by Shayla Black
The rest of her was too furious to care!
“When, pray tell, had you planned on sharing this truth with me? Upon the birth of our first child?”
“Gwenyth.” He turned to her with an agitated scowl. “To have a first child, we would have to share a bed.”
That she ignored. “Or perhaps upon my deathbed. Aye, when I would no longer have the strength to care for Penhurst’s villagers’ rebuffs and Nellwyn’s bragging. When it would no longer matter who Sir Penley wed. Or perhaps not even then. Isn’t that right, my lord?” she sneered.
Aric looked away from her. Had she imagined the flash of guilt upon his face? She hoped not. She wanted the devious pox-ridden mongrel to suffer and rot!
“As I have told you more than once, I consider that part of my life over. I saw no reason before now to tell you of a life I planned never to return to. ’Twas not done to anger you but to help me find peace.”
“Peace? What drivel is this? Warriors and earls know battle and leadership.”
“And that is why I left. I had experienced both war and power before. I wanted no more of either.”
“You left of your own will? Are you mad—or merely senseless?”
Aric blasted her with a warning glare from a face suddenly ruddy with emotion. She heeded it not.
Gwenyth tossed up her hands. “You planned to keep this all from me forever so I might never have a choice. So I would be forced to endure the life you wanted, never mind what my heard desired.”
“’Twas not my intent, little dragon.”
She grunted her disbelief. “You thought of me not at all and apparently never will.”
Before he could reply, Gwenyth set her mare at a gallop and left Aric behind, almost wishing it could be forever.
* * * *
Staring at her husband’s back as he swayed in the saddle with irritating grace, Gwenyth resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. She was weary and hot after four days of constant travel north, too much so to take careful note of the changing countryside. More, she was tired of Aric’s completely ignoring her, while Kieran chattered away about nothing important. She was afraid of what lay ahead.
Most of all, she was afraid of the reason she could not bring herself to hate Aric completely for his duplicity.
During the journey, Aric had said precious little else about his home, Northwell. In fact, the closer they drew, the less he said. Still, knowing ’twas home to a part of the great Neville family made the castle sound grand indeed. But part of Gwenyth wondered if Aric would continue to withdraw as they drew closer to his past. Would they ever recapture the closeness they had shared at the cottage that had so warmed her heart? Would he ever want to touch her again, as she still longed to feel him?
The fact he seemed wholly disinterested in both made her heart ache and her fears multiply. She had every reason to be angry with him, so why was he not speaking to her?
“Spring has never been so lovely,” Kieran said as he rode up beside her. “Do you not agree?”
She shot him a withering stare. “If I could but rest for a moment to enjoy it, I might.”
Kieran laughed. “Do you always speak your mind so plainly?”
Before Gwenyth could reply, Aric did so as he rode ahead of them. “Always.”
Scowling at Aric’s back, she declared, “I see no reason to behave as though I have not a thought or opinion of my own, even if others do.”
Aric stiffened. Without a glance in her direction, he rode ahead, Dog following obediently, leaving her to Kieran’s dubious mercy.
“’Tis certain you are in no danger of that, good lady,” Kieran returned, gently teasing.
Gwenyth leaned toward him on her saddle. “What of you? Do you see any reason to submit to silence when your thought might be of import?”
With a considering stare, Kieran appeared to mull over her question before he finally shook his head. “I suppose not.”
“Unlike our friend”—she gestured toward Aric, riding much ahead of them now—“you see the need to voice your opinions and hear those of others. A more pig-brained, mulish varlet I have yet to meet.”
Kieran shook his head, wearing an amused grimace. “Well, no one ever said wedded life was naught but bliss.”
She snorted. “A husband would, at least, have to speak to his wife to have a blissful marriage.”
“True enough,” Kieran admitted, then hesitated, his smile fading. “But Aric… He has had much disappointment of late. I gather your sudden marriage was not a simple one.”
Truer words had ne’er been spoken. She stated the obvious anyway. “’Twould appear that is no secret.”
