Page 13

C olin stood still, silent and waiting, bursting with the skills he had acquired over a score and twelve years of warring, fighting, and hunting.

Hunting it was that now occupied his attentions, and he had no intentions of failing at it.

Though he was growing stiff with the lack of movement, he didn’t allow himself to shift even the slightest bit.

To alert his prey to his presence would have spelled certain failure.

So, he forced himself to wait, silently, until such time when his quarry would take flight and he would be able to pounce without mercy.

He wished, absently, that he might have a fine dinner of boar as a result of his efforts instead of merely a bride who apparently had as little enthusiasm for wedding him as he did her.

Damn her anyway.

Unfortunately, that bride had neither shown her face to be pounced upon, nor made her presence inside the solar known so he might remain silent and avoid startling her into flight.

He had, of course, considered scratching at the door in the most womanly fashion he could muster, just to see if Sybil or one of her maids would open up, but that was beneath him.

Besides, Sybil likely would have taken one glance at his less-than-pleasing visage and promptly taken flight into senselessness.

Of course, getting her to quit the chamber was proving to be even more difficult.

There was nary a sound from inside, and certainly no movement out the door.

He wondered if they were tossing the contents of their pots out the window into the garden, for no one had left the chamber since he’d been there and he’d arrived well before dawn.

No doubt they had stocked so much foodstuffs that even venturing forth for sustenance was unnecessary.

Colin couldn’t see how that was possible—unless that young Henri had been filching things from the kitchen.

Colin leaned back against the wall and sighed.

Despite his determination to wait out his bride, he was beginning to wonder if it would be worth the effort.

Even if Sybil gathered enough courage to poke her nose out the door, what would he say to her?

Come, let us sup together and I’ll display for you my fine manners?

Gillian would have aught to say about that, to be sure.

Even if he managed to get Sybil to the table, keep her from fainting, and not offend her with his bad manners, what would they talk on?

Horseflesh? The balance of the perfect blade?

Battle tactics? The saints pity him should he be reduced to listening to a woman babble about stitches and sleeve lengths and feathers and baubles for her gowns.

Now, could he have found a woman who perhaps didn’t care so much for those things, he might have been persuaded to believe that marriage could be something other than a misery.

Even Gillian, despite her insistence on those ridiculous manners at table, had more on her mind than sleeves and feathers.

The woman had been known to poke her nose in the lists now and then, just to see how the men were being trained, and to assure herself that her firstborn was proceeding with his lessons in the arts of war as he should.

Either that or she was just coming to make certain a particular three-year-old hadn’t cut off anything important with his wooden sword, but perhaps that was something better left unspeculated upon.

Nay, Gillian was a fine wench with a fine head for thinking. Colin suspected that if Sybil used her head for anything, it wasn’t for the examination of deep thoughts.

He leaned back against the wall, suppressed a very loud sigh, and prayed for a distraction. It came soon enough in the person of none other than Christopher of Blackmour. Christopher paused a pace or two away, then sniffed.

“Colin?”

Colin pursed his lips. “The very same.”

“Waiting out your bride?”

Colin scowled. “Nay, contemplating the craftsmanship of your walls and how to best hold them upright with my own fine form.”

Christopher whistled. “You’ve a foul humor today.”

“Can you fault me for it?”

“I had no such trouble with my bride.”

Colin snorted mightily. “I was there through all your pitiful attempts to woo her and I remember very well the troubles you had.”

Christopher clapped a hand on Colin’s shoulder. “I have a suggestion.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Don’t sing to her.”

“Shut up.”

Christopher laughed. “Good fortune to you, my friend. You’ll need it.”

Colin cursed him, even though he agreed that Christopher had it aright.

Getting the wench to leave the chamber would take a lifetime’s worth of luck.

Dragging her to the altar would take nothing short of ropes and a gag.

He wondered, absently, what she would blurt out when he untied her.

Nothing pleasant, he suspected. A pity they couldn’t have settled their differences on the field.

Men, he decided, were much easier to have dealings with than women.

He hadn’t passed a quarter hour in peace before Jason of Artane appeared at his elbow, looking serene and lethal, just like his sire, damn the man. Jason leaned against the wall next to Colin and folded his arms over his chest.

