His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms)

by Shayla Black

  He bellowed for his squire, noticing Gwenyth still standing at the edge of the room, her eyes wide with terror. He looked away.

  “My lord?” the young boy asked.

  “Send Lady Beaufort’s page away with the message that we have no interest in her information.”

  The squire nodded before he walked away to do as he had been bid. Aric ignored his own regret. Henry Tudor would most surely make a better king.

  “I hope, for the sake of your neck, you meant that.” Northumberland sent him a tight smile.

  Before he could reply, Rowena swept past a stock-still Gwenyth and into the great hall. “My lord Northumberland.”

  Rowena’s smile was beauty and warmth itself, and his neighbor looked most transfixed by it. Aric smiled cynically.

  “How wonderful it is to see you,” Rowena went on.

  “My lady Rowena, you are a fine, fetching sight early this morn.”

  She laughed like an innocent girl, as if she had not shared the bed of the late lord and both of his sons.

  Northumberland looked blinded by lust.

  “The morn is much brighter now you are arrived at Northwell.” Rowena smiled wider than Aric remembered. Clearly, she wanted his neighbor’s attention.

  “Nay, sweet lady, ’tis you who brightens the morn. I but bask in your rays.”

  Aric rolled his eyes, even as he prayed something would come of this flirtation. Although Northumberland was wed to one of Aric’s Neville cousins, Eleanor chose life in London.

  Rowena cast a glance at Aric that he might have thought annoyed, had she really let it show, before she returned back to Northumberland. “Sit in the garden with me, my lord. What a fine day to be out of doors, and your company would be fair pleasing.”

  Once more, she smiled in a hollow flash of small white teeth, leaning slightly forward so her bosoms were closer to the other man’s rapt gaze.

  “Indeed, my lady. I should like nothing more.”

  Without a word, the pair departed.

  Aric saw them not for hours. He was not surprised when, at day’s end, Stephen entered the great hall with a mournful wail.

  “She is leaving!” he cried.

  He could not pretend to misunderstand. “Then I will wish her well with Northumberland.”

  “How can you care so little?” Stephen’s brown eyes were wide with distress. “Her leaving will rip the very heart from my chest. How shall I go on?”

  With a sigh, Aric regarded his brother, wondering when he would finally become a man. “It will pass, and another will replace her in your bed. It is the way of women.”

  “You must stop her!” Stephen said, as if he had not heard Aric’s advice.

  “Let her go, Stephen.” He put a comforting hand upon his brother’s shoulder. “She loves you not. ’Tis better for you to know this now.”

  Agitated and infuriated, Stephen jerked away from Aric’s touch and fled the hall.

  Rowena appeared moments later, dressed for travel. She looked serene, at peace in a way she had not been for some weeks.

  “I go with Northumberland,” she informed him.

  He nodded. “I wish you well.”

  “You have cared for me for many years, though you did not have to. For that, I thank you.” Rowena stood on the tips of her toes and pressed her cool lips to his cheek.

  “You did my father a service in running Northwell when he had no other. You were welcome here.”

  With a soft smile, she was gone, leaving a sulking Stephen behind.

  Now Aric knew what he must do next in order to keep his honor and spare his family.

  But his next conversation with Stephen proved difficult. Politics clearly overwhelmed the young man, and Aric could not provide all the information Stephen might have liked about the reasons for his decisions. But the necessary was done. Now—soon—he had to find the right moment to tell Gwenyth.

  * * * *

  By the moon and the stars, how busy she had been these two days past! Gwenyth lay in her bed with a weary sigh, satisfied with her efforts. She had directed a thorough cleaning of the kitchen and pantry, as well as taken a complete inventory. The linens for every bed in the castle had been washed and hung to dry. Every tapestry had been taken down and beaten free of dust. Fresh rushes lay upon the floor, strewn with sprigs of lavender for a pleasant smell each time someone took a step. Eager maids had been hired, lazy ones released. Visiting the crofters would take more time but could be done soon. The dye house would be replenished by week’s end, and servants were collecting herbs from her garden.

