Fairest of Them All Page 13

  “Mending? But I’ve nothing that requires it. Your mother does all—” Yelping, Austyn jumped back as Carey jabbed the misericorde toward his side, splitting the seam of his surcoat and barely missing his ribs. He shot his man-at-arms a disbelieving glare. “What are you trying to do? Give her the pleasure of stitching up my hide?”

  “Only as a last resort I’m sure you can scrape up some more garments to go on the pile.” Carey clapped him on the shoulder. “Take heart, man. The girl has probably had little enough wooing in her life. I wager ’twill take but a handful of pretty trinkets to win back her favor.”

  Holly glared at Austyn’s offerings, fuming with impotent anger.

  After fleeing the bluff and the regal stranger masquerading as her husband, she had spent hours restlessly prowling the castle, giving only the shadowy stairwell that wended its way to the haunted tower a wide berth. Twice she had thought she heard shuffling steps behind her, but had whirled around to find herself alone. Perhaps ’twas only rats, she had thought bitterly, or the shambling specter of her own idiocy.

  She had retreated to her chamber after noontide to find a silver tray resting on the chest. A silver tray containing an array of exquisite offerings: a tiny replica of a misericorde no bigger than her smallest finger, its wooden blade carved to a delicate point; a pewter box brimming with fresh cut herbs, their wintry aroma making her nostrils tingle; a silken veil so gossamer it might have been woven from nothing more substantial than the dreams of wistful spiders.

  Holly picked up each item in turn, surveying them with brutal candor. “A veil to spare my lord the sight of my face. Herbs to sweeten the foulness of my breath. And a pick to clean my rotten teeth. How thoughtful.”

  A knock sounded on the door. Holly marched over to it, wielding the tiny toothpick like the most lethal of daggers. She was only too eager to plunge it into her husband’s churlish heart.

  Winifred stood on the threshold, teetering beneath a mound of garments. She staggered over to the bed, dropping her burden with a grunt of relief. “From the master, my lady. He remembered your papa boasting that you were proficient in needlework.”

  “Proficient?” Holly echoed acidly. ’Twas rumored throughout England that she could sew a man’s flapping tongue to his chin before he’d finished declaring his eternal devotion to her. “Thank you, Winifred,” she said stiffly, ushering the tiny woman out the door.

  She wheeled around to shoot the innocuous-looking pile of garments a baleful glare, thankful to have been given yet another gust of irritation to fan the embers of her rage.

  “Of all the masculine arrogance! Why the sheer vanity of it boggles the mind! He must think it the most esteemed privilege for me to prick my fingertips raw in his exalted service!”

  She snatched a crimson surcoat from the top of the pile, wringing it between her hands as if it were Austyn’s thick neck. An achingly familiar aroma wafted to her nose. She buried her face in the garment, breathing deeply of an intoxicating hint of leather, horse, and crisp minty musk.

  A despairing moan escaped her. She sank to her knees on the bearskin rug, still clutching the garment.

  How Nathanael would laugh if she allowed him to discover her predicament! she thought. How many times had he sneered his approval while she scoffed in the crestfallen face of some poor man whose only transgression was to allow his heart to be drawn into her snare by a flutter of her silky lashes or a provocative pout?

  Yet she had allowed herself to be beguiled by nothing more than the hint of an unlikely dimple in a man’s stern jaw, the wry quirk of his chiseled lips.

  A dry sob, half laughter, half grief, broke from her lips. She was lying to herself even now. In truth, she had began to feel the first stirrings of infatuation for Sir Austyn as early as the tournament, when his valor on the jousting field had proved him a man of honor. She had behaved as the most abominable brat on the journey to Gavenmore, yet instead of punishing her as she deserved, he had rewarded her with patience and compassion.

  He had forfeited both his freedom and the hope of a future with a woman he truly loved to wed a stranger and protect a father too tormented by grief to ever fully appreciate the sacrifice his son had made. Oddly enough, even Austyn’s fidelity to that faceless wraith of a lover stirred Holly almost as much as it pained her.

