Five Golden Rings: A Christmas Collection

by Sophie Barnes

  Sir Maddoc, face gone crimson from the assault, whirled his horse toward the archers who’d come to their aid. “Show yourselves!”

  Later, she would take time to think on her escort’s curtness, but for now, all she could focus on were the archers. The deep voice of the leader commanded his men to lower their bows. Her insides tugged with a sense of familiarity. Did she know that voice from somewhere? She could scarcely tell the beat of her heart from the sound of the approaching riders as she lowered her weapon.

  A half dozen men on horseback emerged from the tree line to join them on the road. Dressed in mail and helmets, she couldn’t identify the riders, but two of the party bore blue-and-gold tunics emblazoned with the crest of the Baron of Rhiwdinas.

  The fallow, untamed land of Rhiwdinas bordered theirs, but they seldom laid eyes on the overlord himself. Rumors of his demise had been common for years though they’d always been deemed false.

  “Do I know you?” She felt their piercing stares as sure and sharp as any arrow.

  The newcomers exchanged a glance. The larger of the two rode forward. He removed his helmet and revealed a tumble of brown hair. His dark eyes were steady and fierce, demanding her acknowledgment though he refused to answer.

  His skin was the almond shade of the tenants who worked her father’s fields, but the regal tilt of his shaven chin told her he hadn’t earned his color by laboring on some fief. As a child, she’d once seen her father wearing a similar hue of brown on his flesh when he’d returned from Jerusalem.

  Crusaders.

  Knights. Oddly, this knowledge failed to reassure her. At her side, Maddoc sucked in a breath but said nothing.

  Nia nudged her horse closer to study the man’s striking face. She’d known only a handful of men, youths mostly, gone abroad with Prince Edward through the years. Their neighbor, the Baron of Rhiwdinas, was one, but he’d returned around the same time as her father; and then, of course, there were his sons. The boys were born only two years apart but were worlds different in height and personality.

  A rush of warmth tickled her cheeks, and she smiled politely. “You would be Padrig then or”—she faltered, stumbling upon the name of the older brother she’d struck from her thoughts—“Caerwyn.”

  When he’d left with the prince, he’d been a spindle-limbed boy of eight-and-ten years, nothing at all like the warrior sitting astride his destrier with legs like tree trunks and a man’s face that seemed more stone than flesh.

  But his eyes were similar, deep walnut and intelligent . . .

  Her pulse exploded to life in her neck, thumping so wildly she thought he might notice. She rubbed the spot with her suddenly clammy hand. Caerwyn. She should’ve been prepared to see him again. Should’ve known he, of all those youths who’d squired under their roof, would survive the war to return someday.

  He made a faint bow. “My lady.” His lowered gaze traveled over her possessively, likely assessing the changes in her appearance. Her blood boiled at the boldness of the man even though she conceded she’d surely done the same to him. He’d grown so long, so broad of the shoulders, so powerful.

  “Nia.” Her name rumbled off his lips with a hint of humor in his dark eyes and a trace of malice.

  After all the men her father had paraded before her and her sister, demanding that she must choose one in the next twelve days, here was the one example of what Nia wanted in a match.

  Brave Caerwyn. Self-reliant. Loyal. A champion.

  He’d been her first love. Her first kiss.

  And then she’d betrayed him.

  CAERWYN DRAGGED A hand over his face, trying to adjust his vision as his younger brother Padrig rode forward and greeted the woman. Nia de Brionne. Three years had changed her in vast ways. Womanly ways.

  No longer was she the forlorn child he remembered, always in her older sister’s shadow. He had never forgotten Nia’s face, for it had gone with him into every battle, graced the head of every opponent. Nia, his greatest enemy. Thief of his young heart.

  “You came at a fortunate time. We owe you.” She addressed them as a group, the tightness in her voice matching her expression as she swept a loose tendril of her hair with the back of her hand. The sun crowned her cinnamon-colored hair with gold, but such lovely gilding surely belonged on an angel, faithful and pure, not on one of such little devotion as Nia. “Pray tell, did any of you recognize the attackers?”

  Snapping back into his senses, Caerwyn shifted the helmet under his arm. “Nay. I was going to ask you the same.”

