Dragon's Knight
Not sure whom she was angrier with—herself, her father, or the knight—she stalked in the direction of her chamber. And as she went, she could not help wondering that one of them had not offered to carry her poor exhausted little person to bed.
The momentary image of herself in Jarrod Maxwell’s arms caused her body to heat in a new and far more disturbing way that made her groan her anger aloud.
Jarrod rose early and went down to the meal.
Although his attention was mixed and had been since arriving at Bransbury, he did his utmost to concentrate on what must be done to find his friend. Jarrod could not help feeling that there was something about that drawing of Jack, something that kept prodding at the back of his mind. Yet he could not quite determine what it might be.
He remained distracted by thoughts of Aislynn Greatham. Although he had realized that he was drawn to her because she was Christian’s sister, that realization had not lessened the surprising strength of his reaction to her.
In that one instant last night when he had touched her hand, and then again later, for the briefest moment, when she had seemed to be looking at him as if…
He shook his head to clear it. He did not want to think about the way she had been looking at him, nor his unfathomable response, that strange tugging inside him. She was Christian’s sister.
It was far better for his peace of mind to think on the obvious anger in her gaze as she had left his chamber the night before. Clearly she was an unpredictable young wench to show such resentment in the face of his and her father’s consideration of the late hour.
Jarrod paused at the entrance to the hall and realized that only a few of the servants were stirring. He felt a sense of relief that he need not linger to break his fast with the family. It was surely due to his uneasiness over not only Aislynn’s but also her father’s making such an effort to see him made comfortable.
Jarrod was not accustomed to being the brunt of such coddling. He was a soldier, not visiting royalty. Even at Avington, with Simon and Isabelle, he had gone about, as he was accustomed to, without so much fuss.
Last night had been his first bath in a tub in some time. His baths were taken in whatever body of water he might come across. And that was the way Jarrod preferred it. He required no luxuries and wanted none. He neither wanted to become soft, nor to become beholden to anyone.
Yet he could not deny that the warm tub of water would have been relaxing had it not been for the fact that he kept getting images of a pair of periwinkle-blue eyes each time he closed his own.
With a silent groan of frustration, Jarrod approached a slender, dark-haired woman in a clean woolen gown and said, “Might I trouble you for a slice of bread and meat?”
As she passed an assessing brown gaze over him, putting hard, muscled arms on her narrow hips, he realized it was the woman, Margaret, who had come to Christian’s chamber the previous night. “You may, my lord, but would it not be better to eat a proper meal?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. Yet I would get an early start.”
She nodded. “As you will, my lord.” She paused then before going. “It is good of you to come, my lord, to help to find our lord Christian.” He could see the sudden misting in those brown eyes. “We are sore grateful to you.”
Feeling uncomfortable with her emotion and gratitude, Jarrod nonetheless reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. “He is my friend.” He was not acting out of some selfless wish to help, but out of his own desire to find Christian. Jarrod wished they would all see that.
Her gaze registered understanding and she bowed deeply in return, then went on her way.
His discomfort with her thanks, with all of their thanks, had not lessened as he received the food with a self-conscious nod and strode from the hall. As quickly as his horse could be fetched, he left the keep, turning his mount to the open countryside at a gallop.
Although Jarrod knew that Lord Greatham had questioned everyone in the immediate vicinity of Bransbury, he began at the beginning. He needed to set some order in his mind to his own search.
The village lay nestled to one side of the castle, but Jarrod moved directly off to the left of it. He meant to leave the village for later as he moved around the demesne in a circular motion.
Each man, woman and child must be thoroughly questioned. Without even realizing, someone might have seen Christian as he left. If he could find such a soul, Jarrod would then know which road and direction he had taken.
Yet thorough as he was, helpful as all he spoke to were, Jarrod learned nothing new that day, even though he spent all the hours between leaving the keep and long after dark on his effort. Neither did he the next day.