“Won’t come out?”

Colin scowled. “Little escapes your notice, does it?”

Jason smiled. “Her reticence would be preying even upon my sunny disposition by now. Your self-control is admirable, my lord, to seem so cheerful after so long.”

“It hasn’t been that long,” Colin grumbled. “The wench is recovering from her journey.”

“And how long do you suppose that will take?”

It was tempting to say years, but he controlled himself before he spewed out his disgust with his life and the cowardice of his future bride.

“Until she’s hungry enough, I suppose,” Colin said with a sigh.

“That could take a bit.”

Colin looked down at him archly. “Are you saying my betrothed is overplump?”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Indeed, I think you’re saying too much.”

Jason shrugged. “I could play my lute for you, if you like. Lure the poor girl from her hiding place with songs she couldn’t possibly resist.”

Colin had heard Jason’s lute playing. While it was a fair sight better than his elder brother’s, it was still not something a body would listen to unless forced. Colin shook his head quickly.

“I want her to come out, not hide beneath whatever she can drag over her ears.”

Jason pursed his lips, pushed off the wall, and walked away. “My ballads are not so foul.”

Colin had the brief satisfaction of realizing he’d won at least one battle of wits and words that day. That satisfaction was short-lived, however, for who should be coming his way but Gillian of Blackmour, and she looked to be itching to cure some or other of his flaws.

By the saints, were these souls banded together in planning their assaults on him, or was he merely in the midst of a powerfully large piece of poor fortune?

He scowled at Gillian before she’d even opened her mouth, but that didn’t seem to deter her.

“You’re waiting patiently,” she said with a smile.

Colin scrutinized her smile, but found that it contained no teasing or other unwholesome elements. So, he grudgingly allowed her another chance to comport herself well.

“I am an extraordinarily patient man,” he agreed.

She paused. “You know,” she said slowly, “perhaps this one isn’t the one for you.”

He could scarce contain his mighty snort. “You speak as if I had a choice.”

“What of Aliénore of Solonge?” she asked. “Does not your betrothal to her still stand?”

“The saints pity me if it does,” he said grimly, “for then I would find myself saddled with two wenches.”

“But if that betrothal still stands, how are you to wed with Lady Sybil?”

“Aliénore is dead,” Colin said flatly, “and at this moment I envy her that peace.”

“I have the oddest feeling that she isn’t dead at all,” Gillian said. “Perhaps you should search. Take a month and see where her trail led.”

Colin shifted irritably, and that he had allowed such a display of his irritation irritated him further. He gave Gillian a look that he hoped spoke fully of his displeasure with her choice of subject.

“I want a wench courageous enough to come face me, and of more wit than to get herself killed fleeing across the continent by herself,” he said curtly. “And that wench from Solonge obviously possesses neither of those qualities.”

“And Sybil does?”

“At least she is here,” Colin said, then clamped his lips shut.

Aye, the wench was there, surely, but she certainly hadn’t had the courage to face him.

And he suspected that her wit wouldn’t keep her safe inside even an inner bailey, if the mere sight of a manly man was enough to fell her from her horse.

But he needed to say none of that to Gillian. He glared at her and was mildly satisfied to see her lower her eyes.

“I still think you should search,” Gillian said clearly.

And then she was trotting down the passageway before Colin could gather his wits to bellow at her.

He was momentarily tempted to do it just the same, but that would have alerted Sybil to his presence and that he couldn’t have.

So he clamped his lips shut and cursed Christopher’s wife silently.

Damn her. Meddling with his manners, meddling with his matrimonial plans, meddling with whatever suited her fancy.

How did Christopher bear it in his own life?

Bravely and apparently quite happily, Colin conceded with a grumble. Either that or matrimony had ruined what few wits Christopher possessed. A wife? Ha! Unpleasant creatures just itching to put their hands in a man’s life and stir it all about until he scarce recognized it as his own.

He contemplated that grim possibility for far too long. Indeed, he plunged himself into enough of a foul humor that he began to consider giving up the siege. Aye, perhaps that was the only solution. The wench could stay inside the solar forever. It would save him having to wed her.