Mary Reed McCall (12 page)

“Gwynne…”

She raised her gaze; Aidan had somehow broken free of the group and now stood before her, concern shadowing his features.

“Christ, is it always like this for you?”

“Aye,” she said, the warm flow of intensity still filling her. “’Tis not painful, just overwhelming.”

“How long does it last?”

She closed her eyes again, willing the healing forces to dissipate. “Sometimes only a few minutes, other times a day or more.”

She opened her eyes and pushed herself to her feet, not wanting him to think her weak for what had just happened. “’Tis of little consequence.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded, seeming as if he would reach out to steady her when she swayed, but dropping his hand back to his side at the scowl she sent in his direction. “But ’tis no less a gift to give so freely of yourself to others.”

She remained quiet, unaccustomed to hearing praise from him, and uncomfortable with the sudden rush of pleasure it sent through her. She concentrated instead on steadying her breathing and bringing her vision back into line, finding that her equilibrium was returning far more quickly than she’d have expected.

“How is Clara?” she asked finally, leaning to look beyond him at the dissipating crowd. “Is she alert—was she able to sit up and talk?”

“Aye, she’ll recover, thanks to you,” he assured her, glancing back over his shoulder. “Her mother has good care of her now, and will watch to see that she stays quiet for a few days, until she is fully healed.”

She nodded, her jaw tight, allowing herself a latent flash of joy. It had worked. Thank God it had worked this time.

“Come,” Aidan said, gesturing toward the path back to the castle. “Let me walk you to your chamber. You need rest.”

“Nay, I’m fine.”

She shrugged off his gentle touch, moving a step away and fixing him with her gaze. His clothing was still soaked from the pond, his shirt clinging to him, molding to the rock-hard planes of his shoulders, chest, and abdomen. She watched the steady rise and fall of his breathing—that
mysterious key to the rhythm and essence of life—and remembered how he’d looked cradling little Clara against that powerful chest. The man of war brought to his knees for the sake of a child.

Frowning, she glanced away.
Lugh
, why did he have this effect on her? She shook her head, trying to get her thoughts back in focus.

“Back there,” she said slowly, working through the remnants of healing intensity that still held her in sway,

“You seemed to know—” she broke off, frowning again, before steeling herself to meet his gaze directly. “You asked if I could save Clara. How did you know ’twould even be a possibility?”

“Because you did it for me.”

A shock went through her, racing down her spine to the very ends of her fingers and toes. She’d saved
him
? Impossible. Her fists clenched with denial. “That cannot be. I remember every healing I’ve ever attempted.”

“Yet you don’t remember anything from the first fourteen years of your life, do you?”

His answer gave her pause, making her waver for an instant before she shook her head. “Nay, I’d remember something like that. Each time, every life won or lost—’tis ingrained upon my soul like fire. If I’d healed you, I’d know it.”

“Perhaps you do know,” Aidan murmured, “but you just haven’t accepted it yet.”

Without warning, he reached down to grip one of her hands, bringing it up to press it against the damp, warm expanse of his chest, just above his heart. “’Twas right here that the arrow pierced me…” he said quietly, looking deep into her eyes as he spoke, “and right here that you laid your hands on me and took the pain and death away.”

She felt his heart thudding beneath her palm, its cadence as intense and compelling as the force of his gaze.

“You saved me, Gwynne,” he murmured, placing his hand on top of hers, “And if you do not want to remember it now, you will someday. This I vow on the life you gave back to me twelve years ago.”

“Aidan!”

Gwynne jerked back to look at the man who’d called out Aidan’s name, even as Aidan himself swung around to see him as well. It was Kevyn. He came toward them with purposeful strides, his face settled into grim lines.

“What is it?” Aidan asked, taking a step toward him.

“Riders approach.” Kevyn stopped in front of them, looking from Aidan to Gwynne and then back again before adding, “They bear royal banners.”

Gwynne sensed more than saw Aidan’s entire body stiffen. Then he cursed under his breath and set into motion toward the path muttering, “What the devil can the king want now?”

Kevyn cleared his throat. “’Tis not the king, Aidan.”

Aidan paused in mid-step, his form even more rigid than before as he looked back over his shoulder, seeming both to want and dread the information he was about to hear.

