Fairest of Them All Read online

  Holly followed Winifred, wife of Emrys Ab-Madoc, through the shadowy warren of passageways that would eventually lead to her chamber, reluctant to point out that the tiny woman would have to stand on a stool to box Austyn’s chin, much less his ears. The faded flax of her hair would have betrayed her as Carey’s mother even had Holly not witnessed her kissing and pinching the bowman’s cheeks with equal vigor, inciting a blush of lurid pink from his fair skin. The woman chirped like a sparrow, but bobbed along the narrow vaulted corridors like a plump gray pigeon.

  Holly was thankful for her prattling company. Elspeth and Nathanael had lingered by the kitchen fire to partake of a hearty stew, the mere sight of which had turned Holly’s bloated stomach and she much preferred Winifred’s chatter to the chattering of her own teeth as she contemplated her future as Austyn’s wife.

  “Our family has served Gavenmore for generations. My Emrys is the master’s steward, but I’m the one that carries the keys.” A faint clanking as they climbed a winding stone staircase confirmed her boast.

  “What of Sir Austyn’s father?” Holly asked. “I can’t help but notice ’tis not the father, but the son, you call your master.”

  Winifred shook her head sadly and tapped her forefinger against her temple. “The old master ain’t been right in the noggin since his lady died. I suspect he never will be. He spends half his days cursing the king and the other half searching the castle for his beloved Gwyneth.”

  “How tragic,” Holly replied, thinking how easy it would have been for her own papa to succumb to the madness of grief.

  Caer Gavenmore itself seemed to have fallen under the same dark spell of mourning. Holly had grown accustomed to flitting through the spacious corridors and airy chambers of Castle Tewksbury with their glass-fitted windows and generous embrasures. The shuttered windows and cramped arrow loops of this ancient keep loomed out of the shadows like malevolent eyes. Cobwebs frosted the hanging sconces, drifting like tattered veils stirred by an invisible sigh.

  Carey’s mother carried a tallow candle to light their way over the uneven flagstones, but each time it wavered, Holly held her breath, fearing the next chill draft would cast them into darkness. To her intense relief, Winifred sheltered the flame with her cupped hand as they bustled past a curving stairwell that wended upward into darkness.

  A woman’s moan, low and poignant with some unspeakable anguish, pierced the musty air. Holly hesitated, every meager hair on her head tingling with alarm.

  Winifred threw a cheery smile over her shoulder, assuring Holly that her imagination was once more triumphing over her common sense. Holly pressed a palm to her galloping heart and forced her feet into motion, eagerly awaiting Winifred’s explanation that the unearthly keening was simply the wind whistling through some narrow crack in the mortar.

  “Don’t mind the noise, child. ’Tis only the master’s grandmother.”

  “His grandmother? She’s still alive?” Holly cast a nervous glance back at the stairwell, scrambling to calculate the woman’s age. She adored classical literature, but Nathanael had pronounced her paltry brain unfit for the masculine science of mathematics.

  Winifred waved an airy hand. “Of course not. The poor dear threw herself out the tower window after her husband locked her away for flirting with a minstrel.” She shot Holly a knowing wink. “Some say ’twas despondency that drove her to it, but I say ’twas more likely boredom. After all, ten years is a long time to endure your own company.”

  Holly was still pondering that grim revelation when they rounded a corner to be assailed by the deafening clatter of chains. She clapped her hands over her ears, removing them only when the clamor died to a ghostly echo.

  She swallowed a congealed lump of fear, searching Winifred’s serene countenance hopefully. “A loose chain on the drawbridge? Bats in the belfry?”

  Winifred shook her head, clucking her tongue dolefully. “That would be the bride of the master’s great-great-great grandfather.”

  Holly didn’t have to be Pythagoras to calculate the mathematical odds of that particular Gavenmore lady still being alive, “I don’t suppose the woman died in her sleep of natural causes,” she said in a small voice.

  “I’d say not. Old Caradawg of Gavenmore had her burned at the stake in the castle courtyard.” Winifred’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “He claimed she was a witch, but ’twas rumored the careless chit simply showed a bit of ankle while climbing into her litter. Ah, here we are! I sent the maidservants ahead to ready your chamber.”

