o Bronwyn’s surprise, one tall bearded ex-slave was a cleric. His name was Mikail and it was soon established by Leon’s priest that Mikail read Latin, though he could not speak it with any clarity.o Bronwyn’s surprise, one tall bearded ex-slave was a cleric. His name was Mikail and it was soon established by Leon’s priest that Mikail read Latin, though he could not speak it with any clarity.
Once this was realized, Leon seized ink and parchment, and much discussion ensued. According to Mikail, the former slaves had been captured in a northern Polish principality as their homeland was rife with war. Baldassare di Vilonte had taken advantage of the chaos there and pounced upon the remote village. Many had been killed, the remainder herded aboard Baldassare’s ship, ultimately to be sold as slaves.
Bronwyn noted the shadows in many eyes as Leon’s priest translated the tale and read it aloud, and her heart ached for what these folk had endured. Their village had not only been ravaged but had been burned to the ground. No one wanted to return.
With the exception of Marika.
Mikail asked Leon to accept them on his lands, giving his assurance that all would labor hard to make this place their new home. He asked for protection and Leon swore to provide it. A ripple passed through the ranks of the ex-slaves, a glint of hope lit more than one face, and Bronwyn knew that they would find a good home here.
For Leon also had need of the labor.
Then Rowan stepped forward to negotiate on behalf of the Poles, to ensure they did not grant Leon more than his due out of gratitude.
’Twas four days before he pronounced himself satisfied, four days and nights that Bronwyn hoped to have his attention and did not. During the day Rowan sat at the board with lord and clerics, while at night he spoke with Thomas so long that she inevitably fell asleep. Though she knew this was of import, Bronwyn missed his touch and his company.
Marika alone had been adamant that she did not wish to remain.
Mikail wrote solemnly for the priest, who then translated the writing for Bronwyn. “He says that Marika has seen much pain,” the priest confided gravely. “And that perhaps ’tis best that she begin anew, without familiar faces to remind her of all she has lost.”
“What happened?”
Mikail shook his head slowly, then wrote, not waiting for the translation of Bronwyn’s question. The priest glanced over the parchment, then met Bronwyn’s gaze. “The tale, he insists, is not his to tell. He asks that you be patient with her and ensure that she is not without spiritual guidance.”
The priest smiled and laid a hand on the larger man’s shoulder. “He is a good cleric to worry over the fate of those who have been in his care. I believe that Mikail and I will have many interesting discussions over the winters ahead.” The men smiled at each other with mutual admiration.
But Bronwyn’s thoughts were full of Marika. Marika had already confided part of the tale in Bronwyn. It had to do with a child, a babe named Vassily, and perhaps a rape. ’Twould be easy to lay at least one crime at Baldassare’s feet.
Bronwyn turned to find Marika watching her, anxiety in that woman’s eyes. Clearly she knew that her course was being decided, and she wrung her hands in uncertainty.
Bronwyn resolved in that moment that she would find Marika a man who could push that woman’s ghosts into the past where they belonged—just as Rowan had done for her. Marika would have a good husband, if Bronwyn had to scour all of Ireland to find him. She smiled and offered her hand, catching the woman in her arms when Marika began to weep in gratitude.
The other ex-slaves signed their contracts at Mikail’s dictate, many of them doing so with a simple X, then a vessel of wine was uncorked in celebration.
They passed a chalice, saluting Leon, Rowan, and Mikail, and then drinking heartily. Bronwyn was proud to be associated with Rowan, to have been a part of the good deed he had done here.
Again she was struck that a man so disenchanted with responsibility should perform such obligations so well. But then, perhaps Rowan had only desired to see his obligations to the ex-slaves fulfilled.
Bronwyn wished she knew the truth of it.
’Twas just past midday, five days after their arrival, when Bronwyn and Rowan departed Leon’s abode. Thomas tagged close behind the knight and Marika’s face was streaked with tears from her farewells. They walked out the gates, the sun warm on their backs, and began the long walk toward Ballyroyal.
