Luc was awakened by the echo of Raphael stamping his feet. The beast snorted with displeasure and snapped his reins temperamentally. The cold grey of a winter’s dawn had crept into the stables and Luc felt the chill of it in his bones.
He sat up, shoved a hand through his hair, and wondered what had troubled the stallion at such an early hour. ’Twould be too soon for the fires to be lit in the hall, he wagered.
A woman’s voice rose shrilly in that moment. “Whatever do you mean, there are no stalls available? Why, Tullymullagh has always boasted an ample stable and I see no reason why you should deign to turn us away at this early hour.”
Luc stood up with interest and brushed the straw from his chausses. He straightened his chemise, tugged on both boots and tabard, tucked his knife in his belt, then peered over the stalls.
At the far end of the stable, near the portal, a woman tapped her toe with unconcealed impatience. She might have seen few more than twenty summers, but her lips were drawn so taut as to be unattractive. Her eyes were small and mean, her gaze darted over the stable with displeasure. Her garb had once been rich, but now was stained; the hem of her kirtle was crusted in mud.
But ’twas her manner that more accurately revealed her noble birthright. She railed at the ostler who looked extremely unhappy with his circumstance.
A solidly built giant of a man who was a good ten years Luc’s senior, Denis the ostler was clearly a simple man. His pate was as bald as an egg and Luc had already noted that his single brow, which ran from temple to temple, worked vigorously when he was concerned.
Denis’ great gift was his ability with horses. In but a day, Luc had noted that Tullymullagh’s ostler had been born to his labor. Denis murmured in the ears of the horses and they adored him, each and every one, following his bidding when they would permit no other near them.
But Denis’ skill with people was markedly less. In this moment, he stood sleepily, his linen sleeves shoved past his elbow, his boots already mired, his brow wrinkling busily as the lady heaped demands upon him.
Luc could only sympathize with his plight. There could be naught worse than denying a shrewish noblewoman what she expected as her due, especially so early in the morn.
“Truly!” the lady exclaimed. “How can you expect me to believe that there is not a single empty stall at Tullymullagh? Tell the truth instead! Tell me that this new overlord refuses to receive his closest neighbors.” She jabbed a finger at the ostler’s chest, her voice rising another increment. “Is that not the way of it?”
Raphael snorted and shuddered as though he could not bear the high pitch of her voice.
Denis, meanwhile, bowed low. “Nay, nay, ’tis not that at all, Lady Ismay.” He cleared his throat slowly, as though he needed time to seek an explanation. His words fell heavily. “I am fully certain that Gavin Fitzgerald would be delighted to host you, but he has many guests already.”
“Is that so? I cannot imagine that any of them come from as fine a lineage as we.” The lady tossed her veil and Luc glanced dubiously over her steeds.
If she truly had coin to her name, she did not spare it on either garb, attendants, or steeds. The mare lurking behind the lady was decidedly grizzled.
Denis straightened and wrung his hands when he saw how little effect his argument was making upon the noblewoman. “Some of King Henry’s party have remained and the new lord’s men, as well.”
Lady Ismay snorted disdain. “Say naught to me of that English king! His minions are welcomed while loyal neighbors like ourselves are not? What manner of barbarian is this man?”
The amiable ostler fairly squirmed, his hands working together as he fought to appease the lady. “ ’Tis the hour, Lady Ismay. Much of the keep remains asleep, including Gavin Fitzgerald himself—”
“Disturb him immediately!” The lady’s anger rang through the stables. She pointed demandingly to the keep and drew herself taller, the gesture doing little good for her profile. “Hasten your sorry hide to him this very moment and demand that we be properly received!”
Denis looked sorely dismayed by the prospect and Luc could not blame him. Gavin was not a man who took well to interruption, particularly early in the morn, and no doubt Denis had already tasted the bite of Tullymullagh’s new lord. On the other hand, this Lady Ismay would stop at naught to see her own way fulfilled.
Had it not been for the ostler’s predicament, Luc would have been content to let this noblewoman stew in her own dissatisfaction.
But Denis was a kindly man undeserving of such nonsense.