  Hectic though they had been, she had enjoyed each minute of these two days.

  This was the very position she had been born to, and she had to admit grudgingly that Rowena had done a fair job here at Northwell, even if she had been a bit harsh. Still, Gwenyth knew she could do better because she wanted this so badly, had wanted this for so long, and loved her husband so well.

  Finally, happiness shimmered in her sight, brushing her each day. As time passed here, Aric’s contentment with her presence and abilities would grow. Then they would know naught but joy in their surroundings, in their love, and someday in their children.

  Around her, reminders of Aric abounded. His understanding, his passion coupled with great gentleness… ’Twas no wonder she loved him—and had for some while. The expression in his silvery gaze of late bespoke great tenderness. Even if he had not told her of his love, she felt certain it was but a matter of time before he realized such.

  Yet he had spoken little since the morn they had last made love, and had not been back to their bed since.

  Frowning, she burrowed into her pillow and drifted off to a fitful sleep.

  Later, hours before dawn, she awakened to find Aric sitting beside the bed, staring out the room’s window, Dog at his side. She sat up and allowed her gaze to follow his over the vast inky-blue ocean lit by a sparkling gold moon. Gwenyth frowned. What had been troubling him so of late?

  Rising, Gwenyth made her way to Aric’s side and placed gentle hands upon the back of his chair. In no way did he acknowledge her presence. Still, she knew he was aware of her just behind him.

  “What troubles you, Aric?”

  “Naught you must worry over, little dragon. Return to sleep.”

  His voice carried an unmistakable note of weariness and resignation. Her heart ached for him, and she smoothed her hand over the golden strands of his hair.

  “If you worry, I will also. Share your troubles.”

  Aric hesitated, then finally looked her way. Exhaustion claimed his features, as if he had not slept in days.

  “It is Rowena’s leaving that disturbs you?” she whispered.

  A smile softened his features as he wrapped an arm about her waist and rested his cheek against her belly. “Nay. If anything, I wish Northumberland well with her. Perhaps he will please her as no Neville ever did.”

  Shrugging, Gwenyth took Aric’s hand in hers, giving him the comfort she sensed he needed. “Then it is the war, the choosing of sides you dislike.”

  Beside her, Aric stiffened. He sighed, raking a hand through the long strands of his tawny hair. “Aye.”

  “And Northumberland’s accusing you of treason sits no better with you, I think.”

  “He is an ass.”

  “Aye.” She smiled wryly. “And fen-sucked as well.”

  The quiet rumble of Aric’s laughter set her at ease.

  “Come to bed,” she whispered.

  Aric looked up at her from the chair, his gray gaze a tangle of appreciation, lust, and something warm. She drank it in as he rose and followed her to the bed, his hand still clutched in hers.

  They lay side by side as Aric touched her face and kissed her mouth. With welcome, she urged him to a deeper joining. He loved her well and with care but with urgency. After, they lay together in perfect silence. By morn, she hoped his trouble had found succor and that she had helped ease his burden.

  When she rose with the sun, it was t
o the sight of Aric staring out over the crashing ocean once again, his expression distraught. Panic nudged her. Would nothing relieve his mind?

  “Aric?” she called from the bed, holding the sheet above her naked breasts.

  He hesitated, then looked at her with bleak eyes. That he had not slept all night was clear. Gray eyes rimmed in red met her gaze in the predawn light. The set of his wide, proud shoulders seemed stooped and weary. Concern needled her as he rose slowly and made his way to her, his sharp features inexplicably heavy.

  “I must ask you something,” he said as he sat on the bed beside her.

  ’Twas important—deeply, though his words did not say so. She reached out to place a comforting hand upon his arm. “Of course.”

  With a seemingly grateful nod, he sighed. “As you heard the other day from Northumberland, war is on its way. Within weeks. I have been called to choose sides. My conscience will not allow me to fight for King Richard.”