Kevyn frowned, clearly trying not to look at Gwynne, and she felt a warning tingle go up her neck just moments before he said, “’Tis the king’s cousin, Lady Helene, and her father, the Duke of Rutherford. They’ve come to Dunston—and by the look of their baggage, they intend to stay for a while.”

G
wynne fought the urge to straighten her circlet as she stood waiting with the rest of the household for the entrance of Lady Helene and her father. Though she longed to take her dagger and hack off the hair that had grown enough to curl annoyingly about her face and neck during her time at Dunston, it still wasn’t of a length to secure the ridiculous golden band properly. It kept slipping. If not for her hurried promise to Aidan that she’d try to maintain a genteel appearance while Helene and her father were here, she’d have snatched the circlet off her head and tossed it into the fire.

It would have served him right if she did, she thought darkly, recalling his barked command that everyone change into finer garments before assembling to greet his noble guests in the great hall. He’d been preoccupied since Kevyn’s startling announcement at the pond, dashing up to the castle with hardly a backward glance at her, and muttering orders all the way.

Leaning now against the comforting span of the wall near the hearth, Gwynne watched everyone bustling around her; she tried to brush aside the burning sense of hurt that had filled her at Aidan’s sudden abandonment and disregard, knowing that she had no right to feel anything of the kind where he was concerned. Knowing that it was dangerous to do so. But it continued to plague her anyway, refusing to let go and leaving her brimming with dark, pent-up emotions.

She’d spent the past quarter hour containing the feeling as best as she could, but she’d found herself unable to be rid of it entirely, even when she caught Owin, who’d come up from the stables upon hearing the commotion, studying her with a concern similar to what she’d seen in Dafydd’s eyes. To make matters worse, Diana appeared entirely unbowed by their earlier confrontation, taking the opportunity now to direct several smug glares at her.

Lugh’s
head, it seemed she was losing her power to command anyone.

A trumpet of arrival sounded. Clenching her teeth, Gwynne braced herself, watching the entrance to the great hall. Her position allowed for her to be partially hidden behind Diana, Alana, Kevyn, and a half dozen others so that she could observe Aidan’s reunion with his sweetheart without being seen so readily herself. ’Twas a good thing, she decided a moment later, when the lady and her father entered the great chamber, for once she saw Helene, it was all she could do not to turn and flee the castle altogether.

Lady Helene de Jardens was a study in feminine perfection. She might as well have stepped from a stained glass window gracing any one of England’s great cathedrals, she was so beautiful. Where Diana was all lush curves and vivid colors, Helene was petite and fair-haired,
with a gentle, innocent expression that would compel any man who looked on her to want to spend his life protecting and loving her.

Gwynne’s eyes burned as she stared at this graceful creature who had captured Aidan’s heart. She watched Helene’s sweet face alight with pleasure—with love—as she spotted Aidan and ran to him, winding her arms around his neck, though Gwynne remained too distant, thankfully, to hear the endearments they no doubt murmured to each other. She dragged her gaze away, forcing herself to look at anyone or anything else, certain that if she didn’t, she might find herself losing the contents of her stomach.

In shifting her glance away, she noticed a man standing just behind Helene. It had to be the duke. But as soon as she looked at him, her battle instincts rose to the fore; she pushed herself away from the wall almost without thought, the strange thrum of warning she usually got just before combat unfurling, suddenly, in her belly.

The nobleman’s feelings were concealed beneath manners he’d obviously long practiced and perfected, but she’d been trained years ago to read an enemy’s face and the intentions hidden there, and there was animosity—nay, outright
hostility
—seething deep within this English lord when he looked at Aidan.

Before she could come to grips with her reaction, Aidan called her name, catching her off guard. She snapped her gaze to him as he approached, seeing the unmistakable shadow of conflict in his eyes. For some reason, he wasn’t happy about the arrival of his betrothed, and that knowledge made the already taut spring that seemed to be winding up inside her crank tighter.

“Gwynne,” he said more softly, this time stepping a bit to the side to allow Lady Helene to approach as well. The
woman walked gracefully up next to him, sliding herself against his side as if she’d been made to fit there. Aidan’s mouth tensed slightly at her movement, but after a brief pause he rested his arm around her slender waist.