  She rubbed the worn samite of the surcoat against her cheek, realizing that she was trapped in a web of her own deceit. Once she might have captured the heart of a virile man like Austyn with nothing more than a crook of one elegant fingernail. But now her fingernails were shredded to the quick and Austyn’s heart was bound to another. Her father had warned her too late of the grim consequences of forever seeking her own way.

  “Oh, Papa,” she whispered. “What have I done?”

  Don’t rely solely on your disguise to repel him, girl. Just be yourself.

  Her father’s enigmatic advice rose unbidden in her mind. A wild hope flowered in her heart. If she could repel Austyn with her shrewish temper, might she not also win his favor with the sweetness of her demeanor? Then for once in her life, she would be assured that someone loved her for something other than her fairness of form.

  And once she’d won her husband’s favor, she would be free to confess her trifling deception. Freshly dazzled by the promise of her beauty, he would gather her into his arms and seal his pledge of eternal devotion with the tenderest of kisses.

  Holly sighed, enchanted by the blissful vision. It took several dazed moments for the bright crimson of the surcoat to come back into focus. When it did, she jumped to her feet, giving the garment a brisk snap. If she was going to be the sweetest, most attentive wife a Gavenmore had ever been blessed with, there was much work to be done.

  She tossed a handful of wintergreen into her mouth before throwing open the door. “Elspeth!” she bellowed, chewing vigorously. “Elspeth, fetch my sewing box this very instant!”

  CHAPTER 14

  Austyn dragged his gaze away from the stairs winding down into the great hall long enough to slide his rook across the length of the carved board to protect his queen.

  “Ha! Checkmate!” his father crowed, seizing Austyn’s hapless king in his fist. “How many times have I warned you, son, not to leave your liege unguarded while you trot after the skirts of some woman? She may appear delicate, but the treacherous bitch can look after herself.”

  ’Twas almost worth letting the old man best him to witness his glee, but Austyn was not in the mood to endure one of his father’s ramblineg lectures on the evils of the fair sex. Yet he knew there was only one other topic compelling enough to keep his father from sliding back into brooding silence.

  Austyn leaned back on the bench, stretching his long legs. “You would have bested me anyway, Father. Your king’s strategy was far superior to mine.”

  ’Twas all the distraction Austyn had need of. Rhys of Gavenmore launched into a fevered recitation of the triumphs of his beloved Welsh kings—Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, Llewelyn the Great, even the mighty Arthur, a warrior so elusive that none of them truly knew if he had been flesh and bone or just a noble phantom forged from dreams of glory. From there, his father rushed on to castigate the English cur Edward.

  Which Edward was irrelevant. In his father’s twisted imagination, the first Edward still sat the throne. The Edward whose visit to this very keep in the autumn of 1304 had brought them all to ruin. The Edward who died three short years later after stripping them of their earldom, their vassals, and all other Gavenmore holdings, leaving them nothing but a crumbling ruin on a barren promontory overlooking the river Wye and the fading echo of a woman’s laughter.

  Austyn ruthlessly blocked out his father’s prattling, a trick he’d been forced to learn long ago to preserve his own capricious sanity. His temper was growing more irritable by the minute. He glowered at the stairs, longing for nothing so much as a glimpse of his homely little bride. If she did not choose to join them for the eventide meal, he would have to assume his gifts had failed to so
othe her wounded feelings.

  Carey crouched with his back to the circular stone hearth in the middle of the hall, idly plucking the strings of a lute. Brother Nathanael had tucked himself in the corner and sat cracking walnuts into a wooden bowl. A curious pursuit for a priest, Austyn thought, puzzled by the hint of rancor around the man’s mouth. The persistent crack-crack sound was beginning to fray Austyn’s tightly strung nerves even more than his father’s droning or Carey’s discordant plucking.

  He drummed his fingers on the table, disturbing a furred film of dust. After growing up in the splendor of Castle Tewksbury, he feared Holly must find the ancient keep little more than a hovel.

  Crack-crack.

  A stale layer of rushes carpeted the flagstones. A haze of smoke from the crude rushlights drifted over the hall, too cloying to be sucked out of the circular smoke hole cut in the vaulted roof above the hearth.

