Read His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) for Free Online

cousin?
    “But ’tis me Sir Penley wants!”
    Her uncle turned to spear her with an ugly stare. “Aye, and well I know it. I have seen the lust in his eyes when he looks upon you. Think you I don’t know he plans to ask me for your hand?”
    “But you cannot alter the course of love,” she blurted.
    Bardrick’s mouth turned up in a sneer. “I already have.”
    Icy fingers of anguish squeezed Gwenyth’s heart. She wanted to ask if her uncle could indeed be so cruel, but she knew the answer. This was the man she had seen starve a headstrong servant near to death, the man who had ordered a starving poacher to be rendered sightless for his thieving.
    This was the man who had stripped her of everything dear.
    “Go home to your husband. Warm his bed and keep your viper tongue in your head. If the drought ends, I shall be pleased enough to allow you to visit. If not, expect never to see Penhurst again.”
    “But—”
    “Get out of my sight, girl. And do not come back, for I will see you dead.”
    “But—”
    “Out!” he roared.
    Tears stinging her eyes, Gwenyth ran out the door, down the stairs, and into the inner bailey. She darted behind the chapel as tears ran down her face unchecked.
    Spotting the tunnel entrance, Gwenyth hunched down to wriggle inside. Ten feet away stood Sir Penley looking tall and elegant in his finery. His light brown hair gleamed in the sun, and his straight, thin nose was perfectly in profile. She would miss his tender heart, his smile. She began to cry harder.
    Bristling braies, what was she to do now? Her love was lost to her, and she was wed to a sullen eremite who might well practice the devil’s work instead of God’s! She was chained by the bonds of marriage to a man who could never give her the home and family of her dreams.
     
    * * * *
     
    At the crackle of leaves beneath quick feet, Aric rose and peered out the window. His wife had returned quickly from Penhurst and, judging by her red, swollen eyes, none too happily.
    Christ’s blood, female tears. He who had made war all his life—and made a name for himself doing it—felt uncertain at the sight of her tears. He sighed, trying to decide what Drake or Kieran would do, besides laugh until their man parts turned blue at his discomfort.
    Lady Gwenyth trounced through the door and slammed it behind her. Without a glance in his direction, she sat on the edge of the bed, her back toward him. He watched her shoulders shake, though she made no sound. Aric frowned. No wails, no catching of breath?
    He leaned to the side in order to catch a glimpse of the outline of her face. Gwenyth’s milk-smooth cheeks were splotchy and mottled red. Her small square chin quivered. She was indeed crying.
    Backing away, Aric turned and made his way to the door. Outside, he settled himself in a chair under the cottage’s thatched eaves. He retrieved his half-formed wooden carving from beside the chair and his knife from his belt.
    Whittling absently, he let her cry alone. She needed privacy to battle her uncle’s ill-treatment of her and time to conquer her sorrow. Who knew better than he that such feeling was best harnessed alone?
    Still, her sobs, which had grown louder, disquieted him. Why he could not say. He turned his attention back to his carving.
    Minutes later, he realized all was silent once more and rose to peer inside the dwelling’s window. She had flung herself across the tidy bed in his absence. His pillow was quite wet, his bedcovers tousled. But her still body and occasional indrawn breath told him the crying had stopped.
    Aric entered the domain to fetch her a cup of water from the bucket and a cloth from the table. He returned to Gwenyth’s side and paused. Part of him felt an inexplicable urge to touch her, though he knew she would not welcome it.
    Frowning, he cleared his throat. “Water?”
    She jerked upright and whirled to face him. Strands of her long chestnut hair clung to her wet, spiked lashes, to her moist, red