His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (19 page)

“Thank you. And what is the problem?”

Bessie lowered her voice. “’Tis Mistress Rowena. She has demanded a new dress in the color saffron by tomorrow eve.”

At Gwenyth’s frown, Yetta stuttered, “We… Ye see, milady…” She drew in a deep breath. “We’ve no-not enough crocus blooms for the…the saffron.”

Many crocus blooms were needed to make saffron, which was a costly extravagance. Why would Rowena have need of such a dress by tomorrow eve?

Smoothing out the frown that had wrinkled her brow, Gwenyth asked, “Have you begun to dye the cloth, Yetta?”

The young girl shook her head, limp brown strands of her hair brushing her shoulders. “Nay, milady. Me mum said to come…well, that is to, ah, see ye first.”

The poor girl. So shy and uncertain. Gwenyth’s heart reached out, for she knew, as Yetta did, that Rowena’s displeasure at not getting her way would be great indeed.

And though Gwenyth had done her best to steer clear of Rowena’s path, sensing the woman’s deep determination to protect her role here at Northwell, she suddenly relished the opportunity the cook and the dye maid had given her. The fear in young Yetta’s eyes at the mere mention of Rowena’s name, along with the various acts of displeasure she had witnessed recently, convinced her that the other woman rode the servants unnecessarily hard. Though Aric had not wished her to usurp Rowena, she would not allow the woman to terrorize the servants. Besides, she could hardly turn away such a distraught girl and her hardworking mother.

“Have you any saffron at all, Yetta?” Gwenyth asked.

“Aye, milady.”

Mischief danced in her mind and made its way to her smile. “And corklit?”

“Plenty, milady.” Yetta risked a peek at her.

“Mix them,” she instructed.

“B-but, milady. That will make orange, and Mistress Rowena hates…”

“Orange?” Gwenyth finished with a nod.

Rowena, with her starkly pale hair and fair pink skin would look awful in orange. Gwenyth decided she rather liked that thought.

“I will tell Mistress Rowena ’twas the best that could be done with little saffron,” Gwenyth promised.

Bessie, wise to Gwenyth’s impish smile, winked at her with twinkling eyes. She turned to her daughter. “Well, go on wi’ ye. Ye heard our lady speak.”

Yetta sent her a fearful, uncertain stare.

Gwenyth reached out to pat the girl’s hand. “’Twill be fine, I vow. You leave Mistress Rowena to me.”

Reluctantly, the girl nodded. Gwenyth smiled softly.

“Aye, Mistress Rowena won’t be lookin’ so grand now fer our lord’s return,” added Bessie.

Shock bolted through Gwenyth as she whipped her gaze to the older woman. “He returns?”

Bessie frowned. “Aye, the mistress says ’e sent word just yestereve of his return.”

Her heart skipped; her stomach danced. Finally, the man would be back at Northwell.

And he had not bothered to inform her.

Anger came next. So, Rowena had requested a new dress, no doubt to entice her former lover, now Gwenyth’s husband, and the woman had chosen not to inform her of his return. Something fierce and possessive rose up within her. Rowena might have the look of an untouched angel, but the whore had a devious mind. The question was, did Aric still desire Rowena?

Given the fact he had sent the note to Rowena, she feared aye.

“Thank you,” she said absently, then entered the keep, climbing the narrow, circular stone steps to their chamber. Dog trailed behind her, head hanging.

Once inside, she sat by a window and stared out over the blue-gray ocean crashing upon Northwell’s lush green shore, all tinted with mist and seeming magic. Dog settled at her feet.

She had missed Aric, worried for his safety, waited for some word of him, of his return. And he had sent word of his return to Rowena.

Before she could stop the memories, Gwenyth’s mind flashed back to the morn she had sewn the red dress. His gaze of molten silver had traveled over her bare skin with desire, even as his mouth claimed her breast with a swirl of his tongue. And his large hands… Who would have thought they had enough finesse to beguile her, to bring her so close to a peak with a mere brush of his thumb? And the rest of him, rigid steel—from the ledges of muscle upon his chest to the rippled plains of his abdomen…and the length of shaft with which he sought to take her, which she had burned to receive.

Did he want only Rowena now?

