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About the Author
Tanya Anne Crosby is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of thirty novels. She has been featured in magazines, such as People, Romantic Times and Publisher's Weekly, and her books have been translated into eight languages. Her first novel was published in 1992 by Avon Books, where Tanya was hailed as "one of Avon's fastest rising stars." Her fourth book was chosen to launch the company's Avon Romantic Treasure imprint.
Known for stories charged with emotion and humor and filled with flawed characters Tanya is an award-winning author, journalist, and editor, and her novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews. She and her writer husband split their time between Charleston, SC, where she was raised, and northern Michigan, where the couple make their home.
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Lavender Vows
Colleen Gleason
1
Father, are you mad? Beatrice of Callaway is barely ten years of age!” Bernard of Derkland frowned and finished off his tankard of ale, wishing his father would leave off grousing at him. If they’d only have one conversation where the man did not bring up suitable wives…!
“Aye, but if one judges by her mother, in five years she’ll be a good breeder—and a generous dowry she brings.” Lord Harold turned to look out over the rows of diners eating in the great hall of Wyckford Heath. They were guests at the week-long celebration of the wedding of the Lord of Wyckford’s youngest daughter. “What about Lady Theresa, Lord Enderman’s girl?”
Bernard gaped. Was not his parent supposed to have some care for him? “Father, would you have that horse-faced shrew in your wedding bed? And she hasn’t a brides’ portion big enough to make one forget that her temper is worse than a goat in heat.” He drummed his fingers on the rough trestle table.
His father chuckled and traced the outline of his mouth with a thumb and forefinger. “Mayhaps you speak the truth on that. Even the dogs slink away when she walks by.” He chuckled again and bit off a chunk of roasted venison from its cross-shaped bone. Chewing thoughtfully for a moment, he drew his bushy grey brows together as if deep in thought. A moment later, his brows sprang apart as a new idea lit his face. “Mathilda, Lady Cretton, has a generous bride’s price an’ she is not hard on the eyes. What say you that, Bernard? I’ll speak to her father on the morrow.”
“Only if you would like to find your firstborn son dead of mysterious causes,” Bernard shot back. “All the wagging tongues say that she helped her first two husbands to an early grave. I’d as lief not be the third.” He stood, stepping backward over the long bench that lined the trestle table at which they ate. “Father, I know that ’tis important that I wed, but I should prefer to choose a bride of my own liking.”
“And choose her you shall, if you make a decision anon. ’Tis past time you wed, and if you do not make your choice, I will make one for you.” Harold’s countenance took on a firm cast that brooked no disagreement from his son.
In truth, Bernard knew that the time for equivocating was gone. With his younger brother Dirick haring off with the new king in Aquitaine, and their middle brother wearing the robes of a simple monk, the necessity of wedding and breeding weighed heavily upon him. At one score and seven, Bernard had no excuses to offer. Duty beckoned.
“Aye, Father. I’ll begin to attend to it during our stay here.”
With a curt nod, he strode off, out of the hall, pushing past the throngs of people and stepping around the begging hounds. He took long, hard steps that bespoke of his height and solid build, and as he left the noise of the hall behind him, his boots made echoing thumps in the empty passageway.
If ’tweren’t dark, and he weren’t in unfamiliar territory, Bernard would mount his stallion and ride to clear his head. As ’twas, he could only visit the stables and talk to his favorite horse, Rock, and save the ride for daylight.
At times, the weight of being heir to the vast lands of Derkland weighed so heavily upon him that he wished for the freedom of his brother Dirick, who could travel and live his life as he wished. But then that weight would lessen as he recalled that his own brother had naught to bring to a beautiful lady whom he might wish to wed, and that his prospects would not be near as numerous as Bernard’s own.
And he did love Derkland, Bernard reflected as he slipped into the stables, with all of her rolling green hills and thick forests, tiny thatched huts and fat woolly sheep. But most of all, he loved the soft brown noses of the fierce destriers that Derkland bred—the heavy, stamping hooves that made even his bulk seem insubstantial, and their smart, shrewd eyes. There were none better than those from his father’s stables, and none better than his own Rock, the grey-brown steed that rode and kicked and fought as solidly as its namesake.
The animal was glad to see him, and although he wasn’t as gentle as a mare, he did toss his jet black mane and dance in greeting. Bernard shared some aged carrots and an apple core he’d sneaked from the kitchen earlier that day, patting Rock’s velvety nose with affection.
A soft cry from the depths of the stables reached his keen ears, even over the whuffling and stamping of the horses. Turning instinctively, Bernard thought to investigate, then halted. ’Twas likely only a man-at-arms finding his pleasure with one of the buxom serving wenches that adorned Wyckford Heath Hall. The piles of hay in a stable were warm and soft, if a bit prickly to the one on the bottom, and as good place as any to find privacy with Wyckford Castle being filled to the rafters by wedding-goers.
