Derica glanced up at her uncle, Hoyt, clad in a gown that was lavish and expensive. The rouge on his cheeks was too bright and he smelled of strong perfume. She’d long since gotten over the shock of him thinking he was a woman; in fact, at times, he was very comforting in an odd sort of female way. He was like a great, protective nanny.
“I am not hungry,” she pushed her trencher away.
Hoyt put it back in front of her. “You must eat. You must maintain your strength for… for….”
He suddenly burst into loud tears, clapping a wisp of a handkerchief over his mouth to muffle the cries. All conversation at the table stopped and they looked at Hoyt, carrying on pitifully.
Bertram wasn’t particularly tolerant of the brother who dressed in the gowns of a queen. “Lady,” he gruffed wearily. “You will not distract us with your wailing. Leave us.”
Hoyt cast him a pathetic glance and continued to sob. “How can you be so cold?” he sobbed. “Your only daughter will be married on the morrow. Do you show no compassion to her plight?”
Bertram sighed heavily. “’Tis only your theatrics that intimate it ’twill be something horrible and fiendish. Marriage is an event of satisfaction and progression.”
“There is no satisfaction in marrying a stranger,” Hoyt insisted. “To allow this… this man access to your daughter in the Biblical sense is barbaric. You have protected her with your life since the day she was born only to turn her over to someone we do not know? I find your callousness shocking.”
“I will not discuss this with you.”
Hoyt continued to weep and put his arm around Derica protectively. Garren watched it all carefully, noting the size of the lady’s hand, suggesting what his first instincts told him that this was no lady at all. Suspicion filled his mind; he wondered seriously what game he was playing. He didn’t like the implications at all.
“And you, Sir Garren?” Donat entered the conversation from across the table. “Do you find it barbaric to wed a woman you do not know, someone who obviously has no interest or need for you?”
Garren was cool. “I have no need or interest, either, but I will attend my duty. The barbaric nature of the deal has no bearing on my personal feelings for the matter.”
Donat and his brothers were working up a righteous flare. “Derica deserves better than the likes of you,” Donat hissed. “At least we do not have an ancestor that surrendered like a cowardto William the Bastard. Suppose cowardice runs in your blood, eh?”
“Would you like to find out?”
“Indeed!”
“Sit down, Donat,” Bertram bellowed. “There will be no fighting on the eve of your sister’s wedding.”
The table was growing unruly. Hoyt’s weeping grew louder. Donat’s green eyes blazed at his father. “’Tis not fighting, Father. Call it a test of worthiness.”
“He is worthy else I would not have agreed to a contract.”
It was apparent that Donat was surprised not to have his father’s support. “You agreed to the contract based on your friendship with his father. As le Mon clearly stated, he is nothing like his father. Doesn’t Derica at least deserve to know what kind of man she will be forced to spend her life with?”
Bertram wouldn’t dignify the challenge to his authority as head of the House. His gaze was steady on his middle son. “Take your seat, Donat. We will speak of this no further.”
Donat wouldn’t give up without a fight. He thrust a hand at Derica. “But look at her; she is clearly miserable. She clearly despises this man.”
Derica’s head came up sharply. “You do not speak for me, Donat de Rosa,” she snapped. Realizing what she had just said, her cheeks flamed as she looked at the surprised faces around her. “That is… I mean to say that…!” She suddenly bolted to her feet, throwing her napkin to the table. “I think you are all horrid. Each and every one of you.”
She tripped over Hoyt in her attempt to flee the table, knocking his wimple into the subtlety in front of him. The tumbling wimple also managed to clip a chalice, which tipped over and splashed red wine onto Donat’s linen tunic. Donat, trying to evade the spilling liquid, leapt up and knocked Dixon across the side of the head with his forearm. Dixon, outraged,threw a punch into Donat’s face that sent the brother tumbling. In seconds, a full-scale fight erupted at the head table. It seemed that the de Rosas needed little provocation to leap into battle, with others or just with themselves.
Garren pushed himself back, away from the flying fists. The only family member not fighting was the eldest brother Daniel, and he immediately excused himself. Meanwhile, Derica was tangled in Hoyt’s skirts and Garren reached over, unwrapping the material from her ankle. Before she stumbled further in her haste to leave the table, he grasped her hand to steady her, but she jerked her arm away.
“I do not require your assistance,” she hissed.
Garren allowed himself to look at her for the first time since arriving back at Framlingham. He’d spend the past several hours attempting desperately not to think of her, much less look at her. Now, in the midst of a melee, he could think or see nothing else.
“My apologies,” he said. “I did not want you to fall and hurt yourself.”
Derica glared at him, gathering her skirts. Before she could reply, they were both startled by Hoyt’s flying fist, sending his younger brother Lon to the floor when the man spilled more wine on him in his attempt to stop his nephews from fighting. Hoyt had an enormous hand and an enormous punch, and in spite of Derica’s declaration of no assistance needed, Garren took firm hold of her and half carried her, half pulled her, off the dais.
The table was in a nasty uproar. Garren took Derica to the small alcove directly behind the table, shielding her from the violence. He watched the fight a moment before shaking his head with disapproval.
“Are they always like this?” he asked.
