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Aislynn swallowed hard, a shiver racing through her. Taking a deep breath, she moved back carefully so as not to actually touch him while giving him a better view. Sir Jarrod, thankfully, did not appear to note her reactions, which was a relief of great proportions. For they only seemed to grow more inexplicably extreme by the moment.
She watched as the dark knight reached out to take the top drawing, holding it close as he studied it, frowning with obvious concentration. Curiosity overcame her reluctance to be near him, and she leaned in to look at the drawing. She was forced to rise up on toe tip to see it clearly.
Noting her action, Jarrod Maxwell looked down at her. “You are very small,” he commented as he held the drawing lower, seeming unaccountably pleased at his observation.
Finding no explanation for why this would be so, Aislynn determined to ignore it. She had never been particularly troubled by her size. It had in no way prevented her from doing anything she wished to do. She turned her attention to the rendering.
She had seen it before, of course. It was done in charcoal, as were all of Christian’s renderings. In it a man lay upon a bed, his face creased with pain and sadness. In the corner of the parchment was drawn the form of the dragon brooch. Out of the corner of her eye, she looked to where Sir Jarrod had thrown his cloak upon the end of the bed, recalling that he had worn it his when he’d entered the hall.
Aislynn knew from Christian that it was Sir Jarrod who had had the brooches made and that their friend Simon Warleigh had one as well. Although it had seemed odd that her brother would draw the brooch on the corner of the page, neither she nor her father had been able to assign any particular significance to it.
Jarrod’s gaze continued to hold obvious concentration as he looked from the drawing of the sick man to the brooch and back again.
Aislynn could not stop herself from asking, “What is it? Do you find something of significance there?”
The knight turned to her with an expression of intense concentration. “I am not sure, but the man in the drawing is a soldier who came with Isabelle and Simon when they left Dragonwick some weeks ago. He was injured in his efforts to help Isabelle and Simon escape from Kelsey.”
Aislynn heard the barely suppressed rage in his voice as he said the name Kelsey. Through her brother, she knew what ill Kelsey, who had murdered The Dragon, had wrought, and also of the anger that seethed inside the three men who had fostered together. But she noted a depth of venom in this man that went even deeper than that which Christian had displayed.
She listened as Jarrod went on, his voice now softened by regret. “Though we thought the wound was not serious, Jack became ill and died. Christian, although he knew him little, spent much time at his side. Seeing Jack so ill, and knowing he had meant only good in helping Isabelle and Simon to leave Dragonwick, made me want to vent my wrath on Kelsey all the more.” His jaw clenched tightly. “And that I can not do, for Simon and Isabelle’s sake. We are too closely watched by King John, who was not pleased to have been coerced into setting Simon free.”
Aislynn knew that it had been Christian who had convinced two very powerful nobles to speak on Simon’s behalf, virtually blackmailing the king into setting him free. She wondered if Sir Jarrod had any notion of how much he revealed of himself with this tale. Clearly he had a great capacity for ire and a love of vengeance, yet he tempered them for the sake of those he loved.
Again, Aislynn was moved by the bond between the three men, though she was not surprised to learn that her brother had sat with the dying man. She had been quite young when Christian had left Bransbury, but his kindness to injured animals about the demesne was well remembered. She had missed his gentleness, his warmth, when her father was so locked in his grief over his wife’s death. Though she had understood as she grew older that a young man must foster and become a knight, she had never stopped hoping that he would return to Bransbury—that they would be as a family.
Christian’s return had made her dreams a reality, for a time. But now they were once more in a state of loss. She would leave no avenue unexplored in her desire to have Christian home.
Yet she could not see what this drawing might have to do with her brother’s disappearance. Puzzled, she watched as Sir Jarrod quickly leafed through the other drawings, setting them into the chest before going back to the first one, the one depicting the man who had died.
Again she asked, “What is it that you see?”
He shook that dark head. “I am not certain. There is just something. Somehow it seems that Christian may be saying that the brooch, The Dragon, is connected to Jack.”
“But even if that is true, I do not see what it can have to do with Christian’s being gone. Perhaps the man simply made him remember past times at Dragonwick.”
The knight raked a hand through his thick hair, taking a deep breath and setting the drawing aside. “Perhaps you are right, Lady Aislynn.”
The sound of her name on his lips brought her back to an instantaneous awareness of all the feelings she had been attempting to deny. Her gaze came to rest on the lean line of his jaw, the curve of his heavy black lashes, the suppleness of his mouth.
