Mary Reed McCall (15 page)

The lad went on his way, wide-eyed, as Lord Haslowe drank deep. Then, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he grinned. “I am having a fine time, Sutcliffe. A fine time. The only thing that would make it more enjoyable would be a beautiful woman on my arm, to sit by me and feed me tidbits at the feasting. But that shall come later, I hope.”

“Perhaps. There are many in attendance here tonight,” Aidan said, for no other reason than to try to ease the man into moving on so that he would leave Diana and Helene alone.

Lord Haslowe leered once more. “Aye, there are. Many lovely morsels. Mayhap even your Welsh cousin—what is her name? I hear that she’s a fine, sturdy piece of—well, you know…” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “A welcoming sheath for my sword, eh, Sutcliffe?” he
smirked, winking. “Your timing is impeccable, I must say,” he added, nodding to another of the nobles across the chamber and starting toward him with an unsteady gait. “I am in the market for a wife,” he called back over his shoulder, “and if your cousin is attractive enough, I suppose it might as well be her.”

“You’ll rot in hell first,” Aidan muttered, doing everything in his power not to reach out, jerk the bastard backward, and throttle him senseless. If not for Helene’s presence he’d have done just that.

“I am sorry you had to witness that, my lady,” he said, meeting her wide-eyed gaze.

She cleared her throat nervously, her delicate hand pressed there as if to soothe a jittery pulse. “He’s rather more rude than I recalled,” she murmured, glancing to Diana, who was following Lord Haslowe’s movement across the hall.

“Aye, he seems quite full of himself,” Diana added. But the expression on his sister’s face made warning bells go off in Aidan’s mind. His eyes narrowed. Diana was up to something, he’d wager his boots on it. Something devious, which usually meant—

“Good God, Aidan, you never alluded to this. If I weren’t so old, I’d try for a chance with this one myself,” Rexford suddenly murmured next to him, pulling him from his thoughts. He twisted around to see what his mentor was alluding to, hearing Diana gasp as she, Helene, and nearly everyone else in the great hall turned to face the door as well.

What he saw in the stairway door made his throat close and his lungs seize up. The room fell silent as his gaze locked with the woman standing in the doorway, his mind awhirl with memories of the girl she’d once been, his soul colliding with thoughts and feelings that he’d done his best to keep at bay for twelve years.

’Twas Gwynne.
His
Gwynne, almost as if she’d stepped back through time to return to him, whole and achingly beautiful. He stared at her in awe, and she returned his gaze, her stunning silver eyes soft with uncertainty. But in the next moment she blinked, her mouth edging up in a tremulous smile, and his heart melted, its liquid heat seeming to seep out and slide down his limbs, settling in the very tips of his fingers and toes.

Oh Gwynne, Gwynne…my sweet Gwynne
…

His mind raged, and though he schooled his features so that none could see his reaction, he swallowed hard, knowing that he was lost for good this time. Aware that the fires Kevyn had spoken of were even now rising up like an inferno to engulf him…

And realizing that no matter how hard he tried, he was never going to be able to extinguish them.

G
wynne stood in the doorway, her heart racing. Her palms felt damp and so she pressed them into the folds of her skirts. Her movement made the fabric swish around her legs, gathered as it was under the jeweled silver belt slung low round her hips; its sapphire gemstones matched the intricate design-work edging her long, draped sleeves, as well as the fitted smock cuffs that peeked out at the top…and for the first time that she could remember, she wore nothing beneath her female clothing.

She took a step forward, the close fit of her bodice unfamiliar against her skin, the sensation of her skirts brushing her thighs making her shiver. Everyone was staring at her, she suddenly realized. Her belly gave a twist, and she jerked to a halt. Oh, they were all staring at her—especially Aidan—and he looked…well, sort of stricken. Another twinge of worry gripped her; was her circlet askew again? Was the color of her gown unbecoming?

She remembered Old Alana’s thoughtful consideration of all the gowns and bliauds spread out on the bed this morning. She’d finally picked this one, a midnight blue creation, shot through with silver, its yards of flowing silk like the ocean sky before a storm, she’d said—a fitting blend of hues to highlight her unusual eyes and ebony hair.

She’d gathered together Gwynne’s unruly coal-black curls at her nape, weaving in a blue ribbon. ’Twas barely shoulder-length and difficult to plait, but Alana had tucked the short ends under, leaving a few tendrils loose around her face. She’d topped it all off with a delicate silver circlet, claiming, when she was finished, that Gwynne looked like a princess true born.

And she
had
felt completely different from her usual self, as she’d made her way down the stairs and to the hall. She’d felt almost…beautiful. Until now, anyway.

Hesitant and a bit foolish was all she could think of to describe herself at the moment, thanks to more than two score people studying her.

She looked at Aidan, waiting for him to do something, say something—anything—to end the stunned silence that had reigned since her entrance into the hall. But he remained still, his expression unreadable, having shifted at last from unabashed shock.

