A Warrior's Bride. Margaret Moore

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      The boy finished his task without any response, then quickly moved to the side of the room, where he proceeded to stare at the men as they drank. George suspected that the lad had absolutely no interest in anything passing before him except the necessity of refilling the goblets when necessary.

      “Pity about your father,” Sir Thomas remarked after taking a gulp of wine.

      George took a sip of the surprisingly fine wine and steeled himself to discuss that particular subject. “Yes. He was a good man.”

      “A good neighbor. Little lax, perhaps, but good for all that.”

      George forced a smile onto his face.

      “Sir Richard Jolliet still the estate steward?”

      “Yes, and his brother, Herbert, is the household steward. Richard has just gone to London to answer some questions about the taxes on my property.”

      “Not trouble with the exchequer, I trust?” the old man asked suspiciously.

      “Not a bit. I may have to pay a little more this year, that’s all. My estate has been doing rather better than expected.”

      “Ah! Glad to hear it. It was a hard winter, but those of us who were prepared weathered it easily enough.”

      George nodded his agreement, although he doubted anybody would ever be as prepared as Sir Thomas for bad times. His father always said that Sir Thomas lived in anticipation of a repetition of the biblical seven years of famine.

      “Good men, the Jolliets,” Sir Thomas continued with a hint of approval. “Trustworthy.”

      “Absolutely.” George agreed.

      “No doubt your father’s affairs were in excellent order.”

      “Yes, Sir Thomas.”

      “Too bad you couldn’t get home sooner.”

      “I came as quickly as I could,” George said. Then he chose the one excuse for his delayed arrival at his father’s deathbed that Sir Thomas could understand, and that would surely put an end to this painful topic, which he had no desire to discuss with near strangers—or anyone else, for that matter. “I was dutybound to stay with Baron DeGuerre until after Candlemas.”

      Sir Thomas nodded and took another gulp. “Still, a pity.”

      George sipped slowly and tried not to be annoyed by Sir Thomas’s unforgiving, judgmental tone.

      “So, you want to marry Aileas,” Sir Thomas announced suddenly.

      George nearly choked. “I have decided to marry,” he replied truthfully.

      “Why Aileas?”

      It had not seemed to occur to Sir Thomas that there might be other ladies George could marry. “My father thought she would be a good choice for me,” he answered honestly.

      “She doesn’t get any land when she marries,” the older man declared.

      “I would not ask you for any.” Knowing better, he thought wryly.

      “Good. She does get a dowry, of course. Movable goods.”

      “Delightful—but of course, the true prize will be Aileas herself.”

      Sir Thomas stared at George as if he had suddenly started to speak Greek. “Save that kind of nonsense for her, boy, although she’ll probably laugh in your face,” he growled. “She is a prize, as I well know. Especially if you’re ever under seige. Give her a bow and send her to the battlements, and you’ll be glad you did.”

      George prevented himself from saying that he would never, ever, send a woman to the battlements, and certainly not his wife. “I’m sure she is a worthy woman.”

      “Aye, she is.” Sir Thomas leaned forward, his back still absolutely straight, and fixed his hawklike gaze on George. “I’ll be honest with you, George, because I always liked your father. I hope she takes you, but if she says no, that’ll be the end of it.”

      “I would not have any woman feel she is being compelled to marry me against her will,” George replied, some of his annoyance creeping into his eloquent voice.

      Then Aileas entered the hall. George was pleased to see her present and unharmed, although despite the presence of guests, her hair was just as disheveled and she wore the most bizarre combination of male and female clothing George had ever seen.

      Her shirt beneath the short leather tunic was definitely rough homespun. The sleeves of her undergarment, from wrist to elbow, were wrapped in leather thongs of the type favored by archers. Her skirt was too short, revealing—to his astonishment—men’s breeches, as well as boots thick with mud, which she took no pains to dislodge before marching toward them.

      That was not all that made George stare at her. For one thing, although he thought he detected a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, she actually seemed subdued. Perhaps that was explained by the repressive presence of Sir Thomas.

      Or that of the brawny brute of a fellow with a florid face and red hair accompanying her. He was the type of man, George thought, who probably subsisted entirely on ale and underdone beef.

      Then he saw her cast a surreptitious glance at her companion and a secretive little smile played about her lips.

      Could it be that she cared for this lout, who looked as if he were totally unacquainted with the concept of soap, let alone its use?

      And who was also ignoring her, staring instead at her father’s guest in a manner so blatantly rude, George was exceedingly tempted to draw his sword and show the oaf the error of his ways.

      Reflecting that this might not endear him to Sir Thomas and Aileas, who were, regardless of whatever else they might become in future, his neighbors, he refrained and assumed his most cool, unruffled demeanor. If Aileas Dugall wanted this red-haired ruffian, he would gladly take his leave and search elsewhere for a bride.

      “Daughter, this is Sir George de Gramercie,” Sir Thomas announced. “Sir George, Lady Aileas.”

      “Welcome, Sir George,” the young woman replied politely, with not one sign that they had met earlier that day. Nor did she curtsy, even when George bowed.

      When he rose, he smiled at her with his most charming and meaningless smile, the one he usually reserved for empty-headed nobles in the royal court.

      Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she straightened her shoulders defiantly. “This is Rufus Hamerton,” she declared, pointing at the red-haired fellow, who managed something like a bow. “Sir Rufus Hamerton,” she amended.

      George smiled at him, too.

      Aileas had never seen such a bland smile, so distinctly at odds with the shrewd intelligence burning in his blue eyes and the subtle derision there. Did he think her a fool that she wouldn’t note the disparity? And why did he say nothing about meeting her before? Surely he recognized her.

      Was he being chivalrous, thinking her СКАЧАТЬ