before the stranger began to speak, Aislynn realized who, in fact, this man was.
Jarrod Maxwell.
She had met him once, many years ago. It had been before Christian had left on crusade. She and her father had gone to bid her brother Godspeed where he was camped with King Richard’s army. Her father had allowed her to go off with Christian, who had, of course, gone looking for his friends. They had seemed to forget her until someone had shouted out that the king had arrived. The throng had risen to watch the king pass by. It had been Jarrod Maxwell who had lifted her up on his shoulders so that she could see above the heads of the many soldiers. Everyone wanted to watch King Richard as he passed within a mere stone’s throw of them.
Though she had been but six at the time, Aislynn had not forgotten that day. Her memory of it was sharper than that of her mother, who had died three years before.
Her brother had gone into fosterage only months after her mother’s life had been taken in a tragic accident when the horse she rode stepped in a hole and tumbled upon her. Though Aislynn had been very young at the time, barely recalling her mother as more than a warm scent, Aislynn had learned her father had lost much of his joviality upon her mother’s death.
This in no way surprised Aislynn. She knew her father blamed himself for his wife’s death. The night before she’d left Bransbury for a visit to her sister’s home, he had awakened from a vivid dream that foretold her death on the journey. Yet he had been unable to convince her that she must not go. He felt that he had not tried hard enough to convince her of the danger.
But Aislynn did not wish to think on this, for it had all happened long before she could remember. She must concentrate on the man before them.
And truth to tell that did not prove difficult.
Christian had told her that his friend had been born of an Eastern woman while his father was on crusade and that he had brought the child home with him after she died. That exotic heritage was stamped on this man in not only his coloring but in the flowing ease of his stride, in the noble set of his wide shoulders, and the regal angle of his head. He was garbed as any other knight, in a burgundy velvet tunic and a flowing cape of fine wool with a dragon clasp that was fashioned in the same manner as the one her brother wore on his cape. Yet it was also easy to imagine him in the Eastern robes of the people in the many sketches Christian had drawn on his travels.
Christian had shared tales of the many women who had sought the exotic knight’s favor wherever they had gone. And suddenly as those black eyes met hers for a brief moment, Aislynn knew a feeling of resentment for all those faceless dames.
Quickly she looked away, telling herself how very mad such a thought was even as the man began to speak. “My lord Greatham, my name is Jarrod Maxwell. I have come as quickly as I could in answer to the letter concerning Christian’s disappearance.”
Her father’s tone was dull with confusion. “Letter?”
Aislynn watched from the corner of her eyes as Jarrod Maxwell nodded, a crease appearing in his brow at her father’s obvious confusion. “Aye, it came to Avington by messenger some days gone by.”
Her father said, “I sent no letter.”
Aislynn, feeling her sire’s assessing gaze upon her, looked into his blue eyes. “I sent it, Father. Christian had just returned from Avington when he set off on this mysterious quest of his, and I thought that those there might know where he had gone. Or that he might even have gone there as he has before.” Her gaze flicked to the dark knight, and away. “I cannot deny that I did hope Christian’s friends might even come to our aid. They are, after all the years they spent in the Holy Land together, as much family as we are to Christian. Besides, Christian himself once told me if there was ever any reason, I should not hesitate to call upon them as I would him.”
Her father’s voice was filled with disapproval. “Daughter, that all may be true, yet it does not explain why you would do this without consulting me?”
Jarrod Maxwell spoke up, drawing her gaze back to him. “If you will permit, my lord, I can not disagree that your daughter erred in not begging leave before writing to Avington. Yet Simon and I are indeed family to your son and come to your aid in finding him gladly.” There was a coolly assessing expression in his dark eyes as they rested upon Aislynn for a brief moment. She felt a strange sense of unrest, though she was not sure why.
The fact that he glanced away again, clearly dismissing her, should not have brought such a prodding of displeasure. She told herself that it was because he had had the very nerve to express his own disapproval of her writing without her father’s permission.
But his easy dismissal was especially irritating when she had been so immediately taken with the sight of him. Which was ridiculous of her, given that she was to be married. Yet for reasons she could not understand she found her gaze going to the knight once more as he bowed to her father, his lean-jawed countenance and strong nose in profile. Jarrod Maxwell was indeed as handsome a man as any maid might long for.
She pushed away this thought when her father spoke her name with irritation. “Aislynn!”
He watched her with a glowering expression and she realized she had not answered him. She addressed him hastily. “I deeply regret that I did not tell you, Father. I know how worried you have been, how frustrated in your efforts to find Christian. As I said, I thought that if naught else Warleigh or Maxwell might have some notion of whence Christian has gone. I…” She blushed again, looking down at her hands, feeling very self-conscious as she felt Jarrod’s gaze upon them.
Her father raised her chin to look at her. He continued to scowl, yet she noted that most of his irritation with her had already passed. He said more gently, “In future I will thank you to recall that not only am I your father but the lord of these lands. You will not take such action without my consent.”
She nodded, for there was no denying that she had acted rashly. Then in spite of her displeasure with Jarrod Maxwell, she faced him. She was glad that he had come to aid them. Surely he had come because he thought he could help find Christian. She asked hopefully, “Do you have any idea of where Christian might be?”
His expression showed clear regret as he shook his head, making his rejoinder to her father rather than to Aislynn. “Nay. I am sorry, but I have not the least notion. When he left Avington he said only that he was going home, and, though he seemed a bit preoccupied, I thought little of it after all we had been through.”
She tried to tell herself that her disappointment was brought on by his words, rather than by his continued disregard of her. Chagrined, she found herself studying her folded hands once again and wondering if she had gone quite mad in the intervening moments since this man had walked into the keep.
Even though Sir Jarrod Maxwell addressed his host rather than Christian’s young sister, he could not help being aware of the disappointment that emanated from her. He flicked a glance over and saw the pain that tightened Aislynn Greatham’s delicately beautiful profile and washed the color from that creamy skin. He fervently wished he had another answer to give, which surprised him.
He did not even know the girl.
She took that moment to look up across the table, laden with the evening meal, and Jarrod was held by a pair of startling cornflower-blue eyes. He found himself truly looking at Aislynn Greatham for the first time. There was a restive fragility about her, the type of restlessness as displayed by a butterfly. Her skin was like porcelain in contrast to the dark blue velvet of the head covering that framed her face. Her honey-colored
