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Authors: Kathryn Le Veque
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ways. No one could sway her otherwise.”
“And your father permitted this?”
“He is the one who schooled her.”
Ryan pondered that statement. She thought she might even pity Charlotte d’ Vant, schooled as a man by her tyrannical father. No wonder the woman was so aggressive and hateful. But Dennis’ hand on her elbow was warm and wonderful, distracting her from thoughts of the mannish Charlotte. When he put his hands on her slender waist to lift her to the saddle, he let them linger there longer than necessary. His gray eyes were on her and she smiled, grasping his hand. He thought she was showing him an affectionate gesture when he realized she was handing him Butte’s leash.
“Perhaps if you walk him, he will become accustomed to you,” she suggested, though she was grinning as if it was all quite humorous. In fact, he thought it was an attempt to somehow embarrass him and he wasn’t about to fall victim to her trap. But he knew someone who would.
Riston was lingering nearby. He had been eyeing Lyla for the better part of the afternoon and Dennis could see where his thoughts lay. But he had better ideas for his lustful vassal, and he emitted a piercing whistle from his teeth and the knight was immediately at his side. He demanded Riston down from his charger and handed him the leash to Bute, who bleated loudly and starting kicking at Riston.
“What am I supposed to do with him?” Riston demanded, trying to stay out of the line of fire.
Dennis held the reins of Ryan’s palfrey. He gazed disinterestedly at Riston as the man dodged flying hooves. “Tend to my wife’s pet, of course. Perhaps Lady Lyla can assist you.”
Riston looked at Lyla, who turned as red as the setting sun. Ryan would have felt sorry for her cousin had she not been so concerned with her own fluttering heart.
***
“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Lyla hissed.
Ryan gazed out over the great hall of St. Austell. Beyond; in the smoke-hazed atmosphere, lingered drunken soldiers, dirty wenches, and packs of ravenous dogs. It was the loudest, smelliest, unruliest gathering she had ever attended. It was, in fact, her wedding celebration - the feast to celebrate the marriage of the Lord of St. Austell, and his subjects were unrestrained in their revelry.
“Never in my life,” had Ryan replied. Truth was, she too had been drinking since the inception of the feast. It seemed to ease the disorientation of her situation. “Do you suppose they are always like this?”
Lyla shrugged, her eyes wide on the crowd. Around them, those who weren’t falling-down inebriated or stuffing themselves ill with roast mutton were flirting with the whores who usually traveled with the army and who, Ryan had overheard, apparently slept in their own chamber in the soldier’s quarters. It was absolutely chaotic.
“I wish we had been given time to dress for supper,” Lyla tore her thoughts away from the wild room. “Not even the opportunity to wash or comb our hair. Do you even know where we are sleeping?”
Ryan shook her head. In truth, she was feeling progressively worse; her sniffles had not seen significant improvement and now her head was swimming with too much wine. It was strong wine, too; a blood-red drink. It had come straight off one of the ships from St. Austell harbor, fermented somewhere in Italy. It was dark and rich and tangy, and it gave Ryan enough courage to sit across the table from Charlotte and not feel an inordinate amount of fear from the woman’s heady stares. Of course, Dennis by her side helped a great deal too. In fact, she was grateful for his semi-familiar comfort in a room full of people who would gladly see her come to harm.
“Lady d’ Vant,” Riston was seated across the table, next to Charlotte. His dark blue eyes were pleasant on her. “Have you been much out of Launceston?”
Ryan felt every eye at the table focus on her, including Dennis’. He’d not spoken to her much this night and she
“And your father permitted this?”
“He is the one who schooled her.”
Ryan pondered that statement. She thought she might even pity Charlotte d’ Vant, schooled as a man by her tyrannical father. No wonder the woman was so aggressive and hateful. But Dennis’ hand on her elbow was warm and wonderful, distracting her from thoughts of the mannish Charlotte. When he put his hands on her slender waist to lift her to the saddle, he let them linger there longer than necessary. His gray eyes were on her and she smiled, grasping his hand. He thought she was showing him an affectionate gesture when he realized she was handing him Butte’s leash.
“Perhaps if you walk him, he will become accustomed to you,” she suggested, though she was grinning as if it was all quite humorous. In fact, he thought it was an attempt to somehow embarrass him and he wasn’t about to fall victim to her trap. But he knew someone who would.
Riston was lingering nearby. He had been eyeing Lyla for the better part of the afternoon and Dennis could see where his thoughts lay. But he had better ideas for his lustful vassal, and he emitted a piercing whistle from his teeth and the knight was immediately at his side. He demanded Riston down from his charger and handed him the leash to Bute, who bleated loudly and starting kicking at Riston.
“What am I supposed to do with him?” Riston demanded, trying to stay out of the line of fire.
Dennis held the reins of Ryan’s palfrey. He gazed disinterestedly at Riston as the man dodged flying hooves. “Tend to my wife’s pet, of course. Perhaps Lady Lyla can assist you.”
Riston looked at Lyla, who turned as red as the setting sun. Ryan would have felt sorry for her cousin had she not been so concerned with her own fluttering heart.
***
“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Lyla hissed.
Ryan gazed out over the great hall of St. Austell. Beyond; in the smoke-hazed atmosphere, lingered drunken soldiers, dirty wenches, and packs of ravenous dogs. It was the loudest, smelliest, unruliest gathering she had ever attended. It was, in fact, her wedding celebration - the feast to celebrate the marriage of the Lord of St. Austell, and his subjects were unrestrained in their revelry.
“Never in my life,” had Ryan replied. Truth was, she too had been drinking since the inception of the feast. It seemed to ease the disorientation of her situation. “Do you suppose they are always like this?”
Lyla shrugged, her eyes wide on the crowd. Around them, those who weren’t falling-down inebriated or stuffing themselves ill with roast mutton were flirting with the whores who usually traveled with the army and who, Ryan had overheard, apparently slept in their own chamber in the soldier’s quarters. It was absolutely chaotic.
“I wish we had been given time to dress for supper,” Lyla tore her thoughts away from the wild room. “Not even the opportunity to wash or comb our hair. Do you even know where we are sleeping?”
Ryan shook her head. In truth, she was feeling progressively worse; her sniffles had not seen significant improvement and now her head was swimming with too much wine. It was strong wine, too; a blood-red drink. It had come straight off one of the ships from St. Austell harbor, fermented somewhere in Italy. It was dark and rich and tangy, and it gave Ryan enough courage to sit across the table from Charlotte and not feel an inordinate amount of fear from the woman’s heady stares. Of course, Dennis by her side helped a great deal too. In fact, she was grateful for his semi-familiar comfort in a room full of people who would gladly see her come to harm.
“Lady d’ Vant,” Riston was seated across the table, next to Charlotte. His dark blue eyes were pleasant on her. “Have you been much out of Launceston?”
Ryan felt every eye at the table focus on her, including Dennis’. He’d not spoken to her much this night and she
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