Luc cleared his throat and stepped out of the stall. “Good morning to you,” he said and the arguing pair turned as one to confront him. Relief washed over Denis’ visage while the lady merely looked more grim.
“Ostlers from every side and nary a hand to take a steed,” she snapped. “All of Christendom has gone straight to hell in this year.” Denis looked shocked, but Luc waved off any protest he might have made.
“How many steeds have you?” Luc asked mildly.
“Three,” the lady supplied, her tone waspish. Even the black mare whose reins Lady Ismay held tightly appeared embarrassed to be seen with her mistress. The silver-snouted beast stepped back, standing as far away as she could, the reins stretched taut. She had never been a fine beast, Luc could see now, for she was comparatively short and stocky.
Not a noblewoman’s steed, by any means. Clearly Tullymullagh had neighbors with lofty aspirations. Luc imagined this woman was one who came regularly to fill her belly at another, more ample, board. There were nobles he had known who never troubled themselves to remain at home, simply savored the hospitality of others all the year long.
The possibility said little good of her character.
“Dermot!” the lady bellowed suddenly, the single word loud enough to deafen a man. Luc winced and heard Raphael shake his harness in vexation.
A man dressed with slightly more care than the lady appeared in the portal of the stable. He was fair of hair and fair of skin. Even his eyes were unnaturally pale, the very shade of rainwater. He seemed a man of ice and water, so fair was he. His gaze flicked to the woman and Luc caught the barest glimpse of raw animosity in his eyes.
Then the expression was gone and the man summoned a limp smile. “I am here, Ismay,” he said softly, his voice as insubstantial as his coloring. “At your very side, as always.”
“Hm!” Ismay sniffed disapprovingly. “You certainly were not very close by my side. I could not even see you, Dermot! Where had you gotten yourself? And what took you so very long to come from gate to stable?”
“I thought I caught sight of an old friend, my love, but I erred. ’Twas no more than that.” Dermot’s voice was low and quiet, not unlike a whisper. Though Luc could not have said whether ’twas one of the voices he had heard the night before, the mention of encountering a friend made Luc prick up his ears.
That and the malicious glance Dermot had briefly cast toward Ismay. Luc wondered exactly who that man’s friend might have been.
“A likely story. A friend.” Ismay rolled her eyes. “More like, you lost your way! In all truth, Dermot, you would lose your very head were it not firmly attached. Where have you been? And what on earth have you been doing?”
Dermot smiled with the quiet grace of a Madonna. “In truth, it matters little, my love, for we are together again. Have you already seen to the stabling of the horses?”
“ ’Twas an adroit change of subject, but the lady did notice that her attention had been firmly redirected. Indeed, she smiled at her mate or lover, whichever Dermot happened to be.
Then she pivoted and glared at the ostler anew. “I should have done so if there was any excuse for efficiency in this place! What do you mean to do about this appalling situation?”
“There is a stall here,” Luc interjected and saw gratitude light Denis’ eyes.
“I knew ’twas a malicious lie that there was no space!” Lady Ismay declared angrily.
“ ’Tis the stall I slept in,” Luc countered evenly, “and one that was well occupied until but a moment past.”
The lady grimaced. “You mean to stable my mare in a stall where the help have slumbered?” She shuddered, then scowled at Denis. “ ’Twill have to be mucked out thoroughly, you understand, for one never knows what manner of vermin live in these people’s garments.”
Neither Luc nor Denis observed the state of the newly arrived couple’s garments. Indeed, the pair looked as though they had slumbered in the fields.
Denis drew himself up proudly. “I am well aware of how a steed should be treated, Lady Ismay.” He reached out for the mare’s reins and the lady slapped them into his palm.
The black mare, though, sidled tentatively closer to Denis. That man smiled, then conjured an apple from his chausses for the wary steed. The beast abandoned her mistress’ side without another thought, nuzzling Denis and partaking noisily of his offering. Luc watched the ostler smile as he stroked the horse’s nose and did not miss Denis’ fleeting frown when he checked the mare’s bit.
The beast had been reined in hard, Luc would wager.
“Well! See that it does not get fat.” Lady Ismay’s lips drew tightly together and she glared now at Luc. “And what do you mean to do with the other two?”
