His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (3 page)

She had thought so for the past fortnight. Now she knew better, damn Uncle Bardrick’s eyes!

Instead, he had married her off to the only man within twenty miles who frightened everyone, even Sir Penley. He had married her to a pauper of reputedly dark powers.

Gwenyth shivered as her memory dredged up the tales of his powers. His taming of the wild dog that had slaughtered pigs, chickens, and even cows all over the village had started the rumors of his magical abilities. That alone made people suspicious. Uncle Bardrick’s cook had exchanged cross words with the lone warlock over the purchase of food, then promptly died the next day. The castlefolk thought that all too eerie. And then the drought started soon thereafter, and had not been eased by blessed rain in nearly six months. That convinced everyone the hermit was a sorcerer. ’Twas likely true, she acknowledged with a sigh.

Bristling braies, had she been hasty-witted in insulting him? What would he do to her now?

“Well, do you plan to stand in the door all night or come inside?” asked the stranger.

What choice did she have? ’Twas either die by Uncle Bardrick’s hand or test fate with the sorcerer. “I shall come in, but do not assume I mean to be your wife.”

With tiny steps, Gwenyth made her way into the dwelling, treading on the tips of her toes through the dirt to the room’s lone chair. She stared at the seat, currently occupied by his undergarments, wondering how she could stay with the man for even one night. This was—indeed,
he
was—everything she did not want, even if he was handsome in that overpoweringly male way.

The man did nothing to move his undergarments from the chair. Weary and impatient, Gwenyth tapped her toes against the earthen floor and waited. Finally, he heaved a giant sigh and crossed the room to retrieve his braies. She sat.

“As you can see, I did not expect a lady.”

“Are you certain?” She needled. “Your paltry protests against this union make me think you lie, hermit.”

He stretched his solid length out on the small bed, nearly engulfing the mattress. His long, muscled legs, encased in clean brown hose, were mere inches from her knee. Gwenyth swallowed. The man was certainly big enough and likely strong, too. Would he expect her to do her wifely duty by him on that small, no doubt flea-ridden bed?

“Actually, my lady, I wanted no one here, least of all someone so free with her tongue. But what is done, is done.”

Gwenyth’s mouth fell open at his insult. “If you wanted your peace, you should have fought for it! Instead, you showed all the mettle of a posy. And should you think—”

The sorcerer was off the bed and across the floor before she could blink. He stood in front of her chair, grabbed both her arms, and hauled her to her feet, flush against him.

My, he was certainly showing his mettle now. Those gray eyes of his were dark as charcoal, menacing in his golden face.

“You have insulted me and my home at every turn. I wanted neither you nor your tireless mouth here in my shelter. I tried to reason with your fine friend Dagbert to no avail. I surrendered my bachelor state to save your pretty neck, and you yell at me? God, woman! Has no one told you what a harpy harridan you are?”

Uncle Bardrick had told her that nearly every day since coming to Penhurst ten summers ago to bury her father and assume the castle’s duties. “Why can you not be more like your cousins Nellwyn and Lyssa?” he would ask. She could not be such a paragon of demure virtue, no matter how she tried. Pleasing Uncle Bardrick and his vain wife, Welsa, without her temper showing seemed impossible. She’d given up trying long ago.

“I humbly beg your pardon, kind sir.”

Her attempt at a decorous tone sounded more acidic than modest as she leaned into him and unleashed her temper. Gwenyth hardly cared if the sorcerer could turn her into a toad. It could not be worse than the position she now found herself in.

“In the last hour, I have been threatened, unwillingly wed, and insulted. Pray forgive me if that makes me a trifle irritable, you ass.”

The tawny-haired hulk shook his head, grunted, and turned away without another word.

“What mean you by that? That grunt?”

The man to whom she found herself married said nothing. Indeed, he glanced not her way at all, but trod to the charred hearth, started a fire, and set a beaten kettle above it.

Moments later, the rich aroma of warming broth invaded her senses. Gwenyth ignored the fact the air was tinged with not just the familiar scent but also with something woodsy and earthy that could belong only to him. She focused on her anger instead.

“My life is in complete disarray, and you mean to make broth?”

