Lord of Lyonsbridge

by Ana Seymour

  She hadn’t noticed that one of the twins had crawled out of Connor’s arms and crept up beside her. The child was carefully tracing the gold-embroidered pattern on Ellen’s overskirt with a single tiny finger.

  “Karyn, leave the lady’s dress,” Sarah admonished.

  The girl looked straight up, her blue eyes meeting Ellen’s with a tentative smile. Ellen felt that same warm rush again. “It’s fine,” she said. She crouched down and spread her skirt out in front of her. “You see?” she said to the child. “It’s a dragon, but it’s not a fierce one like the creatures at the ends of the earth. Mine’s a friendly one, don’t you think?”

  The girl bobbed her head, her eyes still fixed on Ellen’s face.

  “You can trace its tail, if you like.” She grasped the girl’s hand so the two could feel the pattern together. Karyn turned her attention to the skirt and carefully followed each bump of the beast’s tail, then she looked up again at Ellen, her smile brilliant.

  Ellen had a strong urge to hug her, but she wasn’t sure how the embrace would be received, so she merely said, “I’ll bring you a dragon of your own one of these days.” When the girl’s eyes registered some alarm, she added, “A wooden one, not a real one, cherie. Another friendly one, like the one on my skirt.”

  Once again the girl looked up, and this time her eyes held something akin to adoration.

  “She says thank you, mum,” said her twin brother, who still stood clasped in the kneeling Connor’s arms.

  Karyn nodded a silent agreement.

  It was heartbreaking to think that such a perfect little creature could not speak for herself. Ellen wondered what could have caused the affliction. She’d been “struck dumb,” they’d said. Had she once spoken, then? Of course, Ellen knew that such things occurred, and that sometimes it was best not to inquire too deeply into the why of it, lest it be a witch’s spell. She couldn’t imagine that even a witch could be so evil as to wish harm on a sweet little child such as Karyn Cooper.

  “You are good to us, milady,” the widow said. “As soon as I feel better, I’ll be bringing up a pork cake for your table.”

  Ellen blinked. She couldn’t ever remember a tenant in Normandy offering food for the master’s table. The idea seemed almost absurd. It was obvious that this peasant family had so little, while her father’s household wanted for nothing. She didn’t know how to reply.

  Connor saved her from doing so. “Widow Cooper’s pork cake is famous in the shire,” he said, smiling first at the older woman, then at Ellen. “’Twill be a rare treat for you.”

  The widow seemed pleased with the praise, but looked noticeably more tired than when they’d entered the cottage. “I should get me mum back into bed,” Sarah murmured, her eyes downcast.

  Ellen straightened up quickly. “Of course you should, child. I didn’t come to tire her further. We’ll take our leave, Master Brand.”

  She looked at Connor, who gave little Abel a final squeeze and stood. She’d almost forgotten about him for several moments as she spoke with the tenant family, but now, looking at how his tall form dwarfed the shadowy cottage, she felt a stir of excitement. They’d yet to have their promised race.

  After John and Sarah refused their offer to help get the widow back into bed, they said their goodbyes and left. Once again, Ellen was struck with a sense of freedom as she emerged from the gloomy cottage into the sun. What would it be like to live with five people in such a tiny place? she wondered for the first time in her life. But her thoughts did not linger long with the question.

  As on their first visit, there had been no one to greet them when they’d ridden through town, but on the return trip, Ellen could spot a villager here and there, usually behind their cottages tending gardens. None were near enough to hail, so they rode through without stopping. If any of them thought it unusual to see the lady of the land riding astride a big horse, her skirts bunched up about her, at least none was rude enough to stare.

  “I have to give you the right of it, milady,” Connor told her as they left the village. “You ride that saddle almost as well as a man, in spite of the difference in raiments.”

  Ellen’s eyes flashed gold. “Almost as well, Master Brand? Now there’s a challenge if I’ve ever heard one.”

  “I didn’t mean it so,” he replied with an easy smile. But he didn’t withdraw his words.

