Roger's Bride

by Sarah Hegger

  “I took a bit of a liberty.” Faye smiled and indicated the cloth draped over her arm. The most glorious scarlet that Kathryn suspected might be actual silk. Nobody but father wore silk at Mandeville. “I did not know that you had anything with you, and Ruth has taken your clothes to be washed.”

  “Is that for me?” Kathryn took half a step closer, and then stopped. She had never seen anything like the gown Faye held up, let alone worn one.

  “It was mine from before I had children,” Faye said. “Now I find it a little snug in the hip.”

  “Really?” As Faye’s form appeared as lithe as a girl’s, Kathryn found that hard to believe.

  “Aye.” Faye laughed, stroking the fabric. “Regardless of what I would like to believe, children do leave their mark.”

  The bliaut’s fabric caught the light and shimmered as if woven by angels. “I do not think I can wear that.”

  Faye tilted her head. “You do not like the color. I have others in—”

  “Nay.” Kathryn touched the bliaut with one fingertip, afraid to leave smudges on it. Cool to the touch, and delicate as a cobweb. “I do not think I can wear something so fine.”

  Faye made a noise suspiciously like the snort Roger had teased Kathryn about. A lady like Faye would never snort however. There must be something caught in her throat.

  “Let us get you dressed.” Faye draped the bliaut across the bed, and held up a chemise. Also silk, with small red flowers embroidered on the sleeves. “Roger will bawl like an angry bull if we make him wait for his dinner.”

  Faye helped her dress, and then brushed out her hair before the fire.

  “This color hair is glorious.” Long, slow sweeps of the comb through her hair, lulled Kathryn. “It shines in the firelight.”

  “It is plain brown hair.”

  “Nay, there is nothing plain about this hair.” Faye arranged a circlet over her forehead

  “Matty’s hair shines,” Kathryn said. “My mother’s hair is the same.” Except now threaded with grey and lusterless as if it reflected the woman who bore it.

  “There.” Faye stepped back and grinned. “Now let us join our men.”

  Kathryn nearly tripped over the hem of her borrowed bliaut. She did not consider Roger to be her man. Not in the sense Faye meant it. Not in any sense, come to think on it.

  The hall at Calder keep took her breath away. A setting sun caught behind the large stained glass window that dominated the western end of the hall and cast bejeweled beams over the occupants. Still early evening, people gathered in small, chatty groups before the meal.

  Roger stood near the dais, wearing a tunic of deepest blue. Longer and more formal, the tunic clung to him like a happy limpet broadening his shoulders, narrowing his waist and making his legs stretch on forever. Kathryn had never seen him so finely dressed. Not even when he wooed Matty. It made her want to giggle and blush like a silly girl. She stamped on the urge and returned his greeting with a smile.

  He bowed low and took her hand as if he greeted the finest lady at court and led her to table.

  He smelled of something spicy and robust. The sort of scent a girl wanted to roll around in like a dog. Speaking of which…

  Dagger lay in regal splendor beside the hearth fire and surveyed the hall. He thumped his tail in greeting and went back to gnawing a large bone. His coat shone as if some kindly soul had taken pity on them all and bathed him.

  “You look lovely,” Roger murmured as he helped her sit.

  Her cheeks heated and she bit back a curse. It did not seem right to curse in a bliaut as fine as this one. “So do you?”

  Up went his eyebrow, a gleam in Roger’s eye.

  “Not lovely.” She blushed hotter. “I meant you look handsome.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  Is this how he had wooed Matty? With that smooth, deep voice and the glimmer of admiration in his eye. Matty had made a poor choice of husband. She supposed Digory to be a pleasant sort, but he lacked Roger’s height, his powerful shoulders, the stern set of his jaw offset by his smiling mouth. Could there be a man alive with eyes quite that shade of blue? Unlikely.

  “My lady?” He cocked his head.

  She flushed. Caught staring and they both knew it.

