His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (7 page)

He touched her shoulder, lightly wrapping his fingers about her arm. Aye, there. Now she opened her eyes. Warily, of course, but he had her attention.

“Today, I found Dog in the forest doing something so uncommon I could not cease my laughter.”

“Did you?” Gwenyth sat up, breaking their contact.

Resolved, Aric tried again and brushed his fingers across her knee, pulling away before she could protest. Her cheeks flushed a fetching rosy pink.

“I did,” he said. “Dog had found a rabbit, you see. He stood over the creature barking so loud he no doubt rose the dead for nigh on twenty leagues.”

“I see.”

“But what I saw next was even more unusual.” He smoothed a stray lock of her glossy black hair away from her shoulder, retreating when she fixed a narrow-eyed gaze upon him.

“Now, Dog is something of a manly dog,” he went on. “I have seen he is fierce in the hunt and in his pride. Yet he stood before this hare, so much smaller than himself, barked his terror, and emptied his bladder like the veriest of infants.” Aric clapped a firm hand around her back when she smiled. “Is that not odd?”

“I cannot picture Dog so.” She smiled skeptically.

“’Tis true, I vow. I laughed heartily.”

Gwenyth nodded, her full mouth upturned. Her skin shone so radiant in the candle’s glow, her hair so lustrous. Aric’s urge to touch her grew. He gave in to it, reaching for her hand.

“You know,” he began, “you have not insulted me for the whole of the day. Does that mean I have succeeded in not rising your ire, little dragon, or have you run out of spirited slurs?”

At his suggestion, Gwenyth raised the dark arches of her brows and yanked her hand from his. “I shall always have a slur for you, you reeky ratsbane.”

“I should be surprised if you did not. I suspect your dolt of an uncle knew not how to handle that unruly tongue.”

For a heartbeat, Gwenyth said and did nothing. Aric wondered if ’twas a mistake to bring up the family who had shown her such grievous disregard. For all that he and his own father had rarely spoken of more than matters of war and politics, Aric had never suffered anything close to contempt from his father. Then Gwenyth smiled, that mischievous little grin that brightened her face and made his blood run hot.

“Aye, Uncle Bardrick and I have quarreled a time or two over my words.”

Aric reached out to nudge her side. As his fingers closed about the soft curve of her waist, he felt his desire rise again. The thought of her bare skin gleaming beneath his hands, her passionate whisper in her ear confirming her desire…such made a man eager indeed.

“Give over. What did you say?” he asked, turning his attention back to the moment at hand.

Gwenyth’s smile became a sparkling laugh. “Once, about two years past, my uncle decided he needed to raise an army and join the Yorkists in their fight for the throne. Those were hard times at Penhurst, for the winter before had been very long, and our foodstuffs were nearly gone. Uncle Bardrick invited some important lords to Penhurst for a feast. I don’t recall who. I do recall, though, my great anger that he would take food from the very mouths of babes to further his ambition.

“When the guests arrived, he ordered me to serve them mulled wine, which I did—along with an herbal sleeping draught. When all of his guests began snoring at his table, Bardrick roared at me. Everyone in the castle watched. Before I could stop myself, I called him a beslubbering boil-brained dimwit. I spent two days in the pantry for the misdeed, but ’twas worth it to hear the laughter of the others. Even better, uncle Bardrick’s guests left for fear he’d tried to poison them, so the feast he had planned never took place.”

Aric laughed. That spectacle he would have enjoyed immensely. But he expected such spirit from Gwenyth. Though she had known the half-witted baron would punish her, Gwenyth had fought her battle in the only way she could and had won. She was clever, his wife.

She was also weary, he thought, watching her yawn.

“Sleepy, are you?” he asked

“Aye. The nights are still cool. I did not rest well last eve.”

Aric who had been awake half the night fighting his bloody nightmares, doubted she had suffered much, but he would not quibble with her. Instead, he cast a glance at the meager blanket on his bed and realized she might indeed have been chilled. He held in a grimace.

From years of battle, he was accustomed to sleeping in the out of doors, oft without any cover at all. Gwenyth was unused to such. For all her durable façade, his wife was tender in years and experience and so required certain comforts.

