Authors: Suzanne Barclay

The Knights of Christmas (12 page)

BOOK: The Knights of Christmas

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“I said, what fool is in charge?” the man's voice demanded again, and this time, she caught sight of the arrogant speaker, for he climbed onto the log and stood scanning the yard like some out-of-place ship's captain, his arms akimbo. “Can't he see this is blocking the way?” he demanded.

With considerable regret Giselle realized that he was probably one of her uncle's guests, for he was well dressed, with an embroidered tunic of dark wool, fur-lined cloak and fine leather boots. Therefore, she would have to be polite.

The nobleman nimbly made his way along the enormous log until he reached the front of the wagon, then leapt into the courtyard. She noticed that he did not slip, but landed as easily as a cat.

She also noticed he was handsome, with wavy brown hair, strong, square jaw and very fine nose. Even off his makeshift deck, he had a distinctly commanding air about him that was very difficult to ignore.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, momentarily ignoring Old John, the wagon's driver. “I believe you wish to speak to me?”

He started, and his face reddened, but she thought that more likely from exertion than shame for his manners. He did not look to be easily embarrassed.
“You
are in charge?” he asked. “I trust Sir Wilfrid is not ill?”

“My uncle is in his solar. If you would care to join him, please do so. In the meantime, I will set some men to clearingâ”

“You are his niece?” The man's smile grew broader as his impertinent gaze flicked over her.

Suddenly she experienced a definitely sinking feeling, as if the proud captain before her had suddenly run their ship aground.

Oh, Uncle, what have you done?
Giselle wanted to moan. How could he have selected for her husband this pompous, arrogant nobleman who was handsome, yes, and young, yes, but surely as conceited a fellow as it had ever been Giselle's misfortune to meet.

“If Sir Wilfrid is my uncle, I think one could safely assume I am his niece, sir,” she said, attempting to keep sarcasm from her tone.

“Then you must be Lady Giselle.” He made a sweeping, graceful, yet completely virile, bow. “I am Sir Myles Buxton, my lady. A most happy meeting. The reports of you that I have had have not done justice to your beauty,” he said, his deep voice intimate as he came toward her, despite the increasing noise from the crowd waiting impatiently behind the log cart.

It was all Giselle could do to keep the skeptical look from her face, for she was very aware that she was looking far from her best. Her scarf was askew, her cloak a muddy disaster, and she was sweating. Beauty? Perhaps sometimes, but this was not one of those times! Obviously this man was as hypocritical as Bernard Louvain.

She reminded herself that whatever else he was, Sir Myles was her uncle's guest and made a curtsy. “Welcome to Wutherton Castle,” she lied prettily. “Now if you will excuse me, I had better see to havingâ”

Before she could finish, Sir Myles nodded, turned on his heel and ordered three of the castle servants lingering nearbyâwatching the commotion, no doubtâto put their shoulders to the log. Before she could remind him that she was in charge, he stripped off his cloak and tunic and tossed them onto the wagon, revealing a very fine white shirtâand a chest and pair of shoulders of which no man need be ashamedâbefore joining the servants at their task.

For an instant, she was impressed, both by his physique and his willingness to help, until he looked at her and grinned, as if to say that he was a marvelous fellow, was he not?

If he hadn't been the man her uncle had picked out for her to marry, she might have been more willing to agree. As it was, his apparent vanity annoyed her. “Since you seem to have this matter under control, Sir Myles, I will attend to your accommodation. I understand you have brought ten soldiers for your guardâ”

“Twenty,” he said, before signaling the men to begin shoving the log back into place on the wagon.

Twenty! She had been told ten and had planned for that number. An additional tenâwhere would they sleep? What about the food? This was terrible, worse than the unexpected cold!

Because Sir Myles was occupied, she felt free to glare at him for a moment before approaching Old John, who was struggling to keep the large draft horse steady as the log began to shift. “When the log is back on the wagon,” she said, “bring it directly to the hall.”

Sir Myles straightened. “Your every desire is my command, my lady.”

She smiled amiably and said, “Oh, you need not trouble yourself, sir. Old John knows exactly what to do.”

A warning shout from one of the servants reminded Myles of his chore, for the log was beginning to slip off the wagon again. To be sure, such a task was beneath him, but helping a lady always went a long way toward encouraging her good regard, as Lady Giselle's response had proved.