The first fingers of disappointment twisted inside her, along with hurt. She was a fool. All of this—the effort, the embarrassment of asking Alana to help her—had been for naught. She wasn’t any more enticing to Aidan in this finery than she’d been covered in blood and grime atop her steed on the battlefield.
Lugh
save her, but she—

“My lords, my ladies!” Kevyn called out to the assembly, striding up to her and tucking his hand firmly beneath her elbow. “Allow me to present the Earl of Sutcliffe’s lovely Welsh cousin—Lady Gwynne ap Morrison!” Then
he propelled her forward with his grip, even as she tried to pull back so that she might flee to her chambers and end this travesty.

“Stop fighting me and come along,” Kevyn tilted his head to murmur at her. “’Twill be all right, I promise you.”

“Let me go,” Gwynne muttered back, pasting a false smile on her face. “I need no further humiliation to know that I’ve failed completely at—”

“My lady Gwynne! I would be honored if you would allow me to share your trencher this eve!” called one of the noblemen from the crowd.

“Nay, consider me, my lady!” another cried, jostling the man next to him to get a better view.

“Say that you’ll promise me the first chance to dance with you during the entertainments!” shouted a third, though he was soon drowned out in a cacophony of masculine voices, all staking claim to her this evening.

She looked around, as stunned now, herself, as the collected gathering had been when they’d first viewed her.

“What does this mean?” she whispered, swiveling her head to Kevyn in panic.

“It means that you’ve outdone yourself—and every other woman in the room.” Kevyn paused, looking at her for a moment with a flicker of admiration in his eyes before he inclined his head to her and murmured, “…my lady.”

“I’ll take over from here,” a low voice rumbled near them, and Gwynne snapped her gaze to its enigmatic owner as he edged Kevyn out of the way and took her arm himself. ’Twas Aidan. He looked none too happy, however, and she could only assume that either her choice of clothing or the shouted offers on her behalf had put him in such a sour mood.

’Twas the first, she decided, knowing as she did how he
wished to make all of England believe that she was anyone but the Dark Legend.

Her hurt faded under a dose of righteous anger as he steered her away from the crowd to get her a goblet of wine from the table. “I thought that this was what you wanted—for me to try to dress and behave like a real lady,” Gwynne muttered as he handed her a cup. “Yet you act as if I’ve arrived at your celebration wearing my mail and gauntlets. You are impossible to please!”

Aidan stiffened as she spoke, looking away from her at first as he nodded to an older man, who was staring as he approached on the pretext of seeking some refreshment. Once the man had gone on his way, Aidan slowly turned, and as his eyes connected with hers, she felt like the air was being sucked from her lungs.

“You are beautiful, Gwynne,” he murmured. “Even more so than I remembered. In truth, you take my breath away.”

But in the next instant, her stomach dropped when he added, “But I would have been far happier to see you in your least becoming gown, with your circlet askew, as it usually is.”

She bit down on her tongue, reminding herself of all that Old Alana had said regarding her behavior if she wished to seem enticing. “Perhaps you’d better explain,” she ground out as sweetly as she could manage, succeeding in something that sounded more like a choked growl.

Aidan held her gaze, unable to keep a half smile from his lips. He still felt overwhelmed at seeing her like this, but as befuddled as his emotions were, he realized the effort she was making to be polite; the Gwynne he’d come to know these past weeks most likely would have thrown a forearm into his chest and challenged him to swords in the yard for the apparent insult he’d just dealt her.

And yet her appearance didn’t truly displease him.
Nay, just the opposite—but that didn’t mean they weren’t going to face enormous problems because of it.

He sighed. “Do you remember a few days ago, when I told you about today’s festivities? You made it clear to me then that if you attended, ’twould be on the condition that no other Englishman would touch you—that you would dance, if you had to, with me alone.”

“Aye, what of it?”

“I’m afraid that you’ve made that condition nearly impossible to achieve, looking as you do.”

She flushed. “What is wrong with how I look?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it. That’s the problem.”

She frowned at him, but even so, he found he couldn’t go on right away. Grabbing another cup of wine from the table, he downed it in one swallow. God help him, but he was having a hard time concentrating with her standing so near to him and looking so damn beautiful. He forced himself to finish what he needed to say, knowing that he didn’t have much time left. His guests were beginning to prowl around them like packs of wolves lured by the scent of fresh blood.

“You need to understand something,” he said, struggling to hide his incredible need to kiss her, to taste the warm, delicate skin just below her ear. “In addition to the married guests in attendance here,” he managed, “there are another dozen
unwed
English lords. You heard them; they’re all chomping at the bit for a chance to win you over.”

“’Twill never happen,” she said, punctuating her words with a little snort, then flushing again as if she realized that such a noise probably wasn’t very ladylike.

“You may know that, but they don’t,” he continued.

“You’ve made a spectacular entrance, and they’ll be like stallions after a mare in season, vying for your attentions all night.”

Though he hadn’t thought it possible, her cheeks bloomed brighter—but from anger this time rather than shame. “I am no mare to stud,” she said lowly, setting her goblet on the table hard enough to make it clang.

Young Richard de Gambol, heir to the Earl of Fennwick, had been standing nearby, obviously trying to work up his courage to approach them, but he startled at Gwynne’s display of temper, moving off with a few of his friends to mumble amongst themselves and cast wary glances at her.

