The YIELDING by Tamara Leigh

Author:Tamara Leigh [Leigh, Tamara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Christian Books & Bibles, Literature & Fiction, Romance, Historical, Medieval, Religious & Inspirational Fiction, Religion & Spirituality, Christian Fiction, Historical Romance, Inspirational
ISBN: 194232605X
Amazon: B00APRN7IU
Publisher: Tamara Leigh
Published: 2014-01-02T16:00:00+00:00

Blood fluttering through her veins, Beatrix descended the lowermost stairs, all the while telling herself she was prepared. It was not entirely true. Had Squire Percival delivered the lady’s gown as Michael had said he would, she could more easily endure what lay ahead, but he had not come.

Fearing Michael had changed his mind about allowing her among the castle folk, she had decided to bring her homespun belowstairs. He would not like it, but she had waited long enough.

From her window she had watched the men-at-arms answer the call to meal and pass their posts to others as twilight shuttered the land. Giving them enough time to reach the hall that she might join them as they entered and draw less attention to herself, she had left her prison for the second time in nearly a month.

With the din of the gathering of Soaring’s men ascending the stairs on brazen feet, Beatrix counted her footfalls to the bottom and paused to sweep her gaze around the hall. Unfortunately, more were seated than were not. Fortunately, their heads were turned and bent to conversation. As for the high table, its lord was not present.

Refusing to ponder Michael’s absence, Beatrix slid her gaze left and right of the lord’s chair. Nor was Lady Maude present, but there was Sir Canute. He did not yet see her, but he would. And when he did?

Hoping he would not call attention to her, she searched the lower tables for a place to take her meal. Though it would be proper for her to sit at the high table, and there was enough bench to do so, she was still a prisoner. Too, the homespun gown fit better with those who sat farthest from the dais.

Deciding on the lowermost table that was occupied by four men, she started forward. Thankfully, few paid her heed, and the reason for it became apparent as she made to step past a table and a thick hand turned around her upper arm.

“Where is your pitcher, wench?” a man-at-arms demanded, three layers of chin quivering beneath dry, fleshy lips.

“I…” She gasped. Of course the abrasive gown made her appear to be a serving woman.

The man pushed her back, releasing his hold on her. “Be about it now!”

She glanced over her shoulder. Pitchers were perched alongside platters of viands on the trestle table against the wall, while coming and going were the servants, pages, and squires who served at table.

“Now!” the thirsty man barked.

Beatrix took a step toward him. “Pardon, but I—”

He thrust up from his bench. “I shall not tell you again, wench!” The last of his words spilled into a hall turned suddenly silent.

Beatrix was surprised that his churlish display had tamed the tumult. As she fell to the regard of all, she raised her chin. But before she could form words to defend herself, another hand turned around her arm. It was a touch she knew even before she looked into pale eyes brimming with displeasure.

Michael shifted his gaze to the heavy man.

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