  “I can see I’ll have to convince you with deed rather than word.”

  “You’d fancied a race, as I understood it.”

  “Aye, but since I know not the countryside, you’ll have to set the course, which gives you the advantage.”

  He drew up his horse and stood in the stirups to survey the landscape. The road from the village back to Lyonsbridge was gently hilly, but to the west lay. a stretch of meadow that was mostly flat and even. He pointed in that direction. “We can cross Anders’ Lea for nigh on five miles without an obstacle. ‘Twould seem fair enough to you?”

  It was the charming Connor she was glimpsing today, but as he indicated their route, his expression challenged. There was something between them, she and this horse master. It wanted resolution. She needed to defeat him at his own game and put this to rest once and for all.

  “Aye,” she said, gathering Jocelyn’s reins firmly in hand. “Give the word.”

  “Nay, ‘tis always the privilege of the fairest lady to start the race.” His eyes lingered on her face as he spoke.

  Ellen tamped down the knot that rose in her throat. It was past time to put this foolishness over a servant behind her. She’d show up the man at his own mastery, then she’d go back to concentrating on putting her father’s castle to rights, which was, after all, the reason she was here.

  “Then let it begin,” she said with a toss of her head.

  Before the last word even left her lips, both horses had sprung into action, moving smoothly, side by side, the sleek bay mare and the heavier black stallion, hooves reverberating hollowly on the grassy terrain.

  They rode in silence for several minutes, riders as well as horses lost in the sheer enjoyment of speed and freedom. Ellen clutched Jocelyn’s back between her legs, ignoring the indecorous bit of hose showing at her ankles, and laughed with delight. They neared a middle section of the meadow where the grass grew higher, but Jocelyn was undaunted by the weeds whipping around her legs. Connor’s horse slowed slightly, and she pulled ahead.

  “I’ll see you at the finish, horse master,” she shouted back at him, her smile taunting.

  He appeared totally relaxed in his saddle and returned her smile with a small wave of his hand.

  The course was longer than she’d anticipated, and she could tell that Jocelyn was tiring, but the noble animal kept running at full speed. She’d not stop until Ellen bade her, even if she exhausted herself.

  Less than a quarter mile distant, Ellen could see that the meadow ended abruptly at a grove of mature oak trees. She smiled to herself as she realized that the victory she’d sought was at hand. “Just a little more, girl,” she whispered under her breath.

  Suddenly Connor’s horse flashed by, nearly twice the speed of hers, knocking away her breath like a blow to the stomach. She almost lost her grasp on the reins, but Jocelyn stayed on course and did not slow her pace. Nevertheless, when they reached the trees, Connor was already there and dismounted, his face annoyingly impassive, standing ready to catch her mount’s reins.

  As Jocelyn obligingly pulled up, her flanks heaving, Ellen sat in her saddle, stunned.

  “’Twas a good race, milady,” Connor said after a moment. “You led me a chase.”

  “You were well behind,” Ellen said in disbelief.

  “Nay. I was but pacing.”

  She shook her head. “’Twas not a distance to be paced. Jocelyn rode full out the entire way.”

  “That was your mistake. A slower middle makes for a lightning-fast ending.”

  His tone was not mocking, which helped her pride. Grudgingly, she said, “’Twas lightning fast, i
n truth. I’ve never seen such speed.”

  Connor allowed himself a small smile. “Thunder’s a good mount.”

  “I’d like to ride him sometime.”

  Connor nodded. “I’d not trust him with many, but your ladyship rides well.”

  She sensed that the compliment was genuine, and one that he gave rarely. It pleased her immensely.

  He walked a couple steps, leading both horses into the shade of the oak grove. “Would my lady dismount a few moments so they can rest?” he asked.

  “Aye.” She swung her leg over her mount’s back in a most unladylike fashion and twisted around to slide to the ground. Connor watched her, an odd expression on his face.

  “You move like a nimble young lad,” he said after a moment.

