Page 5 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set

H e was still angry, aye.

But Rystan should not have treated her that way. Unable to get the hurt in her eyes out of his head, he’d left his chamber to seek her out only to be told Anwen was just above him.

Freshly bathed, a fact he’d known already as some men grumbled about her special treatment, the servants’ mouths wagging about Anwen’s presence, Rystan was little prepared to see her this way.

Unguarded. Her hair, typically pulled away from her face with a small braid on each side, now hung completely free.

The words he’d prepared stuck in his throat.

“I have no wine to offer you,” she said, pulling the edges of her mantle tighter together. “But I have been provided with a warm fire.”

Following her to the wooden chairs positioned in front of it, he glanced down at the book she’d been reading. Anwen read more books than anyone he knew, including his old tutor.

“I came to offer my apologies,” he said, sitting on the rich velvet cushion. “You wished to speak to me earlier, and my behavior was less than gentlemanly.”

“It was,” she agreed, repositioning herself. Anwen’s deep brown eyes blinked, thoughtful, as if she weighed her words. “I understand your anger, Rystan. I too have been less than pleased about the circumstances which we found ourselves in these past years.”

She was, in some ways, very much her mother.

Calm. Composed. Competent, surely. Yet in private, she had been different with him. Was that woman still there, or had the baroness influenced her so completely that she would speak to him as if they were strangers?

Rystan was more forthright.

“Less than pleased? Our broken betrothal devastated me, Anwen.”

Still, no cracks in her composure. He waited for a response, wanting to grab her, hold her, kiss her until she understood the depths of that devastation. One he’d never quite gotten over.

“It was all. . . very unfortunate.”

This was not the woman he knew. She looked like her, sat like her, but the Anwen he knew had a fire in her eyes that this one did not.

“Unfortunate,” he repeated. “What is the word you use for the dissolution of our union?”

She frowned. “What word would you have me use, Rystan? It happened many years ago.”

He deserved this. For treating her as he did in the hall and below stairs. Even so. . .

“Did you wish to talk to tell me that our broken betrothal was unfortunate? Is that why you wished to speak with me?” He attempted to keep his voice steady, but Rystan was having difficulty doing so.

A flicker of. . . something. He continued to press.

“I’ve not seen you since the day we walked along the parapets, planning a future that never came to pass. A day I’ve since wondered if I dreamed, it seems so distant now.”

Her expression hardened, as if Anwen wanted to say something but held back.

His chest heaved as Rystan struggled to retain control. How could she be so dispassionate over such a matter? Unless. . . she truly no longer cared for him.

“Anwen—”

“I wished to speak with you to ask, to know for certain, why you never contacted me afterward, or at all throughout the years.”

All the fight left him.

Rystan’s entire body was flooded with disbelief at her words.

“Never contacted you? I came straight away when your mother sent word of her decision. And many times after. When I left, to fight alongside Empress Matilda’s men, I sent more missives to you than to any other. It became a jest among the men, me waiting for a response that never came.”

If he thought her question curious, as Rystan spoke, the realization crystalized.

She had not known.

“You. . . wrote me?”

His chest heaved with the weight of lost years. “Many, many, times.”

She stood and began pacing the chamber. “She would not. . . my mother is not cruel.” Anwen spoke more to herself than him. “She may not have wanted the marriage, but she would not do such a thing.”

She would. And had. No one knew it better than he. Anwen’s mother ruled with an iron fist, none would dare defy her. But he held his tongue.

Anwen spun to him.

“She told me you had made your choice. That you had cast off both the earldom and me. I remember. . . she said I’d thank her one day for sparing me a lifetime married to a man who would always put war first. But—” Her voice broke. “She never said you’d written. Or come to see me.”

Rystan closed his eyes and prayed for patience. Rage against the baroness would do little good. Not wishing to see the pain that radiated from Anwen, the stricken look on her face, he opened his eyes but stared into the fire.

Remembering.

“I came that day. And the following one. It was more than a sennight before I gave up and began to write, knowing I’d not be admitted into even the outer gate.”

He looked up.

“It occurred to me, of course, if your mother had refused me entry she may have kept some of those missives. But to retain them all so many over the years. . . she had assistance, if none could get through.”

“Sarah.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. He’d have stood, comforted her, but Anwen wiped them away as quickly as they sprung and began to pace once again. Sadness was, rather quickly, replaced with anger.

“She is not only my maid, but my friend.”

“Surely Sarah would not have?—”

Anwen spun toward him. “I asked her once if she had heard talk. . . if any of the servants had heard of missives arriving that I might not have known about. I thought you would write, or hoped for it, but when you did not. . .of course I asked my mother who said only to forget about you.”

She spoke quickly, eyes wide, Anwen clearly agitated.

“But once, I remember distinctly, I asked Sarah outright. She hesitated, just for a breath, before saying she knew of no missive. And then she brought me tea. That hesitation. . . she betrayed me, Rystan.”

“Sarah was put in a difficult position. Angering your mother could have left her without a position, a fact she knew well.”

Rystan could not sit there and watch Anwen’s trust of those closest to her shattered. He knew what such complete devastation felt like, keenly, and would not wish it for her. Without thinking through the decision, he rose and went to her.

Anwen fell into Rystan’s arms, which he wrapped around her. Her head buried in his chest, her hair smelling like lavender. . . it was the first easy breath he’d taken in many years. They stood there, listening to the crackle of logs in the fireplace for some time.

Rystan pulled away reluctantly, wishing to see her face. Anwen looked up at him as she once had. Did he dare to hope?

“I am sorry you thought I never contacted you. Surely you knew I’d not slip into the night without attempting to fight for you?”

“I thought. . . Mother said you were a man of war and would always be so.”

“She is not wrong. But she very much intended to deceive you.”

“And to break our betrothal,” Anwen stepped out of Rystan’s arms. “I asked, of course, to attend your brother’s burial and am so sorry for your loss. She forbade it. Said it would be unseemly.”

“Your mother was wrong. About that, and many other things.”

Anwen took a deep breath, clearly tired.

“You’ve had a long day. Perhaps,” he ventured. “We could speak more on the morrow?”

Her nod was quick in coming. “I would like that, very much.”

Every part of him wanted to kiss her. They were alone, a rarity for Anwen and Rystan. A misunderstanding that had kept them apart, cleared. Yet, it was not the time for kisses.

Not yet.

“I bid you adieu then,” he bowed. “And a good night.”

“And to you,” Anwen said, suddenly shy as if realizing for the first time she’d just moments ago been in his arms. “Until the morrow.”