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ChapterTwenty-Nine
“When it is enshrouded in the clouds, that ridge appears almost gray.”
They rode together, a situation Amalia had been glad for until this fourth day of riding. Her backside sorely needed a rest.
“And that,” she asked, “is what is called Greyridge Castle?”
“It seems I’ve chosen a highly intelligent woman.”
She turned from the impressive sight of Roland’s home backward to peer at him. “Did you choose me, my lord? Or did I choose you?”
“It would seem both,” he said as the castle loomed before them.
It was situated on a rise beside a lake and surrounded by dense woodland. Just as Roland described it . . . beautiful, with distinct defensive advantages. As they approached, making their way through the outer walls to the inner gatehouse, Amalia spied an ivy-covered keep with overly large wooden doors emblazoned with the same wolf, the de Vere crest, on Roland’s surcoat. He’d not worn it at any time during their journey to London, so Amalia was surprised he’d donned the surcoat that morn.
The sound of horses’ hooves as they clinked atop the cobblestones mingled with that of running water from the fountain central to the inner courtyard. The few servants not taking their evening meal waved to Roland.
It was not until they made their way into the hall after being led inside by an elderly gentleman, the castle steward, that Amalia was able to get her first look at the Lord and Lady de Vere. They sat on a dais well above the others. His father looked like an older version of Roland. Aside from gray in his hair and more wrinkles, the two could have been twins.
His mother’s hair was covered so she did not see her as clearly, but it seemed she would do so very soon. She had risen from the dais and was making her way to them even now.
As she approached, Amalia could see the resemblance easily. Those blue eyes of his had come from her.
“Roland,” she said, her arms going around him.
Amalia was surprised by the public display of affection, not typical of a noblewoman of Lady de Vere’s status. By the time she let him go, they were joined by a young man who also bore the jet-black hair of Roland and his father.
“Geoffrey.” Roland let go of his mother, who was looking at Amalia, and embraced the very brother whose life he’d saved.
Lady De Vere looked at Amalia. Her eyes were more than just a pretty shade of blue. They were knowing.
“You are with my son.”
“With” did not mean they traveled together. Amalia sensed its true meaning and said simply, “Aye.”
“We are handfasted,” Roland said, taking Amalia’s hand. “I would marry her with Father’s permission.”
Amalia held the woman’s gaze.
“Handfasted?” his brother asked. “Is this . . . the woman from that day? On horseback?”
“It is.” Roland was looking beyond his brother, into the hall. His father, perhaps sensing they were not returning to their seats, made his way toward the trio.
“Do not be nervous,” Lady de Vere said to Amalia.
How did she know? Indeed, with every step the earl took toward them, it seemed Amalia was robbed of more breath. She noticed the rich tapestries covering the walls of the hall. Noticed those taking their meal were watching them. But mostly, she noticed a man even taller than Roland, with a presence that put her old master to shame, finally reaching them.
“Roland.” He stuck out his hand.
His voice boomed with authority, though not as much with affection. Roland had told her his father was an earl first, before any other role, and she understood his meaning now.
“Father,” he said back.
“We will go to the small hall.”
With barely a glance to her, Roland’s father strode away, leaving them to follow.
Don’t be nervous?The advice seemed futile.
