Dragon's Knight. Catherine Archer
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as much strength as the giving of them. You seem willing enough to care for others but unwilling to receive care.”
His lips twisted wryly, his expression suddenly patronizing. “What would one of your tender years know of such things?”
Her frown deepened as a wave of renewed ire swept through her and she groaned in frustration. “Why do you persist in saying such things to me?”
His black brows arched high in obvious amazement at her animosity. “What things?”
She put her hands on her hips. “You address me as if I am a child.”
“But you are a child.”
She raised her head high, made bold by the anger running through her veins. “I may be small of stature, my lord, but I am no child and you should know this. Many women are several years wed by my age. I myself will be married ere many months have passed.”
A strange ripple of something dark and unreadable passed over his exotically handsome face, leaving as quickly as it had appeared before he said, “But how could this be. You were an infant when last I saw you.”
She sighed. “I was six and more than thirteen years have passed. I am nineteen years of age.”
He took a deep breath, a flicker of uncertainty passing through his eyes now, as he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her. “But I thought…” He drew himself up. “Nonetheless, you are my friend…my brother’s sister.”
Impatience tinged her voice. “Pray what can you mean by that, Sir Jarrod? I have not said that I am not Christian’s sister. And what has that to do with my age?”
He looked into her eyes, his own searching and confused as, far from answering her questions, he asked one of his own. “How could I have been so very mistaken?”
Aislynn scowled again, drawing on anger to mask her own disquiet. “That, my lord, only you can answer. Haps you have your own reasons for wanting it to be true.”
As soon as the words were said, Aislynn wished them back with all that was in her. Whatever could have possessed her to speak thusly? She certainly did not mean to imply that he had any interest in…
It was more than obvious that he did not. Any more than she was interested in him. She was to be married.
Aislynn was distantly aware of that displeased expression returning to his depthless black eyes once more. His voice was barely audible. “Just what are you accusing me of?”
She tried to hold her ground, yet the madness of her words could not be defended. She faltered, sputtering, “I…oh…I meant nothing…I…”
And suddenly Aislynn could think of nothing save getting away from that measuring black gaze. She parted the cloak and dropped it to the ground before he could move to halt her. She then swung around and ran from Jarrod Maxwell as quickly as her feet would take her.
In some ways the morning after Jarrod’s encounter with Aislynn passed in the same fashion as previous ones since his arrival at Bransbury. He questioned, in an orderly fashion, each man, woman and child in his path.
Yet his attention was divided as he went from farm, to woodsman’s croft, to mill, spiraling out from the immediate area around the demesne to the next village and learning nothing. He could not forget the conversation that had passed between himself and Aislynn. He could, in fact barely credit that it had even taken place. Recalling the flash of womanly fire in her eyes, the noble dignity of her stance, in spite of her anger when she had told him her age, made him wonder afresh how he could have been so very wrong.
Again he recalled her seething outrage when she had informed him that she was to be married. Jarrod could not halt a renewed rush of disbelief as well as an unmistakable and unexplainable sense of regret, both of which he quickly dismissed.
He had only felt protective of her—brotherly. It was those brotherly feelings that made him hesitate at the thought of her being wed. Any brother would wonder if his sister was ready for marriage, even one who was, by her own declaration, well into her womanhood.
If he had only been thinking clearly he would have told her this.
He could not do so now. For any attempt at explanation might be misinterpreted as…well, he was not certain how it might be misinterpreted. He only knew it might be.
God’s teeth, he swore as he realized that he had turned the stallion off the path without even realizing it. Had he not told himself that he would not become involved with those here at Bransbury?
There would be no explanations made to the noble lady Aislynn. He would finish his tasks here as quickly as possible and be on his way. In the meantime he would not allow Aislynn Greatham to get beneath his skin.
It was his own lack of concentration, as much as hunger, that drove him back to the keep earlier in the evening than on previous days. These things, and the realization that he would need to remain away the whole of the night if he was to go on to the next village.
The sun was still fairly high over the curtain wall when Jarrod rode through the gate into the bailey. He realized that his passage was marked by many, as it had been since his arrival. Jarrod knew that the castle folk hoped he would be able to find the young lord, as he was called here at Bransbury.
Jarrod took his horse to the stables and gave him a good rubdown, before supplying him with a portion of feed. The stallion was not only a mount but also a companion to him. The well-proportioned horse, with its flowing white mane and tail had been bred in the Holy Land. It was smaller than most destriers, but its stamina and strength were equal to its beauty.
When he left the stable, Jarrod started toward the great gray form of the keep. His path led him near to the low stone structure of the kitchens. As he drew closer, he became aware of a group of people gathered around a wagon from which hung numerous goods.
A tinker. Jarrod was suddenly brought to alertness.
Here would be someone he had not questioned concerning Christian. And perhaps Lord Greatham had not done so either, for the peddlers did not linger often in one place but quickly moved on to the next likely sale. He knew his host was not in the keep this day, but had gone to make another attempt to negotiate a peace between the feuding Welsh.
Jarrod approached the group around the wagon with a determined step. It was not until he was directly upon the eight or ten women who ringed the wagon, and the short, dark man who stood beside it, that he realized that at the forefront of the group stood none other than Aislynn Greatham.
A wave of not only reluctance, but more shockingly, intense awareness washed through him and Jarrod’s feet came to a standstill. Shocked after all he had resolved within himself this very day, Jarrod found himself stepping backward into the shadow of the wall.
He told himself that he was not avoiding the woman, he would simply rather question the tinker alone.
None of those gathered around the wagon seemed to have taken any note of his presence, though Aislynn did glance in his direction briefly and he held very still. He felt an uncommon relief when she turned back to the tinker, who began to extol, in eloquent terms, the virtues of the huge iron pot that rested upon the ground before him. When he was finished he cast a beaming smile upon the lady of the keep.
Jarrod watched as Aislynn shrugged, saying, “I might be able to put it to some use.”
The peddler’s dark eyes continued to smile with good nature as he nodded. “Aye. This pot will be invaluable to the lady who purchases it. It will hold more laundry, more stew, more of whatever a lady might choose than either of those in yon kitchen.”
Aislynn shrugged and Jarrod realized that she wisely neglected to mention that one of those now had a crack in it. To do so would very likely influence the value of this one. She said with perfect unconcern, “How much?”
The man named a price.
Aislynn laughed softly. “I could not find my way to paying more than half that amount.”