The Knight's Redemption. Joanne RockЧитать онлайн книгу.
Ceara winced. “Men are usually quite insistent that their wives are not deceptive, cousin.”
“Then maybe he will allow me to leave once he knows our marriage is false.” She shrugged as she lit extra tapers about the chamber.
“Saints be praised, cousin. You know nothing of men! A man would never allow his wife to simply leave him. He could kill you for your treachery.”
Heaven help her, Ceara was beginning to sound as morose as Ariana’s father. Could no one in this household ever look at the bright side of things?
“I must try. This nonsense about Glamorgan women has plagued my family for far too many years.” Ariana waved away her concern as she poured the herbs from Eleanor’s pouch into a mortar to grind them. “But my father may be difficult when he discovers my deception. You must say I cut your hair as you slept, and that you knew nothing of my plan.”
“I will emphasize the fact that the long-suffered curse might be broken with you, and he will be placated.” Ceara sniffed the powder as Ariana worked. “That smells awful.”
“Yet with any luck, my concoction will render me attractive.”
Ceara crossed herself. “Dear Lord.”
“’Tis no different than sowing the fields with herbs to induce good crops, or baking a coin into the Yule cake for a prosperous future. After a hundred years of spinsterhood, I think the Glamorgan women are entitled to a few desperate measures.”
Determination renewed, Ariana headed for the chamber hearth and set the small pot upon the stones. She gave her cousin a gentle nudge toward the door and hoped she was doing the right thing. The stranger needed a Welsh bride as much as she needed to leave Glamorgan. Why shouldn’t she be the woman to fulfill his need?
“You’d best bring some of your things from your chamber so you are prepared to lock yourself away in here for the night. Remember, you cannot go below stairs until at least tomorrow afternoon. I heard one of the maids say the knight wishes to leave with his new bride by midmorn.”
Ceara hesitated, concern filling her amber eyes. “What shall we say when your father wonders why you are not attending my wedding?”
All obstacles will fall away….
Ariana would make sure of it. “I will have a maid tell him that I am consumed with sadness about the curse, and that attending the wedding of another, when I am destined for spinsterhood, is difficult for me.”
Ceara snorted. “You? Ariana Glamorgan is the most doggedly cheerful woman in Wales! Do you think he’ll believe it?”
“He’ll probably be thrilled to hear I am appropriately depressed for once. Just keep to my rooms tomorrow until I am far away from Glamorgan.”
“Godspeed, Ariana. And don’t forget to disguise your voice just a little. Your pitch is higher than mine.” Ceara gave her friend one last hug. “I will pray for you.”
Ariana hurried Ceara out the door and turned back toward the chamber hearth, filled with resolve. Hope.
She sat before the low flame, costumed in imitation of Ceara and ready for the evening meal except for one thing.
The good-luck charm.
Her lips trembled as she prayed for help, asking for her endeavor to be blessed. Then, pouring the ground herbs into the palm of her hand, she closed her eyes and concentrated.
And tossed the powdery concoction into the fire.
Flames burst from the hearth stunning Ariana with a sudden roaring blaze. A strange sense of power rose within her, almost as if a storm gathered inside her, gaining momentum as it whirled through her being.
The tide of emotions churning through her leapt right along with the flames, culminating in a shimmering sensation of light all around her body, wrapping her in golden warmth from head to toe. And Ariana knew, without a doubt, the charm had worked. The amazing sense of strength still gripped her, but the shimmering sensations faded with the hearth blaze, settling into a dull glow that made her want to smile.
She picked up her polished looking glass and examined her face. There was no visible change, of course. But then, Glamorgan women had always been able to see themselves as they truly appeared. Only men overlooked a Glamorgan female, and it was whispered that no man could see the beauty within a Glamorgan woman.
Until now.
Her feet fairly danced in anticipation to venture below stairs. Straightening the mass of red hair atop her head, she felt a fleeting regret she could not meet the knight as herself. Why did she have to pretend to be Ceara the one time she might truly attract a man?
Refusing to be deterred, she launched into a sprightly ditty she often heard sung in the village and departed the chamber to woo her knight.
Chapter Three
R oarke was not the first guest to arrive at the evening meal. The Glamorgan great hall already hummed with chatter and music. Women of any minor rank or background milled about. Daughters of two area nobles wore colorful velvets and scarlets, decorated as richly as the limited notice of his arrival would have allowed.
Not that it mattered, Roarke thought as he assessed the room from the entryway. He did not seek an heiress or even a great beauty. In his experience, beauty lured too much attention from other men while a wealthy woman might seek to assert her power while her husband was away at war.
His mother had done both—whether she’d meant to or not—and he’d paid for her mistakes. Anne Barret might not have meant to be unfaithful to her husband, but she had fallen for Fulke Kendall rather quickly upon hearing of her husband’s death. Roarke had tried to tell himself that perhaps his mother had already been close to her husband’s fellow knight, but the thought failed to lessen the sting of his bastard heritage.
He had amassed his own wealth these last ten years. All he wanted from his marriage were heirs and the assurance from King Henry that Llandervey would belong to his family for as long as his line remained. Roarke sought a practical, simple woman for mistress of his new keep.
A hush rolled across the hall like a gentle wave as Roarke entered. The women sized him up instantly, each taking her own visual inventory as he crossed the hall to his seat at the head table beside his host.
Blessed saints, forgive me for this debacle, he muttered, horrified to think he requested this room full of women to choose from as if he were an Eastern sultan presiding over a harem.
The Lord of Glamorgan greeted him with the same dreary disposition he demonstrated earlier that afternoon, his stooped shoulders even more pronounced in the tailored cut of his evening attire.
“All of these women are aware I am English?” Roarke inquired as he took his place on the dais. He vaguely questioned where the man’s daughter lurked, curious to see if she would have the same peculiar effect upon him as she’d had twice before. “I would not have a disillusioned father refuse me his daughter in the morning.”
“Aye. They are all aware you are no Welshman.” Thomas seemed to strain in an attempt to smile. “But none of these girls bring much to a marriage, so their fathers would consider you a good match despite that fact.”
Nodding, Roarke wondered what unhappiness could make a man so perpetually miserable. “Is this the lot of them then?”
“Nay.” Glamorgan swept the room with his eyes, as if seeking someone in particular. “My late wife’s niece has not yet arrived, but I have high hopes you might turn your fancy to her. Ceara is a lovely little thing and smart enough to run a large household. She would make you a fine wife.”
Detecting a hesitant note lingering in his host’s voice, Roarke interrupted. “But?”
Glamorgan’s shrug looked a little too casual. “She is rather shy and suffers from the notion she belongs in a convent. I’ve put her off about the matter, and perhaps