His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms)

by Shayla Black

He fixed her with a stare that had intimidated many a man. Gwenyth flinched not an inch. “I presume you are Aric’s wife.”

  She raised her chin proudly. “I am Gwenyth, not merely the dimwit’s chattel.”

  Drake’s frown deepened. “Clearly not.”

  Kieran chuckled once more. “I told you she was no demure maid.”

  With a tilt of her head, Gwenyth regarded the dark man’s solemn face with seeming regret. “I am sorry. I meant only to inquire as to your health. Are you faring well?”

  His tormented friend’s gaze rose in question. Aric met the stare. With a silent nod, he confirmed Gwenyth knew all.

  “I-I thank you for your concern.” Drake stumbled over the words, as if he had not expected them. I am nearly mended now.”

  For a mended man, his eyes looked haunted.

  “I wish you well,” she said softly.

  Though Drake nodded, the granite of his expression changed not. Aric wondered if anything, anyone, would ever reach the man’s iron heart again.

  “We all wish the brigand well,” said Kieran, coming toward Gwenyth. “’Tis a pleasure to see you again, sweet lady.”

  As Kieran took Gwenyth’s hand and raised it to his lips, Aric stepped beside them and glared at his friend with annoyance.

  Kieran merely lingered over Gwenyth’s palm, then sent him a jaunty smile.

  The noise in his head grew louder. Aric knew he should not feel a churning or charging in his gut at the thought of another man’s touching Gwenyth. She cared for her future, her position at a fine castle, as all women did. ’Twas not the man who mattered, only what he could provide.

  He was twice the fool for wishing otherwise.

  Behind him, Guilford cleared his throat, and Aric turned to face his mentor.

  “Aric, I am sure your bride would like to see her temporary home when you are able to pull these two swains from her.”

  Gwenyth’s gaze flew to Aric, prickly with anger. “You mean to leave me here?”

  “Aye.” He nodded.

  “While the war goes on about you?”

  Aric gritted his teeth. “Aye.”

  “While people are dying, you mean to do no more than hide in your cottage?”

  “Gwenyth…” he warned, his ire rising.

  “And leave me, your wife, in the care of strangers?”

  “Enough! You had no wish to return to the cottage—”

  “Who possessing sanity would?” she interrupted.

  “Nor did you want to return to Penhurst.” He went on as if she had said naught. “Northwell is too dangerous. Guilford can protect you whilst you stay and enjoy the castle life you—” want more than your own husband, he started to say. Then he stopped himself, conscious that Guilford, Drake, and Kieran all watched with great interest.

  The noise in his head grew so loud he wondered if it would burst from his ears. He wanted it to cease, to leave him in peace. It continued until he thought he might lose his mind.

  He took a deep breath and willed his voice to something toneless. “Here you will stay.”

  With that, he made his way into the keep without looking to see if Gwenyth or the others followed.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Late that night, Gwenyth lay abed in the comfortable chambers she had been assigned, waiting for her husband. Searching for the moon, she rolled toward the tall, thin window, the crunch of straw and the smell of fresh moss from the mattress blooming in the crisp air. She saw nothing and surmised the moon must be beyond its zenith, the night nearly morn.

  Still no sign of Aric, just of Dog sleeping across the room.

  After the greeting in the bailey had become an argument between the two of them, she had not seen him until the evening meal. There, he had been distant, sharing no more than the necessary trencher. Certainly no words, no lingering looks.

  How could he simply leave her? He knew she loved him. How could that mean so little to him?

  Listless, Gwenyth rose and dressed, then left the chamber in search of her husband. Down the spiraling stone steps she trod, conscious of Aric’s ruby pendant between her breasts.

  Dim lighting pressed weakly against the darkness. When she encountered a wall sconce, she took it, grateful to have a lighted path.

  But once she reached the great hall, Gwenyth was not sure she wanted to see the sight before her.

