Only after she had gone did he realise that she’d left her sewing behind. He picked it up, not knowing whether to follow Rosamund and return it.
He studied it, and his brother approached. ‘Are you thinking of picking up a needle yourself, Warrick?’ Rhys’s tone held a teasing air.
‘She dropped it,’ was all he could say.
‘Did she? Or did she leave it on purpose, to give you a reason to see her again?’
The thought hadn’t occurred to him, but it was possible. He was about to pursue Rosamund when Rhys caught him by the arm. ‘Not yet, Brother. Wait another day.’
Warrick reached for his tunic and pulled it over his head. ‘I’ll give it to one of the servants to return to her.’
‘Why would you? She deliberately left it to you.’ His brother shrugged. ‘Claim a kiss from her as thanks.’
He wanted nothing more. But he was also a man of reason. ‘Her father would never allow a match between her and a man like me.’
‘You desire her. Just as she desires you,’ his brother answered. ‘At least one of us might have a good marriage.’ Tension slid over his face, the tension of a man who welcomed execution over his own betrothal.
‘Lianna MacKinnon is a beautiful woman.’
‘With a heart of ice,’ Rhys finished. ‘She despises the air I breathe, and with good reason.’ He shrugged. ‘Were it possible, I would take her to Scotland and leave her there. That would make her happy.’ But then he masked his frustration. ‘One day, you will understand what it is to be powerless to command your own life. God help you then.’
* * *
Later that afternoon, Rosamund stood still while her maid braided her hair and tied it up with a new ribbon. Her mother shook her head in exasperation. ‘Really, Rosamund, how could you lose a hair ribbon?’ She chided her about being more careful, but Rosamund paid her no heed.
She hadn’t forgotten the sight of Warrick sparring without his tunic. His skin held a darker cast, and every muscle appeared carved from stone. A sheen of perspiration had beaded upon his chest, and she had been spellbound by him. Though he spoke little, his eyes had burned into her as if he’d wanted to kiss her again. She had never experienced a kiss like his, and perhaps it was a sin to long for it again.
‘Did you hear me, Rosamund?’ her mother demanded.
‘Of course,’ she lied.
‘Now remember, if you are among the women chosen for the game, you may grant a cake as your favour, but nothing more. And Cecilia may not be chosen. Even if she begs it of you, tell her no.’ Agnes de Beaufort sent her a strong look of warning.
Rosamund mumbled her assent, though she had no idea what game her mother was speaking of. She was accustomed to games of skill like archery or swimming, but nothing involving a favour. It might be a game that was meant to kindle the courtship between Rhys de Laurent and his bride, Lianna MacKinnon. She knew that something had caused hatred between the pair of them, but could not imagine what it was.
‘You look beautiful,’ her mother pronounced, and took her by the hand to lead her from the chamber. ‘And by this time next summer, you will be celebrating your own wedding to Alan de Courcy. He will make a fine husband for you.’
Rosamund slowed her steps, startled by her mother’s words. Although her sister had mentioned it earlier, she hadn’t paid Cecilia much heed. ‘I have never met the man.’ And he isn’t the one I want. Her attention was caught by the stoic, handsome warrior who made her heartbeat quicken.
‘He is wealthy and is a strong ally of King Henry. That is all that should concern you.’ Agnes’s clipped tone brooked no discussion on the matter. ‘Trust that your father and I will choose an appropriate man.’ She touched Rosamund’s hair, adjusting the ribbon. ‘My father chose Harold as my husband, and I have never lacked for anything.’
Except love, Rosamund thought.
‘Was there never anyone else you wanted to wed?’ she asked her mother.
Agnes stiffened at the question before she shielded her response. ‘Of course not. I was content to be an obedient daughter. Just like you.’
But she questioned whether her mother had ever held any secret desire of her own. Or whether she had ever loved anyone else.
Rosamund fell silent and walked alongside her mother until they joined the other guests. Lord Montbrooke was seated at the high table upon a dais with his wife beside him. His eldest son Rhys sat with his betrothed wife Lianna MacKinnon, while Warrick sat on the far end, furthest from all of them. Lianna was tall and beautiful, with long red hair that curled to her shoulders. She wore a deep green kirtle and a circlet made of beaten silver. A simple cross hung around her throat. But it was the expression of grief and misery that caught Rosamund’s attention. The young woman appeared devastated at the prospect of this marriage, and she would not even look at Rhys.
Heaven help them both.
The thought of her own marriage troubled her, and she prayed her father would change his mind. She had no wish to marry Alan de Courcy, whether he was wealthy or not. And it felt as if she were becoming a pawn in a game she could not win.
Rosamund joined her parents at the table closest to the dais, fully aware of Warrick’s presence. Despite being at the high table, he appeared distracted and separated from all of them. It almost seemed that he would have preferred dining among the soldiers. Even his father never spoke to him at all. It was as if he were invisible.
Strange.
Men and women raised their drinks to toast the health of the betrothed couple, but the veiled enmity between Lianna and Rhys was undeniable. The young woman never spoke to him, only to Lord Montbrooke and his wife.
For a moment, Rosamund let herself imagine what it would be like if she were betrothed to Warrick, sitting in their places. The very thought warmed her, for she liked him very much. Not only was he a strong fighter and handsome, but she would never forget his words—I like listening to you.
The feasting continued, and her sister Cecilia leaned in. ‘Let him go, Rosamund. I don’t want to see you hurt.’
‘Why could they not arrange a betrothal with Warrick?’ she whispered. ‘He is the son of an earl and from a noble family.’
‘But he is the youngest. He will have no property of his own.’
‘Surely he has something,’ she argued. ‘They have vast holdings.’
‘Rhys has everything,’ Cecilia said. ‘And their sister Joan has the rest as part of her dowry. His father left him nothing at all.’
It made no sense at all. ‘How did you learn this?’
‘I eavesdropped when Mother was sewing with Lady Montbrooke. She told her everything. Did you know that Warrick didn’t speak for nearly two years, after his baby sister died?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ And yet, it didn’t surprise her. A grieving brother would have little to say. But she couldn’t understand why his own father had cut him off. When she lifted her gaze to his, Warrick met it with his own intense stare. In that moment, it was as if everything else disappeared and it was only the two of them.
It might only be infatuation, but she could not deny the feelings he conjured within her. She wished that she could sit beside him now and speak with him.
As the meal ended, Lord Montbrooke called for everyone to gather outside for evening stories, contests, and games. Rosamund followed the others and took her place beside her sister when Lady Montbrooke called her forward.
‘Will you join the other ladies in a game of stoolball?’ she enquired.
She