A Warrior's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  That she was a woman who could not even keep her husband’s affection for the space of a month and who was so desperate she had to chase after him?

  She took another determined step. How dare he accuse her of dishonor!

  She had been a virgin when she came to him, as he should have known. And as for those accomplish-ments—she had listened and learned, nothing more.

  He did not know that. He suspected...

  She leaned against the cold stone of the wall and closed her eyes. She should have seen this. He thought she came by her knowledge from practice!

  His suspicions must have been driving a wedge between them. Perhaps that was why he had grown so distant! She would have to explain to him.

  Suddenly, it didn’t matter who would see her, or what reason they would ascribe for her absence from her bedchamber. She would find George and tell him how she had learned about love.

  And then, please God, they could begin again.

  George slumped down in the shadow of the well, hidden from the moonlight and out of sight of the guards patrolling the wall walk.

  His heart wanted desperately to believe her protestations of innocence, but his mind urged caution. He would not be the first cuckold to be fooled by a convincing woman. His whole body flushed with the heat of anger and shame as he wrapped his arms around his legs and drew in deep, shuddering breaths, each one racking his body while what little self-control he had regained splintered and disappeared.

  He could have killed her. She had enraged him so much, he might have killed her, had he held a sword or even a stick.

  That had been his weapon that other day long ago when he had been so filled with frustration and anger that he had hit and hit and hit, insensible to anything but the action of striking.

  Until the dog lay nearly dead at his feet, whimpering pathetically, his brown eyes as reproachful as a wounded child’s. Horrified, George had cried out and dropped the stick before kneeling to take up the small body in his arms. He could feel it yet, the warm, limp weight.

  And then his father had come, staring at George with that horrible, incredulous look....

  That was what had happened the last time he had tried to teach, when he was a boy of ten.

  He remembered the little creature so well, even now. One of a litter of his father’s favorite bitch, the puppy had been especially appealing, the spriteliest of the bunch and adorable with its unexpected black ears, although the rest of it was brown.

  More, there was a quality to its play that made George, young as he was, guess that it could be the best of the litter. The finest hunter. The most loyal.

  So he decided to teach the pup a trick. Some little task, he thought, to show his father what a good dog he was, and how intelligent his son for recognizing it. George had envisioned what his charming, affectionate father would say: “An excellent animal—but I must not have the dog. Since you have trained it, it shall be yours forever.”

  Oh, what a selfish little brute he had been! And how transparent his desires, for he had wanted that puppy for his own almost from its birth.

  For hours, it seemed, he had tried to teach that puppy to retrieve a pig’s bladder filled with air. The puppy had been too young, however, and soon grew tired of the game. Nevertheless, George was determined to teach it this trick, despite its lack of attention.

  Then the dog had nipped him, breaking the skin, and suddenly George had been filled with a rage so hot and overwhelming that he was lost to all control. He had grabbed a stick.

  There was no conscious thought to what he did next, no deliberate attempt to punish or compel. It was all wrath and frustration and repetition.

  Until the little animal lay dying.

  His father had put his arm around his shoulders and asked what had happened. Very soft was his voice, and tender, and there was no denying the shameful act.

  He had done murder, or so it seemed to him. With choking sobs, George had confessed, trying to explain the unexplainable.

  His father listened patiently. Then, gently taking the dead pup from him, he had told George that while his remorse was plain to see, it would not help the puppy. There was no undoing such a thing. That was why no good and honorable man gave way to his temper. He controlled it, subdued it, commanded it. He was its master.

  Then he had wiped away George’s tears and told him that this was a hard way to learn such a lesson.

  Yet despite his father’s tenderness and sympathy and patience, there had been a look in his eyes...a look that told George something had changed between them, and he had understood that he had lost something forever.

  Years later, he knew exactly what he had lost: his father’s respect. Not completely, but enough that things never seemed quite right between them again.

  So from that time, George de Gramercie had learned to hide his anger and frustration—indeed, any strong emotion.

  Until he fell passionately in love with Aileas Dugall.

  She could rouse his feelings as no one ever had, with her forthnght manner and incredible, unfettered passion.

  She stripped away every carefully constructed barrier between the world and his emotions.

  Now, here, hiding in his own castle, he finally faced the one emotion he had denied until this very moment.

  Fear.

  He was afraid of his passion, his anger, his love and his jealousy. Afraid of what they could make him do, and what he could lose if he gave them free reign.

  Aileas conjured up all those emotions and he could not be sure he would ever be able to subdue them completely. He would be their prisoner, not their ruler.

  What was he going to do? he thought helplessly.

  If he stayed here, in such turmoil that he could barely think straight, who could guess when he might finally lose his tenuous self-control?

  But to leave her, to flee like a coward...

  He had no choice. He would have to go, until he was once more his own master and had found the strength to govern his feelings. He had outlying estates that he could visit on pretext of attending to several small matters of business.

  Determined to do just that, he rose from behind the well.

  To see Aileas, clad in a thin cloak, her feet bare, creeping into his soldiers’ quarters.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Aileas sneezed violently as she waited in the hall after mass the next morning. She felt ill, and not just physically, for she had been unable to find George after he had left her in anger last night.