  “But why—”

  “Do not ask me the one question I cannot answer.”

  If anything, Aric’s face became bleaker, more remote, until it resembled the roughhewn stones protecting Northwell from the sea behind it. Concern and a strange anxiety formed a hard knot in her stomach.

  “Will you fight for Henry Tudor, then?” The very idea of open treason frightened her. What would become of Aric if the Tudor man did not emerge the victor?

  He would die a traitor.

  Gwenyth’s knot of fear grew to the size of a boulder and threatened to crush her with its weight.

  Aric’s reply cut into her trepidation. “Nay. I fight for no one.”

  No one? “Are you not likely to be branded a traitor anyway?”

  “It is certain.”

  His words were like a blow to her belly. Gwenyth felt herself lose air as something cold and terrified exploded within her. Panic began to claw at her belly.

  “King Richard will see you dead,” she argued.

  He nodded slowly. “’Tis no less than I deserve.”

  Deserve? “You cannot mean this. Any of this! ’Tis foolishness to do nothing and see yourself die. Pick up a sword. Close your eyes and choose a side.”

  His eyes slid shut, and a furrow of pain wrinkled his wide brow. “I cannot. That is why I must ask you a question.”

  Confusion, concern, and alarm all raced through her with each heartbeat. Aric planned to allow himself a traitor’s execution and his most pressing concern was to ask her a question?

  “Nay. I will not have this! You are my husband.”

  He cupped her cheek with a tender hand. “And I will be until I am dead, but you must listen to me.

  “I must think of Northwell’s interest. The people here are my responsibility. Stephen wants to support King Richard, so I have given him back the run of the castle. He will raise an army to meet Henry Tudor’s. Northwell itself remains loyal to the crown, as does my brother. None of them suffer for my allegiances.”

  “What? This is our home! You cannot give it away—”

  “I must and I did. And if you remain here, King Richard will find you when he comes looking for me. I believe he may take you prisoner or harm you to draw me out, and I cannot allow that. You are my responsibility, too.”

  Gwenyth felt herself frowning. Aric spoke too quietly, was thrusting information on her too quickly. She felt numb and uncertain, despite the cloying fear that pervaded her.

  “I do not understand.”

  “I am asking you to return with me to the cottage. If King Richard’s soldiers find me there, I can argue your innocence or send you back to your uncle. He will take you in again now that you are a Neville and can add to his consequence.”

  “Leave Northwell? Leave being a lady for dirt floors and a cruel family?” At his nod, she cried. “Do I mean nothing to you?”

  Though Aric’s plight weighed upon her, certainly there must be another solution, one that would see him safe and keep her from the poverty and neglect that had marred most of her life. And because he refused to tell her why he would not pick up a sword for King Richard or Henry Tudor, she was expected to change her life, to return to the poor cottage and be happy?

  Apparently, she meant little to him at all.

  “Gwenyth—”

  “I will not return there.” Tears stung her eyes. “You cannot give me everything my heart desires, then rip it away from me as if it meant nothing! Just fight. You can keep Northwell and your life. We can stay here and all will be well.”

  Shaking his head, Aric rose from the bed slowly. “I have told you I cannot.”

  “What reason can be worth your life and mine?”

  “Honor. If a man has none, he is worth nothing.”

  “What is honorable about refusing to fight? It shall look nothing less than cowardly and cost us everything. Everything! I will not go back to the cottage.”

  “Then I shall take you elsewhere. Be ready to leave come morn.”

  Before she could sputter an objection, Aric left the room.

  Her mouth gaping open, she followed him out the chamber door into the narrow hall. “What mean you, elsewhere? Where do you think to take me?”

  Her stubborn husband said naught. He simply kept walking toward the stairs.

  “I asked you a question, you boil-brained beast!”

  Still not a word from the man.

  “I will not go!”

  As her words echoed off the stones about her, Aric disappeared down the stairs, not to return to her that night.