  Crack-crack.

  Austyn flexed his hands, fearing that if one more denuded walnut skittered into that bowl, he was going to rush over and crack the priest’s skull.

  Brother Nathanael was spared that grim fate by the appearance of his mistress on the stairs. Austyn came to his feet without realizing it. His father’s blustering tirade subsided on a fretful note.

  Lady Holly descended the stairs with regal grace, her broad hips swaying, her features obscured by a fall of gauzy silk. The train of her gown rippled behind her, rescued from the grimy taint of the stone steps by her nurse’s loyal hands. Her mincing steps did not betray her until she misjudged the last step and trusted her dainty foot to thin air.

  Austyn rushed forward to catch her before she could topple forward, frowning to realize the veil must make vision difficult, if not impossible, in the murky light. He cupped her bare elbows through her slashed sleeves, marveling at their silken texture. No matter how fair the face, he’d yet to meet a woman with comely elbows.

  “Good eve, my lady. Shall we sup together?”

  A smile warmed her voice. “If you wish it so, my lord.”

  She turned away from the table, forcing Austyn to capture her shoulders and gently guide her in the right direction. He fought a ridiculous impulse to lift the veil and steal a peek at that downy nape of hers. As they approached the table, his father retreated to huddle against the faded tapestry, still clutching his captured king.

  Holly nodded at Carey as she slid onto the bench. “Good eve, Winifred. I hope my tardiness has not allowed the food to cool.”

  Carey opened his mouth, but Winifred mercifully bustled in at that moment, bearing a tray of trenchers. The bowls of coarse brown bread overflowed with steaming portions of mutton and leeks. “The master’s favorite, my lady,” she said, slapping a trencher down between Austyn and Holly. “I hope it pleases you.”

  “I’m certain it will, Winnie,” Holly replied mildly. “It takes very little to please me. I hope you’ll find it the least taxing of your duties.”

  Austyn stared at his wife in patent disbelief while the others gathered at the far end of the trestle table. Yesterday she’d been nigh on impossible to please. He was beginning to resent the veil. He missed judging Holly’s mood from the imperious angle at which she tilted her nose. Missed witnessing the first sparks of violet fire in those extraordinary eyes. When her groping fingers closed around the salt cellar, bringing it to her lips for a drink, he flipped the veil away from her face, growling beneath his breath.

  She exchanged salt cellar for goblet, her eyes dewy with surprise. “Does my costume displease you, sir? I thought only to honor your generosity.”

  Austyn recoiled, his eyes watering. Her breath positively reeked of wintergreen, the crisp blast of mint overwhelming even the pungent aroma of the leeks. It disgruntled him further to learn that he preferred the sweet, faintly floral, scent of her natural breath.

  “Aye, it pleases me,” he lied. “That veil belonged to my grandmother.”

  A fetching giggle escaped her. “I do hope you asked her leave before you borrowed it. I’d rather she not drift into my chamber at midnight, wailing and bemoaning its loss.”

  Austyn’s lips twitched, but he scowled to keep from smiling. No woman had ever dared mock the family ghosts before.

  But nor had any woman dared to share his trencher without an invitation, to soothe his mood with bright chatter about the rustic charms of Caer Gavenmore, to feed him tender bits of mutton from her fingertips. Oddly enough, it was Holly’s hands with their rein-chapped palms and bitten-to-the-quick fingernails that stirred him most. They fluttered about him like two delicate-boned birds, beguiling him with their grace, enticing him with their unspoken desire to please.

  They stilled when Brother Nathanael’s shadow fell over them. “I sought you earlier, my child, but Elspeth said you were napping.”

  “Then I was.” Holly slanted an inscrutable look up at the priest, before bestowing an amused smile on Austyn. “He calls me ‘child,’ forgetting that he is only a few years older than I.”

  Brother Nathanael flushed as Austyn himself might have done beneath her blithe mockery. He indicated the bowl tucked beneath his arm. “I spent the morning foraging in the forest for walnuts, my lady. Your favorites.”

  “No, thank you, Brother,” she replied sweetly. “I seem to have lost my taste for them.”

