quarters—“the same cannot be said of Abel.”
Christian waited for the knight to elaborate, and when he did not, said, “Do you intend to keep me in suspense long, Sir Everard?”
“Though ‘tis not my place to tell it, I shall do so that you may better understand my brother.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Abel is fond of Gaenor—at least, as fond as he can be of a sister with whom he has only occasional contact—but his greatest objection lies in having himself known the folly of a marriage not of his choosing.”
“Your brother is wed?”
“No longer. The woman to whom he was married for ten long months is dead—by her own hand.”
“She killed herself?”
“Aye. Though her family attempted to hide the frailty of her mind, Abel knew when they met ere the wedding that something was amiss. But though he asked to be released from their betrothal, the marriage vows were spoken and, for nearly a year, he resolved to make the best of the life dealt him.” He looked to the rushes between their feet. “However, the lady, who had seemed of two minds ere their marriage, became of three, then four—one day a sweet and compliant young woman, the next a spiteful shrew, one day a clinging girl, the next a morose old woman who hid in corners and conversed with shadows.” He looked up. “Ere she took her life, voices in those shadows told her Abel was possessed of the devil and that she should kill him.”
Sympathy that Christian did not expect to feel for Everard’s brother, coiled in his chest.
“That night, when he was abed, his wife took a dagger to him.” His throat muscles convulsed with emotions that, heretofore, Christian would not have believed the knight capable of. “He should have died, for though he was able to deflect the blade, it caught his side and he bled out a goodly amount ere he was able to restrain her. The lady was locked away but escaped a few days later. Once more wielding a dagger, she returned to the chamber where my brother recovered—and turned the blade on herself.”
Christian imagined the horror of it and could not help but pity the man. “I grieve for your brother and his trials and appreciate the confidence you have shared, for it does aid in better understanding his objection to the marriage. However, I would have you assure him that I am of one mind only and your sister need not fear me. Indeed, I shall endeavor to be a good husband for whom she might come to care.” Of course, considering his deception, that might prove difficult. Thus, the sooner he—
“I believe you,” Sir Everard said. “Eventually, I am sure Abel will conclude the same.”
Which would be welcome, though not necessary. “’Tis time I seek my own bed, Sir Everard. Good eve.”
“Baron?”
“Aye?”
“There is one more thing I would tell regarding my sister. She is not Beatrix—in face, figure, or demeanor.”
“’Tis as I have heard told.”
“I thought you might have.” Everard widened his stance. “Still, if you are disappointed when you meet her, I pray you will compose yourself so as not to make your feelings known.”
Rancor rising, Christian said, “You make her sound uncomely, Sir Everard—hardly what one expects from a woman’s own brother.”
The knight’s face darkened. “I did not mean to imply my sister is not attractive. My intent was simply to prepare you for one who does not possess the beauty and brightness of Beatrix for which men yearn when they hold Gaenor up against her sister.”
Beatrix was breathtakingly lovely. Still, Christian had felt little more than concern for her when she had been brought to Broehne Castle barely alive, and grudging admiration when she proved herself innocent of murder. It was different with Gaenor, though he had yet to understand the stirrings felt in her presence that did not seem merely born of desire.
“Of greater hindrance,” Sir Everard continued in a slightly more genial voice, “is our oldest sister’s
Christian waited for the knight to elaborate, and when he did not, said, “Do you intend to keep me in suspense long, Sir Everard?”
“Though ‘tis not my place to tell it, I shall do so that you may better understand my brother.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Abel is fond of Gaenor—at least, as fond as he can be of a sister with whom he has only occasional contact—but his greatest objection lies in having himself known the folly of a marriage not of his choosing.”
“Your brother is wed?”
“No longer. The woman to whom he was married for ten long months is dead—by her own hand.”
“She killed herself?”
“Aye. Though her family attempted to hide the frailty of her mind, Abel knew when they met ere the wedding that something was amiss. But though he asked to be released from their betrothal, the marriage vows were spoken and, for nearly a year, he resolved to make the best of the life dealt him.” He looked to the rushes between their feet. “However, the lady, who had seemed of two minds ere their marriage, became of three, then four—one day a sweet and compliant young woman, the next a spiteful shrew, one day a clinging girl, the next a morose old woman who hid in corners and conversed with shadows.” He looked up. “Ere she took her life, voices in those shadows told her Abel was possessed of the devil and that she should kill him.”
Sympathy that Christian did not expect to feel for Everard’s brother, coiled in his chest.
“That night, when he was abed, his wife took a dagger to him.” His throat muscles convulsed with emotions that, heretofore, Christian would not have believed the knight capable of. “He should have died, for though he was able to deflect the blade, it caught his side and he bled out a goodly amount ere he was able to restrain her. The lady was locked away but escaped a few days later. Once more wielding a dagger, she returned to the chamber where my brother recovered—and turned the blade on herself.”
Christian imagined the horror of it and could not help but pity the man. “I grieve for your brother and his trials and appreciate the confidence you have shared, for it does aid in better understanding his objection to the marriage. However, I would have you assure him that I am of one mind only and your sister need not fear me. Indeed, I shall endeavor to be a good husband for whom she might come to care.” Of course, considering his deception, that might prove difficult. Thus, the sooner he—
“I believe you,” Sir Everard said. “Eventually, I am sure Abel will conclude the same.”
Which would be welcome, though not necessary. “’Tis time I seek my own bed, Sir Everard. Good eve.”
“Baron?”
“Aye?”
“There is one more thing I would tell regarding my sister. She is not Beatrix—in face, figure, or demeanor.”
“’Tis as I have heard told.”
“I thought you might have.” Everard widened his stance. “Still, if you are disappointed when you meet her, I pray you will compose yourself so as not to make your feelings known.”
Rancor rising, Christian said, “You make her sound uncomely, Sir Everard—hardly what one expects from a woman’s own brother.”
The knight’s face darkened. “I did not mean to imply my sister is not attractive. My intent was simply to prepare you for one who does not possess the beauty and brightness of Beatrix for which men yearn when they hold Gaenor up against her sister.”
Beatrix was breathtakingly lovely. Still, Christian had felt little more than concern for her when she had been brought to Broehne Castle barely alive, and grudging admiration when she proved herself innocent of murder. It was different with Gaenor, though he had yet to understand the stirrings felt in her presence that did not seem merely born of desire.
“Of greater hindrance,” Sir Everard continued in a slightly more genial voice, “is our oldest sister’s
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