Like what? Vilda wondered as she breathed in the scent of roses where her head brushed that of the mistress of Etcheverry. She had no sister, so that could not compare. She had female cousins, but this felt more than that. Once she had close friends, but still this was not that. This was…
Like the clasp of my mother, she thought. But that was all wrong, this woman not only of an age near her own but a stranger.
Rhiannyn released her, and the woman’s second smile was lovelier than the first given when Guy drew Vilda forward and introduced her. “Lady Alvilda, wife of my husband’s dearest friend, you are well come at Etcheverry.”
Vilda tried to return the smile, but it felt dull, and though she told herself it was because the ride had been as long as that of the day before, it was more than that. It was the unknown of this place, its people, and the night ahead. Especially the night ahead.
Were Guy and she given their own chamber, there would be no excuse not to consummate. Though she was not certain she was ready for that, more she questioned if he was. He had been considerate throughout the journey, but the distance between them had grown with each league and she feared it was born of regret. It was no cause for resentment, but it made her ache.
“Lady Alvilda?”
As if a half-wit, she had drifted away. Feeling the gaze of all, she said, “Forgive me, ’twas a long journey. Much gratitude to you for your kindness, Lady Rhiannyn.”
The woman took her arm. “My husband having sent a messenger ahead of your arrival, a chamber has been prepared for you and Sir Guy. Come.”
As Vilda was drawn away, she sought her husband’s gaze. Would he share the room with her this eve or sleep elsewhere?
Hardly had their eyes met than another claimed his attention.
“Sir Guy! You are returned!”
He looked to one who entered the hall by way of a door at the far end and traversed the distance with a limp.
Lady Rhiannyn having halted their progress, she turned Vilda back. “My brother-in-law, Christophe,” she said, and in response to a frown, added, “Aye, he bears little resemblance and is of far different temperament from my husband. You will like him.”
The young man embraced Guy and asked, “What is this about you bringing a bride to Etcheverry?”
Guy nodded at her. “Ere Lady Alvilda withdraws to refresh herself, I shall introduce you.”
He who came to stand before her was of far slighter build than his brother, boyishly handsome, and exuded an ease she could not imagine the Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings had ever known though she had yet to glimpse that side of Maxen Pendery about which callous Normans composed songs.
“Well come, Lady.” When she set her hand in his, he kissed the backs of her fingers and said in her language, “A fitting name for one so lovely.”
And he is a flatterer, she thought as she withdrew her hand. Lovely is possible at my very best, and this is nearly my worst.
Feeling more bedraggled, she said, “That is kind of you…” Unable to recall his name, inwardly she groaned.
“I am Christophe—simply and happily Christophe.”
Movement at her side alerting her to Lady Rhiannyn’s departure, she looked to the woman who crossed to her husband, noted Guy also watched, and returned her gaze to the young man. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Christophe.”
He leaned in. “Is it true you are cousin to the famed Hereward?”
She stared, not because he knew of that relation surely learned from the messenger, but what sounded admiration in describing Hereward as famed rather than outlawed.
“Forgive me, Lady,” he said. “That was ill-mannered.”
“Not at all.” She nodded. “Hereward is my cousin.”
“Doubtless, much tale there, but I shall restrain curiosity so you may gain your rest.” He looked to where his sister-in-law had been and, blinking as if surprised to find she had slipped away, peered over his shoulder.
Vilda followed his gaze to where the lady and her husband conversed and saw the latter’s face that had eased upon his reunion with his wife was taut again.
The Baron of Etcheverry straightened from bending near. “You were right to do so,” he said. “We shall send him again, Fricwebba.”
That was all Vilda heard of their exchange, but as she reflected on the Saxon word for peacekeeper he had fondly named his wife that could be offensive if that was all she was—a means of keeping peace between her people and his—it became apparent Guy had heard more.
“Do not!” he called, striding back the way he had come. “Leave it be, Maxen.”
Lady Rhiannyn said something to her husband, then to Guy as he halted before them.
When Guy and Maxen moved toward the great doors, Vilda looked back at Christophe. “Of what do they speak?”
Distress pinched his face. “We were to have guests on the morrow, but when Rhiannyn learned her husband returned this day, she sent word they should delay their visit. Unfortunately, the messenger’s horse was lamed en route and the man arrived just ahead of you to gain another mount.”
“Then we have displaced your guests,” Vilda said with apology.
“It…well…” When his sister-in-law reappeared, he said with relief, “Lady Alvilda is concerned with displacing my sis—er, those who were to arrive on the morrow.”
He was not soon enough in correcting his error, and now Vilda understood what transpired. Unless Maxen and he had more than one sister, Guy’s former betrothed was expected here. And Guy was not opposed to seeing her again.
“I think it best you explain it, Rhiannyn,” Christophe said.
“I shall. You go to your herbary?”
“Aye, much work to be done.” Color crept into his face. “So much I would be grateful for help.”
Her mouth curved. “If
