Page 6 of Ella’s Desire

Bronson narrowed his eyes at the intimate gesture.

The woman inclined her head in greeting. “Forgive me, my lord, I am not Ella, but her eldest sister, Marin. This is my husband, Bran Davidson.” She cast a glance at Bronson’s wet, wrinkled clothing. Though it was quick, it was enough to leave him practically wincing at her assessment.

“It rained for the majority of our trip,” he offered by way of apology.

She smiled in such an understanding way, it eased some of the tension from his shoulders. The kindness she exhibited only enhanced her appearance. After a lifetime at court, Bronson had come to be something of an expert on women and knew well what sort of reaction a woman like her would elicit from the courtiers. She would have every man in the palm of her hand.

If one sister was so finely featured, what must her younger sister look like?

“At your leisure, my lord, you may recover from your journey before you are introduced to the rest of my family,” Marin said in a congenial tone. “My father, the Earl of Werrick, is Warden of the West March on the English side as I’m sure you are aware. He is presently at Truce Day and will join us on the morrow.”

Bronson nodded as though he understood what Truce Day was. Mayhap a border thing. At any rate, he would not meet his bride in such a disheveled state and allowed Marin to lead him into the keep where the interior redeemed the old castle. While the outside was gray and bland stonework built for defense, the interior was luxurious and meant for comfort.

Tapestries hung from the walls, exquisitely worked with resplendent thread, and all the furniture was ornate and polished to a high shine.

No wonder Werrick was held in such high esteem. It was evident he had considerable wealth. It made sense now that a man with such a fortune could afford to supply a considerable dowry for his third daughter.

The chamber Bronson was shown to was far grander than his own in London and nearly four times the size. Rafe set about hastily preparing the room and before the hour was up, Bronson was ready to meet his intended.

He opened the door to his room and nearly tripped over a black cat.

He muttered a swift apology to the animal. His mother had chattered on with the hunting dogs and other household animals when he was a lad. It was a part of her that had never left him, a small piece of himself that reminded him of her.

He strode down the hall, in search of Marin or someone who might introduce him to the betrothed he was suddenly very eager to meet.

The black cat trailed behind him and attempted to wind about his feet as he walked. “Are you following me?” he asked. The cat stared up at him with bright green eyes.

“Do ye know what they say about Bixby?” Marin’s husband, Bran, grinned at him from across the hall.

The man’s accent was heavy with a Scottish brogue. Bronson straightened in surprise. Was the king aware Werrick’s eldest daughter had married one of his enemies?

“I do not,” Bronson replied warily. He’d heard enough about Scotsmen and what they did to the English to be on guard. When Rafe had dressed him, he’d attached the sword to Bronson’s belt. It was an awkward accessory as it was heavier than the decorative blade he’d worn at court. He was glad for it now.

Bran simply laughed at Bronson’s reply and bent to scratch the cat’s head.

Bronson ignored the rude response. “Where might I find Lady Ella?”

“Lady Leila and Lady Catriona are down in the garden.” Bran scratched under the cat’s chin, making its eyes squint in pleasure. “Ye might start by asking them.” With that, he stood and made his way down the hall in the opposite direction.

The Scotsman had offered the information like something wondrously helpful when it was anything but. Bronson hadn’t any idea where the garden might be.

He found it eventually, with the assistance of an errant servant he happened upon in the hall who had been far more helpful than the damned Scotsman. The garden smelled of wet soil and was filled with many flowering plants. It was rather a fine garden, more than he had expected from the primitive exterior of the fortified castle.

Two young women were picking carefully through a small garden of plants that had been marked off with a waist-high wooden fence. One was light-haired as Marin was, while the other possessed dark hair.

A foul mood had settled over Bronson during his search through the many halls of Werrick Castle, but he covered it with a courtier’s smile as he approached.

“Good day to you, my lord.” The blonde young woman smiled at him, her loveliness equal to Marin’s. “You are Lord Calville, I presume?”

No servants appeared to be about, not for protection of their person, nor to dig about in the earth for them. He regarded their dirt-stained hands. “Where are your servants?”

“In the keep,” the blonde woman replied casually.

The dark-haired girl did not speak, merely glancing at him from the corner of her eyes.

He glanced about. “Should you be out here alone? Without a guard present?”

The blonde laughed. “We can handle ourselves well enough. I’m Catriona, but everyone calls me Cat, and this is our youngest sister, Leila.” She nodded to the dark-haired girl, who faced him with a curious expression. After a long moment, she inclined her head in greeting.