The Christmas Knight. Michele SinclairЧитать онлайн книгу.
to be you? It would never work.”
Bronwyn knew she was far from plain, but compared to her sisters, she was also far from beautiful. Edythe’s vibrant red coloring and her petite stature drew men to her side…that is, until they discovered her sarcastic, cutting wit, which often focused on making them feel like idiots. But even Edythe found it hard to compete with her raven-haired younger sister, whose glittering pale gray eyes all men gravitated toward.
Bronwyn was about to point out the impossibility of the farce when Edythe plopped down into one of the chairs and said, “Actually, Lily’s idea is not a bad one. The new lord doesn’t know what she looks like and you are much more likely to stay calm if his temper rises once more.”
Latching on to the notion, Lily nodded her head enthusiastically. “That’s right! Edythe is right! Oh, please, Bronwyn, be me. It would only be for this morning until we leave for Syndlear and then in a few days we will be gone. Who could it hurt?”
Bronwyn licked her lips, searching for a reason to say no. Lying—even pretending—was not something Bronwyn had ever done well and did not relish the idea. “But if his lordship saw you, he would immediately know he had been deceived.”
“Then we will all wear wimples,” Edythe countered.
Bronwyn issued her a “you’re not helping” look, to which Edythe just shrugged. But her sister was right. Wearing the highly uncomfortable white headdress, which went around the head and under the chin, left only the mouth, nose, and eyes visible. The contraption would considerably reduce anyone’s ability to distinguish one of them from another, especially at a distance.
Bronwyn glanced back down at the courtyard and watched Constance leave the stables, angrily shaking her head as she sauntered toward the kitchen. The woman was incredibly loyal to Bronwyn and her sisters, and if anyone slighted them, the old nursemaid felt personally insulted. The new lord had obviously denied the request of an audience and Constance was going to her place of solace. The kitchens. The best source for gossip and food, both she believed to be equal remedies for unhappiness.
Leaving her would be hard, but Constance would refuse to stay at Hunswick if she knew their plans, even though it would be at a great personal expense to her. Bronwyn had known for some time that her old nursemaid and one of the nearby widower farmers had grown quite close of late. During her marrying years, Constance had focused so much on Bronwyn and her mother and their recovery that she had ignored any male interest or her own desires for a family. Children may no longer be possible, but Bronwyn would not deny her friend a chance at love and happiness. No, Constance had to stay.
Bronwyn was about to turn away from the window when she spied the new lord and his companion casually stroll across the courtyard, this time facing her as they made their way to the gatehouse. She could now see both men clearly, though still at somewhat of a distance.
The overly tall one was speaking but it was the other man who had her full attention. There was something about him, how he walked, how he paused when looking around, every movement impossibly controlled, how he scrutinized those who darted by him, his air of command, of self-assurance that only came from experience and mutual respect. Lily was wrong. He was the man who had assumed possession of Hunswick.
Without a doubt, Bronwyn knew she was looking at Deadeye de Gunnar, the new Lord Anscombe of Bassellmere.
Bronwyn leaned against the window frame, silently studying him as he made his way to the gatehouse. But just before he entered, he stopped and looked at the Great Hall, directly to the upper bedchamber windows it housed. One eye was closed, but the other was open and had caught her gaze, refusing to let it go. Her heart stammered and yet she could not look away. His face was a cold mask, hiding every emotion, and yet she knew exactly what he was thinking. He wanted the three of them gone, but especially her.
Then, a second later, he was out of sight. Bronwyn blinked and tried to gather her thoughts. Her pulse was only just starting to slow from its instantaneous reaction to him. He both excited and repelled her.
Constance had been right. The new Lord Anscombe was scarred and not just on the outside. Something Bronwyn understood better than anyone and just how it could change a person. Deadeye de Gunnar was not cruel, just unforgiving. He was no ordinary man and around him she would have to be careful. It was a good thing she and her sisters were leaving and even better that he had denied her request for an audience.
“I think you are right, Edythe,” Bronwyn mused as she moved away from the window and started to rummage through her things lying on the bed. Pulling out a white muslin mortarboard with an attached long thin veil, she grimaced and continued, “We should all wear our wimples. It would be best if we left quickly, quietly, and unseen.”
“And if he calls for me?” Lily whispered beseechingly.
“Then I shall be you,” Bronwyn confirmed. “I think you are right. The new Lord Anscombe is not one to be handled with flirtatious remarks.”
The last comment was made more to herself, but Edythe was too quick to let it lie. “And how do you think the new master of Hunswick should be handled?”
“At a distance,” Bronwyn answered. And without any compassion, she added to herself. From experience, she knew that sympathy was the last thing a person like him would want.
“You’re a stubborn, damn fool, Ranulf,” Tyr Dequhar huffed as he retreated back to the stables, leaving his best friend to discuss escort arrangements with his soldiers at the gatehouse. It was obvious Ranulf was not going to change his mind about evicting the three women—including his bride-to-be—from their home and without so much as a hello.
Tyr had known Ranulf for almost five years and was one of the very few who knew him well, but Tyr would never say fully. He doubted Ranulf ever let anyone know him completely. Then again, Tyr felt the same about keeping his own privacy and had found that Ranulf was one of the minority who respected that. Still, it was hard to keep silent about Ranulf’s unexpected decision to order the three women away and right before the holiday season.
Ranulf’s decision had not been out of character, and yet Tyr had been surprised at the vehemence behind it. Ranulf had not even been willing to listen to alternative ideas or even hear the old woman complete her request for an audience. And when Tyr had made a veiled attempt to ask Ranulf about his reasons, his friend had been gruff, almost severe, stating that once Laon’s daughters saw him, they wouldn’t want to stay. He was doing them a favor.
Tyr had heard Ranulf’s justification, he just didn’t believe it. His longtime comrade was not insecure and Tyr could not recall a single instance of his friend being concerned if someone was uncomfortable around him. Not his soldiers, other commanders, ladies of the court—not even the queen.
When Tyr had first met Ranulf, he had believed the scarred commander’s detachment to be a front, that Ranulf was secretly bothered by people’s reactions to him, for no one could be that emotionally remote. But after watching Ranulf’s cold demeanor for years, Tyr had come to actually believe it. Ranulf didn’t care…and yet, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was compelled to protect these women, even if it was from himself. The man was acting like a fool, and if his friend was standing in front of him, Tyr would probably say so again.
Ranulf stood mute for several seconds after Tyr left. If the insult had come from anyone else, he would have struck him, but he and Tyr had fought and led large numbers of men in several victorious battles. They both had accumulated sizable fortunes. Ranulf had let his build unknowing what else to do with it, but Tyr’s wealth had mysteriously disappeared.
Most believed that he wasted it on women, clothes, and drink, but Ranulf was never one of them. Whatever his seemingly playful and flirtatious friend was doing with his money, it was not unconscious or without forethought. Tyr’s riches had gone somewhere, but Ranulf knew better than to ask where or why. Tyr very rarely revealed anything about himself, and what Ranulf had learned about his friend came from deduction.
Tyr was Scottish and Ranulf suspected a Highlander due to his fluent use of Gaelic. He was also educated, making him from either wealth