The road unfurled before them like a ribbon winding a course across the vivid green of the land. The wind was fresh from the sea sparkling to their right; the mountains rose loftily on their left. The range was indeed the Wicklow Mountains, as Leon had been quick to confirm, and they were less than two days’ ride from Dublin.
Ballyroyal was a day’s ride beyond or less, though, indeed, they did not ride.
’Twould not be a short journey and her feet would be aching by the end, but Bronwyn found a bounce of anticipation in her step. She was glad to be almost alone with Rowan again and looked forward to a measure of privacy for the two of them. Once again she was buoyed with optimism that she could win this man with her touch, his recent deed persuading her yet further that he tended care overmuch instead of not at all.
Their small party was well provisioned, courtesy of Leon, who had insisted upon seeing them compensated for bringing such labor his way. They each carried a pack, filled with bread and cheese, and though their garb was simple, it was clean and most welcome.
They walked in silence for a good hour before Rowan suddenly halted and frowned.
“What is that?” he demanded, gesturing to a dark figure in the fields ahead.
The distance was too great to be certain, but before Bronwyn could say anything, Rowan cast his pack to Thomas and began to run. Bronwyn cried out, the trio racing after the knight but unable to match his speed.
But as they ran, Bronwyn studied the dark silhouette, gasping when she recognized it. A steed stood grazing in that green field. It was an uncommonly large beast, no small mare or palfrey was this. ’Twas bereft of saddle and unattended, and it had one white sock.
And there was crooked white star upon its brow.
“Troubador!” Rowan bellowed jubilantly. A palfrey lifted her head at his cry, revealing her presence behind the destrier. “You feckless beast! You were swimming for England.”
Troubador surveyed the knight with indifference, his chewing never slowing. Then he blew out his lips and bent to graze with apparent nonchalance.
Rowan began to laugh. “Ah, you impossible creature! You did this only to grant me grief, I know it well.” There was a warmth in his teasing tone, and Bronwyn knew he was relieved that his destrier had survived.
Bronwyn guessed that the stallion’s more base instincts had ultimately won out over its fear. Troubador had followed the palfrey, for whatever reason, after she had turned for shore. The pair must have reached the shore this far north.
Bronwyn wondered whether Rowan would have another steed in his retinue shortly and started to laugh herself.
Rowan was beside the destrier in no time at all, his features alight. The other three remained on the road, Bronwyn holding Thomas back that Rowan might have a moment of reunion alone. He strode around the stallion, assuring himself that the beast was unhurt. His expression turning cocky, Rowan halted before the horse while Troubador continued grazing.
“Remind me,” he informed the steed, “that your instincts are better than they might otherwise appear.”
Troubador snorted and pulled deliberately at the grass, though his tail began to flick. His ears twitched, as if he kept track of the knight’s location, but he had no intent to reveal his interest so clearly as that.
Bronwyn grinned to find that steed and knight were so similar. Rowan evidently also saw humor in this, for he winked at her before he spoke.
“Well, old friend, ’tis good to see you well.” He patted the destrier’s rump as Troubador strolled out from beneath his hand, evidently intent on a choice clump of grass a few steps away and oblivious to the knight’s presence. “Fare well, Troubador. I trust you will find another, perhaps finer, master.”
And he walked back toward the road, a whistle on his lips.
“But, my lord,” Thomas cried. “ ’Tis your steed!”
Rowan waved off the protest. “But, Thomas, the beast did not heed me. He must prefer to seek his own fate, a path I can certainly admire.”
As the knight joined them and made a show of retrieving his pack, Troubador lifted his head and stared after him. The beast looked as surprised as a horse could look by this turn of events.
The palfrey similarly lifted her head, and Bronwyn realized that something had changed between these two creatures. Where once the palfrey had taken her lead from the stallion, now she stepped forward and nipped at his hindquarters, as if urging him to do something while Rowan walked away.
“But …” Thomas began to argue.