A strange heat moved in Aislynn’s belly. At that moment Sir Jarrod turned his black fathomless eyes to her, his gaze as deep as the darkest night and just as unreadable. Aislynn could not move, could not even breathe properly, for her chest felt…
Suddenly realizing that she was staring at him, Aislynn feared that all that was going on inside her would be revealed in her eyes. Deliberately she focused on the fire, the stone floor, the open door. Anywhere but on the dark knight.
Good heavens, had she gone mad?
Her brother was missing. That was the knight’s only reason for being at Bransbury. Even if he were interested in her, it would not be appropriate now. Even if she were not engaged, which she was. Even if her marriage was not significant to the peace on her father’s lands, which it was.
The sound of slow footsteps approaching in the hallway outside made her cast her gaze to the doorway. Her father appeared there. He came forward into the room, taking in the fact that Jarrod was holding her brother’s drawing in his hands.
He looked to Aislynn and she said, “Sir Jarrod wanted to know if he might look through Christian’s things and I said yes.”
Her father nodded. “That is well, for I have said he might have free rein to do whatever he thinks might aid him.” He moved to examine the drawing. “I too thought there might be some hint here yet I can see nothing. What is your opinion?”
Jarrod shrugged. “I see what you see, my lord.”
Her father sighed and made a slicing motion. “Enough for this night. You have journeyed far and must rest.” He turned to Aislynn. “The pot did fall and must be replaced, Aislynn, but we have made use of another. The water will be ready shortly.”
Aislynn felt her cheeks heating again. She had completely forgotten the broken pot, which was certainly unusual for her. She took great joy and pride in the overseeing of the keep.
Her father went on, unaware of her discomfort. “You will be abed before you know it, Sir Jarrod.”
To her surprise, the knight turned to her with a frown of apology. “Pray forgive me, Lady Aislynn. I had not thought until this moment how late the hour has grown. You should have sought your own bed some time gone. I’m sure you will soon be eager for me to leave Bransbury if my presence keeps you up past the hour when your father prefers for you to be abed.”
She frowned, blinking. He was speaking to her as one might a child.
Her father nodded. “Aye, Aislynn, as Sir Jarrod has indicated, the hour grows late for you as well.”
Aislynn did not remind her father of the fact that she was often at her duties until far past this hour. “Perhaps it is past time for me to retire. Good night, Father.”
She bowed in Sir Jarrod’s general direction and slipped toward the doorway as her father halted her, kissing her on the cheek and saying, “Good night, little one.” It was something he had said countless times, but this night, before this man, it gave her a decided feeling of discomfort.
She was infinitely aware when Sir Jarrod’s dark eyes fixed on her and it was all Aislynn could do to meet them as he said, “You have my thanks, Lady Aislynn. I will not allow myself to impose upon your usual routine again. I know how the young need their rest.”
She felt the chagrin that flashed from her own eyes to his. Then quickly she forced her gaze to fall, bowing and making a hasty exit.
Was the man mad? And what was wrong with her father, to have treated her like a child before the other man? Needing her rest, indeed. She was a woman, some nineteen years of age.
Her reactions to Jarrod Maxwell had not been those of a child. But this thought brought only deeper discomfort, for she would never have him know that.
Not sure whom she was angrier with—herself, her father, or the knight—she stalked in the direction of her chamber. And as she went, she could not help wondering that one of them had not offered to carry her poor exhausted little person to bed.
The momentary image of herself in Jarrod Maxwell’s arms caused her body to heat in a new and far more disturbing way that made her groan her anger aloud.
Jarrod rose early and went down to the meal.
Although his attention was mixed and had been since arriving at Bransbury, he did his utmost to concentrate on what must be done to find his friend. Jarrod could not help feeling that there was something about that drawing of Jack, something that kept prodding at the back of his mind. Yet he could not quite determine what it might be.
He remained distracted by thoughts of Aislynn Greatham. Although he had realized that he was drawn to her because she was Christian’s sister, that realization had not lessened the surprising strength of his reaction to her.
In that one instant last night when he had touched her hand, and then again later, for the briefest moment, when she had seemed to be looking at him as if…
He shook his head to clear it. He did not want to think about the way she had been looking at him, nor his unfathomable response, that strange tugging inside him. She was Christian’s sister.
