Page 13 of Taming the Earl (The Earls of the North #3)

T ogether with my girl, Morwenna.

That was what he’d almost said, and he sent up thanks that he’d bitten back the words before they properly formed.

Morwenna wasn’t his girl and nor could she ever be. But it had been such a shock to round the corner and come across the pair of them, hands and eyes joined, that Angus was still reeling from it.

And Morwenna in that dress. With her waterfall of hair cascading down her back. The beauty of her took his breath away.

Thankfully, Henry, with the instincts of a seasoned knight, took charge of the situation.

“Gerrault, just the man I was looking for,” he boomed jovially, reaching out to clasp the boy’s shoulder. “You must sit beside me for the exhibition. I look forward to hearing what you make of it all.”

The boy blushed, clearly torn between a desire to please his master and a much stronger urge to sit beside a pretty girl. A battle played behind his grey eyes, but good manners prevailed.

He bowed stiffly to Henry, soft brown hair flopping over his face. “That is most kind, sir.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Henry’s keen gaze switched to the petite young woman standing beside him. “Well now, we have never met, but this must be the horse trainer I’ve heard so much about.” He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “A miracle worker, no less. I told Wolvesley here that his horse would never be ridden.”

Angus knew Morwenna, and he could tell that Henry’s praise made her uncomfortable. E’en more so than she already was. She lowered her eyes and bobbed her head.

“Your prediction may still prove correct, sir. I am yet to put a saddle on the horse’s back.”

At the sound of her sweet voice, all of Angus’s petty jealousy faded away. He immediately spoke up in her defence.

“Your success is all but assured, Morwenna. I know it in my bones.” He fixed his eyes upon her face, willing her to look up and meet his gaze; flushing with triumph when she did just that. He drank her in; unused to seeing her in anything but groom’s livery. The hubbub of the jousting arena quietened in his ears and he grew oblivious to the press of the passing crowd. All that mattered was Morwenna.

A sharp nudge from Henry’s elbow brought him back to his senses and he cleared his throat gruffly. “I echo the sentiment of my good friend. Pray, sit beside me, Morwenna. I am keen to discover your thoughts on these much-feted horse riders.”

A pink blush stained her cheeks but her head stayed high and her voice was clear. “Whatever your lordship wishes.”

“Excellent.” He raised his arms, urging their small group onwards before he said what was in his heart.

That he wished for a good deal more than her opinion on the Vaulters of Volterfordas.

For the first time, the temptation to make Morwenna his mistress fluttered enticingly into his mind. Such things happened; many men greater than he enjoyed such arrangements, with the added benefit that no rival would dare stake a claim to the woman they desired. But he pushed the thought away. He was not a man who could marry one woman and bed another.

The smell of roasting meat wafted over from the wagon traders whom Angus had allowed to set up near the jousting arena. With half an eye, he noticed the castle servants all turned out in their best, jostling one another good-naturedly for the best places in the stands. Usually he would mingle little with the staff; arriving late and going directly to his seat in the family enclosure. Now he noticed that several of the young serving wenches carried hand-tied posies of late-summer wildflowers. He saw gangling house-boys with polished boots and freshly-scrubbed necks, smiling awkwardly by their sides. It seemed romance bloomed everywhere on this unexpected holiday. But his warm feelings evaporated as a new idea sliced into his mind.

Had Gerrault mayhap presented such a posy to Morwenna?

Frustration twisted in his gut. For he was Earl of Wolvesley, yet he could not present the girl he admired with a posy. Nor could he take a hold of her elbow and draw her close. Nor tell young Gerrault to get packing.

Morwenna’s green eyes lifted to his, as if she could read his discomfort.

“’Tis a great occasion you have arranged for us, milord.”

His frustration lifted a little, swirling up into the autumnal air along with the aromas of horses, woodsmoke and fried onions.