Bernard returned to Rock, allowing him to butt his head against his unshaven cheek, but keeping his ears attuned to from where the sound had come. He tried to return his thoughts to the path upon which they should be focused—finding a wife for himself, for his father’s threat was not an idle one—but something nagged in the back of his mind.
At last, with a frown at his foolishness, he gave Rock a quick pat and walked silently toward the back of the stable. In the event that it was just a randy man-at-arms rolling in the hay with his lady, Bernard could slip away silently with no one the wiser. But if, as the upright hair at the back of his neck warned, ’twas something more….
A dim light shone in the depths of the stable, and as he turned a corner, he found himself in a small room, lit by a torch on the wall.
A girl sat in the hay, her skirts bunched around her as she bent her attention to something he could not identify. Her back was to him, with a long braid that fell from an intricate headdress that did not belong to a serving wench.
She turned, saying, “Leonard, if
you would—” Her words ended in a small gasp as she caught sight of Bernard.
As she scrambled to her feet, her eyes wide in a face shadowed by the flickering torch, Bernard noted that she was more than a girl, and most definitely not a mere serving wench. Even in the low light he could see the quality of her gown, and the glitter of some jewels in her hair and at her well-rounded bosom.
“My lady, I did not mean to disturb you,” he began, not quite certain how to proceed as she looked at him with such fearful eyes.
He knew that his great stature and solidness was oftentimes disconcerting for women. Something about this female who, though fear shone in her eyes, stood as tall as her height allowed, made him particularly conscious of his imposing appearance. He stepped backward to put space between them. “I meant only to assure myself that naught was amiss. I heard a sound that sounded like distress, and thought to see if I could be of assistance.”
She had a heart-shaped face, angelic and delicate, with ropes of honey-gold hair that glinted even in the flame-light. As he stood there, caught suddenly by her beauty, he saw the fear lessen in her eyes. “You heard my cry?” she repeated, her head tilting slightly, as she seemed to turn the words over in her mind. “You would have come to my aid?”
“Aye, of course, my lady,” Bernard replied. He didn’t stumble on the form of address. It was obvious she was of noble title—but what was not so clear was why she was in the stables, alone, during a wedding celebration. And what was she doing in the hay?
Curious, he took a step forward without thinking about how this would affect her—but she did not move away and only gave the barest flinch as he came closer. “What do you here?” he asked.
She did not need to answer, for at once he saw for himself the large grey cat ensconced in the hay. Five tiny kittens, barely covered with fur, and eyes still shut, nursed whilst the mother watched Bernard crouching next to her.
“They were born only today, and I came to see how they fared,” the woman spoke, still standing behind him, now with the height advantage. “Cleome—’tis the cat’s name—had a foot injured by one of the dogs, and ’twas only because Leonard, the stable boy, intervened that she lived to deliver this litter.”
Bernard reached to pet the mother cat. The woman warned him—“Nay, she will scratch!”—but became silent when she saw Cleome’s eyes barely flicker as Bernard traced a large finger over the top of her pointed head and down to rub her side.
“’Tis a miracle,” she murmured, watching as his hand traced the thick fur down to Cleome’s tail again and again. His hand was so wide and brown that it nearly covered the cat’s entire abdomen, and she watched with mingled fear and fascination as such a powerful appendage was used so gently.
I should be afraid, Joanna realized dimly, of this great man whose presence had filled the doorway. But she was not, and that was in itself a unique experience. Instead, she sat quietly on a stool Leonard had put in the corner and watched as he stroked the cat in silence, thanking the Virgin that she’d already covered the parcel in the corner with straw.
She glanced briefly toward the shadowed corner to reassure herself that it would not be noticed, then returned her attention to the countenance of the man, noting the tight, dark curls that covered his head in an unfashionably short style. His face was lean and sober, with deep-set eyes that had held no challenge when he’d greeted her earlier. The tan of his hand was echoed in the color of his face, and the wiriness of his dark hair in the short-clipped beard and moustache he wore.
“You have a gift,” she said at last, breaking what had become an easy silence.
He nodded once, turning a glance toward her that lingered over her face. “Aye. ’Tis my blessing that animals find no fear of me. My father—”
He was interrupted by the sound of someone approaching, and Joanna stood with a sudden fear clutching her middle, unable to keep a small gasp from her throat. God and the Virgin help her if she were discovered alone with such a man.
It was Leonard this time, thank Mary, and the discomfort in her stomach eased. But she must return to the keep now, for she’d been away too long and did not want to be missed.
Now ignoring the giant man, who watched her as she spoke to the stable boy, she told him to keep watch of the litter and where to move them should aught disturb the mother and her kittens. Then, with a quick glance at the giant, she dropped the slightest of curtseys and began to take her leave.
“My lady, allow me to escort you to your destination,” he offered, extending his arm.