It was far better for his peace of mind to think on the obvious anger in her gaze as she had left his chamber the night before. Clearly she was an unpredictable young wench to show such resentment in the face of his and her father’s consideration of the late hour.
Jarrod paused at the entrance to the hall and realized that only a few of the servants were stirring. He felt a sense of relief that he need not linger to break his fast with the family. It was surely due to his uneasiness over not only Aislynn’s but also her father’s making such an effort to see him made comfortable.
Jarrod was not accustomed to being the brunt of such coddling. He was a soldier, not visiting royalty. Even at Avington, with Simon and Isabelle, he had gone about, as he was accustomed to, without so much fuss.
Last night had been his first bath in a tub in some time. His baths were taken in whatever body of water he might come across. And that was the way Jarrod preferred it. He required no luxuries and wanted none. He neither wanted to become soft, nor to become beholden to anyone.
Yet he could not deny that the warm tub of water would have been relaxing had it not been for the fact that he kept getting images of a pair of periwinkle-blue eyes each time he closed his own.
With a silent groan of frustration, Jarrod approached a slender, dark-haired woman in a clean woolen gown and said, “Might I trouble you for a slice of bread and meat?”
As she passed an assessing brown gaze over him, putting hard, muscled arms on her narrow hips, he realized it was the woman, Margaret, who had come to Christian’s chamber the previous night. “You may, my lord, but would it not be better to eat a proper meal?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. Yet I would get an early start.”
She nodded. “As you will, my lord.” She paused then before going. “It is good of you to come, my lord, to help to find our lord Christian.” He could see the sudden misting in those brown eyes. “We are sore grateful to you.”
Feeling uncomfortable with her emotion and gratitude, Jarrod nonetheless reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. “He is my friend.” He was not acting out of some selfless wish to help, but out of his own desire to find Christian. Jarrod wished they would all see that.
Her gaze registered understanding and she bowed deeply in return, then went on her way.
His discomfort with her thanks, with all of their thanks, had not lessened as he received the food with a self-conscious nod and strode from the hall. As quickly as his horse could be fetched, he left the keep, turning his mount to the open countryside at a gallop.
Although Jarrod knew that Lord Greatham had questioned everyone in the immediate vicinity of Bransbury, he began at the beginning. He needed to set some order in his mind to his own search.
The village lay nestled to one side of the castle, but Jarrod moved directly off to the left of it. He meant to leave the village for later as he moved around the demesne in a circular motion.
Each man, woman and child must be thoroughly questioned. Without even realizing, someone might have seen Christian as he left. If he could find such a soul, Jarrod would then know which road and direction he had taken.
Yet thorough as he was, helpful as all he spoke to were, Jarrod learned nothing new that day, even though he spent all the hours between leaving the keep and long after dark on his effort. Neither did he the next day.
Though he did see and discuss what he had been about with her father, Jarrod did not see Aislynn Greatham during either of those two days, returning to the keep after she had retired. He told himself that he had no care for this either way.
His last thought each night was of her, but this was because she was Christian’s sister and he was sympathetic to her pain.
Chapter Three
Aislynn woke quite early, after a restless night—as each night had been since Jarrod Maxwell had arrived at Bransbury. She kept telling herself that his speaking to her as if she was a child did not plague her in the least.
Yet her agitation worsened when she remembered how she had felt as his black eyes looked directly into hers. It was as if he were looking into her soul, making her feel far from the child he believed her to be.
She tried to wish Jarrod Maxwell had never come to Bransbury, but the very notion was shockingly painful. Surely it was due to her belief that he would be able to help them find Christian.
Even though there had been no real developments in the days the knight had been at Bransbury, she was not willing to relinquish hope. She was, in spite of all that had happened in her life, including the early death of her mother and her brother’s long absence, an optimist at heart. And it was this sense of optimism that she drew on to assure herself that she would conquer this strange fascination with Jarrod Maxwell.
She parted the heavy rose velvet curtains at the side of her large oaken bed and stepped out onto the carpet that covered the cold stone floor beside the bed. There was no sense in building a fire when the day’s duties would keep her from returning to the comfortably furnished chamber for more than minutes at a time. Shivering, Aislynn dressed warmly, as she always did on chill mornings, in a shift, a heavy underdress of dark green linen, and an enveloping over gown with wide sleeves that showed the tightly fitted sleeves of the gown beneath. She then donned her veil, barbette and a warm cap with pearl trim that matched the butter-yellow brocade of her gown.