He spared her but a glance over his shoulder, his brow lifted in irritation, before he turned his attention back to the kettle.

Argh! She had been much yelled at within Penhurst’s walls. Even the cook’s spoon across her hands she had learned to tolerate. But she hated to be ignored.

“Have you gone mute now? Grim only begins to describe the trying state of our affairs. Of our very lives! At a time like this, you find nothing more pressing than to make broth whilst you grunt? Have I wed something better suited to the barn?”

Still, he said nothing, did not even bother himself with a glare in her direction. Gwenyth fisted her hands at her sides and stomped across the cottage toward him, venting a measure of her frustration.

She spoke to the imposing width of his tight-muscled back. “Can you not hear I am speaking to you, or are you always this crude in your manners? ’Twould explain why you are unmarried, despite being past your youth.” She threw her arms up. “Well, that and this dwelling. Have you no rushes for the floor? No servant about to see to your comforts?” Silence. “Can you even speak the king’s English?”

The blasted slow-wit still said nothing. Lord, how she wanted to kick his shin, step on his toes, beat some sense into his thick skull.

Still, ’twas not a good plan. Not only was she unlikely to cause him much pain, but the remembrance that many thought him a sorcerer stayed her—barely. She drew in a deep, calming breath, knowing she must try to reason with him somehow.

Behind him, Gwenyth cleared her throat, then touched a hand to his arm. “Clearly, you see I do not belong here. What comforts can you provide a lady? My…good man—”

“Aric,” he said finally, his teeth gritted.

“What say you?”

Aric turned to face his new bride, who he had known for less than an hour, a bride who had not known his name until moments ago. The lithe length of her body was tense with fury, her brow furrowed with confusion. Her full, extraordinary mouth turned down in a frown.

By the saints, what was he to do with the woman?

She talked more than any female he’d ever known, few of her words something other than an insult or curse. She thought him and his home beneath her and wanted nothing more than to be gone. What would the luscious, shrewish Lady Gwenyth say if she knew he had just made her the Countess of Belford?

Clearly, she needed time to adjust to wedded life. ’Twas to be expected, he supposed. Still, Aric found it disconcerting that his ignorance about the flavor of her opulent mouth tugged at him almost as much as the fact she was now his wife—a very spirited one who thought him a fen-sucked barn animal.

As he turned away from her to pour his broth, Aric grimaced, wondering what the night would bring.

* * * *

The cheeky wench—his wife, Aric amended—could sleep anywhere. He envied her that. Oh, she had struggled to stay awake, but once the rhythm of slumber had overtaken her, she had scarcely stirred.

Trying to adjust his numb backside on the hard wooden chair to a more comfortable position, he eyed the woman he had wed hours ago. She lay in his bed on her stomach, her arms sprawled about her head, her fingers tangled in her thick, dark tresses. She looked peaceful, but not angelic. Never that.

The slash of her bold raven brows and the sensual mouth would never bespeak innocence. Her square jaw and surprising height merely added to her fierce image. The softly rounded curve of her buttocks, lifting slightly as she moved in her sleep, also reminded him she was far indeed from being a child.

Aric cursed, then shifted again to accommodate the expanding front of his hose.

She could not stay here. No matter that he found his blood heating for her now. He craved peace, which, Lord knew, he would never find with her impudent mouth constantly achatter and her feminine allure close at hand.

Yet he could not force her to return to Penhurst Castle, where her uncle, the superstitious baron, might well see her life ended. Though the saucy lady had both rankled and scorned him, he could not wish death upon her. His life had been filled with too much of that.

He thought back to his first battle—Tewkesbury, the bloodiest battle England had yet seen. A boy of twelve, he’d stood anxiously back from the battlefield’s edge, watching the bloodied knights fall. Friends of his father and his uncle had lost their lives that day, men he had known from the cradle. Men he had respected were gone forever, but the succession of England’s throne remained precarious despite their sacrifices.

His last battle, that with the Campbells of Scotland, had felt little different. Too much spilled blood for very little reason.

He would not have Lady Gwenyth’s blood on his hands as well.

Aric sighed and rose as night grayed toward a new dawn. Should he send her to Northwell to stay with his younger brother, Stephen? Nay, his she-devil of a stepmother, Rowena, remained there.