Shrugging, Kieran went on. “There is much of Aric you do not know—”
“Because he does not tell me.”
“Aye, but he would be agreeable to any kindness you can give him. Honestly.”
Though the anger in her wanted to fling the words back in his face, her curiosity wanted more information. “This difficulty you speak of… Is that why he chose to leave a home of such importance and exaltation?”
He responded with a stare that held restraint and chiding at once. “That truth must be borne between you two.”
From that, Gwenyth feared Kieran’s revelations, slight as they were, had ended—unless she could think of another manner to promote his unwitting confidences.
“Of course,” she assured him. “And someday soon, I hope Aric will tell me all.” Gwenyth smiled brightly, nearly certain that day would never come. “Until them, tell me of you. Do you hail from the north of England as well?”
“Nay, good lady. I spent my young years in Ireland learnin’ to be a scamp and a rogue.” He dipped into a brogue, but the smile she expected never came. Pain flashed across his features, then disappeared. “After eight summers, my mother brought me to the Earl of Rothgate and bid the good man to train me as a knight.”
“For whom do you fight?”
“For whomever offers the most exciting battle.” A glowing grin punctuated his strange reply.
Battle, exciting?
“Sir, I do not understand. In what way does battle excite you?”
Kieran looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “In every way. A man must keep his wits about him during the whirl of activity. It requires strength and speed. Each battle seems to test a knight more than the last. The heady rush of emotion and fervor—”
“And you enjoy this?” She frowned, uncomprehending.
“Aye. Nothing like the freedom and discipline combined to set a man’s heart soaring.”
A man’s heart soaring? Gwenyth bit her lip as a terrible thought occurred to her. “All men feel as you do?”
“Oh, nay. Yon husband there”—he gestured toward Aric, still riding ahead—“would now rather spend his time engaged in other activities. He battles well, better than most every man in England, and once, he seemed to enjoy the fight.” Kieran paused as if seeking an answer. He shrugged. “But no more.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Gwenyth asked, “Did you meet Aric while aiding him to wage war on his enemies?”
“Such imagination,” he teased. “Nay, Aric and I, along with Drake, trained together as knights with the Earl of Rothgate. We’ve been close, like brothers, since.”
“Is that why he will leave his solitude so he might help Drake?”
Kieran lifted a shoulder in response. “Again, you shall have to ask him.”
Gwenyth wanted to tell Kieran he was proving to be of little help in her quest for information, but she knew that was his purpose. Still, it did not stop her frustration from climbing.
She chose another topic. “Who else lives at his castle?”
After a pause, Kieran supplied, “His brother, Stephen. And his…stepmother, Rowena.”
“He told me once he and Stephen have little in common.”
Kieran’s blue eyes flashed with surprise. “Indeed. Stephen is a fool. Young. He has much to learn, though he sees this not.”
“And
Rowena? Are she and Aric civil to one another?”
“At times.”
Gwenyth nodded. Such made sense. The woman who had sought to take his mother’s place would not be welcomed, particularly since his parents had loved so well.
Had her father wed again after her mother’s terrible death, it would have angered her more like than not.
When she turned to say such to Kieran, he looked as though he wanted to say something more, then decided against it. She clenched her fists in frustration as he said, “That is enough for now. Since you believe Aric must talk to you to make your marriage one of bliss, I should think you might spend your time asking him questions, rather than me.”
With a mocking nod, he urged his mount forward to Aric’s side.
* * * *
After a fortnight’s journey, the familiar walls of Northwell came into view, jutting up from the edge of a windswept cliff. The castle sprawled across a strip of land, seeming to defy the mighty sea directly at its back while lording over the village below. Twilight bathed the massive towers and outer walls in a vivid orange, flushing the stones with soft color. Flags with the Neville coat of arms, held stiff by the breeze, flew from the east and west turret towers.