Though he did see and discuss what he had been about with her father, Jarrod did not see Aislynn Greatham during either of those two days, returning to the keep after she had retired. He told himself that he had no care for this either way.
His last thought each night was of her, but this was because she was Christian’s sister and he was sympathetic to her pain.
Chapter Three
Aislynn woke quite early, after a restless night—as each night had been since Jarrod Maxwell had arrived at Bransbury. She kept telling herself that his speaking to her as if she was a child did not plague her in the least.
Yet her agitation worsened when she remembered how she had felt as his black eyes looked directly into hers. It was as if he were looking into her soul, making her feel far from the child he believed her to be.
She tried to wish Jarrod Maxwell had never come to Bransbury, but the very notion was shockingly painful. Surely it was due to her belief that he would be able to help them find Christian.
Even though there had been no real developments in the days the knight had been at Bransbury, she was not willing to relinquish hope. She was, in spite of all that had happened in her life, including the early death of her mother and her brother’s long absence, an optimist at heart. And it was this sense of optimism that she drew on to assure herself that she would conquer this strange fascination with Jarrod Maxwell.
She parted the heavy rose velvet curtains at the side of her large oaken bed and stepped out onto the carpet that covered the cold stone floor beside the bed. There was no sense in building a fire when the day’s duties would keep her from returning to the comfortably furnished chamber for more than minutes at a time. Shivering, Aislynn dressed warmly, as she always did on chill mornings, in a shift, a heavy underdress of dark green linen, and an enveloping over gown with wide sleeves that showed the tightly fitted sleeves of the gown beneath. She then donned her veil, barbette and a warm cap with pearl trim that matched the butter-yellow brocade of her gown.
Leaving her chamber, she went to the kitchen, which lay at the end of a long corridor off the hall, as she did each morning before going in to break her own fast. One of the duties she most enjoyed was flavoring the large pots of stews and boiled meats that were served at the midday meal. The herbs that she grew in her own garden served as a constant inspiration for new and interesting combinations of flavor. And many about the keep said that the teas she brewed from her herbs were quite effective at alleviating minor ailments of the head and stomach.
This day she paused at the entrance to the long narrow chamber with its well-scrubbed counters, great ovens and wide hearth. With one of the two enormous pots that hung from iron hooks on either side of the hearth broken, only one rested over the low-burning fire. Although this made keeping up with work in the kitchens difficult, the women had managed to do well thus far, roasting more of the meat than was their usual custom.
And strangely Aislynn had not even thought on the matter of how much thyme might be added in to a particular recipe in relationship to the amount of rosemary, or any other such combination since the first night Jarrod had come to Bransbury.
Jarrod, whose mysterious black eyes made her heart pound each time he looked at her.
With irritation she realized that she had allowed her thoughts to go back to that man once more. Sharply Aislynn returned her attention to her responsibilities.
It should have soothed her that all was in order, as it was every morning with Margaret awaiting her instructions on which of the containers of herbs and spices would be used this day. It did not.
Margaret had mothered Aislynn since her earliest memory and Aislynn loved her. As a small child she had often been held close to the woman who was lean and wiry from constant activity. Even at rest, the head woman seemed always about to jump up and see to some task.
Yet the fact that she had inadvertently seen Jarrod Maxwell comforting Margaret in the hall on his first morning here had left Aislynn uncomfortable in Margaret’s company. She had been so moved by the brief gesture that she had not shown her presence, but had stayed out of sight until he was gone. And each time she saw Margaret she was reminded of his kindness.
As Aislynn approached, Margaret swung around from where she stood stirring the pot and smiled at Aislynn. “Good morrow.”
Aislynn nodded. “Good morrow.”
“What think you this morn?” She nodded her head toward the row of small containers in which the flavorings were held, the main stores being kept in a cool dry cellar.
Aislynn looked at them and frowned, her mind devoid of any inspiration. Finally she admitted, “I have little hunger and naught seems appealing to me. What think you?”