  Ellen laughed. “My chaperon would be wailing to hear you say that.”

  “Your chaperon?”

  “I left her in Normandy,” she explained. “Against my father’s wishes. I’m a grown woman now, not a girl to have every move studied by a dour old nursemaid.”

  Connor was the one studying her now, she realized, and he did not have the look of a nursemaid. After a moment his scrutiny grew uncomfortable. “’Tis not polite to stare, horse master. Do they not teach that in England?”

  He grinned, not insulted. “I beg your pardon, milady. My sainted mother tried to teach me manners, but she also taught me to appreciate the beauty of all living things.”

  His gesture encompassed the stately trees around them, but both knew that it had not been the trees he’d been admiring. “She sounds like a wonderful woman,” Ellen said, wondering if at last she would find out something about the background of this extraordinary man. “Does she live in the village?”

  “Nay, milady. If ‘tis true that God is just, she lives with the angels.”

  “I’m sorry, Master Brand. What about your father?”

  Connor grinned. “Ah now, the case is not so clear with my father. God might have had to sprinkle a bit of mercy in with the justice in order to lift Geoffrey Brand to the holy choir. But I like to think of them as being together.”

  “As I’m sure they are,” Ellen said, making a hasty sign of the cross. “They have your brother to pray for their souls.”

  “Aye.”

  He turned away from her, evidently dismissing the topic of his family. Ellen watched as he neatly tied the reins of both horses to a low branch. He was wearing a leather doublet today that emphasized the broad stretch of his back. With his wide shoulders and blond hair, he had the look of the fearsome Viking raiders of old that they sung of in the ballads.

  He pulled a flask from a pouch at the front of his saddle and turned back to her, offering it. “Art thirsty?” he asked, then stopped as both realized the impropriety of his informal address. “Would you have some wine, milady?” he amended.

  She nodded without mentioning the oversight and reached for the flask. Their fingers met alongside the smooth leather, his warm, hers cold. He held on for an extra moment before relinquishing the flask.

  Ellen’s throat had gone dry, but not from the ride. She pulled out the stopper and took a long pull of the sweet berry wine. Then another.

  Connor chuckled. “Milady can drink as well as ride,” he observed.

  She looked for signs of his earlier mocking smile, but there was no trace of it. “I was my father’s only child. He taught me as both daughter and son,” she told him, handing him back the flask.

  “Did you leave any?” he joked, taking a short drink, then offering it to her again.

  She refused it with a shake of her head, wandering instead into the grove, where the grass gave way to moss, soft and spongy under her slippers. He followed behind her.

  “They say some of these trees are a hundred years old,” he said. “They were here before the first Norman ever laid eyes on this land.”

  Ellen looked over her shoulder and gave him a saucy smile. “Are you trying to claim these trees as Saxon, Master Brand?”

  He smiled back a bit sheepishly. “I remember coming here when I was a child. The spot has not changed since then, though most other things have.”

  “’Twould be a dull world without change, horse master.”

  “Mayhap.”

  They’d reached a small clearing, where the trees formed such a perfect circle it appeared that they had been placed there by design. “This is where the faeries dance,” Connor told her.

  She stopped and gave a small twirl. “’Tis an enchanted place, then?”

  He’d stopped behind her and was watching her again with that intense expression. “So say the old wives of the village.”

  “I can almost feel it.” She spun again, and nearly lost her balance. She reached her hand out to steady herself against the trunk of a tree, but instead found Connor’s broad chest as he stepped near to keep her from falling.

  “I’m not as graceful as the faeries, I fear,” she gasped, laughing up into his face.

  His smile had disappeared.

  “But thou art twice as lovely, Ellen of Wakelin,” he said, his voice suddenly grown hoarse.

  Her laughter died as his arms went around her, pulling her against him. His face loomed over her in the shadows, then blurred as he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, softly at first, then with mounting passion.

  She felt the flow of it through every limb, like hot honey, melting and sweet. Her mouth opened naturally under his and their tongues swirled together, sending a shaft of feeling plunging through her midsection. Her head fell back, and he moved his kisses from her mouth to the soft white skin of her neck.