  A clatter of running feet dragged her attention away. Two boys ran straight for Roger, yelling his name like a pair of marauders.

  “Simon and Arthur.” Sir Gregory took the seat to her left. “Our sons.” Gregory claimed the late Earl’s sons as his with pride. He went up another few notches in her esteem.

  Simon and Arthur clustered about Roger, both of them telling their story at the top of their lungs.

  Roger nodded and answered when appropriate. Although how he kept their stories straight, Kathryn couldn’t fathom.

  Ruth entered the hall with a small child in her arms, bearing a softer expression than Kathryn had seen her wear thus far.

  “Ah.” Gregory’s smile blossomed from nowhere, like an unexpected sun through a rain shower. “And, of course, our sweet little Bess.”

  Ruth handed Bess to Faye.

  Faye turned to Kathryn with the child and introduced her as if the child understood every word.

  Kathryn guessed Bess’s age at around a year or two and was as lovely as one would expect of the child of two such beautiful people.

  An unexpected pang shot through Kathryn. Her chosen life would not bring her children, or a happy hearth such as this one. Up until this moment if you had told her she hankered for children, Kathryn would have laughed in your face. Suddenly the idea did not seem so ridiculous.

  Bess blinked at her, and shoved her tiny, plump fist into her mouth.

  “Would you like to hold her?” Faye held Bess to her.

  Kathryn’s arms shot out as if she had no control of them.

  Bess pressed warm and soft against her breast, a surprisingly hefty little bundle with that unique scent of sweet milk. “She is beautiful.”

  “Aye.” Faye touched Bess’s dark silky hair. “My mother tells me she looks exactly like Roger and William did at this age.”

  Kathryn stopped her snort just in time. Picturing Roger as the delicate, sweet thing in her arms stretched her credulity too far.

  “But not for long.” Faye patted Roger’s cheek. “Before Mother could finish cooing they turned into rotten boys.”

  “Oy.” This, or a version thereof, from the four males present.

  Kathryn enjoyed dinner. With the children in attendance it remained a relaxed, easy affair, mostly taken up with childish chatter and Roger’s increasingly exaggerated and elaborate stories of feats in battle. At least, she hoped they were the rich brewing of his imagination. The idea of Roger taking on five men without a weapon chilled her. She would wager her last hair that dragons no longer existed however, but if they did…

  Shaking her head, Kathryn chuckled at herself. She pictured Roger in the sort of fantastical acts that belonged in the minds of silly girls. In her imaginings she built him into the sort of sword-wielding hero of nauseatingly noble intentions that she’d known since a very early age did not exist.

  Men did not put themselves in danger for their ladylove. Never mind putting themselves in danger, they would barely lift a finger to make themselves uncomfortable. It would never occur to a man to move from his customary place by the fire because his lady had a miserable sore head. Or allow her to take dinner in her room when her joints grew inflamed with winter cold. Instead they used her as a whipping post, a convenient target for their anger and frustration.

  Roger’s breath tickled her neck. “Dark thoughts?”

  “Nay.” Kathryn threw him a smile.

  He quirked his brow, rose and offered her a hand. “Come. You look as if you could benefit from some fresh air.”

  “Where are we going?” Kathryn slid her hand into his.

  “The view from the battlements of Calder is unequaled,” Roger said. “A perfect cure f
or whatever worries you.”

  He kept her hand in his as they left the keep and crossed a small enclosed courtyard to a corner donjon. Steep stairs wound up through rock walls so narrow Roger’s shoulders nearly brushed the sides. Perfect for defense, with no room to swing a sword or nock an arrow. Kathryn approved of the stairs twisting in a way that would advantage a right-handed swordsman descending. Calder’s ancestors had built their keep to be defended from within as well as without.

  They climbed until her legs ached. The air grew brisker as they rose. At the top, Roger stopped, and put his shoulder to a narrow door and pushed.

  Wind whistled across the battlements and snatched Kathryn’s gasp away. Below them spread the treetops in an eye-aching green tapestry.