“I am certain that in the course of the morning’s comings and goings, more stalls will become available,” Luc responded. “Why not simply leave your steeds in the ostler’s good care while you break your own fast?”
Before the woman could protest, Luc stepped forward and laid claim to the reins Dermot held. Their hands touched in the transaction, the arrival’s skin colder than cold.
Luc barely suppressed an instinctive shiver.
Lady Ismay sniffed. “At least there is someone with a measure of consideration for his betters in this place.”
They had another black mare with a star on her brow, though she had a slight sway to her back. A small dappled grey palfrey obviously carried the pair’s possessions. Even as meagre as they appeared to be, the beast was so gaunt as to hardly be up to the task.
Luc felt his lips thin at such cruelty and he immediately relieved the palfrey of its burden. The creature shuddered when the weight was lifted from its back, and Luc was not surprised that neither Ismay nor her companion seemed to notice.
Denis noticed and his brow began to lower in a most unfriendly manner. “Edward! Cedric! Andrew! Get yourselves from bed!” he bellowed. “There are steeds to be tended with all haste.” He touched the horses with gentle hands.
Denis turned his back upon the arrivals, clearly reassured to be on familiar ground. In no time at all, he would be alone with the steeds and, Luc knew, all the happier for it. Luc handed off the second mare’s reins to the tow-headed and sleepy-eyed squire that came running a moment later.
The ostler’s eyes shone with gratitude when he glanced at Luc once more. “I do thank you for your aid in this matter, sir.”
“ ’Twas naught, Denis.” Confident that all had been set to rights, Luc made to step away.
But the lady Ismay froze in the act of rummaging through her belongings. “Sir?” she echoed incredulously, her sharp gaze flicking between Luc and the ostler. Her lip curled with disdain. “You call him sir?”
Denis grinned, no doubt delighted to know something she did not. “Aye, Lady Ismay. This is Luc Fitzgavin, after all.” He placed an emphasis on Luc’s surname, drawing even Lady Ismay’s attention to the moniker that revealed his parentage.
Lady Ismay paled and Luc knew that she had no doubt precisely which Gavin was his sire. A bright glint of consideration flashed in Dermot’s eye before ’twas concealed.
Before Lady Ismay could recover herself and make some pathetic apology, followed no doubt by a plea for an audience with his father, Luc waved to the ostler and strode toward the orchards.
He took a deep breath of the morning air. Crisp and clean as only it could be in the autumn. Luc’s thoughts and his footsteps turned to the orchard as he scanned the sky. The morning sunlight was thin, he noted with pleasure, but there was no chance of rain.
The exchange with this noblewoman made him doubly glad he had left that life behind. Aye, ’twas no life for a sensible man. Luc ducked beneath the canopy of the apple trees, a merry whistle was on his lips.
Gavin would doubtless slumber late, particularly if he had indulged himself the night before. In the meantime, Luc would do Pyrs’ memory proud with the labor he did in this orchard. He wondered what Lady Ismay would have thought if he had declared a Welsh steward to have been more of a father to him than his own blood sire.
Luc could readily guess. The very thought made him smile.
But Luc’s whistle stilled when he realized that he could not have so readily guessed what Princess Brianna would make of such news.
Aye, she was one difficult to predict.
An interesting woman, there was no doubt of that.
Despite himself, Luc’s eye roved the high walls of the keep. What scheme did Brianna concoct? And did it have anything to do with the whispers he had overheard?
’Twas not until the next morning that Brianna realized one very critical fact. Fenella and the maids were busily moving Brianna’s effects back from the solar and her father’s belongings to the adjoining chamber. Gavin was pacing irritably and generally underfoot, but not interested in taking the advice of either Uther or Connor to wait in the hall.
’Twas when Brianna arrived back in her usual chamber that she saw the truth. She stared across the bailey to her dame’s stone sarcophagus resting on the very perimeter of the garden.
It lay directly alongside the orchard. ’Twould be impossible to secure the letters safely within her mother’s tomb, as her sire had bidden her, without Luc seeing her.
