His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (32 page)

With a grim set to his jaw, Guilford held one in her direction.

“’Tis from Aric,” the older man said needlessly. She’d known somehow that was so.

But from Guilford’s expression, Gwenyth felt certain the news was anything but good.

With trembling fingers, she tore into the missive and began reading with greedy eyes.

Gwenyth,

Now that England has a new king, I have chosen to return to my cottage. Stay with Guilford. He can provide what you seek.

God keep you,

Aric

Again, Gwenyth read the words. Aric had chosen to return to the cottage, even after fighting? With King Richard dead, he no longer posed any threat of branding himself or her traitors to the crown. Certainly if the new king were of a mind to accuse them of the same crime, Aric would not be free now, and the royal soldiers would be pounding upon her door. Confusion swirling inside her head, she frowned.

And what did Aric mean in saying Guilford could provide what she sought?

She turned a pained gaze to Guilford. “I do not understand.”

“Nor do I,” he said, sitting upon a nearby bench with a heavy sigh.

The scents of yeast and ale combined with her sorrow until her stomach near revolted.

“He does not return to me?”

His note made that much clear. Nor did he give any indication he wanted her with him.

Guilford scanned the missive in his hand, disappointment deep in the lines of his old face. “Apparently not. I had hoped you could help him find his way once more.” A sad smile played at his mouth for a moment. “When Aric was with you, I saw more fire on his face than I had yet seen.”

“’Twas no doubt how angry I made him.” she said.

For the hundredth time since Aric’s departure, Gwenyth recalled their parting argument. He had asked her to leave castle life behind to return to the cottage. The idea was still abhorrent to her. Yet her reaction shamed her in ways she did not understand. Certainly Aric was in the wrong, wanting to discard the very comforts most could only yearn to know.

Why, then, did she feel as mercenary as he had once accused her of being?

“Blame yourself not, child.” Guilford patted her shoulder. “You are most certainly welcome to stay. I don’t think Hartwich has had this much shine since my Matilde was a new bride.”

Tears clogged Gwenyth’s throat. “You are too kind.”

Guilford rose and patted her shoulder. “At least we know he is safe.”

Aye. That should have been some consolation. Instead, Gwenyth felt she was dying inside, as if Aric’s abrupt missive had torn the heart from her with its very lack of warmth, its intimated farewell.

Had he ceased caring?

Had her dreams of being a lady once more chased him away forever?

Crushing the missive in her palm, Gwenyth lifted her head and marched from the great hall, Dog at her heels. Only when she was in her room, safely alone, did she give in to the tears clawing their way up from her vanquished heart.

* * * *

A fortnight later, Gwenyth settled down to the needlework at hand with a sigh. In the past, she had found comfort in the quiet ritual of mending, the necessity of the peaceful work. Today—in fact, all the days since she had received Aric’s missive—she had found comfort in naught.

Aric had left her to the life of a lady, and as such, she would see to this duty, even if her fingers bled in the process.

But she could scarce see to her task for the tears blurring her vision.

How could that man simply abandon her? He had always been a surly coxcomb, to be sure, but this… Gwenyth stabbed her needle into the pale fabric in her hand. Aric was naught but a selfish, churlish varlet. What was so wrong with living in a castle, surrounded by wealth? Why had he chosen that irksome cottage over her?

Gwenyth thrust the needle back up through the cloth in her hand—and straight into her palm. With an unladylike curse, she threw her needlework down in disgust.

It was all Aric’s fault. She could be skilled with a needle if she could concentrate on the work at hand, as opposed to the ridiculous accusations he had made at their parting. She did not want him for his castle and title alone!

Gwenyth paced the room. Why couldn’t the lout see she could not give up life as a lady? After eight long years of sleeping on dusty floors, fighting off the advances of her uncle’s soldiers, working in the heat of the kitchens, and wearing her cousins’ cast-off clothing, she simply wanted the life she’d been born to, the life that would have been hers had her parents lived.

A pox on him, for she was living that life! And would continue to live it until she drew her last breath, damn him!

With an angry swipe of her hand, Gwenyth brushed an annoying dampness from her face. Then she realized her cheeks were wet with tears.

Tears? She was not crying again. She was not!