  The woman threw open a massive oaken door and backed Holly inside. Chucking her fondly beneath the chin, she said, “Don’t mind the White Lady, dear. She doesn’t usually trouble anyone unless the moon is full.”

  With those dubious words of comfort, Winifred shut the door in Holly’s face. Holly stood staring at the door for several dumbfounded minutes, afraid to turn around for fear some ghoul would be waiting to greet her, its skeletal fingers dripping clods of grave dirt She’d always heard the Welsh were a superstitious lot. Now she understood why.

  “Steady, girl,” she whispered before forcing herself to face the chamber.

  A plump apricot of a moon peeped coyly through the arrow loop on the opposite wall. Holly clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a shriek. She wasn’t sure which would frighten her more—a nocturnal visit from the “White Lady of Gavenmore” or one of her husband’s homicidal ancestors.

  Rushlight flickered over the mundane cheer of the chamber, mocking her fears. A basin of steaming water rested next to a linen towel on a low-slung chest. Her scant belongings had been piled in one corner. The paintings on the plastered ceiling were chipped and faded, but here and there Holly could make out pastoral scenes of scampering pups and idly grazing sheep. The four-poster bed draped in pleated silk made her sigh with yearning. ’Twas as if every comfort had been deliberately designed to lure the weary traveler to rest.

  Holly longed to succumb. And why shouldn’t she? she asked herself. After all, her husband had made it plain that he did not seek to share her bed. That he preferred the ephemeral memory of his lady fair to the carnal knowledge of his wife. She had seen his eyes caress the mysterious memento of that liaison with a hunger that made the affections offered by her own admirers seem only pale echoes of passion. Austyn might treat her with amused tolerance, even kindness, but it was the phantom of his ladylove who haunted his heart and his bed.

  Fighting an absurd wave of melancholy, Holly jerked the cotte and chemise over her head and began to unwrap her breasts, defiantly inviting the night air to caress them. After spicing the basin of water with a few precious droplets of myrrh oil, she rinsed the ash from her hair, bathed her face and body, then fished out her hand mirror to give her reflection a perusal in the cracked glass.

  She would have almost sworn the glossy silk of her hair was beginning to curl at the tips. She ran her tongue along the edge of her teeth. The stains were definitely fading. She would have to send Elspeth and Nathanael foraging in the forest for more walnuts on the morrow. She laid aside the mirror with a sigh. She was beginning to feel as divided as her reflection—relieved to have escaped her husband’s amorous demands yet insulted by his lack of regard for her.

  “What did you expect, pudding head?” Holly inquired of herself as she smothered the rushes, then padded across a plush bearskin rug to the bed. “That he would lift your ugly little mask, discover your true inner beauty, and declare his undying love for you?”

  A self-effacing giggle escaped her as she slid naked between the scratchy linen sheets, luxuriating in the forgotten pleasure of feeling like herself again. She snuggled into the feather pillow, refusing to give voice to her most secret fear—that Austyn might lift her mask and find nothing at all beneath.

  The following morning Holly marched toward the grassy bluff where Emrys had told her she would find Austyn, determined to confront her husband about Winifred’s grisly tales.

  At least her mouth no longer tasted as if
she’d been licking the hearthstones, she thought Upon waking to discover the painful pinkness of her skin had subsided to a burnished russet certain to repulse any man who favored a lady over a milkmaid, she had declined to paint a mustache of ashes on her upper lip.

  Holly topped the crest of the bluff to discover a man kneeling on the bank of a crystalline pool. He wore no surcoat or tunic. The day was already warm and a glistening sheen of sweat bronzed the well-defined slabs of muscle and sinew in his shoulders and back. Holly felt tiny beads of sweat bud along her own brow at the sight She fanned herself with her hand, feeling oddly breathless.

  She must have made some small sound for the man began to rise and turn. Realizing too late that this man wore no beard or mustache, and flustered at the prospect of being caught ogling a stranger, she blurted out, “Forgive me, sir. I was told I could find Sir Austyn …”

  Her voice faded to a wordless sigh as the man wiped the mask of soap lather from his face and she discovered her entire life had been nothing but a cruel and vicious lie.

