Besieged and Betrothed

‘I thought ladies were taught poetry and sewing.’

‘Most are, but there was no one here to teach me. My mother died from the sweating fever when I was three.’

‘I’m sorry.’ The muscles in his arm twitched again. ‘I lost my own mother when I was a child. I know how painful the loss is.’

‘To be honest, I don’t remember much about her. I wish I did, but at least I had my father.’

He made a strange sound, something between a grunt and a protest, the muscles in his arm flexing so violently this time that she thought he was about to pull away.

‘Do you remember your mother?’ She asked the question warily.

‘I remember everything about her.’ His voice sounded different suddenly, rougher and more guttural, as if he were struggling to speak at all. ‘She was the whole world to me.’

‘Oh.’ She squeezed his arm, touched by the note of anguish in his voice. His face looked less like something carved out of granite now, more like flesh and blood. Like that of a man in pain. ‘Was it a sickness as well?’

‘No.’

‘An accident?’

‘No!’

She leapt backwards instinctively, recoiling from the anger in his voice.

‘Forgive me.’ He rubbed a hand over his face, as if he were forcing the emotion back down again. ‘I don’t like to think of it. What happened to my mother... They called it an accident, but it wasn’t.’

‘Oh.’ She bit her tongue, fighting the urge to ask what it was.

‘But I know what it’s like to grow up without one.’ He lowered his hand and his face was like granite again. ‘Weren’t there any other ladies in your father’s household?’

‘No.’ She shook her head, relieved that the moment of crisis seemed to have passed. ‘One of my aunts came to live with us for a while, the one my father had originally been supposed to marry, but she hated it here. She said that we were in the middle of nowhere and I was too unruly.’

‘You?’

She couldn’t repress a smile. ‘Actually, I think he might have asked her to leave. After that it was just father and me so I learned what he taught me. Do you want to see?’

His expression clouded over again. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘Why not? Haven’t you ever seen a woman wield a sword before?’ She pulled her arm away from his, scooping a leather gambeson off the floor. ‘Or are you afraid that I’m better than you?’

‘Lady Juliana...’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’d prefer if you didn’t.’

There was a note of warning in his voice, but she felt too exhilarated to pay any heed. At least this was one way to prove that she was an independent woman—fit to be chatelaine, even if she wasn’t any more. For some reason, his opinion on that score seemed to matter to her.

She borrowed a weapon from one of her soldiers and issued a challenge to one of his, tapping her foot impatiently until, after a moment’s hesitation, the man lifted his own sword in response. Then she didn’t hesitate, springing forward at once, catching the man by surprise as she thrust her sword up towards his shoulder. He dodged backwards, veering to one side, but she was faster, anticipating the move and swinging her blade around in an arc to catch him on the other arm before flicking it up towards his face, stopping barely an inch from his cheek.

‘I yield.’

The soldier looked impressed and she grinned triumphantly, twirling around on the spot to face Lothar.

‘You next?’ She pointed her sword at his heart.

‘Put. It. Down.’

She tensed, her hand wavering in mid-air, though she refused to lower anything. Lothar’s expression was almost as animated as it had been when he’d confronted Sir Guian, though this time he didn’t look so much angry as pained. Why? Surely he wasn’t upset with her just for fighting when he’d asked her not to? Why couldn’t she fight if she wanted to? How dare he give her an order!

‘Afraid I might beat you?’ She tightened her grip on the sword hilt.

‘No.’