“Oh, would you?” A momentary look of hope flashed within Hugh’s eyes then it was gone again. “Maybe later, eh?”
Just then, the man to Hugh’s left asked for his opinion about something or other, leaving Anselm free to look about the room. Bypassing the curvaceous delights of the graceful dance troop, he glanced over to the top table, to where the queen was sitting between her eldest son and daughter. With her youthful looks, Hortensia didn’t look old enough to be the mother of teen-aged children, but so it was. With their dark hair and golden skin, the royal siblings featured both of their parents in looks. Doubtless King Rodmar already had fine marriages planned for the handsome pair. As for his wretched sister however…
As if controlled by the will of another, Anselm’s gaze drifted further to the left—beyond the gaggle of finely dressed ladies who were currently wasting their time making cow’s eyes at Vadim and Reynard—to the very end of the top table where they finally found their goal.
Miriam.
The awful black gown she wore had more in common with the widows’ weeds of some hideous crone than with the regal attire of a princess. All alone, she sat nursing her golden goblet, a faint frown marring the smoothness of her brow.
If Miriam had intended to look deliberately plain, then she succeeded admirably. Not even so much as a solitary piece of jewelry adorned her person. The only hint of female vanity was in the carelessly raised arrangement of her hair. Besides the other women, she appeared positively dowdy.
Why should it be, then, that it was Miriam who repeatedly drew his attention?
Over the course of the meal, and all throughout the remainder of the evening, no matter how often he tried to look away from her, Anselm’s eyes were repeatedly drawn back to Miriam. Her features were oddly familiar to him—which was quite impossible.
Where had he seen her likeness before?
As if fixed upon a vision that only she could see, Miriam’s eyes were distant and unseeing. She paid little heed to her dining companions or to the buzz of conversation that surrounded her—although she did occasionally rouse herself enough to dismiss a hovering servant with a glance or a careless wave of her hand, sending all those delicious platters back to the kitchen untasted. Indeed, she seldom even troubled to raise her goblet to her lips.
This was the full extent of Miriam’s interaction with anyone. Although present in the flesh, in spirit she was many leagues away. Hell, she might as well have been dining alone.
For some reason, Anselm found her lack of attention strangely vexing. After upending a jug of wine over him, the least the wretch could do was look over at him and gloat from time to time.
Almost as if she’d heard his innermost thoughts, Miriam slowly turned her head. Suddenly she was looking right at him, a tiny smile playing about her lips. Anselm’s heart stumbled in his chest. Erde. What was she—a witch?
Trying to appear undaunted, Anselm raised his chin and held his wine goblet up to her in a silent salute.
But just as he examined her, so Miriam studied him, her finely curved eyebrows arched in some private amusement. No doubt she found the current state of his attire sadly lacking, especially when compared with the finery of the other knights. Still, Miriam had no reason to preen and look superior, not while she was wearing those disgusting, shapeless weeds.
The dancing girls had departed, and the musicians were playing another tune. A soft, romantic melody this time, designed to entice people to get up and dance. Anselm’s thoughts must have been particularly transparent that evening, for he was just about to rise from his seat when Sir Hugh put a firm hand upon his shoulder to detain him.
“No, Anselm. Stay where you are. Heed my words; no good will come of this.”
“Of what?” Anselm asked, shaking free from Hugh’s restraining grip.
“After all the leagues we’ve traveled together, contrary to what you might believe, I like to think that I’ve begun to know you a little better. So what kind of friend would I be if I did not advise you to stand down? This game you’re set to play is a dangerous one.”
“Oh? The queen has a gaming room, does she? How marvelous!”
But Hugh wasn’t taken in. Beneath his amiable demeanor, the man was as shrewd as they came. Little of importance got past him. “I am mistaken, then? You weren’t about to go up and speak to Lady Miriam?”