Mayhap ’twas her fault if he did. She had lain naked beneath him and rebuffed him, despite the fact they were wed. He had tried to assure her that he would see to her needs always, ensure their children would never starve. Until she had looked upon Northwell’s magnificence, she had refused to believe him. How many times had he made it plain that he did not want to return here or resume the life of his past?

And what had she done but push him to take up battle again? Feel utter delight when he had announced himself an earl?

Gazing away from the majesty of the ocean, Gwenyth realized she had been wrong so many times since their marriage. She should not have railed at him for wedding her to save her life. She should not have kept him from her bed. She should not have been so lost in her own joy upon coming to Northwell that she had failed to see his woe in returning.

She drew in a deep breath and crawled into Aric’s big bed alone. Settling the sheets about her, she realized he had tried in every way to make a marriage between them. He had been nothing but kind and patient, things most men did not concern themselves with. Her stubborn temper had kept them apart.

But no more. When Aric returned, she would endeavor to be a better friend, a better helpmate—and the best wife possible.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Clutching nervous fingers into fists, Gwenyth watched Aric arrive as the sun drifted behind the hill upon which Northwell sat. Dusk bathed the sparse green land and the castle stones about them in shades of honey. Aric sat tall upon his mount, in gray relief against the brilliant scene, the sky’s fiery orb turning his hair a molten gold.

Gwenyth swallowed against the sudden flutter of anticipation and longing. She
had
missed him these past three months. Terribly. Had he missed her at all?

He dismounted, handing his reins over to a stable lad, and cast his gaze over the waiting party as they stood beside one another. With nary a pause, he glanced over Stephen, beyond Baswain. Then his gaze swept past Rowena, whose small pink smile of anticipation froze. Hiding a grin, Gwenyth hoped the witch disliked her orange gown. ’Twould explain why she wore blue now.

Finally, Aric’s stare found her—and stayed—as he walked toward her. Around his feet, Dog leapt excitedly, wagging his shaggy gray-and-white tail.

Joyous, she grasped the pendant he had given her as he bent down to pet the mutt. “Welcome home, my lord.”

He stilled, then stood upright, brow arching. “Gwenyth.”

As he moved closer, his weariness was evident in his lean cheeks, the stubble dusting his jaw. Though tired, Aric still made her pulse leap. Despite his current mode of dress, the sculpted lines of his face and the breadth of his wide shoulders made him look something of a conquering Viking. She shivered.

“How good to have you home, Aric.” Rowena approached silently beside her, laying a slender hand upon his arm.

Gwenyth gritted her teeth at the woman’s use of her husband’s Christian name. She needed no reminders Rowena had shared her husband’s bed, for she could not forget it.

As Aric nodded in greeting, Rowena smiled, showing perfect white teeth. “I have prepared something of a feast in honor of your return. Come inside and let us sup.”

Rolling her eyes, Gwenyth stared at the wench. Aye, as if Rowena had been slaving in the hot kitchens all day in an effort to please Aric. And pigs would fly tomorrow.

Still, Gwenyth had not thought to order a feast for Aric’s return. In truth, she had believed he would not wish such. She cursed beneath her breath, certain Rowena knew something of Aric that she herself did not.

“Sup without me,” Aric said suddenly, surprising—and pleasing—Gwenyth. “I seek only the comfort of my bed.”

With that, he disentangled Rowena’s hold upon him and walked into the keep, sending Gwenyth a long stare. What had she seen in his eyes? A question? An invitation?

Beside her, Rowena stiffened and lifted her chin, then made her way inside as well, directly to the great hall. Gwenyth followed and was just in time to see Aric ascend the stairs, Dog at his heels, to his chamber.
Their
chamber.

Biting her lip, Gwenyth held on to her resolve to be a better friend, a better helpmate. With that in mind, she dashed to the kitchens.

“My lady!” Bessie greeted. “What be ye doin’ in ’ere, hot as it is?”

“I seek a light repast for myself and my husband. Could you prepare that for me?”

“I should be glad. Won’t take more than a moment. I’ll have it brought to yer chamber. ’Tis the least I can do after ye helped me recount the spices last week.”

“I enjoy helping,” she said with a satisfied smile, then left the yeasty warmth of the kitchen.

Retracing her path to the stairs, Gwenyth mounted them. Her thoughts shifted from her joy with the castle to Aric. Did he indeed want her by his side, or would he simply want her gone?

