“Now, we will send this message to Summerlin and wait for his reply which, I am sure, will be in the affirmative. What better way to assure peace than to marry two enemies?” his eyes grazed the sanded missive as the ink dried, re-reading his words. “There is virtually no possibility that Brian Summerlin will refuse such a submissive and polite request.”
Colin rose on his long legs; he was a muscular man. “And I look forward to acquiring my new wife. God only knows, she is a beauty to behold.”
“And a virgin, I am sure,” Nigel snorted. “Albert kept both she and her sister secluded from the world. Outside of James, I do not believe they had many visitors to St. Cloven. You know what a recluse Albert was.”
“Indeed I do,” Colin moved for the door, pausing a moment in thought. “Other than marrying the Lady Peyton, we have never truly discussed what would become of her once I took possession of St. Cloven. You do not really expect me to treat her as a wife, do you?”
“I care not what you do with her once you obtain the manor. Keep her abed day and night if it pleases you, or throw her down the stairs and be done with it. ’Tis your decision.”
Colin smiled, a sinister gesture laced with the promise of pure evil. “I shall consider those options. Both of them.”
Nigel smiled darkly, a gesture reminiscent of his son. Lady Peyton de Fluornoy was a very minor player in his grand game, a pawn to be used and disposed of.
The main objective, of course, was revenge; revenge for lands stolen, for wealth earned by St. Cloven from those lands upon which fields of barley thrived, and indirectly, revenge upon Baron Rothwell. Wealth the Warringtons claimed, considering the land which fed St. Cloven’s brewery belonged to them. Selective in memory, of course, they conveniently neglected to recollect that the House of Warrington never showed much interest in the overgrown meadows until Albert de Fluornoy’s father claimed them for his own use.
After thirty years, the family honor was still at stake and Nigel considered it just compensation that St. Cloven was finally within his grasp.
Baron Rothwell fit into these plans rather nicely. As Brian Summerlin sat majestically atop the throne of the Rothwell barony, the power of a substantial province in his palm, Nigel would gain power beneath his nose. With Wisseyham Keep andSt. Cloven joined by marriage, the link would prove extremely powerful and their rising force would be a power Summerlin would be compelled to reckon with.
Alone in his solar, Nigel continued to smile as his thoughts shifted from his liege to the object of his hatred. How considerate that Albert should die without finding another suitor for Lady Peyton. St. Cloven was without a capable man to administer her wealth, and Nigel silently thanked Albert for his thoughtfulness. He could not have planned events better himself.
All that was left was for Nigel to solicit the liege of the province for Lady Peyton’s hand. With Albert dead, there would be no one to oppose his request. And surely Baron Rothwell would do anything to maintain peace and serenity within his barony; a wedding between warring clans would be an acceptable solution. Moreover, Brian would do anything Nigel asked of him. It was a dark secret they shared.
Sighing with relief, he drew himself a chalice of St. Cloven pale ale. Swirling the sweet liquid in his mouth, he swallowed and erupted into sinister laughter.
All of it would soon be his.
St. Cloven
Cambridgeshire, England
Lady Peyton deFluornoy swirled the last drop of red ale, breathing through her nose to fully extract the flavors as her father had taught her. She had been doing this since childhood and had a better palate for ale than most seasoned men. A most useful talent, considering her family had been in the ale business for four generations.
“Too much wood,” she sniffed. “This batch has taken on too much of the barrel. Give it to the villeins. I would taste the batchof red ale that is not quite as aged. If it is not ruined, then we will transfer the contents to beechwood barrels. This oak is too strong. I never have been fond of oak, even though father insisted it adds flavor.”
Lady Ivy de Fluornoy relayed the orders to a hovering servant. When the man disappeared, she turned to her elder sister. “The taste was normal to me. How can you taste the wood so strongly?”
“I just do. Why must you question my palate? I am never wrong.”
Ivy made a face at her sister’s arrogant declaration. “And I say it tasted fine. As long as it is good enough to get drunk by, what do the innkeepers care?”
Peyton shot her sister an intolerant look. “We sell to more than just innkeepers, as you well know. Now, leave me alone. Go bother someone else.”
“Thereisno one else,” Ivy said, plopping down in a leather chair that had once belonged to their father. “We are quite alone, you and I.”
Peyton gave her sister a long glance, some of her irritation fading. “You need not remind me. I have been well aware of the fact for six months now.”
“And well aware of the fact that St. Cloven is a goldmine to the man who marries you,” Ivy shot back with soft intensity. She gazed at her sister, watching the emotions ripple across her beautiful face. “Your fate is in the hands of our liege, as much as you loathe the fact. You do not control your destiny and your daily moods reflect your frustration.”
Peyton’s sapphire-blue eyes flashed angrily for a split second before banking with equal rapidity. “As our liege controls your fate, as well,” she reminded her. “It is the man’s duty to select husbands for both of us since….”
Peyton’s voice trailed away and Ivy knew exactly what she was going to say; since my betrothed saw fit to get himself killed on the tournament circuit and since father died before he could complete a contract on you.
“I do not want to marry anyone,” Ivy bemoaned quietly. “I am too young. Seventeen is far too young.”
“Mother was married at fourteen,” Peyton reminded her, inadvertently pondering the man to whom she was betrothed. The man she should have married.
“I did not mean to bring up James.” Ivy knew what her sister was thinking. In fact, she thought of little else.