Margaret looked at her closely. “Are you well, Aislynn?”
She avoided looking into those brightly observant brown eyes, fearful that all she was trying not to think on would be revealed to the woman who knew her so well. She spoke the truth without telling all of the truth. “Aye, I am concerned for Christian.”
Margaret clearly failed to note any undue disquiet in her mistress, asking, “Have you seen Sir Jarrod this morn?”
“Nay, why do you ask?”
“I wish to catch that lad before he sets off without anything to eat. We must have a care for his wellbeing for he seems to have little enough, if any.”
Aislynn bit her lower lip, guilt stabbing her sharply. In spite of his shortcomings, Jarrod Maxwell was a guest at Bransbury. It was her duty, as the lady of the keep, to have a care for his comfort.
She held up a hand. “I will see to it. You have enough to attend without adding that to your other duties.”
Quickly, before she could give herself time to think, Aislynn went back down the corridor that connected the kitchens to the main part of the keep. On entering the Hall she cast a glance around the chamber.
She did not see him. Hurriedly she asked one of the serfs who were assembling the trestle tables. “Royce, have you seen Sir Jarrod?”
The serving man nodded. “Aye, he went from the keep some minutes ago.”
Clearly the knight meant to leave without eating, as Margaret feared. Aislynn hurried out into the cold morning after him, knowing he would first fetch his horse.
The stable came into her sight just in time for her to see a mounted Jarrod Maxwell emerge from the wide double door. He started across the greensward toward the gate and she called out quickly, “Sir Jarrod.”
He swung around immediately, his dark gaze searching her out with obvious surprise and what looked to be reluctance. But it was quickly masked by cool civility as he turned the white stallion and came toward her.
Not caring for that expression of reluctance, however brief, Aislynn raised her chin as she waited for him.
Sir Jarrod halted the restless stallion at her side. “May I be of assistance, Lady Aislynn?”
In spite of her irritation with him, she answered, “I thought to see that you had something to eat before you left the castle.” A desire to hide any real interest in him made her add, “Actually it was the head woman, Margaret, who thought of you. I simply realized it was my own duty and not hers to see you were looked after.”
His lips curved into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “You have done your duty by me. You may rest easy.”
She grimaced, wrapping her arms around herself as she realized that it was not her intention to be surly no matter what his opinion of her might be. “I did not mean to imply…Aside from your being here to help us find Christian, you are a guest at Bransbury. We do not receive many guests and it is not only my father’s but my intent that you be treated with the utmost hospitality and honor.”
Those dark eyes changed, narrowed, studying her with an expression she did not understand, and Aislynn could no longer hold them. She looked at the ground as a shiver took her and she wrapped her arms about herself.
He said softly, “You’ve come out without your cloak.”
His changed tone made her raise her head.
Before she could even think, Jarrod Maxwell was on the ground beside her, slipping his own cloak about her shoulders, the cloak that was still warm from the heat of his body. There was a new tingling along her flesh that had naught to do with cold.
Immediately she made to remove the cloak, whispering, “Please, there is no need for you to…”
He reached out to hold it together in front of her and Aislynn looked up at him, her eyes caught once again by his as he said, “Do not be silly. You are cold.” His gaze softened as did his voice, the huskiness of his tone making her shiver in a different way, a pleasurable way. “I do thank you for your concern for my well-being and it has already been brought home to me that you and your father are kind and generous folk. But you should not have come out here without a cloak.”
“I simply thought to catch you before you could leave the keep without some sustenance.”
A soft laugh escaped him. “Let me assure you. I am quite unaccustomed to being fussed over and am more than able to look after my own needs.”
She was surprised at the huskiness of her own voice as she replied, “So you have said, but mayhap you should allow yourself to be looked after. At least a little.”
He looked away from her, his gaze distant. “Nay, there is nothing to be gained in becoming soft.”
She frowned at this. “It is not softness to allow others to show kindness. The receiving of kindnesses takes as much strength as the giving of them. You seem willing enough to care for others but unwilling to receive care.”
