Page 8 of Taming the Earl (The Earls of the North #3)

T he next morning brought mist and a fine drizzle to Wolvesley. Angus pursed his lips as he opened the shutters of his bedchamber and perused the expanse of grey. Was this an omen for the day ahead?

He shook his head at his own superstitious nonsense. The drizzle would clear; he could already see a gap in the grey clouds to the east. The joust would be a success; if he could only keep a lid on his worries.

All he needed to do was smile and convey the confidence and surety that everyone expected of the Earl of Wolvesley. His father had managed it; and Lucan had been a beacon of poise, even while consumed by grief for the death of his wife and unborn heir. If they could do it; so could he.

He dressed quickly in a plain tunic and riding breeches; saving his ceremonial attire for later in the day. He had just run a comb through his unruly thatch of hair when a knock came at the chamber door.

“Enter,” he called.

It was the Seneschal. “Forgive the intrusion, my lord. Sir Maxton of Dunlore has arrived.”

Angus felt his lips curling into a smile, which was more in anticipation of honest competition than from any fondness for the man. He had always found Sir Maxton a dour, cheerless soul. But praise where praise was due; he was a masterful opponent in the jousting ring. A fearless horseman all around, in truth.

“I shall come out and bid him welcome,” he said, casting a final, appraising eye over his reflection in the looking glass. There were dark circles under his eyes which had become a permanent feature since Lucan’s death. He must take care not to appear fatigued or jaded in the joust; who knew what spies may be lurking amongst the crowd, ready to report back to his enemies in Powys?

“Hail, Maxton, welcome to Wolvesley,” he exclaimed minutes later, extending his hand in friendship to the tall, broad-shouldered knight waiting for him in the great hall.

“Hail, my Lord Wolvesley.” Maxton clasped his hand and bowed his head. “Thank you for the invitation.” His dark eyes showed a flicker of warmth. “I have not had cause to ride out against any knight worthy of the name since the last Wolvesley joust.”

“Ah, we must give thanks for this short period of peace in our land,” Angus said gravely. “And the opportunity for fun it bestows upon us.” He nudged his companion jovially, but Maxton was not a man for smiling.

“I am pleased to see you looking so well, my lord.” He folded his arms across his broad chest, the hilt of his sword glinting in the morning sun which filtered through the high windows.

“Never better,” Angus assured him. His voice was too loud in the empty hall. His claim sounded dubious even to his own ears.

“And how fares your lady mother?”

Angus caught Maxton’s eye. His gaze was steady, giving nothing away. “Very well, I thank you for asking.”

“It is a terrible thing, to lose a son,” Maxton added, quietly.

Angus bowed his head, remembering how he had all but held his mother upright during the awful hours of Lucan’s funeral procession. Maxton had likely been among the armoured knights forming a guard of honour along the winding lane to the family chapel.

“Terrible,” he agreed.

Maxton inclined his head. His once thick dark hair was now thinning and flecked with grey. “But to brighter matters, I hear you have been provided with some distraction?”

Angus’s first thought was Morwenna . The young horse trainer had proven a mighty distraction from all that was bad in the word. But so far as he knew, no one else had noticed her quiet beauty. She was a secret all of his own.

He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Maxton cleared his throat. “Rumour has it, you’ve been gifted a new horse?”

“Ah yes.” Angus exhaled with relief.

“You are disappointed that news has reached me?” Maxton suggested, misreading his expression. “You wanted to keep this horse all to yourself? I confess, Wolvesley, I’m intrigued.”

“There is nothing to be intrigued about,” Angus insisted, ignoring the tug of his conscience. “I will show you the horse now, if you wish?” he offered, expansive in his duties as host.

Maxton grunted his approval. “You know I have more interest in horseflesh than in fine wine and figs.” He nodded disparagingly towards a table laden down with refreshments for incoming competitors.

