Authors: The Maiden Warrior
Taking a deep breath, he headed toward her with it. She stood motionless, her gaze still stony, her arms crossed over her chest. The only indication that she saw his approach came from the occasional twitch of a muscle above her jaw. When he reached her, he held out the garment wordlessly. Finally, she shifted her gaze to his face, and he almost winced at the animosity he saw there.
He swallowed, standing straighter and reminding himself of the necessity of this part of the plan before he spoke in the most buoyant tone he could muster. “We could find no gown in the village. Until we get to Dunston, you must needs give over your shield and sword and don this. With the hood up, ’twill conceal you well enough.”
She still didn’t move to take it.
He waited a moment more before adding, “Do you require assistance?”
Though he’d not have thought it possible, her expres
sion sharpened more—enough, he imagined, to draw blood.
Without a word, she snatched the cape from him and stalked toward her men, cursing under her breath as she went; she ceased only to bark out a command over her shoulder for everyone to stay clear of her if they valued their lives.
He watched her unclasp her sword belt and hand it to Dafydd. Owin, in the meantime, unhooked from her saddle her spectacular golden shield, emblazoned with a red dragon, rampant, and began to wrap it in a piece of linen. Both men wore grave expressions, treating Gwynne and her weapons with the same kind of reverence Aidan had witnessed before only during the handling of the Eucharist at Holy Mass.
Facing away from Aidan and his men, Gwynne pulled the sapphire cloak around her shoulders, fastening it the best she could before yanking the hood over her hair. Then she swung astride her mount, letting the gentle folds of fabric settle around her to conceal her form.
Aidan cleared his throat. “Shall we depart, then?”
Gwynne swiveled to glare her answer as Owin and Dafydd mounted their steeds. But he hardly noticed their movements for the ache that suddenly bloomed in his gut. Images hammered at him, of another time, another place—of their betrothal day, when they were both so young, so desperate for each other that they’d ignored everything to undertake their forbidden union.
She’d worn blue that day as well, the same shade of blue that surrounded her now in silky folds, caressing the smooth contours of her cheek…that softened the warrior-harsh lines of her expression until he could imagine something almost like before. Like when she’d loved him…
“Are you going to stand there gawking, Englishman, or are we going to leave?”
Her sharp question jolted him from his memories. Only the hollow feeling remained. He pulled his gaze from her and mounted, noticing that all of his men were already in position and waiting for him. He ignored the heat that swept up his neck in response to his foolish reaction and barked the order to ride, leading his nemesis—the woman who’d haunted his dreams for the last twelve years—onto the wooded trail and the last stretch toward home.
By the time they neared Dunston’s gate, Gwynne felt as prickly and annoyed as a bear besieged by a swarm of bees. ’Twas not that the ride had been difficult. Nay, just the opposite; the English landscape had been a pleasure jaunt compared to the mountainous climes she was accustomed to traversing in Wales.
But in Wales, she’d never had a solemn-eyed Englishman ceaselessly searching her with his gaze—or a rush of irritating images constantly assaulting her mind.
Her jaw throbbed from clenching it, and yet now she bit down harder, determined to banish the strange pictures that kept popping into her head the nearer they got to de Brice’s stronghold. This latest vision had been of a shady green circle surrounded by stones, and a handful of acorns thrown into the sun; they’d arced up before pelting down on someone, to the echo of masculine laughter, low and sweet. Laughter that sounded surprisingly like de Brice’s…
But she had no conscious recollection of ever being with him anywhere before. No inkling at all, but for these disturbing flashes of—well, whatever they were.
It was her imagination, she decided. A lingering result of the nightmare. It had set her on edge, and she was still feeling the effects of it now. Nothing more. Glancing sideways, she tried to catch the English leader staring at her again. Only he wasn’t. This time he was looking forward, his generous mouth edging up into a smile.
“We’re here,” he murmured, almost as if to himself. But then his dark-eyed gaze slipped sideways and connected with hers, making her heart skip and leaving her no room to breathe. She frowned, and his brow lifted above a flash of white teeth. He looked forward again as they rounded a curve in the road—and then she saw it, stretched before them. A solid gray wall, its portcullis in the process of being raised. And behind it, the massive towers of a keep jutted into the sky.
