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C olin parried with Sir Etienne and, finding nothing that required his immediate attention, turned his mind to other things.

Namely the fact that his own smell was driving him mad, and his bride apparently agreed.

Surely only a hefty waft of perfumed oil could have been what had knocked her straight from her horse in such a manner.

The saints only knew where she was now. Likely weeping buckets in some corner of Gillian’s solar, comforted by masses of women whose task it was to comfort those who wept in such volume.

The saints be praised he hadn’t been called upon to join that unhappy group.

He fended off Sir Etienne’s aggressive attack with something akin to boredom.

Would there ever come a man who could truly make him sit up and take notice?

Artane himself, perhaps. Lord Robin had white enough in his crown, but he was still a joyously wily warrior who delighted in nothing more than a good skirmish in the lists.

His get were sport enough, to be sure, though of Artane’s three sons, Kendrick was surely the most skilled.

Jason would be just as skilled, though, in time.

Colin took every opportunity to polish up that lad’s swordplay so he might someday have a worthy opponent.

Jason was improving, to be sure, but still Colin found himself left vaguely unsatisfied.

One thing was certain: It would not be this Sir Etienne of Maignelay to make him break a sweat.

So, with a sigh of resignation, he continued his play but turned his mind to other matters.

His bride was, unfortunately, the first thing that came to mind.

He could recall little of her save masses of pale hair escaping a wimple that could have covered the heads and throats of a half a dozen women with ease.

Her eyes he’d had but a brief glimpse of before they’d rolled straight back in her head and she’d pitched off her horse onto that pitiful guardsman who’d been completely overcome by his mistress’s substantial self.

“I see fear in your eyes,” Sir Etienne said triumphantly. “Do you yield?”

Colin blinked in surprise. “Yield?” he echoed, fair dumbfounded by the very idea.

“I can be merciful,” Sir Etienne said magnanimously.

Colin honestly wasn’t sure if he should laugh or run the fool through for his idiocy. Surely the latter would have been a mercy to all involved. The very idea of him, Colin of Berkhamshire, needing any mercy was just so ridiculous, he had no idea how to respond.

Obviously Sir Etienne thought he was speechless with fear.

“To save your pride, then,” Sir Etienne said, “we’ll continue.”

Colin scowled and dismissed the imbecile before him, though he did, of course, continue parrying with him.

Fool or not, the man was hoisting a sword and had a faint idea of what to do with it once it was up in the air.

Colin was in need enough of distraction that he would take it from wherever it might come.

Unfortunately, Sir Etienne was a poor enough distraction that Colin found he couldn’t keep his thoughts away from his pitiful future—a future he was just certain would be full of torments any man with sense would have avoided like the pox itself.

Marriage. A bride who fainted at the sight of him. His father gloating over finally having saddled him with a wife.

It was enough to make him wish for a hasty retreat to his bed for the afternoon.

He sighed deeply. He would have to consider his journey soon, he supposed, before his bride threw herself off the parapet, or before Colin threw Sir Etienne off the like—and given how much he hated being that far off the ground, the latter was saying something indeed.

It was growing more tempting by the heartbeat, though, for the longer they parried, the more vocal Sir Etienne became about his skill and Colin’s supposed apparent awe of the same.

Colin could finally bear the braggart no longer.

He resheathed his sword in disgust, leaving the other man fighting against air.

“You babble overmuch,” Colin said briskly, then walked off the field.

Mayhap he could get himself back to the house and down to the cellar before anyone caught him.

Then he would douse himself in ale and rid himself of the stench that bathing and perfuming had given him.

Then, he supposed with a heavy sigh, he would have to seek out his bride and make her acquaintance.

If she could cease fainting long enough for him to do so, of course.

Colin strode back to the hall. His nose recognized the pleasing odors of a yet-to-arrive afternoon repast the moment he entered.

He immediately put aside all foolish thoughts of parleying with his bride and made his way without interruption to the high table, took his seat, and looked about him hopefully.