The simplest solution, of course, would be to ask Luc to leave her be beside her mother’s grave. Brianna chewed her lip in thought, knowing that had no hope of working. Not only did the man seem determined to defy her on principle alone, her request would no doubt feed his suspicions that something was afoot.
Luc would watch her, Brianna guessed, and that would not do.
Unless, of course, he had abandoned the orchard to seek out his sire. Or perhaps he still slumbered! Newly optimistic, Brianna peered through the shutters, oblivious of the chill of the wind through her chemise.
Even as the morning mist rose from the river beyond, Brianna could discern the silhouette of Luc Fitzgavin striding from the stables with purpose.
She leaned back against the wall and frowned. Curse the man! ’Twas as though he awakened early to vex her!
Again.
Brianna peered through the shutters to covertly watch Luc wander amidst the trees. She could not help but wonder about his past. Why would a knight cast aside all he had earned? A knight lived a life of privilege, of danger and splendor; by contrast, a farmer’s existence was deadly dull. Brianna could not imagine exchanging her life for that of the alewife, for example.
Unless she had an extremely good reason. That made her frown in thought. What had compelled Luc to make his choice?
Brianna was surprised by how very much she wanted to know.
She told herself that she was curious, no more than that. Her interest had naught to do with the way this man looked at her, truly looked at her, instead of merely ogling the fairness of her features. He listened to her, he even argued with her, despite his obvious disapproval of all she was.
And, well, she would not consider his kiss. Just the recollection made her feel warm and tingly.
Nay, she was merely intrigued by a puzzle.
Yet Luc had been very reticent in providing details. He seemed to enjoy pestering her—what if she pestered him? Brianna could ask about Luc’s past! She guessed that he would not welcome her inquiries.
Could she drive him away from Tullymullagh with mere questions?
’Twas worth a try. Once Luc departed from the orchard, Brianna could hide her mother’s legacy. Then, she could turn her attention upon finding a way to convince Gavin to renounce his claim.
That would be the true challenge, she well knew.
Her course decided, Brianna spurned the embroidered gown that Fenella offered and dug in her trunk for a tunic that fell to her knees and a pair of heavy chausses.
Fenella’s face fell. “But, my lady, you have not worn such garb in all my days with you! ’Tis unfitting for an eligible woman of your rank!”
“But, Fenella, if I wear a fine gown to labor in the orchard, you shall spend all your time restoring it to rights.” Brianna hauled on the woollen chausses with purpose and flashed a reassuring smile to her maid. The maid had only just finished clucking over the damage to her kirtle from the night before.
But Fenella gaped. “You mean to labor in the orchard?”
“Not truly labor.” Brianna tossed her maid an easy smile. “I would merely talk with this Luc while he labors.”
Fenella’s eyes widened at the prospect of a tale to share in the kitchens. “The one who would not go?” She slipped closer to the window and peered down at Luc, widening the gap between the shutters with her fingertips.
She glanced back to her mistress coyly. “Is he most charming?”
Brianna grimaced. “Hardly that.”
“But you spoke with him long last evening.” Fenella giggled. “Do you fancy him, my lady?”
“Nay!” Brianna laced her chausses decisively even as her cheeks heated. “I but tried to persuade him that ’tis in his best interest that he be gone from Tullymullagh.”
“In the moonlight.”
Brianna glared at her maid. “ ’Twas of no import. In point of fact, we argued. He is a most vexing man.”
Fenella could not completely hide her smile. “Of course, my lady. ’Tis oft the way of things when a man and a woman first acknowledge each other.”
“We do not acknowledge each other!” Brianna pushed to her feet, more than ready to end this discussion. “Might you trouble yourself to find my old boots?” she asked deliberately. Fenella hastened to dig in a trunk on the far side of the chamber.
“Have you not cleared your belongings away yet?” Gavin’s impatient roar echoed in the hall and Brianna realized she could not leave her dame’s treasure in these chambers. Her sire had made her promise to keep the box safe, after all. The tunic Brianna wore was full and she reasoned that with a sash about her waist, she could secure the precious box against her belly.
At least until she found her chance.
“Here they are, my lady, but such boots are hardly fitting for you these days.” Fenella’s lips drew in a disapproving line. “Look at the wear upon them! All will think your sire lost his entire fortune.”
