Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

Her narrowed gaze settled upon her father, and Rhona quickly composed her face back into a polite smile, hoping no one had read her real feelings. The baron was not watching her, for he too was staring at Lord Henry, and although his thin lips smiled, his orbs were as cold as ice spears. Lord Baldessare had hated Lord Henry since the time he’d returned from London without the large estate in the west of England he had hoped for. The king had handed it to Lord Henry, and they had both laughed long and heartily about it. Rhona’s father had left in humiliation, determined to have his revenge.

How many nights this past year had she heard the baron ranting to his scribe and chaplain, Jean-Paul? How often had she heard Jean-Paul’s soothing tones, promising the baron that all things come to those who wait? The marriage of Alfric to Lady Jenova had been Jean-Paul’s idea, with Gunlinghorn as the prize. Rumor had it that Jenova’s young son was sickly, and once he was dead, Gunlinghorn would belong to Alfric and his father. For what could a lone woman do against the might of Lord Baldessare?

None of them could have known that Lord Henry would hasten so quickly to Jenova’s side. Rhona had not even been aware that Henry and Jenova were friends, and she was certain her father had not either. Another of his plots turned sour. Rhona well understood his anger—land was power in King William’s England, and Baldessare still had ambitions to become one of her most powerful men.

Rhona, for her part, feared her father and loathed him for what he was and what he had done to her, but she was fully aware of his strength. Although in private she sometimes railed against him, she would never take that extra rebellious step that would set him against her as her full-blown enemy. He would crush her as easily as he would an insect, she had no doubt of that. Jean-Paul had instructed her often enough that it was God’s will that she obey her father in all things, and he was a priest after all, even if one she did not entirely trust. But she did not need Jean-Paul’s advice to know it was in her best interests to stay on good terms with her father.

Aye, Rhona knew well enough that if she and Alfric were to remain comfortable and healthy, if they were to continue to enjoy their favored place as the baron’s children, then they must strive to please him and do his bidding. Alfric must stop his sulks and do as she said, and then they might both of them come out of this with their father’s approbation rather than his truly frightening displeasure.

Rhona leaned closer to Alfric, her voice a whisper. “Smile, brother! Our father is watching!”

Alfric glanced nervously at the grim-faced man further down the table, and he forced a smile, swallowing his mouthful of roasted pork with difficulty. Rhona patted his arm. That was better. There was no denying her brother had a winsome look when he wanted to use it. All was not lost, she insisted to herself with an optimism she was far from feeling. Lord Henry, she reminded herself, was only here for a visit; his real life was in London. He would be gone soon, and when he was, her brother could resume his wooing of Lady Jenova without interruption.

Rhona caught her brother’s arm as they moved toward their sleeping quarters—there were guest chambers partitioned off at the further end of the great hall—and drew him into the shadows by the wall. “What is wrong with you?” she whispered angrily. “I thought we agreed you needed to charm her, win her to you, not play at being a sullen child!”

Her brother pulled away from her grip. “She looks at him too often,” he grumbled, for all the world like the sullen child she had just accused him of being. “There is more there than friendship, I feel it, Rhona. Do you see the way she looks at him?”

Rhona tossed her head as if it mattered not. “They have known each other for a great many years, Alfric. You heard them speaking of their childhood together? I thought Lord Henry was Mortred’s friend, but ’tis Jenova he cherishes. Don’t be so foolish as to accuse them of deeds they have not committed. And even if they have…”

She had his attention now, and she made use of it.

“Even if they have, it is none of your affair. Lord Henry will be gone soon, and you will still be here. In her loneliness, you are the one she will cleave to. In fact, you may turn it to your advantage. Why not wait awhile by the turn in the stairs to Lord Henry’s chamber? If the lady decides to pay him a visit, you will be well placed to remind her of the consequences of her actions. Do not berate her, mind, but treat her compassionately, as if you understand and are willing to forgive her her small weakness.”

“So even if she is going to another man’s bed, I must pretend not to care?” Alfric said mutinously.