Dunston Castle.
The nagging sensation she’d experienced from that first moment when de Brice had taken off his helm returned now with a vengeance, making her feel like some memory waited right at the edge of her mind. She just couldn’t grasp what it was.
Lugh
, it was maddening.
Barely restraining herself from uttering the command to retreat to Wales, she directed her attention to her mount, clicking her tongue to bring him to a canter in order to keep up with de Brice’s newly quickened pace. Before long they were riding through the opened gate, to the sound of welcoming halloos and the sight of smiling faces and waving arms.
The courtyard burst into activity as Aidan and his men pulled their steeds to a halt; prosperous looking villagers and castle folk came streaming from doorways and milling among the men, all talking and laughing at once.
Stiffly, Gwynne dismounted, Owin and Dafydd staying close by her as they waited for an indication of what they should do next. But Aidan seemed oblivious to the awkward way he’d left them. Instead, he peered around the courtyard, as if looking for someone in particular.
She shouldn’t be surprised, she thought, crossing her arms over her chest and scowling. Why should de Brice care for their comfort? He was naught but an English oaf.
A stable boy came up with a nod and led her mount
away to the stables for a brush down and some food; she continued to glare at de Brice, hoping he’d look her way and realize his discourtesy. But he was too engrossed in his search, undoubtedly awash with lust as he searched for sign of his precious Lady Helene.
In the next instant, a woman came bursting through the main doors of the keep, her face wreathed in smiles—and all Gwynne’s worst imaginings were realized.
The creature was the essence of femininity, but of that sensuous sort that made other women bristle and men stare with mouths agape. Her rich auburn hair hung to her waist like rippling silk, a crowning glory for her creamy skin and seductive, thick-lashed eyes. And though she was young—no more than seventeen, Gwynne guessed—she’d been blessed with a figure only the gods themselves could have crafted: all graceful lines and curves, set off to perfection by the lush crimson gown she wore.
Forcing herself to pull her gaze from the sight of the bewitching creature throwing herself into Aidan’s arms, Gwynne dared a glance at Owin and Dafydd and saw to her annoyance that they too seemed besotted; Owin’s eyes might as well have left their sockets and rolled to the ground to do homage to the woman, he was gawking so openly. Gritting her teeth, Gwynne jabbed him none too gently in the ribs, making him double over and cough.
But at least he’d stopped staring.
Then she looked back to de Brice and his ladylove, and her initial jab of dislike expanded to a flood of animosity. The woman had pulled away from Aidan, who had obviously just mentioned the presence of Gwynne and her men in their party. The lady glared now in Gwynne’s direction as if she’d like to flay her alive.
Resisting the urge to scowl back at her, Gwynne instead raised her brow and favored her with a cold look. Ah, but de Brice seemed to have chosen a jealous woman
as his future mate. If anger wasn’t making her gut twist so strangely right now, the knowledge would have made her feel positively gleeful.
With a jerk of her head, she directed Owin and Dafydd to come with her as she approached the pair. The long length of cloak swishing round her legs reminded her that she should attempt to use a more ladylike gait, but her usual saunter came through nonetheless.
When they reached Aidan, he was saying something in hushed tones to his lady—most likely scolding her for her less than welcoming attitude. She’d resorted to pouting, though on that perfect face of hers, the expression still managed to look entrancing. Her elegant nose wrinkled as she flicked her gaze up Gwynne’s sapphire-cloaked length, stopping with what might have been surprise, or perhaps just wariness, when she met Gwynne’s silver gaze.
With a sigh, Aidan stepped back a little so that the women could see each other better, though he directed his comment to his lady. “Allow me to introduce our Welsh cousin, Gwynne ap Mo—ap Morrison.”
Gwynne noticed that his voice sounded rather sharp—not at all the tone she’d have expected a love-besotted man to use with his betrothed. He continued, she saw to her astonishment, with a look on his face almost as if he intended to forcibly compel his fiancée to accept the situation.
