Emily French - Ironheart

“I have nothing to lose, therefore nothing to fear,” he said, too bluntly, perhaps, for she bit her lip a moment, frowning as if it were a challenge and she were searching for a proper response.

“A man who fears nothing loves nothing and, if he loves nothing, what joy is there in his life?” she asked with passionate urgency.

All his senses seemed foggy of a sudden, and his head on the edge of hurting. “I’ve never met a woman who speaks to me as you do,” he told her.

“Even your wife?” She fixed that direct look of hers on him, challenging him.

“I have no wife.”

Her scrutiny was both leisurely and thorough, taking him in as if he had been a bullock at market. Swift anger flooded through him. He felt his jaw clenching. Years of living by the sword had wrecked any comeliness he had ever possessed and any chance of winning a woman’s heart.

Something changed, lifted, in the set of her mouth and eyes. Tiny facial muscles relaxed. He caught a momentary expression as she stood before him, watching him intently—something intense and satisfied, as if it were enough to know.

“And I have no husband. Yet.”

“If you did, you would be more circumspect.”

Slowly the proud head bowed. She spread her hands. “It’s not like that here.”

“No doubt it is different in the marches,” Leon agreed with a touch of irony. “I do not think it is that. You knew I would intervene, if necessary.”

Her cheeks flamed, but she did not evade the charge. “Yes,” she said with a directness that he guessed was characteristic of her.

There were footsteps, the ringing of swords in scabbards. The men-at-arms were returning with two of the churls, and the girl’s purse. There were shouts and cheers from a tangle of servants and hangers-on. The youth had collected the baskets and was urging her within, saying it would rain soon and that Sir Edmund would be angry.

Brenna grinned up at him, her eyes bright. “Here I was wishing you away, but there was nothing I wanted more to see than you coming up that hill.” She laid a slender hand on his arm. “Welcome to Dinas Bran.”

Could it be…was it…? Yes! He was here! He had come!

Flanked by the knight and Telyn, Brenna walked straight-backed and resolute into the courtyard, around the well and across the crowded bailey, taking no notice of the flurry of guards and flickering torchlight, the mass of shadowed faces and shocked voices. She offered not a word.

This was no time for argument or explanation. The gracious and civilized thing to do was to get her betrothed upstairs where he could bathe and prepare for the festivities. Her eyes did not even follow the guards as they bore the assailants away. She had not meant to cause any trouble by breaking the curfew, but it was done. They’d soon be in a cell for questioning, if anyone had any sense. It was up to the men now. She was too consumed by strange feelings she couldn’t comprehend. Feelings that made her reel with their intensity.

This was her betrothed! He was the man of her dreams! In truth, he was here!

She’d heard him laugh, a black-velvet ripple, sweet as the honey of the southlands, and felt something deep within her move, open. She’d looked wildly about, and her heart was like an arrow hurtling through space. Then eye met eye. A spark leaped in the meeting, and the newcomer had laughed no more. He gazed at her with—recognition, it might be, for she had felt it, too.

This is the one!

It was odd, really. She’d prayed that he wouldn’t let her down, that he would come. But she had an uneasiness now, about his late arrival, the peculiar look of him. There was some strangeness about him. He’d stood there, on the edge of the crowd, his hand seeming to rest on a sword hilt in the shadows, his whole aspect grim and dangerous.

Brenna swallowed hard. There had never been any other like this man. She could not suppress a heated sensation welling deep inside. His hand, heavy on her shoulder, seemed to have the strength of iron. She wanted to tuck herself closer against that strength…and yet she did not know why.

This man might be her betrothed, but he was a stranger. It just seemed impossible that he was truly the man of her dreams, she thought. And how could he so easily, so appallingly easily, become the one?

She had turned away so many suitors that her aunts despaired, but still her knight had not come. She had held to her dream until her grandfather had become impatient and commanded she wed. She had only consented because, with constant skirmishes to defend the border, Grandy’s coffers were empty and he needed the bride-price. Besides, the amiable Aubrey of Leeds sounded more congenial a match than Keith Kil Coed!

Be honest, Brenna. This incomparable knight is something you have conjured up out of an overactive imagination—or a mad notion, brought on by the tensions of the day. She must not allow her emotions to dominate her reason.

They came up the stairs and into the keep. Light spilled over them from the torches that burned all along the wall. From the kitchens the sweet smell of roasting venison floated on the air, and there was a stir in the hall, the coming and going of servants carrying trays of cider and ale through a door to the great hall where tapestries fluttered and torches flared in drafts.

Brenna stopped and sent a page scurrying with orders to fetch her maidservant. Fingertips tapped her arm. She became aware of Telyn, hovering at her side, still clutching the baskets.

“Thank you, Telyn. You served me well this day.”

The squire made a clicking with his tongue. “My lady, it would be wiser not to disturb Sir Edmund with news of this…he is at table already. Surely he will blame me for allowing you to go out unattended. No harm was done. Your purse has been recovered, and if I…”

“It is all right, Telyn. I accept full responsibility. You go eat. I will escort the knight to his chamber.”

“But surely—” Telyn stopped.

“I’ll be down soon. Will you please tell Grandy that Sir Aubrey has arrived and has retired to refresh himself?”

A polite murmuring. No objections. She supposed he didn’t know what to say. She didn’t, either, except, “Thank you, Telyn.”

As she dismissed the squire, the knight swung about, swirling his gray cloak. “Deso!” he exclaimed, his voice breaking hoarse. He had said nothing up to that point, had let Brenna lead him where she willed. “Deso!”

“Is that the name of your horse? Tudur has taken the animal to the stables. The grooms will see to it.” Brenna tilted her head up, regarding him sidelong. “Is it a real battle charger?”

Her tone must have betrayed something. His glance sharpened. His face was cold and still. For a heartbeat he looked like a great red stag at bay. Then his shoulders and the line of his neck relaxed.

“Yes, it is a warhorse, and a fine one, too,” he said in the most ordinary of tones, but his eyes were as clear as water, with a brightness in the heart of them.

Brenna’s breath shortened. His hood had flown back long since, revealing hair like hot gold. His jaw was square and rugged, his mouth bluntly carved below the jutting blade of his nose. The pale smooth marks traced across half his face like the limbs of a lightning-blasted tree bespoke of courage and mettle and the reflexes of a warrior. And the mantle of wool that swept across his shoulders emphasized their width and suggested great strength.

She swallowed hard. Her heart was thudding against her ribs. Oh, yes, he was a pleasing man, younger than she had imagined—no more than eight-and-twenty. She could do far worse than he.

So why this uneasiness?

It appeared Aubrey was no ordinary knight. For, though her betrothed knew how to defend himself, and his linen shirt was of the finest weave, and the supple leather of his tunic and boots were fastened with ornate metal toggles, he came without armor or shield. Somehow, somewhere, he had lost his armor and weapons. Understanding came. Did not a knight, unhorsed in the lists, forfeit his gear?