Free The Maiden and Her Knight by Margaret Moore Page B

her brother and sister to bear, and her father must not be upset. So they must all believe her happy in her choice, just as Rennick must. “I also think it would be wise to suggest a date to those you consider most important, and only when you are certain they can attend, announce it formally. That way, you will not offend anyone.”
    â€œYou are indeed as intelligent as you are beautiful.”
    He pulled her to him and kissed her again, hard and forceful, with nothing of love or affection, or even lascivious desire. It was all power and domination.
    He let go and his gaze raked her face and figure. “I trust you will be worth the wait, my lady.”
    She would never show him fear, or let him believe he could intimidate her. She would give him her hand and her body, but not her pride. “As I hope you will be, my lord.”
    She stepped away before he could embrace her again. “Now I must return to my duties. I have left Brother Jonathan long enough. I would not have it said that the lady of Montclair is remiss, either.”
    â€œVery well, my lady. After all, soon enough you will be my dutiful wife.”
    Allis didn’t trust herself to speak as she hurried back into the tent where Sir Connor slept on, oblivious.
    Â 
    Outside the earl’s solar that night, clouds scudded across the moon and a low wind moaned, threatening rain. In this chamber, however, where three men sat in chairs of dark, aged oak, richly carved with vines and grapes, and the seats softened by bright, silk-covered cushions, all was warm, bright and comfortable. Thick tapestries depicting the nobility at leisure hung upon the walls, illuminated by several expensive candles whose scent filled the room. A gleaming silver carafe of excellent French wine stood ready and matched the equally shiny goblets the men held.
    â€œI don’t want to have anything to do with him,”Auberan de Beaumartre muttered, his gaze darting between the baron near the window and the portly figure across from him.
    Fingering the bottom of his goblet, Rennick glanced at Lord Oswald, then smiled at Auberan. “Because he’s part Welsh?”
    â€œYes! They’re all savages.”
    â€œSavages who have no love for Norman kings or their taxes. Savages who can fight,” Lord Oswald said, his voice a low murmur, but firm and strong and very confident. “And this particular one has even more personal reasons for hating Richard.”
    Oswald leaned forward so that his jowled face moved into the flickering candlelight. “He was once as loyal to the king as it is possible for a man to be, but given what happened…” He shrugged and sat back.
    â€œWhat exactly did happen?” Rennick inquired. “Lovers’ spat?”
    â€œNo, and I would keep such suggestions to yourself. Those rumors about the king’s habits are just that—rumors,” Oswald said firmly.
    Oswald of Darrelby was the most ruthless person Rennick had ever met or heard of; Auberan, however, was apparently as ignorant of Lord Oswald’s true reputation as the earl of Montclair, for he disregarded the older man’s obvious wish to leave that subject. “Those ‘rumors’ have been going around since Richard was fourteen, so there must be something to them.”
    If Auberan wasn’t careful, Oswald would toss him off the battlements with no more thought than another man would flick a fly from his hand.
    â€œThat is not important,” Oswald rumbled. “What is important—and what most of the nobles will agree upon—is that we don’t want to pay the exorbitanttaxes Richard raises to fight in foreign lands. That is what will unite the different factions, not his personal tastes. Besides, he’s not the only one at court with such tendencies, so condemning him for them may work against us.”
    â€œNor is he the only one who feels it justified to raise an army and go to the ends of the world to