He was kept busy pushing the log back into place, so if she bade him a farewellâand surely she hadâhe didn't hear her. When the log was once again on the wagon and two servants quickly moved to lash it down securely, she was already walking toward the hall.

He noted that she was going rather slowly, thereby demonstrating that she was reluctant to leave his presence, and when he saw the muddy mark on the back of her cloak, he thought he had found the reason for her somewhat unexpected curtness toward the man she had to know was intended to be her husband.

She was embarrassed by being seen in such unusual circumstances and in less than perfect attire.

Ah, the vanity of women! Myles thought complaisantly as he retrieved his garments, happy to leave the delivery of the log to the old man. He put his tunic back on and continued to watch her retreating slender, and quite graceful, form.

Astonishingly Sir Wilfrid's report of his niece's beauty had not been exaggerated, as one would expect during marriage negotiations. If anything, the man had been too modest on her behalf. Even in her drab brown gown, crooked scarf and mud-stained cloak, she was lovely, with heart-shaped face, snapping green eyes, delicately pointed chin and a mouth...a frowning mouth, if he were being honest.

And she had been somewhat sarcastic, too, for a maiden. Now that he considered her reaction, he suddenly realized that she didn't seem very impressed with him.

Surely he was wrong. Surely it had to be the embarrassing circumstances of their meeting, and the wish to get out of the cold that had made her seem unfriendly.

The draft horse lurched into motion, the wagon wheels creaked, and the yule log began its journey once again.

Well, what did her initial response matter, Myles thought as he waited for his soldiers to enter the castle. The contract was as good as signed, the woman was pretty and her dowry would surely make up for whatever slight defects he might notice in her character. All in all, this was as good a match as any man could reasonably hope for.

Or any woman, either. Sir Myles Buxton was the most sought after male matrimonial prize in England, and he knew it.

Chapter Two

A
s Myles strolled into the great hall of Sir Wilfrid's castle later that day to join the feast, his gaze took in the perfect proportions of the large room. A variety of tapestries covered the walls, each bright with a myriad of colors depicting scenes of hunts and battles and Christmases past. Flambeaux and candles provided ample illumination to admire the handiwork, as well as the clean whiteness of the linen spread upon the many trestle tables.

Pine boughs, holly and mistletoe had been strewn upon the cloths, their scents mingling with the beeswax of the candles, the smoke from the flambeaux and hearth, and the more pungent odor of fresh herbs sprinkled over the clean rushes. In keeping with the season, sprays of holly and ivy hung from the tapestry hooks, along with more pine branches, and bits of greenery lay upon the sills of the tall, narrow windows, screened with cloth against the frigid night air. In the huge central fireplace, the great yule log was already lit, its fire warming the room.

Above the main floor, Sir Wilfrid had a minstrels' gallery, and Myles could see the musicians moving about, instruments in their hands. One had a harp, another a small drum for beating out time. A third man held a stringed fithele and bow, and his companion had a reed pipe.

Myles was not the first to arrive, for other guests milled about, speaking in hushed voices as they awaited their host. At the far end, Myles could see other young noblemen in conversation, their manly laughter filling him with good cheer, and nearer to him, Lady Alice Derosier and Lady Elizabeth Cowton smiled invitingly.

Where was Lady Giselle? It might do her good to see that other young noblewomen thought him quite worthy of interest and attention. It would do his father and his brothers good, too. Then they might appreciate him.

No matter. Once he was married to Sir Wilfrid Wutherton's niece, they would have to admit he was a worthy member of their family.

He thought of the twelve gifts he had brought for his intended bride, one for each day beginning with Christmas and ending with Epiphany. Surely she would be pleased to receive them, and surely she would appreciate that he was a man of breeding and property who should be respected, given the costly nature of his gifts. That should curb whatever tendency to sarcasm might be lurking in the young lady's tongue.

More contented, he sauntered down the hall, growing increasingly aware of delightful aromas wafting in from the corridor that led to the kitchen. Sir Wilfrid must be happy in his seneschal, for the fellow seemed to have arranged everything with care and an eye to detail. Or perhaps there was a lady in Sir Wilfrid's life, someone to provide a woman's insightâand other thingsâsince Sir Wilfrid had no wife.

He could not fault the man, for life was lonely without a woman....