“Gwynne will be staying with us for the time being and is in need of understanding and comfort after the ordeal she has been through. She and these, her two serving men, are all that remain of her family after the attack on their estate.”
With a nod, he finally looked at Gwynne and waved his hand back from her to the woman. “Gwynne, meet my sister, Lady Diana de Brice.”
Sister
? Gwynne snapped her gaze to Aidan, to see if he
jested with her. He looked nothing less than sincere—and perhaps exasperated. Her brow furrowed in confusion for a moment, until Diana spoke. Then her hand itched to pull out and use the sword that no longer hung at her side.
“I don’t see why you need to bring home every stray you find, Aidan,” Diana muttered. “And why now, of all times, pray tell? ’Tis not as if we have no worries when it comes to your imminent marriage—or my own betrothal.” She gave him another pouting look.
“That will be enough, Diana,” Aidan said tightly, gripping his sister’s arm and attempting to steer her back toward the castle. “We’ll talk about it after dinner.”
Diana resisted as Aidan pulled her away, casting one last dark look at Gwynne before adding, “’Tis not as if we have no other relatives to help carry the burden of destitute kin. Her being here will not please Lady Helene or her father at all.”
“Then the feeling will be mutual,” Gwynne couldn’t resist muttering, tempted as well to charge up the few steps to the main door and throttle the woman senseless.
The gentle pressure of a hand on her arm held her back, though it was all she could do not to whirl and strike the foolish person who’d dared to touch her. It was de Brice’s man, Kevyn. His expression was somber, not at all mocking, as she’d expected. That helped to ease her anger a bit. And so when he murmured something about escorting her to her rooms and gestured the way, she decided to clamp her mouth shut and follow.
As they passed into the shadows beyond the castle doors, through the nearly empty great hall, and up a curved set of stairs that led to the bedchambers, she tried to cool her temper further, reminding herself that dealing with conflicts by fighting and using her weapons was no longer an option. Not for the next three months, anyway.
That part was going to take getting used to. She was a
warrior, trained to behave like a man—like a legend—for as long as she could remember, and punished for acting like anything else. Being made to assume the role of a female now was strangely painful, and as awkward as if someone had cut off her hands and told her to accustom herself to doing everything with her feet.
But she’d have to get used to it. She’d agreed to de Brice’s plan, after all.
She spent the remainder of the two hours until dinner sitting in her spacious chamber and bemoaning that fact. Wondering what under heaven had possessed her to go along with his schemes in the first place. Only the thought of the respite her sacrifice was giving her people and of the vengeance she’d have on de Brice after she returned to them made any of this even remotely tolerable.
When it was nearly time to descend to the hall, she yanked on the heavy rose-hued gown that had been sent up for her, not caring if it was positioned correctly or not. She fastened the matching gold-embroidered belt low on her hips in what she thought was the proper way and tugged it with enough force that she was disappointed when it didn’t snap. Then, jamming onto her head the absurd gauzy veil and cap that had arrived with the gown, she stood and paced over to face her reflection in the polished oval of metal that leaned against the wall in the corner.
Ridiculous
.
A scowl darkened her face. Stamping away from the mirror, she tripped, caught up in the unfamiliar length of skirts swirling around her legs.
Lugh
, but this was idiotic! Wrenching the fabric back into place, she lifted the hem to see if she’d torn it. A bit of ragged edge dangled an inch or two. Grimacing, she shook the skirts out so that they fell again over the leggings she’d refused to remove.
If it was the last thing she accomplished in this life, she
was going to make de Brice pay for doing this to her.
Yanking open the door, she stomped into the corridor and tried to make her way down the stairs to the great hall without breaking her neck. She set her jaw and breathed deep, her black mood kept in check by that one satisfying thought.
Aye, de Brice would pay. By God, he’d be begging for mercy before she was finished with him.
A
idan didn’t quite know how to handle what was happening in his once peaceful home. Diana sat picking at her food and using every opportunity to glare at Gwynne, who in turn leaned on her elbows across the table, glaring back and looking as if she’d like to spear his sister through the heart with her eating knife. The current state of affairs was far, far worse than he’d expected.