He smiled down at her, ignoring the press of bodies all around them as they proceeded through the wooden gate to the arena. For a long moment, he could not think of the right words to say. So accustomed was he to masking his emotions for the benefit of his public image that now, when it felt imperative to express himself sincerely, he did not know how to begin to articulate what was in his heart.

“’Tis all for you,” he dared to whisper, after Henry and Gerrault had gone ahead.

Was it wise to say such words out loud? Mayhap not, when the risks were so great. But it was worth it to see the flare of recognition in her pretty face. She lowered her eyes and stepped to the side so he might take his seat first, with Henry on his left and a space for his mother between them. The very air seemed to crackle as she took her place beside him; her narrow frame all but swallowed up in the carved wooden chair. Angus was overly conscious of her feminine curves, enhanced by the flattering cut of her pale-blue gown. And how her hair cascaded over her shoulders, glinting in the late-afternoon sunlight.

“Will Lady Violetta be joining us?” asked Henry, leaning over towards him and breaking the spell.

Angus hesitated, guilt gnawing at him. In truth, he hadn’t said anything to his mother about the occasion. He had e’en gone so far as to dine in his mother’s chamber yesterday, in an effort to keep her from overhearing any excited chatter in the great hall. Memories of how she had behaved at the recent joust were still too sharp. She had stood, mere feet away from where he now sat, and openly conversed with the spirit of Lucan. In front of hundreds of people. It was nothing short of a miracle that no one had spotted her.

No one but Morwenna.

However, if Henry believed she was on her way, no doubt he would preserve the distance between them. Thus giving Angus greater opportunity to speak freely with Morwenna.

He cleared his throat. “Perchance she is delayed,” he said evasively.

Henry nodded and withdrew, making some aside comment to Gerrault which made the lad chuckle. Angus shifted in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him to dispel the sudden air of awkwardness which had descended upon them.

“Have you seen the likes of these vaulters before?” he asked impulsively, his deep baritone rippling through the stands. Several heads turned in their direction and Morwenna squirmed.

He must speak quieter and draw less attention their way; though as earl, all eyes would instinctively turn towards him whatever he did or said. Angus was accustomed to living with such scrutiny, but Morwenna was not, and he did not wish to make her uncomfortable.

Her reply was steady. “I have not, milord.” She hesitated, folding and unfolding her hands on her lap. He noticed her fingers were long and slender, even though the knuckles were reddened from physical work. “In truth, I am unsure I approve of such practices.”

His eyebrows shot upwards. “How so?”

For a moment she didn’t answer. “There are different ways of bending a horse to one’s will.” She inclined her head to one side. “Through kindness or through fear.”

“And you believe the vaulters use the latter?” He nodded towards the ring, into which a line of high-stepping ponies was now entering.

“I will be happy to be proven wrong.”

Angus harrumphed and sat taller in his chair; his hands rapping out a random tune on his breeches-clad knees as he pondered her words. His concern was most often with the surface of things; how they looked and how they might be perceived by society. For that was the root of his role as judiciary; keeping the peace and ensuring society ran smoothly. The idea that what ran beneath the surface might be equally important made him curiously perturbed, as if he had an itch that he could not reach to scratch.

The crowd let out a collective gasp of appreciation as the first rider somersaulted onto the back of a gleaming black pony. As if acting on a silent cue, the pony sprung into a fast gallop around the grassy arena. The rider crouched low over his neck, both feet planted firmly in the centre of the pony’s narrow back. Then, once he had found his balance, he stood tall, arms outstretched to the side. A ripple of applause spread around the stands, but before it could properly take hold, a second rider joined the first. Side by side they galloped in endless circles; both standing tall in a daring defeat of gravity. But this trick paled into insignificance as a pony of brilliant white was led into the arena. This was the star turn of the Vaulters of Volterfordas. Angus felt his breath catch in his throat as the riders formed a pyramid atop his narrow back; one standing on the shoulders of the others.

Beside him, Morwenna let out a sound that might have been a whimper and looked away.

“What is it?” he asked, ducking his head down towards her.

