The Christmas Knight. Michele SinclairЧитать онлайн книгу.
“We can discuss your meaningless threats after you stop acting like a fool and get off that tower.”
Ranulf closed his eyes in acute frustration. Any temptation to do her bidding just vanished. His angel may be beautiful, but she was also a sprite…with claws. “I don’t think so,” he said with as much disinterest he could muster, hoping that it would aggravate her. Seeing her annoyed expression, he smiled. “It’s a fine place up here and the weather is quite comfortable. I might just stay here all night, and as lord of this castle, I guess I can…foolish or not.”
Ranulf resumed his pacing. He didn’t know why he was engaging in an argument with her. It was totally out of character. But what did she expect riding in, regal and self-confident, her dark gold hair flowing in the breeze, and then staring at him, undaunted, almost as if she didn’t see what couldn’t be missed.
With each step, small snapping sounds echoed in her ears. Bronwyn wanted to run up there and throttle him. Four stories above her, he wasn’t close, but neither was he far. She could make out every feature. Slicing across his brow and a fraction of his cheekbone, the deep scar—part burn, part laceration—was noticeable, but not horrific. His left eye was clearly gone, causing his mottled eyelid to remain closed. It would have looked like he was winking at her except for his other eye. Gold-tinged, encircled by black, it was cold. The man was unmistakably angry. But then, so was she. The new lord was acting like a stubborn ass.
“You narrow-minded man. These people need a leader, not someone full of misplaced pride who has yet to come to terms with the unfairness of life. Go back to Normandy and sulk some more, but get off that tower.” Bronwyn heard the sharp intake of breaths behind her, but refused to turn around or give up. She was creating a spectacle, and in any other circumstance, she would be mortified. But if it drove him down, it would be worth it.
Ranulf stopped in midstride and crossed his arms, accentuating his muscular build. No longer did he need to wonder if she could see him. She saw not only his injury, but much more. The pain it still caused him and suddenly he felt weak in her eyes. “You like to order men around, don’t you? Test their manhood? It didn’t work yesterday in the forest and it won’t today. I am not a man to be provoked, and my lady, you are trying my patience.”
The shock coursing through Bronwyn was evident. He was the one. Her rescuer, her hero, the one she had wished to meet, the one she had thought bold, daring, and courageous had not been one of his soldiers, but Deadeye de Gunnar himself. How many times did she need to learn this lesson? Chivalrous heroes did not exist. The world no longer made them. There were none to be found. The last two were her father and Lord Anscombe and they were both gone.
“You, my lord,” Bronwyn said through gritted teeth, “are far from the nobleman who previously ruled this castle and these lands. You are nothing but a mercenary with a title.”
Her lips were drawn tight and hot, furious tears burned her eyes. It suddenly occurred to Ranulf that his angel felt real fury and it unnerved him. Women did not attach strong emotions to him, and for a flitting moment, he longed for her to smile at him instead. He wondered what it would be like to have her feel, not anger, and certainly not compassion, but real desire for him. The idea was overwhelming…and maddening.
“I never claimed to be a nobleman!” Ranulf bellowed.
Bronwyn cringed. Until now, he had kept his voice menacing, but low and controlled. His outburst had been startling. “Don’t shout at me!” she instinctively hollered back.
“Why? You’ve been shouting at me!” he returned. Ranulf honestly didn’t know what was going on. He never yelled. Then again, no one confronted and countered him either.
Bronwyn opened and closed her mouth twice before she realized just what she was doing and how idiotic she must appear. Another loud crack rang out. The beam sustaining his weight would last not much longer. “What am I going to do?” she muttered to herself and was about to direct her horse to the gatehouse when a deep chuckle startled her.
“I can’t wait to find out.”
Bronwyn’s whipped her head around, spying the tall good-looking soldier she had seen earlier. With tousled, shoulder-length red-brown hair, he was much more handsome up close, especially as he was smiling and flashing his dimples. Another time, she might have admired them a little longer, but her mind was consumed with only one man—the most frustrating, stubborn one of her acquaintance.
She urged her horse toward the grinning giant and then pointed toward the tower. “You’re his friend, are you not? I saw you together earlier and you were anything but subservient. I assume you are not one of his soldiers, but someone he trusts. Someone he will listen to.”
Both of Tyr’s brows arched in surprise. He cast a glance toward Ranulf and almost started chuckling again. His always composed friend was staring at them and he was anything but unruffled. “I have never known Ranulf to heed anyone’s counsel but his own, but aye, I am his friend.”
“Then do something!” Bronwyn hissed.
Tyr’s hazel eyes suddenly grew wide with mocking interest. “Like what?”
“Like…what?” Bronwyn stammered, wondering if the man was stupid or just intentionally aggravating. “Unless you want to see your friend dead, convince him that he needs to get off that tower immediately.”
Tyr’s face broke into a huge grin. He couldn’t help it. The woman was outrageous. She was also the answer to every question that he had been having concerning his friend’s baffling behavior the past two days. This wild beauty had Ranulf in knots and it was no wonder. One didn’t encounter women with soft curvaceous bodies, flashing blue eyes, and wisps of sun-kissed hair very often in court or in the battlefield. Ranulf had obviously seen her yesterday and had not been prepared. That was why she and her sisters had been forced to leave so quickly. Ranulf didn’t want to see her. More to the point—he didn’t want her to see him.
“If you want him to get down, then leave.”
“I cannot leave, whoever you are, until I know that the new lord is safe and able to assume his role and lead these people.”
“My name is Tyr. Tyr Dequhar.”
Bronwyn narrowed her gaze just slightly. She could have sworn that he had been about to embellish his name significantly with a title, but had just stopped himself in time. As to why, she would have to discover another time. “Then, Tyr, would you help me?”
“He’s made it clear that as long as you are here, he’s not coming down. So why do you stay? I think my friend intrigues you far more than he ignites your ire.”
“And you find that amusing.”
Tyr nodded, his infectious grin growing only larger. “If you knew Ranulf better, you would know why.”
Bronwyn swallowed and her eyes grew misty. “I only know that the North Tower kills. It took my mother and it will take your friend.”
Ranulf stared at the couple below. He watched Tyr assess his angel and knew when his friend deemed someone attractive. Something was said and Ranulf watched as Tyr’s expression changed from one of amusement to rapt attention. Tyr reached out and took her hand in his, not out of desire, but genuine concern. Hot, bitter jealousy twisted inside Ranulf. Bronwyn had been entrusted to him, and him alone.
Ranulf pivoted and stomped toward the stairs. If she wanted him down, to see him face-to-face, Lady Bronwyn le Breton had just gotten her wish. But before he could take the first descending step, a sudden sharp explosive noise filled the air.
Bronwyn raced toward the gatehouse and into the courtyard. Once inside, she jumped off her horse and ran to the tower. It had happened again.
Her mother had been on the ground floor, helping to look for something buried in all the stored items, when the first floor had given way. She had died instantly, crushed from the debris. This time, the top two floors had collapsed. In horror she had watched Ranulf disappear as a thunderous sound of wood breaking and coming to a crashing halt echoed in the valley.