His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (34 page)

Aric looked beyond his mentor’s shoulder, until his gaze fixed on a wan, dark-haired lady.

Nellwyn?
“Lady Brinkley.”

Why was she here at Hartwich?

“I know you realize I wasn’t always kind to Gwenyth. She always had so much beauty. My own father asked me why I could not be more like her…” She trailed off, her tone full of apology.

“She understands,” Aric said, making his way to the door.

“Wait, please.”

Aric turned back to her, impatient to be away. “Aye?”

“If she resists you, tell her…tell her I said if I had a man who loved me so, I would sacrifice nearly anything to keep him.” Slow tears ran down the woman’s face.

“Sir Rankin beat her for birthing a girl,” Guilford whispered to Aric.

Gritting his teeth against an unexpected surge of anger, Aric vowed to seek the sorry bastard out and pummel his face blue.

“Beat him, if you wish,” said Guilford, seeming to read his thought, “but we received word just yestereve that King Henry stripped Sir Rankin of all his lands. ’Tis fitting, I think.”

“It is, but I still plan to beat him,” whispered Aric. To Nellwyn, he called, “I will tell Gwenyth exactly what you said, good lady.”

Now he only hoped Gwenyth still felt the love she had once confessed, the love he had yet to tell her he returned with the whole of his body and heart.

* * * *

Gwenyth meandered about the empty cottage, wishing she had brought Dog with her, but she hadn’t wanted reminders of Aric, and sad Nellwyn seemed to favor the animal. Mayhap she should not have released Guilford’s escort to return to Hartwich Hall so quickly, but she had not wanted the dubious comfort of strangers, either.

Unfortunately, such a solitary situation left her with nothing to do but wonder where on earth her errant husband had gone. The wretch.

Though Aric had lived here recently, according to the whispers of the wary villagers, no one knew for certain when he had departed the area or where he had gone. They only hoped he never returned.

And she had no way to tell him what a cowardly, mealy-mouthed bounder she thought him.

After pacing to the other side of the room, she fluffed the pillow lying upon the cot, then hung the kettle above the hearth and restacked the kindling.

Where had the man gone? Had his ridiculously brief missive announcing his intent to live here been a lie? If it had, she would search him down to the ends of the realm and show him the full heat of her fury. The swine!

Drawing in a deep breath, Gwenyth walked around the cottage once more, taking in the dirt floor and less than stout roof. But her traitorous mind saw only happy times within these walls—her lively exchanges of words with Aric, their intimate kisses on the cot, their cozy meals at the hearth. The rest of the dwelling faded into the background, leaving a vision of her perfect, solemn husband.

She frowned, for she knew not why Aric resisted castle life so completely. But resist it he did. Damn the churlish mucker! She at least deserved an explanation. And when she saw him, she would drag the words from him, even if she had to do it with her teeth.

Gwenyth trudged back to the cot and flung herself down upon the blankets. Despite the fact she had slept upon them for three nights now, they still kept the earthy, woodsy scent that reminded her so fiercely of Aric and brought back their intimate couplings deep in the night.

Forcing her mind elsewhere, Gwenyth propelled herself off of the cot and fingered the pendant at her neck.

Where could the moldwarp of a scoundrel be?

And what would she do with her life once she fed him a healthy dose of her fury? What was left but accepting the fact he was gone forever?

Stubbornly, she clung to her anger. She did not yearn for him in a way that made her soul ache. It pleased her well not to have to live beside him always. It did!

With a sigh, she forced herself to acknowledge she had no reason to remain here. If Aric had truly fled the cottage, never to return, lingering would not bring him back so he might hear her opinions of his desertion.

Nor did Gwenyth have a reason to stay in Bedfordshire. She had no further ties to the village. Everyone here still thought her a black sorcerer’s wife, and so they avoided her or whispered behind her back.

Even Uncle Bardrick was gone now. Apparently he had displeased King Henry, who had seized Penhurst and its lands. Gwenyth knew not where her aunt and uncle had gone. Moreover, she did not care.

The day before, she had walked about the nearly deserted castle of her girlhood, only to find it held naught for her—not loathing or pain, not anguish or longing. Naught at all.