Clearing his throat, Aidan raised his brow. Perhaps this was the solution, he thought. Rile up Gwynne enough so that she frightened away every potential suitor. ’Twould solve their dilemma most effectively.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew that it couldn’t be. The whole point of her attendance at this gathering was to ensure that her true identity remained hidden, as well as to explain her continued presence at Dunston. Should any rumors leak out, he wanted all the noble houses from here to London to feel confident in dismissing her as just what he’d claimed her to be: his unfortunate Welsh cousin, taken in for the sake of family ties.

“There is only one way around this, as I see it,” he said, pulling his gaze from young Richard back to her.

“And what is that?” She was making a valiant attempt to sound conversational, but he saw that she stood ramrod stiff, her arms having crept up into their usual position folded across her chest.

“You’ll have to mingle with the nobles more than we’d planned.”

She looked ready to burst out with a resounding denial to his suggestion, so he added, “Conversations and the like, of course. You’ll need to sit at the feasting amongst them, perhaps, and talk and stroll about to view the entertainments with some of the others afterward.”

He waited for her response, trying not to breathe in the sweet fragrance of her hair—doing all he could not to lean in and press his lips to the silken tendrils at her temple.

“Will any of those activities require them to touch me?”

He paused, surprised to realize he found the idea as unsavory as she seemed to. “Only in courtesy,” he admitted.

“’Tis common for a man to place his hand on a lady’s elbow as he walks with her. Beyond that, you should be safe—unless you choose to dance,” he added, glancing at the guests milling around them with an increasing sense of interest and impatience.

He looked at her again, reminding himself to sound nonchalant, in control. “I would suggest that you come up with some excuse that exempts you from the activity altogether.”

Gwynne pursed her lips. “Aye, well, I must have forgotten to mention that I twisted my leg during our training. My ankle suddenly feels a bit swollen, I’m afraid.”

Smothering another smile, Aidan turned to see William Gerard, Lord Fenton, approaching them with a gleam in his eye. The man was a good enough sort, Aidan knew, possessed of both humor and integrity; in addition, he boasted a long and honorable association with the Crown, having fought for nearly a decade as one of the king’s personal champions.

“What’s this, Sutcliffe?” William called out, his voice light with jesting. “’Tis not fair of you to keep such beauty to yourself, especially when you have a lovely lady of your own to consider.”

Looking past him, Aidan saw Helene standing in the group William had left; she didn’t come closer, but remained in place, staring at him with a solemn, sad expression in her eyes as she shifted her gaze between his face and Gwynne’s. His gut dropped to realize that he’d forgotten all about her. From the moment Gwynne had entered
the great hall, Helene had ceased to exist for him. ’Twas clear that his betrothed had felt the slight—not to mention her father, who stood nearby, glowering at Aidan.

Stiffening, he turned his attention back to William and Gwynne, offering introductions, and trying not to notice the desperate look Gwynne cast him when William announced that she must share his trencher during the feasting.

He couldn’t respond, he told himself—couldn’t step in and champion her.
Damn it, he couldn’t
. Not here, of all places, before the probing gazes of two score guests, Helene, and Lord Rutherford. And so he simply nodded his compliance, his neck feeling rigid enough to crack, as William led Gwynne away toward the end of the hall where the tables were arranged and awaiting the feasting that was about to begin.

“’Tis quite a change in our
cousin’s
appearance,” Diana’s sharp voice echoed in his ear. He remained silent, unwilling to chance revealing any of the turbulent emotions roiling inside him.

“I’d almost thought you planned to ignore the rest of our guests—and Helene—this night, in favor of cloistering that Welshwoman over here like some sort of sacred relic,” Diana continued with a sniff. “’Twas becoming an embarrassment, the way you fawned over her, Aidan. Helene was hurt by it.”

Steeling himself, Aidan faced his sister. He reminded himself of his obligations to her and to his family’s name, knowing it was all that had allowed him to carry his loveless betrothal to this point. “Gwynne was nervous about her first appearance in English society,” he answered, “and I tried to ease her way, that is all. I will make sure that Helene understands as much.”

Then, forcing himself not to glance, even, in the direction that William had led Gwynne, to see how she fared,
he gave a cursory bow to his sister and murmured, “Now, why don’t you try to enjoy the rest of the evening without your usual dose of criticism, sarcasm, and back-biting? ’Twill net you far greater prospects for a husband, I assure you.”

Diana sucked in her cheeks and narrowed her eyes as her brother turned on his heel and made his way toward Helene and the duke. Anger coiled through her like a snake. How dared he mock her desire to make a prosperous marriage match? Rather, he should be helping her to achieve it. ’Twas the least she deserved after all that had happened to them, first with Father’s dishonor and then with Mother’s horrible death. But instead, her brother was choosing to hinder her with his foolish and dangerous infatuations.

Oh, aye, he’d tried to hide it beneath a facade of cool disdain, but Aidan’s tender feelings for that wretch of a Welshwoman were painfully obvious as far as she was concerned. And it couldn’t be allowed to continue. She’d thought that bringing Helene and her father to Dunston would nip the entire, foul problem in the bud, reminding Aidan of where his loyalties and their good fortune lay.