“I care little what the others may think,” Brianna said calmly and took the boots. Fenella looked so disappointed in her mistress’ choice, that Brianna’s defiance melted slightly. “Perhaps you could do me a favor this day, Fenella.”
“Aye, my lady.”
“I should like to wear my finest garb to the board tonight. The blue kirtle edged with gold. Could you perhaps see that all is made ready?”
“Oh!” Fenella clasped her hands in delight. “And the kid slippers I so admire?”
“Of course.”
The maid smiled at the very prospect. “Oh, my lady, you will look most lovely. Here, I will braid your hair, for if you mean to be in the orchard all the day, you cannot have it loose. But on this night, I will use those blue ribbons that suitor from Dublin left for you.…”
Brianna fought to stand still as Fenella’s fingers slid deftly into her hair. The maid’s tales of who said what the night before slid over her mistress unheard. Brianna was too busy trying to think of a way to retrieve the box from its hiding place without Fenella seeing her.
Salvation came from the most unlikely of places.
A horse snorted in the bailey and the maid flew to the window, casting open the shutters, her task forgotten in her thirst for news. Brianna caught the end of her braid and knotted a lace about it as she gauged the distance to her dame’s box.
“Oh, my lady! Is that Lady Ismay?” Fenella hung out the window unashamedly.
Brianna grimaced. Lady Ismay was the last person she wished to see this morn.
Or on any other morn, for that matter.
All the same, Brianna took the opportunity of Fenella’s distraction to delve the box from her linens and secrete it beneath her tunic. She tucked it into the top of her chausses and scanned the chamber for a suitable sash, barely aware of her maid’s chatter.
“And Lord Dermot fast by her side, as always,” Fenella mused. “Truly, he is a most devoted spouse. ’Tis a marvel to me that any man could adore such a woman with such ardor. And the way she talks to him!” The maid rolled her eyes. “ ’Tis clear she fancies herself more eligible than ever she was. Lord Dermot must be a veritable saint. Look! Ismay is hailing your master Luc.”
Those words distracted Brianna from her task.
“He is not my master Luc,” she retorted, but could not keep herself from edging toward the window in turn. Brianna did not even trouble to note Lady Ismay, her gaze flying of its own accord to the orchard.
Where Luc Fitzgavin looked directly and steadily toward her.
Brianna’s heart took an unruly skip. She drew back into the shadows, her finger clutching a fistful of cloth where her dame’s box was hidden.
Though she could not precisely see from this distance, Brianna knew how Luc’s blue gaze had not wavered from her own. ’Twas as though he knew about both the box and her intention, the very steadiness of his glance most unnerving.
Her lips tingled in recollection of Luc’s kiss at that very inopportune moment. Brianna felt her cheeks flush scarlet and deliberately turned her back on the window.
“Not your master Luc indeed,” Fenella muttered, a knowing glint in her eye. “Do you imagine that I have not noticed your preoccupation this morn?”
Brianna could not stop her flush from deepening. To divert her maid’s attention, she waved to the window once more. “Is it only my eye or is Lady Ismay garbed rather more poorly than usual?”
Fenella leaned out the window anew, greedily seeking details. “Aye, you speak aright! Has she no shame? Why, her gown is filthy!”
Brianna did not care what Lady Ismay wore or did not wear, much less how she conducted herself. She was merely glad that Fenella was sufficiently interested to remain at the window.
The maid wrinkled her nose in disapproval. “ ’Twould be an improvement to grant her the one you damaged last evening, unless I miss my guess. And not a single servant in their wake.” Fenella clicked her tongue like an elderly matron. “What has possessed the woman? Has she no pride? She comports herself like one born common and without grace.”
Brianna hastily tied a sash about her waist, knotting it so that the box was secure, then passing it twice more around herself so that the bulk of the fabric hid the box’s shape.
Fenella looked suddenly as though she might turn back to her duties. As she fumbled with the knot, Brianna blurted out the first words that came to her lips. “Do you think Dermot looks well?”
“Not so very good, though he is always very pale,” Fenella acknowledged, leaning back out the window again. “ ’Tis his coloring, I think. So delicate in a man.” She sighed and her tone turned wistful. “Do you think he is happy with the match he has made?”
