“Well, my dear? No greeting for your favorite uncle?”
Aurora stifled a snort. Favorite, indeed. The insufferable knee-jerk. He had not changed one bit. Although, why she expected him to in little more than a week’s time, she wasn’t certain. He would never change. His self-importance and cruelty ran too deep. He would forever be the same.
Keeping her chin level, Aurora replied with a cool serenity she did not feel. “Uncle.”
Hands linked behind his back, Lord Cedric shifted. He pivoted and walked a few paces before turning back, allowing her to see the large shape lingering in the shadows several feet behind him. The move was meant to intimidate her. Even knowing his aim, Aurora couldn’t stop a shiver of unease as she recognized his henchman. Her uncle’s constant companion—a thug willing to do anything his lord required of him.
“She does not appear happy to see us, Boyd. What think you of that?”
Although not tall, as a specimen, Boyd was an impressive study in brute strength. Wide-shouldered with squat tree trunks for legs, his beefy arms and hands had been known to cause a considerable amount of damage. A constant concern for her at Garard Castle, she’d avoided him at every turn. Aurora suppressed a shudder of revulsion as he moved forward. The dull light illuminated a bulbous nose on a wide, flat face littered with spider veins that crept down to meet thin lips pulled back in their usual sneer.
“’ndeed not, m’lord,” Boyd grunted, his beady eyes fixed on her. “Mayhap she’s needin’ some incentive.”
Lord Cedric smirked. “Mayhap, Boyd, mayhap.”
“I am not glad to see you, Uncle.” Tone laced with defiance, she stood strong. Honesty wasn’t the best policy. Aurora knew it, but didn’t care. She was so tired. Tired of being treated like a good-for-naught. Sick to death of rough treatment. Done tolerating both. “Indeed, were I never to see you again, ’twould be too soon.”
Body tense, she watched her uncle’s face flush red. He stepped toward her with an open palm and a raised arm. Accustomed to his tactics, Aurora timed her defense with precision. As his arm arched down, she ducked and skittered sideways to avoid the blow. Hands fisted in front of her and feet spread wide, she readied herself for the next attack. Fear spiked. Her heart thumped, urging her to run. Lord Cedric snarled and swung back toward her, black fury in his eyes.
“Do not touch her, my lord.”
The deep voice came from behind, stopping her uncle mid-swing. He teetered a moment, then regained his balance and looked over her head at the intruder. Still poised to fight, it took a moment for Aurora to react. Before she realized what hit her, the man at her back plucked her from the floor and set her behind a strong pair of shoulders. Shock rolled through her, making her hesitate and stare at the wide back blocking her view. Curiosity thrummed through her. Unable to resist its pull, Aurora peeked around her rescuer, wanting to see the effect he was having on her uncle. A large hand gripped her elbow, arresting her movement from behind. With a gasp, Aurora glanced over her shoulder. Her gaze met a pair of hazel eyes she’d never seen before.
Blessed be, there were two of them.
“Who the hell are you?” her uncle asked, teeth bared in anger.
“We are her protectors, my lord.”
Nostrils quivering, Lord Cedric scowled. Thin brows knitted in fury, he wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth and shifted to pull Aurora from behind her rescuer’s back. When he came away empty-handed, he growled a curse. “Protectors? Insolent curs. I am her guardian, therefore her protector. Now, move out of my way.”
“By the order of our lord, she is not to be touched,” rescuer number one said, palming the hilt of his sword.
Rescuer number two pushed her behind him, backing his comrade, forming a wall of two.
Crowded between two strong men and the stall wall, Aurora bit her lower lip and listened to her uncle snarl like a rabid dog.
“Do you know who I am?” Leather creaked as Lord Cedric growled. “I am the Lord of Garard, by God, and I will seek recompense for this insult. Who the devil is your lord?”
“The Lord of Mornay.”
Silence greeted that pronouncement. And although Aurora knew her uncle’s temper rampaged, she wasn’t surprised when he paused to consider the new tangle in his web. She waited, nerves stretched tight, as stillness infused the air around them. No one moved. Aurora didn’t even breathe as she awaited her uncle’s next move. She could almost hear the wheels in his head turn as he studied the situation, much like an expert chess player seeking to manipulate the outcome of a game.
