Читать книгу The Knight's Redemption - Joanne Rock - Страница 10

R oarke was not the first guest to arrive at the evening meal. The Glamorgan great hall already hummed with chatter and music. Women of any minor rank or background milled about. Daughters of two area nobles wore colorful velvets and scarlets, decorated as richly as the limited notice of his arrival would have allowed.

Not that it mattered, Roarke thought as he assessed the room from the entryway. He did not seek an heiress or even a great beauty. In his experience, beauty lured too much attention from other men while a wealthy woman might seek to assert her power while her husband was away at war.

His mother had done both—whether she’d meant to or not—and he’d paid for her mistakes. Anne Barret might not have meant to be unfaithful to her husband, but she had fallen for Fulke Kendall rather quickly upon hearing of her husband’s death. Roarke had tried to tell himself that perhaps his mother had already been close to her husband’s fellow knight, but the thought failed to lessen the sting of his bastard heritage.

He had amassed his own wealth these last ten years. All he wanted from his marriage were heirs and the assurance from King Henry that Llandervey would belong to his family for as long as his line remained. Roarke sought a practical, simple woman for mistress of his new keep.

A hush rolled across the hall like a gentle wave as Roarke entered. The women sized him up instantly, each taking her own visual inventory as he crossed the hall to his seat at the head table beside his host.

Blessed saints, forgive me for this debacle, he muttered, horrified to think he requested this room full of women to choose from as if he were an Eastern sultan presiding over a harem.

The Lord of Glamorgan greeted him with the same dreary disposition he demonstrated earlier that afternoon, his stooped shoulders even more pronounced in the tailored cut of his evening attire.

“All of these women are aware I am English?” Roarke inquired as he took his place on the dais. He vaguely questioned where the man’s daughter lurked, curious to see if she would have the same peculiar effect upon him as she’d had twice before. “I would not have a disillusioned father refuse me his daughter in the morning.”

“Aye. They are all aware you are no Welshman.” Thomas seemed to strain in an attempt to smile. “But none of these girls bring much to a marriage, so their fathers would consider you a good match despite that fact.”

Nodding, Roarke wondered what unhappiness could make a man so perpetually miserable. “Is this the lot of them then?”

“Nay.” Glamorgan swept the room with his eyes, as if seeking someone in particular. “My late wife’s niece has not yet arrived, but I have high hopes you might turn your fancy to her. Ceara is a lovely little thing and smart enough to run a large household. She would make you a fine wife.”

Detecting a hesitant note lingering in his host’s voice, Roarke interrupted. “But?”

Glamorgan’s shrug looked a little too casual. “She is rather shy and suffers from the notion she belongs in a convent. I’ve put her off about the matter, and perhaps you could convince her of the appeal of marriage.”

Roarke thought she sounded ideal for his needs even though he knew from his long ago betrothal that convent life didn’t assure a man his bride would be untouched.

Still, Roarke was about to mention that Ceara sounded very suitable, but he had lost his host’s attention. Thomas Glamorgan halted in midsentence to see the sudden cause of a dramatic stillness in the room.

The near-sighted lord didn’t seem to be able to discern the sight that had rendered the rest of the hall silent, but Roarke saw all too well.

A woman had entered the dining area.

A remarkable woman. Surely nobility by her proud bearing and graceful step. She was tall for a female, though Roarke doubted she would reach past his shoulder. Exquisitely dressed in a fine silk cotehardie and surcoat, both a vivid shade of green, she sailed into the room like a mermaid riding an ocean wave. Delicate features were set in an angular face with high cheekbones, tawny colored eyes and squared jaw. Hair the color of a summer sunset was carefully twisted about her head in an intricate knot, and Roarke was surprised that for a moment he found himself wondering if it would be soft to his touch. Then again, that might have been simply because she bore a striking resemblance to Lady Ariana.

“Your niece?” he inquired as the woman came close enough for the Lord of Glamorgan to distinguish. Roarke felt annoyed with himself for his careful perusal. The noise in the room increased again now that the newcomer had almost reached her seat at the high table.

Although Glamorgan affirmed his guess, Roarke would never have suspected the striking woman before him was shy, let alone intent on the nunnery. She looked supremely at ease, smiling at the assembled guests with genuine warmth. In fact, the woman was positively radiant. Her whole being seemed to glow with an inner light. She was not beautiful in the traditional sense, but she was immensely attractive.

And, consequently, all wrong for him.

“Roarke Barret, may I present my niece, Ceara Llywen?” Thomas Glamorgan squinted with failing eyes at the young woman as she curtsied before them.

“It is my pleasure, lady.” Roarke ignored the urge to kiss the slender fingers she extended to him. What was it about the women of this household that drew him? He squeezed her hand briefly as he inclined his head above it, and pulled out the bench so she might be seated.

A soft floral scent emanated from her with subtle persistence. The same rose scent he had detected on Lady Ariana earlier today. And, strangely, he caught the strains of a popular love ballad as he helped her into her seat.

Ceara Llywen was humming.

