Authors: Julia Keaton
CHAPTER THREE
Bronson ushered a
reluctant Alex through the great door of the manor, through an immense two
story hall, and into the parlor off to the side. They were alone except for
Constance and the two other armored men who stood watchfully silent.
Now that they were
inside, she could see all three men bore a striking resemblance. Brothers no
doubt, and Constance their sister. All shared the same midnight hair, the same
dark eyes. Bronson, she decided, was the most handsome, for she was accustomed
to men with some age to them, not fresh faced youngsters with no life lived.
The other two
possessed an ease about them that Bronson did not share, however. She wondered
if they felt uncanny having someone so close to them in appearance, having
siblings. She had no experience in such matters.
Turning slowly, she
surveyed the room they were in. Gold plates, encrusted with jewels around the
outer edge lined the great mantel, two passant wolves forged into the stone as
support. Fine tapestries, depicting the hunt and other histories hung about
the walls, woven in a fantastic array of color. Glastonbury chairs flanked the
massive hearth, padded with cushions embroidered in scarlet and gold. The two
other armored men lounged near the fire, having stripped some of their plate
for comfort.
It was a room built
for leisure and to impress, and she was not immune to its charms.
The ceiling
stretched far above them, and trophies adorned the heights of the walls.
Riveted, she stared wide eyed at the vast multitude of antlers lining the wood
paneling in orderly rows. The ivory of the horns was a dramatic contrast to
the rich, burgundy painted paneling, capturing her attention as effectively as
a rabbit in a snare. Her eyes flashed on sconces decorated with bone, to a
candle beam crafted completely of horns and lighted with an abundance of
precious candles. There were hunters here, and by the look of it, very, very
skilled hunters. Alex’s collar shrank around her throat.
“Who bested these
defenseless beasts?” Alex asked.
“We did,
generations of Blackmores,” Bronson spoke from behind, coming around her. At
her look of horror, he said, “We hunt for food. No animal who dies, dies in
vain.”
The door flung open
and reverberated soundly against the wall, cutting off further questions. A
man who could only be the lord of the manor stomped inside with the gale force
of a thunderstorm.
Alex cringed,
expecting beatings to be handed out, but Constance showed no fear in the face
of her father’s wrath. Constance beamed at her father. “Papa, you will be so
pleased by what has happened.”
Her comment was
answered with a brain-rattling roar, unintelligible at best but no less fierce
for its perplexing denouement. His cheeks flushed dark with ire, began to glow
red and darken to purple. “What on God’s green earth do you speak of? We have
been scouring the countryside for you! We’d just begun preparing to assault
those devil McPhersons. You have driven us mad with worry.” He pulled her
into his arms for a great hug, then released her hesitantly.
“Oh, Papa.” With a
giggle that seemed to suggest Constance had not heard the threatening sounds
that had come from her towering father, she said, “This young gentleman, Lord
Alex Montague, rescued me. Lord Montague, this is my father, Lord Derwin.”
Constance’s hand wrapped protectively around Alex’s upper arm.
Her words seemed to
dawn on him. “Rescued you?” came the ear-shattering reply.
“Now you know
better, Papa. We shan’t have you going into another apoplexy.”
The mention of
apoplexy seemed to reign in some of his fury. Lord Derwin looked suitably
chagrined and slightly less angry. His circulation began to improve,
lightening his dark countenance.
For all his
bluster, Alex could see he’d do no harm to Constance. He cared for her--that
much was obvious in the way he held her close, in how his hands shook when he’d
talked of searching for her. Constance was a fortunate girl to have a loving
family.
Something told Alex
Constance was accustomed to wrapping her father around her finger.
“I believe you have
some explaining to do, young lady,” Lord Derwin said, sounding as though
commanding great armies would be natural to him.
Constance further
irked her father as she leaned over and whispered loudly, “Do not fret so.
Papa really is quite gentle.”
Alex glanced at the
antlers on the wall, not quite believing her.
“Remember when you
said to me I should explore my horizons?” She looked innocently at her father
who, by this time, had cooled to a slow simmer.
He sputtered, but
she continued, “There is so much to see at the fair and when I heard the
servants speaking of it, I knew this was just the sort of activity you would
approve of.” Lord Derwin guffawed. Un-perturbed, she said, “The fair was
glorious ... but on the way home some dreadfully smelly man that I had ignored
at the fair accosted me and had the gall to demand my purse. I, of course,
told the
gentleman
that I would do no such thing. He became quite
cross.”
Alex thought
cross
did not accurately describe the man but wisely kept her own counsel.
“A lady simply
cannot abound anywhere these days.” Constance tilted her chin up. “Oh,
Papa. You would be
so
proud! If it were not for Lord Montague ... well
... I shan’t have known what I would have done. He bested that dreadful man
with his sword, just like in your stories, Papa. He rode his beautiful steed
into the clearing like an avenging angel. I nearly fainted, I was so relieved
to see him.”
Eyeing Alex
appreciatively, noticing her for perhaps the first time, he said, “It seems we
are indebted to you ... my son.”
Before Alex knew
what was happening, he embraced her and pounded her with good fatherly humor on
the back with breath-taking force.
“It ... it was
nothing, my lord. Any true gentleman would have done the same.” For this
comment Alex was the lucky recipient of another back-bruising hug. With
effort, she caught her breath.