Leaving her chamber, she went to the kitchen, which lay at the end of a long corridor off the hall, as she did each morning before going in to break her own fast. One of the duties she most enjoyed was flavoring the large pots of stews and boiled meats that were served at the midday meal. The herbs that she grew in her own garden served as a constant inspiration for new and interesting combinations of flavor. And many about the keep said that the teas she brewed from her herbs were quite effective at alleviating minor ailments of the head and stomach.
This day she paused at the entrance to the long narrow chamber with its well-scrubbed counters, great ovens and wide hearth. With one of the two enormous pots that hung from iron hooks on either side of the hearth broken, only one rested over the low-burning fire. Although this made keeping up with work in the kitchens difficult, the women had managed to do well thus far, roasting more of the meat than was their usual custom.
And strangely Aislynn had not even thought on the matter of how much thyme might be added in to a particular recipe in relationship to the amount of rosemary, or any other such combination since the first night Jarrod had come to Bransbury.
Jarrod, whose mysterious black eyes made her heart pound each time he looked at her.
With irritation she realized that she had allowed her thoughts to go back to that man once more. Sharply Aislynn returned her attention to her responsibilities.
It should have soothed her that all was in order, as it was every morning with Margaret awaiting her instructions on which of the containers of herbs and spices would be used this day. It did not.
Margaret had mothered Aislynn since her earliest memory and Aislynn loved her. As a small child she had often been held close to the woman who was lean and wiry from constant activity. Even at rest, the head woman seemed always about to jump up and see to some task.
Yet the fact that she had inadvertently seen Jarrod Maxwell comforting Margaret in the hall on his first morning here had left Aislynn uncomfortable in Margaret’s company. She had been so moved by the brief gesture that she had not shown her presence, but had stayed out of sight until he was gone. And each time she saw Margaret she was reminded of his kindness.
As Aislynn approached, Margaret swung around from where she stood stirring the pot and smiled at Aislynn. “Good morrow.”
Aislynn nodded. “Good morrow.”
“What think you this morn?” She nodded her head toward the row of small containers in which the flavorings were held, the main stores being kept in a cool dry cellar.
Aislynn looked at them and frowned, her mind devoid of any inspiration. Finally she admitted, “I have little hunger and naught seems appealing to me. What think you?”
Margaret looked at her closely. “Are you well, Aislynn?”
She avoided looking into those brightly observant brown eyes, fearful that all she was trying not to think on would be revealed to the woman who knew her so well. She spoke the truth without telling all of the truth. “Aye, I am concerned for Christian.”
Margaret clearly failed to note any undue disquiet in her mistress, asking, “Have you seen Sir Jarrod this morn?”
“Nay, why do you ask?”
“I wish to catch that lad before he sets off without anything to eat. We must have a care for his wellbeing for he seems to have little enough, if any.”
Aislynn bit her lower lip, guilt stabbing her sharply. In spite of his shortcomings, Jarrod Maxwell was a guest at Bransbury. It was her duty, as the lady of the keep, to have a care for his comfort.
She held up a hand. “I will see to it. You have enough to attend without adding that to your other duties.”
Quickly, before she could give herself time to think, Aislynn went back down the corridor that connected the kitchens to the main part of the keep. On entering the Hall she cast a glance around the chamber.
She did not see him. Hurriedly she asked one of the serfs who were assembling the trestle tables. “Royce, have you seen Sir Jarrod?”
The serving man nodded. “Aye, he went from the keep some minutes ago.”
Clearly the knight meant to leave without eating, as Margaret feared. Aislynn hurried out into the cold morning after him, knowing he would first fetch his horse.
The stable came into her sight just in time for her to see a mounted Jarrod Maxwell emerge from the wide double door. He started across the greensward toward the gate and she called out quickly, “Sir Jarrod.”
He swung around immediately, his dark gaze searching her out with obvious surprise and what looked to be reluctance. But it was quickly masked by cool civility as he turned the white stallion and came toward her.
Not caring for that expression of reluctance, however brief, Aislynn raised her chin as she waited for him.
Sir Jarrod halted the restless stallion at her side. “May I be of assistance, Lady Aislynn?”
In spite of her irritation with him, she answered, “I thought to see that you had something to eat before you left the castle.” A desire to hide any real interest in him made her add, “Actually it was the head woman, Margaret, who thought of you. I simply realized it was my own duty and not hers to see you were looked after.”
His lips curved into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “You have done your duty by me. You may rest easy.”
