Page 68 of To Protect

They moved to a small solar-like chamber opposite the great hall, Amalia barely noticing Roland’s home as his mother spoke.

“Your father has made inquiries as to your whereabouts,” Lady de Vere said.

“I’ve sent messages,” Roland said, his voice as defensive as Amalia had ever heard it.

“Not,” his father boomed as they entered and sat in the chamber that appeared to have been already waiting for them. “Of your whereabouts.” A fire was lit. Wall sconces offered additional light, as did candles on a massive wooden desk, although they sat in the chairs nearest the stone hearth.

“We will take wine,” Lady de Vere said to the steward, who was already closing the door behind them with unparalleled efficiency.

Finally, the earl looked at Amalia.

“This is Mistress Amalia Sinclair,” Roland said. “My father, 2nd Earl of de Vere, Lion of Ravenbrook.”

His father frowned at that last part, as if he did not care for the moniker.

“Your Grace,” she said, inclining her head as they were already seated. “It is a pleasure.”

Before his father could answer, Roland continued. “And my brother, Sir Geoffrey, whom you met briefly already.”

His brother, with the same grin as Roland, said, “We are pleased to welcome you into our home.” Then, to Roland, “I am uncertain if ‘met’ is the word I would use, brother. I was otherwise occupied.”

“You were,” Roland said, clearly displeased. “Why?”

“First, thank you for saving my life.”

Roland’s parents watched the discussion but said nothing.

“I would do it a hundred times, but would also know why you were on that battlefield. You,” he said to his father, “did not send any other men, for Geoffrey’s was the only de Vere crest on that field.”

“We will discuss your whereabouts these past weeks first,” his father said as the steward returned with wine goblets and a flask, which he placed on the desk. Hiding behind hers, Amalia watched as Roland’s jaw showed his displeasure. He ground it whenever he was angry, and he was most certainly that now.

“You are scaring our guest,” Lady de Vere admonished the earl, who looked at Amalia.

Surprisingly, he said, “Apologies, Mistress Amalia. It has been some time since I have seen my son. And on the heels of his defiance.” The earl glared once again at Roland.

“They are mollified,” Roland argued, presumably about the broken betrothal.

“With a manor house that was intended to be yours.”

“A price I was willing to pay,” Roland said.

“It was not your decision to make. Where. Were. You?” The earl’s tone was not one Amalia would personally dare to defy.

“With others who support the rightful queen of England. Which is how I came to be on that battlefield that you,” he said to Geoffrey, “should not have been on.”

“Do I not have the right to defend a cause I believe in as much as you?” his brother asked.

“What others?” the earl asked.

Roland lifted his chin in defiance. “An order of knights that, as a supporter of the king, I can tell you no more about.”

The earl’s eyes narrowed. “I am your lord and father.”

Roland’s jaw ticked, but he said nothing.

The earl sighed, took a sip of wine, and turned his attention to Amalia once again.

“How did you come to know my son?”