The Christmas Knight. Michele SinclairЧитать онлайн книгу.
will have to pay the price.”
Lily blinked her eyes in an effort to look bored. “There you go again. When have you ever protected me from anything?”
Edythe yawned and Bronwyn almost joined her. The argument had evolved into a standard battle between the two strong-willed personalities. The conversation would progress as they all did, with either Bronwyn intervening or them sniping at each other for hours until one accidentally pricked more than just pride.
Edythe opened her mouth and Bronwyn shot her a “you know better than to pull me into one of your petty squabbles” glance. Edythe closed her lips and shrugged, finally deciding that she had had enough of arguing with her little sister.
Bronwyn fought back a sigh of relief and lifted her dark gold hair off her neck to allow the slight breeze coming off the hills to cool her skin. She had washed her hair earlier that morning, and when they had left to make their visits, her semidamp locks had kept her cool and comfortable. Now she longed for a knitted snood to hold the unruly wavy mass up and off her back.
“Why do we fight so much these days, Bronwyn?” Lily asked.
Because you both are scared, Bronwyn thought. “You and Edythe see and live life in different ways. You perceive things as they could be and Edythe as they are. I, on the other hand,” she sighed, “seem to want to hold on to the past and keep things as they once were.”
Bronwyn knew her voice had grown melancholy at the end. If she continued walking with them, they would grow suspicious of her quiet behavior and pummel her with questions until they discovered what was troubling her. “There’s my favorite tree, and with Father gone and all the preparations for Twelfthtide, I have abandoned it for too long. Please tell Constance I will be back before dinner so she won’t worry.”
Edythe paused to stare at the huge, leafless alder. Its dense branches stretched outward in all directions in a tangled mass. Her face took on a brief look of bewilderment. “I think I’m the only one in this family who isn’t prone to fanciful indulgences,” she murmured and then waved good-bye as she headed back to Hunswick.
Lily leaned forward and gave Bronwyn a quick peck on the cheek. “Enjoy your walk. Edythe and I will see that nothing is amiss until your return.” And before Bronwyn could reply, Lily spun around and dashed out of site, as if she were still a child on an exciting mission.
Bronwyn leaned back against the callused bark and looked east, toward Torrens, the hill she had named as a child after one of her father’s dogs. When she had needed a companion the most, Torrens had been there. For every tear, every painful step, frightening moment, or period of loneliness, that shaggy gray wolfhound had been at her side.
Sitting on top of the hill was her childhood home, Syndlear. Constructed early during the Saxon rule, the large tower keep had been the area’s focal point for years. Situated high on the crest of Torrens, it possessed a great vantage of the valley and the hills beyond, giving the owner forewarning of oncoming enemies. It looked to be much closer than it was, but a skilled rider who knew the terrain could travel from the valley below to the elevated keep in a half day.
To her right, was Bassellmere, one of the most exquisite lakes in Cumbria. The mountains surrounding it reached into the sky and both were reflected off its deep, dark rippling waters. With woodlands blanketing the surrounding foothills, Bronwyn could not imagine a place that could touch Bassellmere’s beauty. Ahead was Hunswick Castle, one of the first to be transformed from wood to stone in northern England. Its odd shape and incomplete curtain walls and towers kept it from being of any note or true protection, but Bronwyn didn’t care. To her, Hunswick was home.
Unfortunately, it belonged to someone else.
Bronwyn took a deep breath and exhaled as the sad feeling that had been creeping upon her took hold. The sweet smell of witch hazel was in the air. The odor-filled flower had been her mother’s favorite. Memories of her loss suddenly flooded Bronwyn and she began to hum the verse her mother had sung by her bedside hour after hour, day after day as they lay together, clinging for life. The simple haunting melody had helped her endure life’s most painful events and Bronwyn knew deep down that soon she and her sisters would be mourning the loss of their father.
He should have been back by now. His last communication had been weeks ago with the joyful news he was returning. But he never arrived and Bronwyn knew deep down that something had happened.
Her sisters refused to acknowledge what was in their hearts, but Bronwyn had learned the hard way to face life with no pretenses. If their father had been injured, a message would have been delivered by now. Only bad news took so long to arrive.
“Still trying to sing that haunting little tune, angel?”
Bronwyn froze. The voice was deep and smooth and dripping with male charm. The last time she had heard it, it had belonged to a child turning into a man. The pitch had been slightly higher and with unexpected and humiliating croaks that caused him to grow angry and lash out at those around. Her heart started beating faster at the unwanted memory. Why now? Why had Luc Craven decided to break his banishment now?
“I told you last time we saw each other to never call me ‘angel’ again.” Because of him, she hated the endearment—even from her own family.
Luc faked a bristle and stepped into her view. “I thought you might have changed your mind. I am not the boy you once knew.”
He was right. Last time she had seen Luc Craven, he had been a skinny weak boy with bright white hair, a sharp pointed nose, and overly long limbs. Someone with whom she had been carefree. They had played together almost daily when they were children. He had always been possessive and willful, trying to dictate everything they did or said. Most of the time she had gone along with his wishes, but oftentimes she had done the opposite just for fun. Then one day the fun had abruptly ended and he had been forced to leave and never come back.
Recent rumors that had crossed the short distance between their households had not done Luc justice. She had heard him called handsome, and Bronwyn could not deny that he was indeed very good-looking. Shoulder-length golden hair, sky blue eyes framed in dark lashes, and a granite jaw that matched the rest of his hard, muscular body were indeed attributes most women would consider appealing. But those women were not from Cumbria…and they did not know Luc. For those who were familiar with him didn’t see a handsome man, but a cruel one, without compassion or remorse. And looking into the bright crystal blue eyes staring at her, Bronwyn knew Luc Craven had not changed even a little bit in the past ten years.
“I have not changed my mind, Luc. About the nickname or about you.”
Instantly, Luc’s face hardened and Bronwyn felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. He took a step closer, and outstretched one arm against the tree as he bent over her. “I am a baron now, angel. A man to be respected and obeyed.”
His mouth came toward her and Bronwyn turned her head away so his lips grazed only her cheek. “It has been a long time since we last spoke,” she hissed, “but do not think that I have changed so greatly. I took no orders from you then, and I will not now. Especially not here. We are on Anscombe land and you have no power here.”
The scowl on Luc’s face transformed into a broad, genuine smile. “Maybe not now, but soon, angel. Soon.”
“Not soon, Luc. Never. My father found the new lord of Bassellmere and Hunswick. He is coming.”
“Maybe he is, but not your father.”
Bronwyn’s deep misty blue eyes searched Luc’s face and saw only cruel sincerity staring back at her. “No,” she whispered.
With his free hand, Luc grabbed a lock of her light brown hair and caressed it with his fingers. “Yes, angel. And that makes you mine.”
Bronwyn’s eyes flashed and she pushed as hard as she could against his chest in an effort to get him to move back. But it was like beating solid, immovable rock. “But King Stephen. My father. Lord Anscombe…”
“All dead.”
“But