“You knew it wasn’t going to be easy,” Kevyn said, daring a glance at the women from his position next to Aidan.
“’Tis awkward at best, whether or not you try to pass her off as your relative. And it doesn’t help that she acts like a man in skirts. There doesn’t seem to be a feminine bone in her body.”
“Oh, yes there is,” Aidan murmured. “I remember that far too well.”
Kevyn pretended not to have heard him, adding, “Your sister needs time to adjust; she’s used to competing with
women and doing her best to outshine them, but she has no idea what to do with one like Gwynne.”
Aidan scowled into his trencher, absently picking up a piece of roasted fowl and dipping it into the sauce bowl in front of him. “’Tis not as if Gwynne presents any kind of outward threat to her.”
“I don’t think Diana is worried about her as a rival. Gwynne does have a rather striking face with those silver eyes of hers, and she’s tall enough to attract notice. But her figure seems somehow more thick in skirts than I’d have imagined after seeing her on the field.” Kevyn nodded as a page refilled his cup with wine, adding, “Nay, Diana isn’t fretting over her for her looks, you can be sure.”
A clatter farther down the table drew both men’s gazes. Gwynne had knocked over a large bowl of fruit, sending an army of errant winter apples rolling toward Aidan’s sister; her expression as she watched Diana huffily replace them made it obvious that she’d done it on purpose.
“You heard what your sister said when we arrived,” Kevyn continued, looking back to Aidan before taking a deep drink from his cup. “She fears Lady Helene’s reaction to news of Gwynne’s presence in your home—and the Duke of Rutherford’s even more. ’Tis very near your nuptials, after all.”
“My wedding isn’t for almost four months.”
“Close enough. Especially when the duke continues to seek any reason he can find for dissolving your betrothal with his daughter. And Diana knows that her match with Hugh Valmont hangs in the balance; if the alliance with Helene’s family is not secured, Valmont will not make an offer.”
“Valmont is a fop.”
Kevyn shrugged. “There’s no accounting for women’s taste in men. But Valmont is powerful, and you cannot deny that settling Diana in his family will protect her from
some of the difficulties that have resulted from your father’s misfortunes.”
“They weren’t misfortunes, Kev,” Aidan muttered, glaring into his own now nearly empty cup and grabbing the pitcher to refill it. “My father committed treason and was executed—only Mother, Diana, and I paid our own price for it as well.”
Kevyn nodded, thoughtful. “Aye, and I know better than most how you’ve tried to rebuild your family’s name and ensure Diana’s future ever since. But this latest decision on your part is sure to appear less than satisfactory to her. It puts an already precarious situation at greater risk.”
“Damn it, I know that,” Aidan said, “which is why I have to resolve this quickly. I have to make Gwynne remember what happened—make her remember what the Welsh did—so that I can settle my debt to her before everything else goes to hell and the king demands my head too.”
Kevyn gave a choking laugh, and Aidan turned to see what his friend found so humorous. But the laughter wasn’t directed at him; he was looking down the table at Gwynne, who at that moment was leaning back, yawning noisily and swiping a hand over her mouth.
“Perhaps you’d better start by helping her to behave more like the lady she’s supposed to be,” Kevyn said, coughing back another chuckle.
At that moment Gwynne noticed Aidan’s stare. Fixing him with a sarcastic look, she made a show of scratching her belly and belching loudly. Diana sat frozen across from her, looking on in horror. With a smile of satisfaction, Gwynne finally pushed herself away from the table and stalked from the chamber, flanked by her two men.
After a moment of stunned silence, Aidan cradled his head in his hands and groaned. “Sweet Mother Mary, this is going to be more difficult than I thought.”
Gwynne kept going down the hall and out toward the rooms her men had been given near the other servants by the stables. Their quarters weren’t nearly as large or well appointed as her own rooms inside the main keep, but she’d have preferred them nonetheless. Aye, she’d have given her best blade to be able to switch places with her men during what promised to be a grueling three months.
