Ironheart

“That ’tis most kind, but—”

“Be not mistaken. My father no longer has use for this room. He is dead. Killed at Acre.”

“Your pardon, lady. I am not at my best.”

He looked feverish, but then that was to be expected; God alone knew how far he’d traveled in that damp cloak.

“In that case, I insist,” she said firmly. “Besides, ’tis the custom here to give the best accommodation to our noble guests. I would not have it said that Dinas Bran lodged you meanly,” she snapped, the sharper for that her cheeks had caught fire.

Leon wrapped his arms about him against the sudden coolness and looked at her. Simply looked. He had thought her magical at first sight. Now he was sure. She was indeed quite the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. Her smooth pale skin was rose-blushed. Her eyes were dark and enchantingly tilted, their brilliance set off by their fringe of long black lashes. Her fine dark brows slanted across her forehead like a raven’s wing, and her hair beneath its drift of veil was black as night. Her one flaw, the chin that was a shade too pronounced, a shade too obstinate, only strengthened her beauty. Without it she would have been lovely; with it, she was breathtaking.

He leaned on the wall, scrubbing at his sweaty cheeks and chin. The chamber felt unaccountably hot. It was hard to breathe, let alone think.

What good were these doubts? he asked himself. If he were enchanted, there was little he could do. If it were naught but the fever, then a bath would cool his overheated senses. After so many days in the saddle, his clothes were so dusty, muddy and sweaty that they would probably be able to walk back to France all by themselves, and despite his attempts at washing them and himself in rivers so cold they made the teeth ache in his head, the body inside the garments wasn’t much better.

All he knew for sure was that he’d never find out standing still, and the thought of hot water and soap and razors, was a pleasant one. He felt suddenly very weary. The energy that had driven him during his rescue mission was now taking its toll. In short, he felt rather disheveled and somewhat shaken. His head hurt in savage counterpoint to his heartbeat. He pressed his fingers hard into his forehead, pushed away fatigue.

“Is it also the custom here, as it is on the Continent, for the lady of the house to offer guests assistance in their bathing?” he asked, fearing to know.

Brenna was taken aback. For a moment, breath and sense failed her. She lost her thread of thought, everything unraveling. Was he actually suggesting she attend him? Or was he simply making conversation? A feeling of embarrassment arose in her, and then resentment. Why were things so contrary? Her wits rallied; she gathered her forces.

“If you so desire,” she said in a voice that she tried to make sound calm. Dared she do such a thing? Her grandfather did not ever allow her to help bathe their guests. It was a chore left to the maidservants. But this was her future husband!

“I must trust your judgment, and hope that you do not come to regret your decision.”

Brenna stared, puzzled. Filled with uncertainty, her mind went ’round and ’round, struggled with the meaning of his words. What was he talking about? He had paid the bride-price. The wedding was prepared. He had come. Why was he hesitating now? Or was he talking about what was to happen afterward in the marriage bed? The bed he had so summarily rejected?

“It is the least I can do, my lord.”

Leon felt like a man hit by a pole-ax, still on his feet, but reeling. He searched her face, looking for duplicity, but finding something else, something he couldn’t put his finger on. His mind screamed, Beware! But his body shrieked even louder. A chill grew in his limbs, a slight giddiness like too much ale. Like too much heat and too much cold. Like love. What had put that thought into his mind?

“I fear you flatter me too much, lady. I am only a soldier, not a great lord,” he found the strength to say.

Brenna’s assurance foundered as she realized the significance of what he’d just said. She drew a slow breath; her first sign of temper.

“You dissemble well, sir knight. I think you are more than a simple soldier.” When he opened his mouth to argue, she shook her head. “I will not bandy words with you—if you wish me to believe you only a modest soldier then so be it. I care not what your rank may be, but there is nothing common about you.”

“I am glad you think so.”

“What reasonable person would not?” Brenna changed tacks abruptly, fixing him with her most disconcerting stare. “I heard you were a great knight, all amiable and devout. Were the rumors wrong?”

