Page 5 of Ella’s Desire

“And if I was a laundress instead of my father’s daughter?” she pressed.

He shook his head and those unique, exquisite eyes met hers finally. “But ye’re not a laundress, Lady Ella.” His tone softened as though he meant to take the sting from them. “And ye never will be.”

Emotion welled like a fist in her throat, nearly choking her. She nodded as if she understood, as if everything was right and well between them. She stepped back, but a small stone caught the heel of her shoe and she stumbled.

Peter reached out to her, but she pulled away, preferring to trip than accept his aid. “Lady Ella.” There was a gentleness to his voice. Pity.

It was impossible at that moment for her to be any more humiliated. The one thing she had planned to do solely for herself had gone so miserably wrong. Now she was left with rejection in addition to an unwanted impending marriage.

Bronson rode from the civilization of London into the wilderness of the border. He’d been traveling at a steady pace for a fortnight, and still he and Rafe had not arrived at Werrick Castle.

A low rumble came from overhead. The second one in several minutes.

The rain had been a constant companion throughout their travel. Initially, they had stopped several times to find shelter. After a short time, they’d given up. Fortunately, the majority of Bronson’s belongings, and several of his prized hunting dogs, were in the large covered cart being driven by Rafe.

Regardless, it was hard to shake the idea that all the rain was a bad omen. As though the heavens themselves were frowning upon the union.

“Do you think she will be beautiful, my lord?” Rafe asked. The young man looked up at him through a fringe of wet, blond hair.

“The king says she is,” Bronson answered.

And indeed, he had said all the daughters of Werrick were stunning beauties. All but one had golden locks and beautiful blue eyes. Appearances were pleasant, but they did not make this decision for him.

Bronson would marry her if she looked like the back end of a goat. Anything to give Brigid and Lark the life they ought to have lived these past fifteen years.

Bitter anger tightened along Bronson’s back at his father’s carelessness. It was the late earl who always told Bronson to look after women, to see to their needs and wants. Apparently, he had only meant women who might offer him favors for an evening rather than his own wife.

“If she is lovely,” Rafe said with careful consideration, “then the journey is worth the effort.”

Bronson’s leather cloak had soaked through and there was a chill deep in his bones. Despite his ire, he could not help but smile at the younger man’s enthusiasm.

“I hope you’re right.” Bronson nodded to the castle looming in the distance. “Because it looks like we’re about to discover the truth soon enough.”

A curtain wall encircled the lush grassy hill surrounding the structure. Werrick Castle was rustic in appearance, no doubt built more for defense than for comfort. He’d heard such things about life in dangerous areas and was glad he’d purchased a sword prior to leaving London.

The rain ceased all at once. Little good it did now, though. Bronson was drenched and eager to change from his wet traveling clothes.

The portcullis was down when they arrived and there was an unsettling quiet about the surrounding area that left Bronson straining his eyes and ears for another soul. An arrow whizzed down from the battlements and stuck at an angle in the soft ground. The white fletching caught the wind and made the arrow bob slightly.

“Far enough,” a female voice shouted.

Rafe shot Bronson an incredulous look as he shouted up to the castle wall. “My Lord, the Earl of Calville is here upon the request of the Earl of Werrick to discuss contracting a marriage with his daughter.”

Silence followed the declaration and continued for several beats before the portcullis groaned and slowly creaked upward. As it lifted, Bronson swept at his hair and straightened his clothing. After days spent in the storming weather, trudging through mud and wearing sodden, wrinkled clothes, there was little he could do.

By some miracle, the downpour had not resumed. Rather, the clouds had cleared away, revealing a blue sky filled with the brilliance of a full-faced sun. Except it only made his appearance all the more disheveled.

Lady Ella would no doubt take one look at him and refuse to accept him into her home. And he wouldn’t blame her. He coaxed his horse into the courtyard, expecting the earl to come forward and present his daughters.

There was no earl, but a woman instead. She wore a fine blue kirtle of costly silk and her hair was bound into braids coiled beneath a gilt caul. Her attire was dry and absent any wrinkles or mud.

If he had expected a pretty woman as his bride to be, he would have been taken aback. This woman was not merely pretty: she was beautiful. Beyond beautiful. Her fair skin was flawless, her cheekbones high, her lips full and sensual.

He sank to one knee before her. “Lady Ella.” His three hunting dogs crowded around him, silent as though they too were in a state of awe.

“That isn’t necessary, my lord,” she said. “Please, do get to your feet.”

Bronson rose obediently. It was then he noticed a man standing beside Lady Ella. A man who put his hand possessively about her waist.