And Gwenyth’s words bothered him. ’Twas clear she had expected better of a home. Her expressive face had revealed her deep disappointment when she had first set eyes on his cottage. He had seen the yearning in her eyes for more, recalled with clarity that she thought him a mere hermit, worthy of her contempt.

Ambition in a woman had poisoned him since Rowena, once his betrothed. She had married his father for power and wealth. What would Lady Gwenyth do with the knowledge he had both in plenty now that his father was gone?

Aric had no intention of sharing that information. She and her displeasure might remain here out of necessity, at least until he could send her elsewhere. Before that day came, he would simply ignore her and her unforgettable mouth…somehow.

CHAPTER TWO

By midmorning, Gwenyth noted her host—the term she preferred over husband—looked bleary-eyed. Guilt needled her for taking his bed last eve, until she remembered she would not have taken it at all had he but fought this cursed union.

As the sun inched up in the sky, Aldrich—no, Aric he had called himself—lay down on the surprisingly comfortable bed and drifted off to sleep.

Gwenyth stared at the hulking man in repose. He should have looked relaxed in slumber but did not. ’Twas something of a puzzle, along with his use of well-born English. How had a peasant learned to speak so well?

Neither was of import, really. Her life had taken a terrible, unexpected turn, and during the wee hours, she had realized she must remedy the problem by seeking an annulment to this marriage. Sir Penley would take her to wife. Then she could have her own grand home where people welcomed her, accepted her. Sir Penley would smile at her, as he’d done from the moment they had met. He would hire poets to write flowering stanzas explaining why he needed her so.

None of those dreams could come true without the handsome hermit’s help.

Gwenyth perched on the edge of the rickety chair and wondered how to proceed. To gain an annulment, Aric had to say they had not shared a bed. Aye, they had, but not at the same time, so she supposed that was different. The marriage was not consummated, not that she would allow him to poke her with his shaft. ’Twould end her hopes with Sir Penley, and it sounded most unpleasant besides.

While her husband slept, she would sneak back to Penhurst to reason with Uncle Bardrick, if such a thing were possible. She could creep back to the keep without Aric’s knowledge. After all, he had told Dagbert he had no want of a wife. If he wished to remain in the thick of the forest with a wild dog his only friend, she would oblige him with pleasure. She wanted to avoid those piercing gray eyes and the sculpted magnificence of his face. He made her tingle in a most unusual way. Sir Penley never had such an ill effect upon her, thank goodness.

As she turned away to braid the dark mass of her hair, Aric groaned. Gwenyth whirled around to him and noticed sweat filming his face. His large fists bit into the mattress. She frowned.

His body jerked, and he groaned again. Gwenyth leaned closer in concern. Why did he rest so unwell? ’Twould seem nightmares troubled him. Did he dream of his black magic, or was he no sorcerer at all?

Suddenly, Aric lunged up, grabbed her arms, and threw her to the bed below. His large, hot body pinned her to the mattress; his strong grip made escape impossible.

In shock, Gwenyth stared at the half-wild man above her. His eyes closed, he snarled fiercely as his fingers crushed her throat. Gasping, she choked in a breath of air. Sweet Mary, did he mean to kill her?

Panic assailed her, and Gwenyth kicked and lashed out.

She could not budge him.

Spots danced before her eyes, but she managed to scream. Suddenly, Aric snapped upright at her side, his hands whipping away from her throat. His eyes opened wide.

Gwenyth sat up and backed away on the bed, clutching her abused neck. Horror flashed across Aric’s face before he turned away and raked a tense hand through his long tawny hair.

“You wed me to slay me?”

“I am sorry,” he mumbled as his taut back filled her gaze. “I…I but dreamed.”

“Of killing me?” she questioned.

“Nay,” he replied, breathing harsh.

“Of what, then?”

“Of hell.” His voice sounded like desolation itself.

Knowing somehow he would reveal no more, she frowned. “’Tis just as well I am returning to Penhurst. Uncle Bardrick is not likely to kill me himself.”

“Are you certain?” He whirled, his face now without expression. “Dagbert seemed certain last eve your uncle would indeed end your life.”