“Oh, my boy. I
have not heard of such chivalry since my father’s days. It does me good to see
a man after my own heart. Chivalry is
not
dead!” he said with a raised
fist, as if challenging the gods to dispute him.
“I knew you would
be thrilled.” Constance smiled prettily at Alex and her father.
“You must allow me
to extend my hospitality to you. I will brook no argument,” he said,
attempting a stern face, a smile threatening.
Bronson had remained
in the background during the exchange, silent, but not forgotten, leastwise not
by Alex. She studied him from the corner of her eye. His anger and disgust
was a palpable thing. If she were to have any trouble, it would come from him,
she knew.
It seemed hours had
passed since her arrival at Derwin Hall, but in a short amount of time she had
already sealed her fate, caught in a mire so like quicksand it was shocking.
Of course, she could turn this to her advantage. Before her adventure, she had
learned her cousins’ castle was not far from this place. Lord Derwin would
undoubtedly know of his neighbors.
The situation was
not completely abhorrent--Saints!, what could she be thinking? She was far
outnumbered here, her danger of being exposed had increased exponentially.
What’s more, they were seeming enemies of her family, though she’d give her eye
teeth to know why.
No, she could not
stay. When the first chance to escape arose, she would take it. Until that
time, she could not appear rude, lest she arouse their suspicion.
“If it would please
milord, the honor is all mine,” she said, a hand placed over her heart as she
made a sweeping bow.
Bronson grunted
from the corner, the arrogant son of a jackal. Doubtless he would take
pleasure in her exposure and certain torture to follow.
“Good my boy. My
sons welcome you as well.” He gave Bronson a meaningful look.
“W-we have not had
formal introduction.”
“Damn, I have but
forgotten my manners. Sons, I present Lord Alex Montague of ... whence have
you come?”
“Evenshire, my
lord.”
“Of Evenshire. My
sons,” he gestured with his hand and they came forth as he spoke their name,
“The thundercloud in the corner is Lord Bronson Blackmore. My second son Lord
Rafael, and youngest son, Lord Gray. I have another son, older than Gray, Lord
Nigel, but I fear he enjoys the intrigues of court far too much to visit us
often.”
He had
another
son? A veritable army of them, all battle honed and wary.
Alex could scarce
believe three such giants had issued forth from one maker, let alone four. She
pitied their poor mother. Rafael and Gray looked closer than Bronson. Their
smiles and the twinkle in their eyes bespoke deviltry. Aye, she could tell by
the look of the Blackmores that they were rogues, the lot of them. There was
no doubt in her mind that the last was equally as devastating. Alex was
thankful she was not susceptible to charm and flattery, nor a fair face.
She realized she
had been rudely silent. “And the lady of the manor?” she asked in a quiet
voice.
“She has passed
on,” Bronson gritted out. His ears were devilishly keen.
“My apologies.”
‘Twas a trial for her to keep anger from her expression. Alex would be glad to
see the last of him. He had taken a dislike to her for some reason she couldn’t
fathom, and she abhorred having someone angry at her for no good reason.
Lord Derwin
dismissed Constance to see about readying Alex a room. “We will see you have
every comfort. I will not have it spread about that we treat heroes shabbily
in my household. You must rest and refresh yourself.” He draped his arm
around her shoulder as a friend, as a father.
She felt homesick
of a sudden and cursed the foul winds of change for her contemptuous destiny.
She sighed. Alex
wondered again at her good sense, but it was too late to back out. She would
have to make the best of the situation until opportunity presented itself.
“Come now, I will
show you myself to dinner and your room.”
As they started to
leave, Bronson called out, “We welcome you,
Lord
Montague. I look
forward to your stay.”
Lord Derwin
chuckled.
She caught
Bronson’s dark look but said nothing as they exited. She felt his eyes bore
into the back of her skull until they’d gone, and she was left to ponder his
cryptic statement.
What could he
mean?
* * * *
“Well, brother,
what did you make of the scamp?” Rafael asked, his legs outstretched, and the
remainder of his plate scattered carelessly on the floor along with his
brothers’. A servant would be by soon to collect and polish it, and return it
to their armory for safekeeping.
“I think him a
pissant in need of a good whelping.” Bronson yawned, stretching like an
immense beast of prey. “I’d blister him for being off from home, but I’d
likely break his puny bones with one wallop on his arse.”
“Ha! You put on
too good a show of nonchalance.” Gray sat up in his chair, leaning forward.
“You’re afraid Constance will enamor herself of him ... or worse, ensnare the
boy with her charms. He’s a touch pretty I say, but women always find that
most appealing.”
Bronson’s arched
brows drew low over his eyes. “Nay. Constance has better sense.”
“Aye. What
possible harm could come from the runt?” Gray laughed at his dark look. “Ah,
I see the thoughts tumbling through your skull, you’ll listen to naught I say.
Enough of this, will you come with us tonight?”
Rafael was on his
feet in an instant. “Aye, we have some fair wenches in dire need of your
protection.”
Mouth tipped in a
crooked grin, Gray said, “They’d welcome your sword with pleasure.”
Bronson scowled.
“You both know me better than that.”
Gray chuckled at
his fierce look. “He’ll have none of it. He’s saving himself for his bride.”
When Bronson looked ready to pummel him, he ran to Rafael and threw his arm
around him as they made to go. “Come, brother, he’ll know no pleasures until
he rids us of the scamp’s presence.” They left Bronson brooding by the fire.