“I wish to see the Lord of Alvars at once.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
As far as moves went, it was a clever one. If Lord Cedric wanted her released into his custody, after all, he needed the Lord of Alvars’s consent to see it done. But what he didn’t know would be his downfall. Aurora almost smiled, picturing his outrage when he learned of her betrothal. He was bound to be shocked. Enough to have a fit of the apoplexy.
On the heels of that thought, reality came crashing in and doubt attacked her confidence. Oh, nay. Her uncle would give Brigham the perfect excuse…the one he required to be rid of her. No one would blame him for breaking the betrothal as soon as it became known her guardian had not given his consent. Her behavior the previous eve in the Bishop’s chamber would seal the deal. All would doubt her virtue, giving him an excellent means of escape.
Taking a deep breath, Aurora grappled with fear. She must keep her wits in working order. She refused to count on Brigham, knowing he might jump on the opportunity to break the betrothal. And as she followed her rescuers out of the stable, she clung to the only consolation she possessed: if Brigham tossed her aside, Quinlyn would never permit her to be taken from Alvars without a fight.
The thrill of the ride in his veins, Brigham spurred the black on, matching the wind stride for stride. Temperamental, the brisk air clawed at his cloak, whipping the wool in his wake. He barely noticed, too busy sifting through a handful of strategies. One by one he examined, then discarded each idea, struggling to formulate the best approach to take with his future bride. He wanted her willing. Yearned to make her happy. Required her consent to their marriage more than he needed to breathe.
Focused on his objective, he nodded to the guard as he rode beneath the second gate. The black’s hooves hammered the cobblestones. Sharp sound echoed, pinging off thick castle walls. Frowning, he drew rein in the inner bailey, mind still churning over the possibilities. His squire stepped from the shadows at the base of the steps.
Unsurprised to find the lad waiting, Brigham swung from the saddle. “Emmet.”
“Good morrow, my lord. A pleasant ride?”
“Aye, and much needed.” Brigham tossed his squire the reins to the black. “Any news?”
Emmet shook his head. “Nay, leastwise none I am aware of, my lord. I instructed Cook to put something aside for you to break your fast. Do you want me to bring it to your chambers?”
“Nay, I’ll find my way to the kitchen. See to the black,” he said before loping up the front steps to the doors of the keep. As he reached the top, he turned and called to his squire, “Emmet, is Eamon about yet?”
“Aye, my lord. I saw him earlier. I think he may be in his solar.”
Brigham nodded, wrenched open the door, and stepped inside. Navigating the corridor to the great hall, he paused on the threshold. The large chamber brimmed with activity. A number of guests, having been chased from beneath drizzling skies and into the welcoming warmth of the keep, occupied the hall. Folded and stacked, most of the tables and benches stood against the far wall, allowing the congregation more room to circulate and participate in the many pockets of activity spread throughout the space.
Some played games of chance, their voices raised in triumph or defeat depending on which way the dice rolled and fate threw them. Others danced in a circle, holding hands as they spun, chins raised in laughter as the music soared from the minstrels’ instruments. A number of
others strolled or sat sipping ale in front of the great hearth, enjoying the warmth from its embers and picking at the tasty pastries laid out on platters beside them.
Sweeping the crowd with a glance, Brigham knew Aurora was not among them. Probably still sulking. His lips twitched as he pictured her hiding from him in some obscure corner of the keep. Well, she could sulk all she wanted today for on the morrow he would claim her. After that, there would be no more sulking and even less hiding.
After a brief trip to the kitchens, Brigham headed for the solar. And Eamon. His vassal would no doubt be there now, looking over Alvars’s accounts and dealing with any problems before he turned his attention to his guests.
The sound of his boots echoing in the empty corridor, he approached the door. A voice, raised in anger, drifted into the hallway. He drew up short, recognizing a fierce argument when he heard one. Curious now, Brigham stopped just outside the entryway. The door stood ajar, allowing him a narrow line of sight into the chamber. He spotted Eamon and stifled a snort of amusement.