With a gentle nudge, she opened the door and started inside the wide room. Then she nearly stumbled.

Aric wore naught but his hose. He stood beside a pair of lit tapers, the warm glow of the flame illuminating the sun-swept plains and ripples of his bare back. Every lithe inch of him looked solid from hours of effort and mighty enough to be his own army. The thick columns of his thinly clad thighs led to a firm backside that flexed with corded muscle as he shifted his weight.

Gwenyth felt her mouth go dry.

Seemingly unaware of her presence, he dipped a cloth into a basin of water beside the candles and turned toward the window. She watched him in profile as he smoothed the dark cloth over his wide, golden shoulders and the unyielding breadth of his chest. Moments later, a droplet of water undulated its way between his flat brown nipples, to converge in the valley between the double ridges of muscle covering his abdomen.

Gwenyth struggled for her next breath.

He was beautiful…and kind, compassionate, intelligent, and brave—everything she had ever wanted in a husband.

Why had she ever refused to share his bed?

Where had she ever found the will?

True to her word, one of Bessie’s kitchen maids entered through the open door a moment later and set their food down on a table by the fire with a clatter.

“The repast ye asked fer, my lady. My lord,” she acknowledged with a bow of her head.

Aric looked up in surprise as the maid turned and left. Gwenyth noted he watched the woman’s retreating figure, then turned his weighty gaze upon herself. A curious flutter disturbed her stomach.

When he said nothing, Gwenyth filled the silence, uncertain what else to do. Still, she could not pull her stare from him. “I thought you might be hungry after your journey.”

Something in his eyes shifted, darkened. He turned back to the basin before she could discern anything in his look.

“I am. You have my thanks.”

Again, silence, so awkward, so tense. Gwenyth worried her bottom lip with her teeth, then decided she should leave him be. He did not seem much in the mood for talk.

“Enjoy it. ’Tis glad I am you are returned,” she admitted softly, then turned to leave.

Had she only mistaken that he wanted her near because she felt an urge to be by his side? To play the role of his wife?

“Gwenyth, wait.”

His call spurred her to look at him again. With a greedy gaze, she took in the wide bulk of his ridged, browned chest that narrowed to a whittled waist and lean hips. Bristling braies, he would be like silken steel to the touch, warm and solid, enveloped in smooth, bronzed skin. Feeling heat flush to her cheeks, Gwenyth looked up into his face. She felt instantly contrite when she espied the weary expression pervading his eyes.

“Aric?” she whispered in answer to his call.

“There is food aplenty for two. Sup with me.”

He had asked her to stay! Joy curved her mouth upward, though an unusually demure mood washed over her.

She nodded her assent. In return, Aric sent her a faint smile, then ordered Dog out of the chamber. The animal whined but left. Aric then shut the door.

They were well and truly alone.

Without words, they sat at the wooden chairs by the fire. Aric poured them both some spiced wine. Gwenyth realized her husband had no intent to don his tunic, and she would be tempted by his bare nearness through the meal. Lest she stare like a simpleton, she looked at the trencher they would share.

Haddock and mutton, served on a bed of cabbage, filled most of the plate. Various cakes and jellies filled the rest. Though it all looked delightful, Gwenyth found she did not hunger—at least not for the food.

Slicing off some of the boiled mutton, Aric offered her a piece from his knife. As she leaned forward to accept it, he placed a guiding hand behind her neck, fingers gentle, palms warm.

She felt herself flush and tingle at his touch. Though she accepted the bite and chewed it, she could not tear her gaze away from her husband. His rich musk distracted her. Gwenyth felt her palms turn damp and knew she must do something to break this thick silence.

“Where is Kieran?” Her voice came out husky.

“He returned to Spain.”

“To battle?”

Aric nodded and grimaced. “’Tis what he likes best.”

“But war is dangerous.”

His smile looked truly sad. “’Tis why he likes it, little dragon.”

Gwenyth sighed, wondering at the oddities of men. “Were you and Kieran able to save your friend Drake?”

He bit into the haddock and nodded. “Though he is a changed man. Bitter.”

“And this troubles you.” From the lines bracketing his full mouth with tension, she knew it to be so.

With a somber nod, he answered, “They both seem so anxious to die, Kieran for a moment’s thrill, Drake for revenge.”