A Warrior's Bride. Margaret Moore

if she says no, that’ll be the end of it.”

      “I would not have any woman feel she is being compelled to marry me against her will,” George replied, some of his annoyance creeping into his eloquent voice.

      Then Aileas entered the hall. George was pleased to see her present and unharmed, although despite the presence of guests, her hair was just as disheveled and she wore the most bizarre combination of male and female clothing George had ever seen.

      Her shirt beneath the short leather tunic was definitely rough homespun. The sleeves of her undergarment, from wrist to elbow, were wrapped in leather thongs of the type favored by archers. Her skirt was too short, revealing—to his astonishment—men’s breeches, as well as boots thick with mud, which she took no pains to dislodge before marching toward them.

      That was not all that made George stare at her. For one thing, although he thought he detected a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, she actually seemed subdued. Perhaps that was explained by the repressive presence of Sir Thomas.

      Or that of the brawny brute of a fellow with a florid face and red hair accompanying her. He was the type of man, George thought, who probably subsisted entirely on ale and underdone beef.

      Then he saw her cast a surreptitious glance at her companion and a secretive little smile played about her lips.

      Could it be that she cared for this lout, who looked as if he were totally unacquainted with the concept of soap, let alone its use?

      And who was also ignoring her, staring instead at her father’s guest in a manner so blatantly rude, George was exceedingly tempted to draw his sword and show the oaf the error of his ways.

      Reflecting that this might not endear him to Sir Thomas and Aileas, who were, regardless of whatever else they might become in future, his neighbors, he refrained and assumed his most cool, unruffled demeanor. If Aileas Dugall wanted this red-haired ruffian, he would gladly take his leave and search elsewhere for a bride.

      “Daughter, this is Sir George de Gramercie,” Sir Thomas announced. “Sir George, Lady Aileas.”

      “Welcome, Sir George,” the young woman replied politely, with not one sign that they had met earlier that day. Nor did she curtsy, even when George bowed.

      When he rose, he smiled at her with his most charming and meaningless smile, the one he usually reserved for empty-headed nobles in the royal court.

      Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she straightened her shoulders defiantly. “This is Rufus Hamerton,” she declared, pointing at the red-haired fellow, who managed something like a bow. “Sir Rufus Hamerton,” she amended.

      George smiled at him, too.

      Aileas had never seen such a bland smile, so distinctly at odds with the shrewd intelligence burning in his blue eyes and the subtle derision there. Did he think her a fool that she wouldn’t note the disparity? And why did he say nothing about meeting her before? Surely he recognized her.

      Was he being chivalrous, thinking her father would be angry at her little joke? She eyed Sir George again, suddenly certain she had not fooled him one bit, either here or on the road. He had known exactly to whom he was talking—and yet he had accused her of having a lover! How dare he, the vain, overdressed—

      Rufus shifted beside her.

      If Sir George had thought to say such an outrageous thing back on the road, shouldn’t he be wondering about Rufus? she thought angrily. Shouldn’t he be a little curious? Or did he assume she was sitting about like other useless young ladies of wealth and nobility, waiting for any knight capable of movement to offer. marriage?

      And how was it he seemed so lazy and strangely insipid here, compared to the gracious, yet masculine, warrior on the road?

      “Fetch two more goblets,” Sir Thomas ordered the page, who jumped to obey immediately. “Sit down, Rufus. Aileas, join us.”

      A silence ensued as the boy returned with the required goblets and nervously poured out the wine, then scurried back to a corner.

      “You remember Sir George, Aileas?” Sir Thomas demanded.

      “Yes, Father, I do,” she replied. She gave their guest a sidelong glance and watched as he drank his wine elegantly, his long, slender fingers lightly holding the stem of the goblet. Every other man of her acquaintance clutched a goblet as he would a weapon.

      “You’ve been gone a long time,” Rufus observed before reaching for his wine and downing a large gulp, his swallows distinctly audible.

      “Yes. I’ve been serving the Baron DeGuerre,” Sir George drawled languidly. “When I was called home, I had no idea my father’s condition was so serious. He was ill quite often. Indeed, after he seemed to have passed away, I pressed my dagger to his fingertip just to ensure that the priest hadn’t made a mistake. My father was, however, completely and utterly dead.”

      His tone was so matter-of-fact and his smile so continuously banal, Aileas didn’t know what to make of him. Rufus simply stared at him, dumbfounded, and Sir Thomas’s expression was nearly as stunned.

      “I’m sure you will agree, Sir Thomas, that I would have been negligent in my duty to the baron if I came home too soon. You would not want your sons, whom I understand are all from home in the service of various and sundry noble lords, to rush to your bedside unless you were in imminent danger of dying.”

      Sir Thomas cleared his throat. “No, no, I wouldn’t.”

      “I didn’t think so. Now, if you will be so kind as to show me where I am to sleep, I believe I should retire and change for the evening meal, which I’m certain will be absolutely delightful.” He ran an appraising gaze over Rufus. “And I think I should wash.”

      “Yes, yes, as you wish,” Sir Thomas muttered. “You there!” He snapped his fingers at the page boy, who once again ran forward. “Take Sir George to the bedchamber in the west tower.”

      The boy nodded and bowed, and Sir George rose. “Separate sleeping quarters for guests?” he inquired lightly. “How modern.” He made a deep and graceful obeisance. “Sir Thomas, I thank you for your kind welcome. Sir Rufus, good day. Lady Aileas, a pleasure. I look forward to seeing you at supper.”

      Aileas watched Sir George stroll away. The moment he disappeared from sight up the curving stone stairway leading to the upper tower, she turned toward her father. “How could any man speak so of his father’s death?” she demanded.

      Sir Thomas didn’t answer right away. Indeed, Aileas suspected he, too, was wondering what kind of man he had invited into his castle, for there was a singularly incredulous look on his face. Then he cleared his throat and his face resumed its usual stern expression. “He has been gone for many years. He has indeed been in the service of Baron DeGuerre.”

      Aileas was even more confused. She knew enough of the baron to realize that he wouldn’t countenance having a buffoon in his company for long.

      Rufus smirked at Aileas, then turned a carefully interested eye on her father. “Who would condone having such a fool near him?” he mused aloud.

      “He was the best fighter to come out of this country, save for my sons, of course. Don’t be deceived by his lack of size. He’s thin, but he’s wiry—and quicker on his feet than any man I’ve ever seen.”

      “Quite frankly, Father, I find it difficult to believe he was ever anything but what we have just seen.”

      “That’s where you’d be wrong,” Sir Thomas growled. “George is no fool, whatever he may seem.” Her father set down his wine. “Rufus, see that the men are told the watchword for tonight. It’s alliance.”

      Rufus rose and bowed to them both before striding from the hall.

      Aileas rose to leave, too, until her father ordered her to sit back down and regarded her with a speculative gaze. “What do you think of him for a husband?”

      “He