“Lady Helene,” he murmured, before turning to nod and direct the duke forward as well, “your grace—I’d like you to meet Gwynne ap Morrison, my distant cousin from the north. I believe that you’ve been apprised of her travails and the reason for her stay here.”

Through the humming that had started in her ears, Gwynne heard the duke make a grunting noise in his throat; but Helene swept out of Aidan’s embrace toward her, reaching down and grasping both of Gwynne’s hands in her own. Shock kept Gwynne from pulling back, though her fingers tingled with the desire to yank away from Helene’s velvety touch. The compassion in the woman’s gaze seemed so genuine that Gwynne refrained from what certainly would have been construed a rude gesture.

“You poor dear,” Helene said, her voice as soft and smooth as the tresses that shimmered to her waist like honeyed silk. “What you must have endured during the attack on your home.” With a murmured sound of distress, she leaned forward and tipped her face up to brush a gentle kiss across Gwynne’s cheek.

Gwynne froze, Helene’s delicate rose scent filling her senses and making her breath seize in her throat. Helene seemed not to notice, having already released her to gaze up at her again, tears welling in her blue eyes. “But we shall do our best to endeavor that only happy memories be in store for you from now on, dear Gwynne. Isn’t that right, darling?” She glanced to Aidan as she spoke, her lovely face so earnest that a lesser man might have crumbled at her feet with assurances for whatever she desired.

Aidan, however, simply nodded his assent, his jaw
tight as he shifted his gaze briefly to Gwynne before looking away.

Oh, heaven help her, Gwynne thought, for she’d never faced anything like this before. She’d never met the like of Helene de Jardens. The woman was sheer, sweet perfection—not only beautiful, but truly good to the soul as well. Kind, loving, caring—

And Aidan’s betrothed
.

Gwynne stood there, stunned from Helene’s touch and the raging of her own turbulent emotions. She watched as the lady bestowed greetings and embraces on the others. When she and her father finally followed Aidan to the opposite end of the hall, Gwynne hastened to leave. She couldn’t wait much longer or she’d lose whatever composure she had left. Her skin prickled and her senses were on edge.

Her sword
.

God, she needed to hold her sword again—needed to go train, as she’d planned to do before Clara’s mishap, and lose herself in something she could handle, something she could control. Because whatever was going on inside her right now was frightening and wild and unthinkable. She looked round the area, searching for Owin, to direct him to meet her again in the old stables.

Looking behind her, she felt a little jolt of surprise; old Alana sat at the opposite end of the immense hearth, quietly watching her. Her gaze was kind, but also perceptive, as if she’d been studying her for quite some time.

Trying to recover her wits enough to display at least a pretense of calm, Gwynne nodded to the old woman. For all of Alana’s fussiness, as well as the demands she made during her lessons in feminine behavior, Gwynne couldn’t help but like her. She could see why Aidan favored her as his most trusted servant. Old Alana possessed an insight
uncommon to most, likely as much from enduring the constant pain that her twisted joints inflicted on her as from her many years of living.

Alana nodded back in greeting, a half smile on her lips. It was an evocative smile—and though Gwynne knew that Aidan had confided her true identity as the Dark Legend to the old woman, she didn’t want to guess what else the servant’s discerning gaze had led her to think.

Spotting Owin near the other end of the hall, Gwynne scowled and took a step away from the wall. But as she moved, she tripped on her skirts, and her circlet slipped again. With a growl, she straightened herself and yanked the jeweled band from her head, just managing to keep herself from flinging it against the stones.

“When we meet in your chamber for your lesson tomorrow morn, I’ll show you how to fasten that on properly.”

Gwynne whirled around. Old Alana had approached from behind, her speed remarkable, considering her ever-present pain.

“Why aren’t we meeting in our usual place?” Gwynne muttered, trying to seem as if nothing was amiss.

“Our regular room is Dunston’s only other extra bedchamber, and Lady Helene will be using it during her stay here.”

“Oh.” Gwynne said, searching for something else to say that would show how composed, how unaffected she was. “What about her father?”

“He will stay in Lord Sutcliffe’s chambers. The duke ranks above him and is therefore entitled to the best bed in the castle.”

Gwynne frowned. “Then where will Aidan sleep?”

Alana’s mouth edged up in that half smile again as she replied, “Why, in the small chamber connected to yours, of course.”