He rose to retrieve his robe from the chest in the corner. When he returned to her side, he curled his hands about her shoulders and urged her to lie back upon the fragrant mattress. Gwenyth obeyed his silent command, though she remained stiff, her eyes guarded.

When she lay upon her back, Aric draped the fur-trimmed robe over her prone form and tucked it, along with his blanket, beneath her chin.

Their faces lay mere inches apart. Aric saw her mouth quiver below his, and he ached to taste her once more, to remind himself of her honeyed flavor. Still, he had made progress this night, and shattering this cozy mood by demanding more than she wished to give would gain him naught.

Sighing, he brushed her cheek with a slow stroke of his thumb. “Try to rest well tonight. Tomorrow we will set the bed to rights.”

Her eyes wide, Gwenyth nodded. Aric turned away with a smile. Aye, he had her attention now.

* * * *

When Aric had promised her the night before they would set the bed to rights this day, then caressed her face with that warm, tender touch that could melt metal, she had no notion he meant to take her into the village.

As they stood on the outskirts of the little town, Gwenyth held back. How would people receive her now that she was wed to Aric?

Seemingly unaware of her trepidation, Aric grabbed her hand in his much larger one and pulled her into the melee.

Dust rose in a thin, brown haze around the small gathering of humanity. The pungent scents of animals and people mixed into something familiar and not altogether pleasant.

Children scampered ahead of them, chasing a yapping mutt. At Aric’s side, Dog tensed. Aric stayed the animal with a curt word, and Dog fell into step beside his master once again. Gwenyth marveled at his command of the half-wild animal.

She noticed the village was more crowded than usual. Women bustled about, spreading gossip and cheer. Newly arrived merchants in their long black capuchins were setting up booths and displaying their wares for the Mayday festival two days hence. The air tingled with excitement. Gwenyth could almost hear the revelers singing now.

“Cor, ’tis the sorcerer!” shouted a dirty-faced boy ahead of them.

Villagers began turning about slowly. The gossip and good cheer ceased, quickly replaced by a rumble of anxious murmurs that disturbed the cool breeze.

Determined to ignore them, Gwenyth spotted the smithy’s wife, Ilda, standing beneath an ancient willow, her infant son in her arms. A smile spread across Gwenyth’s face as she left Aric to approach the young woman. She had not seen Ilda since helping the woman tend her children when Ilda’s ankle had pained her a month ago. ’Twould be good to see a friend and make sure all was well once more.

As Gwenyth reached Ilda’s side, the thin woman peered at her through wide, startled eyes and began backing away.

Was the woman ill? Frowning with concern, Gwenyth reached out to touch the woman. The smithy’s wife jerked away and stepped back.

“Ilda, fear not. ’Tis only me, Gwenyth. I came to ask about your ankle and little James. Is all well?”

Ilda did not answer. Instead, her eyes widened more. Something akin to terror tempered with pity filled the pale depths. What could the woman be frightened of?

“Ilda?”

The woman’s pale complexion turned completely ashen. She gripped her babe to her chest, her stare directed somewhere just past Gwenyth’s shoulder.

Gwenyth glanced back to find Aric standing a few feet behind her, his jaw locked. A glance back at Ilda showed the woman deep in dismay, panic racing across her chalky face.

The villagers feared Aric’s reputation as a man of the dark arts—including Ilda, it seemed. Did she fear Gwenyth had succumbed to something unholy by wedding Aric? ’Twas ridiculous—completely!

Gwenyth opened her mouth to say so when Ilda turned and fled with little James tucked tight against her. Tears sprang to Gwenyth’s eyes as she bunched her fists in her skirt. She and Ilda had always been friends. Why could the woman not see she had changed little, if any, since her marriage?

A glance around her proved other villagers—the smithy, a kitchen maid, and one of Penhurst’s weaving women—were all backing away with wary eyes as well.

Nay! These people had known her most of her life, and she had ever helped them when she could. Could no one see she was not a witch? Would no one greet her now?

Gwenyth bit her lip to hold in her tears. Except for Aric, it seemed she was now truly alone in this world. Aye, her life had not been the kindest before, but never had she been shunned so completely by so many people, people to whom she had always tried to be kind.