“No,” Anselm replied with a grin. “If you must know, I was about to go take a leak, but now that you mention it, Lady Miriam does look rather lonely up there, all by herself. Perhaps I will go and have a quick word with her.” He stood up and clapped Hugh on the back. “Thank you for the idea, my friend.”
Hugh shook his shaggy gray head and reached for his tankard. No fancy wines for Hugh. He was an ale devotee to his very marrow.
“Fine. Suit yourself. Just don’t lay the blame for your foolishness at my door when all this goes to pot. Oh, and don’t come complaining to me when they clap you in irons, either, for I won’t give a toss.”
“Bless your kindly heart, Hugh.” Much to the older man’s annoyance, Anselm planted a swift kiss upon his bearded cheek. “Truly, you are more of a father than my own has ever been.”
“Hey!” Hugh scrubbed at his face with his hand. “What the devil are you doing?”
“Perhaps upon our return to Edgeway you might be persuaded to convince your lovely wife to adopt me into your burgeoning family, hmm?”
Hugh scowled. “If you go anywhere near my Beatrice,” he hissed, “I swear I will rip your scrawny arms from their sockets and beat you about the head with them until your brains—such as they are—are naught but a mushy pulp.”
Anselm believed him, for Hugh was fiercely protective of his wife. “In that case, I take it you have no objections to my popping over there to have a quick word with Lady Miriam, then?”
“No, none at all,” Hugh replied, clearly peeved that Anselm had dared to call his precious wife ‘lovely’. “Go on, sod off!” he growled. “I only hope she does a proper job of drowning you this time.”
Chapter Eighteen
From beneath her eyelashes, Miriam watched Anselm weave his way across the banqueting hall. At first, he seemed to be headed in her direction, but then he paused to speak with the man he called brother. She exhaled a relieved breath, but much too soon, for a moment later he was on the move again, and this time there was no mistake. He was definitely coming over.
Arrogant knight. She might have guessed he’d be too stupid—or too vain—to stay out of her way. Dousing the fool with wine had obviously not been hint enough.
Even so, Miriam could not help but admire the stranger’s grace of movement. Surely he must be a skilled hunter-tracker for he moved with great lightness of foot. Without so much as a near miss, he negotiated the crowds of dancing couples with ease. ’Twas a good thing he was paying such close attention, for the twirling dancers were quite oblivious, to him and to everyone and everything else.
For them, all that mattered was the bliss of the moment, and the partner within the tender circle of their arms. Undulating to the rhythm of the gentle music, the dancing couples drifted like seeds on the wind without any real course. Lost in the moment and in one another. Utterly beguiled by the look in their lover’s eyes.
Miriam sighed as her mind obligingly conjured up the face of her one true love.
Fabien. The only man who would ever claim her heart as his own. The man she would walk beside throughout all the days of her life.
Smiling to herself, she planted her elbow on the table and rested her cheek upon her upturned hand. The mere recollection of Fabien’s handsome features was enough to stir her lazy blood and send it blazing through her veins.
But her lover was dangerous man—as dangerous as he was fine-looking—for Fabien was a pirate.
Once again, Miriam relived the day they’d first met. It was down in the small harbor by the edge of
the bay. Bare-chested and beautiful, Fabien had been aboard the small ship—or caravel—he commanded, bellowing orders at his crew as they hauled upon the complicated tangle of ropes that comprised the ship’s rigging.
The movement of the sailor’s gleaming muscles had drawn Miriam’s admiring gaze like moths to the moonlight—despite her sister’s admonishment to look away this instant. Wide-eyed and utterly shameless, Miriam gorged herself upon this paragon of manly beauty. Truly, he was the most attractive man she’d ever beheld.
In that moment she loved him, even though she still did not know his name. That memorable introduction was to take place a few days later.
Always hoping to hear some word of their brother who had set sail for the Norlands some months earlier, Miriam and her sisters often walked down to the harbor. By good fortune, that particular day they happened to meet up with an old sailor whose knowledge of the ports and harbors further north was almost supernatural. If anyone had news of their brother Rodmar, it would be this fellow.