  “They built the donjon high enough to see above the trees.” Roger led her to the crenellations that guarded the wall edge. “There is only one approach to Calder along that road.” He pointed out a narrow road that wound past a small village. “That is Lower Mere.”

  The road disappeared amongst the trees.

  “From there, the road winds through the forest until it cuts straight through the middle of Upper Mere.” Roger indicated the bustling town at the foot of the castle walls. “The Earls of Calder were determined never to let anyone approach their keep in secret. And, of course, the mere itself guards the front entrance.”

  Upon the battlements the breeze, which would have been gentle below, tugged at her skirts and whipped her hair about. Kathryn shivered as it cut through the thin silk.

  Roger tucked her tight to his chest, and enfolded her from behind in his arms.

  “What of the rear?” Grateful for the warmth, but still Kathryn’s heart set up an erratic pattern. The heat from his chest crept through her back.

  “Ah.” Roger turned them until they faced the opposite side of the keep. “That is her weakness. You could hide an entire army inside those trees. Plenty of time for them to plot a way over these walls.”

  “They are very high. The walls.”

  “Indeed they are.” Roger’s voice rumbled through her. “And the reason for their height is to give the keep a fighting chance against their weakness.”

  “Would you clear the trees?”

  “Nay.” Roger chuckled. “They are too beautiful. From here it feels as if one were a bird, nestled in your aerie in the treetops.”

  Sentiment? From Roger? Kathryn half turned her head to see if he mocked her.

  His gaze roamed the view, his expression quiet and contemplative. Perhaps even a little gentle.

  He glanced at her. “What is it?”

  “I did not judge you as one for romantic notions.”

  “Ah, Kathryn.” He pressed his cheek against hers. “I have entire swathes of romantic notions.”

  Even a girl as inexperienced as she recognized the intimacy of their position. She should wriggle free of his hold. Instead she said, “Tell me of these notions.”

  “Swathes of notions.” His chuckle rumbled through his chest. “And that is a conversation for another time. We must speak, my lady.”

  A warning prickled through her, along with the “my lady” it was enough to have her tense. For a moment she considered pretending not to know where he headed, but Roger would see through her too quickly. He was also right. They did need to have this out. Although she might care little for her reputation, the rest of the world did not share her opinion. She had marked Bess’s shock, caught the significant glances between Roger and his sister.

  Her entire argument for Roger being on this quest in the first place had collapsed with the discovery of Matty’s marriage. Which left them where precisely?

  “Clearly I can no longer marry your sister,” he said.

  Kathryn nodded.

  “You know your father offered you as her replacement before we left Anglesea.”

  “Aye.” Sir Royce would not happily forego a match with Anglesea, which was too bad for him. “I have also been thinking on that.”

  “You have?” He sounded surprised.

  It irked her. Why would he think she had considered her future? “Of course.” She shoved aside the ache and spoke what she knew to be true. “It is obvious that I cannot return to Anglesea with you.”

  “Ah.” Roger tightened his arms about her. “I might have known that would be your solution. You intend to disappear like your sister.”

  “Is there any other course?”

  “Aye.” He rested his chin against her temple. “You could marry me.”

  Shocked near speechless, Kathryn pulled herself from his hold. “Are you addled?”

  “Nay.” His gave a wry smile. “I am in deadly earnest.”

  She could see that.

  His jaw locked in a firm line, his eyes intent.

  “I have told you,” she said. “I will not marry.”

  “And what then?” He growled at her. Aye, growled! “What will you do if I allow you to leave Calder and disappear amongst the trees?”

  Allowed her? She rather thought not. No man allowed or disallowed her aught. “It is not your decision.”

  “Aye, it is.” He grew stern. “Your father betrothed you to me and that makes it my decision.”

  * * * *

  God’s Balls. Roger could bash his own brains out as Kathryn’s shoulders went back and her stubborn chin jutted out. He had erred, and done exactly the opposite of what he set out to do. “Look.” Roger put some distance between them. His thoughts muddled when he touched her. “I said that all wrong. Let us start this conversation again.”