Brianna shrugged without interest. The box was securely hidden, she was certain of it. “I would not dare to guess.”
“Zounds!” Gavin’s bellow sounded just a few feet away. Both women jumped. “How long can it take a man to move a few trinkets? I would have occupancy of the solar now!”
Brianna suddenly had a much better idea of how she could disconcert Luc Fitzgavin than with a few questions. After all, Luc confessed he had come to Tullymullagh only to speak with his sire.
That could definitely be arranged.
“Luc Fitzgavin! What is this you do?”
Luc’s head snapped up at his sire’s shout. He grimaced at the sight of an enraged Gavin striding lop-sidedly across the bailey. Behind that man danced the princess Brianna in markedly sensible garb, clearly anxious to see the result of what she had wrought.
For Luc had no doubt that ’twas her hand behind his father’s visit. ’Twas clear she had informed Gavin that Luc yet remained at Tullymullagh. Luc’s lips tightened to a grim line.
Aye, he should have expected her to make trouble wherever she could. She was bound to see him gone, after all.
Although this was not the circumstance under which he had hoped to discuss Llanvelyn with his sire, it seemed Luc would have little choice. All the same, he had no intent of providing a certain princess with the result she desired.
He was not leaving Tullymullagh without Llanvelyn’s seal.
Luc braced his feet against the ground and awaited his father. Gavin was in fine form, his heavy features dark with rage, his fury making him fairly spit when he spoke.
Fortunately, Luc had borne the brunt of his sire’s ire before and lived to tell the tale. Brianna, Luc noted, hesitated on the periphery of the orchard. Evidently she was intent upon hearing every word but, belatedly, was seized with some discretion.
Well, she would witness no display of temper from Luc. He would not provide whatever entertainment she sought. Luc was bound and determined to not play to the lady’s rules.
’Twas a matter of principle.
“Luc! You faithless cur!” Gavin bellowed. He let loose a string of profanity, then poked his finger angrily through the air toward his errant son. “From the very day you drew breath, you have been a curse upon me! Why do you remain at Tullymullagh? Did you understand naught of what was transacted yester morn?”
“I understood that you intended Burke to win Tullymullagh,” Luc retorted calmly.
Gavin paused momentarily at the truth of that, then scowled and continued onward. “Get yourself gone from this place and seek a gift for the princess! Take a steed, any steed, take mine own, but get on your way. A prize beyond all else hangs in the balance, you witless fool!”
“ ’Tis a prize I do not wish to win,” Luc countered.
His sire’s eyes narrowed at this claim. “What manner of fool declaration is that?” he roared after a moment’s pause, then flung his hands skyward. “Your dame’s intellect is showing in that claim! You wear the mark of her unworthy kind upon your very brow, as ever you did!”
That accusation prompted Luc to respond heatedly. “My dame’s character—much less the coloring of my hair—has naught to do with this.”
Gavin snorted and propped his hands on his hips. “Blame me for your circumstance, will you? ’Tis always thus with you—never can you see the opportunities hung right before your very eyes.”
“I see the opportunity well enough,” Luc retorted. “But all the same, this is not one I desire.”
Gavin fired a baleful glance at his eldest son. “Naught has changed in all these years,” he charged in a low voice. “To Llanvelyn alone do you cling, afraid to reach for more.”
Luc bristled at the accusation, though he fought to hide his rising anger. He was very aware of a certain golden-haired presence. “I have never been afraid of reaching for what I truly desire. That ’tis not the warring legacy you would have me pursue says more of your character than of mine.”
Gavin snorted, though his eyes flashed dangerously. “ ’Tis the taint of your dame’s blood.” He spat on the ground between them. “You hold yourself above the necessary brutalities of life.”
“There is naught ‘necessary’ in the brutality of your life,” Luc retorted angrily. “And certainly naught necessary in slaughter that serves no more than your own greed.” Gavin inhaled sharply, but Luc took the remaining step between them and stared into his father’s hardened gaze. “How many must die before you deem your coffers full enough?”