  She’d never so much as imagined such sensations.

  Then it was over, with the suddenness of a dousing in an icy pond.

  He stepped back, his expression angry, and swore softly under his breath.

  Ellen’s mind was ajumble. She was bewildered and hurt by the abrupt shift in him, but even more, she was afraid at how powerless she’d been those few moments in his arms. She’d been courted by many men and had allowed a fortunate few the favor of a kiss. But she’d never been kissed, not like this. And by a mere servant. Was this what it felt like to be a wanton? she wondered.

  “I’d not meant to let that happen,” Connor said finally. “We’d best get back, and mayhap next time you’ll bring an escort from the castle as I told you.”

  His expression was returning to normal, probably faster than her own, and it infuriated her even more to think that he could dismiss what had just happened so easily.

  “I could have you whipped for what you just did, horse master,” she snapped.

  He grinned. “I think not. I suspect you’d go to great lengths to ensure that your cousin doesn’t learn that you took advantage of your lack of chaperonage and challenged one of his servants to a race alone across the countryside.”

  “I’d engaged for a race, not a kiss.” The more she thought about the encounter, the angrier she became. Connor continued to smile, the mocking one again.

  “Mayhap ‘twas the faeries,” he said nonchalantly, glancing around the clearing. “We’ll pretend we weren’t responsible and take care not to let it happen again.”

  “You can be sure of that, horse master. You’ll not lay hands on me again, or I swear my cousin and everyone else in the castle will hear of it. ‘Twill not be my reputation that will suffer. You’ll be banished from this shire, if not worse.”

  As angry as she was, even saying the words left her with a feeling of loss. Somehow Connor Brand and Lyonsbridge seemed inextricably linked. She couldn’t imagine the place without him.

  He stood only a couple of feet from her. She could still feel the power of those arms. Her lips still burned. Sweet St. Ellen, she prayed silently, purge these sensations from me. Obliterate the memory.

  She spun around on her heel and started walking, then realized she had no idea which direction to go in the thick grove.

  From behind her, his hand gently grasped her shoulder and turned her toward the righ
t. “This way, milady,” he said softly.

  She pulled away from his touch and marched briskly in the direction he had indicated, her eyes fixed ahead. She’d not look at him again, this audacious servant. She’d never again make the mistake of looking into those devastating blue eyes.

  All the way back to the castle she kept silent, and kept her pledge. She allowed him to assist her off the horse, but did not look at his face. She offered no thanks for the day’s excursion, and made sure not to let his hand brush her as he reached for Jocelyn’s reins.

  Climbing up to the castle without looking back, she repeated it to herself as in a litany. This madness was over.

  Chapter Six

  Sebastian Phippen scowled across the table at his bailiff. “Lord Wakelin may be satisfied with the current revenues, but I believe there are more to be had.”

  Sir William shook his head. “We’ve near bled the village these two years past, gathering monies for the crusades. And now with Lady Ellen wanting all these changes at the castle, the expenses here have gone up rather than down.”

  Slamming his hand on the thick ledger in front of him, Sebastian replied, “Female fripperies. She’s having furniture shipped from Normandy and has engaged for a tapestry to be sewn depicting a view of the castle from the coast road. I’ve sent for her to discuss the matter.”

  Sir William’s eyes darted from side to side. “Begging your lordship’s pardon, but I trow she has the right. ‘Tis not true that Lord Wakelin has declared his daughter heir to Lyonsbridge?”

  “I’m not a lord, man. Not as yet,” Sebastian replied smoothly with an oily smile. “Naturally, ‘tis my cousin’s interests I’m protecting by these measures. Since she’s a woman, she can’t be expected to understand the importance of such matters.”

  They were seated in Sebastian’s antechamber, a small, cold room on the third floor of the castle, much less luxurious than the rooms surrounding the master’s chambers, which had been occupied by Lady Ellen herself.