“But naught.” Rowan ruffled the boy’s hair and smiled. “I am persuaded to live unfettered, and a destrier is no small obligation to see fed. ’Tis clear enough that Troubador sees the merit of finding another master, for he did leave me.” He granted them all a mischievous smile. “Come along, then. Dublin and Ballyroyal await.”
Rowan began to stroll down the road, apparently unaware of the destrier staring after him. Troubador’s ears twitched as Rowan began to recount a tale of his travels to Thomas. The palfrey whinnied, seeming to chide the stallion.
And he stepped forward.
Bronwyn watched from the corner of her eye, knowing Rowan well enough to guess that he only challenged the steed’s indifference. The destrier took one last defiant mouthful of grass. Rowan laughed and prompted Thomas’s chuckle, apparently unaware of the horse so close at hand, his long steps taking him quickly away.
Troubador snorted, then loped after the knight, his baleful glance fixed upon that man’s back. When Rowan did not halt or acknowledge him, Troubador snorted noisily.
Rowan continued with his tale, though Bronwyn noted his smile.
Troubador whinnied.
Rowan walked as if he were unaware of the steed.
A rush of heavy footsteps warned Bronwyn of the steed’s advance, and she darted out of the way just in time. The destrier lumbered up behind Rowan, neighed loud enough to strike a man deaf, then seized Rowan’s tabard in his teeth.
“Oh!” Rowan feigned surprise at finding the destrier behind him. “ ’Tis you.” He shook his tabard free and eyed the beast, hands on his hips. “I thought you had found greener pastures.”
Troubador blew out his lips, then leaned closer and nudged the knight in the chest. His ears twitched and he eyed the knight as if to make a silent appeal.
“Oh, you great foolish beast,” Rowan murmured with affection. He scratched the steed’s ears, smiling as Troubador leaned against him with satisfaction. “I would not have left you, even though you did leave me.”
Troubador nuzzled him, as if apologizing.
“Know that circumstances may see your belly empty if you follow me,” Rowan warned. The steed nickered and seized another mouthful of grass. Rowan laughed. “I suppose there is enough on this isle to content you for the present.”
Troubador rubbed against him and Rowan grimaced. “You smell like a brothel,” he chided, though he did not move away. “And not a fine one either. But I suppose we have little enough choice.” He regarded the steed sternly. “ ’Twill be your fate to bear us to Ballyroyal.”
He captured the reins that hung loose, making a face at the salt that had turned the leather much rougher than it had been. Then he turned to Bronwyn with a smile. “Ma demoiselle, can you ride without a saddle?”
“Of course!” Bronwyn grinned and stepped toward the destrier. “ ’Tis the blood of Celts that runs in my veins!”
Rowan gestured to the palfrey. “Then I can offer you your own mount on this journey. Truly we shall reach Ballyroyal in fine style.”
Bronwyn’s heart sank to her toes. She would not ride with Rowan. No less, they would reach Ballyroyal sooner than she had anticipated. And if she and Rowan rode separately, then she would have little enough chance to persuade him to her view.
But then, ’twas not appropriate to ride with a man when there were no marital vows between them. Bronwyn appreciated that gossip would plague her name if they rode otherwise and supposed she should appreciate Rowan’s thoughtfulness.
Even if she did have an eerie sense that there was more than that at root here. Was it the circumstance of Leon’s hall that had kept Rowan away from her these past nights?
Or was it a portent that he intended to escort her to Ballyroyal, then leave her side for all time?
Despite Bronwyn’s desire to know the truth, no opportunity arose for private discussion with Rowan in the three days that it took to journey to Ballyroyal. Each night he found them shelter and disappeared, purportedly to tend the horses, but he never returned before Bronwyn was asleep.
After one instance, she wondered. After two, she had strong suspicions. On the third morning, when he would not meet her gaze, she knew the truth. Bronwyn knew that it was no coincidence that matters kept them apart, and she chafed that Rowan had granted her no opportunity to win his heart as she had pledged.
