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Wide-eyed, Ceara listened, then shook her head. “I think you have to accomplish more than getting him to marry you,” she whispered.
“What—Ceara,” Ariana chided her cousin with dawning realization. The Glamorgan woman always suspected it would take physical union with a man for the curse to be broken, though they had no way of knowing for sure. “Once we are married it should only follow that he would claim his marital rights.”
Ceara laughed, appearing more at ease now that the burden of dinner was lifted from her shoulders. “I hope you are correct, cousin. I would hate to see you wed this intimidating foreigner for naught.”
Silence fell for a long moment before Ceara continued, “Why would you pretend to be me? You want this man to see you for who you really are, but you would pretend to be someone else? I do not understand.”
“You know Father would never allow anyone to marry me who did not know about the legend surrounding our family. But if Father thinks it is you the stranger wants, he will gladly speed things along just to be spiteful.”
Ceara’s eyes widened. “You really think you can fool Uncle Thomas?”
“Yes, although I will do my best to keep my distance from him, lest he discover the trick.” Ariana stood, impatient to begin the necessary preparations. She still needed to collect a few of the herbs she needed to bring her luck tonight. “But if we are to succeed we must hurry. Are you willing to try?”
All obstacles will fall away if Fate wishes to see you wed….
“But I won’t actually be marrying anyone?”
“Of course not!” Ariana laughed, her spirit soaring along with the song in her heart. She pulled Ceara over to the small looking glass that hung near her wardrobe. “But you would have to part with something very special.” Absently, she twisted one of Ceara’s long red locks between her fingers, so different from her own raven tresses.
Explaining her scheme to her cousin as she gathered her cloak for one final herb-gathering venture, Ariana felt the first real stirring of hope—an emotion she had feared long squashed by her father. But just now, as the afternoon shadows lengthened and the evening loomed full of possibility, Ariana dared to believe in her dreams.
Under a smattering of warm spring sunlight, Roarke dived into the bracing waters of a Welsh stream, hoping to wash away his fiery attraction to the lord of Glamorgan’s daughter along with the dirt from the road.
His long strokes knifed through the murky water, focusing him on his one goal—obtain a Welsh wife to secure his Welsh lands. The English king’s command had been explicit and Roarke planned to fulfill it in the morn. At long last, he would accomplish his most closely held ambition.
Despite his noble parentage, Roarke’s bastardy had cast a shadow across his name and rendered him all but penniless. Although he’d been raised as a legitimate son of the Barret house, he’d later discovered his mother had forsaken her wedding vows during the Crusades when she thought her husband dead. She’d kept the secret her whole life, but shortly after she died the truth had been revealed, much to his devastation.
Since then, he had tracked down his real father—a man he would never be proud to claim as kin—and relentlessly pursued his own lands. It had taken constant attendance to King Henry to earn a place at his side and finally a respected place as one of his closest knights, but at long last, his lands were within his grasp.
Of course, true to his luck he had been given a keep among the notoriously rebellious Welsh. The keep would be difficult to hold, but worse yet, his claim was contingent upon marriage to a Welsh wife.
Another man might have taken his time to find just the right woman to wed. Not Roarke. When last he’d chosen the ideal woman to marry—a vibrant childhood friend who had been sold into the convent by her parents—his half brother Lucian had wooed her away. Likewise, Lucian’s father had loved their mother to distraction and it hadn’t prevented her from straying the moment she thought he was dead. Roarke had come to think he’d be better off choosing a practical woman of a more grounded, sensible nature.
His new wife would be respected as part of his household, but she would never be a part of his heart.
Scrubbing his hair clean in the glistening waters of the stream, Roarke tried to forget a voice inside him had decried his own dictum concerning a wife when he had gazed into Ariana Glamorgan’s eyes. For one awkward moment, he felt as if a lightning bolt had struck him; his senses overloaded by a wisp of a Welsh girl. But as they’d spoken in the corridor afterward, he’d realized she was too fanciful, too dreamy-eyed to be the kind of woman he needed.
The sharp snap of a twig on the south side of the stream brought his ruminations to a halt. Ceasing his strokes, Roarke tread water, waiting for another noise to follow.
He was being watched.
Not a superstitious man by nature, he knew the eyes that followed him were no ghostly trick of the haunting Welsh landscape. If ten years of service to King Henry had taught him anything, it was the sixth sense of knowing when he was being observed. The further he advanced in the king’s good graces, the more often predatory eyes followed him.
“Show yourself,” he ordered, irked when a bird chirped heedlessly above him. He swam to the shore, hoping to draw out the watcher. Before he reached the bank, a feminine voice called down to him.