At the sight of his ancestral home, Aric waited for pride or gladness. Instead, he felt nothing except a pang of dread. He had never meant to return to this world where fathers betrayed sons, where greed usurped goodness, where a man killed his young nephews and seized the crown for himself—and no one stopped him.
For the dozenth time in nearly as many days, Aric asked himself why he had come. His answer was always the same: Drake. For the man who was more like a brother, Aric would see his blood oath upheld, would walk through wind, rain, fire. Drake would do no less for him.
At his side, Aric caught sight of Gwenyth. Her bowed pink mouth hung open in awe as she stared at Northwell. She would be happy here. The people would come to like and respect her forthright manner, despite the fact their first glimpse of their new mistress would be with windblown hair and a much-rumpled red silk dress.
That rapt look on her face shredded his gut. Aye, he wanted Gwenyth provided for, and somewhere in the past few weeks, her happiness had become absurdly important to him.
But, damnation, he did not want to be back at Northwell.
Within moments, he and Kieran and Gwenyth were spotted by sentries. A shout resounded before a small party met them at the gatehouse entrance. Dog growled in warning, and Aric stayed the mutt with a soothing whisper.
Apprehension biting into his stomach, Aric watched Stephen approach, looking as young and lanky as ever with his shaggy sandy hair and mischievous brown eyes. Rowena stood at his side, her hand upon his arm, slender, regal, ethereal as always, her smooth face unreadable. Reginald, the elderly steward, and Baswain, the rotund porter, stood abreast of Stephen and Rowena, who wore disapproving scowls, which Aric avoided.
In silence, Aric brought his horse to a halt, casting his gaze about the garrison. Naught within this part of the castle had changed. The soldiers standing about the lower bailey clutched mugs of ale and reveled in their laughter. They had grown round bellies in his absence. He scowled.
“Aric, you’ve returned!” said his brother. “’Tis good to see you again.”
“Stephen,” he greeted coolly, then turned to help Gwenyth dismount.
His brother seemed to notice nothing amiss in the indifferent greeting. Nor did Aric expect he would. ’Twas simply Stephen’s way.
“Sir Kieran,” he heard Stephen say next. “Good to see you, as well.”
His friend nodded. “Young Stephen. You’ve grown quite tall since I last saw you three…perhaps four years ago.”
As Aric turned with Gwenyth’s hand in his, he saw Stephen square his spindly shoulders and puff out his lean chest. “I am twenty years now.”
“My, that old? ’Tis certain such advanced age will bring on infirmity at any moment,” Kieran teased.
Stephen laughed. Then silence fell over the gathering. To Aric’s surprise, Rowena filled it.
“Sir Kieran,” she greeted, the breeze lifting the golden hair about her shoulders, “I trust all is well with you.”
“If I were any happier the king would surely grow suspicious.”
Her wan smile showed little appreciation for his friend’s humor. But then Rowena had never thought life something to laugh at. She had little appreciation for much beyond money and power. Her final act of betrayal had proven that.
“Aric,” she acknowledged, her cool, pale eyes assessing him.
Her gaze might have been avaricious or aloof. The woman’s expressions had ever been a mystery to him. Mayhap that explained why he so appreciated Gwenyth’s readable countenance. He never had to guess long to know what she thought, and she never hid from him.
His former betrothed was like a pond. The surface remained placid, but beneath the still, murky waters lay a life the mere observer could scarce comprehend. Gwenyth, on the other hand, was like the sea—stormy, ever-changing, rarely leaving one to guess what took place within her depths.
Suddenly, he felt very glad for their differences.
“Rowena.” He returned her greeting with even less warmth.
He had always suspected she would stay within the circle of his powerful family even after the death of her husband, Aric’s own father. To be proven correct, as evidenced by the fact she clung to his younger brother with a possessive air, only annoyed him more. Then he noted the way she was staring at Gwenyth, civil but not welcoming, with a hint of disdain thrown in.
“Who is your…companion, Aric? Will you not introduce us to her?”
