The Knight's Redemption

“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.