She enjoyed castle life and did not need Aric by her side to do so, even if she loved him so much she ached more than a dungeon-dweller just pulled from the rack.

Behind her, Gwenyth heard someone clear his throat. She turned to find Guilford standing within the sunny solar, wearing a curious expression.

“Tears? That is a bad sign.”

“I but pricked my finger with my needle,” she lied.

He nodded as if that explained everything, but his knowing eyes looked anything but convinced.

“Gwenyth, I had not thought to mention this, but I do not believe I have seen you smile in near a month.”

“It has naught to do with Aric’s being gone, so do not think that.”

“Of course not.” The furrow in his gray brow was all seriousness.

Then why did she have a suspicion he was playing her for a fool?

“Hear me now, my lord. Aric chose to leave me here.”

“He did, and we shall talk no more of the ill-mannered brute. We need him not anyway. My army is sufficient without his help, and I am still spry enough to lead them. And you”—he made a sweeping gesture with his arms to her—“you are a fine chatelaine. Certainly you take great pleasure in your abilities.”

She did. Didn’t she?

Frowning, Gwenyth recounted her day, her week, and snatches of the last month. Odd, she could not recall a single moment of pure enjoyment between organizing the kitchen staff, taking stock of the herbs, ensuring the castle’s cleanliness, not to mention planning a festival for St. Crispin’s Day a week hence. True, she had enjoyed such activities at Northwell. But since arriving at Hartwich… Nay, that was not quite right either.

Since Aric had left, nothing in her life had felt right.

Knowing not what to say, Gwenyth merely smiled.

“Milady?” called a servant girl softly from the door. “There is a Lady Brinkley here to see ye.”

Nellwyn?
She frowned. Why had her cousin come here?

“Send her in,” she told the servant finally.

“Lady Brinkley?” Guilford questioned beside her.

Her brow furrowed, Gwenyth nodded. “My cousin, wed to Sir Rankin.”

Something resembling distaste flitted across the old man’s bearded face before it disappeared. “You are surprised by her presence?”

“We have maintained correspondence since she wed Sir Rankin and left Penhurst, my home. I would not say we have always been close, however.”

Guilford nodded as if he understood. Gwenyth was glad he did, for certainly she did not.

Within moments, Nellwyn entered the room, carrying a blanket-wrapped bundle in one arm and wearing a hooded cloak.

“Hello, Gwenyth. I-I journeyed to Northwell, but…was told you had come here. I”—she shifted the bundle from one arm to the other—“I hope you do not mind that I have come for a visit. You did not expect me, certainly.”

Her cousin fidgeted from one foot to another, her face still behind the cloak. How unlike the usually assured Nellwyn.

Guilford spoke before Gwenyth could. “My land, I am Guilford, Earl of Rothgate. You are welcome to visit your cousin here at Hartwich.”

Nellwyn gasped and turned her head to gaze at the old earl. “My lord, I did not see you—that is—”

When her cousin grasped the bundle in her arms closer to her chest, Gwenyth frowned anew.

Then the bundle began to wail.

Nellwyn’s babe!

Her cousin began to cry as well.

Concern brought Gwenyth to her feet and over to Nellwyn’s side. “You have traveled a long way with your babe, who cannot be more than three months.”

“Just over two,” she croaked.

Beneath the shadow of the hood, Gwenyth ushered Nellwyn to her seat, then pushed the hood from her face.

The remnants of bruises circled both her eyes and streaked from her temple to her cheek. Gwenyth gasped.

Nellwyn squeezed her eyes shut in shame.

“I’m afraid I displeased Sir Rankin. His son was born a daughter.” Nellwyn held up the blanket-wrapped bundle.

Gwenyth looked at her cousin in disbelief. Nellwyn looked exhausted from her long journey. Strands of dark hair hung limply about her pale face. Worse, her eyes seemed bleak and pain-filled, spent emotionally.

A quiet mewling brought Gwenyth’s attention down to the babe wrapped in the soft gray blanket. Her heart softening, Gwenyth lifted the child from Nellwyn’s arms and held her close.

“Her name is Mary,” Nellwyn whispered.

“’Tis a lovely name.” Gwenyth peered at the pink-cheeked infant, her little mouth bowed, her eyes closed. Gwenyth felt her heart swell. “She is perfect.”

