A Warrior's Bride. Margaret MooreЧитать онлайн книгу.
Several were discussing the day’s training exercise, and in one corner, there was a lively conversation concerning the swordplay to be done on the morrow.
Sir Thomas prided himself on his ability to find and train the finest fighting men in England, and although he was not the only lord with such aspirations, he was perhaps the most competitive in that regard. With excellent results, George thought. Every man here looked well able to defend himself.
It occurred to George that Aileas Dugall must have met many different men in the years of her growing up, for Sir Thomas had refused to send her away to be fostered. While that bespoke a tender sentiment not readily apparent in Sir Thomas, George couldn’t help thinking it might have been better for her development if he had done so. Surely Aileas would have benefited from a woman’s teaching.
It might be better just to forget the whole notion of wooing Aileas Dugall, he thought as he watched the men. If she wanted Rufus, let her have him. If he didn’t want her, that was none of George’s business.
Then, behind him, George heard the familiar rustle of a skirt. He turned to see Aileas poised on the steps behind him.
She wore a simple gown of dark green velvet that did not quite fit properly, for it hung far too loosely at the neckline, exposing the tops of her undoubtedly fine breasts, while the rest of her bodice clung to her slender, shapely waist. Long cuffs lined with paler green silk sarcenet fell nearly to the floor, while the skirt flared out from her narrow hips.
Her hair was dressed in the now familiar braid, a little tidier, and someone had attempted to entwine green ribbons in it, with somewhat less than satisfactory results. Several stray hairs had escaped to brush her glowing cheeks.
Then he noticed that she still wore the same mud-encrusted boots.
She smiled warmly, and he was pleased—until he realized she was not smiling at him but at Rufus Hamerton, who was in the midst of a particularly boisterous group of men standing near the hearth.
Subduing the urge to scowl, George approached her and bowed. “How lovely you look,” he whispered in a low, seductive voice, giving her the most charming smile he could muster. “That color suits you to perfection.”
She flushed, the pink tinging her dusky cheeks, and his smile grew more sincere. “Indeed, I thought an angel had descended when I saw you.”
Her brown eyes flashed with scorn and her lip curled up in a sneer. “Angels,” she hissed, “wear white.”
“Of course. My wits were addled by your beauty.” She stared at him as if he were mad, but he ignored her expression. “My lady, allow me to escort you to your place at table,” he said as he took her hand and placed it on his arm.
She flinched.
He put his other hand over top, trapping hers.
Then Rufus, his thick red brows furrowed, broke away from his group, which had fallen silent, and took a step toward them. “Aileas?”
“Good evening, Rufus,” she said, pulling away from George. “Good evening,” she said to the other men, some of whom were staring with open mouths.
“God’s wounds, Aileas!” Rufus declared loudly, running his gaze over her in a manner that struck George as singularly impertinent. “I didn’t know you owned a decent dress.” He started to grin like a monkey and the other men chuckled quietly.
“As you can see, I do,” she answered sullenly, picking at the sleeve. Obviously she was not aware that such a movement pushed her breasts together in a very fascinating way.
Then, to George’s dismay, she slid a sly glance at him before addressing Rufus in a loud, conspiratorial whisper. “Although some might not agree, I think I look like a fool.”
What was next between those two? Winking? Exchanging kisses in a dark corner?
Maybe they already had.
George felt himself flushing in anger and fought to keep his expression mundane as he strolled toward the high table and casually leaned against it, assuming a languid air. “I think it a very charming gown, although I must say I hope you do not catch a chill.”
“What do you mean?” Aileas demanded, facing him as the men smothered their guffaws.
Then Sir Thomas marched into the hall, accompanied by a priest who looked as if he could wield a sword or mace as well as any man in the hall. Sir Thomas caught sight of his daughter and halted so abruptly the priest nearly collided with him. “Aileas?”
She spun on her heel to face him, and George watched her regain her composure with admirable swiftness. “Yes, Father?”
George was pleased to note that Sir Thomas could be momentarily dumbfounded. “Aileas, um, you have not seated our guest.”
“Oh, yes.” She turned to George, and he could detect the contempt in her eyes if not her words. “You are to sit on my father’s right,” Aileas commanded, pointing imperiously.
“Naturally,” he drawled in response and without moving. She could not order him like a servant, not in the presence of these other men. Indeed, not ever. “And you sit...?”
“Beside you,” she answered brusquely.
At once George straightened and went to his place, courteously holding the chair out for Aileas to sit. She marched around the table and slumped into her chair like a peevish child, obviously unaware that her gaping bodice gave him an excellent view of her very lovely breasts.
George swallowed hard while telling himself that, although her petulance was not a good sign, the night was yet young.
Rufus bowed briefly and retired to another table, something George was pleased to see. He didn’t think he could bear to try to converse with the fellow during the meal. It was going to be difficult enough to maintain an indifferent demeanor.
The priest said a brief grace, notable for its odd, bloodthirsty tone as he called upon God to bless those in the hall and smite their enemies. When he finished, the hall immediately burst into cacophonous sound, as if shouting were the preferred method of communication. Huge hounds rooted among the rushes, seeking discarded food and the bones the men tossed away. The rushlights, cheap and smoky, did little to lessen the deepening gloom.
The food, while plain, was plentiful enough. No doubt Sir Thomas realized men could not do battle on empty stomachs, or train well, either. A page refilled his goblet and quickly moved on.
Deciding that he would take the offensive, George turned to Aileas. “Sir Rufus seems to admire you,” he noted dispassionately as he bit into some meat that made him wonder how long it had been cooked. “He appeared very surprised when you entered, though, as if he didn’t think you could look so beautiful.”
Aileas tore off a large chunk of bread from the nearest loaf and proceeded to push the entire piece into her mouth, unknowingly dragging the cuffs of her gown through her trencher. It was all George could do to keep silent about that and not wince, especially when she apparently missed his criticism and turned to him with a delighted expression. “Do you think so?” she asked, her mouth full.
They both glanced at Red Rufus, who was now, he noted smugly, primarily interested in the food the servants served, as if he and the others at his table were engaged in a contest to see who could shove the most food into their mouths in the shortest time. Good for him.
“You and he have been friends for some time, I presume,” he noted.
“He’s been here ten years,” Aileas replied before wiping her lips with the back of her hand and belching.
Surely no noblewoman could be that lacking in proper eating habits, George thought, masking his disgust as he carefully cut a slice of meat and set it in his trencher. Aileas glanced at him, another disdainful smile on her lips, then she turned away and—yes!—winked at Rufus.
Who did not wink back.
George smiled and leaned back in his chair.