“I did not mean to interrupt your swim, my lord.” Ariana Glamorgan stepped from the thicket, a fistful of herbs in one hand, her lightweight cloak clenched to her bodice with the other. Dark hair tumbled around her shoulders while her lips curled into a saucy grin. “But since you commanded I present myself, I thought I had better come forward.”
Shoving aside thoughts of the watcher who had been following him of late, Roarke wondered if he imagined the teasing note in her tone. No daughter of the dour Lord Glamorgan could possibly be indulging in open flirtation. Yet there she stood, peering down into the water at him with curious eyes. “You are gathering herbs so late in the season, Lady Ariana?”
“Aye.” She sifted through the small green stalks she carried and tore away some excess stems in favor of the waxy leaves. “Herbal knowledge is a Glamorgan tradition. Perhaps you are familiar with the women of my clan?”
“I know naught of Welsh custom or nobility.” Although he wouldn’t mind getting to know this brazen creature with eyes that seemed to peer into the water for some hint of his nakedness. He could not recall meeting a more engaging female than this dark-haired temptress who appeared everywhere he wandered today, but Ariana’s curious gaze and teasing smile were hardly the qualities he sought in a wife. And he would never make an overture toward the daughter of his host without her father’s consent. No matter what stray stirrings he felt for this woman, he would not act upon them. “But I do not wish to detain you in your search.”
“Very good.” Nodding slowly, she seemed unusually satisfied at his response. “And I do not wish to detain you, either. Surely you have important plans afoot if you are to meet your bride this eve.”
True enough. Though he found he didn’t look forward to sitting in the great hall tonight half as much as he wished to keep Ariana nearby for a few more moments.
“I trust you will be joining us at dinner?” He surprised himself by asking the question since he could not act on his attraction to the woman anyhow.
“Perhaps.” She shifted on her feet as if suddenly nervous. Wary. Lifting her gaze to peer into the sky quickly shifting to twilight, she reached one slender arm to point heavenward. “There is the first star of the night, my lord. Let us wish upon it that you may find the maid of your dreams for a bride.”
Damn.
She could not have found a faster way to cool the fire in his blood than with her fanciful wishes. “I assure you I am no dreamer.” The chill of the water seeped into his skin, calling their conversation to an end and drawing Roarke to the task at hand this eve. “Perhaps I should allow you to do the wishing for us both.”
As if sensing the darkening of his mood, the lady took a step back, her hand falling to her side once again. “Although I am quite accustomed to casting extra wishes on behalf of those around me, I would not steal that right from a stranger. May you find that which you seek, Lord Barret.”
She disappeared into the forest as quickly as she had arrived, noiseless and invisible in the growing dark. Roarke knew a moment’s pang at having scared her off with his surliness, but there had been no point in idle chatter with a woman he would never see again after tonight.
Hauling himself out of the water now that the maiden had left, Roarke scaled the slippery moss-covered rocks in time to spy his friend and fellow knight Collin Baldwin tromp down the bank opposite where Ariana Glamorgan had recently stood. Friends from Roarke’s days at Barret Keep, he and Collin had traveled together ever since—Roarke seeking to expand his fortunes, Collin seeking any joy that life had to offer.
“I thought you were growing fins down here, Barret.” Collin scrubbed a hand over a scruffy beard he’d been growing since they entered Wales and threw Roarke a length of linen. “Are you aware Glamorgan’s dinner awaits?”
“Aye.” Unwilling to speak of his interlude with the lady Ariana, Roarke blotted at the rivulets on his chest before taking up his tunic. “And though you are simply eager for your next meal, I am seeking a wife. Such pursuits are not easily forgotten.”
“Should be a pleasure fondly remembered if you did it the right way. Do you even speak the Welsh tongue?” Collin had been scouting Glamorgan lands for signs they were being followed. Now, he whickered to Roarke’s horse while he waited for Roarke to dress. “If you wed a low-born wife, as you seem intent upon, she will not know English or French.”
“And what, pray tell, will we need to speak to one another about?” Roarke wondered aloud, mentally plaguing his friend for raising the subject again. “The last I knew, the begetting of heirs did not require a great deal of talk.”
Searching his saddlebag for fresh clothing, his fingers brushed the small lute his mother had given him. Although she bade him play the stringed instrument for peace of mind, Roarke associated it with his mother and her dreamy-eyed weakness. The lute rarely left the bottom of his traveling bag, but he could not help his occasional need to prevail upon it, taking solace in the haunting sounds of the strings.
“Ah, you may have to talk a little, my friend.” Collin raised a blond brow, his big body lounging against a tree. “You would not be so cruel as to force a woman the way Fulke Kendall did your mother.”
Roarke tensed. Only Collin could push him this far. And only Collin had interpreted Lady Barret’s faithlessness as merely an act of aggression on Lord Kendall’s part. “Since when does a man have to force his own wife? I plan to wed the woman who will bear my sons. ’Tis more than my father did.”
