In The King's Service. Margaret Moore
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“Is she not a beauty?”
“Indeed, my lord, words fail me.”
Lord Throckton chuckled with pride and continued through the assembly like a horse through high grass.
Blaidd looked at the dais again—and got a second, even stronger jolt of shock that made him check his step.
What the devil was that wench doing seated at the high table? Wasn’t she a servant? This meant she couldn’t be, and if she wasn’t, what the devil was she? What had she been doing at the gate?
Perhaps she was a friend of Lady Laelia’s, and her interrogation of him had been her idea of a joke.
But then why would she be seated while Lord Throckton still stood?
The woman’s blue-eyed gaze locked on to him, and even from this distance, he could tell that she was amused by his surprise. As she continued to regard him with that mocking merriment, energy and determination fairly hummed in Blaidd’s veins. Whoever she was, and whatever she thought she was doing, she was going to rue the day she’d made Sir Blaidd Morgan feel like a fool.
Lord Throckton reached the dais ahead of him and took the blond beauty’s hand, leading her a little forward. “This is my daughter, Lady Laelia. Laelia, this is Sir Blaidd Morgan, from the king’s court.”
The lady didn’t raise her head or her eyes—a blessed change from being looked at as if he were a trained bear sent solely for someone’s amusement, Blaidd decided.
He bowed low and took her right hand, as limp and cool as a fish in a basket, and brought it to his lips to kiss. “My lady, reports of your beauty don’t begin to do you justice,” he said as he straightened.
It was an easy, unoriginal compliment. Usually he enjoyed exerting himself for a lady’s good regard, especially a beautiful one, but it must be the presence of that insolent wench that made his mind incapable of coming up with better flattery.
“You’re most welcome to our hall,” Lady Laelia replied, raising grass-green eyes to look at him, her tone high-pitched and breathless, like a little girl’s. Or a woman trying to sound younger than she was.
He couldn’t remember anybody ever saying how old Lady Laelia was.
The brown-haired young woman loudly—and rudely—cleared her throat. Was she some sort of mad relative? That would explain her place, and her bizarre behavior.
Lord Throckton’s thick gray brows lowered and he frowned as he looked at her. “Sir Blaidd, this is Rebecca. My other daughter.”
Daughter?
No one had ever mentioned that Lord Throckton had another daughter, perhaps because she wasn’t as beautiful as her sister, and was decidedly insolent.
Her lack of beauty might explain her rudeness, though. Envy may have twisted her into a bitter shrew.
“What, no compliment for me, Sir Blaidd?” Lady Rebecca asked as she tilted her head and gave him a merry smile. “Granted, I’m no match for Laelia, but aren’t all you courtiers trained in flattery? Surely you won’t disappoint me.”
Rising to the challenge, Blaidd laid his hand over his heart and let his voice drop to the low, sultry tone he usually reserved for a clandestine rendezvous. “Far be it from me to disappoint a lady, in anything.”
He strode toward her, reached out, took her hand and lifted it to his lips. He pressed a gentle kiss upon her knuckles, then raised his eyes to regard her. “You, my lady, are the most surprising young woman I have ever met.”
Her cheeks flushing, she tugged her hand away. “Hardly a compliment, sir knight. I’m not impressed.”
He lifted the corners of his mouth in the sort of lazy smile he gave a woman after they had made love. “I assure you, a man likes to be surprised by a woman, and a truly surprising woman is a very rare creature.”
For the briefest of moments, her eyes widened in shock, and he wanted to shout with triumph.
Then her eyes flashed with that scornful fire that was becoming familiar. “Creature?” she demanded. “Is that what women are to you—creatures?”
He tensed and became the knight who had won many tournaments. “Women who would make a mockery of a stranger and a guest are creatures to me, yes.”
“Becca, I think we’re heard quite enough from you at the moment,” Lord Throckton declared. He strode past her and sat in his thronelike chair. “This man is our guest and should be treated accordingly.”
She turned away from Blaidd to address her father. “I’m treating him as I treat all the men who come to see Laelia.”
The way Lady Laelia’s lips turned down seemed to confirm that.
“Damn it, Becca, that’s the trouble! When will you learn to behave? Why can’t you be more like your sister?”
“Because I am not my sister?”
“You know what I mean!” Throckton gestured at the seat to his right. “Sit down, Sir Blaidd, sit down. Don’t mind Rebecca. Where’s the damn priest? Let’s have grace.”
Wondering if this sort of exchange occurred frequently, and deciding that it probably did, if they would speak that way in front of a stranger, Blaidd did as he was told, taking the place accorded to honored guests. That also put him between Lord Throckton and Lady Laelia. Lady Rebecca was to her father’s left and, miraculously, once the grace was said, she seemed content to be silent.
Or maybe it was the fact that the conversation, such as it was, consisted of her father’s descriptions of the vast array of suitors who had sought Lady Laelia’s hand. Whenever there was a lull in the recitation, Laelia stayed silent or answered Blaidd’s questions as briefly as possible, no matter how he exerted himself to be charming.
If somebody were to tell him this place was bewitched and everything he did had the opposite effect than usual—repelling rather than attracting a woman—he could believe it. On the other hand, he had to stay at Throckton Castle for some time, so if courting the lady was an uphill climb, it would give him a good excuse to linger.
He looked around the hall for Trev and found him engaged in conversation with a serving maid who looked a little younger than the squire. She had a jug of wine balanced on her hip and swayed while winding a lock of ruddy-brown hair around her finger.
Ah, the universal sign of feminine interest. Perhaps a reminder of their duties as guests wouldn’t be amiss. And perhaps it would have been better if he’d come here alone, Blaidd thought.
“Then I sent that young buck packing,” Lord Throckton declared, interrupting his musings. The man’s voice was slurred from the copious amount of wine that seemed necessary to keep his throat lubricated for the long enumeration. “That was the last of them till you.”
That meant his recitation must be at an end, thank God, Blaidd realized as he turned to his host with a smile pasted on his face.
Lord Throckton put his broad hands on the table and heaved himself to his feet. Blaidd started to rise, too, but Lord Throckton waved him back down. “Just off to the garderobe. That French wine goes right through my English guts.” He gave Blaidd a rather sodden wink. “But it tastes too good not to drink it.”
With that, he made his way out of the hall, leaving only an empty chair between Blaidd and Lady Rebecca.
He couldn’t resist the temptation. “So, my lady,” he said to her, “do you often play castle guard?”
She regarded him steadily, obviously not the least embarrassed by his question. “No, sir knight.”
“But today you thought to amuse yourself at my expense?”
“Not only myself. The garrison enjoyed it, too. I’m sorry you didn’t see the humor in it.”
He didn’t