Douglas stood on the doorstep as the rain pounded on him. “You might have shown your gratitude better than by trying to kill a knight sent to assist you,” he said.
“We could not be sure it was not Tatworth.”
“You know the Tatworth standard, do you not? Wolfie was not wearing it.”
“It could have been his ally.”
Douglas lifted an eyebrow. “He is wearing Norfolk of Arundel,” he said, growing annoyed. “You are a woman well versed in the politics of England, enough to know the standards of every important warlord that matters. Moreover, Arundel is your ally and he was clearly wearing the standard. I will not argue this with you, Lady Isabel. And I will tell my father thatyou are grateful for his assistance. But please try to be more careful with the men who are helping you hold on to your castle.”
Isabel knew he was right for the most part, but it was also true that because of the storm, she and the other ladies really couldn’t see Norfolk’s distinctive colors because they were darker and the tunics were wet. But she didn’t argue. There was no point. With a slight nod in his direction, she excused herself to see to the care of the knight they’d tried to brain. Two of her charges went with her while the third one remained behind.
Douglas watched the woman disappear into the darkness of the keep, trying to decide if he was offended by her attitude or if he simply didn’t care. He was weary from three days of fighting, and that was beginning to affect his temperament. He wasn’t quick to temper by nature, but he might make an exception in the countess’ case. With a weary sigh, he was preparing to turn away from the door when he heard a soft voice.
“Please do not be angry with us, my lord,” she said. “Lady Isabel has not slept since the attack started and she is only doing what she feels is best. She would defend this keep single-handedly, I think.”
Douglas turned to the source of the voice. A woman came out of the shadows, wearing something white. Until his eyes adjusted to the dim light, all he saw was a flowing, pale garment. Like a wraith would wear. Or an angel. It turned out to be a simple linen garment, but on her, it seemed like gossamer. The woman’s movements were graceful, her stature short but her figure pleasing. But when he got to her face, the real pleasure took hold. She had a sweetly oval face, with a little nose and little chin and enormous green eyes.
He was taken aback by what he saw.
“I am not angry,” he managed to say. “I do not think any of us have slept much since we arrived. If I was sharp or loud with Lady Isabel, then I apologize.”
She smiled with rosebud lips that parted into a delightful expression. “I have heard Lady Isabel speak twice as sharply and thrice as loudly,” she said. “You were not nearly as frightening as she can be, my lord.”
He couldn’t help it. He grinned because she was. A woman like that—tiny, sweet, pixie-ish—there was no way he couldn’t smile in return. She was like a fragile little doll, porcelain and pristine, and Douglas had a hard time believing she was real.
He’d never seen such perfection.
“I see,” he said. “Then mayhap I should come in here and sit amongst the women and let her take charge of the army outside.”
“She would do a tremendous job of it.”
He snorted. “I suspect she would,” he said. His smile faded as his gaze lingered on her, like moth to flame. “What is your name, my lady?”
Those bright green eyes glimmered with mirth. “Lady Isabel would box my ears if I told you my name without our being properly introduced,” she said. “But I suppose there is no harm, considering the fact that there is no one around to introduce us. I am Lady Misery Isabella Rosalie d’Avignon.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Forgive me, but… Lady Misery?”
“Aye.”
“Miseryis your name?”
She chuckled. “I have a twin brother named Payne,” she said. “Payne and Misery. My mother spent three days laboring to give birth to us and refused to name us anything other than what she was feeling at the time of our birth.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “And your father allowed this?”
“He died about a month before we were born. We were named out of grief.”
Douglas could see the overall picture, including a woman in mourning. It made some sense as to why her daughter boresuch a horrific name. “A pity,” he said. “I would have thought your name to be something glorious like Eleanor or Elizabeth or Katherine.”
She was smiling as she shook her head. “I am afraid not,” she said. “But if it makes you feel any better, I am known as Mira. The first letter of each of my names—M-I-R-A. My grandmother refused to call me Misery, too.”
“Ah,” he said with approval. “Mira. That is much more suitable.”
“And your name, my lord?”
“Did you not hear me shout it before I tried to kick your door in?”
She laughed softly. “I confess, I did not,” she said. “I was one of the ones boiling water to drop on unsuspecting knights.”