  She had spent what seemed an age cautiously searching the castle, wearing only her shift and thin cloak, and with her feet bare so that she would be as silent as possible. Unfortunately, that had been as stupid a decision as trying to find him had proved, for she was now most definitely ill.

  Her eyes were burning, her nose running, her throat sore, and she had a cough, to boot. Every bone in her body ached, and she knew that she didn’t dare to eat anything without risking what her brothers would call throwing her bread.

  She wanted to go to bed and stay there, alone, in the peace and quiet. Only one thing could have brought her to the hall, and that was the absolute necessity of explaining to George that he had leapt to a disastrous conclusion.

  Somehow, she would convince him that she had been a virgin on her wedding night. As for her feelings for Rufus... They were so different now. When she recalled how she almost begged him to marry her, it was with acute embarrassment, much as any adult could recall a shameful incident from their childhood.

  She still thought of Rufus with affection, but she had never, ever felt the passionate desire for him that she did for George.

  Somehow, she would try to recapture those happy, joyous moments she and her husband had shared at the wedding and the day after, when they had ridden together and talked as friends and confidants! Why, she had told him things about her feelings for her brothers that she had never shared with anyone. There had to be a way to make him believe her.

  Someone entered the hall, and
Aileas glanced up hopefully, only to see Lady Margot make her graceful progress to the high table.

  Aileas glanced down at her own gown self-consciously, aware that her cerise gown of stiff cendal would never look as becoming on her as Lady Margot’s lovely dress of a similar hue and fabric, which seemed as if it were somehow melded to her body. Aileas felt as if her body were carefully avoiding all contact with the fine gown. Similarly, Lady Margot’s silky scarf and wimple only drew attention to her loveliness; Aileas disdained headdresses of any type and wore them only under duress. They chafed her neck and face; they slipped and got in her eyes. In short, she would have felt ill at ease even if she had been in the best of health.

  “My dear, you are not well!” Margot cried as she hurried around the table and laid a cool hand on Aileas’s forehead. “You should be in bed! I will send for the apothecary.”

  Aileas sneezed again, barely resisting the urge to wipe her nose with her silken scarf. “I shall retire after I eat,” she said hoarsely. “I...I have to speak with George about something.”

  “Surely that can wait,” Margot said, truly concerned. Aileas was warm, but not feverish yet. Still, her condition could worsen quickly, and the hall was the last place she should be.

  “No, it cannot,” Aileas said firmly, leaving Margot little choice but to take her seat.

  Then George arrived, Father Adolphus and Sir Richard in tow. Her cousin sauntered toward the high table, not looking at his obviously ill wife. When he took his seat, he finally glanced at Aileas, then stared at her with an odd expression. “You’re sick,” he said, his tone one of casual surprise.

  Aileas was about to speak, but she had to delay while Father Adolphus blessed the food. “I must speak with you,” she said the moment the priest had concluded.

  “Whatever you have to say to me can wait until I return,” her husband replied. “I have decided to visit my outlying estates.”

  Margot realized Aileas was as surprised by this as she.

  “I believe I have been somewhat lax with my supervision,” George said with a hint of self-mockery as he looked at his wife. “I would not have anyone say I am remiss in my duties.”

  A puzzled look appeared momentarily on Richard’s face, while Margot subdued a sigh of understanding. Aileas must have said something of that nature to George.

  “Remiss, my lord?” the steward repeated.

  “Yes. You do not think I have been negligent?”

  “Certainly not, my lord,” the estate steward immediately replied. George slid a snide glance at his wife, and Margot almost winced.

  Perhaps it would be wise to hint to Aileas that no man liked his methods of governing criticized. Not even George.

  “But I do think a personal visit would not be a mistake, my lord,” Sir Richard added.

  “We shall ride as soon as we can both be ready, before the noon today.”

  “Very good, my lord,” Sir Richard answered. “I shall see to it at once.” The steward rose, leaving his food unfinished, darted a look at Aileas—surely concerned for her health, Margot thought—and left the hall.

  There was a long moment of silence as George resumed eating and Aileas sat unspeaking, her attention apparently taken up by a contemplation of the table linen.

  When Margot could no longer stand it, she asked with a brittle brightness, “How long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Aileas rose unsteadily. “My lord, I would speak with you before you go.”

  “I will not have the time. My duties, as you know, keep me occupied.”

  “George!” Margot chided, keeping her tone as low as she could so that the others in the hall would not hear. “She is ill! Go with her to your bedchamber.”

  “You would make a better nurse, Margot, although I’m sure my wife’s ailment is nothing but a cold brought on by improper attire and dashing about the castle in the middle of the night,” he replied, biting off the last word.

  Aileas went as pale as a bleached sheet. Thinking she was about to faint, Margot quickly moved to support her.

  With an expression of alarm that lasted only an instant, George half rose. Then, seeing Margot with her arm about Aileas, he sat back down. “Please escort my wife to the bedchamber,” he said to Margot, his manner so brusque and cold she could scarcely believe it was her cousin speaking. “Send for the apothecary to tend to Lady Aileas,” he ordered Elma.