  Nia’s lips parted. He sensed he’d startled her, made her uncomfortable somehow.

  He smiled.

  Her hands tightened on her reins, and she stiffened. “We were merely hunting. There was no reason for those men to attack. I ensure that our tenants are peaceful and well fed. We haven’t had any outlaws for a long time, so they could not have been from our woods. I ride with the guards each day myself, patrolling the roads and maintaining the castle curtain. Walwyn is secure.”

  One of her entourage, a knight hovering close behind Nia’s horse, cleared his throat. Caerwyn studied him for the first time since he’d fallen under Nia’s spell. Time had altered the faces of many of his acquaintances since they’d been out of England, but something told Caerwyn he should remember this one, nearly the same age as Padrig and Nia. However, whiskers obscured the knight’s face. His hair, so blond it was nearly silver, was unlike any of the families Caerwyn knew in Pembroke.

  Ah, realization sank in with an icy chill to his bones and instant dislike, this stranger was another guest of Walwyn Castle. A suitor for the ladies.

  Nia made a brisk introduction. Caerwyn hardly heard their names as she spoke. Maddoc so-and-so, son of someone-he-didn’t-give-a-damn-about. The knight’s eyes were pure blue flame with hate for him. Caerwyn told himself he didn’t care. He wasn’t competing for Nia. Nor for her promiscuous, older sibling, Lady Serena. The sooner he was done with this visit, the better. He was here for two reasons. For one, because his ailing father decreed it, and more importantly, to bring his brother home unscathed by female claws.

  God save them both from scheming wenches.

  “Welcome back to Walwyn. I hadn’t heard you’d returned.” Nia leaned forward and ran her slender hand down her horse’s glossy mane. She watched him from the corner of her eye. “Did my father’s . . . invitation reach you?”

  Caerwyn noted the subtle difference in her coloring, how her face flushed with pink, matching the fire of her hair as she addressed him. He risked another perusal of her figure. Wrapped in a pale green kirtle, seated sideways atop her horse with authority, her effortless sensuality captivated him, but her eyes held a surprising amount of shyness.

  “Indeed. Padrig and I are both here for Christmastide.”

  “Well”—she laughed softly, ducking her head—“this is a surprise, to see you both returned. I . . . Serena and I will be pleased to have you join us.”

  He nodded politely. Not likely.

  She turned her horse toward Walwyn. “Milords, I no longer feel like hunting. Shall we?” Without waiting for her fellow hunters’ responses, she set off in a gallop toward the castle.

  Maddoc’s mouth turned down at the corners. Padrig joined them while Caerwyn replaced his helmet. The three knights rode alongside each other.

  Padrig, seemingly unaware of the tension between them, spoke around Caerwyn to Sir Maddoc. “We’d only just arrived when we received the missive from de Brionne. I suppose the baron’s call is wide, and there are many competing?” His smile was self-deprecating.

  Maddoc sniffed, his gaze fixed possessively on Nia’s back. “Aye. We’re battling in a tournament as well as competing for the ladies. Wait until you see the hoard of presents under the ivy in the great hall. Gold, silver, gems—”

  “Ah. There, you see?” His brother leaned to Caerwyn’s ear with worry in his tone. “I told you, you’re expected to bring a gift. For Twelfth Night, if not for the ladies. You’ll insult the baron.�
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  Caerwyn touched his chest, feeling the length of chain hidden beneath his hauberk until he found the ring. Resting over his heart, nearly forgotten, the tiny treasure could’ve easily been lost in the fray. Relieved, he sighed and dropped his hand away. Tempting fate was foolish. He should never have risked bringing their mother’s ring. He’d only done so because his father expected it of him.

  “In truth, you may be right. I fear the ladies will find my suit lacking in comparison to yours and the others’. I do pray your reputation is not sullied by our shared blood.”

  Padrig passed him a withering glance. His brother had no idea what it felt like to be favored by a woman, then be tossed aside for another.

  Maddoc chuckled and smiled brightly. “I could not help overhearing your dilemma. To show my thanks for your aid against the brigands—and to prove my good sportsmanship—I will share some advice. You could have some trinkets made for the women by the craftsmen in the market. They wouldn’t be anything grand, but ’twould save you from insulting Guy de Brionne, likely.”

