Free Lord of War: Black Angel by Kathryn Le Veque Page B

at him. “Oh, I know we were not going to discuss it anymore, but you must understand that I have been conducting my father’s business for at least three years, ever since my brother, Fenton, joined the cloister.  Since my father is so ill most of the time, someone has to conduct his business for him so everyone in Cumbria knows me and treats me with the same respect they would treat my father.  But you did not.”
    His lips twitched with a smile at the way she said ‘you’. She dragged it out so it sounded as if it had four or five syllables.
    “I did not know you,” he said. “I will deeply regret the way I spoke to you, always.”
    She cocked her head, exaggerated with her drunken state. “You will?” she asked, awed. “But, truly, you should not. I am very sorry I became so angry, but you called me a whore and, well, I have never had anyone say such things to me.”
    “I should not have called you that.”
    She was staring up at him thoughtfully. “Do you think it would be a terrible thing to be a whore?”
    He fought off laughter because she was truly silly and ridiculous with this line of conversation. “I would not know,” he said, biting his lip. “I suppose it would depend on the circumstance.”
    Her brow furrowed. “What if you had an entire family to feed and that was the only way you could make money?”
    “Then it would be the means by which to achieve an end.”
    “Do you think whores like being whores?”
    He couldn’t stop himself from chuckling now. “I have not given it much thought,” he said, then tried to change the subject. “Perhaps you should go to bed now. It is growing late and….”
    She cut him off, yanking him over to the table where the food was.  Snatching away the cloth that was covering the now-cooling meal, she pushed him down onto the bed next to table.  In spite of being more than twice her size and probably three times her weight, she was able to push him down simply by her manner.  He was afraid of what would happen if he didn’t do what she wanted.
    “Eat,” she commanded. “There is plenty of food.”
    He tried to stand up but she pushed him down again.  “Lady, my mail is wet and it is getting the bed wet,” he explained. “May I please stand?”
    Her response was to grab an arm and pull him up.  He pretended to let her.
    “My father and mother call me Wynny,” she informed him. “I will give you permission to call me Wynny, too.  Addressing me formally seems peculiar under these circumstances.”
    He just smiled at her as he began to remove his helm. “Thank you,” he said, pulling the helm free and setting it on the table. “I am honored.”
    Ellowyn watched, weaving and half-lidded, as he proceeded to peel his hauberk off and move to drape it near the fire.  The tunic followed.  He was standing with his back to her and her gaze began to wander from the top of his extremely broad shoulders down his back and to his buttocks and legs.  He had enormous legs.  She grinned, liking what she was seeing, more inebriated than she had ever been in her life because she never really drank wine. She didn’t particularly like it, so three large tankards of very sweet wine had gone straight to her head.  She just stood there staring at his broad backside.
    “Are you married, my lord?” she asked.
    Brandt began to peel off his mail coat. “I was,” he said. “She died a few years ago.”
    “Oh,” Ellowyn pondered the death of his spouse. “I am sorry for you.”
    He shook his head. “No need,” he replied, pulling the rest of the mail coat off and shaking off the excess water on the hearth. “She hated me and everything about me. She took our two daughters and moved to France years ago. I have not seen my daughters very often since that time and was only recently contacted by them because they wish to marry and require a dowry. That is all I am to my daughters; a source of funds to elevate their marital prospects.”
    Ellowyn was