A Knight Well Spent. Jackie IvieЧитать онлайн книгу.
of liege lord as his heir. Unfortunately, he also had the power.
“Come. We delay. Such an action could be costly to my coffers.”
“Fine his coffers instead. Or take it from his knight portion this time,” Harold advised.
“Why? He’s yet to pay back last quarter’s penalty.”
“True.” The like-sized knight shrugged, moving the chainmail with the motion. “He’s also cost countless portions that you just forgave and tore up. He’s too great a penalty. Gift the king with his service and save your fief from his influence.”
“The king already has knights. And I never lost my fief.”
“That’s also true. I would hazard a guess that you never owned it, either. King David doesn’t have a Ramhurst at his side anymore. Send Brent. His Majesty will be appreciative. He may lord you beyond this earldom of yours. You need more of these abrasive heathens to call your own.”
Rhoenne turned back in the saddle. “Come. The ride wearies on me as much as your words. I’ve a sup to eat.”
“You’ve a sup to see prepared first,” Harold answered.
Rhoenne ignored him and the vague twinge of unease that settled between his shoulder blades. The Lady of the Brook could probably help with that, too. She had small, aristocratic-looking hands. More than once when she’d placed them on him, the spot had warmed; rapidly and markedly. The lass also had the ability to see right into a person with those eyes of hers. She was the most lovely thing Rhoenne had seen, and she hailed from one of these heathen villages? Incredible. Especially if he factored in his brother. Brent was a danger to lovely maidens. He had an eye for beauty and a taste for taking vulnerability. The lass had shown sense to keep both hidden. She just hadn’t hidden it well enough. Rhoenne nearly groaned at his incessant thoughts of her.
Tyneburn Hall was a motte and bailey castle, rising from the spit of land it straddled to lord over the countryside at its fore and the loch at its back. Rhoenne gave the signal and the men started down and then across the valley that Tyneburn’s presence protected. Brent had better be in charge of the hall, or he’d feel Rhoenne’s fist this time.
At the moat, he knew the truth. The castle wasn’t welcoming anyone because there wasn’t anyone but serfs in attendance. Getting one with acumen enough to lower the drawbridge made his frown deepen and his anger spark.
If Brent had gone on a foray, assuaging his lust and causing more havoc among unruly, cantankerous subjects—! The thought was enough to make the older brother set his jaw, work his teeth into pain, and cause the twinge of unease in the midst of his back to spread into all-out fury. And that was just from awaiting the drawbridge.
She was ready when he came for her; directly after sup; exactly as ordered. Aislynn squinted across the croft. It didn’t work. Her caller was still the smithy, Donald O’Rourke. Aislynn sighed loudly. She’d known there was no such thing as faery magic!
Meghan shot her a look of pure venom, showing her jealousy. Aislynn turned the squinted expression on her little sister. That had Meghan making a sign to ward off evil, which had their mother stepping between them before anyone else saw.
“Good eve.”
Papa answered Donald’s greeting. Aislynn wasn’t going to answer anything. She pretended at shyness while they spoke. It was better than the truth and the words of anger and spite that she was choking on. That’s what came of being forced to go through with this…forced! That blasted troubadour had soured her life and she’d only known him one morn.
The smithy wasn’t the problem. He’d shown his interest in her from the moment he’d arrived two sennights past. That interest was returned by the entire miller family…until this morn. Aislynn swallowed around a knot in her throat. It felt like a betrothal was being shouted from the roofs already. She should be excited and thrilled. She was neither. Donald was Scot, like them. He was strong. He was healthy. He was employed with a skill. He’d been granted land for his shop and his own croft. He was flesh and blood. And there wasn’t any part of him devoted to poetry, or song, or anything resembling a troubadour.
Or anything blond. Or tall…with piercing, blue eyes, a voice that halted her heart in mid-beat. Nor did he have a frame made for snuggling against, molding to, clinging to…while his lips sought out the very center of her….
“Aislynn!”
Her head snapped up. It was Mother. She had Meghan behind her and there was definite spite in her sister’s eyes now. Aislynn sighed again. Faery magic and faery tales? she thought. A pox on both!
She turned for a shawl, taking as much time as she could to smooth it about her shoulders. Then she was wrapping it as loosely as possible to create volume. It didn’t help. She was petite. She was frail-looking. She’d look like a twig next to Donald. She longed to pitch the entire affair for her cloak, but knew she couldn’t. This was her punishment for being late to the mill.
It was specific, too. No cloak. No disguising attire. No harsh words. No standoffish behavior. No arguments. Should the smithy offer for their eldest daughter, it was going to be accepted. Her wishes didn’t matter. Her desires didn’t count. Getting the eldest, strange, fostered daughter wed off was what counted to the miller and his family.
“Aislynn? Ready?”
Donald’s hair was neatly slicked back and he wore a thickly woven, gray-colored plaide. He had a sleeveless doublet atop that was made from new leather, and the shirt beneath was knitted from muscle-encasing yarns.
Aislynn took one look before going back to her entwined hands.
“We’ll na’ be long,” O’Rourke spoke above her head.
“Verra well. There’s been nae understanding and nae bride price put forth. A walk about the village will be enough.” It was her father talking. Aislynn wasn’t saying anything; one way, or the other.
“As you request,” Donald answered.
He stood at the stoop, his body holding their door flap open for her. She didn’t look to verify it. She didn’t look up at him, at all.
They set off. Somewhere a mongrel barked and the warm woodsy odor of cook-fires clouded small pockets of air about them in the late spring night. Aislynn still didn’t look toward him. She didn’t want to. No standoffish behavior? No harsh words? There had also been the admonition to keep any sign of her gifts hidden. Only Mother hadn’t called them gifts. She’d called them curses from the gods. Aislynn bit her tongue, kept quiet and in pace with him.
“Shall we walk through the woods?”
She stopped at the first sound of his voice, then shook her head. She didn’t know if he saw it.
“No harm in that, is there?”
What? There’s every harm in it! she thought. She longed to spit it out, but didn’t. He knew. You didn’t go into the woods for any reason other than the obvious. Bairns resulted from walks in the woods. Bastard bairns. She grimaced at the ground. They weren’t even betrothed. It was ill-mannered and crude. She hadn’t known that of O’Rourke.
“Well?” he asked.
“My father—” Aislynn said the words to the path, and gestured with her hand back to the croft. No standoffish behavior? she wondered. She was ready to run as fast as she could from him. That probably qualified.
Donald understood. His heavy sigh sounded it. “Well and good. We’ll take the path, then. Will that do?”
She nodded, looked up, and paled. She felt naked with just a shawl. She rarely went out without her cloak. The look in Donald’s eyes was the reason why.
She watched him swallow. At least he had spittle enough for that. Her throat was dry. She looked back down quickly, before any of the disgust transferred to her features. It wasn’t due to Mother’s admonitions, either. It was because she didn’t know what Donald would do if he