  Padrig laughed. “Aye. An excellent gesture. Brother, you should take his advice.”

  Caerwyn grunted his agreement, but he scowled underneath the helmet. Now there would be no excuse for his empty-handedness.

  How awkward it would be if, by some cruel happenstance, either of the ladies or the baron picked him out of the lot to be a bridegroom?

  At least if he chose his gifts, he could pick something foul. For certes, he would make sure he would be the very last man under de Brionne’s roof anyone would want as a husband.

  Chapter Two

  AS THE FIRST shadows of dusk obscured the alleys of the bustling Christmas market, Nia walked unrecognized by the villagers. She dropped the hood of her cloak and breathed in the scents of spiced nuts, burning firewood, and beeswax drifting from the vendors’ tents.

  After the scare with the brigands, she couldn’t bring herself to ask another of her guests to escort her outside the castle wall, but she couldn’t remain inside, either. Since the first suitor had arrived, she’d felt cornered, caged. How could she stay trapped with those fools, accepting her fate to marry one of them when she knew she was the second-place prize and not the trophy?

  Besides, Caerwyn hadn’t stayed inside either. He was out here somewhere.

  Nia slipped between two tents to block the chill of the breeze and brought her hands to her mouth to warm them with her breath. No one could see her, but her skin tingled as if someone was watching. She chafed her arms, suddenly anxious. Mayhap she should’ve brought her maid Gwynneth or one of the castle guards.

  Waiting another moment, the feeling subsided. The brigands’ attack had her imagining things. She shook her head at her foolishness and reemerged into the market’s thoroughfare.

  If Caerwyn were here, she would find him. She surmised the knight hadn’t come to Walwyn prepared to woo either her or Serena because she’d overheard him telling his brother he was going to the market to purchase a gift. Even Padrig, also just returned from war, had managed to bring a wedding offering. That Caerwyn came empty-handed proved he wasn’t trying to barter his way into matrimony. And if he had no interest in marriage, he would make Nia a perfect husband.

  Her father was determined to see her betrothed, so let it be Caerwyn, she decided—a good, noble man who would not bring her shame nor try to twist her to his will.

  But could she win him?

  She’d never had a chance to explain her actions, and his heated glares proved he remembered her erroneous treatment of him in the past. Compelled by Serena, she’d set a scene meant to make him jealous, making him think she’d bedded another man, a rival for her hand. If only she’d listened to her heart instead of Serena’s scheming plan that day, Caerwyn might still be hers.

  Daylight faded, and the craftsmen were taking in their wares to close their stalls. She had to admit, the man was nowhere to be found. Disappointed and cold, Nia pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and rounded the final row of merchants.

  Ka-thing, ka-thing, ka-thing.

  The clang of iron and the light of the forge from the metalsmith’s tent gave her hope, but her stomach sank as she approached, finding the stall had no customers, only three workers. Ka-thing. Henri, the talented craftsman, pounded a hammer against a metal plate, while a young boy, perhaps an apprentice, watched his progress. Recognizing her, Henri nodded and smiled as she strode by. Nia liked the nice young man, who made Serena the delicate silver circlets she preferred in her hair. Courteous and thoughtful, he had once delivered his ornaments in a storm when the weather prevented the sisters from leaving the castle.

  She nodded in return and glanced at the third worker. Then she did a double take.

  Caerwyn?

  Nia froze in bemused shock. Why was he working in a metalsmith’s shop?

  Scrape, scrape, scrape. He kept his head bowed under the low ceiling, but it was definitely Caerwyn, wearing a leather apron as he filed something in his hands. Nia’s gaze roamed past his dark forearms, moving slowly up the smooth muscles of sleeveless shoulders to his face, glistening in the firelight of the forge. He glanced up at the same moment and lowered the tool. Surprise flashed across his face, and he returned her curious stare with one of his own. His dark eyes returned such heat that they might’ve radiated sparks to rival those showering from Henri’s anvil.

  A nervous laugh broke from her throat. “What are you doing?’