  CHAPTER 13

  Holly’s earliest memory was of the adoring moons of her parents’ faces hovering over her crib.

  “Just ’ook at Mama’s b-o-o-oootifiil baby,” her mother would croon, reaching down to finger a silky curl.

  “Her is Papa’s pwecious wittle angel,” her father would lisp in reply, tickling the satiny skin beneath Holly’s chin until she rewarded him with a delighted chortle.

  Soon they were joined by others, an entire galaxy of pale moons gazing raptly down at her, all eager to pinch her rosy cheeks, tweak the tip of her upturned nose, poke the chubby perfection of her downy belly. Her mother had refused to swaddle her as was the custom, pronouncing it an affront to God’s artistry to tuck away such exquisite little arms and legs.

  At the conclusion of each such rite of worship, her mother would turn and solemnly inquire of their guests, “Isn’t our Holly simply the fairest creature God ever created?”

  Her audience would intone their awestruck agreement, their eyes glazing over with adoration as they leaned over the crib, clucking and cooing in the fervent hope of coaxing a smile from Holly’s rosebud mouth.

  “Liars,” Holly muttered, backing away from the man on the bluff. “Every one of them. Wretched, heartless liars!”

  The sparkling frost of his eyes narrowed in bewilderment. “My lady? What is it? Is something the matter?” He lowered the linen towel, revealing a muscular chest shaded by damp whorls of hair. Holly could remember only too well the crisp feel of them beneath her fingertips. He took a step toward her.

  She splayed a hand to ward him away and he stopped, seeming to sense that any sudden movement on his part might result in dire consequences. Such as her throwing herself over the edge of the bluff into the roiling river.

  Holly’s suitors had lied to her. Her papa had lied to her. Even her beloved mama had lied to her. She could never be the fairest creature God had ever created as long as Sir Austyn of Gavenmore lived.

  His was not the fey comeliness of Eugene de Legget or even the boyish charm of his fair-haired man-at-arms. His was a purely masculine beauty, as dark and compelling as the visage of one of God’s own angels cast from the portals of heaven for daring to supplant his Master’s affections in the heart of every mortal female who laid eyes on him.

  His scruffy growth of beard was gone, no longer defending her from a rugged jaw mellowed by the hint of a devilish dimple in one cheek. Gone as well the bristling mustache that had shielded her from the sulky curve of lips chiseled by a master artist for the delights of kissing and other sensual pleasures Holly could only pretend to imagine.

  In her pathetic naïveté, she had thought him closer to her father’s age than her own, but the dripping misericorde in his hand had shaved decades from his age. He could not have wounded her any more deeply had he plunged its blade into her thundering heart.

  Her pallor must have reflected her shock for the quizzical concern in his eyes deepened. “Are you ill, my lady?”

  Aye, she was ill! Sickened by her own stupidity. Sickened by the lurching betrayal of her heart. Sick with a fury she knew was as absurd as it was unjust. She wanted to fling herself at the sun-gilded planes of the bastard’s chest and beat at him with her fists. She wanted to snatch down the bodice of her gown, revealing her breasts in all of their splendor, and shout “Ha!”

  She wanted to cup the damp, freshly shaven planes of his cheeks between her palms and draw his mouth, that exquisite mouth with its beguiling promise of both damnation and deliverance, down to hers for a long, thirsty draught.

  To keep herself from doing anything that might expose her folly, she turned her back on him in one violent motion, But even clenching her eyes shut so tightly they ached could not blind her to the image of him standing at the edge of that bluff, the dusky sable of his hair framed by the azure sky and caressed by the breeze blowing off the river.

  Remorse flooded Austyn as he gazed down at his wife’s narrow shoulders. He’d never seen anything so rigid, yet so brittle. ’Twas as if the merest nudge of his fingertip would cause her to crumble and scatter on the wind. What an utter churl he had been! It should have occurred to him before he shaved that his accursed fairness of face would only make her more conscious of her lack.

  He slipped behind her, the ashen vulnerability of her nape rebuking him. He brushed a hand over her shoulder, but she shied away from his touch.

  Austyn’s fingers curled helplessly in on themselves. “Forgive me, my lady. ’Twas never my intention to wound you.”