She could only wait and see what he would do, when the final choice was upon him. ’Twas not Bronwyn’s preference by any means—but then, she knew well enough that no one could be compelled to love another.
Still, her helplessness chafed.
At noon on the third day they spied Ballyroyal in the distance. Bronwyn could not decide whether they reached her home too soon or too late—she wanted desperately to know Rowan’s decision, yet she feared he would quickly depart, leaving her to mourn this short journey for years to come.
’Twas one of those peculiarly Irish days, when the rain falls gently and ceaselessly, but a beam of sunlight toys with all around. The light burst from the clouds at unexpected intervals, highlighting a cottage in the distance, or illuminating the distant sparkle of the sea, or turning all around them to the vibrant hues of rare emeralds.
Her first sight of home in more than a sixmonth startled Bronwyn with the power of her response. She reined in the palfrey for a moment simply to look. There was the river she had splashed in as a young girl; there was the field where she had learned to ride.
Her mother’s prize mare had indeed foaled, for Bronwyn could spy the smaller horse following behind the chestnut mare. Though she was distant, the creatures were as familiar as brothers and sisters might have been. Other horses grazed within the stone walls, many more than she recalled. Either her father had been buying gifts for her mother again or Ballyroyal had guests.
Rowan cast an inquiring glance her way and Bronwyn smiled for him. She felt a sudden urge to be home, to be safe, to be among those who loved her dearly.
Aye, she owed an apology to them.
“What will you do, now that we are at Ballyroyal?” she asked softly, half dreading, half anticipating his answer.
Rowan’s hands tightened for a moment on the reins, the gesture drawing her gaze to his strong fingers. Bronwyn’s mouth went dry as she recalled the magic he had roused from her flesh with those fingers.
He shrugged then, his manner cool and composed. “I had thought to find a travelling troupe of entertainers.”
Bronwyn could barely force the words past the lump in her throat, let alone make them sound light and indifferent. “Aye? What of your heiress?”
Rowan’s smile did not reach his eyes. Indeed, his gaze was curiously flat, though he quickly supplied the reason. “I will have no heiress.”
“So you will lose your brother’s wager?”
“I forfeit it and all its victory would have entailed.” Rowan shook his head and looked away. “You called it aright, Bronwyn. To win would bring only that which I do not desire.” He met her gaze again, his words falling tonelessly between them. “I thank you for showing me the folly of that path.”
His gaze was steady, perhaps even dispassionate. Bronwyn stared at him, his manner unfamiliar. Where was the merry Rowan she had come to know? Where was the determined knight, the man whose anger flashed when she showed no regard for her own welfare? Rowan in every guise was passionate, his eyes flashed and twinkled, his smile was never far.
But this Rowan was an indifferent stranger, a man whose thoughts she could not guess.
“And what if I wished I had not warned you of that?” Bronwyn asked, for indeed, in this moment she did.
“Words once uttered can not be left unsaid.” Rowan’s gaze was unswerving. “It seems you shall witness me losing the quest for Bronwyn of Ballyroyal’s hand just as you desired.” He arched a brow and smiled coolly. “Does it not please you?”
Please her? Anger swept through Bronwyn. Not only would Rowan abandon her, pretending there had been naught between them, but he would lay the blame at her own feet.
How dare he care naught for her, after all they had shared?
At least, Bronwyn knew the best way to bring back the Rowan she knew and loved. She would have one last glimpse of him with his eyes twinkling, to savor over the years.
For it seemed that was all she would have of him in the end.
“I shall race you!” she cried, and gave the mount her heels before he could see her heart break. “Indeed, I dare you to beat me to the gates!”
Marika squealed and clung to Bronwyn’s waist as the palfrey leapt forward, but Bronwyn leaned low over the horse, loving the feel of muscles rippling beneath her. The steed needed no more urging to race like the wind.
Bronwyn heard Rowan’s cry behind her but did not slow. She could ride like none other and was content to let him eat her dust. Oh, there was so much he did not know of her—so much he apparently did not want to know. His rejection stung, but Bronwyn would give Rowan no hint of that.