  Aric sat slouched over a mug of ale that was clearly not his first. Drake and Kieran sat beside him, also nursing tankards. A pair of servant women sat on the massive table in front of them, their flimsy bodices pulled low.

  Drake stared moodily into his cup, eyeing the two women with little more than passing interest. Kieran nibbled on one’s ankle until she tossed back her red hair and laughed. The other, a blond wench, eyed Aric in blatant invitation as she pulled her skirts up to her knees before his gaze.

  Jealousy plunged into Gwenyth’s chest, as if Aric himself had thrust it there with the force of his sword. Tears pricked her eyes.

  As if sensing her presence, Aric glanced up. His face held nothing.

  Gone was the tenderness she had oft seen. Gone, too, was the desire. ’Twas as if he had never held her while she felt ecstasy, joy, or sorrow. ’Twas as if he had never heard her words of love or felt her attempts to comfort him.

  Gwenyth swallowed against the pain and forced herself to step forward into the circle of light provided by the blaze in the great hearth.

  Quickly, Drake and Kieran caught sight of her. The latter released the redhead and ceased his amorous activities. Drake returned his brooding stare to his cup. And though Aric had not touched the blond woman—yet—Gwenyth had a terrible fear he would not have resisted such enticement for long.

  With a whisper, Drake sent the women away. The redhead left Kieran with a giggle and a promise. The blond cast her hungry gaze at Aric and lingered as if she hoped he would call her back.

  His gaze never left Gwenyth.

  A scream of fury clawed its way up her throat. She pursed her mouth tightly to hold it in. Later, he would feel the force of her anger—not when they had an audience.

  “Aric,” she forced out. Hearing the quiver in her voice, she cleared her throat and started again. “I would speak with you. Alone, please.”

  He looked as if he might object, and Gwenyth prepared her next argument. But Aric rose and made his way toward her slowly, his eyes the gray of a stone.

  Without a word, he followed her up the stairs and shut the door to her chamber behind them.

  “We have no more to say, my lady.”

  His formality stunned her. She felt as if he had cut her from his life—and without much struggle.

  The thought hurt and infuriated her.

  She let herself rail at him, fist clenched. “We have plenty to say, you slimy, pig-sucking—”

  “Name calling will change naught.” His face held all the warmth of the sea in winter. “I leave come morn.”

  “This morn?” Shock numbed her before panic set in. So soon?

  He nodded and turned for the door.

  “Wait! Why must we part? I— I…it seems foolish to—”

  “You want to reside in a castle. Here you are.” He gestured around him with open arms. “Guilford’s wife is long dead, and he can use a good chatelaine.”

  “But I do not want to be without a husband. If Northwell is dangerous, can we not stay here?”

  “If I stay here, I must fight. And I will not.”

  “Why?”

  Gwenyth knew as she asked the question that he would not answer. Still, his refusal disappointed her.

  “We have discussed this.”

  She shook her head. “Your refusal to make your reasons known is not a discussion, you stubborn man!”

  He grunted, nostrils flaring. “Stubborn? Can you, for once, heed your husband and believe me when I tell you that you do not want to know why?”

  “Nay, our very lives are at stake! Your reasoning makes little sense.”

  The anger brimm
ing beneath the surface of his distance finally boiled to the top. “Nor does yours.”

  “Mine? ’Tis perfectly logical, you mewling lout. We should continue with the same life. You fight a battle or two, as you have done the whole of your life, then return home to my side. Why can you not do that?”

  “And you would have me disregard my honor so you might live in wealth and luxury? You would have me turn my back on what I know to be right so you may surround yourself with servants hired to cater to your whims? I will not ignore my beliefs so you may enjoy the fineness of the master’s chambers and continue writing your cousin Nellwyn of your good fortune.”

  Her mouth dropped open at his barbs. Did he really know so little of her? Hurt panged inside her chest. “Do you think me so mercenary?”

  His stare was nothing short of incredulous. “By every word and deed, you have proven how badly you wish to secure your place as my countess. Would you consummate our marriage in the cottage? Nay, but once you learned of my title, of Northwell, well…you fell willingly into my bed, even seduced me to it.”

