His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (4 page)

Gwenyth bit the inside of her lip. Aric spoke true. Would her own uncle put an end to her? For what purpose?

Nay, ’twas all foolishness. Dagbert had never liked her. She, the daughter of a dead baron, would always be a dunderhead in the kitchens and a burden to the current baron. Dagbert had reminded her of that irritating truth often indeed. So had her uncle. Even so, would he truly see her dead?

“Uncle Bardrick will see reason. He cannot turn family away thus.” She brushed Aric’s words aside with a flip of her hand.

His skeptical expression bespoke much. “If Dagbert followed Lord Capshaw’s orders, why did the baron send you to wed me? Why not one of his own daughters, if he feared the drought so?”

Gwenyth knew why. Uncle Bardrick had never wanted her there. He found her presence too distracting from his own two daughters, around whom the sun revolved, should one ask him. He would never offer up one of his precious girls to a man of dark powers.

The dead baron’s daughter, who had been little better than a servant for some years, however, was of no import. She was a fitting sacrifice—young, untouched, and unnecessary. And Gwenyth would gladly choke on her pride before she would make the husband she wanted not aware of her sorrow and shame.

“He lies about my uncle. Dagbert is naught more than a droning hedge pig filled with hot air,” she said, ruffled. “What does he, a mere foot soldier, know of a baron’s mind?”

Aric’s thoughtful gray gaze touched Gwenyth and lingered. Bristling braies, why did the man always make her shiver?

“He did not seem confused about your uncle’s orders,” Aric pointed out. “What shall you do if Dagbert spoke true?”

Gwenyth, refusing to consider that, waved his words away. “My uncle would not dare harm me! No uncle would.”

Her host’s lean face tensed until it appeared carved from granite. Pain, sadness eve, clouded his eyes before he turned away. “Anything is possible.”

She glared at his broad back as he rested his large fists on his narrow hips. She would not believe his doomsday view. Aye, Uncle Bardrick had never thought much of her, but he had never wanted to see her blood spilled, either.

“Such is possible only in your lunatic mind. Is that not grounds for annulment, your madness?”

Aric turned to face her, crossing his thick arms over his chest. His face had hardened with vexation. “You cannot prove I am mad, Lady Gwenyth.”

“But you do not deny it.”

He released a long-suffering sigh. “I will deny that foolery until my last breath. You shall have to think of some other way to rid yourself of me.”

“I shall cry male impotency, then. That will relieve me of you.”

Aric cocked his head to one side, his arms crossed over a chest that should have been a warrior’s. A more potent-looking man she had ne’er seen.

Gwenyth swallowed hard as he dropped his arms to his side and made his way toward her slowly. His massive, muscled frame blotted out the light and the view of her surroundings as he came closer. Gwenyth bit her lip as she glimpsed the hot challenge in his stare.

“I shall be happy to prove you wrong.” His whisper sounded low and not well pleased.

Gwenyth resisted the urge to back away. Had she pushed him too far? After all, he was her husband—for now—and well within his rights to demand she share his bed. She had no doubt he could fill every inch of that duty.

“Nay.” She curled her shaking fingers into fists. “I shall have to be a maiden still for this marriage to end.”

“True. But should you stay long as my wife, dragon-tongued or nay, do not expect you will remain untouched.”

“You would have me unwillingly?” she challenged him.

“I would not.”

“Then you would not have me at all.”

“Wrong,” he whispered, reaching out to capture her arms and bring her flush against the heated, rigid length of his body.

As Gwenyth gasped with both fear and shock, Aric closed his mouth over her own.

A thousand sensations assailed her at once—the feel of him close to her, his solid, strong hands as they slid around her shoulders and down her back. The rasp of stubble on his cheeks as he dipped his head to place another hard kiss across her tingling mouth. The smells of rich earth, midnight rain, and aroused male blended to an intoxicating elixir that blotted out all thought.

The taste of him clung to her lips as he parted them and found his way inside without haste, swirling, dipping, tasting, until Gwenyth could not find her next breath, until honeyed fire flowed within her. Then his groan reached her, vibrated inside her, echoed in the pit of her stomach and lower.

He lifted his head and spoke. “Stay here long at all, and we will share that bed.”