Owin busied himself with retrieving her sword and Dafydd seemed intent on removing from his tunic a couple of the apples he’d pilfered from the table as Gwynne yanked off her gown and veil and threw them into the corner. A cloud of hay dust rose where they landed.
“No need to turn away,” she muttered, stalking up and taking her sword-belt from Owin. “I’ve kept on my own clothes beneath those ridiculous skirts.”
Dafydd seemed relieved, daring a glance at her discarded garments before shifting his gaze back to her. “Won’t you need to wear those again when you’ve finished your training tonight?”
“Aye, curse de Brice’s eyes. What of it?” she answered as she tightened the belt around her hips.
Dafydd shrugged. “’Tis just that they’ll likely be wrinkled if you leave them like that until you’re finished. They look costly, and de Brice may not appreciate it.”
Gwynne paused to consider what he’d said. “I suppose you’re right,” she said finally, walking over to the garments and picking them up, only to ball them more tightly before cramming them back into the corner. Turning to her men, she wiped her hands on her tunic. “That’s better.”
They didn’t try to suppress their answering grins. She clapped Dafydd on the back before donning a short cape and pulling up the hood—another of de Brice’s requirements for her movement about the estate whenever she
was out of her female clothing. Then, after taking a last look around, she picked up one of the smaller shields they carried with them to use while her own was unavailable to her.
Heading to the door, she called over her shoulder, “Which one of you will lead the way to the chamber de Brice promised to clear for my training?”
“I will,
Chwedl
,” Owin answered, following her. “’Tis just down the path that goes between the stables and tack chamber. An abandoned room all the way to the castle wall on your left. Dafydd and I looked at it earlier; you should be secluded enough to train without notice.” He reached for an extra unlit torch to hand to her. “Will you need a sparring partner this night?”
“Nay,” she answered, starting to pull open the scarred wooden door. “I think I’ll work alone. I’ll just imagine de Brice’s head under my blade each time I swing it.”
The door creaked open the rest of the way, and she stiffened. Aidan stood there, leaning against the wall opposite them, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.
“That’s not a very charitable remark to make about your host,” he said smoothly, pushing himself away from the wall to stand straight before her. He wasn’t really smiling, but Gwynne sensed the expression hovering around his lips. Humor warmed his dark gaze, and she felt an odd tingle up her spine when one corner of his mouth finally lifted with what might have been the beginnings of a quirky grin.
She scowled and looked past him. “I’m not here for charitable reasons, as well you know,” she said, trying to push by. “Now, if you’ll get out of my way, I need to go train.”
When he didn’t budge, she stopped and fixed him with a hard stare. “Unless, that is, you’ve come to prove yourself a lying Englishman like every other by going back on
your agreement to provide me with a place to do it.”
He paused, his gaze cooling. “’Tis clear that for all your
training
, Gwynne, you’ve failed to master the art of being civil.” He lowered his arms to his sides, all hints of his previous good humor vanished. Somehow, he seemed taller and more powerfully built than she’d noticed before, all rippling muscle and sinew beneath the smooth cloth of his shirt.
A burst of familiar battle-heat shot through her at his aggressive stance, and she cocked her head, daring him to take action. Almost hoping that he would give it a try so that she could fight him and dispel some of the prickling energy that seemed to rise in her every time he was near.
“But I’m not here to prevent you from engaging in your exercises,” he continued. “I just need to discuss our plans for tomorrow first.”
“Our plans?” she taunted. “We have no plans. I am your hostage for three months, and you are my keeper. ’Tis as simple as that.” Her mouth tensed, her hand still itching to grip the comforting weight of her sword-hilt.
“Stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”
Now he looked more exasperated than he had with his sister when she’d defied him in the courtyard.
“I thought I’d made it clear,” he said. “While you reside with me, we have to make a good show of the story I was forced to craft for you.” When she didn’t react, he added tightly, “That you are a distant relative in need of protection? That I’ve taken you in to try to find a suitable husband for you?”
Gwynne just looked at him. “Aye. So…?”
A muscle in Aidan’s jaw jumped, and she had the sudden urge to smooth her fingertip over the spot—a reaction that nearly choked her when she realized it. She forced herself to loop her thumbs nonchalantly into her sword belt.