When sustenance did not immediately appear before him, he pulled out his knife and began to bang on the wood.

“That really isn’t polite.”

Colin scowled as his primary tormentor, Gillian of Blackmour, sat down next to him.

True that she was his dearest friend’s wife.

True, too, that he was rather fond of her himself, so he couldn’t just up and bellow at her to be silent.

But could he bear a meal with her judging his every move and measuring it against some ideal of perfection no man had ever attained?

“I was,” he said loftily, “testing the balance of my blade.”

“You were,” she said archly, “banging for your supper. Patience is a virtue.”

“Patience is a virtue that leaves the patient weak-kneed from hunger,” Colin countered. “I have manly business. I need to be fed. I smell, but I do not see. Cook apparently needs to be prodded to action.”

Gillian raised a single finger and suddenly food appeared before them.

Colin was quite frankly amazed at her powers of persuasion, but he wasn’t going to let that admiration of the like get in the way of getting something to his mouth as quickly as possible.

He looked to Gillian’s far side to find that Christopher had joined them and was making quick work of piling pleasing things upon his trencher.

Well, if he was doing it, Colin could as well, without fear of a scolding.

He reached for a platter only to hear the dreaded tsk-tsk from Christopher’s lady.

Colin glared at her. “What now?”

“You should serve me first.”

“What the bloody hell for?” Colin asked, astonished. “Have you been out in the lists all morning, working like a fiend?”

Food spewed well across the table as Christopher guffawed out what he’d managed to ingest without having been forced to serve his bride. And a damned goodly bit of food it looked to have been.

“I am your trencher partner,” Gillian said.

Don’t want you was on the tip of his tongue, but this was the lady Gillian, after all.

Colin found himself looking down into her sweet green eyes.

When she gave him that smile that seemed to bring all men with any sense straight to their knees, he knew there was no point in protesting.

She would have her way with him despite his best intentions.

“Chris?” he said conversationally.

“Aye?” his friend answered around a substantial hunk of bread halfway into his mouth.

“I hate you.”

Christopher only continued to chew contentedly. Colin glared at Gillian, just to let her know he wasn’t going soft, then with a grumble set to topping her side of the trencher with things that looked fairly edible to him. The saints only knew what Gillian would think of them.

He waited until she had begun to delicately pick through the offerings before he applied himself earnestly to the task of filling his belly.

Meat, the occasional vegetable, bread, cheese—in truth he couldn’t have cared what he ate as long as there was a goodly amount of it and it was unimpeded in its progress from the table to his mouth.

Once his initial appetite was appeased, he looked about for things to fill in the cracks, as it were. He considered a bowl of eggs. The saints only knew how Cook had decided to ruin these today. Colin reached out and poked one clear through with his finger.

“Colin!” Gillian exclaimed. “Do not poke the eggs.”

“I want to know what’s in ’em.”

“Then take a bite.”

“And what if I don’t like it?”

“Swallow it anyway.”

“Daft notion,” he grunted under his breath, and reached for some odd bit of stuff smothered in some odd bit of sauce. Trying to be polite—the saints pity him—he took a bite.

And spewed it immediately forth where it deserved to be, namely on the floor where the dogs could have at it.

“Don’t spit!” Gillian exclaimed.

He pulled up a comer of the cloth covering the table and wiped his mouth liberally.

“And don’t use the cloth to wipe your mouth!”

He reached in desperation for the goblet of wine before him with every intention of downing the entire cupful. Or he would have, had it not been pulled away from him before he could get it all down.

“What?” he demanded.

“Share,” she warned.

He tried to tug it from her, but she was stronger than she looked.

He pulled, but she frowned at him, as if she thought that would persuade him to let go.

With narrowed eyes, he released the cup, but she’d been pulling so hard that the half-full cup flew from her fingers and landed with a splat and a ding on the side of Christopher’s head.

He, predictably, bellowed with rage.

“Not my fault,” Colin said, shoving back his chair. “I’m going elsewhere to eat in peace!”