“I must tell you though, this horse is not for sale.” Angus led the way through the inner courtyard, boots crunching on the gravel as he nodded to acknowledge the liveried servants who scurried from his path. “At least, not yet anyway. Mayhap if things do not go to plan.” He shrugged in a show of nonchalance. Deep down he had no fear that Morwenna would fail in her task.

“What plans are these?” Maxton paused briefly before the fountain, which looked especially beautiful in the autumn sunshine with the golden light captured in its sparkling depths. The cacophony of falling water was briefly loud enough to drown out all other thoughts and worries.

“The horse is currently unrideable,” Angus explained, casting a sideways glance at his companion and wondering when the man had last allowed himself to smile. His sallow face appeared to be fixed in a permanent scowl of disapproval.

“An unrideable horse?” Maxton sniffed. “That is a challenge worth facing.”

“Indeed.” Angus forced a laugh and clapped Maxton about his muscular shoulders. “Those were mayhap my exact words.”

“You have a system of training in place? Have you summoned a horse breaker?”

Angus suppressed an involuntary shudder at the term. “A horse trainer,” he corrected, turning up the narrow path to the paddocks and wincing at a damp gust of wind; a harbinger of bad weather to come. Several feet away, a group of horses raised their heads to watch them over the wooden fence. “And she is yielding impressive results so far.”

“She?” Maxon halted abruptly, hands on hips, his dark-coloured cloak trailing on the dewy grass. “You have entrusted this task to a woman?” His throaty voice rose with incredulity.

Angus smiled benignly. “I confess, I entertained doubts myself, at first. But her work speaks for itself.”

Maxton only grunted. It was his favoured means of communication. “I’ll wager I could have your horse backed and compliant within half the time of a woman.”

Angus closed his ears to Maxton’s chatter. They were about to crest the hill and suddenly he was assailed by doubt. What if Morwenna was at the circular paddock with the horse? She would not thank him for the interruption.

He frowned to himself, shaking the notion away. Was he forgetting that he was earl here? And she, Morwenna, merely someone in his employ?

He held out an arm to keep Maxton back as a young hare streamed out in front of them, bolting with impressive speed for the safety of the distant forest. His summing up of their relationship was factual enough, but it didn’t speak of the innate connection he’d felt with the horse trainer just as soon as she arrived in the castle. It ignored the hum of chemistry between them; a spark which leaped into life whenever he brushed against her, however accidental the cause. Nor did it address the way they could converse, one to another, with an honesty he so rarely found. She challenged him, fascinated him. Bewitched him, almost. Just as he had jested that she had bewitched the horse.

He pushed the memories away, not willing to explore what these strange feelings meant.

“Angus?” Maxton’s tone was insistent. “Did you not hear me? I said I’ll wager I could have your horse broken within half the time of this woman you have found.”

Angus blinked his way back to the present. The hare was long gone, its faint footsteps already fading on the trampled grass.

He inclined his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing to the plan. “Come and see,” was his reply. And the two men walked side by side over the hill.

His heart jumped in his chest as he beheld Morwenna standing with the horse. Nay, she was not just standing with the horse. She had managed to fix a halter rope to him, which was now tethered to the paddock gate. The horse stood calmly with his eyes half closed as she rhythmically groomed his chestnut coat. Fauvel, as Morwenna had named him, was an even more attractive proposition now that the tangles had been combed from his mane and the loose hairs brushed from his body.

“This is your wild horse?” Maxton demanded, one eyebrow raised mockingly.

At the sound of his voice, the horse’s demeanour instantly changed. His head came up and his eyes bulged as he strained back on the halter rope.

“Steady there.” Morwenna’s voice floated over to them as she took a step away.

“Ah, I see how it goes.” Maxton folded his arms across his chest, apparently enjoying the disruption he’d caused.

