The Rogue. Ana Seymour
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Название: The Rogue
Автор: Ana Seymour
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
Серия: Mills & Boon Historical
isbn: 9781474016155
isbn:
Indeed, as he finished speaking, the big doors across the hall opened and four men entered, each carrying an armful of wood.
“You can’t keep your dining hall like an ice house when there are delicate ladies present,” the baron said to Nicholas. “I’ve given orders that the fires are to be kept well stoked from now on.”
Nicholas looked at his mother, who merely shrugged. Steaming, he took the seat next to Winifred, who blushed and shyly offered to share the trencher that had been placed in front of her.
Nicholas scarcely tasted the food his mother had spent so much time planning. He was sitting in his home, at his table and yet he’d been made to feel as if he were some kind of schoolboy who was only playing host when the real master was gone. And not doing a very good job of it. Is this how things would be if he accepted the baron’s offer and became his son-in-law?
Realizing that it was unfair to take his irritation out on poor Winifred, he made several attempts to engage her in conversation, but as before, she replied in a voice so soft that often he could not hear her, and she refused to meet his eyes.
“Don’t they make a handsome couple?” the baron asked Constance in a loud voice, looking down the table at his daughter and Nicholas.
“Aye, milord,” his mother answered dutifully.
To Nicholas’s surprise, Winifred bit her lip and her brown eyes filled with tears. He leaned close to her and said in an undertone, “Pay him no mind. Neither you nor I are puppets to dance to your father’s strings.”
She lifted her gaze to his face for a moment, and her eyes held unmistakable gratitude.
That put a new perspective on things, he thought with some amusement. It appeared the baron’s daughter was no more eager for the proposed marriage than Nicholas. He held back a chuckle of irony. When he’d left England he’d had women fighting over who would win him. Since his return, he’d met one who had spit in his face and another who looked terrified at the very thought of sharing a life with him.
He leaned over to the girl again. “But I’m not as bad as all that,” he told her with a grin.
Winifred made no reply and continued staring at her soup.
The meal seemed to last forever.
His anger did not boil over until the moment when the baron and Winifred were leaving. Winifred had already offered thanks to Constance and had touched Nicholas’s hand with fingers that were not any warmer than when she had first arrived, in spite of the built-up fire and the hot food. She then descended into the yard to allow her manservant to help her into the small covered cart in which she had traveled. It was hard to picture fragile Winifred mounted on a horse, Nicholas realized.
A stableboy brought up the baron’s horse, but Hawse lingered a moment to speak with Nicholas. “I’ve made you a fair proposition, boy. One that any knight in the land would jump at in a frog’s croak, hey? I know you’ve just returned and are still getting your land legs, but if you let this thing go on much longer without an answer, I’ll have to start considering it an insult.” His eyes narrowed. “And I’ll warn you, I don’t suffer insults lightly.”
Nicholas had had enough of listening to Baron Hawse stand in the Hendry family home and tell Nicholas what he had to do. “If ’tis to be settled at once, Baron,” he said, “then I’ll have to turn you down. You are correct. Any daughter of yours must surely be considered a prize, but I’m not ready to take a wife. Nor am I sure that Winifred is entirely in favor of the proposition.”
The veins on the baron’s face seemed to bulge. “Winifred will favor what I tell her to favor. And you’d be wise to do the same. Otherwise, you’ll be left with nothing.”
Nicholas said calmly, “I’ll take your advice under consideration. For the time being, I’ll continue to enjoy my single state.”
“Your father was right,” the baron spat. “He’d have been better off to have bred no son at all.” He whirled around, let his manservant boost him up on his horse, and rode off at a gallop, leaving his daughter’s cart in the dust behind him.
His parting words seemed to hang in the cold evening air. They could have been merely the product of the baron’s venom, but in his heart he knew that his father had probably uttered that exact sentiment.
Winifred’s cart lurched and headed off down the road after her father. For a long time after the dust from their departure had settled, Nicholas stood without moving in the chilly stableyard, staring at the black night sky.
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