“Speaking of your sire, what news have you from Southvale? Surely you must have inquired after Lord Kendall’s health while you were in London.”
“Reports of my father come to me without my asking, as you well know,” Roarke muttered, seating himself on the mossy bank to lace well-worn leather boots.
Collin skipped rocks across the creek while he waited. “Has he heard of your new lands? Do you think he will try to make peace with you so he might add Llandervey to the Kendall holdings?”
“I will not allow hard-earned lands or wealth to be sucked into the noble house of Kendall.” He tugged his bootlaces harder, the leather lightly biting into his hands. “Fulke can maintain his wealth of holdings and I will be happy to keep my own.” Strapping on his sword and smaller knife, he strode toward Glamorgan Keep, alert to any small movements in the forest.
In case the watcher returned? Or did he hope to catch another glimpse of Ariana?
Collin hastened to catch up as the bell tolled the hour for vespers. “Think you Glamorgan has found a suitable wife by now?”
“If by suitable, you mean Welsh, then I am certain he has.”
“It is not too late, Roarke. You could still convince the king to change his mind about a Welsh bride.”
Roarke paused in the clearing just outside the keep gates to face his friend. “It is much too late. I care not who I take for a wife.”
Torches flickered brightly through the narrow windows of the keep. Two horse-drawn conveyances deposited guests, mostly laughing females, at the front doors of Glamorgan.
“But if you had longer you might find happiness—”
“Happiness is not a component of most noble marriages.” Roarke ground his teeth, trying not to remember his half brother Lucian had found utter fulfillment with his bride. “Frivolous emotion will not bedevil my household.” Pivoting on his heel, he stalked toward the gates, ready to meet whatever woman Fate sent his way.
The kitchen staff was given orders to serve the meal late in the day so that as many women as possible could be gathered for Roarke Barret to view. By the time the delayed dinner hour arrived, Ariana’s transformation was complete.
She peered back at her reflection, her raven locks artfully hidden underneath the long cinnamon tresses Ceara contributed from her own crowning glory. Her father would never suspect their deception.
“You look beautiful, Ariana. Far better than I did with that hair.” Ceara stared at her cousin’s face in the polished-silver looking glass. They each possessed the same red hair now, but Ceara’s barely reached her shoulders, her locks dispensed with so Ariana might carry out her plan to break the curse.
She bit her lip, sorry to have taken something that most women held so dear. “I feel awful about your hair, cousin. My father will flay me alive when he learns what I have done.”
Ceara smiled wistfully, twisting one of Ariana’s new red strands around her finger. “Maybe now he will understand how serious I am about taking the veil. I have no need of such adornments.”
Ariana only hoped her cousin’s gift would not be in vain. What if she could not make herself attractive to Roarke Barret tonight? Heaven knew, she had failed miserably in her attempt to draw him into conversation by the creek.
“You, on the other hand, need this small donation very much.” With a girlish impulsiveness she rarely demonstrated, Ceara hugged her cousin. “I consider it a worthwhile cause to help you leave this place. Do you think this stranger is really the one meant for you?”
“He seeks a bride as desperately as I seek a husband.” Ariana hummed a tune, as she picked through the herbs she’d collected earlier and hoped she did not overestimate herself. She had no experience with interpreting male interest, thanks to her lifelong reputation as a cursed Glamorgan woman. But she would like to think she’d seen a flicker of interest—heat, even—in the knight’s eyes.
“But he is so big.” Ceara shuddered. “So dangerous looking. What will he do when he learns how you have deceived him?”
But Ariana had not thought that far ahead. Since seeing the knight and experiencing the strange tingle of excitement when she looked at him, she could only think about escaping Glamorgan and freeing her nieces from the family legend that seemed to have taken on a life of its own. “I’m not sure. I only know I must act quickly, or rue the day I did not take a chance when it came along. A man who cares so little about marriage as to choose his bride over the course of dinner may be very happy to have me in spite of my small ruse.”
Ceara winced. “Men are usually quite insistent that their wives are not deceptive, cousin.”
“Then maybe he will allow me to leave once he knows our marriage is false.” She shrugged as she lit extra tapers about the chamber.
“Saints be praised, cousin. You know nothing of men! A man would never allow his wife to simply leave him. He could kill you for your treachery.”
Heaven help her, Ceara was beginning to sound as morose as Ariana’s father. Could no one in this household ever look at the bright side of things?
“I must try. This nonsense about Glamorgan women has plagued my family for far too many years.” Ariana waved away her concern as she poured the herbs from Eleanor’s pouch into a mortar to grind them. “But my father may be difficult when he discovers my deception. You must say I cut your hair as you slept, and that you knew nothing of my plan.”