“Ariana does not feel well,” she imparted to her uncle as she sat down between them, her voice pitched a bit lower than her cousin’s. “She asked me to take her place.”

“Quite understandable,” the man murmured, nodding his approval. “You look oddly suited to preside over the great hall this eve, Ceara. Have you cast aside your convent longing at the first sight of an English knight?”

Roarke almost choked on his wine. The poor niece flushed pink at her uncle’s mean-spirited comment. Had Roarke not feared embarrassing her further, he would have defended her.

Instead of answering, she chose that moment to ring the bell and signal the meal to be served. A most uncomfortable meal, at that. It was impossible to look around the room without ten different women trying fervently to catch his eye, their ploys running the gamut from darting glances that ended in dramatic fluttering of long eyelashes, to the more bold adjusting of low necklines.

The thought of choosing a wife in this fashion held little appeal, yet it must be done. He vaguely wondered why he did not propose to one of the kitchen maids upon his arrival today and spare everyone their trouble.

His mood darkening as he downed several cups of ale, he brooded why he should have to choose a wife in such a hurry anyway. Unfortunately, his lack of birthright forced him to dance attendance on a fickle king and marry at another man’s whim.

“I beg your pardon?” Glamorgan’s niece turned intense amber eyes upon him.

“What?” Roarke tried to gather his thoughts as he stared into those tawny depths and could not recall having said anything.

Her smile was not the weapon of an accomplished flirt, bearing none of the saucy boldness of her cousin. Rather, Ceara Llywen looked as abashed as a maid stumbling through her first conversation with a knight. “I am sorry. It sounded like you said ‘It is damned unfair.’ Were you perhaps referring to the meal?”

Ariana had waited through most of supper to find an opportunity to speak to the stranger about something more significant than the weather. For a brief moment when she walked into the room, she had thought he found her pleasing, but now she was not so sure. His mood seemed to become more forlorn as the evening wore on, leading her to believe he was displeased with the selection of women her father had found for him.

She grew more unhappy by the moment, as well. Ceara’s hair itched her scalp dreadfully, and she longed to return to her room and dispense with the masquerade. She had no idea how to proceed with the brooding knight who did not believe in wishing on stars.

Even worse, she no longer felt that shimmery sensation she had when she first employed Eleanor’s charm, and began to wonder if she possessed any power to attract the English knight anymore.

The thought frightened her to the core.

The moment she walked into the room and felt the eye of every male upon her was one of the biggest thrills of her life. A common enough occurrence for other women, yet Ariana never felt that ineffable sensation of being stared at in a decidedly male fashion.

But it was the eyes of the stranger she most coveted. She craved the warmth of that green gaze more than attention from a roomful of men. Despite Roarke Barret’s dangerous proportions and formidable scowl, he’d clearly been taken aback by her father’s cutting attempt to embarrass her earlier. Did that mean he might harbor a bit more kindness in his soul?

Or was she simply dreaming again, allowing her fanciful nature to see things that weren’t there at all?

“Nay, lady. The food was the best I’ve eaten in weeks. Excuse my rude words,” Roarke finally responded. His thigh barely grazed the fabric of her gown beneath the table, yet Ariana felt the warmth of his closeness through the delicate silks of her surcoat and tunic.

She shivered at the sensation, unaccustomed to contact with any man. “My father—that is, my uncle—often uses inappropriate language at supper. You will feel quite at home at a Cymric table. I am afraid our manners are not as polished as our English neighbors.” Ariana hoped she covered her slip of the tongue regarding her father. It would not be easy to impersonate her cousin for long.

“Where is your father, Lady Ceara?” Roarke asked, latching onto her reference. “He does not join us at the meal?”

“He is dead, my lord, along with my mother. I have lived at Glamorgan Keep these past three years under the kind hospitality of my uncle, yet I am inclined to sometimes speak of my father as if he were still here. You must excuse me.” Heart pounding at the lie, Ariana prayed for forgiveness as the knight inclined his head in repentance.

“I am sorry—”

“Thank you, my lord.” Ariana halted his apology, hating the need to prevaricate and eager to change the topic. “If I may sir, I would be happy to point out some of the more refined ladies present. I am sure you are quite overwhelmed at the prospect of finding a bride in the course of the night. That is…unless you have already made your selection?”

At first, she was relieved to see the knight shake his head “no,” then wondered if she should feel disappointed.

If he were to choose her, would he not have already done so by now?

“Despite the lack of exalted nobility among the women my uncle has gathered, many of them are capable of managing a household. Did you notice the young lady in the light blue dress? That’s Mary.”

Ariana gestured to a delicate woman a few years younger than she and hoped the knight would not find her appealing. She felt a little guilty pitting herself against the girls she grew up with, but they did not suffer the weight of family legend the way she did. Roarke Barret was her only chance.

The knight dutifully looked over the lady, but shook his head again. “Too young.”

“Helen is a lovely girl,” Ariana began, pointing out one of Glamorgan’s prettiest maids. “She is more mature and very—”

“Haughty.” Roarke finished her sentence, though not in the way she intended. Ariana had to admit the man possessed a sharp eye. Most men were fooled by Helen’s beauty.

