Free Fire Raven by Patricia McAllister Page B

pulled ahead to the stables, Lawrence studied the ancient stone keep rising before him. He had been to Falcon’s Lair many times before Rhys Trelane’s death.
    The two men had been of the same era, and were great friends in their youth. Lawrence had visited less often since Rhys was gone. Young Trelane was not known for his hospitality.
    “’Tis understandable, though not excusable,” Lawrence groused under his breath, as he hobbled across the yard. Trelane might favor the life of a recluse, but a baron had social duties, just the same.
    Lawrence knew he commanded great respect in both his peers and lessers. His only misfortune was that time had not been kind to his legs. He leaned more heavily on his ivory-handled staff than usual. Nasty spring weather always made his old bones ache.
    As always, however, he was impeccably dressed, his tawny velvet breeches and matching doublet slashed and pinked, in tune with the latest court fashions. He was proud of the fact he still had a full head of beautiful white hair, and he took pains to cut an impressive figure. Even here in godforsaken Wales, Lawrence was determined to preserve a shred of his English dignity. And others’ as well, if need be. Such was the reason he was here.
    Before he was forced to pound upon the great iron-chased doors, the entrance opened to expose a surprised face.
    “Milord Lawrence,” Winnie murmured, curtseying. Her tone was properly deferential. Lawrence studied the housekeeper as she rose. Winnie’s ginger-colored hair, a source of fascination to him when he was much younger, was neatly tucked up under a broad lace cap. A few stray tendrils softened her round face, now liberally streaked with silver. Her complexion was smooth and unblemished as ever. Lawrence knew it must have been seven years or more since he had seen her last.
    “By the rood, ’tis Wynne Carey. Nothing changes ’round here,” he said by way of a compliment. “Ne’er the keep, nor the lovely ladies within.”
    Winnie blushed girlishly. “Won’t you come in, milord? Lord Trelane is returning from the fields soon.”
    “Aye, lambing season, is it not?” Lawrence remarked, stepping past Winnie as she closed the double doors behind him. He studied the place, pleased to note young Trelane had not changed the decor overmuch.
    There were still several suits of armor in the great hall, polished to a high shine and standing along the right wall. On the left, beautiful old tapestries of rich claret and forest green graced the cold stone walls; Morgan’s paternal grandmother, Matilda, had woven them. Lawrence remembered her fondly, a spirited beauty with great blue eyes. A true lady. She had hosted plenty of revelries at Falcon’s Lair in her day.
    Winnie took the earl’s cloak and cap from him, and ushered him into the library.
    “You’ll be more comfortable waiting here, milord,” she suggested, moving to the sideboard to pour their guest a goblet of hot mulled cider. “This will take the chill from your bones. ’Tis uncommon cold out today.”
    “Aye, I believe another storm will soon be upon us,” Lawrence agreed, as he accepted the drink and set his walking staff aside. Reclining in a red damask chair and stretching out his arthritic legs, he nursed the spiced cider and studied the room while Winnie chattered inanely about any number of things.
    Trelane men had always been a bookish lot, Lawrence mused, eying the leather-bound volumes stacked from floor to ceiling. There was no doubt of their masculinity, however. The dark wood and leather library was dotted with hunting trophies and various art works depicting the hunts and hawking outings Trelane males so enthusiastically enjoyed.
    Shortly the library doors opened and Morgan appeared. His attire was more conservative than the earl’s: black breeches and a crisp white cambric shirt embroidered with black-work at the neck and wrists. He greeted Lawrence warmly.
    “Milord Lawrence. You do us all a distinct honor.