  She gasped in ire and disbelief. “How could you think—”

  “Did you not?”

  “Nay, you mean-mouthed coxcomb. I did not!” Gwenyth came at him, her fists clenched and aimed for his chest.

  Aric grabbed her wrists to ward off the blows.

  “Let me go!” she shouted, lashing out at his shin with her foot.

  She caught him with her heel. He loosed an ugly curse at the contact.

  He gritted his teeth. “Kick me, if you like, but you wanted your place so badly at Northwell, you shared my bed every night, every way I wanted you. And why I expected you to be any different than any other woman seeing to her future, I will never know.”

  She gasped. “Do you compare me to Rowena?”

  Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. “Nay, for her excuse is one of survival. Yours is much less noble.”

  The swine! The varlet! She yanked free of him and picked up a pitcher beside her. She threw it at him, but the heavy clay piece missed his head by inches before crashing to the floor and splashing water everywhere.

  “Do not liken me to that scrawny whore!”

  “At least she never lied to me about what was in her heart. You, my lady, merely seek to compete with your braggart cousin, Nellwyn, and lied about your love to keep all you wedded into.”

  Tears stung her eyes, and she closed them, lest he see. Bristling braies! Why did he think such? How could he? The words repeated themselves like a chant deep within her. How could the man be so half-brained as to think she would bed down with him for any reason other than the fact he had touched her heart? Had he not seen her feelings in her eyes?

  Gwenyth swallowed her bitterness. “I wanted to be a lady again, damn you. I wanted the return of all I was born to, which Uncle Bardrick stole from me when my father died! You seemed to understand that once.”

  “Aye, before I saw all you would do to obtain and keep it.”

  That he had called her nearly everything but a whore did not escape her. Pain ripped through her chest, but fury eclipsed that—at the moment. Later, she knew, his words would hurt in a way no one’s ever had.

  “You qualling bum-bailey! If you think I would swive any man simply for such gains, you know me not at all.” She lifted her leg and stomped on his toes, then prepared to storm out of the room and slam the door in his face.

  He shouted and hobbled in pain but seized her wrists in a tight grip. With a yank, he dragged her closer, against the length of his hard, massive body. The sharp rasp of his breath fanned her mouth as his chest rose and fell against her own.

  Time seemed to stop. Every moment she had spent in his embrace, in his life, flashed in her mind. His confusion after their marriage, his tenderness after Nellwyn’s visits, his struggle to tell her of his true identity, his desire when he claimed her body. Would he remember, too, and kiss her? Stay with her? Understand her?

  She held her breath, willing him closer. Please kiss me… If he could but feel her love in her touch, ’twas certain he would comprehend her feelings.

  Aric stepped away.

  Pain sliced into her, shredding her heart and her belly. Her eyes teared more.

  He would not believe.

  By the moon and stars, the man was a fool. She had told him she loved him. He had chosen to believe she lied for the sake of some mercenary nature he believed she had.

  Looking furious—and more remote than she had ever seen him—Aric released her abruptly, a challenge in his gaze. “Unless you choose life at the cottage, I bid you farewell.”

  His flat tone chafed her. Did he not understand she could not live with a man who thought her so heartless, share a bed and the rest of her days with someone who had naught but mistrust and contempt for her?

  ’Twas impossible.

  Aric watched her intently, seeming to await her reply. When she gave him naught but silence, he bit out a curse. And with a final hot glare in her direction, he slammed out of the room.

  As she sank to the bed, her tears began to fall, one after the other. She could not go to the cottage again. Nor should he. Whatever he sought to avoid would only find him again. Why was he blind to that fact?

  Duty often meant unpleasant things. Certainly the White Lion knew his share of battle and should not be repelled by such.

  She frowned. Then why did he insist upon leaving her and hiding in the forest once more with people who feared and loathed him?

  Worse, if he abandoned her now, would she ever see him again?