  She wheeled on him. For a dazzling instant, the glistening violet of her eyes against the apricot flush of her skin blinded Austyn to her lank hair and mottled teeth. “Then what was your intention, sir? To burn me at the stake in the castle courtyard? To swab my spattered remains off the cobblestones beneath the north tower?”

  He reached to rub his beard, then lowered his hand when it encountered only smooth jaw. “So Winnie’s been regaling you with the Gavenmore history, eh?”

  “Only the family propensity for either murdering their wives or driving them to suicide. How long will it be before my restless spirit is wandering the corridors of Caer Gavenmore, rattling a dried chaplet of bluebells and wailing a warning to the next Gavenmore bride?”

  Austyn shuddered at the image. He knew better than anyone how haunting Holly’s caterwauling could be. “You’ve no need to fret about your own well-being. All of those unfortunate incidents were crimes of—” He stopped abruptly, realizing his casual words contained jagged barbs that might shred her feelings anew.

  But it was too late. Without the mask of his beard to shield his thoughts, his treacherous face had revealed him.

  “Passion?” she asked softly. “Jealousy?” She met his gaze squarely, the luminous oases of her eyes now dry and barren. “Then I am relieved, sir, to know there is to be neither between us.”

  Turning from him, she started down the hill toward the castle, her affronted dignity a fragile shield. Austyn watched her go, his heart plagued by an odd pang at the endearing awkwardness of her waddle.

  He was too awash in regret to hear Carey come rustling up the path from the river, a string of fish dangling from one hand. “I say, fellow, have you seen Sir Aus—” The fish flopped from his fingers to the grass. “Good God, man, what have you done?”

  “Proved myself an utter clod,” Austyn replied absently, laying aside the misericorde and towel to rescue his tunic from a nearby rock. “Trampled my wife’s delicate heart into the dirt.”

  “And it’s not even noontide yet. But I was talking about the beard.” Carey wiped a missed streak of soap lather from Austyn’s cheek. “Why I’d forgotten how comely you were or I might have wed you myself!

  Austyn cuffed him lightly on the chin. “My face was never good for naught but attracting the very sort of women I sought to avoid.”

  Carey sighed wistfully. “Ah! Beautiful women. Exquisite feminine creatures with soft, creamy hands and lush,
rosy lips eager to …” He shook himself out of his reverie.

  Austyn buckled a crimson surcoat over his tunic. “Now that I’ve a wife and am protected from such dangerous temptations, I thought it safe to shave.”

  Carey snorted. “God pity the harlot that incurs the wrath of your bride. The little minx would doubtlessly snatch her even balder than—” He lowered his eyes. “Sorry.”

  Austyn picked up the memento he had carried next to his heart since that night in the moonlit garden, studying it with troubled eyes. “My wife is a most curious girl. She doesn’t seem the jealous sort. ’Tis almost as if she doesn’t deem herself worthy of fidelity.” Still haunted by her fleeing image, he closed his hand, crushing the forgotten treasure heedlessly in his fist. “When I told her my heart was pledged to another—”

  “You told her such a thing? Have you lost your wits, man? Women despise candor.”

  Austyn scowled. “To lie would have been a dishonor to her. And had I not told her the truth, she might have thought I found her”—it was his turn to lower his eyes—“distasteful.”

  “Ah, but now you wish to make amends?”

  What Austyn wished for was his beard to hide the flush he could feel creeping toward his clenched jaw. In matters of the heart, he had no choice but to bow to Carey’s superior wisdom. To avoid any entanglements that might inadvertently cost him his soul, Austyn had chosen to bargain for the majority of his pleasures. He’d learned to bring a woman to shuddering ecstasy when he’d been little more than a lad, but knew nothing of wooing one. His coin had always been persuasion enough.

  “I’ll not praise her virtues in honeyed verse if that’s what you’re thinking,” he growled. “I’d rather she gut me with my own sword than repeat that debacle.”

  Carey absently picked up the misericorde, tapping its hilt against his pursed lips as he contemplated how best to display his sophistication. “Women, particularly new brides, love to receive gifts. And they adore any excuse to fuss over their menfolk. Offer the girl some tokens of your affection. Give her a bit of mending to do.”