Free L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep by Sharon Schulze Page A

twisted the blade of
guilt deeper into her heart, until she wondered if there was penance enough in
all the world to atone for everything she’d done.
    A door opened on the floor above her, and the sound of
voices—Lord Connor’s and another man’s—carried down the stairwell to her,
bringing her useless, maundering thoughts to a blessed end. She tugged at the
loose folds of her gown to straighten it, and realized as she was about to turn
to greet them that her cheeks were wet with tears.
    She’d never cried so much in her life as she had the last few
months! She used the trailing end of her linen veil to blot her face before
they reached her, though ′twas likely they’d still know she’d been
crying. ′Twas the babe that made her weep, Brigit claimed, a convenient
excuse for the fact that Moira had turned into a sniveling coward.
    And a nervous fool. She drew in a deep breath. What did it matter
that she’d not seen Lord Connor in days? He’d been in her thoughts often during
that time—too often.
    Both men had dressed more formally than usual, as had she, in
keeping with the spirit of celebration. Lord Connor’s dark green tunic fit him
well, the soft wool outlining his muscular shoulders and arms and causing a
strange warmth to fill her. Though it appeared he’d bathed, for his hair was
still damp, he hadn’t shaved. The shadowy whiskers covering his jaw, coupled
with the scar on his cheek, lent him a dangerous air she found all too
appealing. With her heart pounding wildly, she lowered her gaze.
    Enough of that, she berated herself, and forced herself to face
them. “Lord Connor, Sir William,” she said, her curtsy awkward, but as proper
as she could manage.
    Lord Connor steadied her with his hand beneath her elbow, though
her reaction to his touch nearly sent her reeling again. “Milady, you need not
be so formal.” He led her deeper into the hallway, released her and bowed. “′Tis
not necessary on my account, nor would I have you tumble down the stairs.”
    Sir William bowed as well. “And you don’t have to call me ‘Sir
William,’ milady. I’ll think you’re talking to someone else,” he added,
chuckling. “ ‘Will’ is fine with me.”
    “But you must have worked hard to earn your spurs, Sir Will,” she
said, smiling in response. “There’s much that’s different between Irish and
Norman, but proving yourself a worthy fighter remains the same. Once my
brothers achieved that status, they’d not permit anyone to forget it.”
    “Nor should Will,” Lord Connor said. “He’s proved his worth as a
warrior many times in service to Lady Gillian, my sister by marriage, and to my
brother since Rannulf and Gillian wed. ′Tis a measure of his ability that
Rannulf sent him here with me.”
    “Don’t let him deceive you, milady,” Sir Will said. “′Tis
only that I’ve known Lady Gillian since she was a child—fought with her then
and since.” He laughed. “Fought with her and for her, I should say.”
    His words brought a strange vision to Moira’s mind, of a warrior
woman clad in armor and armed with a sword and shield. That could not be the
case with Lady Gillian, but Moira would have to wait to question Sir Will
further, for the gong sounded, calling them to dinner.
    Lord Connor held out his hand to her. “May I escort you, Lady
Moira?”
    Surprised by his gallantry, she was nonetheless pleased to accept
his assistance. “Thank you, milord.” She placed one hand atop his and gathered
up her skirts with the other, then glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “You
do realize, if I trip, my weight would carry us both to the bottom,” she
warned, unable to resist teasing him. “Perhaps you ought to send Sir Will ahead
of us, in case I start us rolling down the stairs.”
    Lord Connor appeared as startled by her words as she was that
she’d said them. His brown eyes intent, he scanned her face, lingering on her
eyes for a moment, before gifting her with a slow smile.