A curl of stirred air touched Leon’s cheek. The lines of his face turned icy as hill granite. A small shiver trickled down his spine like a drop of ice water, and for the merest instant the chamber seemed somehow darker than it had any reason to be. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. Shutters rattled, one after another. The wind howled, roared and stirred the shadows in the corners. Outside the night was alive with the hammering of rain, streaks of bouncing energy, silvered where the lightning hit it. All of it utterly foolish, of course, and just to be laughed at later, with a glass of good wine in one hand. And yet…

“How could you have heard such things?” Grabbing her wrist, as if by this gesture he could wrench the knowledge out of her. “You didn’t know me at all, before this evening.”

Brenna was startled at the bite in his voice. Were the rumors wrong? Her eyes looked up involuntarily into the chips of ice that were his eyes. Hers wavered the merest fraction. She rallied with a flare of Brenig temper.

“It’s surprising what news comes from the court, but now I am beginning to think it was all just exaggeration. You are wound so tight, I don’t think you are amiable at all!”

He stood there, unmoving, unperturbed. A little silence passed, barely endurable, before he released her wrist and said mildly, lazily, “You’re probably right.”

Brenna felt her cheeks turn warm. This wasn’t going as planned at all. Caution and guilt warred with vague, half-formed desires until, finally, duty dictated a more sensible attitude. But the itch of curiosity assailed her. More than an itch, her curiosity was a torment.

“Some said that you would not come to us, that you were bound in close friendship with the king, and that the court has need of you there. We both know that to be a falsehood…do we not?”

“You have been misinformed, my lady. The road but took some crooked turns.”

She tilted her head to one side, studying him. “So you can be devious, too. When a man of your stature travels without his servant, one would suppose him to be—shall we say…in disguise?”

Leon thought how quick of understanding is this girl! He knew the rules of hospitality. Never ask the visitor “From where?” or “Where to?” Never ask them “How many?” or “For how long?” And most of all, never ever ask them “When?” In another minute she would surely guess that he was a king’s man…

“Forgive my rudeness. I meant no disrespect.”

“None taken.”

“I did not realize. I thought…perhaps…” Brenna tried to think of something to say, but no words would come. Her fluency failed her when it was her moment to speak. She could not frame a single sentence. Her cheeks blazed with the shame of it. “You look a little the worse for wear. Were you beset upon the road?”

Leon bit down on a frown. He was certain he detected trepidation in her voice. The sparkle in her gaze, however, made him decidedly suspicious. She stood there, cool, proud, running those dark eyes over his disheveled and travel-worn figure. She wanted a bold, brave answer. He gave her one; though not perhaps the one she had expected.

“Lady,” he said very softly, “I was beset by a breaker of hearts.”

She looked at him, as if not understanding, or not wanting to understand. “Are you a pawn, then?” Raising a brow the merest suggestion of a degree.

“My lady,” he said, and could not resist a bow, ironic mockery of her clear hesitation, “that depends upon your own intent.”

This one could break your bones or your heart, Brenna warned herself. Her pulse began to quicken. Blood rushed up in her ears. Suddenly she was trembling, shivering. She bit her lip. She had to fight off the urge to touch him, to casually brush her hand against his. She had never experienced anything that made her feel like this. Her heart was beating so she felt that she could hardly be sure of controlling her voice. Surely all her senses had flown?

“Sir! I—” Brenna struggled mightily to keep her expression bland, though she was sure a spark of delight lit up her eyes. “I will feel better if you let me make sure you’re cared for.”

“Whatever the lady requests. I cannot deny her. I am resolved to please her.”

That was a refuge. She snatched at it. Closer and closer then, at a careful pace. Her hand rose to his cheek. He caught it.

“No,” he said.

A little silence passed, barely endurable. His eyelids flickered a fraction. A shiver traced her spine, a sensation like a touch brushing her, moth-soft.

“This offense to your person, did it go unpunished?”

“I am alive, aren’t I?” His irises snapped light-sparks briefly, just a glint of cold, then control. He did not like that memory, nor the reminder.

I do not believe in coincidence.

She looked up at him from under her eyelids. All honor was in that bladed curve of nose, in those cheekbones carved fierce and high, in those brows set level over the deep eyes.

“Then that answers the question.”

Her smile won free, startling as the sun at midnight, and more miraculous. Deep down inside Leon a strange feeling, almost of elation, surged—but why? Surely not because this slip of a girl showed neither sympathy nor revulsion of his ruined face? This fact alone couldn’t possibly account for the new emotion ebbing and flowing within him. On the other hand—