Gavin’s eyes flashed and he responded, as he oft did, with his fist. Luc heard Brianna gasp as his father’s blow landed against his jaw.
Ye gods, but the man had not weakened with age! Luc refused to give either his father or Brianna the benefit of seeing how much the blow hurt. He took but one step back, straightened, and looked his sire steadily in the eye.
“ ’Tis not half what it used to be,” he lied. “Are you eating well enough these days?”
Rage lit Gavin’s eyes. “Yet you do not strike back,” he declared with scorn. “No better than a woman are you.”
“Unlike you, I see no good in violence.”
“Coward!”
“I chose my path,” Luc said quietly. “And still I cleave to it.”
Gavin snorted. “And still you have not the sense to be afraid of me. Truly naught has changed.”
Luc rolled his eyes as though the idea were ludicrous. “There is naught to fear from the likes of you.” He nodded deliberately toward the wide-eyed Brianna, who looked suitably startled at what she had set in motion. Luc turned back to his sire and managed a cool smile despite the ache in his jaw. “Unless you have become so foolish as to leave witnesses of your deeds.”
Gavin spun, eyed the princess, swore, then pivoted back to face his son. “One day,” he growled with a shake of his heavy finger, “one day I shall shake your cursed composure. You have always been too clever for your own good.”
Luc’s lips thinned. “A clever man has no need to win his way with his fists.”
Gavin looked as though he were sorely tempted to strike his eldest again. He shook his head, though, and stalked a few paces away. When he turned to survey Luc anew, suspicion was bright in his eye. “Why did you come if you did not mean to compete for a bride? Why respond to my summons at all?”
Luc arched a brow and could not keep a thread of humor from his tone. “I but desired to speak with you, Father.”
For, as remarkable as that fact was, ’twas true.
Gavin’s brow furrowed. “With me? What idiocy is this?” He jabbed an indignant finger through the air. “My missive made the situation most clear!”
“As it made equally clear your intent to break an old pledge.” Luc met his father’s gaze squarely. “I came only to remind you of a promise you made to me.”
Although Gavin did not look away, a tinge of red claimed his neck. “I cannot recall every word tossed aside to appease a child,” he snapped.
“ ’Twas no appeasement and you know it well,” Luc retorted in a dangerously low tone. “You promised me Llanvelyn in a decade’s time. Eleven years have passed since that pledge was made, and I have yet to hold Llanvelyn’s seal in my own hand.”
Luc extended his hand, palm flat.
Gavin’s lips tightened as he stared at Luc’s outstretched hand, then he shook his head. “Llanvelyn! What do you care for a petty Welsh barony?” He gestured to Tullymullagh’s high keep. “This is a prize for a man who walks proudly! This is the prize you should pursue!”
“This is a prize you may keep for Burke,” Luc retorted firmly. “I have no desire for it.”
’Twas most odd but those words had a ring of untruth when they fell from Luc’s lips, but he stubbornly held his ground.
“Llanvelyn is humble.”
“ ’Twas pledged to me.” Luc folded his arms across his chest. “What is your pledge worth these days, Gavin Fitzgerald?” Luc arched a brow. “Surely not even less than I recall?”
Gavin glared at his son in outrage, his fists clenching and unclenching. The moment stretched long between the pair and Luc was well aware of Brianna’s assessing gaze.
“I owe you naught,” Gavin snarled.
“I but offer to relieve you of a burden, Father, a manor that must remind you of simpler times.” Luc lifted that brow again. “And more common roots than you might prefer to profess in these days.”
Gavin fired a sly glance his son’s way. “Pursue the quest and, win or lose, I shall grant Llanvelyn to you in exchange.”
Luc snorted. “Another promise that you might break? Nay, your obligation is already long past due. Grant me the seal now.”
Gavin’s lips drew to a disapproving line. “How should I even know that you are a fit lord of Llanvelyn?”
Luc refrained from commenting on his father’s belated interest in the state of his first holding. “You could see the estate yourself. It prospers these days.”
Gavin grimaced. “I would not burden myself with the sight of the pitiful place again.”
“Your sire thought it a fitting prize for a man of ambition,” Luc felt compelled to observe.
