’s arm, unusually bashful as all the people in the chapel turned to look at her. Indeed, she was tempted to turn and run, until she saw George staring at her, his eyes wide with wonder.

  Then he smiled, and all her uncertainty vanished.

  “My lords and my lady,” the priest intoned when she came to stand beside him. “We are come together here to ask God’s blessing upon the union of Sir George de Gramercie and Lady Aileas Dugall as they are joined together in holy wedlock....”

  The hall was filled with the cacophony of happy revelers. The soldiers were half-drunk before the second course had appeared, but fortunately, their rambunctious behavior took the form of jokes and laughter. The maidservants, giggling and dexterously avoiding unwelcome advances, weaved their way around the tables. Dogs scuffled in the rushes or gnawed contently on bones, aware only that an unusual amount of meat was falling to the floor. Smiling pages served the noble guests. The musicians in the gallery, sure that they would be well paid, played with a will.

  Pleased with his bride, mellow with fine wine, secretly delighted that his stern and severe father-in-law had chosen not to stay for the wedding feast and less secretly looking forward to his wedding night, George was in a mood to be generous and delighted with everyone. “I would dearly love to be able to feast all the knights of my acquaintance,” he remarked in an expansive tone as he surveyed the happy company. He turned to Aileas with a sly and mischievous smile. “And to show you off, my lady.”