“I will emphasize the fact that the long-suffered curse might be broken with you, and he will be placated.” Ceara sniffed the powder as Ariana worked. “That smells awful.”
“Yet with any luck, my concoction will render me attractive.”
Ceara crossed herself. “Dear Lord.”
“’Tis no different than sowing the fields with herbs to induce good crops, or baking a coin into the Yule cake for a prosperous future. After a hundred years of spinsterhood, I think the Glamorgan women are entitled to a few desperate measures.”
Determination renewed, Ariana headed for the chamber hearth and set the small pot upon the stones. She gave her cousin a gentle nudge toward the door and hoped she was doing the right thing. The stranger needed a Welsh bride as much as she needed to leave Glamorgan. Why shouldn’t she be the woman to fulfill his need?
“You’d best bring some of your things from your chamber so you are prepared to lock yourself away in here for the night. Remember, you cannot go below stairs until at least tomorrow afternoon. I heard one of the maids say the knight wishes to leave with his new bride by midmorn.”
Ceara hesitated, concern filling her amber eyes. “What shall we say when your father wonders why you are not attending my wedding?”
All obstacles will fall away….
Ariana would make sure of it. “I will have a maid tell him that I am consumed with sadness about the curse, and that attending the wedding of another, when I am destined for spinsterhood, is difficult for me.”
Ceara snorted. “You? Ariana Glamorgan is the most doggedly cheerful woman in Wales! Do you think he’ll believe it?”
“He’ll probably be thrilled to hear I am appropriately depressed for once. Just keep to my rooms tomorrow until I am far away from Glamorgan.”
“Godspeed, Ariana. And don’t forget to disguise your voice just a little. Your pitch is higher than mine.” Ceara gave her friend one last hug. “I will pray for you.”
Ariana hurried Ceara out the door and turned back toward the chamber hearth, filled with resolve. Hope.
She sat before the low flame, costumed in imitation of Ceara and ready for the evening meal except for one thing.
The good-luck charm.
Her lips trembled as she prayed for help, asking for her endeavor to be blessed. Then, pouring the ground herbs into the palm of her hand, she closed her eyes and concentrated.
And tossed the powdery concoction into the fire.
Flames burst from the hearth stunning Ariana with a sudden roaring blaze. A strange sense of power rose within her, almost as if a storm gathered inside her, gaining momentum as it whirled through her being.
The tide of emotions churning through her leapt right along with the flames, culminating in a shimmering sensation of light all around her body, wrapping her in golden warmth from head to toe. And Ariana knew, without a doubt, the charm had worked. The amazing sense of strength still gripped her, but the shimmering sensations faded with the hearth blaze, settling into a dull glow that made her want to smile.
She picked up her polished looking glass and examined her face. There was no visible change, of course. But then, Glamorgan women had always been able to see themselves as they truly appeared. Only men overlooked a Glamorgan female, and it was whispered that no man could see the beauty within a Glamorgan woman.
Until now.
Her feet fairly danced in anticipation to venture below stairs. Straightening the mass of red hair atop her head, she felt a fleeting regret she could not meet the knight as herself. Why did she have to pretend to be Ceara the one time she might truly attract a man?
Refusing to be deterred, she launched into a sprightly ditty she often heard sung in the village and departed the chamber to woo her knight.
Chapter Three
R oarke was not the first guest to arrive at the evening meal. The Glamorgan great hall already hummed with chatter and music. Women of any minor rank or background milled about. Daughters of two area nobles wore colorful velvets and scarlets, decorated as richly as the limited notice of his arrival would have allowed.
Not that it mattered, Roarke thought as he assessed the room from the entryway. He did not seek an heiress or even a great beauty. In his experience, beauty lured too much attention from other men while a wealthy woman might seek to assert her power while her husband was away at war.
His mother had done both—whether she’d meant to or not—and he’d paid for her mistakes. Anne Barret might not have meant to be unfaithful to her husband, but she had fallen for Fulke Kendall rather quickly upon hearing of her husband’s death. Roarke had tried to tell himself that perhaps his mother had already been close to her husband’s fellow knight, but the thought failed to lessen the sting of his bastard heritage.
He had amassed his own wealth these last ten years. All he wanted from his marriage were heirs and the assurance from King Henry that Llandervey would belong to his family for as long as his line remained. Roarke sought a practical, simple woman for mistress of his new keep.
A hush rolled across the hall like a gentle wave as Roarke entered. The women sized him up instantly, each taking her own visual inventory as he crossed the hall to his seat at the head table beside his host.
Blessed saints, forgive me for this debacle, he muttered, horrified to think he requested this room full of women to choose from as if he were an Eastern sultan presiding over a harem.
