Castle of the Wolf. Margaret Moore
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Thinking it might indeed be the latter, he made a sweeping gesture encompassing the inner courtyard. “It takes intelligence to run a household the size of Lord DeLac’s, and there’s no doubt in my mind that falls to you. You do it well, my lady. I’ve never experienced such comfortable accommodations or fine food.”
“My uncle is known for the excellence of his feasts.”
“Because of you, I’m sure.”
He saw the hint of a shy smile. Charmed and encouraged, he went on. “You have grace and beauty, too. That is a rare combination, my lady.” He ventured closer. “I think you are a rare woman.”
She stepped back and to his dismay, that suspicious wariness returned. “Are you trying to seduce me, sir, with empty words of praise?”
“I meant what I said.”
“And now I suppose you will tell me that Mavis is lacking compared to me.”
“She looks lovely, I grant you,” he replied, “yet I do find her lacking. She seems almost a shadow compared to you. I doubt she concerns herself with anything more than what gown she’ll wear or who she’ll dance with at the feast.”
The lady bristled. “Mavis is not such a ninny and you earn only my enmity if you criticize her.”
Clearly Tamsin loved her cousin dear and he hurried to mend his mistake. “I admit I have little knowledge of her, and no doubt she’s a fine young woman, but vitality and passion shine in your bright eyes, my lady, and you cannot deny that you take responsibility for the running of the household of DeLac.”
His words didn’t have the effect he desired, which was to make her linger.
“Thank you for your compliments, sir knight,” she said, starting toward the kitchen once more. “If you’ll excuse me, I do have many responsibilities, so I give you good night.”
“Sleep well, my lady,” he murmured in his low, deep voice as she hurried away.
* * *
It was all Tamsin could do not to break into a run as she left the unexpectedly grateful and flattering Wolf of Wales.
To think of such a man saying such things to her—plain, dutiful, responsible Tamsin! He was by far the most intriguing man she’d ever met, and not just because he was handsome, although he was the sort of man to make a woman look twice in spite of his stern visage. His eyebrows were like black lines above watchful dark eyes, and the planes of his cheeks and line of his jaw were as sharp as a sword blade. He dressed plainly in black, with no jewelry or other adornment.
He needed no adornment to draw attention to his powerful warrior’s body, and as for those watchful and intense dark eyes, he obviously saw things others did not, like the way she worked—something no other guest had ever mentioned.
But she was no fool, just as she was no beauty, no matter what he said, and it would surely be wrong to let him know how much his words had affected her.
As she entered the kitchen to return her empty basket, Armond, the burly, aproned cook, red-faced after the efforts of overseeing the feast, looked about to have an attack of apoplexy. The shoulders of the exhausted scullery maids slumped from the effort of scrubbing the numerous pots and roasting pans and forks. Middle-aged Vila, who had been at Castle DeLac since her youth, wiped down the long table still snowed with flour that stood in the middle of the chamber. Baldur, the bottler, was excitedly urging Meg and Becky, two of the younger maidservants, to hurry as they headed to the door leading to the hall with more wine.
She followed the maidservants back to the even noisier hall. She swiftly surveyed the chamber and then the high table, where her uncle was comfortably settled with a goblet of wine in his hand. Mavis, attired as befit a wealthy lord’s daughter in a gown of scarlet with embroidered trim of delicate blue and yellow flowers, sat with downcast eyes beside him, looking every inch the demure maiden. Later, though, when they were alone, she would have plenty to say about the guests. She could be surprisingly insightful and was very clever in her way, something Sir Rheged, like most men, failed to appreciate. The other nobles at the high table—lords of importance in the south and London—appeared to be well sated with food and drink. Old Lord Russford at the far end was already dozing in his chair.
Below the dais, several of the younger knights were moving about the hall, speaking to friends and being introduced to the other guests. Some of the mothers with daughters of a marriageable age looked like peddlers hawking their wares at any fair in the land.
Sir Jocelyn was Mavis’s favorite of the moment, a handsome young man of good family, and the most expensively attired in emerald-green and bright blue velvet. He reminded Tamsin more of a peacock than a warrior, and he was also one of the most boring young men Tamsin had ever met. She was quite sure Mavis would tire of him soon, too.
Sir Robert of Tammerly was even younger, and not nearly so good-looking, but Tamsin didn’t doubt that someday he would be a knight to be reckoned with. He seemed wary and watchful, and ate and drank sparingly, like Sir Rheged. He was very unlike the Welshman in one way, though. Like the others, Sir Robert wore his hair cut around his head as if a bowl had been placed upon it, which only seemed to emphasize the roundness of his face.
Although he was clean-shaven, Sir Rheged wore his dark hair—thick and wavy enough to make a woman weep with envy—to his shoulders.
She shouldn’t be thinking about the one man who’d already left the feast, no matter how flattered she’d been by his compliments.
She spotted Denly, one of the stronger servants, and told him it was time to start taking down the tables to clear a space for dancing. Then she went to have a few words with Gordon, the minstrel, about the music for dancing. She herself never danced, but Mavis enjoyed it.
First, though, she would speak to Sally, a young and particularly voluptuous and overly friendly maidservant lingering at the table where the youthful squires sat.
Until tonight, Tamsin had never understood how any woman could give up the precious possession of her virginity to any man outside of marriage. There was too much to lose, even for a poor girl.
Now, though, when she remembered Sir Rheged’s dark eyes and voice, she was beginning to understand how a woman could succumb to desire regardless of the consequences. His compliments had sounded so sincere, she could believe his words were not mere meaningless flattery, but spoken from the heart.
Even so, any pleasure to be gained from giving in to lust surely outweighed the risks, especially for a highborn lady. Bearing a child out of wedlock meant telling the world you were too weak to resist your base impulses. You were a woman of shame.
As for Sally, one of these days, she would probably come to Tamsin in tears to say she was with child and what should she do? Tamsin would see that some kind of dowry was provided and perhaps even a husband, if there was another servant willing to marry her.
But she would deal with that when and if it became necessary. In the meantime... “Sally!”
The maidservant with thick auburn hair and a pert little nose knew better than to linger any longer and came forward at once. “Yes, my lady?”
“Open the shutters near the doors. The hall is getting too stuffy.”
“Yes, my lady,” Sally replied, doing as she was bid and wisely ignoring the obvious disappointment of the young squires.
Tamsin couldn’t imagine Sir Rheged ever being like those boys, giddy with excitement over the tournament, trying their best to look manly and to persuade a woman into their bed.
Determined, even ruthless she could see, but never giddy. As for looking manly, she could well believe Sir Rheged had always exuded that sense of contained and controlled power. And when it came to persuading a woman into bed, she wouldn’t be surprised to learn women had fought for the privilege.
“Careful, my lady!” Denly called out as she nearly stepped into the path of the servants moving the top of one