Defiant (2 page)

If only he could rip the novice robe from his back and use his staff to fight for her hand as others at the faire would do this day.

He looked down at his plain brown robe and simple leather sandals. Even if he could be free of the guilt that regaled him to be in a monastery, he could not support a wife such as Gwyneth on the meager income of a falconer. He was not of noble blood; it would take a castle with strong walls to keep her safe from men who wanted to steal her.

Asides, she had not so much as glanced at him.

She was far above his station.

Her father—at least Jared supposed it was her father—frowned and cleared his throat. He was an elderly man with a well-stitched tunic, a ceremonial sword, a gray beard, two deep lines betwixt his eyes, and a demeanor of disapproval.

The smile melted from his angel’s face. She set the young girl on the ground and stared straight ahead. Utter misery clouded her sky-colored eyes.

Sadness washed over him. He flicked his fingers against his staff; the wood felt solid and smooth against his palm. Clearly she had no real desire to be here either—to be shown and displayed as a prize.

Likely she was a pawn in her family and, like himself, forced to a life path that suited not at all. Her shoulders slumped as she followed Graybeard toward the box above the field where she would watch the tournament. Banners waved above them.

Were those tears in her eyes? Surely he could not see such from this distance.

The longing to protect her flowed through his heart. If she were his, he would give her all the babies and children she wished to hold. He would never frown at her for tickling a girl’s toe.

Her hips swayed as she climbed the steps. His groin tightened.

Rafe let out a raucous guffaw. “Oh, she’s a fine vixen, that one. Just look at her arse. I could turn up her skirt and tup her right hard, I could.”

Swiveling on his heels, Jared forgot his guilt, forgot all reason to become a man of God and live a life of celibacy and peace.

He punched his brother in the nose.

Gwyneth of Windrose gazed at the bowed head of the handsome novice who was saying grace and wished she, too, could join a monastery instead of parading about with her titties half hanging out. Being heiress to Windrose along with her own dowerlands made her a sought-after prize, and her father’s quest to marry her off to the highest bidder revolted her. Somehow she had to persuade him that ‘twould be best to hold off just a little longer—that none of the young bucks here were quite rich enough, quite powerful enough.

She should be allowed to control her own lands, her own destiny—no need of a man at all. Her dower estate, given to her by her mother, was small but profitable—all she truly needed. Then Windrose could be given to one of her sisters and she could live a life of freedom rather than duty.

The prayer ended and the young novice lifted his head. Heavens, he was tall. And wide-shouldered. His green eyes locked with hers and she felt a bolt of attraction. Unlike the others, his eyes remained fixed on her face instead of her bosom. He had straight dark hair, chiseled features, and an enigmatic gaze.

Pushing her hair over one shoulder, she smiled at him. He seemed friendly. Safe. A welcome respite from the shamelessly lustful stares she had endured most of the day.

“A toast to Gwyneth’s beauty,” crowed a fat, drunken nobleman. The beginnings of his meal dripped down upon the patterns of his blue brocade doublet.

The scents of roasted game and cinnamon apples wafted through the great hall.

Ivan of Westland, a young lord wearing a prissy tunic with lace around the sleeves and shoes with points so long they were tied to his knees, yanked off his feathered cap and held it to his breast. “Gwyneth, my fair love,” he sang chivalrously.

Another man raised his tankard, spilling dropsof brown ale as he leaned over to peer at the young mounds of flesh pouring over the top of her squarecut bodice. “To Gwyneth’s breasts, er, beauty!” he echoed.

Raunchy laughter burst throughout the chamber.

A pox on them all!

She glanced at the young monk, wishing for a friendly face, someone who did not see her as an object of lust, but he had turned aside, apparently in disgust. At her?

Gritting her teeth, she glared at her father. ‘Twas he who insisted she display her wares as fully as if she were a harlot in a brothel. She had done naught wrong! She never showed this much flesh. ‘Twas unseemly! She wanted an apron, a needle, to do something useful. As her mother would have done.

