Alec sighed, setting down his chalice. “Say nothing to him for the moment. At the festivity, I shall make sure to point out the younger sister and see if he expresses any interest.”
“Fair enough,” Brian agreed. “I suppose proceeding on the basis of attraction is acceptable. If Ali likes what he sees, I shall broach the subject.”
Alec moved for the door. “What about me? What if I do not like what I see?”
Brian shook his head faintly, exhausted with the arguing. “We will cross that bridge when we come to it. Go now, your mother should be serving afternoon refreshments.”
Alec quit the room, leaving Brian drained and thoughtful. Whether or not Alec found his prospective bride agreeable, Brian’s mind was made up. Pleasant or not, Alec would marry the lady of St. Cloven and reap the rewards of the keep.
But, of course, there was the little matter which Brian had neglected to inform him, and that was the Warrington petition for the lady’s hand. He’d never tell Alec, of course; it would be one more excuse to refuse the betrothal.
Brian was no fool; he knew that Nigel Warrington had set his sights on obtaining what he believed rightfully belonged to him, and St. Cloven was an auspicious beginning. He had no intention of seeing a Warrington as lord of St. Cloven; it would be a Summerlin, no matter if he had to tie his mulish son to the front gates to keep him there. Alec would be lord of an ale empire and damn well be pleased about it.
In faith, he wished he could tell his son the whole of it. But some things in life were better left unsaid, some things better left buried.
CHAPTER TWO
Three ladies andseven soldiers made up the party from St. Cloven. Behind them, a wagon carted six barrels of their finest dark ale as a gift to their liege, Baron Rothwell. Traveling to a celebration, the mood should have been light and gay. The weather of late summer was delightful and the sky bright, but there was little talk and even less joviality.
To Peyton, it felt like a death march. A forced trek into the gaping jaws of fate. Lord Brian had summoned her and Ivy to discuss their betrothals under the guise of inviting them to a grand party in honor of his wife’s birthday. The birthday was a convenient excuse, Peyton was positive. It was all a ploy to force her into doing what she so desperately loathed; to accept a husband.
Dressed in a lovely turquoise blue silk that complemented her golden red tresses perfectly, she looked entirely delicious seated atop her brown palfrey. But her mood was anything but delicious; it was bitter and distasteful. She hated the fact that she and Ivy had been forced to dress like fine horses for the auction block so that Lord Brian could get a good look at them. The prettier the girl, the wider range of suitors there would be.
A thought suddenly struck her as she mulled over her fine appearance and she turned to catch her sister’s attention. Ivy was mounted astride a dark gray warmblood, a difficult animal that would have given most men a good deal of trouble. But Ivy rode the beast effortlessly and Peyton waved her forward.
Ivy reined her horse next to the delicate brown palfrey. “Let me guess; you have finally come to your senses. We are going to turn for home and pretend we never received the invitation.”
Peyton gave her an impatient look. “Be serious. I have a plan.”
Ivy grinned with the prospect. “As I said, you have finally come to your senses. What sort of plan?”
Her impatient expression turned sly. “Are you a brave girl, Ivy? What I am about to suggest might shock you.”
Ivy snorted very un-ladylike. “You could never shock me. What is it you have in mind?”
“Bring Jubil forward. She shall want to help us.”
After a brief conference, the caravan came to a halt as the ladies dismounted and moved to the rear of the wagon where their baggage was stored. The curious household soldiers tried to catch a glimpse of the activity but, other than a good deal of giggling and commotion, were unable to determine what the women were up to. Resigned to an impatient wait, they busied themselves with such things as picking noses and chewing fingernails, keeping vigilant watch for any criminal activity that might prey upon their valuable caravan.
It was an excessive wait; nearly an hour later, the party resumed their journey. Peyton and Ivy rode at the head of the column, joking and laughing softly between them. Something seemed to be quite humorous, but the soldiers were at a loss to understand the cause and were furthermore concerned with keeping alert for bandits or thieves. The roads north of London abound with the worst type of element and protecting the deFluornoy women was of the utmost priority. With a piqued sense of urgency, the column proceeded onward to the seat of Baron Rothwell.
Blackstone Castle was a massive fortress built for protection and strength. Nestled in the serene lands east of Daventry, the barony encompassed the bustling city and several other lesser bergs. Peyton had never been to Blackstone, although she had heard tale that the Summerlins had occupied the bastion since the days of King Harold. They had been one of the very few noble Saxon families left intact after Duke William’s invasion, wealthy with their ventures in equine and cattle.
As the party drew closer to Blackstone, Peyton could deduce how the bastion acquired its name; it was built entirely with black stone. The dark aura gave the castle a most sinister countenance and Peyton felt a sharp discomfort as her sapphire blue eyes scanned the edifice. She shivered involuntarily, passing a glance at Ivy over her right shoulder. Ivy, too, looked uncertain of the structure and they passed uneasy glances.
The party rounded a small crest and the full impact of Blackstone loomed into view. Huge banners that were easily ten feet in length streamed from three massive turrets, bright red and silver with the Summerlin dragon. The gates were extended in a welcoming gesture and there was quite a bit of activity going on around the place, although Peyton saw few guests and mostly soldiers.
“Look at all of the soldiers,” Ivy said in awe, as if reading her sister’s mind. “Armed to the teeth.”
Peyton swallowed her apprehension. “Be brave, Ivy. We must not fail.”
“We won’t.”
Ivy suddenly smiled a huge, gaping smile and Peyton was jolted from her anxiety at the sight; four front teeth were blacked-out with a paste made of charcoal and beeswaxfrom Jubil’s medicinal stores. She returned her sister’s smile, displaying several blacked-out teeth that gave her own beautiful smile a most snaggle-toothed appearance.
Upon closer inspection, the women had smudged great dark circles under their eyes and had taken liberty with Jubil’s arsenic powder, giving them an extremely sickly countenance, at least enough to deter any prospective husband.
“Thank God for Jubil’s supplies,” Ivy said, sticking out her tongue for good measure. It, too, was black as sin. “The uglier we are, the less likely we will be forced to wed.”