  “Filing, as you can see. I should ask the same of you.” He returned to his grinding movements, working with a vengeance. His hair, so brown it was nearly black, fell loose against his jaw as he worked. He’d worn it cropped very short as a squire, and she’d once enjoyed running her fingertips through its soft spikes. Now her hands curled at her sides as she wondered how it might feel today.

  “I’ve come to inquire about a circlet.”

  “Another circlet? Aye, milady.” Henri set his hammer on the anvil and scuttled to the back of his tent with his apprentice to rummage through his chests.

  Caerwyn snorted. “A circlet? Is that all you can think of, with so many men traveling from far away to see you? After this morning’s ambush, I would think you’d send someone else to do your shopping.”

  His sarcasm stung. Verily, she supposed she must seem vain for making such a trivial quest. “The circlet is for Serena. She says she cannot attend tonight’s feast without it.” Nia cringed at the memory of her sister’s whiny voice, demanding to be allowed to leave the castle to fetch the hair ornament herself. Serena had behaved even more irrationally when Nia had volunteered to run the errand. “I wouldn’t endanger anyone else,” Nia added.

  “Is Lady Serena well?” the metalsmith called from the back.

  “Oh, aye. Thank you, Henri. She’s just preoccupied with the festivities at home.”

  He nodded and silently went back to his search.

  Their father, interrupted from his reunion with Sir Padrig, another of his former squires, had told Serena she mustn’t leave the castle and all her attentive swains. The selfish girl’s blubbering made the perfect excuse for Nia, and the baron granted her permission to come to the metalsmith’s. She doubted she’d be missed much anyway.

  The knights’ lack of interest was nothing new to rankle her. Nia had accepted her place as the “plain” little sister long ago. But with her father’s open invitation for bridegrooms, she’d had plenty of unwanted attention the past two days.

  Caerwyn scraped the tiny metal object in his fingers with gusto.

  Nia looked down at the state of her garment. Her dress was simple, smudged with dirt from sliding along the castle curtain to avoid the eye of the persistent, groping Sir Maddoc, who would’ve followed her whether she’d wanted him to or not. Her hair lay on her shoulder in a wild plait she’d assembled herself instead of one of her maid’s artful creations. ’Twas no wonder Caerwyn paid her so little heed.

  “What are you making?” Nia braced her hands on the metalsmith’s tab
le between them for a closer look, careful not to disturb the glittering assortment of cuffs, chains, buckles, and knives on display.

  Caerwyn’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t raise his face to answer. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  Of course, Caerwyn, of all people, would want to make his own gifts. As a youth, he’d helped Henri’s father at the forge, making his own sword and spurs. He’d insisted on caring for his horse, fletching his own arrows. For his industriousness alone, Nia had kindled a childhood crush on the boy, two years older than she.

  Her cheeks warmed at the sudden memory of those long-ago feelings now flooding back to her. Childhood fantasies. How certain she’d been that Caerwyn would be the only boy she could ever marry.

  “Here.” Caerwyn set the file aside and moved closer. When his hand brushed hers on the table, she jerked away, but quick as a snakebite, he caught her wrist, keeping her near.

  “My lord?” Her heart pounded, locked in his rough grip. It had been years since he’d touched her. And yet once you knew his touch so well. She leaned closer, rather than away, hoping for a reprisal of those days. He smelled of metal, leaves, leather, and man—the erotic mixture aroused her curiosity. A few more inches, and they could kiss. Now at twenty-and-one and no longer an awkward boy, Caerwyn’s mouth would claim hers as a man’s. Her lips would part without reluctance, their tongues exploring, making up for the time they’d been apart . . .

  “Tell me what you think.” He turned her wrist over, sliding his thumb across the heel of her palm, until she opened her fingers reflexively.

  He placed a silver ring in her open hand, and her pulse thundered.

  Childish, she berated herself. Rough, dull, and plain, the jagged circle appeared cruder than any jewelry Nia had ever beheld. “I . . . it’s not quite . . .”

  “Good. That’s the response I was looking for.” Still holding her wrist, Caerwyn’s grip loosened, and he smiled. The expression was one born not of humor, exactly, or pleasure, but of satisfaction and more than a hint of anger. “Not impressive enough for your sister either, you think? Or your father?”