So, while the rest of her family were distracted, bombarding the aged sea-dog with rapid questions, Miriam happened to wander a little way from the group. At the very same moment, the pirate captain she had so admired suddenly stepped off his ship in the company of two other men.
As their eyes met for the first time, Miriam gasped. It was as if she’d been struck by lightning. With just one look she had lost both her head and her heart. Blushing like fury, she was locked within his spell, unable to tear her gaze away. That slow, lazy smile he sent her made the prospect of escape even more unlikely.
To Miriam’s disappointment, her bare-chested hero wore a rather grimy shirt that day, concealing the beautiful musculature she’d previously so admired. Still smiling at her, the man swaggered toward her, strands of his tousled black hair clinging to the handsome planes of his sweaty face. Like a fool, she could only stand and stare, her heart pounding like a wild thing within her chest, quite unable to move.
“Do you like what you see, m’lady?” the stranger asked as he came closer. Opened his arms as if he were about to embrace her he added, “Take a good, long look,”
Miriam trembled. Oh, she liked it, very much, and all that she heard too.
The man’s voice was deep and slightly husky—probably from shouting at his men all day, and there was the hint of an accent, too, one she couldn’t immediately place. Delicious shivers rippled up and down the length of Miriam’s spine.
As the man came closer, she caught a hint of old sweat combined with the scent of musk and rum, and… something else. A smell she suddenly recalled from the bedchamber of her brother and his wife on those rare mornings when Rodmar was at home. Heated and primal, ’twas the scent of someone who’d recently been coupling.
Although she was a virgin Miriam wasn’t entirely innocent. She knew how the world worked just as well as any other unwedded maiden. After all, young wives would always talk, especially in front of their younger sisters who were themselves approaching marriageable age.
Miriam had no intention of being married off. Not her.
If Rodmar thought she would meekly consent to wed one of the fat old barons he’d probably already picked out for her, back home in his precious—ghastly—Norlands, then he was in for a disappointment.
Miriam had already made her choice.
The thought of performing such raw, physical acts of love with Fabien sent a flood of heat pooling in the pit of her stomach. Unfortunately, however, beyond a few heated kisses, she was still unbroken.
Fabien had made his position quite clear: Not until Miriam had handed over the keys to the royal treasure vault would he consent to take her as his bride—and he was infuriatingly insistent about this. For without money, he argued, how could he hope to keep her and any future offspring in a manner that befitted their nobility?
Rodmar had always been such a kind and generous brother, she told her guilty conscience. Surely he wouldn’t begrudge her helping herself to a small part of his fortune? Besides, he had money and treasure a-plenty back home in his new country…
“I trust you’re having a pleasant evening, m’lady?”
Miriam groaned inwardly. Oh, not him again. That infernal North-man. For a while there, lost in her private musings, she’d quite forgotten about him. Well, almost.
“Pleasant enough, thank you.” She wrinkled her nose as she noticed his attire. My! What a disgustingly dirty and faded shirt. ’Twas hardly suitable attire for a feast held in honor of his party. “Whatever are you wearing, sir knight? Or was it your intention to appear before your king’s family dressed as a peasant?”
Instead of being insulted, he chuckled. “Lest it escapes your memory, m’lady, the only decent garments I possessed were ruined earlier this evening.” His face showed not the slightest hint of embarrassment. ’Twas as if her words of censure meant nothing to him. Insolent pig.
“Besides,” he continued, “what does my apparel matter when the king’s own sister chooses to disguise herself as a serving girl? No. In this instance, my finest rags are quite good enough for this mighty hall, I think.” Smiling, the knight swept back his wavy golden hair with a careless hand. “Far be it from me to question royal protocol, no matter how odd it might seem. I am, after all, but a humble knight and a stranger in these lands, m’lady.”
Humble. Him. The very thought was laughable. Whatever other qualities the man before her possessed, humility certainly wasn’t amongst their number. Indeed, his lack of appropriate clothing did not seem to vex him at all.