“What?” Gwynne choked, only managing to add after a few moments, “But that is impossible!”

“’Tis the only room left above stairs,” the old woman replied, “unless he were to mingle with the servants, which would be unseemly.”

“But that tiny chamber isn’t fit for sleeping! I’ve looked in before—’tis but a room for storing linens.”

“Be that as it may, Lord Sutcliffe has decided that he will sleep there until Lady Helene and her father leave,” Alana answered calmly.

Gwynne fell silent, the enormity of what the old woman was saying finally sinking in. She gripped her circlet tight in her grasp, until she felt the edge of the metal bite into her palm, barely noticing when Alana patted her arm and shuffled off for the rush of panic overwhelming her.

Aidan would be sleeping right next to her
.

There would be nothing separating them but a little distance and the thin scrap of linen that served as a door. Dafydd wouldn’t be able to help her; he’d be asleep in the stables at night, far from the main keep. Nay, she’d be on her own, to resist the confusing feelings and desires that Aidan provoked in her, knowing that he rested but a few paces away…

God save her, she thought, as she forced her legs to move, woodenly making her way toward Owin—for she knew that sleep wouldn’t come easily again until Aidan de Brice was back in his own rooms, with the impenetrable barrier of a hundred yards of castle and stonework firmly between them.

Aidan sat in his customary spot in the hall, feeling more miserable that he could remember. Kevyn leaned back next to him, his feet stretched out and his head resting against the wall. They nursed their cups of ale, their
gazes trained on the cluster of women who sat embroidering at the end of the long table near the fire.

Gwynne was hunched over her bit of fabric, every magnificent inch of her looking uncomfortable and cramped as she attempted the task for which Aidan knew her to be completely ill suited. And though she’d tried to hide it from him, he was well aware that she continued to don her masculine attire beneath her smock and gowns; the resulting layers of clothing made her look strange, her figure seeming almost square with all the extra padding.

Perched next to her, Helene posed an undeniable contrast. She was a vision of delicacy, her face lit with one of her guileless smiles as she leaned close to Diana, who whispered something while surreptitiously flashing yet another self-satisfied look in Gwynne’s direction.

“Feeling the heat of the flames, yet, my friend?” Kevyn murmured dryly as he glanced over at him.

Aidan favored him with one of his blackest scowls. “I don’t find this situation humorous in the least.”

“Nor do I,” Kevyn answered. “’Tis a shame all the way around, if you ask me.” He gestured toward the women with his cup. “Just look at that. There Lady Helene sits next to Wales’s most fearsome warrior, completely unaware of the intrigue and danger swirling around her, while Gwynne is forced to play a part she obviously despises and probably doesn’t deserve. And your sister—suffice it to say ’tis clear Diana enjoys nothing more than to be sharpening her claws in Gwynne’s back.”

“Aye, my sister,” Aidan said, allowing the dark swell of emotions to sweep through him anew. “If not for her meddling, I’d have been able to avoid this entirely.”

“Did she admit to being the one who sent early for Helene, then?”

“Only after I threatened to keep her locked in her
chamber during the festivities tomorrow night if she didn’t confess it. Valmont cannot attend the gathering, but his uncle, Lord Langdon, will make an appearance.” He took another swig of ale, his mouth twisting. “Heaven knows my lovely sibling finds it difficult to resist any opportunity to display her charms—especially in this case, since she thinks word of her beauty may travel back to the ears of her marital prey.”

Kevyn shook his head and sighed. “’Tis a fine mess, it is. And you cannot have missed how the duke watches Gwynne. He studies her with hawk’s eyes, trying to perceive any unseemliness in her living here with you. You should consider yourself lucky that she dresses as she does and pays you little heed in front of others.”

Aidan didn’t answer. Gritting his teeth, he gazed into the swirling golden liquid in his cup. But as always, Kevyn wasn’t going to give up easily.

“I’d be careful not to let any more scenes occur like the one I walked into near the pond when Lady Helene arrived. You were standing close enough to Gwynne that at first I thought you were going to kiss her, by God.” He took a drink of his ale before adding, “Lord Rutherford won’t have to learn that she’s the Dark Legend; he’ll just need to see you with her like that again, and you’ll lose Lady Helene for good.”