Seated behind a wooden table, his friend wore an expression of extreme distaste. His lips twitched. Christ, would you look at that? Level-headed Eamon was losing his temper. Brigham saw it plain as day, read the signs in the tilt of his friend’s chin and the light in his eyes. His friend wanted to leap over the desk and strangle the man standing in front of it. Brigham didn’t blame him. The man’s argumentative tone would have driven the most pious saint to murder in no time.
Pushing the door further open with his boot, Brigham retreated until his shoulders rested against the wall opposite the doorway, permitting him a clear view of Eamon. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited, amused by his friend’s obvious dislike for the fellow. ’Twas clear from the quality of the visitor’s clothing he was a man of some import. Although, Brigham would have advised against the bright blue over-tunic and vibrant green leggings he wore wrapped about his raw-boned form. But then, there was no accounting for taste, he supposed, further amused by his friend’s show of temper.
The little fop had yet to notice his presence in the hallway. His vassal, however, was not so oblivious and sent him a look of warning. Brigham pushed away from the wall and stepped toward the chamber. The shift brought him flush with the doorframe. Something was not right. He smelled it in the air. Felt it in the tension-filled room. Even so, he stayed silent, waiting for Eamon’s signal.
’Twas Alvar’s business, not his. Only if his vassal asked would he intervene.
Meeting his gaze, Eamon held it a moment, then glanced to his right. Brigham followed the movement. In the space of a heartbeat, his intention to stay out of it died a swift, excruciating death. Bloody hell. Aurora…sitting near the rear of the solar in a low-backed chair.
Every one of his well-honed senses sharpened on her. In an instant, he saw everything. The pallor of her face. The rigidity of her spine. The fury of her hands. Fingers flying, she pulled at the fraying ends of the braided girdle around her hips. Shoulders erect, chin and eyes lowered, she looked impossibly small in the large chamber. He tensed. She was upset. Worried. On the brink of tears. He swallowed a growl, disliking her distress, and turned his attention to the discussion, seeking the source of her misery.
Understanding arrived with agonizing swiftness, dragging with it a tempest of unimaginable proportions. The deadly calm he wore in battle rolled through his veins, filling him with a lethal inclination to inflict a serious amount of carnage. Violence begged for release. Brigham loosed the monster, his gaze riveted on the idiotic fop foolish enough to threaten his future bride.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Surrender: A Necessary Evil
Aurora closed her eyes, positive she was going to die of embarrassment. She’d always suspected her days were numbered, but not once had she guessed this was how she would go. Being drowned in a cesspool or trampled by a crazed warhorse seemed preferable to execution by mortification. ’Twas a shame, really. But then, she figured not many were fortunate enough to choose their own demise.
And as ever, her uncle conceded her nothing.
She expected nothing less, but hoped for something more. Why? She had no idea. ’Twas the height of foolishness to pray for tolerance from the one person incapable of granting it. Still, she couldn’t help herself. No matter how many times her uncle told her she fell short in one way or another, hope clung like a bad smell.
The stink of it was, she liked having hope. Needed it to lift her spirits and prompt her courage when times got tough. Like now, when her uncle belittled her so well she almost believed all the lies he told. She couldn’t deny he was convincing. Others believed him too. She only hoped Eamon saw her uncle for what she knew him to be—a slippery eel with great cunning and oratory skills.
Smoothing the frayed ends of her girdle into straight lines, she transferred her attention to the two men butting heads a few feet away. Her gaze drifted from Eamon to her uncle. Tension rode a razor’s edge, making the chamber vibrate with all the intensity of a lightning storm. The charge pricked her skin, causing the fine hair on her arms to stand on end. Chilled from the inside out, Aurora fidgeted in her chair, then bit down on her bottom lip. She needed to do something fast, before something dreadful happened.
And someone died.
Putting a stranglehold on her fear, she hurled herself into the fray, interrupting her uncle’s diatribe. “Lord Eamon, I know my behavior was not…but if you will permit me, my lord, I can explain.”
Eamon’s gaze warmed as it landed on her. “An explanation is not necessary, Aurora.”
“I should say not,” Lord Cedric said, glowering at her. “Be silent, girl, and mind your place. Do as you are told and it will go easier on you. Lord Eamon and I are discussing your transgressions and will do so without your interference.”