Now what had brought that thought to his mind? He had no trouble finding a willing woman when he wanted one, and he had no need to tie himself to any woman, unless it be for power and gain, two things an alliance with Sir Wilfrid would provide.

Then he thought of Giselle's lissome figure and smiled, for there would be other benefits to this proposed alliance that he could anticipate with pleasure.

Meanwhile, upstairs in the small tower room that was Giselle's own during her time with her uncle, Giselle was entertaining no such contented, happy thoughts. She was wondering if the beef would be roasted, not burnt, the fish tender enough and if Iestyn was going to be able to prepare all the sauces so that they weren't spoiled when it was time to be served, if they would have sufficient bread and salt and what she could do if she realized they were running low, and then finally, she was wondering if she looked as pretty as she possibly could.

Although her appearance was of far less concern than the feast. After all, the preparations and serving of the many courses could have a very real effect on her future. Her appearance need only be adequate.

Or so she tried to tell herself. After all, Sir Myles's approving looks and flattering remarks were probably completely insincere.

“Mary, what do you think of this headdress?” she demanded critically of her maidservant.

“Why, I think it's very fetching, my lady,” replied her maid, somewhat stunned. In all the time since Giselle's arrival in the early autumn, she had never once asked Mary for her opinion, about clothing, millinery or anything.

Giselle pursed her lips thoughtfully as she regarded the cap made of velvet in a deep, rich red, like holly berries, and trimmed with dark green and gold embroidery. “But do you think it suits me?” she persisted, putting it on her head and regarding her reflection in the burnished glass she used for a mirror. Beneath the cap she wore her hair in long braids and tied with a matching red ribbon.

“I think that cap's very fine, my lady, and it looks very nice with your gown,” Mary replied.

That was true, for the gown was also red velvet, with a gold silk shift underneath, visible above the ornately embroidered bodice.

“The cap is not too extravagant? Or distracting? I don't want people staring at me.”

“Oh, no, my lady,” Mary said. “I don't think they'll notice you much.”

That response was not quite what Giselle cared to hear.

“I will wear it with this scarf,” she said decisively. She put on a thin gold silk scarf, then the cap, so that her braids hung below the headdress. “Yes, I think this will do nicely.”

“It doesn't matter what you wear, my lady. You'll be the prettiest one at the feast,” Mary said. Then the older woman grinned mischievously. “I'm sure Sir Myles won't take his eyes off you.”

“I had better see that matters are well in hand for the feast. Iestyn was worried about the salt,” Giselle said pertly as she hurried to the door, trying not to think about who might be watching her tonight. “If we run out, I might have to marry him!”

Mary's expression grew puzzled as her mistress rushed out of the room. “She might have to marry the salter?” she muttered as she picked up the rejected scarves and caps and bands Giselle had scattered about the room as she had tried to decide what to wear to the feast. “I thought she was betrothed to Sir Myles.”

Mary envisioned the wizened little man who sold the Wuthertons salt, then laughed, shook her head at her own foolish conclusion and went back to work, reflecting that all in all, she was glad she was not a noble lady with so much to occupy her mind, especially at Christmas.

Giselle was vaguely aware that Sir Myles, seated immediately to her left, was saying something that, was supposed to be amusing, for she could hear his bantering tone and her uncle's responding chuckle. However, her attention was trained on the minstrels in the gallery. She was rather unfortunately sure that the fithele player had enjoyed far too much wine, for his bow kept slipping from his fingers; indeed, the fellow himself looked in danger of slipping over the railing onto the floor below.

Perhaps she could signal the seneschal to have the fithele player removed, Giselle thought anxiously, if it could be done without a lot of unnecessary commotion.

She should have noticed the problem sooner, and she would have, if she hadn't been so busy looking at Lady Alice making a fool of herself trying to catch Sir Myles's eye. Lady Elizabeth also glanced at the high table with suspicious frequency.

Not that she cared if women were looking at Sir Myles, any more than she cared if several of the unmarried noblemen were also casting a fair number of curious glances her way. She had far too much to concern herself with than playing coy games.

She was also aware, with increasing annoyance, that her uncle, seated on the other side of Sir Myles, was constantly giving them both speculative glances.

Suddenly a warm, lean male hand clapped itself over hers. “Yes, Sir Myles?” she inquired, turning to him with a forced smile.