By the time they reached the gates, she would be composed again. Troubador’s hooves thundered on the road behind, but she was away first and she would beat him to the gates.
And beat Rowan Bronwyn did, though any triumph she might have felt faded fast.
For none other than her father’s partner Marco opened the gate to Ballyroyal’s bailey. Marco, with his grim expression and disappointment in his eyes; Marco, who had always disapproved of Bronwyn’s wild inclinations; Marco, whose hair silvered at his temples.
Marco, the fiancé from whom Bronwyn had fled.
“Welcome home,” he said, his voice dry as dust. “ ’Tis no surprise that you return with all the impetuous haste you showed in departing.”
Something was amiss.
One moment Bronwyn had been challenging Rowan to best her, her full lips set with defiance, the glint in her eyes making him regret the course he had chosen.
And the next, she had been wide-eyed and somber, her smile gone. She introduced Rowan stiffly to her father’s partner, Marco, and said not a word more than that.
The lady was not often silent and Rowan did not care for the change. Indeed, he had been prepared to argue with her. He had been surprised by his own regret on their arrival to her home, for ’twould be only a matter of moments before he could safely deliver Bronwyn to her parents’ care, then be on his way.
But he had not wanted to hasten, had not wanted to race to the gates, and now he did not want to leave.
Bronwyn paled beneath her tan in most uncharacteristic way. Rowan frowned as he followed her, Marco’s polite chatter flowing over him unheard. Indeed, Rowan had been so stunned that Bronwyn asked after his plans, so surprised at the hopeful glint in her eyes, no less by the disappointment that followed when he pledged to leave.
Had she not wanted him to lose her hand, after all?
And why did Bronwyn’s disappointment trouble him, as no other woman’s disappointment had ever done? Was it merely the way she addled his wits, the quick deceitful game that lust played on a man’s thoughts.
Or was there something more at stake? Rowan was not certain he wanted to know.
Without doubt, ’twas good their paths parted now, before his thinking grew even more muddled.
They were only just within the gates, when a tall man stepped into what might have been generously called a bailey.
“Marco, who comes at this time of the day? Surely every guest we can accommodate is already here?” The man surveyed the arrivals quickly, then suddenly gasped aloud. “Bronwyn!”
“Hello, Father.” Bronwyn stood and smiled.
Relief washed over the features of Nicholas of Ballyroyal and he let out a hoot of delight. He crossed the yard with quick steps, wonder on his face.
“Bronwyn!” he cried, then caught her in his arms. “Daughter mine!” He made a sound of speechless joy and swung her high, as if she were naught but a child. He clasped his daughter close and closed his eyes, as if he could not believe she had returned. Bronwyn locked her arms around her father’s neck, her tears spilling even as she smiled.
So, this was what it was like to be welcomed home with love, Nicholas’s delight nigh brought a tear to Rowan’s eye, and he tried to recall if anyone had ever greeted his return anywhere with such pleasure.
Not at Montvieux. Margaux was more likely to roll her eyes and demand to know what he wanted of her this time.
But Nicholas framed Bronwyn’s face in his hands and eyed her, as if he would see the evidence of anything foul his daughter had endured. He touched her cheek, her shoulder, he smiled that her feet were bare, he kissed her brow.
He seemingly could not believe she stood before him.
“God in heaven, I never thought to see you again,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You are well? You are unhurt? You are none the worse for wear, despite your foolery?”
“I am well enough,” Bronwyn admitted with a demure smile. She turned and gestured to Rowan, the disappointment that clouded her eyes making his heart sink. Was this not what she wanted? “This is Chevalier Rowan de Montvieux. He escorted me home.”
’Twas true enough, Rowan supposed, though her tone gave no hint of all that had been between them. He stepped forward and accepted Nicholas’s hand, feeling an urge to set matters straight, to claim the intimacy that he and Bronwyn had shared, regardless of the price that might bring.
But that was foolish. Their paths must part here.