  * * * *

  At dawn, Aric sat in Hartwich’s great hall, waiting for the sun to fully emerge from behind the hills. He lingered over his ale, waiting. Aye, he was twice the fool for hoping Gwenyth would appear and tell him she wanted to be by his side, no matter where they called home.

  He cast another glance at the stairway, his tenth in as many minutes. The only figure emerging was that of an old man.

  Guilford.

  His mentor wore something brown this morn that made his white-gray beard and his watery blue eyes appear paler. But nothing could ever erase the shrewd intelligence in those keen eyes.

  With a disapproving glance, Guilford glanced at the empty chair beside his own. “Where is your wife?”

  “Abed, I presume.”

  “You mean to leave without a proper farewell? And do not try to tell me you cared for that last night, for my guard saw you down here from nearly dusk until dawn.”

  “Mind your own affairs, old man.”

  “A sensitive subject, I see.”

  Aric gritted his teeth, doing his best to ignore the old earl. “I would ask that you care for Gwenyth in my absence.”

  “She will always be protected beneath my roof, no matter where you go. Have no concern about that. But Drake, Kieran, and I spoke this morn. We all agree you must fight.”

  Aric closed his eyes wearily in disappointment. If his brothers by choice and the man who had been like his own father could not understand, he would truly leave this earth not only a traitor, but alone.

  “I cannot.”

  “So you have said. I would hear why.”

  The urge to tell Guilford rode him hard, but he refrained. The dangerous knowledge could mean a traitor’s death for his dear mentor. “’Tis not for you to know.”

  Guilford was silent for so long that Aric glanced up to make certain the man had heard. His wily expression told Aric he had and was scheming something.

  “Nothing you say will change my mind,” Aric said.

  The man merely nodded, stroking the length of his white beard.

  “I have thrown down my sword, and I will not pick it up so more innocent people will die.”

  Aric might have thought his argument fell on deaf ears except for Guilford’s murmured, “Hmm.”

  Anger mounted within him. “This is about honor, damn you!”

  “Aye, honor,” he mumbled.

  “Without it, a man is naught,” Ar
ic returned.

  “True.”

  Aric waited, sensing the old man had more to say. But the silence continued, cutting into him.

  “Out with it!”

  With a shrug, Guilford said, “Honor indeed makes a man. You have learned that well.”

  “As you taught me.”

  Still, the old man continued to stroke his beard. “But do you think to keep your honor by refusing to kill other warriors when doing so means everyone you care for will likely die?”

  “What? ’Tis why I’ve left Northwell and Gwenyth, to protect them—”

  “You are not so innocent, Aric, that you believe such. You refuse to fight because you’ve grown tired of battle. You left Northwell so it does not encumber you. You abandoned Gwenyth so you can deny she means aught to you. And as you turn your back on these duties, the crown will seize Northwell and give it to a more loyal lord. Gwenyth will be branded a traitor beside you, to die as well.”

  “Nay!”

  “Aye. If King Richard wants to give your land to a devoted subject, do you think he will leave alive the widow who can claim it?”

  “Gwenyth had naught to do with my decision.”

  “Think you King Richard will care? And what of your brother?”

  “Stephen is loyal.”

  “But ineptly so. The king will demand a lord with skill and power to oversee such important land.”

  Guilford’s words hit Aric like a blow to the stomach. He had merely sought to protect those in his life, had he not? Stephen and Gwenyth could not die for his honor. Resisting the urge to pound his fist upon the table, he turned to Guilford with a troubled gaze.

  “And if Henry Tudor takes the day,” his mentor went on, “naught will be different. He will assume your loyalties remained with King Richard, even if you do not fight. Again, he will want to seize your land and give it to one of his supporters. Again, it is less tiresome to have your brother or your widow around to demand their claim…”

  Aric swallowed against the truth. His heart bear like a drum in his head. Boom, boom, boom—the insistent drone made him quickly feel unsound of mind. Thoughts flew through his head, but he could latch onto only one: He could not be the death of Gwenyth.