“Nay!” Joanna took a breath and continued, “Nay, sir, but I must not be seen with—not be seen with anyone. I can find my way without assistance.” She bent to gather her light cloak and, doing so, noticed that one of her braids had fallen from its mooring. Joanna bit her lip and reached behind to re-fasten the recalcitrant braid, knowing that if she returned to the hall and it was noticed, she would be the worse for it.
The giant stepped toward her, behind her, towering over her small frame as she attempted to twist her arms in the most awkward position.
“Allow me, my lady.” His smooth voice, warm and deep, seemed to slide over her like a fur cloak. Her heart pounding, Joanna forced herself to remain still as his warm, deft fingers relieved her own of the rope of hair. In a trice, he had found its place and secured it with one of the jeweled pins her maid had used earlier. Then, mercifully, he moved away.
“Th-thank you, sir.” She hated that her voice quavered, but ’twas so foreign to have a man so close to her, so gentle, yet so imposing. “And now, I must return.”
Bernard could only watch her go, hurrying down the hall of the stable. Though he felt uneasy with her request to let her go alone, he abided by her wishes and stayed until she was safely out of sight.
Then, he turned to Leonard, the stable boy who now knelt beside the grey cat, and asked, “Who is the lady? What is her name?”
“’Twas Lady Joanna, my lord.”
Bernard bit back a grin. At the least the young boy had recognized his station, although the Lady Joanna had not. “An’ how does she know this stable so well?”
“She is my lord’s daughter—the Lord of Wyckford’s daughter.”
“The sister of the bride, then?”
“Aye, my lord.”
Then Bernard suddenly remembered that he had been invited to a wedding, that his father would surely miss him by now…and that he had dallied long enough.
And, at the nonce, he would search out the lady to see if he could find her within the keep.
Unfortunately for Bernard, when he returned to the great hall, most of the men—bridegroom included—were in their cups, and the celebration had begun to wane. Since the musicians had begun to disperse,and the dancing slowed—and even the wine and ale began to dry up—the only entertainment that remained was to see the bride and groom off to the bridal chamber.
’Twas of little interest to Bernard to see the spindly-legged groom stripped naked and escorted to his bride’s chamber, but he did not decline too strongly and soon found himself within the group of men doing just that.
They made the usual bawdy jests, drank from jugs of ale and attempted to force more down the throat of the already dazed groom as others helped him out of his tunic, undertunic, and chausses.
“Give ’er all ye got,” encouraged one man, slapping the groom on the bare skin of his back.
Another gestured to the groom’s flaccid member, chortling, “Ye might need some help, there, eh, Will? Just call out and I’ll step in your place.”
“Eh, I trow Will will keep the bitch in line,” grated a voice next to Bernard. “Don’t need much more than a raised hand—an’ she’ll be doin’ your bidding as you please.” The man, obviously well into his cups, swayed against Bernard, causing his perpetually-full cup of ale to slosh onto his tunic. “Have a care, sirrah,” he warned, leaning threateningly into Bernard’s face. “Ye’ve spilt on my new tunic!”
Bernard, hardly able to breathe f
rom the stench of ale emanating from the man, chose to ignore the rough drunkard and turned away. Aside of that, he’d recognized the man as Lord Ralf, one of the sons by law of Lord Wyckford, and allowed that the man had probably been celebrating the wedding for far longer and more deeply than he should have.
When Bernard felt a hard shove from behind, however, he whirled, automatically clapping a hand to where his dagger hung. “Aye?” he asked, coming face to face with the drunkard. “Did you wish to speak with me?”
The man’s eyes were nearly at a level of Bernard’s. There was a hard light behind the ale-glaze in them. “I said that ye spilled ale on my tunic, sirrah, and I would expect you to make recompense.”
“’Twas your own clumsiness that caused it, man. Do you not make a mistake you will later come to regret,” Bernard responded easily, but he allowed a hard warning to flare in his eyes. It was probably best not to participate in a scene with one of the family at a wedding celebration, regardless of what a cock-licker the man was.
From the belligerence in the other man’s face, he knew there might have been more of an altercation had not Lord Wyckford announced that the bridal chamber was ready to receive the groom. With a lethal look at Bernard, Ralf pushed none-too-gently away from him to stand beside Will, the groom.
The group of men tottered along the passageway, trading more bawdy comments and suggestions for Will, and Bernard followed their progression. He’d realized somewhere along the way that as sister to the bride, the young woman he’d met in the stables would likely be there at the bedding ceremony.
The door to the bridal chamber opened, and a flood of men pushed their way in. Joanna stood near the fire, chafing the icy hands of her sister, the bride, who was about to be disrobed.
The scents of men and ale and smoke filled the room, along with that of stale, panting breath and loud exchanges. Joanna felt a familiar wave of anxiety at their closeness, the crowdedness of the chamber, and her sister swayed slightly, clutching at Joanna’s hand in the folds of her gown.
Her Knight in Tarnished Armor: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 29