Even if he preferred not to leave her.
Rowan felt Bronwyn’s expectation heavy upon him, though he was not entirely certain what she wanted of him. Aye, the woman had always addled his wits!
Bronwyn’s father was a man of perhaps forty-five summers, though he was hale and tanned like a younger man. His grip was sure and Rowan liked the man immediately. Nicholas’s green eyes snapped with a vivacity unexpected, though his wavy mane of hair had turned to shining silver. He smiled, a man confident in his looks and his abilities, and gripped Rowan’s hand warmly.
“I cannot thank you enough for your service in this,” he declared. “The world is no place for a woman alone, and ’tis beyond good fortune that an honorable man should find Bronwyn and ensure her safe return home.”
“Bronwyn is not without influence on her own fate,” Rowan dared to suggest, earning Nicholas’s hearty laugh.
“And she is her mother’s daughter for all of that,” he declared, chucking his daughter affectionately beneath her chin before he sobered. “When I think of what might have happened to you …” His voice faded and Bronwyn kissed his cheek hastily.
“I am fine,” she murmured, and looked away.
Nicholas frowned briefly, then recalled his manners. “I thank you, sir, I thank you a thousand times, and welcome you as my guest. Before you leave this hall, I shall see you compensated richly for the wondrous gift you have brought me.”
Nicholas wrapped an arm around his daughter’s shoulders and hugged her tightly against him. “The greatest gift of all,” he murmured, and kissed his daughter’s temple. “We shall have a fine celebration this night!”
Bronwyn flushed scarlet, her gaze meeting Rowan’s for a heady moment before she stepped away. “Where is Mother?”
Nicholas rolled his eyes. “With the foals, of course. Three this year, and you missed the arrival of them all.”
Bronwyn’s smile looked tight. “I would excuse myself.”
“Go! She will be thrilled.” Nicholas’s gaze followed Bronwyn’s course, a proud smile curving his lips. “I cannot believe it,” he murmured, then flicked a bright glance to Rowan. “Indeed, I feel a decade younger on this day, thanks to you! I am certain ’tis no small tale that brings her back here, nor you by her side.”
“We but made a bargain,” Rowan said smoothly, wishing he could pursue the lady and learn what precisely troubled her. “ ’Twas naught.”
“Aye? And what was your wager? If she promised you coin, I shall see you paid this very moment!” Nicholas flung out his hands. “There are not enough riches in all of Christendom to compensate for this!”
“Nay.” Rowan shook his head. “The lady kept her bargain herself. She is most resourceful. The stakes are of no issue at all.”
Marco cleared his throat, reminding the other men that he was still at hand. “Unless she granted something that was not hers to grant.”
Rowan found the man’s tone and his insinuation annoying beyond all. Bronwyn could choose what she would tell of their adventures, but truly, whatever indignity she had borne, she had borne with grace. And whatever she had granted to Rowan, he would not have sullied by foul rumor.
Rowan turned to meet Marco’s assessing brown gaze and held it stubbornly. “The lady granted me a tale, no more than that, you may be assured.”
Marco arched a brow but held his tongue.
“A tale?” Nicholas asked.
“Aye, I sought a bride in this land.” Rowan shrugged, seeing no need to provide details. “She told me of Irish women in exchange for my returning her home.”
“Did she tell of herself?” Marco demanded tightly.
Rowan flicked a glance to that man. “Nay. She confessed that she was betrothed.”
“You must not mind Marco,” Nicholas interjected smoothly. “I fear that when Bronwyn fled, he took the matter personally.”
“And who could not?” Marco said tightly.
“I do not understand.”
Nicholas smiled. “Marco was Bronwyn’s betrothed.”
“Indeed.” Rowan looked to that man with newly assessing eyes. Though Marco was not foul to look upon, he was markedly older than Bronwyn, of an age with her father. And his manner was less than appealing.
Indeed, he could well understand Bronwyn’s choice.
“Did she not tell you?” Marco challenged. “Or did she lie?”