For a long moment he had been so captivated by the daring display that he had forgotten the true purpose behind it all; that he might spend time publicly with Morwenna.

“His eyes,” she whispered. Her own green eyes were wide with pain.

Angus was about to ask whose eyes, but when he glanced back at the arena the white pony was circling towards them; his dark eyes bulging with some strong emotion much like a battle charger plunging into the fray. All at once, the uncomfortable itchy feeling returned to him. He put out a warm hand and covered Morwenna’s cold one; unthinking for once of what would happen if his actions were witnessed.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

She looked up and gave him the ghost of a smile. “You are not responsible.”

“But I brought them here.” He tightened his grip on her fingers; thrilled when he felt an answering squeeze.

“For me?” she said, so quietly he wasn’t sure if he had imagined it.

“For you,” he confirmed.

She gave him a look that was humbling in its warmth. “You do not need to put on a show or spectacle to impress me, Angus.” She hesitated over his name, articulating it slowly. “In truth, I prefer quieter pleasures.”

Heat from their joined hands was travelling up his arm. He knew he should release his hold; that he was playing with fire and was likely to get burned. But it felt good and right to hold Morwenna’s hand. She was a woman of truth and kindness. When she was near, it was as if the perils of the world could not touch him. And not because of any position or status she possessed– he alone knew how such things could not protect against death and despair– but because of who she was and what she had already survived.

He would not deny himself this. He could not deny himself any further.

“Quieter pleasures,” he echoed, shifting in his chair so the folds of his cloak partially concealed their hands. “I’m afraid Wolvesley is a place of grandeur, where our safety is dependent upon a continual display of wealth and might. I am a man of excess and know little of quiet pleasures.” He squeezed her fingers to take any sting from his words; schooling his face all the while into an expression of casual interest, his eyes gazing at but hardly seeing the riders in the ring. “What would you suggest?”

He squeezed her fingers and felt her jolt of surprise.

Will she pull away?

But after a long moment, she answered, albeit evasively. “I have always found horses to be the most constant of companions.”

“Allow me to prove myself equally constant.”

He fancied he could hear the hammering of her heart, or mayhap that was his own. His body grew first hot and then cold while he waited for her response.

“You are the Earl of Wolvesley. I will do whatever you wish.”

God’s Bones. That was not what he wanted.

“Angus is my name. And I am asking for your help.” Instinctively, he knew he had hit upon the right way to persuade her.

Morwenna’s nostrils flared at the surprise turn of their conversation. “My help?” Her voice was incredulous, but there was something else in her tone as well. Curiosity. And a deep-seated desire to provide succour to those in need.

Angus nodded decisively. “I should like to experience your quiet pleasures.”

He was unable to prevent his gaze from drawing down to her green eyes, which were raised to his beseechingly. Eyes which would be his undoing.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered. “I don’t know how.”

“Ah, Morwenna,” he said her name like a caress. “You are allowing yourself to be afraid. Do not think of me at the Earl of Wolvesley. Think of me only as Angus. I am in your hands. You plan the occasion. An occasion of quiet pleasures, without show or spectacle.”

He must look away from her finely-drawn face and wide sea-green eyes. He must fix his gaze back upon the Vaulters of Volterfordas, ready to cheer and celebrate with the crowd. But he could not.

Not until she agreed to his plan.

He saw indecision racing behind her eyes. Her lips moved but no words came out.

“How are we to manage it?” she said at last. “You will be seen.”

Angus gave her slender fingers a final squeeze, before rising from his feet to applaud the riders who were now taking their bows. Around him, the stands erupted into cheers, with much stamping of feet and yelling for more.

Into the commotion, he said, “Allow me to worry about that aspect of the occasion.”

“I will.” A smile broke over her face, changing her expression entirely. “And I shall plan the rest.”

“Tomorrow at noon,” he confirmed, his mind-racing. “I will meet you in the paddocks.”

She dipped her head, still smiling. “Tomorrow at noon.”