Brenna, her sister, gave her a cutting look from across the trestle table. She wore a green gown of fine silk and her red hair was swept into an elegant updo with long, curling tendrils that concealed the scar on her cheek. “Slut,” she muttered, not even trying to hide her animosity.

The unfairness of her sister’s envy was a knife stab in the gut. Only a few months ago, the two of them had been stealing pies together and hiding beneath the North Tower’s stairs.

But then their mother died.

Everything had changed. Their friendship. Their relationship. The love between them.

Shrinking in her chair to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, she stared down at her hands, at her mother’s sapphire ring encircling her index finger, and wished she could go back in time.

Brenna pushed around the dish of stuffed salmonon her trencher until it was piled and shaped like two pink breasts. She leered at them in mocking imitation of what the menfolk had been doing for most of the day.

Gwyneth felt her ears heat. “I’ll tell father,” she whispered, kicking her sister beneath the table. It was an empty threat. He would punish her severely for fighting at the feast instead of playing the part of hostess and lady of the keep. She forced herself to sit up straight and proper. The way her mother would have wanted her to do.

Brenna wagged her tongue vulgarly.

“Go rot,” Gwyneth mouthed at her, careful to turn her face to one side so her father could not see the action.

From atop the gallery, a band of musicians warmed up their instruments. A minstrel started in on a warbling ode to the color and shine of her hair.

Faith! She’d heard every trite word of praise over and over until they all ran together: a mishmash of idiotic terminology.

“Ivory glowing in the dawn,” the bard proclaimed. “The fair Gwyneth’s hair outshines them all.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ivan lick his lips and the young monk curl his in distaste.

Heat flooded her cheeks. She jabbed her eating dagger into a hunk of rosemary-roasted rabbit and staved off the urge to scream. Of a truth, she would cut the mass to her shoulders if she did not fear her papa’s reaction. The way men reacted to her was dunderheaded!

Brenna glared at her. “You know you love the attention.”

A tight ache banded Gwyneth’s chest; surely hersister knew she had no say in the bard’s choice of songs.

“You preen like a peacock,” Brenna snarled, “flirting and prissing about and wanting all the men to follow you.”

“That’s not true!”

“Bah. I saw you making eyes at that monk—”

“Your
jealousy
is pathetic. ”

“Your
vanity
is so great that you even want men of God to lust for you—”

“You go too far. ”

Twisting away from her sister’s mocking face and the horrible pile of salmon that rounded up on her trencher, Gwyneth searched the sea of faces. If only she could find someone to ease her hurt. She told herself she was not looking for the monk.

Emily, a girl who had been her friend just this past summer, turned a shoulder away as Gwyneth offered a tentative smile.

Brenna coughed at the victory and Emily turned toward her, took notice of the mound of fish on Brenna’s trencher, and giggled under her breath.

Stinging prickles crawled down Gwyneth’s neck, flushing even the tops of her shoulders.

“Gwyneth will make an excellent wife,” she heard her father say in a loud, booming voice as if this were an auction and not a meal. “She’s got fine wide hips for bearing heirs.”

The hundreds of flickering candles lighting the chamber whirled in a spectacular display of color, and it was as if his voice were far, far away.

She longed to cover her ears, to get up, to run, anything besides sit here and pretend this was normal. Twirling her mother’s ring, she stiffened her back and squared her shoulders.
A lady should never slump,
her mother had instructed.

“And she has her mother’s bosom.”

“Father!” she admonished, but he gave her a sharp look that threatened violence if she interfered.

“And, here, even the bard sings of her beauty.”

Because you paid him to,
she longed to wail, but instead stared down at the table and prayed for the evening meal to end. At this point she would have agreed to marry even old man Blake, the gong farmer, to end the festivities.

“Look at those bones on her face, so fine, so feminine—”

“Fath—”

“And she knows how to embroider in the tiniest of stitches. Her delicate hands would tend a man’s every need.”

More guffaws echoed around the chamber.

Unable to bear any more of her father’s comments, she stood.

“Where go you, daughter?” he blasted out. His gray beard fluttered.

She offered a shaky smile. “To … check on the kitchens. The ale runs low.”