Angus bit back a shouted apology to Morwenna, realising that raising his voice would only alarm the horse more, but it was too late. The horse half reared and the gate strained on its hinges. Quick as a flash, Morwenna darted forward and pulled on the rope, releasing the knot. Immediately, the horse twisted around and bolted to the far side of the paddock, kicking his heels as the ground trembled beneath them.

“My apologies,” Angus said, walking over to where Morwenna stood, one hand over her heart. She was wearing a long grey shawl against the weather with her long blonde braid tucked inside it.

She hardly seemed to notice him. “The halter rope is dangling.” She frowned in concern. “If it becomes tangled in his legs…”

Angus grasped what she was trying to say. “What can we do?”

She turned her frown in his direction. “Once you have left, I will attend to him. My lord,” she added, with the smallest of bows.

Angus opened his mouth to apologise again, but Maxton spoke over him.

“Your wild horse has an impressive turn of speed, Wolvesley.”

“That he does.”

“He will make a fine charger, if you can ever get a saddle on him.”

Angus’s attention was fixed on Morwenna. He’d seen her eyes flare with concern for the horse, and now they were as wide and distrustful as they’d ever been since she first arrived. What had alarmed her so?

“If I fail, you can have him,” he told Maxton abruptly, his mind still on the beautiful horse trainer. He would like to put an arm across her shoulders and offer comfort; for the lass seemed sorely in need of it.

“That’s a deal,” Maxton seized upon his words.

“It’s a deal that will never come to pass,” Angus assured him, smiling brightly. “Morwenna here assures me the horse will be backed within days.”

“We shall see.” Maxton’s covetous gaze flickered between the nervous horse and its agitated trainer. “First the joust, now this. And to think, I considered passing up your weekend invitation.”

“For my sake, I am pleased you did not.”

Maxton grunted again in response and Angus felt a wave of disapproval emanate from Morwenna. He may be Earl of Wolvesley, but he was not wanted here. Nor was his companion. Smiling apologetically, he steered Maxton away from the paddocks and back towards the keep. Overhead, birds called from the treetops but he hardly heard them. The enigmatic horse trainer had gotten under his skin once again.

He clamped down on his spiralling thoughts, marshalling them in a more proper direction. God willing the girl would soon be finished with her work and gone from the castle.

Some hours later, Angus stood before the looking glass in the bedchamber holding himself still while his manservant fastened his armour in place. He hadn’t worn his mail shirt in a long while and the weight of it had taken him by surprise. Now, with the addition of his gleaming chest plate, heavy boots and plush ceremonial mantle, he felt anchored to the wooden floor.

Good , he could do with some anchoring, whilst so many things floated upwards, apparently out of his control.

Why had he allowed that dour soul Maxton to talk him into selling his horse?

He knew the answer well enough. It was because he’d been distracted by Morwenna. Her physical presence had called to him; like a mythical siren from the rocks. Although the lass herself seemed completely unaware of the effect she had on him.

He’d been at first upset at how they had disturbed her work. Later, troubled by how alarmed she became. He’d wanted to take her to one side and ask what was wrong. To do whatever it took to bring a smile back to her face.

And he wanted to hold her in his arms, because that exquisite moment when he caught her from tumbling off the dais had stirred something deep inside him.

“My lord?” The manservant held out his silver helm and Angus took it from him, nodding his thanks. “Will there be anything else?”

“Can you check that my horse is ready? And that my mother is comfortable?” he added quickly.

The manservant bowed smartly and took his leave, leaving Angus alone to consider his reflection.

He had never considered himself to be a dishonest man. And these feelings for Morwenna made him exactly that. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t acted upon them. That he would never act upon them.

Aye , in the past his head had been turned once or twice by a pretty serving wench. He was a man made of flesh and blood, after all. But he had been brought up to know that appearance and propriety were everything. The Wolvesley men did not dally with the servants.

Angus certainly did not. After his youthful experience with the tanner’s daughter, he steered well clear of romantic entanglements with anyone less than his social equal.