Gavin rolled his eyes. “My sire was a man who understood naught of the world. A man of meagre ambition.” His gaze turned assessing. “Perhaps ’tis his taint that courses through your veins.”
Luc had a rather good idea where any taint in his veins might have originated, but he bit back his words. In truth, he had already provoked his father enough.
Gavin waved dismissively. “But you speak aright, in this at least. ’Twas by the king’s decree alone that you and Rowan were even included in this folly.” Gavin took a deep breath and eyed the stone keep with pride. “Aye, Burke alone will make a fitting master of Tullymullagh.”
The assertion was curiously irritating. Luc certainly had the training and the wits to administer an estate like Tullymullagh.
Although he had never been irked by his sire’s low assessment of his talents before. He glanced to the wide-eyed princess, her lips parted, and readily recalled their brief kiss.
A kiss that Burke would likely savor over and over again. Luc’s annoyance rose markedly at that thought, yet he forced himself to think of the issue at hand.
He was not interested in a spoiled princess.
Burke was welcome to Brianna.
“And Llanvelyn’s seal?” he prompted sharply.
Gavin frowned and sighed. “When Tullymullagh is settled upon Burke,” he conceded with obvious reluctance. “The seal of Llanvelyn shall be yours. And not one moment before.”
Luc was surprised that the concession did not please him more than it did. That must be because the value of his father’s pledge had yet to be proven. Obviously, holding the seal in his own hand would be the only proof of Luc’s success.
He bowed slightly to his father. “I thank you for your generosity.”
But Gavin’s lip curled with scorn. “Do not thank me, Luc. And do not blame me in your dotage when you regret all you have cast aside.” He fixed his son with a stern glance before turning away and snorted once. “Llanvelyn will no doubt prove to be a poor prize.”
And Gavin limped out of the orchard, not even acknowledging Brianna before continuing across the bailey to the hall.
But Gavin’s departure brought Brianna to life. She ran across the orchard toward Luc, her eyes wide with alarm. Despite his annoyance with her attempt to force him to her bidding, Luc’s errant heart took a skip as she drew near.
“Did he hurt you?” she demanded breathlessly, hovering a few feet before Luc as though she wanted to come to his side but dared not do so. She truly looked as though she were concerned for his welfare, though Luc could not believe ’twas so.
All the same, his heart began to pound.
Luc grimaced, ran his tongue over his teeth and assured himself that they were all yet in place. He spat in the grass and was relieved to see no blood in his spittle. “Nay. Indeed, ’tis time enough he grew feeble.”
Brianna heaved a sigh that might have been born of relief. “I cannot believe that he struck you!” she exclaimed.
Luc granted her a wry glance. “When you merely wanted him to have me cast bodily through the gates.”
Brianna flushed scarlet and looked guiltily at her toes. ’Twas all the confirmation of her plan Luc needed.
All the same, he was no closer to knowing why she wanted him gone so badly. Brianna licked those lips, then unexpectedly impaled Luc with a glance. “ ’Tis appalling he should treat you thus! Are you not his eldest son?”
Luc shrugged. “And neither favorite nor the spawn of a heated infatuation. Indeed, there is none he would rather strike.” The princess’ eyes were still filled with concern and disbelief. Luc smiled wryly. “I remind him of beginnings he would prefer to forget.”
“Oh!” She blinked. “Are you bastard born?”
Instead of answering, Luc folded his arms across his chest and considered the woman before him. “You are full of questions this morn, my lady. Is this some further part of your plan to see me fleeing from Tullymullagh?”
A flush stained her cheeks as it had the night before, but this time she held Luc’s gaze with resolve. “I would simply know more of you,” she declared with bravado.
Luc could not help the slow grin curving his lips. He took a long step to close the distance between them and savored the alarm that flashed through her eyes.
Brianna held her ground, though, seemingly determined to hide her response.
Undeterred, Luc treated her to his most engaging smile. “But, then, I should have expected no less,” he said silkily. “Seeing as I am, after all, your favorite.”
Luc leaned down to kiss the tip of Brianna’s perfect nose, then pulled an increment away to look deeply into her eyes. She caught her breath in a most satisfactory way. “Is that not so, my lady?”