“Nay, Bronwyn spoke little of herself.” Rowan reined in his temper with difficulty. Indeed, he managed a cool smile for this man who thought so little of the incomparable woman he had been pledged to wed. “I expect that any who truly knew Bronwyn would know that she has no gift for deceit.”
“I fear my old friend was wounded by my daughter’s protest,” Nicholas said quietly. “Truly, Marco, one could misinterpret your manner.”
Marco smiled and took a deep breath. “I apologize, chevalier. This has not been easy, believing it my fault that my friend lost his sole daughter.”
“I can well imagine that.”
“Aye.” Marco’s gaze trailed across the yard in Bronwyn’s wake. “ ’Tis most reassuring that she is safely home.”
“Indeed.” Rowan turned his smile on Bronwyn’s father, noting again how closely that man observed him. “There is but one obligation that will undoubtedly be yours as a result of this, and I pray ’tis not an onerous one.”
Marco sniffed, but Rowan continued undeterred, gesturing to the maid behind him. “Bronwyn felt compassion for the fate of this woman, who was enslaved. Marika has been Bronwyn’s maid. I pray the burden of supporting her does not trouble you overmuch. She speaks only her own tongue, though she and Bronwyn have developed a strong bond.”
Marika seemed to understand that her fate rested in Nicholas’s, hands, for she dropped to her knees before him. She tried to kiss his fingers, but he would not permit it, so she kissed his shoe.
“Child!” Nicholas cried. “Marika!” She looked up at him fearfully, but he smiled and offered his hands. “Come to your feet,” he urged with a gesture. “We have no slaves here and you shall not be treated as one.”
He took her hands in his, kindly in his every gesture, and shook his head as he urged her to her feet. “Look at this, you have been hungry so long that there is naught upon your bones. Do not tremble, Marika, all will be well.” Nicholas smiled deliberately and the tiny woman seemed slightly more at ease.
“Cook!” Nicholas called, and a blond man robust and tanned appeared, ducking around the side of the house. He carried a basket heavily laden with greens. His thickened midriff hinted to Rowan that the fare might be very good in this hall.
“This is Marika,” Nicholas supplied, his voice low and even. Marika bowed slightly, apparently understanding. “My daughter believed her to be in need of a home like ours. She will not understand your words, but try to reassure her, perhaps with some of your fine broth. She looks hungry to me.”
The cook stepped closer, his blue gaze sweeping over the tiny woman. “Aye, and lonely, my lord,” he amended.
“Can you find some labor for her in the kitchen?” Nicholas asked, and the cook waved in reassurance.
“Of course, sir. There is always labor for another pair of hands.” He smiled slowly, his manner that of a very gentle man, then beckoned to Marika. He made an eating motion and she bit her lip, clearly tempted. She looked to Nicholas, who nodded, then hesitantly stepped toward the cook.
A woman’s delighted squeal echoed in the distance, the three men turning as one to look. Nicholas grinned outright when a woman with blond braids streaming past her hips burst into the yard, Bronwyn tucked fast against her side. The two woman shared similar coloring and beguiling smiles, though the one with the braids was markedly older.
“Niccolo, you sorry wretch!” she cried laughingly. “How could you not have told me sooner?”
“How could I have told you sooner, Adhara?” that man retorted. “I have only just learned the truth myself.”
“You should have shouted it from the hills,” Bronwyn’s mother charged. Adhara pivoted and raised her arms skyward, shouting with glee. “My child, my Bronwyn, my own precious babe is home!”
Nicholas started to laugh as servants suddenly poured from the hall to see the truth of it themselves. Vassals came from the village, their eyes alight with curiosity, then smiled and shouted to others to join them. Young boys and girls came from the fields, the horses trotted closer to look, and soon the yard was filled with the sounds of laughter and love.
Bronwyn was home, and everyone was rejoicing.
’Twas nigh time for Rowan to go. He told himself that he lingered only because he so loved a merry celebration.
But even Rowan knew that to be a lie.