Those in his class married for coin all the time; but that at least was open and honest. There was no deception. A betrothal was little more than a business transaction.

Young Angus, however, had broken the rules, willing to abandon his position in society for the girl he loved. But when he bravely opened his heart, he was met with the cold slap of rejection. Johanna did not admire Angus the man; she admired his coin. Moreover, she did not want one without the other. So why was his mind so full of this mysterious horse trainer? She wasn’t his class and she wasn’t even his usual type. Angus liked his women buxom and curvaceous, but Morwenna was as slender as a willow branch. It was her calm intelligence that drew him in; her air of assurance. Her willingness to speak her mind, when others merely told him what he wanted to hear.

Or mayhap it was because his long-awaited marriage was finally drawing near?

He set down the helm and pulled at a snagged thread on his cloak, exploring this possibility. Was all this bewilderment nothing more than a perfectly natural urge to sew some wild oats while he still had the chance?

His mind returned to Maxton; a man who had sown plenty of oats, both before and after his marriage. If Angus did end up selling him the chestnut horse, it would be because he had failed Emelia’s latest challenge.

Which would mean his impending nuptials would be once again delayed.

He snapped the thread free and re-arranged his cloak, noting how it swirled around his ankles. This cloak had last been fashioned for their father and last worn by Lucan. Angus remembered taking pleasure in teasing his brother about how it trailed on the floor behind him. Lucan had been a feared warrior, but was nonetheless half a head shorter than his little brother. He had removed the cloak and slung it towards him, laughing. “You wear it then, when you become earl.”

Angus had not believed that day would ever come.

The man in the looking glass was tall and strong. Formidable even. Not a man to be toyed with. Yet with more than two years of games and challenges, Emelia was doing exactly that.

Angus sighed deeply, feeling the press of the mail shirt upon his shoulders. As Earl of Wolvesley, could he not insist upon marriage to his betrothed?

Yes.

Probably.

But he wouldn’t.

Their betrothal had been brokered by two men who were now deceased. Emelia had long been in mourning for her father, but even without that burden, Angus would not place pressure upon her.

Because I don’t really want to marry her.

He sighed deeply, letting the truth of it ripple through him. The situation had become more pressing with the knowledge that his betrothed would arrive in Wolvesley before All Saints’ Day.

He had to face facts. The easiest way to secure the de Neville dynasty was by marrying Emelia Foxton. He owed it to his mother and to his people. With no clear line of succession, Wolvesley was open to attack.

Angus recovered his helm and tucked it under his arm, giving himself one final appraising glance.

“Very handsome, little brother.”

He could imagine Lucan’s gently mocking tones. In fact, he could imagine them so clearly it was as if his brother was sitting in the padded chair beside the looking glass, his long legs crossed over one another and his flowing blonde hair cascading over his powerful shoulders.

Angus chased down the wave of sorrow. He would never again enjoy brotherly banter with Lucan. Nor would he know that familiar life-long comfort in Lucan’s all too obvious strength and fighting prowess.

The future of Wolvesley depended upon him alone.

He straightened his back, fixed his smile in place and made his way out through the castle towards the jousting arena. High on the bailey wall, the de Neville standard cracked in the brisk wind; the same wind that had chased away the morning’s clouds. Now the mellow stone of the castle glowed in rosy sunlight. He heard the roar of the crowd, already seated and enjoying the pre-joust entertainment. He smelled leather mingled with horseflesh and sawdust. Ahead of him, smartly-attired knights led out their gleaming steeds.

Angus took a breath and lifted his gaze to the family enclosure where, as anticipated, Lady Violetta was already installed in the seat beside his. She was beautiful in emerald-green satin, topped with a fur-trimmed robe. Her eyes were bright and her smile even wider than his own.

Mayhap this distraction would work. His mother would recover her strength and return to castle life. His horse would be trained and Emelia would finally be crowned Countess of Wolvesley.

Appearance was everything.