His lips twisted wryly, his expression suddenly patronizing. “What would one of your tender years know of such things?”
Her frown deepened as a wave of renewed ire swept through her and she groaned in frustration. “Why do you persist in saying such things to me?”
His black brows arched high in obvious amazement at her animosity. “What things?”
She put her hands on her hips. “You address me as if I am a child.”
“But you are a child.”
She raised her head high, made bold by the anger running through her veins. “I may be small of stature, my lord, but I am no child and you should know this. Many women are several years wed by my age. I myself will be married ere many months have passed.”
A strange ripple of something dark and unreadable passed over his exotically handsome face, leaving as quickly as it had appeared before he said, “But how could this be. You were an infant when last I saw you.”
She sighed. “I was six and more than thirteen years have passed. I am nineteen years of age.”
He took a deep breath, a flicker of uncertainty passing through his eyes now, as he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her. “But I thought…” He drew himself up. “Nonetheless, you are my friend…my brother’s sister.”
Impatience tinged her voice. “Pray what can you mean by that, Sir Jarrod? I have not said that I am not Christian’s sister. And what has that to do with my age?”
He looked into her eyes, his own searching and confused as, far from answering her questions, he asked one of his own. “How could I have been so very mistaken?”
Aislynn scowled again, drawing on anger to mask her own disquiet. “That, my lord, only you can answer. Haps you have your own reasons for wanting it to be true.”
As soon as the words were said, Aislynn wished them back with all that was in her. Whatever could have possessed her to speak thusly? She certainly did not mean to imply that he had any interest in…
It was more than obvious that he did not. Any more than she was interested in him. She was to be married.
Aislynn was distantly aware of that displeased expression returning to his depthless black eyes once more. His voice was barely audible. “Just what are you accusing me of?”
She tried to hold her ground, yet the madness of her words could not be defended. She faltered, sputtering, “I…oh…I meant nothing…I…”
And suddenly Aislynn could think of nothing save getting away from that measuring black gaze. She parted the cloak and dropped it to the ground before he could move to halt her. She then swung around and ran from Jarrod Maxwell as quickly as her feet would take her.
In some ways the morning after Jarrod’s encounter with Aislynn passed in the same fashion as previous ones since his arrival at Bransbury. He questioned, in an orderly fashion, each man, woman and child in his path.
Yet his attention was divided as he went from farm, to woodsman’s croft, to mill, spiraling out from the immediate area around the demesne to the next village and learning nothing. He could not forget the conversation that had passed between himself and Aislynn. He could, in fact barely credit that it had even taken place. Recalling the flash of womanly fire in her eyes, the noble dignity of her stance, in spite of her anger when she had told him her age, made him wonder afresh how he could have been so very wrong.
Again he recalled her seething outrage when she had informed him that she was to be married. Jarrod could not halt a renewed rush of disbelief as well as an unmistakable and unexplainable sense of regret, both of which he quickly dismissed.
He had only felt protective of her—brotherly. It was those brotherly feelings that made him hesitate at the thought of her being wed. Any brother would wonder if his sister was ready for marriage, even one who was, by her own declaration, well into her womanhood.
If he had only been thinking clearly he would have told her this.
He could not do so now. For any attempt at explanation might be misinterpreted as…well, he was not certain how it might be misinterpreted. He only knew it might be.
God’s teeth, he swore as he realized that he had turned the stallion off the path without even realizing it. Had he not told himself that he would not become involved with those here at Bransbury?
There would be no explanations made to the noble lady Aislynn. He would finish his tasks here as quickly as possible and be on his way. In the meantime he would not allow Aislynn Greatham to get beneath his skin.
It was his own lack of concentration, as much as hunger, that drove him back to the keep earlier in the evening than on previous days. These things, and the realization that he would need to remain away the whole of the night if he was to go on to the next village.
