Page 19

Lord Brookhurst’s smile fled from his face quicker than a rabbit running from an arrow. Bowing slightly to her, their host stood straight again, clearly confused. Holt intervened.

“They were gently nudged to marry by the king.”

“Ha!” Lord Brookhurst quickly regained his humor. “Gently nudged. I know no Waryn man to be gently nudged toward anything. More like clobbered over the head with the threat of our esteemed king taking Kenshire away, no doubt?”

He’d guessed the truth of it quickly enough.

“We were attacked, near the Cuald’s Combe. Soldiers who haven’t quite made their way home from Annandale.”

“Cuald’s Combe is south of the land we claim, but an old, well-maintained road makes it well-travelled,” Lord Brookhurst acknowledged. “Are any of them still alive to bring the tale home?”

That he seemed unconcerned about the most terrifying afternoon of her life, and so confident that Haydn and his men vanquished the attackers, might have been a surprise to her. But it wasn’t. Not after seeing Haydn and Holt fight.

By the time she and Isaac had arrived on the scene, Phillipa had no idea how it began or even what was happening. Her companion had leaped from his mount, grabbing Lady’s reins. Her horse had not been trained for battle and attempted to flee, but she and Isaac together managed to stay her as the incessant clanging continued.

Try as she might, she could barely keep track of who was whom, and knew only by the time Haydn rode away from the fray, there were at least three men dead and another three that had fled in the direction they’d just travelled from. For so long she’d heard of battles, and indeed saw men train with regularity, and had even attended tourneys before. . . but this had been different. Unlike any of those other instances. Oddly, she’d been worried more for the men— for Haydn— than for herself. But the thought that death was not some far-off idea but staring her in the face. . . Phillipa shuddered.

His and his brother’s swords were both covered in blood. Hamon was gone, later explaining how he chased the attackers long enough for them to believe they were being hunted down, ensuring they’d not return.

“Unfortunately, half of them fled,” Haydn said. “But a meal and hot bath for ourselves and my wife would be greatly appreciated, my friend.”

“Both are yours.” Lord Brookhurst clapped Haydn on the back. “And then you can explain how you’ve managed to incur King Edward’s notice again. And tell me of your uncle. I’ve not seen him for nearly a year. It’s been much too long. Come.”

They were led directly into the hall where supper was, indeed, already underway. A handsome woman similar in age to their host sat on the dais. And though her hair was pulled atop her head, auburn curls escaped everywhere. Led to the corner of the dais where a bowl of scented water lay on top of a wooden stand, one by one they washed their hands and climbed the wooden steps to join her.

The lady of the manor stood.

“Apologies for coming into your hall as such,” Phillipa said.

But Brookhurst stopped her. “Lady Phillipa is the earl of Sherfield’s daughter and Haydn’s wife. They made their way north from London, and their party was attacked on the road.”

The hostess bowed, Phillipa’s station demanding it. “Please do sit, my lady. Lord Waryn and Sir Holt, join us.”

Isaac and Hamon sat below them at a trestle table with the other men of Brookhurst. And just now, Phillipa wished she could join them. Here, all eyes were on her, and she had to pretend all was well when nothing was further from the truth.

She complimented the hall and the food. Answered Lady Kristine’s questions and ate quietly, making it through most of the meal. And mostly avoided the man sitting next to her until their fingers brushed as they reached for the same apricot tart that had been served on a pewter tray between them.

Until now he’d spoken mostly to his brother on the other side of him, but her husband looked at her when they touched. And had yet to look away.

“Are you well?” he asked, likely for the tenth time since the attack.

“Aye.” She pulled the tart toward her and took a bite. Delicious. Phillipa loved sweets above all.

“You’ve not witnessed a battle before.”

“Nay,” she admitted. “I have not.”

He frowned. “It is different than a tourney,” he said, echoing her thoughts. Phillipa had often witnessed the clashing of swords and violent smashing of a wooden lance off a shield. But none of those compared to what she had seen when her head turned involuntarily toward the fighting that afternoon. She’d seen Haydn’s arm extended, the man in front of him dropping his own weapon before he fell. Later, she watched as her husband wiped his sword clean. That blood, she’d thought, was of the man now lying dead on the road. Or wherever they were now. Isaac had taken her ahead while Holt and Haydn stayed behind for some time. Had they put their bodies in the nearby woods? Buried them? How could they do such a thing without shovels?

“You are still in shock,” he said. Phillipa did not deny it. “We will sleep separately,” he said, his voice flat.

When she looked into his eyes, blue-grey and clear, Phillipa had no notion of whether his proclamation was because of the attack, or the question he’d asked her this morning.

She’d never answered. What could she have said? Would she admit that, were she to ignore her father’s directive, her sister would pay the price?

So instead, she had said nothing.

“’Tis probably for the best.” Phillipa took another bite of the tart.