Gwenyth raised a trembling hand to her lips. Why did she feel so alive? Why did pulses and tingles skip and hum inside her? That sensation he roused by looking at her had multiplied tenfold. She actually wanted the recluse to kiss her again. And again. Had he worked sorcery upon her?

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she vowed she would not remain here to find out.

“Then I shall depart this moment, for I’ve no intent to share your bed.”

Aric said nothing to stop her as she walked out of the shanty and emerged into the noonday sun. Not a single word of farewell! She walked briskly across the clay-soiled hills, listening to the chirping of birds, determined to put her temporary husband from her mind.

’Twasn’t as if she truly cared that he did not speak to her, but could he simply dismiss her after such a kiss? Forget such oddly pleasurable sensations? The roguish sheep-biting buffoon! She had not given the lewdster permission to touch her, nor had she wished to feel any pleasure at his kiss. Certain she could not get away from him quickly enough, Gwenyth made haste through the forest.

She reached Penhurst so soon, she was near startled. The swaying leaves parted, some dropping to the ground in a green cascade, as the castle came into view and stole her breath.

The round turret and the battlement were as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. This was home, the place of her memories of a laughing papa and a tender mama. She had missed being here in the past days, even if Penhurst’s current inhabitants had not missed her.

The portcullis was lowered against intruders. Against her.

Inside, she heard the bustle of the castlefolk, the blacksmith, the apothecary, the soldiers training. Animals bleated and lowed as the sun rose to its zenith. Gwenyth so longed to be a part of it all again that she ached.

Gazing into the turret, she motioned to the lookout, a scrawny lad named Hamlin, to let her inside.

The boy shook his head. “Lady Gwenyth, milord said ye ain’t to come in.”

Mortification blazed through her entire body. Hamlin had spoken loudly enough for the whole of the castle to hear she was not wanted. ’Twas likely he had yelled loudly enough for Aric to hear. Heaven forbid!

Drawing in a deep breath, Gwenyth calmed. Uncle Bardrick could not be so cruel as to cast her out of his life completely, without a single word in the doing. Mayhap Hamlin was to open the portcullis to no one.

No matter, she decided. The ancestor who had built Penhurst had also built tunnels beneath, in case of a siege. She had played in the tunnels as a child and knew they would take her near enough to the solar.

She made her way around the outer curtain of walls surrounding the castle. Just within a cluster of brambles and bluebells lay the opening to the tunnel, covered now by twigs and rocks and leaves.

Sweeping the impediments aside, Gwenyth lowered her feet into the opening and slid down into the narrow red-brown passage until her feet touched the ground. Cool, dark, and musty—just as she remembered—the tunnel soon became narrow and short, forcing her to crawl. Firm damp earth filtered through her fingers and no doubt soiled the knees of yesterday’s gown. Goodness, she would look a fright when she saw her uncle, which would no doubt displease him.

At the tunnel’s end, Gwenyth found herself behind the chapel. The stairs to her right would lead her to the solar and her uncle.

Dusting herself off as best she could, Gwenyth turned to the stairs, only to find Sir Penley striding toward her, his face a mask of surprise. His sandy, shorn hair was unmoving in the breeze, which she knew would lift the glinting strands of Aric’s golden mane.

Nay! Now was not the time to think of her surly husband.

“My Lady Gwenyth.” He took her hands in his, concern furrowing his pleasing features. “You have returned, and worse for the wear,” he said, frowning at her tousled appearance. “Lord Capshaw told me you had gone away to wed. Is that so?”

Certainty that her uncle had indeed ordered her gone muted the joy of Sir Penley’s concern. But she would fix it, by the moon and the stars!

“I but went away to visit a…friend. An ailing friend. I’m up to see my uncle now.”

Relief crossed Sir Penley’s smooth features. “Joyous news. Not that your friend is ailing, of course, but that you have come back. I will see you later?”

Gwenyth’s heart sighed. Sir Penley was so eager to see her, so tender with his words. He had actually been worried about her wedding another. ’Twas a good sign, so long as she could rid herself of the roughhewn hermit she had wed.

“I vow you shall see me the moment I am done with my uncle.”

Sir Penley smiled. “After you, I shall speak to him, so that I may talk to you of a very important matter.”

