Page 5 of Her Baseborn Bridegroom

“You are used to giving orders,” she observed quietly.

“I’m a general in King Wymer’s army.”

“A general? In the late campaign in the North?” she asked.

He was a little surprised she even knew of the uprising in the North. “Yes.”

She stared at him gravely and he thought she was taking a good measure of the man she had married. Bit late for that now, little peahen. He leant his wide shoulders against the stone wall behind him, crossed his arms and let her look her fill. In return, he gazed back letting his eyes travel up and down her slight figure. In truth, he wasn’t horrified at the bargain he had made. She wasn’t fainting or hysterical like the rest of the household seemed to be. Now that she had that hideous headdress removed, she looked far more personable. True, she was plain and the freckles almost obscured her every feature. The disastrous hair was braided tight and twisted into a crown on the back of her head. It was a bright shade of red and gleamed like fiery gold. He wondered what it would look like released from those confining braids. Her hands, he noticed, were white and ostensibly the only parts of her on view that weren’t smattered with an array of unsightly freckles. He noticed that at some point she had passed a thin red ribbon through his cracked signet ring and then tied it around her wrist so she would not lose it. His eyes jerked back to hers and he found her watching him with a faint frown. He had to look closely to catch it as her eyebrows were so fair it was almost like she had none.

“Are you a widower?” she said, surprising him with her directness.

He shook his head. “You forget, I am a bastard. I’ve not had many eligible maidens thrown my way.”

Instead of rushing to dismiss this out of politeness she seemed to digest it with a thoughtful nod. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

She waited patiently for him to respond in kind, but truth was he didn’t really care how old she was. He had married her lineage. Her lands. Her title in abeyance. Though if he was to get a son on her he supposed age would be a factor.

“I’m four and twenty,” she said obviously tiring of waiting.

His eyebrows shot up. “You look younger.”

“You are a more suitable age than Sir Roland at least,” she said. “I was worried about having a younger husband.”

Roland was twenty-two. A very young and indulged twenty-two.

“He would have made you a terrible husband,” he said surprising himself. Though in truth, Roland had been spoiled and coddled all his life, which was something Linnet could probably relate to. Roland would have made a far more compatible bridegroom than he himself, Mason was sure. Still, Linnet looked up at him trustingly as though she accepted his every word on face value. More fool her.

“A cloak, milord,” said Cuthbert proudly from the steps above them. The dratted child must have crept down like a mouse. He took it, and Linnet turned so that he could drape it around her shoulders.

“It has no hood,” she said sadly.

He looked at her sharply. “It is not raining. Will you take a chill so easily?”

She blushed. “I was thinking of my hair.”

“It’s neat and tidy, that’s all that matters,” he said shortly and offered his arm. She took it and they descended the stairs with Cuthbert skipping after them.

Once outside the tower they made their way across the outer courtyard that that led to the two lone, striped tents fluttering gaily in the breeze. Linnet’s lips were pressed together but she kept up with him gamely enough. She blinked a good deal at the daylight and had to raise a hand to shield her eyes at first but this soon dropped away as she accustomed herself. The sun was still high in the sky. There was a curious, almost ominous, lack of servants or household members about, although there were some horses, pigs, and chickens scattered about. It was an expansive space, and Mason realized the castle was at least twice, if not three times, as big as his own father’s. It was a satisfying thought. They entered the first tent and then the second. Both were empty and completely devoid of refreshments or furnishings.

“I can scarcely believe my uncle told me so many untruths!” Linnet exclaimed indignantly.

Mason made no comment though he noticed a spot of color in her cheeks and a spark in her eye, suited her. On exiting the second tent they made their way towards the main cluster of buildings again but did not head for Linnet’s tower this time. “Take us to the great hall, Page.” He instructed Cuthbert. The boy ran around them so he was now leading the way.

“It was a deliberate deception then,” Linnet said aloud.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad now—yes, glad! That you’ve thrown them out! And to think,” she marveled. “You took one look and deduced the truth.” She stared up at his profile a moment until he glanced down at her. “Your training as a soldier perhaps?” She hazarded.

“Perhaps,” he shrugged.

“Remarkable.” She lapsed into a thoughtful silence and he had to slow his pace to match hers when she started to flag as they reached the stone steps leading to the inner courtyard. She pressed a hand to her side and he realized she had probably never walked so far before.

“Boy!” The page stopped and wheeled around. “We will allow her ladyship to catch her breath.” He scanned the horizon, raising his hand to his brow. Off in the far distance he could see laborers in the fields farming her lands. His lands.

“They shouldn’t be there,” she said seeing the direction of his gaze. He looked down in surprise. “They should be here. It should be a feast day for them. Their feudal lord is getting married.” Her cheeks were flushed with chagrin. “Uncle told me they would all be here at a celebratory feast.”