“You weren't listening,” he remarked coolly.

She pulled her hand away and laid it in her lap. “No, I wasn't.”

A brief flash of annoyance appeared in his dark eyes and for a triumphant moment, she thought she saw his true and arrogant self. “You must forgive me. My excuse must be the duties of the chatelaine andâ”

“You are the chatelaine here?” he asked, raising one dark eyebrow. “I am most impressed, my lady.”

She blushed at his compliment, and realized she had never noticed how compelling his voice was, deep and rich and intriguing. She couldn't help wondering how it would sound whispering endearments.

Not that she wanted to ever hear such things. Not for some time yet, at any rate.

She wished he wasn't so handsome, either, and that her hand would stop tingling as she inadvertently recalled the sensation of his touch.

With something akin to desperation, she glanced at her uncle. Unfortunately, he was now engaged in animated conversation with the nobleman on the other side of him, the elegant Sir George de Gramercie.

Obviously she was going to have to fend for herself.

“I trust you will do so well as my chatelaine,” Sir Myles commented placidly. “Of course, my hall is quite a bit larger, and there will be many more guests at our Christmas festivities. I fear your duties will not allow you much time for sport.”

Or visiting her uncle, or Lady Katherine, or any of her friends, she finished for him inwardly, anger and dismay rising in her breast.

The damp must have seeped into her brain and frozen there, for her to even temporarily contemplate matrimony as a desireable state.

Suddenly, she no longer cared how handsome he was, or how wonderful his voice. He was a braggart. A smug, arrogant braggart.

“You will forgive me for saying so, my lady,” he continued, obviously oblivious to the turn of her thoughts, “but I fear one of your musicians will not be able to play for us tonight.”

“Yes, I noticed,” Giselle said with no attempt to be polite. “I willâ”

“Allow me,” Sir Myles declared, rising before she could protest. He sauntered down the hall, greeting several of the knights and ladies, and pausing to speak with Lady Elizabeth and Lady Alice, as if this was his hall, not her uncle's.

The minstrel will be asleep on the floor before he gets there, Giselle thought peevishly, and she seriously considered going to the gallery herself. Before she could do so, however, her uncle leaned toward her and said, in a slurred drawl that had much to do with the fine wine he had provided, “Well, what do you think of him, eh, my dear? Is he not a handsome fellow?”

“And doesn't he know it,” Giselle muttered, certain that she had Sir Myles's measure.

“I didn't have the heart to tell him of our bargain,” her uncle continued, leaning even closer so that Giselle began to fear that he would fall out of his chair. “He's very set on this marriage, more so since he met you in the courtyard.”

“Oh?” Giselle said, thinking Sir Myles's ardor had more likely grown when he saw her uncle's fine castle. “What did he say?”

Sir Wilfrid smiled and slowly waggled a thick finger at her. “No fishing for praise, my girl!” he admonished. “All I'll say is that he seems very keen. Very keen.”

Giselle blushed, wanting to tell her uncle exactly what she thought of the young nobleman, yet knowing caution was the wiser course. Then she caught sight of a slight commotion in the minstrels' gallery and looked up to see Sir Myles gently but firmly escorting the lurching fithele player away with a minimum of fuss. She had to admit that she couldn't have handled the situation better herself.

More than that, once the two men were gone, the other musicians applied themselves to their task with a will. She had never heard them play better.

As servants hurried to take down the tables to clear the floor for dancing, Giselle thought she could make a slight effort to be a little kinder to Sir Myles.

Therefore, when he returned to his chair, she gave him a grateful smile and said, “Thank you, Sir Myles, for your assistance. I must ask what you said to them to make them play so conscientiously.”

Sir Myles smiled at her, the effect spoiled by his conspicuous condescension. “I told them if they ever hoped to entertain at our wedding, they had best play well.”

He was so completely sure of himself! She opened her mouth to make some kind of response when she caught sight of Sir George de Gramercie. He was a knight of good family, well-to-do, and while his fair looks were not a match for Sir Myles's darker handsomeness, he certainly wasn't ugly, either. She smiled a greeting and inclined her head as he bowed his.

“You seem to regard Sir George with great favor,” Sir Myles noted.

“He is an old friend of the family,” Giselle replied.

“An
old
friend of the family?”

BOOK: The Knights of Christmas

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