  The priest set the bowl on the table, his walnut-stained fingernails more ragged than Holly’s. “ ’Twould benefit you greatly to partake of these. I’ve never seen a meat so tender, so succulent.” He reached to urge a walnut into her hand.

  Austyn’s arm shot out, sweeping the bowl into the floor. “She doesn’t want them, dammit! Are you deaf?”

  As the echo of his roar faded, Austyn felt the weight of shocked gazes bearing down on him. His father cowered against the tapestry as if he might weave himself into its threads. More damning than the shock was the bald concern reflected on the faces of Emrys, Winifred, and Carey. A concern not for their own well-being as it should have been, but for his.

  “Forgive me, sir. I should not have troubled you.” The priest retreated with a stiff bow, crushing walnut bits beneath his sandaled feet.

  Holly was the only one who appeared bemused rather than offended by Austyn’s outburst. “Don’t mind Nathanael. He’s only feeling slighted because he’s been denied the privilege of hearing my prayers today.”

  Austyn steadied his hands around his goblet, as confounded as the rest of them by his unexpected surge of temper. “And what would you pray for, my lady? A more reasonable husband?”

  She grazed his jaw with the backs of her fingers, jarring him with her tenderness. “Why I’d pray for you, sir.”

  He gazed into her eyes, their quizzical brightness robbed now of all mockery, and wondered if she knew how prophetic her words might prove to be. She might very well be the last hope of salvation for the noble name of Gavenmore. The final prospect of redemption for his own jaded soul.

  “Pretty lady.”

  At first Austyn feared the hoarse croak had come from his own lips. But he looked up to discover his father had crept out from his hiding place to hover shyly at Holly’s shoulder.

  “Pretty lady,” the old man repeated, brushing his gnarled fingers over the silk of her veil.

  “Why, thank you, Father.” Holly tossed a smile over her shoulder before whispering to Austyn, “He should take care on the stairs. The poor dear’s eyesight must be failing him.”

  This time Austyn failed to smother his grin. Perhaps his father, like himself, was intrigued not by his bride’s beauty but by her unabashed lack of it.

  Holly rose, giving Elspeth a cryptic signal. The nurse approached to present Austyn with a folded garment.

  “If my efforts please you, husband,” Holly said, her hands folded demurely over her plump little belly, “perhaps on the morrow I might assume more of my wifely duties.”

  Austyn watched her climb the stairs, wishing he could keep his lecherous mind off the one wifely duty he had assured her she would not be expect
ed to perform. He barely noticed when his father tiptoed after her, skulking in Elspeth’s shadow.

  “Let’s have a look at her handiwork, man,” Carey said, he and his parents crowding eagerly around Austyn. “What did I tell you? Give a woman a chance to fuss over you and you’ll soon have her purring like a kitten in your lap.”

  Carey’s mother whacked him with a wooden spoon. “What do you know of women? I see no ladies rubbing up against your ankles.”

  To spare his man-at-arms further indignity, Austyn hefted the garment. His surcoat unfurled before him like a crisp crimson banner.

  As Carey examined the seam, his smirk of triumph faded to a baffled frown. “I don’t understand. She hasn’t mended it at all. Why I can still put my fist through the tear.” He did so to prove his point.

  The surcoat began to quiver, then to emit gruff choking noises. While they exchanged alarmed glances, Austyn turned the garment, displaying its back for all of them to see.

  Sewn across the broad shoulders of the garment in delicate stitches that must have taken exquisite workmanship and an even greater surfeit of patience was an intricate border of glossy green ivy.

  Austyn chuckled ruefully as he wiped his streaming eyes. “It never occurred to me that our definitions of needlework might vary to such a degree. God, if I’d have known having a wife was going to be so damned amusing, I’d have sought one long ago!”

  Hugging the garment to his chest, he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  The others might have joined in had they not been stunned to silence by a shock even more keen than that they’d felt upon witnessing Austyn giving vent to that infamous Gavenmore temper he kept under such rigid control. They’d seen rare flares of rage before, but it had been twenty long years since they’d heard the music of their master’s unbridled mirth.