A Warrior's Bride. Margaret Moore
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a command. “His lands border ours, and he is a great favorite of DeGuerre,” her father reminded her unnecessarily and before she could speak. “He’s a rich man, with powerful friends, despite what he seems.”
Aileas’s hands balled into fists and she raised her eyes defiantly. “Father, I just thought—”
“You just thought? Did I ask you what you just thought? Granted the fellow’s gone a little soft, perhaps, but that can change. A few weeks here, and he’ll be what he was.”
“Yes, Father.”
“It is up to me to decide who you will marry. Remember that, Aileas.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You will wear your best gown tonight, and you will accord Sir George the courtesy his rank deserves,” Sir Thomas ordered.
“Yes, Father.”
His tone softened ever so slightly as he said, “Now you may go.”
Aileas gave no indication of her feelings as she left the hall, but she hurried to where Rufus would be speaking with the guards. She waited beside the gate until he came out of the gatehouse, then grabbed his arm and pulled him into the shadows. “He’s ordered me to marry him!” she declared. “As if I were a chitd!”
Rufus looked down at the angry young woman and suddenly realized that they were speaking of an event that was very likely to occur. What Sir Thomas ordered always came about.
Even his daughter’s wedding, Rufus assumed.
It had to happen sometime, of course. He had known that for years, in an abstract sort of way, although he had never seriously considered the matter, just as he rarely even considered Aileas a woman. She was more like a squire or page to him than a woman.
Now that he was forced to think of her as a marriageable female, he realized that he would be very sorry to lose such a friend.
Aileas married. To that peacock Sir George.
“What do you think of him?” he asked quietly. It would be worse if she was forced to marry someone she couldn’t even respect, let alone like.
“He’s very well dressed,” she said scornfully.
“Your father says he’s a good fighter.”
“I will believe that when I witness it for myself.”
“He does have powerful friends.”
“So do jesters.”
“He’s rich.”
“He won’t be for long if he continues to spend so much on his clothes.”
“Do you truly believe your father will force you to marry him?”
Aileas’s steadfast gaze did not falter. “Unless someone better asks for me first.”
Chapter Three
Suddenly Rufus felt sick, for there could be no mistaking the significance of Aileas’s words or the unexpected yearning in her eyes.
She wanted him to ask for her.
But he could never marry Aileas. Indeed, the idea had never occurred to him in all the years he had lived at Dugall Castle. If it had, it would have seemed preposterous. He would as soon consider marrying Sir Thomas as he would his daughter.
Rufus wanted a womanly woman, a soft, tenderhearted creature who would soothe his brow when he was anxious, not offer to wrestle. A woman who would serve him his food and drink and anxiously await his opinion on their merits, not someone who wolfed down bread, meat and ale like a starving foot soldier. A woman who could do her best to soften his anger, not tell him to stop acting like a spoiled brat. Who would defer to him as head of the household, not answer back impertinently. Who would be pliant and loving and welcoming in bed.
Aileas do any of those things? He couldn’t even imagine it. And especially not in bed. Why, it would be like...like sleeping with a younger brother. At that thought, it was all he could do to keep the disgust from his face. “I... I have other duties to attend to,” he stammered as he backed away, then turned and hurried off.
Leaving Aileas alone in the shadow of the wall.
George slowly surveyed the room in which he was to sleep. It was as bare and comfortable as that of a penitential priest, he thought glumly. No feather bed, only ropes slung across the bed frame for him to sleep upon. A bare minimum of blankets. No brazier. No tapestries. One stool. “Am I to be martyred for marriage?” he muttered aloud.
“I beg your pardon, my lord?” the page asked timidly behind him.
He had forgotten the boy was there. “Sir Thomas doesn’t believe in luxury, does he?” he replied, turning toward the lad and grinning. “No matter. Knowing Sir Thomas as I do, I came prepared.”
The boy’s expression remained stoic, and George decided it would be better to send the lad back to his duties. “You may go.”
The page did as he was told while George sighed and rubbed his arms for warmth, thankful he had thought to include his own feather bed, warm coverlet, brazier, coal and even a carpet in his baggage. He did not intend to wake up frozen to the bed, and wished Herbert Jolliet, his household steward, was here to see that George had not been foolish to bring such necessities.
He went to the narrow window and looked out over the castle walls, past the village to the hills and meadows beyond. On a very clear day, he could probably see his own castle from the battlements on the other side of the tower.
Ravensloft was not as massive as Sir Thomas’s fortress, and no castle could ever really be called comfortable, but his hall was certainly more welcoming than this one.
What would Aileas Dugall make of his home? She would find it vastly different, but whether she would view it with approval or not, he couldn’t say.
Just as he couldn’t say how she would react to the suggestion that a bath and a decent gown might improve her appearance. She might even be quite pretty, properly groomed and attired. Moreover, there was a sparkle of alluring fire in her eyes and an uninhibited frankness in her manner that made her one of the more fascinating young women he had met in recent memory.
Why, he was actually getting aroused as he thought about her. George had never imagined Aileas Dugall could excite him as she was doing now—and she was not even in the room.
Maybe she was still in the hall with Sir Rufus Hamerton.
A rare scowl crossed George’s face. Apparently she preferred a big, stocky, ill-mannered lout, who seemed oblivious to her regard, to a courteous, well-dressed gentleman. All Hamerton’s attention had been focused on him, although George had seen no hint of envy or jealousy or even concern for Aileas in the oaf’s manner. Hamerton’s regard had been more a sense of one warrior determining the fighting capacity of another.
Let him speculate all he would, for George had no doubt that should they ever meet in combat or at a tournament, he would triumph. With his experience, he could easily guess the kind of fighter Rufus would be—the kind who thought brawn all that counted, who would use his size and his weight to good advantage, but who would be completely outdone by a more seasoned, quick-thinking, fast-moving opponent.
Poor Aileas, if she felt a regard that was not reciprocated, George mused. Unrequited love was a fool’s game, and one he had never played himself. Indeed, he thought such a thing betrayed a most humiliating lack of self-respect and marveled that a woman of Aileas Dugall’s impertinent pride could fall prey to it.
Especially since George was quite sure Rufus Hamerton was the type of fellow who thought a slap on a woman’s rump and a “How about it?” all that was required when wooing.
Or perhaps they were just friends.