“In order to make anyone believe that story, you have to behave as a
lady
,” he continued. “Something that, based upon your performance at dinner tonight, it seems you are either unwilling or unable to do.”
Gwynne felt her face heat at his gibe, but she held back a retort until he added, “You need to try to act less like a warrior, Gwynne, and more like a woman.”
Anger bloomed to the surface then, and she almost flung his words back into his face—but the look in his eyes stopped her. They held such a serious cast, such sincerity, that she found herself glancing away. He’d spoken true—in part, at least. She
had
exaggerated her bad manners at dinner, because she’d wanted to shock Diana and perhaps pay him back just a little for making her wear a dress. But she’d be boiled alive before she’d admit that to him.
“I’ve done what you asked of me, de Brice,” she grated.
“I’ve donned your ridiculous clothes, kept my mouth closed about my true identity, agreed to your scheme to pretend I’m seeking a husband. By God, I don’t know what more you want of me.”
Owin coughed lightly and ducked back into the chamber, obviously as uncomfortable at witnessing his leader’s embarrassment in handling this unfamiliar role as she was in experiencing it.
Aidan waited until he’d closed the door, then met her gaze again. “I know this isn’t easy for you, Gwynne, but acting the part is just as important as looking it. And that’s why I’m here. Beginning tomorrow, you’ll be meeting with one of my most trusted female servants for an hour each morning to practice some of the skills you’ll need to make this pretense plausible. Then you and I will meet each afternoon to practice some more.”
She stared at him, certain he’d lost what little mind he possessed.
“This had better be your idea of a jest.”
“I’m afraid not. ’Tis imperative that all who do not know the truth about you believe you to be as I’ve described.” His expression was deadly serious. “I’ll not risk innocent lives by allowing anyone to suspect who you really are and to get word of it to the king.”
“Not to mention the difficulties it would raise with your beloved Helene and her father if it was discovered that you were secretly harboring the Dark Legend in your home,” she added, flashing him a sarcastic glare.
He had the good grace to look embarrassed. “That is another issue entirely. What’s important now is ensuring that everyone believes you to be my distant cousin, come to live with me through the tragic loss of your family.”
Blast him, but he was persistent. And a lout. A demanding, unbearable lout, to try to make her cooperate with this. It wasn’t enough to force her into wearing silly gowns and veils. Nay, he wanted her humiliation to be more complete. He wanted her to behave in ways that she remembered only from the distant reaches of her memory, when she was first training to be the Legend. Ways she’d been punished for indulging.
Ways she’d learned to despise.
A suffocating feeling swept up to grip her throat, and she swallowed hard against it, battling for control. Damn him to bloody hell…
“I can’t do it,” she finally muttered. “’Twill have to be enough that I dress accordingly.”
“You
will
do it, Gwynne. Curse it, you must,” he said, his voice suddenly gone husky with some unspoken feeling.
“Don’t you see? Even with my men’s loyalty, you are in danger of being discovered here. I’m trying to protect you from what may happen if you don’t do as I ask.” When she tried to push by him again, he gripped both of her arms firmly but gently, almost as if he were going to embrace her, murmuring, “Damn it, Gwynne, you have to listen to me.”
She froze, the contact seeming to scorch through her shirt to singe the vulnerable flesh beneath with his heat. Flashes of something, muddled pictures of some sort, shot through her brain, taking her breath away before they faded. Slowly, she dragged her stunned gaze from his hands to his face.
He’d touched her before. Even without a conscious memory of it, she knew it deep in her bones.
But no one touched her like this. No one. Except for the occasional brief grips she exchanged with Marrok, few dared to try, because she never allowed it.
Most thought her reserve was due to her status as the Legend. After all, she was a myth in their midst, far above the reach and comfort of common folk. But it wasn’t that. Nay, never that. It was because it hurt too much. Being touched in kindness, in friendship—in anything but cold, hard anger—hurt far too much. It reminded her of all she’d never have, all she’d forsaken in order to be the savior to her people.