Grief pushed in on her, even as impotent fury beat in her chest. Aric remained beside her, utterly still. He had endured this kind of treatment repeatedly, without a word of complaint. Yet such must hurt him, at least a little.

Gwenyth turned to Aric. “I am sorry. Ilda…the villagers, they do not—”

“’Tis the Wizard of the Woods,” one young girl began to sing as she jumped behind Aric, who spun about to face the child. Soon, three others joined in, clapping their filthy hands. “He brings much evil and no good. He claims the devil as his sire and sleeps upon a bed of fire. Beware the beast and his dog or ’tis certain they’ll make you a frog!”

Gwenyth gasped in shock at the bratlings’ mean ditty, while their mothers snatched them away from Aric with an admonishing word to take heed of the evil man. Did they not think Aric was a man with feelings? That they could sing and talk about him in whatever manner they liked, without regard for his suffering? Ilda had been ignorantly fearful. The other villagers had been needlessly cruel.

“’Twas foolish of these peasants! They taunted him from gossip alone and knew nothing of the man himself. She had seen no evidence that he claimed Satan as his sire, and she doubted such was true. Nor did he sleep upon a bed of fire.

In truth, he had spent the last three nights uncomfortably, crouched in a chair with his feet propped upon the narrow bed. In all that time, he had not hurt her, not even when she had called him the most vile names she could think of. If he had the magical ability to turn people into frogs at whim, she had most certainly given him ample cause to use it. Instead, he had given her only understanding and kindness, despite their hasty marriage. Could the simpletons of this village not see what she saw so easily?

She wondered how Aric could live knowing all who saw him bore him malice and ill will. Gwenyth peered up into the angles of his profile. His expression remained unchanged, appearing as rugged and as reticent as always. How could he care so little when her own heart ached for him?

“’Tis terrible, the manner in which they treat you!” she cried.

Aric merely shrugged.

“Has it been so always?”

“Since I tamed Dog, aye. Worry not, little dragon. Such suits me.”

Incredulity furrowed her brow. “To be abhorred?”

“To be left alone. Come.” He clasped her hand tightly. “Here is a peddler with cloth.”

Gwenyth frowned in confusion as Aric led her to an old man with an array of fabrics. The merchant shot them a stiff, toothless smirk. “Good day.”

“How much for that?” Aric pointed to a serviceable woolen in gray.

As the merchant haggled with her husband, Gwenyth found her gaze wandering through all the material. She gazed upon woolens, silks, and even a velvet or two, all of good quality. The thought of new dresses, fine enough to take on a trip to London like Cousin Nellwyn, made her sigh.

Then she caught sight of a beautiful silk in the deepest red, its surface glossy. What a magnificent dress this would make! She would look a lady indeed were she to wear something in this majestic shade. Aye, she could near picture herself now in a fine castle, surrounded by vassals and villagers, lords and ladies alike, beside a tender husband who always had a smile for her…

“How much for this?” Gwenyth asked the merchant impulsively.

He rattled off an amount that had Aric’s brows rising and her own stomach plummeting.

“’Tis unnecessary,” said her husband curtly.

“But I need new dresses.” She gestured to the stained woolen garment covering her body. “Can you not see that?”

“Aye. That is why I have procured these fabrics.” Aric held up more of the gray woolen, as well as similar fabrics in an ordinary blue and an exceedingly dull brown. “These will serve you well and last long.”

And make her look every inch a woman of no importance to anyone. She grimaced.

“I find those disagreeable.” Ugly was a more appropriate word, but she couldn’t well say that to him. ’Twas unlikely he could afford better, though his robe last night had been expensively trimmed in fur. An indulgence, mayhap?

With a shrug, she turned to the peddler. “My good man, mayhap we can work out a trade of some sort. I own several books.”

The merchant scratched his graying head. “I cannot read.”

Gwenyth bit her lip, her thoughts racing. All too soon, she realized she had nothing of consequence to offer the little man. She turned away, downcast. The picture of her future looked bleak indeed.

“These fabrics are practical, Gwenyth. Come.”

Aric settled with the old merchant, who smiled and pocketed the coin. Her husband nodded, as if pleased with the trade.

Once again, no one cared that she was ill pleased. She had been twice a fool for hoping otherwise. No one since her parents had ever really cared. It seemed no one ever would.

* * * *