Joanne Rock - The Knight's Redemption

“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 you could convince her of the appeal of marriage.”

Roarke thought she sounded ideal for his needs even though he knew from his long ago betrothal that convent life didn’t assure a man his bride would be untouched.

Still, Roarke was about to mention that Ceara sounded very suitable, but he had lost his host’s attention. Thomas Glamorgan halted in midsentence to see the sudden cause of a dramatic stillness in the room.

The near-sighted lord didn’t seem to be able to discern the sight that had rendered the rest of the hall silent, but Roarke saw all too well.

A woman had entered the dining area.

A remarkable woman. Surely nobility by her proud bearing and graceful step. She was tall for a female, though Roarke doubted she would reach past his shoulder. Exquisitely dressed in a fine silk cotehardie and surcoat, both a vivid shade of green, she sailed into the room like a mermaid riding an ocean wave. Delicate features were set in an angular face with high cheekbones, tawny colored eyes and squared jaw. Hair the color of a summer sunset was carefully twisted about her head in an intricate knot, and Roarke was surprised that for a moment he found himself wondering if it would be soft to his touch. Then again, that might have been simply because she bore a striking resemblance to Lady Ariana.

“Your niece?” he inquired as the woman came close enough for the Lord of Glamorgan to distinguish. Roarke felt annoyed with himself for his careful perusal. The noise in the room increased again now that the newcomer had almost reached her seat at the high table.

Although Glamorgan affirmed his guess, Roarke would never have suspected the striking woman before him was shy, let alone intent on the nunnery. She looked supremely at ease, smiling at the assembled guests with genuine warmth. In fact, the woman was positively radiant. Her whole being seemed to glow with an inner light. She was not beautiful in the traditional sense, but she was immensely attractive.

And, consequently, all wrong for him.

“Roarke Barret, may I present my niece, Ceara Llywen?” Thomas Glamorgan squinted with failing eyes at the young woman as she curtsied before them.

“It is my pleasure, lady.” Roarke ignored the urge to kiss the slender fingers she extended to him. What was it about the women of this household that drew him? He squeezed her hand briefly as he inclined his head above it, and pulled out the bench so she might be seated.

A soft floral scent emanated from her with subtle persistence. The same rose scent he had detected on Lady Ariana earlier today. And, strangely, he caught the strains of a popular love ballad as he helped her into her seat.

Ceara Llywen was humming.

“Ariana does not feel well,” she imparted to her uncle as she sat down between them, her voice pitched a bit lower than her cousin’s. “She asked me to take her place.”

“Quite understandable,” the man murmured, nodding his approval. “You look oddly suited to preside over the great hall this eve, Ceara. Have you cast aside your convent longing at the first sight of an English knight?”

Roarke almost choked on his wine. The poor niece flushed pink at her uncle’s mean-spirited comment. Had Roarke not feared embarrassing her further, he would have defended her.

Instead of answering, she chose that moment to ring the bell and signal the meal to be served. A most uncomfortable meal, at that. It was impossible to look around the room without ten different women trying fervently to catch his eye, their ploys running the gamut from darting glances that ended in dramatic fluttering of long eyelashes, to the more bold adjusting of low necklines.

The thought of choosing a wife in this fashion held little appeal, yet it must be done. He vaguely wondered why he did not propose to one of the kitchen maids upon his arrival today and spare everyone their trouble.

His mood darkening as he downed several cups of ale, he brooded why he should have to choose a wife in such a hurry anyway. Unfortunately, his lack of birthright forced him to dance attendance on a fickle king and marry at another man’s whim.

“I beg your pardon?” Glamorgan’s niece turned intense amber eyes upon him.

“What?” Roarke tried to gather his thoughts as he stared into those tawny depths and could not recall having said anything.

Her smile was not the weapon of an accomplished flirt, bearing none of the saucy boldness of her cousin. Rather, Ceara Llywen looked as abashed as a maid stumbling through her first conversation with a knight. “I am sorry. It sounded like you said ‘It is damned unfair.’ Were you perhaps referring to the meal?”

Ariana had waited through most of supper to find an opportunity to speak to the stranger about something more significant than the weather. For a brief moment when she walked into the room, she had thought he found her pleasing, but now she was not so sure. His mood seemed to become more forlorn as the evening wore on, leading her to believe he was displeased with the selection of women her father had found for him.

She grew more unhappy by the moment, as well. Ceara’s hair itched her scalp dreadfully, and she longed to return to her room and dispense with the masquerade. She had no idea how to proceed with the brooding knight who did not believe in wishing on stars.

Even worse, she no longer felt that shimmery sensation she had when she first employed Eleanor’s charm, and began to wonder if she possessed any power to attract the English knight anymore.

The thought frightened her to the core.

The moment she walked into the room and felt the eye of every male upon her was one of the biggest thrills of her life. A common enough occurrence for other women, yet Ariana never felt that ineffable sensation of being stared at in a decidedly male fashion.

But it was the eyes of the stranger she most coveted. She craved the warmth of that green gaze more than attention from a roomful of men. Despite Roarke Barret’s dangerous proportions and formidable scowl, he’d clearly been taken aback by her father’s cutting attempt to embarrass her earlier. Did that mean he might harbor a bit more kindness in his soul?

Or was she simply dreaming again, allowing her fanciful nature to see things that weren’t there at all?

“Nay, lady. The food was the best I’ve eaten in weeks. Excuse my rude words,” Roarke finally responded. His thigh barely grazed the fabric of her gown beneath the table, yet Ariana felt the warmth of his closeness through the delicate silks of her surcoat and tunic.

She shivered at the sensation, unaccustomed to contact with any man. “My father—that is, my uncle—often uses inappropriate language at supper. You will feel quite at home at a Cymric table. I am afraid our manners are not as polished as our English neighbors.” Ariana hoped she covered her slip of the tongue regarding her father. It would not be easy to impersonate her cousin for long.

“Where is your father, Lady Ceara?” Roarke asked, latching onto her reference. “He does not join us at the meal?”

“He is dead, my lord, along with my mother. I have lived at Glamorgan Keep these past three years under the kind hospitality of my uncle, yet I am inclined to sometimes speak of my father as if he were still here. You must excuse me.” Heart pounding at the lie, Ariana prayed for forgiveness as the knight inclined his head in repentance.