The sun was still fairly high over the curtain wall when Jarrod rode through the gate into the bailey. He realized that his passage was marked by many, as it had been since his arrival. Jarrod knew that the castle folk hoped he would be able to find the young lord, as he was called here at Bransbury.
Jarrod took his horse to the stables and gave him a good rubdown, before supplying him with a portion of feed. The stallion was not only a mount but also a companion to him. The well-proportioned horse, with its flowing white mane and tail had been bred in the Holy Land. It was smaller than most destriers, but its stamina and strength were equal to its beauty.
When he left the stable, Jarrod started toward the great gray form of the keep. His path led him near to the low stone structure of the kitchens. As he drew closer, he became aware of a group of people gathered around a wagon from which hung numerous goods.
A tinker. Jarrod was suddenly brought to alertness.
Here would be someone he had not questioned concerning Christian. And perhaps Lord Greatham had not done so either, for the peddlers did not linger often in one place but quickly moved on to the next likely sale. He knew his host was not in the keep this day, but had gone to make another attempt to negotiate a peace between the feuding Welsh.
Jarrod approached the group around the wagon with a determined step. It was not until he was directly upon the eight or ten women who ringed the wagon, and the short, dark man who stood beside it, that he realized that at the forefront of the group stood none other than Aislynn Greatham.
A wave of not only reluctance, but more shockingly, intense awareness washed through him and Jarrod’s feet came to a standstill. Shocked after all he had resolved within himself this very day, Jarrod found himself stepping backward into the shadow of the wall.
He told himself that he was not avoiding the woman, he would simply rather question the tinker alone.
None of those gathered around the wagon seemed to have taken any note of his presence, though Aislynn did glance in his direction briefly and he held very still. He felt an uncommon relief when she turned back to the tinker, who began to extol, in eloquent terms, the virtues of the huge iron pot that rested upon the ground before him. When he was finished he cast a beaming smile upon the lady of the keep.
Jarrod watched as Aislynn shrugged, saying, “I might be able to put it to some use.”
The peddler’s dark eyes continued to smile with good nature as he nodded. “Aye. This pot will be invaluable to the lady who purchases it. It will hold more laundry, more stew, more of whatever a lady might choose than either of those in yon kitchen.”
Aislynn shrugged and Jarrod realized that she wisely neglected to mention that one of those now had a crack in it. To do so would very likely influence the value of this one. She said with perfect unconcern, “How much?”
The man named a price.
Aislynn laughed softly. “I could not find my way to paying more than half that amount.”
The man held up his hands. “I am a man of business, my lady. I must recoup the cost to myself in order to feed my five children.” He named a sum that was halfway between his own first figure and hers.
Again Aislynn shrugged. “I am sure that some other lady will be happy to pay that amount.” She turned away.
With a heavy sigh, the man threw up his hands. “For you, Lady Aislynn, only for you would I make such a sacrifice. The pot is yours.”
She swung around, reaching for the purse that hung from a cord at her tiny waist, even as she motioned to the women. Two of them moved to take up the pot by its handle and carry it into the kitchen.
The peddler made a great show of continuing to emit heavy sighs as Aislynn dropped the coins into the palm of his hand. But there was no mistaking that his eyes had lost none of their humor. Neither did they disguise the trace of self-satisfaction in the curve of his lips.
With the transaction completed, the fellow grinned once more. “Now I wonder if I might interest either you, or any of your women, Lady Aislynn, in a bit of anything more frivolous.”
Without waiting for a reply, he swung around and flipped up a shutter along the side of the wagon to reveal a tray full of fripperies. Among them were inexpensively made bobbles, threads and ribbons.
As if of a single mind, the women stepped closer, Aislynn included.
Jarrod watched as Aislynn reached out to finger the end of a periwinkle-blue ribbon, then a much deeper sapphire one, which lay beside it. One of the women said, “The darker one would match your new gown, my lady. Of course, it would not be seen lest you leave your head uncovered.”