Somehow that relieved her nearly as much as the note she had received that very morn from Nellwyn saying all was well with both Guilford and the babe, Mary.

In general, life pleased her.

If, deep in the night, she thought of Aric, ’twas only lack of sleep playing games with her head. Her dazed mind foolishly feared she would never be whole again without him. She could scarce imagine whence such feeble-witted thoughts arose.

But in those dark hours, the thought of living the rest of her life, watching seasons come and go, observing the people about her live and die, all without Aric’s arms around her… She shook her head, unable to avoid the truth any longer. Worry that unhappiness would slowly drain the very life from her soul plagued her day and night.

Had the man become crucial to her happiness? Nay.

Aye,
whispered her heart.

When?

How?

And now he was gone.

Gwenyth scarce knew whether to scream or cry.

Sinking to the cot, she did both.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Aric’s heart raced as he rode up to the cottage in the dead of night. He cared not that all but the moon slept or that he made an easy target for the thieves who might be lining the roads.

He cared only about reaching Gwenyth.

Finally, their little cottage came into view, backlit by the brilliance of a hopeful golden moon. Night’s chill put a nip into the wind, and Aric tethered his mount and rushed inside away from the cold—toward his wife.

Complete darkness greeted Aric, and he struggled to see inside the small dwelling. Cursing, he felt about for a candle and flint, then cursed repeatedly until he finally had the thing lit.

Flame in hand, he turned to seek out his wife, only to find her rising from the cot, pushing strands of midnight-hues hair from her sleepy, beloved face. She wore naught but a thin white shift.

He swallowed then started toward her with love and purpose in his heart.

“You!” her voice rang with fury and accusation as she ignored his approach. “I’ve waited here three days to tell you— What are you doing?” she screeched as he pulled her against his aching body.

Without a reply, he captured her soft mouth beneath his, sinking into the taste and texture of Gwenyth. She smelled of green nature and life, felt perfect and solid in his arms. Pleasure exploded across his senses as he coaxed her mouth open beneath his and began exploring her recesses with his tongue, taking her in completely.

Suddenly, she tore her lips from his and backed away with a hard shove. “Have you gone mad?”

She was angry. His abrupt missive to her, written after King Henry had taken his lands, must have annoyed her more than a trifle.

And it would not have done so had she not cared for him at least a little.

Aric smiled. “Quite the opposite, my lady wife.”

“Do not think to charm or kiss me from my anger, you sapless knave. You cannot send me a weak-headed message that you are forsaking me forever whilst you squall away your life in poverty, offer no explanation, then kiss me as if your vexatious, scurvy actions are of no import—”

Aric took her mouth again, then laughed. Aye, his Gwenyth had never lost her fire, and he was going to enjoy trying to tame her for a lifetime.

Her heel mashed his toes to the ground. Pain shot up his legs, and he backed away from her in disbelief.

“Do not touch me, you troublesome jackass. I came here to tell you what I think of your cowardly desertion, not to be mauled.”

Holding his abused toes in one hand, Aric hopped to keep his balance and glared at his wife. She had more fire than even he remembered.

“You have made your point amply, and I will not touch you until we have spoken.”

“You will not touch me at all, ever! ’Tis you who left—”

“So you have repeatedly reminded me. You also said you wished to know why. If you will sit and close your mouth for a moment, I will tell you.”

Gwenyth’s look was surly and rebellious, but sit she did on the edge of the cot, then looked at him with cool, regal expectation. In every way, she would make him a fine countess.

Easing down beside her, Aric wondered where to start this convoluted tale. He felt his palms sweating as doubt crept in. What if he could not persuade Gwenyth to stay with him always? He loved her, and he must convince her of that. Aye, but he must also choose his next words carefully, else she would never stay long enough to hear his declaration and believe his devotion. Damnation, how to begin…

“I grow old waiting,” Gwenyth prodded.

Aric stared at his impatient wife and sighed. “I fought the battle.”

“So I gathered from Guilford and Stephen. Do you plan to tell me that such a battle, so like every other you ever fought, made you want to part from me forever?”

“Nay. I could not fight for King Richard.”