A sad smile, full of pride and anguish, lifted the corners of Nellwyn’s mouth. “I love her so dearly. But after she came and Sir Rankin…made his displeasure known, I-I knew I must leave. He wanted me to give Mary to the Church to raise. I wanted to please my husband, but…”

Nellwyn dissolved into tears. Gwenyth held the babe with one arm and soothed her distraught cousin with the other.

“I came to you,” Nellwyn continued, “because I knew not where else to turn. My father cannot help. He does all he can to win our new king’s favor. And Sir Penley, well… He has always feared Sir Rankin. But your husband—I mean the White Lion—he fears no one. And since he is an earl, I hoped he could—well, of course he
can
, but that he
would
—protect me.”

Biting her lip, Gwenyth looked at Guilford. She wanted to beat Sir Rankin senseless. She wanted to help her cousin. But she knew not how, not when Aric resolved to live apart from her.

Bristling braies, now the man disappointed not only herself but her desperate cousin as well!

“Lord Belford has not returned from battle as yet,” Guilford said smoothly, “but I should be glad to help you, dear lady, in every way I can.”

Nellwyn turned her red-rimmed eyes up to the older man. “Bless you, my lord. A thousand times, bless you!”

Against Gwenyth’s chest, Mary squirmed, and Nellwyn accepted the infant back into her arms. Gwenyth kissed the child’s tiny forehead as she released the babe, nearly moved to tears herself. Nellwyn’s every dream had been shattered, and now she had a daughter who relied solely upon her.

No longer, for Gwenyth resolved to ease her cousin’s burden in whatever way she could. For now, she patted Nellwyn’s thin shoulder.

But how awful to lose one’s happiness so quickly. Nellwyn, who had seemed perfectly wed, now had naught—no husband to keep her warm at night, no security for her future. Always, her cousin’s life had seemed flawless. Gwenyth had been envious that Nellwyn had wed such a handsome, wealthy man, possessed of such a prestigious reputation and luxurious home.

Now she pitied her cousin more than she ever had another.

This sad state of affairs, all because Nellwyn had coveted Sir Rankin’s rank, money, and castle.

Gwenyth shook her head at the sadness of it.

Then she froze.

Had she not assumed the same reasoning Nellwyn once had? Had she not believed marriage to a wealthy, well-landed lord would ease her aches and heal her heart?

Nellwyn wept noisily beside her, interrupting her thoughts. Guilford soothed her cousin with a soft whisper of comfort. Beside the two, Gwenyth stood stunned by realization, as if the sun had sent a blast of summer’s heat upon her during January snows.

Aye, she had been mistaken in thinking a wealthy husband would make a good one. Sir Rankin had proven that quite wrong.

In fact, she had been wrong about happiness needing a home to flourish. It merely needed a heart within which to grow. ’Twas so clear now. Gwenyth wished she had seen such sooner. Then she frowned. For all that Aric had been at times difficult and uncommunicative, he had understood what she had not.

But he did not understand everything. For instance, he did not understand running from his home would not bring him happiness. He failed to realize that lying to her about his identity, accusing her of bedding down with him simply for his title, then abandoning her when she finally admitted she loved him, were churlish and despicable. The wretched coxcomb.

Gwenyth muttered a curse. By the moon and the stars, she had cried for him, yearned and pined like the most foolish of maidens! And what had he done, beyond leave her to the care of a stranger, fight a battle after swearing he would not, then never return for her?

Aric Neville was a fen-sucked lout, just as she had always suspected.

Did the rotten codpiece actually believe she would let him loose so easily, without feeling the edge of her angry tongue?

If he did, he was twice the fool!

One last time, she would see Aric and tell him exactly what she thought of his mangy, ill-mannered hide.

Jumping to her feet, Gwenyth began to leave, then remembered her distraught cousin and her husband’s aging mentor.

Gwenyth bit her lip, her mind racing. She could not simply leave them, Nellwyn during her most unhappy time of need and Guilford without a chatelaine.

The old man must have seen something in her eyes, for they sparkled as he smiled. “For a moment, your step seemed suddenly vigorous. Think you of going somewhere?”

If Gwenyth had not known better, she would swear the man had gypsy blood and could read minds. “I— Well…I had thought… I must see Aric.”