A Warrior's Bride. Margaret Moore

should I honor his wishes after having avoided the marital state and ignored his suggestion for nearly fifteen years?” George asked for him.

      “Well, my lord, yes.”

      “Perhaps to fulfill his dying wish,” George replied truthfully. Then, because he disliked any conversation that threatened to become maudlin or sentimental, he grinned. “Nothing has been confirmed or signed. This is merely a neighborly sojourn.”

      “If I were not your steward, but a friend, I would urge you to use caution in the matter of this proposed marriage,” Richard said quietly.

      “You are my friend as well as my steward,” George replied sincerely. “And believe me, Richard, I shall be as cautious as I can.”

      “I am glad to hear it.”

      “The mist is clearing,” George noted. “We should be at the fork for the London road soon. You think you can conclude the matter of the taxes with dispatch?”

      “I believe so, my lord.”

      “Good. Otherwise, I shall be forced to take my estate’s business matters into my own hands, which will be most tedious.” He gave his steward a grin, and the man smiled in response.

      As they continued on their way in companionable silence, George thought of his recent encounter with the woman his father had wanted to be his wife. He knew little about Aileas, but he should have expected the unexpected. She had never been like other girls he had known.

      Maybe she had been too embarrassed by her appearance to admit who she was.

      Somehow, though, he doubted it, to judge by that secretive, mischievous grin. Besides, he had never seen Aileas embarrassed, not even that memorable day when he chased her for throwing apples at him and her skirt had gotten caught on a low branch. She had ripped her skirt to get away, revealing her long, bare legs.

      Were her legs still that long and slim? Was she still as fleet of foot as a deer?

      If she was, she was probably already home by now, announcing his arrival.

      George ran a hand through his rather too long hair. If Aileas wasn’t embarrassed by an unkempt appearance, he was. He had no desire to look anything remotely like a pauper when he reached Dugall Castle and once again faced Sir Thomas. For this reason—and only this reason, he told himself—he wore his finest scarlet tunic, his cloak trimmed with ermine, and had selected his best soldiers as his guard.

      They reached a fork in the road with a white cross marking the way to London. Once again George signaled the column to halt. “Well, Richard, here we must bid you adieu.”

      “Yes, my lord,” the steward acknowledged.

      “Godspeed.”

      “God go with you, my lord,” Sir Richard said, and he smiled warmly. “Since you are so kind as to call me friend, let me give you some friendly advice. Make no hasty decisions regarding a marriage.”

      George chuckled ruefully. “I have managed thus far without being chained in wedlock,” he said. “Trust me, then, when I tell you it will take more than my father’s wish to compel me to make such a momentous decision.”

      Sir Richard nodded and, with an escort of ten men, turned down the road for London, while Sir George de Gramercie headed for the large, imposing edifice rising out of the mist,

      

      Aileas skittered down the embankment and splashed her way across the ford. She scrambled up the other side and then dashed through the wood, along the path leading to the village outside her father’s castle. The grass was wet and slippery, so she could not run quite as quickly as she would have liked. Still, taking this route, she would easily be home before Sir George had even reached the mill.

      As she lightly leapt a fallen tree branch, she remembered the other well-dressed fellow’s face when she’d stuck her head through the hedge, and laughed out loud. How surprised he had looked!

      Hurrying on, she easily brushed aside the wet branches of oak and chestnut and beech, pausing in her swift progress only once to tuck her skirt, which she had hiked up the moment she had left the hedgerow, into the thick leather belt around her waist again. Then she was off, paying no heed to the mud coating her boots or the state of her clothes as she thought about her encounter with the man her father thought she should marry.

      George de Gramercie had not looked surprised when she stuck her head out of that hedgerow. Amused, perhaps, but not surprised. She had recognized him at once, of course, with his waving fair hair, bemused blue eyes and charming smile, although he was, in some ways, quite different from the youth she remembered.

      His face had grown thinner, more angled and less rounded. His body, too, was decidedly more muscular. Nevertheless, if she had not seen him, she would have known him by his voice, which was now more deeply masculine, yet still melodious, and always so very polite.

      Indeed, in manner, he didn’t appear to have changed very much. He had always been courteous, even to peasants, and so neatly attired that the few times he had come to Dugall Castle with his father, she had been so tempted to spoil his clothes that once she had thrown rotten apples at him until he had finally chased her out of the orchard.

      How angry he had been—so angry that she had actually been afraid of him and had torn her dress rather than face his wrath when he caught her.

      But he never had, and the next time she had seen him, he had acted as if nothing at all had happened.

      Today, he mustn’t have guessed who she was, or he would have addressed her properly and asked about her father. If he had known he was speaking to Sir Thomas Dugall’s daughter, he would not have dared to suggest she had been left by a lover.

      On the other hand, she had never been able to tell what George de Gramercie was thinking.

      Nearly at the village, she pushed through some underbrush and stepped onto the main road. She quickly untucked her skirt and surveyed the muddy road, smiling when she saw the hoofprints. Demon had passed this way recently, making his way for home after throwing her.

      She never should have taken it into her head to try to catch sight of Sir George de Gramercie before he arrived at Dugall Castle, or at least not with Demon, who hated the wet. He had been feisty and skittish the whole ride, and had balked at a low jump near the hedgerow, sending her tumbling.

      She hurried along the road, drawing a few glances from the villagers, but they were used to seeing Aileas alone and barely paused in their tasks. From habit, she surveyed the walls and towers of her father’s castle, making sure the sentries were in their places. Although it had been years since her family’s estate had suffered an armed attack, her father insisted that everything be maintained in a battle-ready state.

      He had also been improving the fortifications for years. Until he took possession of it, Dugall Castle had been little more than a lone, round stone keep with a chapel added at one end. Sir Thomas had enclosed a large area with a series of defensive walls and circular towers. Besides the hall and chapel, the inner ward now housed stables and barracks, armory and mews and an expanded kitchen, which he had the masons attach to the keep by a long corridor. Guest quarters, also attached to the keep by means of a stone stairway, were the latest addition.

      The guards at the gatehouse saluted as they stood aside to let her pass. “Have you seen my—” she began, but the watchman was already nodding.

      “Aye, Lady Aileas. He’s in the stable already.”

      “Good,” she said, knowing the groom would attend to Demon, so she was free to find Rufus.

      Hurrying past the corner towers, she reached the wide, flat, grassy area where her father’s men usually trained. She easily spotted Sir Rufus Hamerton’s red-haired head among all the other men and called his name.

      With a broad smile, Rufus detached himself from his fellows, who barely acknowledged the familiar sight of their lord’s daughter, and strode across the damp grass toward her, his hair ruffling in the breeze