A Warrior's Bride

Just as he couldn’t say how she would react to the suggestion that a bath and a decent gown might improve her appearance. She might even be quite pretty, properly groomed and attired. Moreover, there was a sparkle of alluring fire in her eyes and an uninhibited frankness in her manner that made her one of the more fascinating young women he had met in recent memory.

Why, he was actually getting aroused as he thought about her. George had never imagined Aileas Dugall could excite him as she was doing now—and she was not even in the room.

Maybe she was still in the hall with Sir Rufus Hamerton.

A rare scowl crossed George’s face. Apparently she preferred a big, stocky, ill-mannered lout, who seemed oblivious to her regard, to a courteous, well-dressed gentleman. All Hamerton’s attention had been focused on him, although George had seen no hint of envy or jealousy or even concern for Aileas in the oaf’s manner. Hamerton’s regard had been more a sense of one warrior determining the fighting capacity of another.

Let him speculate all he would, for George had no doubt that should they ever meet in combat or at a tournament, he would triumph. With his experience, he could easily guess the kind of fighter Rufus would be—the kind who thought brawn all that counted, who would use his size and his weight to good advantage, but who would be completely outdone by a more seasoned, quick-thinking, fast-moving opponent.

Poor Aileas, if she felt a regard that was not reciprocated, George mused. Unrequited love was a fool’s game, and one he had never played himself. Indeed, he thought such a thing betrayed a most humiliating lack of self-respect and marveled that a woman of Aileas Dugall’s impertinent pride could fall prey to it.

Especially since George was quite sure Rufus Hamerton was the type of fellow who thought a slap on a woman’s rump and a “How about it?” all that was required when wooing.

Or perhaps they were just friends.

Catching a slight movement in the shadows below, George leaned forward to look out the window. Rufus. Hamerton was striding away like a man on an important mission. A few moments later, Aileas appeared, hurrying in the opposite direction toward the castle’s main gate.

What was this? A cozy little meeting between friends—or lovers? Perhaps he had been wrong about Rufus Hamerton’s lack of affection for his lord’s daughter, and the fellow was very clever at hiding it, as unlikely as that seemed. George ground his fist into his hand as he thought that perhaps he had not been so far off when he made his joke back there on the road about Aileas having a secret rendezvous.

Then he gripped his fist in sudden resolution and grinned. What was it he had said to Richard? That Aileas Dugall would attract a man who liked a challenge?

Normally, George preferred to leave the challenges to somebody else, but here, today, he recognized what he felt: the pleasing thrill of entering a contest he would undoubtedly win.

For he was going to show that overgrown, overbearing red-haired ruffian how a gentleman wooed a lady.

As always when Aileas was disturbed, she hurried to the apple orchard. Passing Sir George’s soldiers as they unloaded his baggage cart, she noticed there were several chests and bundles, far more than she might have expected. How much clothing did one man need? she thought with a derisive sniff.

Rufus didn’t care what he wore. In fact, he didn’t seem to care about much of anything, beyond his weapons and fighting. And her. Despite his reaction there in the courtyard, she knew he cared about her.

Once in the orchard outside the castle, she climbed to the top of the tallest tree. Soon the apple trees would all be in snowy bloom, but for now, only the beginnings of green leaves were visible.

With a sigh, she surveyed the surrounding countryside, her gaze resting on the hill near Sir George’s castle. On a clear day, it would be visible from here. If she were to marry him, she would be comfortably close to her home.

Rufus’s family’s estate lay far to the north and west, nearly at the border with Wales. She wouldn’t like to be so far away.

The bark was damp and slightly slick, but this tree was as familiar to her as her bedchamber, and as comfortable. Easing herself onto the highest branch that would bear her weight, she stared glumly at the west tower.

Men! They were all unfathomable, including her father. Couldn’t he see that she would sooner marry a peacock than Sir George de Gramercie? He was far from her ideal.

Rufus was her ideal. A bold, fierce warrior who treated her as he would a man. Or at least a squire, she admitted to herself. Still, that was better than being treated as if she were no more than a mere woman, a simpering, weak creature totally under a man’s domination.