“So you fought for King Henry?” Surprise sounded in her voice.

He nodded, realizing suddenly that he should—indeed, must—tell her all. “My conscience would allow naught else. You see, I knew…well, I have known for nigh on a year now that Richard ordered the deaths of his nephews, the princes.”

Gwenyth gasped, shock transforming her expression to one of horror. “’Tis certain?”

Aric gave her a bleak nod. “He had them suffocated in the Tower two years past. And my refusal to fight had as much to do with my own horrific actions in the matter as his.”

Shock became confusion on Gwenyth’s sweet face. “What say you? Such makes little sense.”

“I know,” he said, sighing. “But in the spring following King Edward IV’s death, King Richard, then the Duke of Gloucester, had been named protector of his brother’s two sons.”

“This I know.”

“And you probably know as well that Richard intercepted young Edward and his maternal uncle, Earl Rivers, on their way to London following the king’s death. Once Richard had the boy in custody, he sent the lad off to the Tower under the guise of keeping him well until his coronation. Rivers he beheaded for some false charge.

“Richard set a coronation date for young Edward but complained privately that having a minor on the throne would bring naught but unrest to England. In truth, I think he had always wanted the throne for himself. Though he had ever been a competent manager of his northern estates and well liked for it, ’twas never enough, in his mind.”

“How do you know this?” Gwenyth breathed.

“I was ever at his side. We spent part of our youth together at my uncle’s castle, Middleham. We battled together many a time. As you know, he even wed my cousin, Anne.”

“You were friends with a king?”

Aric shrugged off the awe in her tone. “Of a sort, aye. Anyway, at some point, I must assume that Richard plotted to seize the throne for himself. Accordingly, he came to me and asked for my help in mending the rift between himself and the dowager queen, Elizabeth Woodville. They had been enemies since the day she wed King Edward and the dolt began giving the Woodvilles land and titles.”

Gwenyth nodded her understanding. “Go on.”

“Richard convinced me that were young Edward’s brother to stay with him in the Tower to await the coronation, Elizabeth and all of England would see he supported his nephew and ultimately his mother’s family.”

“But that was not the case.”

“It was not, and I knew naught of his true intentions for months. That is the truth.”

The overwhelming information sat like shock upon her pale face. “What happened then?”

“As I said, Richard asked for my help. Ever since my Uncle Warwick had been killed in battle supporting Henry VI, his lands and titles had been divided between Richard himself and his older brother, the Duke of Clarence, who was executed for treason. I had once imagined King Edward might restore Clarence’s share to me, including the earldom of Warwick, but he feared the power of the Warwick title returning to my family, especially to me.”

“You had the prowess in battle and the power in court to be of harm if you chose.”

“Aye, so when Richard asked me to assist him in mending this rift, I thought the boy, when he became king, might be grateful enough to grant my request. I wanted Warwick back so badly. Its taste teased my tongue daily. I wanted to be the next powerful Earl Warwick and command politics, as was my family heritage.” He couldn’t stop his bitter laugh.

“You
wanted
money and power?” Shock vibrated in her voice.

“More than anything.” His self-deprecating tone hung in the air between them. “So Richard asked me to go to Elizabeth Woodville in sanctuary with her other children in Westminster Abbey and convince her to release Edward’s younger brother to me so he might wait with Edward for the coronation. I thought it a simple enough task to lead me back to power. I did as he requested.”

She gasped. “Elizabeth released the boy to you.”

He nodded. “And I delivered him to the Tower myself.”

Gwenyth closed her eyes as dismay overtook her face.

“Now I see you understand,” he whispered. “I assure you, you cannot revile me any more for my greed than I did myself.”

Her blue eyes snapped open, and she touched a soft hand to his arm. “You could not have known Richard’s plans.”

“I did not,” he admitted. “But I should have at least suspected.”

“How could you conceive of such evil from a friend?”

Aric shrugged. “Elizabeth Woodville feared for her life and the lives of her children. ’Tis why she was in sanctuary. She pleaded with me to leave the young boy be. I vowed to the woman nothing bad would befall the prince. In the end, I made his death possible by giving him over to Richard and his dastardly plan.”