“How about the woman two trestles over in the comely red wool? She is—”

“Dull. She does not know how to enjoy herself and begrudges anyone else their happiness.”

“My lord!” Ariana admonished, as shocked at his correct assessment as she was at his bold manner. “She is an accomplished young lady.”

“I am sure she is, Lady Ceara, but she is also an unhappy person. She will not do.” Roarke lifted his glass toward his man-at-arms on the opposite end of the room.

The blond giant seemed to take great pleasure from feeding one of the ladies a choice morsel with his fingers. Apparently the man was not as choosy as his too-perceptive lord.

Perhaps she should have been happy that Roarke Barret was not finding anyone else to suit his taste for a bride, but Ariana found herself annoyed at his smug attitude.

“You may have overestimated the women of Glamorgan, sir, if you thought you would be able to find a perfect bride here in the course of one evening.”

The knight leaned close, his dark head inclined intimately toward her own. An unfamiliar sense of heightened awareness shot through Ariana at his proximity. Such intense regard by a man struck her as strange and new.

“I have no choice, my lady. I must wed tomorrow morning in order to secure a land grant.” A shadow darkened his eyes for a moment, then was gone so quickly Ariana wondered if she imagined it.

“I do not mean to overstep my bounds, sir, but it seems you are rushing an important decision in your life. Could your nuptials not wait until your return from France?” Feeling rather breathless under Roarke’s close scrutiny, she was relieved when a fresh platter of sugared fruit paused before their table.

“Allow me, Lady Ceara.” Roarke chose a plum and an apple before waving away the server, then offered her the plum from his own fingers.

Ariana’s cheeks heated as the fruit grazed her mouth. Her heartbeat jumped as he wiped the juice from her lips with his thumb, his callused touch surprisingly gentle.

“Delicious,” he remarked, as surely as if he himself had taken a bite.

“It is good,” she agreed, which elicited laughter from Roarke.

“It is not the plum I speak of, Ceara.” His words were clear and distinct, yet the peculiar glint in his eye gave Ariana the sudden impression Roarke Barret imbibed too generously this evening.

“Pardon me, lady, if I speak too forwardly,” he took her hand into his own, interrupting her thoughts. Ariana knew he must feel the leap of her pulse in her palm as he gently squeezed it. “But lack of time dictates I be quick about this business of marriage. Your uncle tells me you are eager to enter a convent. May I ask why?”

“A convent?” The warmth from his hand momentarily dulled her wits as she struggled to grasp his meaning. She made a concerted effort to pay attention to his words instead of the curious effect male attention seemed to have upon her.

“Your uncle suggested you were shy and convent-bound, but I see no trace of unusual shyness or rigorous piety in your manner.”

Sweet Arianrhod. Her father must have spoken to Roarke about Ceara. Ariana mentally shook herself to ward off the strange feeling Roarke’s hand upon hers was inspiring. Luckily, he released it at that moment.

“A convent is appealing to a young woman with no prospects. I do not wish to burden my uncle.”

The knight frowned, as if this answer did not please him. Ariana puzzled over what response he might hope to hear from her. Did he seek a shy and pious bride?

“But he will have to dower a convent as heavily as any young groom for you, perhaps even more heavily.”

“It is not the dowry that is a problem, it is more a lack of possible husbands. I would not ask my uncle to use any favors to procure a groom for me as he still has to find a husband for his own daughter.”

Was she making any sense? She felt as if he knew she was lying, as though her burning face gave away all her secrets. He paused thoughtfully, as if he still had not heard the answers he sought.

Attempting to change the subject she blurted, “Did you meet Ariana?”

She could not believe she said the words. Some inner demon must have forced them out of her mouth. But she was curious to know his earlier impression of her, before she resorted to a small charm. Had he felt the same pull of some invisible bond between them when they’d met in the hall and along the bank of the creek?

His brow furrowed as if trying to remember. “You and she rather look alike.”

She nearly choked on a sip of wine. Replacing her cup on the table, she coughed as delicately as possible all the while hoping Lord Barret would not see through her scheme.

Few men had ever been able to conjure up details about Ariana Glamorgan’s appearance, yet this man had distinguished a very particular resemblance. All without the benefit of any charmed herbs or the elaborate disguise she’d resorted to this evening.

Hope blossomed like a spring bud, urging Ariana to wed the mysterious foreigner with the penetrating green gaze. This was the man who could dispel the suffocating Glamorgan legend.

“I am surprised she is not already wed,” Roarke continued, oblivious to Ariana’s churning thoughts. “Is she inclined toward the convent, as well?”

“She is too vibrant a spirit for such a dull existence,” she replied, feeling oddly defensive of herself and her choice not to enter the convent as a good Glamorgan woman was supposed to.

Strangely enough, her annoyed answer seemed to please Roarke and he nodded his satisfaction. Did he find a vibrant spirit so reprehensible?

“I will not mince words, my lady, so excuse me if I am too abrupt. Would you consider marriage to an English knight?”