Page 3 of Betrothal

“Ah, but height is not everything, Anne.” Alyse smiled, well pleased to have diverted her from Lord Braeton. “A man can be too tall, too. You would get a crick in your neck looking into his eyes.” She traced the embossed pattern on the silver goblet as she continued her subterfuge. “I think I would quite like having Patrick for my husband. He always pays me charming compliments, he converses well and shows a rare wit for jests. And I do not believe I am alone in that estimation.” She nodded toward Patrick at the other end of the Hall, with several ladies of the court clustered round him.

As she contemplated his boyish features, he suddenly raised a bright, blue-eyed gaze to her and flashed a quick smile. His notice brought heat to her face. She nodded a greeting to him then dropped her own attention back to her cup.

“Well,” Anne broke in on her thoughts, “flirt with him if you want, but I warn you he is a handful. Marriage shall not change that one an iota.”

Before Alyse could question her about that statement, another courtier summoned the girl to the next table, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She grasped her cup again, hoping the ale would cool her cheeks.

She raised the goblet, her eyes trailing around the room until they locked onto the figure of Lord Braeton, standing directly across from her.

Air rushed out of her lungs with a soft “huh.” Her heart beat an erratic rhythm in her chest and gooseflesh rose on her arms. How could she have forgotten he was here? She remembered to breathe but, for several minutes, it seemed to make no difference. The sensation of breathlessness persisted, as it always did when the man came close to her. Alyse held still, afraid any movement might make him disappear in a puff of smoke, like a sorcerer’s trick.

She feasted on his lean, muscular frame as he stood casually beside a companion, deep in conversation, and hunger awoke in her. A well-built, confident man of mayhap thirty years, he possessed shoulder-length honey-blond hair and warm, seductive brown eyes—the coloring she found most attractive. One of only a few young men at court who defied fashion and chose to wear a thin mustache and beard, he appeared aristocratic and dangerous by turns to Alyse. She allowed her gaze to linger on the broad shoulders that declared him a strong warrior then it drifted to the well-shaped legs that attested him much in demand during court dances.

A low moan escaped her as she imagined how his brawny arms would feel clasping hers in the trotto dance. Shivers raced down her body just as Lord Braeton looked up to catch her staring—with God knew what sort of expression on her face. He flashed her a knowing grin, showing even white teeth in a too-sensual mouth.

What must he think? Alyse’s mouth dried so that her tongue stuck to her teeth. Blood drained from her face as he leaned toward the hulk that was his dark-haired companion on the right, likely to jest about what he had observed.

Do not make this worse! Act as though you do not mark him.

Summoning her training, she glanced around the room, nodded to another acquaintance then turned her attention to the trencher placed before her. Though she doubted she would be able to eat a mouthful.

She picked up the succulent roasted squab, her favorite dish, pinched a bite from the breast and popped the morsel into her mouth before daring to glance back at Lord Braeton’s table.

He was staring at her.

Alyse stopped, aghast. The delicate, flavorful meat turned rancid on her tongue, its luscious smell now noisome. She dropped the bird back onto her trencher with nerveless fingers.

“Maurya!” She leaned toward her companion, who was laughing at some jest from her husband.

“Aye, Alyse?”

“Lord Braeton is staring at me!”

“Indeed!” She glanced toward the gentleman. “Well, now his companion is staring at you too.”

“What?” Alyse peeked at the figures across the Hall. Maurya spoke the truth: both men were staring directly at her. “Who is that man?”

Maurya continued laughing, her mirth now aimed at Alyse. “’Tis his good friend, Sir Geoffrey Longford, who attends you so closely, Alyse. He arrived at court only today. Excuse me, John. What did you ask?” Maurya turned back to her husband, leaving Alyse fretful.

Why are they looking at me?

She dared not raise her eyes toward their table again, yet she grew impatient to see for herself who this Sir Geoffrey was. And why he laughed at her!

Alyse fumed silently at the impertinence of the behemoth. Though she could not judge the stranger’s features, his sheer size appalled her. Beside Lord Braeton, not a small man by any means, this newcomer seemed massive. Dangerous.

I would hate to be left to his tender mercies.

Alyse shuddered, unable to resist stealing one more glance in his direction. She gasped as her gaze met that of the dark-haired man. His generous mouth split into a grin, as if he had read her very thoughts.

She froze, pinned to her seat by his frank stare. A torch flared and something flickered across his face, a look of stark appraisal that sent chills racing down her spine. She forced herself to glance away and heard a loud laugh from his direction.

Curse the wretch.

Raising her cup of ale with a quick hand, she hoped to soothe her jangled nerves with the draft.

“Sir Geoffrey of Longford! Present yourself before the company.” King Edward’s voice rang out and Alyse sputtered into the vessel. She watched with the rest of the court as the tall stranger stalked toward the king’s table, stopping only half a dozen feet before her.

She took the opportunity to study his figure. The broadest shoulders she had ever seen tapered to an impossibly narrow waist and hips—she was amazed they could support such a torso.