Gwenyth knew what those words meant. He wanted to marry her! Of that she was certain. Though she was no longer the baron’s daughter, Sir Penley had chosen
her
. Joyous news, indeed! Now she must see her uncle and convince him to help her have this marriage annulled.

“Then I shall return with all haste,” she vowed.

“And I shall count the moments.” His soft blue eyes probed hers as he lifted her hands to his mouth. Upon seeing the dirt there, however, he merely smiled and released her. “I await you.”

Nodding, Gwenyth dashed to the stairs and rushed up to the solar door. There she took a deep breath to still the trembling of her stomach, then pushed her way inside.

In a chair beside the window, her uncle sat drinking from a tankard of ale. At her entrance, he glanced up from the account books before him. His eyes narrowed in anger when he saw her hovering just inside the door.

“I thought I made it clear you are no longer welcome at Penhurst.”

Gwenyth closed her eyes for a moment, fighting a wave of grief. She had always known that Uncle Bardrick had little heart, but to cast her from the only home she had ever known without so much as a word… She battled tears.

“Why?” She hated the fact her voice shook. “I have always done as you asked, worked in the kitchens, slept in the straw. I endeavored never to be in your way.”

Bardrick stood to his full height—five inches over five feet—and settled his arms across his round stomach. “Gwenyth, my brother and his slut of a wife spoiled you, gave you the finest clothes, the finest home, and educated you, though for what purpose I cannot fathom. You are willful, too spirited by half. Opinions fly unheeded from your mind to your mouth. And ’tis a foul mouth, full of naught but curses and slurs.”

The aging man turned his back to her and cast his gaze out the window to the inner bailey below. “I could find clever enough ways to ignore you until Sir Penley came. He would be Lyssa’s husband, but she does not have your beauty or wit.”

Gwenyth gasped. Nay! Her future, her dreams, given to her timid younger cousin?

“But ’tis me Sir Penley wants!”

Her uncle turned to spear her with an ugly stare. “Aye, and well I know it. I have seen the lust in his eyes when he looks upon you. Think you I don’t know he plans to ask me for your hand?”

“But you cannot alter the course of love,” she blurted.

Bardrick’s mouth turned up in a sneer. “I already have.”

Icy fingers of anguish squeezed Gwenyth’s heart. She wanted to ask if her uncle could indeed be so cruel, but she knew the answer. This was the man she had seen starve a headstrong servant near to death, the man who had ordered a starving poacher to be rendered sightless for his thieving.

This was the man who had stripped her of everything dear.

“Go home to your husband. Warm his bed and keep your viper tongue in your head. If the drought ends, I shall be pleased enough to allow you to visit. If not, expect never to see Penhurst again.”

“But—”

“Get out of my sight, girl. And do not come back, for I will see you dead.”

“But—”

“Out!” he roared.

Tears stinging her eyes, Gwenyth ran out the door, down the stairs, and into the inner bailey. She darted behind the chapel as tears ran down her face unchecked.

Spotting the tunnel entrance, Gwenyth hunched down to wriggle inside. Ten feet away stood Sir Penley looking tall and elegant in his finery. His light brown hair gleamed in the sun, and his straight, thin nose was perfectly in profile. She would miss his tender heart, his smile. She began to cry harder.

Bristling braies, what was she to do now? Her love was lost to her, and she was wed to a sullen eremite who might well practice the devil’s work instead of God’s! She was chained by the bonds of marriage to a man who could never give her the home and family of her dreams.

* * * *

At the crackle of leaves beneath quick feet, Aric rose and peered out the window. His wife had returned quickly from Penhurst and, judging by her red, swollen eyes, none too happily.

Christ’s blood, female tears. He who had made war all his life—and made a name for himself doing it—felt uncertain at the sight of her tears. He sighed, trying to decide what Drake or Kieran would do, besides laugh until their man parts turned blue at his discomfort.

Lady Gwenyth trounced through the door and slammed it behind her. Without a glance in his direction, she sat on the edge of the bed, her back toward him. He watched her shoulders shake, though she made no sound. Aric frowned. No wails, no catching of breath?

He leaned to the side in order to catch a glimpse of the outline of her face. Gwenyth’s milk-smooth cheeks were splotchy and mottled red. Her small square chin quivered. She was indeed crying.