Aric was not fooled by Rowena’s cordial request. She was unhappy he had come home with a woman in tow. He was not certain why. More than like because Gwenyth was worthy competition for her beauty. Rowena never liked that.
“Stephen, Rowena, this is Lady Gwenyth, late of Penhurst Castle.”
Urging her closer to the remnants of his family, Aric paused with great intentions. Let Stephen wonder and Rowena stew. ’Twas no less than either of them deserved, Stephen for his irresponsibility and Rowena for her superiority.
He watched their rapt faces. Good, he thought, eager to deliver the shock that would change both their lives.
Finally, he smiled. “Gwenyth is my wife.”
Stephen’s eyes near popped from his head. Rowena gasped, then recovered herself. Watching them both, Aric could see understanding dawn: Stephen wondering if Aric, with a wife in tow, was likely here to stay and resume his role as lord of Northwell, and Rowena probably seeing Gwenyth as a new chatelaine, eager to assume Rowena’s duties. And as Gwenyth currently occupied Aric’s life and most likely his bed, Aric would have no need of any offer Rowena might make to warm his sheets so she might retain control of the keep and servants.
The terrible anguish he felt about coming here again, living here once more, dissipated for a brief moment as he drank in the possibilities.
At the very least, he could make their lives a walking hell upon earth. The thought made him smile.
Until something on Rowena’s countenance changed. Her nearly colorless blue gaze swept over Gwenyth with a mixture of fear, contempt, and malice. Her small mouth pursed with determination.
At his side, Gwenyth gazed about at the keep, never noticing Rowena’s expression. Aric slipped his arm quietly around her waist, glowered at Rowena, and felt a heated stir of determination to protect his wife.
CHAPTER NINE
For two days, they remained at Northwell without incident, Aric and Kieran awaiting men and supplies so they might rescue Drake from Murdoch MacDougall’s dungeon. Then a royal page arrived, bearing Richard III’s coat of arms.
The young man left the castle’s great hall immediately after he sought Aric and delivered the missive from his master.
Gwenyth held her breath, not believing for an instant her husband’s reaction would be pleasant. She knew better. Since they had arrived, his expr
ession had been surly, his mood sour, his demeanor utterly silent. He had not slept in their chamber more than a brief hour or two, much less than the scant amount he slept at the cottage.
Without asking, she knew he did not wish to be here at Northwell. Another summons from the king, whom he seemed to hold in oddly marked contempt, was not likely to improve his manner.
“What does it say?” Stephen asked, lounging on a gleaming bench by a blazing fire, a mug of ale cupped in one hand.
When Aric looked up from the summons, his eyes were as flat and bleak as she had ever seen them. His usually mobile mouth was set in stiff lines, as were his shoulders. Without knowing why, exactly, Gwenyth’s heart ached for him.
“He wants an army at the ready for the next battle.”
“’Tis as his last note says, I think he fears Henry Tudor is gaining some support,” Kieran added from his chair on the dais. He eyed a passing kitchen wench, who smiled in return.
“Aye,” added Stephen. “You are far superior at war and such, Aric, so I sent for you.”
Ah, so Stephen had sent the missive Aric had allowed the rain to destroy. From the annoyance stamped on her husband’s lean features, she could tell he wished the foolish boy had not sent for him at all.
“I have no intent to amass an army for Richard,” Aric said finally. “We will not reply.”
“Not reply! Aric, Richard is our king. We have ever been loyal to the Yorkist cause. Why would we not aid him against this Welsh pretender of the Lancasters?”
Emotions flashed across Aric’s face—anger, guilt, resignation. Just as quickly, his expression became blank once more, no emotion visible in the narrowing of his flat gray eyes. Gwenyth frowned, wondering at all his sentiments and whence they had come.
“I am done raising my sword,” Aric declared at length. “I have told you so again and again. Richard has other northern lords, like Northumberland, willing to aid his cause. But no one at Northwell will do so.”
“’Tis treason you speak! He will send his soldiers here to cart you off to London and give us a traitor’s execution.”