If that was what Sir George wanted in a bride, he had certainly come to the wrong castle!

Surely that was not what Rufus wanted.

She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully, recalling the change in his expression when she hinted that he should ask for her hand. He had been surprised and... and dismayed.

The surprise she could, perhaps, understand. This talk of weddings and marriage took her aback, too.

But why should he feel dismayed? It could not be that he didn’t know the affection she felt for him. Did he think Sir George likely to stand a chance with her? Did he feel her father would favor Sir George over him? To be sure, the proximity of her father’s land to that of Sir George was something in his favor, but when it came to the personal attributes of the men themselves...

Her gaze lit on the corner of the stone wall that surrounded the orchard, the precise spot where Sir George had been standing when she had hit him with the rotten apples.

His handsome face had twisted with rage. He had looked so angry she had been afraid he would drag her out of the tree and pummel her within an inch of her life. Indeed, she had been so frightened she had jumped out of the tree and taken to her heels.

Her gaze followed her route. There had stood the holly bush, now gone, where she had torn her skirt. She had dashed over the low rise and into the castle, not stopping until she was in the farthest corner of the hayloft over the stables.,

If she were Sir George’s opponent on a field of battle and saw that expression on his face, she would surely fear for her life.

But that had been long ago. Perhaps he had lost that capacity for fire and bold action.

Aileas scowled. She dare not refuse her father’s command directly, for she knew how he would react to that, and it wasn’t good. No, she would have to be subtle. She would have to find a way to show him that Sir George simply would not suit.

Oh, what was the matter with Rufus? she thought as she laid her chin in her hand. She couldn’t begin to count the happy times they had shared, riding or shooting. She had watched him practice his jousting and swordplay, and he had always respected her advice on how to improve.

They were always together, or at least most of the time. Even if he often seemed to forget she was there, like the times he and the other men talked about their jaunts into the village and to one establishment in particular.

When they talked about what they did with their women.

Her body began to grow warm as she tried to picture herself doing some of the more interesting things they had described with Rufus. Somehow, that wasn’t easy.

Now, Sir George, him she could see moving in such a manner, caressing a woman’s naked body with slow and agonizing strokes until she begged for him. She could envision a woman sliding her tongue along his flesh, or nibbling lightly on his ear, or—

She shook her head to clear it. Just because Rufus did most things hastily didn’t mean he would that, too.

The main thing to remember was that she and Rufus were comfortable together. Why, they had laughed and joked together a thousand times, as her brothers did together.

Brothers. He treated her as her brothers treated one another.

He didn’t think of her as a woman! He thought of her as his squire, or his companion, not as a woman to be wooed.

Certain she had found the answer, Aileas smacked her hands together so suddenly she nearly fell out of the tree. A quick grab at an upper branch saved her from tumbling to her doom, but that was not why she was breathing so hard.

She glanced down at her clothes. The breeches beneath the skirt. The tunic that was her older brother’s castoff. She lifted her hand to her hair in its untidy braid, then laid her palms against her sun-browned cheeks.

Her brow furrowed with thought. She would have to change. She would have to show Rufus that she was a woman. A woman fit to be his wife. Willing to be his wife. Anxious to be his wife.

A moment’s doubt assailed her. What did she know of being a woman, beyond the most basic physical differences? She didn’t know how to dress or arrange her hair, or how to walk the way the few women who visited Dugall Castle did. Indeed, she had often wondered what those women would do if a mad bull chased after them, since they seemed unable to walk quickly, let alone run.

Then her confidence returned. How hard could it be? She did own gowns, two of them. One she had possessed for years, and the other—the other her father had purchased for her last year. Had he been thinking of her marriage even then?

Well, the idea of marriage didn’t disturb her in itself. She would simply have to ensure that she was married to the right man.

And that meant Rufus Hamerton.

Feeling better now that he had washed off the grime of the journey, and attired in a new scarlet tunic that brushed the top of his finest boots, George paused on the threshold of the hall and surveyed the gathering.

As was to be expected in Sir Thomas’s hall, there were no ladies present.