Her father frowned, working his jaw back and forth. “Tell Brenna to do it—”

“My lady?” Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She whirled and gasped in surprise. The novice monk! Up close he was even more handsome. His eyes were a startling shade of green—spring grass ringed with the darker shades of summer. His lips sinfully lush. His tall, wide-shouldered body seemed woefully out of place in religious robes, and the plain garments did nothing to distract from his appeal. She wondered how his dark hair would look when it had been shorn and tonsured. It seemed a crime to do anything to mar such perfection.

“I wished to give you this, Lady Gwyneth.”

In his hand, he held a small book. The front cover was made of thin wood that was elaborately carved around the edges and coated with gold.

Wide-eyed, she stared at the gift. “You wish to give me a book?” What on earth was a novice monk doing with something so valuable? Why would he give it to her?

He seemed suddenly self-conscious, flustered.

Brenna tsked. “Seducing a man of God is a sin,” she whispered. “I saw how you were looking at him.”

Oh, heavens.

“I can’t read,” she blurted, feeling her cheeks heating all the way up to her ears.

Her father cleared his throat. “Women have no need for reading.”

At that, the novice straightened his shoulders. He was several inches taller than her father. He winked at her—not monklike at all! Her stomach fluttered. She had the clear impression that all his earlier frowns were for the others and that the two of them were somehow in a conspiracy with each other—that he had sensed her discomfiture, understood how embarrassed she felt about being displayed so improperly. She wished to be a stately lady, modest and regal, like her mother.

“The book contains instruction on the proper place of women,” he said piously, but the twinkle in his green eyes belied the words.

Her heart warmed. She had a friend in this dreadful place after all.

Her father grunted. “For certes my daughter should learn some manners.”

“Mayhap she should start by wearing more modest apparel.”

“I did not choose—”

The monk pressed the book into her hand, giving her fingers a little squeeze. Her skin tingled at his touch and her protest died in her throat. Who was he? Was he on her side or not?

“Women should be tending to their duty, the needs of their husband and children, not reading,” her father said, reaching for the book. “Thank you for the gift, monk. I will use it for her dowry.”

“Nay!” She clutched the book to her chest. Likely he planned to sell it or try to buy a favor with it!

Her father moved forward. “Give that to me.” His gray beard bristled and puffed around his lips.

She stepped back. The air in the great hall felt thick and murky despite the fact that she had instructed the maids to sweep it clean and put down new rushes just this past week.

His fingers touched the book’s gilded wooden cover.

“'Tis mine.”

“Daughter.” His voice was a warning.

Abruptly she whirled and fled to the door in the side of the great hall.

“Gwyneth!” she heard him bellow behind her, but recklessly she rushed outside, away from them. She knew she would be beaten for her imprudence later—that her unruly behavior would spoil all his plans for a good marriage—but she did not care. He would not take the young monk’s book from her.

“Good riddance,” she heard Brenna say behind her in a loud whisper. “Mayhap the minstrels will playsome decent music now without you whoring around with the priests.”

Her eyes stung.

Blinking back tears, choking back the agony threatening to swallow her, she fled out the keep’s door and down the steps. Her fingers squeezed the book painfully. Perhaps she could find Adele, her younger sister who had managed somehow to escape the festivities.

Later, she would choose a husband. She would submit to a life of duty—but her father would not take the book. And she would learn to read.

Rain scented the air as Gwyneth hurried, heart pounding, for the copse of trees down by the river, her thoughts muddling together as she hopped her way across rocks and patches of grass so that her satin slippers would not get dirty.

It would be best to hide until her father calmed down.

Stopping for a moment to catch her breath, she leaned against a wide oak, laid a hand on her chest, and wished she could somehow thwart her father’s plans to sell her off to the highest bidder.

As she waited for her heart to calm, she realized the book the young monk had given her was still in her hand. Curious about it, she turned it over and over, examining the binding. It was small and exquisite—only the size of her palm—and much too expensive a gift to give to a stranger. The front was made of thin wood that was covered in gold leaf. A dragon, meticulously carved, graced the surface.