  “I do not care what my father did, or did not do.” Her taut posture shrieked defiance. “And you refused my father’s offer of me.”

  He wanted to shake her, so he stuck his hands behind his back and clasped them. “I understand. I misspoke.” He needed a little of William’s fancy footwork through her stubbornness. “Let us say you leave Calder. Alone.” Over his stiff corpse. “What will you do then?”

  “Whatever I like.”

  “Offer yourself as a sellsword?”

  “I have the skill.” A martial light lit her lovely eyes. “You said so yourself.”

  “Aye, but what baron would hire a female mercenary?”

  Let her try to deny the truth of that. She chewed the lush pillow of her bottom lip as she concocted her next counter argument. “I will go to France.”

  “You have the coin to reach France?”

  “Nay.” Doubt peeked at him from beneath the bravado. “But you do.”

  She surprised a laugh out of him. “You think I will give you the coin to embark on a venture that will get you killed?”

  “You cannot know that.”

  “Aye, I can.” Roger strode to her and gripped her shoulders. “You must see reason in this, sweeting. The world we live in does not lend itself to your dream.”

  Her dejection made him want to lie to her, to tell her all that she wanted to hear. But broken dreams could be mended, put back together with new dreams. He knew no cure for death, or the fate that would find Kathryn if he let her leave here without him.

  “Listen to me.” He tightened his grip and drew her to him. “Listen with your heart and you will know what I say is true. Your dream was a fine one, a beautiful one, but it cannot come true.”

  “Why?”

  God’s bones, she killed him. “You know why. Because of men like that one at the inn, because of men like your father.” He would rather hack his sword arm off than hurt her like this, but he saw no other option. “Do you think your father will let you and Matty go? Dust his hands and say good riddance to the pair of you?”

  She hung her head, obscuring her expression in a cloud of walnut silk.

  “You are the coin by which he secures his future, and he guards that coin like a dragon its gold.”

  Beneath his hands, her shoulders slumped. Unable to resist any longer, he tugged her back into his embrace. “If it were different, I would
let you go.” And chase after her the second she turned her back. “But you must be pragmatic, sweeting. There are often times in war, where logic must win over pride or desire.”

  She stayed resistant and tense against him.

  Roger tried to soothe her pain and stroked the rigid line of her spine. “Think about this instead. You know me, Kathryn. I am not some brutish stranger your father foists on you. And I know you.” She relaxed a mite and he wrapped her tighter. “I know you like to ride breakneck on that horse of yours, yelling like a savage as you wave your sword around.” That earned him the tiniest of chuckles. “And it bothers me not one whit. Jesu, I will teach you how to yield that sword even better.”

  She stilled.

  “I would never seek to change you, or stamp out your spirit. With me as your husband, you could be free to be who you are.”

  “Why?”

  Roger weighted his answer carefully. He sensed the truth would set her running faster, so he said, “I need a wife, and I find you suit me very well.”

  With a soft snort she wriggled free and gazed at him. “I am not a lady. I would make a poor baroness.”

  “You would make the best baroness.” He pulled her against him. Her clever wits would read him too easily. “Because you are the baroness I would choose for myself.” This wooing was an exhausting business, even more so when a man’s very soul hung on the outcome. “Anglesea is a large keep. Your mother could reside there with us.”

  “She could?”

  Victory surged through him. He had her there. “Aye. She would be well cared for and happy amongst her grandchildren.”

  He cursed silently as she stiffened. “Children? You would want children?”

  “Aye.” He would not lie about this. “But not right away.”

  “Hmmm.” The sound hummed through his chest as she pressed her head to his shoulder. “That would require rutting.”

  Roger nigh choked on his tongue. “Pigs rut, Kathryn. I am fairly certain I have never rutted in my life.”

  She snorted, the nuance clearly lost on his ladylove.