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Authors: Michele Sinclair
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down at the courtyard and watched Constance leave the stables, angrily shaking her head as she sauntered toward the kitchen. The woman was incredibly loyal to Bronwyn and her sisters, and if anyone slighted them, the old nursemaid felt personally insulted. The new lord had obviously denied the request of an audience and Constance was going to her place of solace. The kitchens. The best source for gossip and food, both she believed to be equal remedies for unhappiness.
Leaving her would be hard, but Constance would refuse to stay at Hunswick if she knew their plans, even though it would be at a great personal expense to her. Bronwyn had known for some time that her old nursemaid and one of the nearby widower farmers had grown quite close of late. During her marrying years, Constance had focused so much on Bronwyn and her mother and their recovery that she had ignored any male interest or her own desires for a family. Children may no longer be possible, but Bronwyn would not deny her friend a chance at love and happiness. No, Constance had to stay.
Bronwyn was about to turn away from the window when she spied the new lord and his companion casually stroll across the courtyard, this time facing her as they made their way to the gatehouse. She could now see both men clearly, though still at somewhat of a distance.
The overly tall one was speaking but it was the other man who had her full attention. There was something about him, how he walked, how he paused when looking around, every movement impossibly controlled, how he scrutinized those who darted by him, his air of command, of self-assurance that only came from experience and mutual respect. Lily was wrong. He was the man who had assumed possession of Hunswick.
Without a doubt, Bronwyn knew she was looking at Deadeye de Gunnar, the new Lord Anscombe of Bassellmere.
Bronwyn leaned against the window frame, silently studying him as he made his way to the gatehouse. But just before he entered, he stopped and looked at the Great Hall, directly to the upper bedchamber windows it housed. One eye was closed, but the other was open and had caught her gaze, refusing to let it go. Her heart stammered and yet she could not look away. His face was a cold mask, hiding every emotion, and yet she knew exactly what he was thinking. He wanted the three of them gone, but especially her.
Then, a second later, he was out of sight. Bronwyn blinked and tried to gather her thoughts. Her pulse was only just starting to slow from its instantaneous reaction to him. He both excited and repelled her.
Constance had been right. The new Lord Anscombe was scarred and not just on the outside. Something Bronwyn understood better than anyone and just how it could change a person. Deadeye de Gunnar was not cruel, just unforgiving. He was no ordinary man and around him she would have to be careful. It was a good thing she and her sisters were leaving and even better that he had denied her request for an audience.
“I think you are right, Edythe,” Bronwyn mused as she moved away from the window and started to rummage through her things lying on the bed. Pulling out a white muslin mortarboard with an attached long thin veil, she grimaced and continued, “We should all wear our wimples. It would be best if we left quickly, quietly, and unseen.”
“And if he calls for me?” Lily whispered beseechingly.
“Then I shall be you,” Bronwyn confirmed. “I think you are right. The new Lord Anscombe is not one to be handled with flirtatious remarks.”
The last comment was made more to herself, but Edythe was too quick to let it lie. “And how do you think the new master of Hunswick should be handled?”
“At a distance,” Bronwyn answered. And without any compassion , she added to herself. From experience, she knew that sympathy was the last thing a person like him would want.
“You’re a stubborn, damn fool, Ranulf,” Tyr Dequhar huffed as he retreated back to the stables, leaving his best
Leaving her would be hard, but Constance would refuse to stay at Hunswick if she knew their plans, even though it would be at a great personal expense to her. Bronwyn had known for some time that her old nursemaid and one of the nearby widower farmers had grown quite close of late. During her marrying years, Constance had focused so much on Bronwyn and her mother and their recovery that she had ignored any male interest or her own desires for a family. Children may no longer be possible, but Bronwyn would not deny her friend a chance at love and happiness. No, Constance had to stay.
Bronwyn was about to turn away from the window when she spied the new lord and his companion casually stroll across the courtyard, this time facing her as they made their way to the gatehouse. She could now see both men clearly, though still at somewhat of a distance.
The overly tall one was speaking but it was the other man who had her full attention. There was something about him, how he walked, how he paused when looking around, every movement impossibly controlled, how he scrutinized those who darted by him, his air of command, of self-assurance that only came from experience and mutual respect. Lily was wrong. He was the man who had assumed possession of Hunswick.
Without a doubt, Bronwyn knew she was looking at Deadeye de Gunnar, the new Lord Anscombe of Bassellmere.
Bronwyn leaned against the window frame, silently studying him as he made his way to the gatehouse. But just before he entered, he stopped and looked at the Great Hall, directly to the upper bedchamber windows it housed. One eye was closed, but the other was open and had caught her gaze, refusing to let it go. Her heart stammered and yet she could not look away. His face was a cold mask, hiding every emotion, and yet she knew exactly what he was thinking. He wanted the three of them gone, but especially her.
Then, a second later, he was out of sight. Bronwyn blinked and tried to gather her thoughts. Her pulse was only just starting to slow from its instantaneous reaction to him. He both excited and repelled her.
Constance had been right. The new Lord Anscombe was scarred and not just on the outside. Something Bronwyn understood better than anyone and just how it could change a person. Deadeye de Gunnar was not cruel, just unforgiving. He was no ordinary man and around him she would have to be careful. It was a good thing she and her sisters were leaving and even better that he had denied her request for an audience.
“I think you are right, Edythe,” Bronwyn mused as she moved away from the window and started to rummage through her things lying on the bed. Pulling out a white muslin mortarboard with an attached long thin veil, she grimaced and continued, “We should all wear our wimples. It would be best if we left quickly, quietly, and unseen.”
“And if he calls for me?” Lily whispered beseechingly.
“Then I shall be you,” Bronwyn confirmed. “I think you are right. The new Lord Anscombe is not one to be handled with flirtatious remarks.”
The last comment was made more to herself, but Edythe was too quick to let it lie. “And how do you think the new master of Hunswick should be handled?”
“At a distance,” Bronwyn answered. And without any compassion , she added to herself. From experience, she knew that sympathy was the last thing a person like him would want.
“You’re a stubborn, damn fool, Ranulf,” Tyr Dequhar huffed as he retreated back to the stables, leaving his best
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