  * * * *

  Dawn broke a bleak gray over the foggy shore behind Northwell. Aric looked at Gwenyth, mounted on the horse beside him. Between them, Dog wagged his gray tail.

  Fury described his wife’s look well. Those blue eyes that so intrigued him flashed like bolts of lightning that would as soon strike him dead.

  Aye, and why not? He now took her from Northwell and wealth and her role as chatelaine—the things she had long sought.

  But he could do naught else to protect Gwenyth in the wake of his decision to stay away from the battlefield.

  “I do not wish to leave here, you simple-witted buffoon,” she snapped. “Let me stay!”

  He sighed, weary after a long eve of nightmares filled with children screaming for help in the night. “I have already said that is not possible. Danger will soon come to Northwell.”

  “Did you have to tell the servants I was no longer welcome here?” The fists at her side seemed strangely in keeping with the tears shimmering in her eyes.

  “Would you have come if I had not?”

  Nay. And that was the point.

  Aric knew she had long coveted the very things her cousin Nellwyn had in marriage to Sir Rankin—a fine home, a bevy of servants at her call, and money aplenty. And these things he had given to her of late. ’Twas little surprise she resisted parting with them, even though he, her lord husband, had asked her to come with him. Had even given her a choice!

  Nay, she did not surprise him. Yet somehow her decision hurt in places he could not comprehend, in ways he did not want to understand.

  “Why can you not stay and fight? Why rip our lives asunder over honor that no one will care for but you?”

  A new wave of anger hit him, even as he told himself she could not possibly understand the underhanded politics that had led to this inevitable war. Nor could she see that a man’s honor was all he had once the trappings of castle, title, and money were stripped away. Aric knew he had done wrong in chasing ambition. It had cost a ten-year-old boy his life. From now on, the only death he would be responsible for was his own—even if it was as a traitor.

  “Gwenyth, I will not fight, and that is all.”

  As they left Northwell’s outer walls and headed south and west, toward Yorkshire dales, he wondered if, after journey’s end, he would ever see her again.

  The thought he might not saddened and angered him at once.

  They broke their journey that night at a small inn. Silence reigned. It did n
ot escape his notice that she asked not where they journeyed.

  As he lay beside her in the small bed, feeling her sleeping form curl up to him for warmth, he wrestled with himself. He wanted her; his body could never lie about that. Something within him craved her touch, her taste. Yet he held back. Touching her would be like a sweet, sharp pain. He would enjoy it even as it hurt him. He was a fool for hoping women everywhere didn’t want their husbands to battle for power and wealth and the king’s favor.

  What a useless wishing!

  Several afternoons later, Hartwich Hall came into view. From the inn, he had sent Guilford word to await them. ’Twas no surprise when he rode into the outer bailey to find his mentor, along with Drake and Kieran.

  “Aric, my boy.” Guilford stepped forward in greeting, then cast his rheumy gaze toward Gwenyth. “Is this lovely woman your lady wife?”

  She sent the older man a direct stare. “Not by choice, my lord.”

  Holding a groan, Aric saw Guilford’s brow rise in speculation. Kieran laughed. Drake followed.

  Grimacing, Aric dismounted and turned to help Gwenyth down. She ignored him and slid down under her own power, sparing a pat on the head to a panting Dog but not a glance for him.

  A feeling he could scarce understand churned inside him, loud like a drumbeat. “Gwenyth, this is Guilford, Earl of Rothgate.”

  She sent him a brief curtsy. “’Twould be a pleasure, my lord, under better circumstances.”

  Gwenyth stretched after such a grueling ride, trying to gain her footing on wobbling legs, then approached Kieran. “How fare you, sir? I thought you in battle.”

  “Aye, I should have liked such, but Guilford has called me here.”

  “To fight for King Richard?” The acidic note in her voice did not escape Aric’s notice.

  “What else?” He shrugged. “It shall be as good a fight as any.”

  Gwenyth shook her head, then settled a concerning gaze on his dark, tight-jawed friend. “I presume you are Drake MacDougall.”