Page 12 of A Knight for Gwenllian

Because she didn’t know what to think of this grim situation, Gwenllian remained silent.

“Now that I know who you are, Buttercup, I will send a rider to Sheridan Manor to reassure your family you are well,” Alexander said, winking at her. “And I will take you back there in the morning.”

So soon?

She was about to answer when the door opened on his squire, Edward.

“My lord, a retinue has been spotted in the distance, heading this way. I think it might be your brother. I recognized his horse.”

Oh, no.

Alexander barely bit back a curse when the riders trotted through the gate a moment later. Edward had been right, that chestnut horse, with its bald face and white stockings, would be recognizable amongst hundreds. Indeed, his youngest brother had decided to visit.

Damnation, a visit from Colin was guaranteed to put him in a bad mood. Then he spotted the woman riding the snowy white palfrey by his side, and his irritation went up another notch.

“Is that his wife?” he heard Gwenllian whisper in his ear. Evidently, she had her doubts about the identity of the woman, for which he could not blame her. The extravagant headdress and décolletage were enough to raise questions as to the role she fulfilled in his brother’s life—or rather, bed.

“No.”

The creature was definitely not his dour sister-in-law. What the hell was this? Not only had his brother come unannounced, moments after Alexander had told Gwenllian he rarely visited, but he had come with, of all people, his bloody mistress. There was no mistaking the way Colin was looking at the woman or the possessive grip she had on his arm. The two of them shared a bed.

“Alexander.” A casual observer would have concluded from his attitude and tone that Colin was pleased to see him. Alexander, however, knew better. This visit was not motivated by brotherly love. “Allow me to introduce you to Lady Isabeau De Chalon.”

“Je suis enchantée de vous rencontrer, Monseigneur.”

It was clear that this opening was meant to impress him. It did not. The use of the French language grated, and the deep curtsy had been nothing else than a ploy to let him admire her décolletage, which rode low on her generous breasts. Lady Isabeau was a tease, for lack of a better word.

“Doesn’t she speak English?” Alexander asked his brother, glad to have an excuse not to look at the woman. He could already tell the two of them would not get on.

Colin gave a little smile. “Yes, of course she does. How else do you think we can converse?”

“I’m not sure you chose her for her conversation.”

The smile became a laugh. “Indeed. As observant—and blunt—as ever, my brother. And who is this lovely creature?” Colin asked, gesturing to Gwenllian, who had been watching the exchange with avid eyes.

“This is Lady Gwenllian Hunter,” Alexander said, doing his best not to snarl. He hated introducing her, but there was no choice. If only he had not just found out her identity. He would have liked to see his brother’s reaction if he’d been told the “lovely creature” was called Buttercup.

“Braf eich cwrdd â chi, f'arglwydd.”

Alexander managed to repress a snort, but not a smile, at Gwenllian’s greeting. She had made a mockery of Lady Isabeau by curtseying as she would to the king and answering in Welsh. He loved this proof of spirit.

“What was that?” Colin blurted out, staring at her.

“Forgive me. For a moment, I forgot where I was,” Gwenllian answered smoothly, not looking affronted in the least. “Let me try again in English. It’s nice to meet you, my lord.”

“Of course. I should have guessed that was what you were saying. Was that Gaelic, I wonder? Are you one of those barbarians the king has recently subdued?”

Alexander let out a growl. Was his brother determined to look like a fool? Apparently. What was he doing, calling a woman “barbarian” to her face, bare moments after calling her a “lovely creature”?

“Gwenllian is Welsh, not Scottish,” he said rather curtly.

“Same thing.”

“Oh, no,” Gwenllian contradicted. “We Welsh are like the Scots in the same way that you English are like the Irish. In other words, not at all.”

Damn but the woman had wit—and pluck. Colin was glowering at her, having finally realized she was mocking both him and his mistress, and yet she didn’t cower. Alexander had rarely enjoyed himself so much. Their meeting had been propitious, as her presence at Audley might well make this unwelcome visit bearable.

“I am rather thirsty.” Lady Isabeau, clearly unused to not being the center of attention, was doing all she could to remind the people present that she was waiting to be acknowledged.