“It seems you are set on insulting me, this night, m’lord.”
“Me? Oh, no, m’lady. Not at all. I was merely following the steps of the dance you have begun, nothing more.” His smile faded. “Unless, perhaps, my judgment is at fault in some way? Perhaps, if you are willing, we might begin our acquaintance anew?” To Miriam’s surprise, the knight swept her a respectful bow. “Sir Anselm of Edgeway at your service, m’lady.”
Miriam was grateful for the barrier of the table that kept them apart, particularly when the bold Sir Anselm attempted to take her hand—probably to kiss it, as seemed to be the custom of their kind, god forbid. Swiftly withdrawing her hands from the table, Miriam clasped them together rather primly on her lap. More from ingrained politeness than any genuine desire to heal the animosity between them, she answered, “I am delighted to know you, Sir Anselm. And I am Princess Miriam.” At your service, indeed.
The best service this man of the North could give her was to take himself from her presence and return to the place from whence he’d come, preferably as quickly as possible.
Already, she felt the pull of her beloved Fabien as he waited on the edge of her waking dreams, and she was keen to meet with him again.
The fact that the dream version of her would-be lover was more tender and affectionate than his real-life counterpart was of no real consequence, and she swiftly brushed the vexing notion away. Everything would be different once they were wed, she told herself. He did not mean to be surly or cruel. It was the pressure of waiting that was getting to him, nothing more.
“So, Princess Miriam, I expect you’re eager to be reunited with your brother again. ” Instead of departing as she would have preferred, however, the annoying Northman took a tankard of ale from the loaded tray of a passing servant and then—to her utmost astonishment—he came around the table and sat down on the vacant chair beside her. Quite uninvited, too. Pig of a man. “Are you looking forward to seeing your new home?”
What a ridiculous question. Of course she wasn’t.
In truth, Miriam dreaded leaving the only place she had ever called home. She’d grown up here. All her friends were here. Her whole life was here.
After so many years spent in the wonderful land of their exile, Miriam had no desire to trade its familiar comforts for the cold, bleak lands of her ancestors. If she lived to be two hundred, Haldenberg woul
d always be the place she called home.
Sir Anselm tilted his head to one side, the hint of a smile playing about his lips as he studied her face. “As much as that, eh? No wonder you seem so down of heart.”
What had he asked? Something about her new home? Really, she ought to take more care. If a complete stranger could translate her countenance so accurately, what might someone more familiar read from her wayward facial expressions?
“I-It will be good to s-see my brother again.” There. Lame as it was, it was the best she could do. Well, short of telling an outright untruth.
Anselm chuckled again. “Well said, Princess. For a moment there I almost believed you.”
“Oh, do go away!” she snapped.
“I will. Eventually. But my obedience comes at a price.”
Her eyes widened and her heart skipped a beat. She didn’t care for the way the horrid man was looking at her. “Whatever do you mean?”
Setting down his tankard on the table, Sir Anselm gently covered her hands with his. “Dance with me,” he murmured.
“D-Don’t be absurd!” Miriam tugged her hands out from beneath his and held them against her breast as though his touch had just burned her. “How dare you touch me like that, you… you—” She could think of no insult strong enough, so
“Please? It’s just a dance, Princess. A turn about the floor in a room full of people.” Still grinning in that annoying manner he possessed, Anselm swept his arm to indicate the crowds around them. “Or perhaps you don’t trust yourself. Is that it?”
With you? “Hah!” Miriam said rudely. Heart pounding, she almost tripped over the train of her gown in her haste to rise from her seat. “Truly, you have a high opinion of yourself, m’lord. ’Tis a most unattractive trait.”
Anselm stood up beside her. “Ah, see how she blushes. Fair lady, your modesty is pleasing and does you much credit. However, recall that I am a guest in your brother’s home—a friend—so there is no need to be fearful.”
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