Page 52 of Fortress of Snow

A beautiful woman was already seated at the place beside him.

“Lady Bristow, may I introduce Sir Berenger of Dericott? Sir Berenger, this is Catherine Everdon, the Countess of Bristow.”

“It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Bristow.”

The woman smiled quite warmly. Then she leaned over and said softly, near his ear, “The pleasure is all mine, Sir Berenger. And I am the widow of the Earl of Bristow.” She emphasized the wordwidow.

“Please accept my condolences on the death of your husband.”

She raised her brows, keeping her smile. “Thank you.” The look she gave him, then the way she stared at his lips, put him on his guard.

It wasn’t the first time a woman had looked at him the way she did, but she may have been the boldest, almost as if she was trying to get a reaction from him. He did not give her one.

“I have been very sad, but the king and queen have beenhelping me with my grief. We are very fortunate to have such competent leaders, do you not agree? Though they are young, they are so wise.”

Lady Bristow smiled in the direction of the king.

“Of course.” Even if Sir Berenger did not agree—and in truth, he was not sure he did—he could not have said so. One uncomplimentary word against the king could easily be repeated and lead to many unwelcome consequences, including death.

“I am glad our majesties are able to help you in your time of mourning.”

“Yes. But how long should a widow grieve?” She leaned toward him, a crease forming between her eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“There is nothing stipulated in either the Holy Writ or the laws of our land.” She seemed to be waiting for an answer to her question.

“I never thought about it,” he said.

“But what do you think, Sir Berenger?” She tapped her four fingers on his wrist where his hand lay on the table between them.

“I suppose it should be left up to the widow to decide when she is done grieving.”

“Give me an amount of time. How long? Half a year? A year?”

“I cannot say.”

She reached out for her goblet of wine with the long fingers that had been tapping his wrist.

Berenger slowly removed his hand and put it on his own leg, out of her sight.

She gazed at him over the rim of her goblet. She was a woman who knew she was beautiful, with black hair and brows, lips so red that she must have put something on them, and a long white neck. She wore earrings of pearl and precious stones, as well as a circlet and a necklace set with the same stones—a pearl and a green, a blue, and a red stone.

He guessed her age to be around thirty or thirty-five—a little old to be interested in him, as he was only twenty-three.

Berenger had a few good conversations with the person on the other side of him, a viscount from Northumberland, and a baron sitting across from him, but he ended up more often than not speaking with Lady Bristow. By the end of the evening she was confessing things he never expected.

“I was very young when I married my husband,” she said, “but I truly loved him. He was the sun, moon, and stars to me, a young fifteen-year-old who had never traveled from home. But alas, he was cruel...” She sighed.

“I am very sorry he was cruel. No wife should be mistreated by the man whose duty it is to protect her.”

Her eyes were soft as she blinked several times, her eyelashes fluttering. “Thank you. You seem like such a kind and chivalrous knight, someone who defends those who cannot defend themselves.”

“I endeavor to be.”

“Whoever marries you shall be a fortunate woman indeed. I only hope you find someone worthy of you.”

He hated to admit it, but her words went straight to his heart like an arrow. That an older woman, and one as beautiful asLady Bristow, would think him so worthy felt very encouraging. Perhaps someday soon he would be able to marry well.