Curling her fingers into the folds of her skirt, Aurora glanced at Eamon. “But—”
“Patience, Aurora, and wait,” Eamon said, gentle reproof in his voice. He treated her to a pointed look, then returned his attention to her uncle. “You would do well to counsel your tone, my lord. I rule here, not you.”
Her uncle placed a hand over his heart and lowered his gaze. “Apologies for my harshness, Lord Eamon, but such is necessary with her. You cannot know the difficulties…ah, but then I do not blame you. ’Tis even understandable. You are unaware of my niece’s condition.”
Aurora blinked. “My condition?”
Eamon raised a brow. “Enlighten me, Lord Cedric.”
“Would that I could trust her, but I cannot in good conscience leave her in your care. I am responsible for her, after all, and would not forgive myself were anything serious to befall your household.”
“Do you threaten my people, my lord?”
The chill in Eamon’s tone caused Aurora to swallow in apprehension.
“Nay, my lord, never would I do such a thing, but I…my apologies. I had hoped to avoid it, but I can see I will have to be nothing less than candid with you.” Her uncle cleared his throat. Running his hand over the top of his head, he frowned before leaning forward to confide something important. “It is a family embarrassment of sorts.”
Arms crossed over his chest, Eamon leaned back in his chair. Expression set, he balanced on its two back legs. “Really? Do tell.”
“Lord Eamon, clearly you can see my niece is not well.”
“I see nothing of the sort,” Eamon said. “She appears to be in perfect order.”
“Aye, but sadly appearances are ofttimes deceiving, my lord. Of course, I do not blame you for your confusion. She has periods of tremendous lucidity, however, her actions are all that is required to see the truth of it.”
“What?” Aurora gasped, understanding what her uncle sought to accomplish. Jumping to her feet, she gritted her teeth in an attempt to moderate her tone. “I am not mad. What in God’s name are you about, Uncle?”
“The truth, girl,” Lord Cedric said, his tone almost gentle. “I should have told it long ago, but a
las, I wished to protect the family name.”
Fury consumed her. “The only one mad here, Uncle, is you.”
Waving a hand in her direction, Lord Cedric smirked in triumph. “As you can see, Lord Eamon, she is not at all stable.”
“Aurora, sit down,” Eamon said, his gaze locked on her uncle. When she didn’t comply and opened her mouth to reply, he pinned her with his icy blue gaze. “Sit.”
Aurora sat. Tears welling in her eyes, she fiddled with the fraying end of her braided girdle.
“This is a serious charge, Lord Cedric. I trust you have some sort of proof?”
Lord Cedric sighed, adopted a sad expression, and waved a hand in her direction. “As I wrote in the missive, she is really quite ill. I have consulted a number of physicians. Alas, none could give me a better solution than to lock the girl away. She is a danger both to herself and others. There have been a number of injuries resulting from, well, let us just say I have pulled her from enough beds to know.”
Aurora’s head came up. “Beds?”
“The men she has…suffice it to say my niece’s days of innocence are long behind her, and those she lured received far more than they bargained for in her bed.”
Lips parted in shock, Aurora struggled to understand. What, pray tell, was her uncle accusing her of? Taking men to her bed with the intention of maiming them? The notion was so ludicrous she almost laughed, then thought better of it when a heavy silence descended upon the chamber.
God’s teeth, this was serious.
Shivering with the realization the only person standing in the way of her uncle declaring her mentally unstable was Eamon, she peeked in his direction. She tensed and dropped her eyes back to her lap. Dear lord, his scowl was fierce enough to scare the wool off sheep.
Aurora could hardly blame him.
From the fierceness of Eamon’s expression alone, she could practically read his mind. The Lord of Alvars was struggling with a powerful urge, one that wanted him to leap over the desk and pound the smug idiot before it into the floorboards. Perfectly understandable. Any man who’d been roused from the pleasure of his marriage bed to listen to her uncle’s contrived bit of stupidity would be in a killing mood. So aye. He had every right to his foul temper. And if push came to shove, she wouldn’t be surprised if Eamon turned a homicidal eye in her direction after he murdered Uncle Cedric.
Warrior's Revenge Page 16