“Of course not! You care, but you forgive her because you love her despite her faults. She will think you a better man for expressing such sentiments. Now is that plain enough, foolish brother of mine?”

He grunted, but nodded with reluctant agreement.

“Good. Then play your part, Alfric, or we must both face the consequences of your failure. You know what will happen if we displease our father.”

Her brother glanced around sharply, as if expecting to see their father standing there. They both feared him, but whereas Rhona seemed able to charm their father into leniency and herself out of trouble, Alfric could never win any concessions. The baron considered him a failure—Alfric could never live up to the tough and bloody image their father so admired in a man. Gentle Alfric was a complete disappointment to him, or had been, until now. Lady Jenova and her rich lands had given Alfric a chance to show his quality, and Rhona meant to make sure he did.

For all their sakes.

Her gaze shifted. Suddenly she noticed the large, swarthy-skinned man who had just stepped out from the alcove nearby. He was well within listening distance of their conversation, and judging from his stillness, he’d clearly been taking full advantage of that fact.

“Hush!” Alfric had seen him, too, and was tugging urgently at his sister’s sleeve. They had both been spied upon too often by their father’s creatures not to be wary of any listening ears. There was very little privacy in the Baldessare household. Even Jean-Paul, who often professed to be their friend, had repeated confidences when it suited him.

Rhona straightened her back, lifting her chin with a show of bravado. She had never allowed any of her father’s men to see her fear, and perhaps that was why they respected her far more than they did her brother. Besides, there was something about the eavesdropper that irritated her, be it his unkempt shaggy hair and big, solid body, or the way he refused to lower his dark eyes in the respectful manner to which she was entitled.

Rhona fixed him with a disdainful look. “Why should I care if he hears us?” she said loudly and curled her lip. “He is just a servant. He is nothing. He is the mud under my boot.”

Alfric laughed nervously. “Come, Rhona,” he said and pulled her away toward the sleeping chambers.

She went with him but turned her head and found the big man gazing after her. There was something in his face that caught and held her attention. Servant he might be, but that was arrogance in the tilt of his head and a single-minded determination in the set of his thick jaw. Rhona had an uncomfortable feeling that her hasty words, far from discouraging him, had acted as a bait to this shaggy bear.

Nay, she told herself impatiently. He wouldn’t dare! She was a lady. Servants, no matter how attractive, could look, but that was as much as they could do. If he tried to go further, her father would kill him—if she did not do it first.

Reynard stood, watching them go. He had followed the two Baldessare siblings down the great hall and successfully secreted himself in the alcove, but it had been difficult to hear their whispers, and he had edged too close. From what he had overheard, it seemed the girl was advising her brother on ways to ensnare the affections of Lady Jenova. Also, they were afraid of displeasing their father. He could hardly blame them for the latter; Lord Baldessare looked like a mean old ogre.

The girl was beautiful. Small, but voluptuous, everything in its right place. He would have to pick her up to kiss her, but it would be worth the effort. From his more lowly position, Reynard had been watching her tonight, watching the manner in which she’d glanced about her, taking everything in, and the way she had ogled Henry. At first he had been surprised, and then amused. Henry wasn’t interested in her—Reynard thought he knew why that was, too—and some instinct told him the girl wasn’t really interested in Henry, either. She had been putting on a show, trying to draw his attention. It had been tried before, and by women far more skilled than Lady Rhona.

What did she hope to achieve? Reynard guessed she wanted to leave the way open for her brother to continue his clumsy wooing of Lady Jenova. If Alfric had any spine in him, he could do that on his own, not use his sister as a whore. She deserved better….

Reynard shook his head in disgust. Disgust at the girl, and at himself. He should not care what she did. She was no concern of his. She had made it clear enough what she thought of him. He was nothing. He was mud under her boot. He remembered again the sight she had made as she’d walked off, the sway of her hips beneath the red gown, the arrogant toss of her head. Aye, she was certainly a fine lady…or at least she thought she was.

She was also a lady who needed a lesson in manners.