she said as she bowed low. “We so seldom have any visits from the king’s minions that naturally I was suspicious.”
Minion? Blaidd was no longer moved to excuse her insolence, vibrant blue eyes or not, and as for kissing her, he’d sooner kiss Aderyn Du.
“He’s not a minion!” Trev cried, echoing his thoughts. “He’s a friend of King Henry’s.”
“Trev, please, allow me to deal with this underling,” Blaidd said as he slowly ambled toward the woman until they were less than a foot apart.
She stiffened as Blaidd perused her in a leisurely manner.
“What’s your name, wench?” he asked with deceptive tranquillity before he gave her a smile that his opponents in armed combat had learned to dread.
Her chin jutted out with defiance. “Becca.”
“Tell me, Becca, do you always speak this way to your superiors?”
“Usually I don’t speak to anybody who considers himself my superior.”
She was, without doubt, the most insolent wench he’d ever encountered. “If this is the welcome nobles can expect at Throckton Castle, it’s no wonder to me that your lord is not held in high esteem at the king’s court.”
The woman’s steadfast gaze finally faltered—but only for the briefest of moments. “If he isn’t, that merely confirms what I think of the English court.”
“What do you know of the English court?”
Her eyes widened with what he recognized as a completely fraudulent innocent bafflement. “I never said I knew anything about the English court, sir. I said it confirms what I think about it.”
She bowed again, with an unexpected grace. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, Sir Blaidd.”
He tilted his head as he studied her, not at all taken in by her change of manner. “Are you?”
“If what I’ve said causes trouble for Lord Throckton, I am.”
Then she smiled, with so merry an expression, it was like finding a flower blooming in the dead of winter. “But if my honesty means you think I’m an insolent wretch who ought to be punished, I’m not sorry a bit.”
Under the force of that smile, Blaidd’s anger melted away. “Perhaps I’ll be merciful and not tell Lord Throckton about his impertinent gatekeeper.”
“Perhaps he won’t be surprised.” Her smile dimmed, but she didn’t sound worried.
Then she wrapped her cloak more tightly about her slender frame. “Aren’t you in a hurry to meet the lovely Lady Laelia?” She gave him another smile. “I think you might actually stand a chance.”
“Well, then, since I’ve apparently won your good opinion, I’ll consider myself nearly betrothed.”
The look in her sparkling eyes shifted again, becoming serious. “You may not have had much competition in anything before, Sir Blaidd Morgan of Wales, but you will now. I wish you luck, if you think Laelia and her dowry will make you happy.”
He asked the next question without thought. “Will I be seeing you in the castle?”
“I hope not,” she replied, in a way that left no doubt that she meant it.
The guards nearby stifled smiles and tried not to laugh.
Sir Blaidd Morgan enjoyed having people laugh with him, and women most of all. But he hated being laughed at, and it had been years upon years since anybody had dared.
He turned on his heel, marched back to Aderyn Du and threw himself into the saddle. “Let’s go, Trev,” he snapped.
His squire immediately obeyed. “Do you suppose she really is a gatekeeper?” he asked as they rode into the ward.
“Whoever she is,” Blaidd answered grimly, “I don’t think she’s right in the head, and I hope I never see her again.”
As Sir Blaidd Morgan rode away, Becca glanced at the castle guards, and the tall, gray-haired man in mail at the head of them. “Poor man. I don’t think he expected my reception.”
They burst out laughing.
“That’s enough, lads,” the commander of the garrison ordered, although Dobbin was having trouble keeping a straight face himself. “Back to your duties.”
Exchanging muffled words and snickers, the men returned to their posts, while Dobbin joined Becca in the room in the gatehouse where the guards spent their time while not on patrol or sleeping. The plain stone walls were as stark as the battered trestle table upon which, over the years, men off duty had scratched their signs or initials. A couple of stools provided the only seating. A single shelf held materials for cleaning metal and leather, a task often performed here. The scent of the polish lingered, and helped add to the cozy feeling of the room, which was warmed by a fire.
Becca and Dobbin hung up their drenched cloaks on pegs near the door and returned to their stools by the small hearth.
Dobbin stretched out his legs and sighed. “I’m getting too old to stand in the rain,” he muttered, his words betraying his childhood spent in the dales of Yorkshire.
“You could have stayed inside.”
“Too risky.”
“They were hardly on the attack.”
Dobbin gave her a shrewd look. “But what might you have said if I wasn’t there?”
She smiled, for he was quite right. She might have been even more impertinent toward yet another knight who’d arrived to see if the beauty of Throckton lived up to that name, and to court her if she did.
“Big fellow, he was, for a Welshman,” Dobbin noted. “Sits his horse well. A man with shoulders and legs like that would probably be some fighter.”
“I daresay he probably is a champion of tournaments,” Becca agreed as she spread her damp skirts to enable them to dry more quickly. The ring of keys at her belt jingled with the movement.
“He’s a handsome one, too, even with that hair. I’ve never seen a nobleman with hair to his shoulders like some kind of savage.”
“Maybe all Welshmen wear it that way.”
“I’ve never seen ’em do it,” Dobbin replied, “and I’ve met a fair few at tournaments and such.”
Becca clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll ask him, shall I?”
Dobbin nearly fell off his stool. “You’d better not. He looked angry enough to strangle you before. I thought he was going to, the way he got so close to you.”
Becca tried not to remember how her heart had pounded when the handsome knight with the incredible physique had strolled toward her, a look on his face as if…as if…
Well, she’d never had a man walk
