The Maiden's Hand by Susan Wiggs

Author:Susan Wiggs [Wiggs, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Eleven

When Oliver and Lark found Wynter, he was pacing in the great hall and questioning the steward like a Spanish Inquisitor.

“Why weren’t the rye fields left fallow? And what about the western uplands? I thought I ordered the grazing there.”

The steward, a thin-necked man called Cakepen, wrung his hands. “Quite so, my lord. But there were a few cases of the bloat, and then—”

“Wynter!” Hiding his annoyance behind a broad grin, Oliver strode forward, both hands outstretched. Wynter was a handsome bag of male pride, Oliver acknowledged. And perhaps, like Oliver himself, no stranger to using his looks to his advantage.

Shamelessly, Oliver gave him a back-pounding hug. “Welcome to Blackrose.”

Wynter hauled himself free, flinging out his arms to rid himself of the hug. “What do you here?” Without waiting for an answer, he glared at Lark. “I should have known your wit was too small to dispose of a mere houseguest. Why is he still here?”

Oliver gave Lark no chance to reply. “I can see you’re consumed with grief over your father’s passing.” He pressed a cup of ale into Wynter’s hand. “Apparently you were so sick with mourning that you failed to come and pay your respects at his burial.” He patted Wynter on the shoulder. “Time will heal your heart, son.”

Wynter gulped the ale and rolled his eyes. “Son? Have you taken vows while I wasn’t looking?”

Oliver laughed. He heard Lark catch her breath and hold it in agonized, waiting silence.

“Aye,” he said, “I have. Marriage vows.”

Wynter’s eyes narrowed.

“’Tis true.” Oliver refilled Wynter’s glass. “And since Lark was your father’s wife, and therefore your stepmother, I might well be your stepfather.” He winked at Lark. “Have I got that right? Does marrying the stepmother make me this young landraker’s—”

The ale cup slipped from Wynter’s hand and spilled into the rushes on the floor.

Lark was no help at all. She stood there pale and goggle-eyed, looking as if she had swallowed a live toad.

In a single stride Wynter had her backed against the wall, his hands gripping her upper arms and his furious face mere inches from hers.

“Is this true?” he demanded.

Just for a moment, Oliver stood perfectly still. He had never, ever felt this way before, so at first he didn’t recognize the feeling.

Then he identified it: rage. Clean and sharp and brutal. It was as if someone had put a glowing brand to his brain. The heat was so tremendous, he thought his head would explode.

With his blood boiling, Oliver leaped forward, grabbing Wynter and spinning him around. Wynter’s arms exploded outward, shoving Oliver away and unbalancing him. He staggered back while Wynter’s hand found the hilt of his sword.

No one, but no one, was quicker with a blade than Oliver de Lacey. Even before he found his footing, he had his weapon drawn, the tip of it pushed into the tender hollow between Wynter’s collarbones.

Wynter’s eyes widened in astonishment. Then he nearly crossed them as he looked down at the sword. His own weapon dropped with a defeated clatter to the floor.

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