  Margot opened her mouth to respond, then thought better of it. The first thing she had to do was get Aileas to her bed.

  Surely they had not been married long enough for serious, unsolvable difficulties to have arisen, she thought as she helped Aileas toward the stairs. She hoped it wouldn’t be terribly difficult to mend the breach.

  It crossed her mind that it probably wouldn’t be impossible to get this recent marriage annulled, either.

  Herbert watched in dismay as his brother angrily tossed some clothing into a large leather pouch. They were in the bedchamber of Richard’s house, a large, timbered structure that boasted a hall and kitchen, with buttery and pantry below, and two bedchambers above. Richard’s bedchamber, the largest of the two, was as well furnished as Sir George’s, with an opulence lacking in the public rooms below. Here, the only other person allowed besides his brother was his well-paid, and mute, body servant. Richard didn’t want anyone speaking of the expensive luxuries, lest his master wonder how he could afford it.

  Herbert thought of his own meagre lodgings in the other room. If Sir George saw that room, he might wonder why his household steward was so poor, for Herbert kept it a carefully guarded secret that he had a mistress who lived in a town ten miles away, in a very fine house luxuriously appointed.

  “I thought you said he would never go,” Herbert reminded the irate Richard. “That you could ensure he would stay away from the other estates. What if he asks to see their books of account?”

  “I didn’t think he would be bothered, idiot!” Richard growled. He banged down the lid of his clothes chest and cast a black look at his brother. “Why should I, when he has never gone before?

  “It’s her fault,” he muttered, sitting on the chest. “That wife of his. That shrew! That harpy!”

  Herbert entwined his long, thin fingers nervously. “Do you suppose he suspects we’ve been—”

  “No, of course not!”

  “Perhaps she’s seen something in the accounts—”

  “How could she, when she can’t read?”

  “Then why blame—”

  “Because she’s driven him out, you idiot!” Richard slapped his hands on the chest and rose abruptly. “Why else does he look like he hasn’t had a decent night’s rest in days?” he demanded, beginning to pace. “Why else would he suddenly take it into his head to go? I’d lay you good odds she denies him!”

  “I thought you said we didn’t have anything to fear from her?”

  “From her directly, no, we don’t—but I can’t think of everything!” his brother cried. “How was I to know she would prove such a terrible wife that he would prefer to do business rather than stay home? I hope she dies!”

  “Richard!”

  “Well, I do—she’s sick already.”

  “Sick?”

  “Yes. She could barely stand when she left the table. It would have been wonderful if she’d fallen and broken her head!”

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  “I don’t know. She looks to have no more than a chill to me. They’ve sent for the apothecary.”

  “I hope it isn’t anything serious,” Herbert said sincerely.

  “I hope it isn’t anything serious,” Richard repeated in a sweetly cloying tone. He grabbed a pair of boots, then threw them across the room, where they struck the wall and fell to the floor, leaving a black mark on the whitewashed walls. “You sound as if you’re in love with her yourself,” he said scornfully. “Lisette will be pleased to hear that, I’m sure!”

  “I am not! But what if Lady Aileas does
die?” Herbert charged. “He’ll marry again—and perhaps to a woman who can read.”

  Richard crossed his arms and eyed his brother shrewdly. “What’s this? Don’t tell me you’re beginning to think for yourself?”

  Herbert remained silent as he retrieved the boots and set them beside the bed.

  “You’ll be in charge here while I’m gone,” Richard observed. “Don’t do anything without my approval.”

  “I am always careful.”

  “Don’t do anything without my approval—or else those delightful fellows who showed the miller where his interests lie might have to pay you a visit, too.”

  Herbert felt his blood run cold at the implied threat, yet he told himself his brother would never hurt him. Call him names, tell him he was stupid and foolish—but he wouldn’t hurt him!

  “Keep the lady confused, and don’t make any decisions until I get back. Do you understand?”

  Herbert nodded.

  “Good. Now I had best get to the castle.” Richard grabbed up his bag and strode from the room.

  Herbert watched him go, then sighed wearily as he slowly left the house.

  Everything had seemed so easy and free of risk when they had started. A few coins here, an inflated sum there. Enough to buy finer food and wine, enough to buy gifts for women. He had never guessed how far Richard was willing to go to get more money. He might have, if he had stopped to consider how trusting Sir George and his father were, and how greedy Richard was.

  Herbert continued through the village market, deaf to the noise of the merchants and their customers bargaining for the wares, blind to the vegetables, chickens, pig’s heads, baskets and other goods displayed. He vaguely wondered if he should buy something new for Lisette at the stall of one of the fabric merchants. Or at the goldsmith’s, where there was always something to please her.

  It was undeniable that he had needed more money than his wage as a household steward or the income from their family manor could provide to keep Lisette. That had been obvious from the first. So, when Richard came to him with his initial plans, he had agreed. When his brother had proposed other schemes, ones with more risk yet sure to yield better profit for them, he had agreed, too—although at the time, he had told himself that he would soon tire of Lisette, and then he would find another mistress, one with less expensive tastes and habits.