CHAPTER THREE
“Iam notgoing to sup,” Derica said. “You may tell Father that I am feeling ill.”
Dixon de Rosa was thirteen months older than his sister. They had always been exceptionally close. He watched her as she sat before her vanity mirror, the slow movements of her hands as she braided her long hair, and knew something was wrong with her. Illness had nothing to do with it.
“He’ll not disturb you, I promise,” he said. “Garren le Mon is an arrogant buffoon. We’ll chase him away before the night is out, just as we have done the others. You will see.”
Derica’s expression was pensive, thoughtful, as she braided the ends of her hair. Her fingers would move quickly, then slow, then speed up again, then more slowly as her thoughts progressed.
“I have a feeling he’ll not be run off,” she said after a moment. “He is not like the others who have come to call upon me.”
“Of course he is. We’ll have him gone in the blink of an eye.”
Derica cast her brother a long look in the reflection of her looking mirror. “You cannot run him off, Dix.”
“Why not?”
“Because we are betrothed.” She secured the end of the braid and turned around. “The other suitors that have come were merely that– suitors. Sir Garren and I have a contract to be married, legal and binding. You cannot get rid of him, no matter how much you want to.”
Dixon chewed his lip angrily. “Hoyt will.”
“He doesn’t like to be called that and you know it.”
Dixon rolled his eyes. “I have never been able to call him that.”
“What?”
“That.”
Derica fought off a smile. “He is not been right since that blow to the head three years ago, has he? It still takes some getting used to.”
“I cannot call him Lady Cleo Blossom, no matter how much he wants me to.”
Derica stood up, facing her brother. “It matters not what you want. What matters is that if we do not call him Lady Cleo Blossom, he will become quite angry and, you will recollect, quite violent. He is perfectly harmless as long as you do as he wishes.”
Dixon put up a hand. “I know, I know,” he sighed. “For the greatest warrior among us to take a blow to the head at a tourney and wake up thinking he is a woman is… is….”
“I have heard this before, darling.”
“It is tragic!”
“I know. But it ’tis God’s will that our beloved Uncle Hoyt has become the Lady Cleo Blossom. We may not know the reasons now, but perhaps in time, it will become clear.”
Dixon grumbled. “Woman or not, he still packs a wallop. And as protective as he is over you, perhaps Sir Garren will feel that wallop before the night is out. The beauty of it is that he wouldn’t dare strike a woman back.”
Derica didn’t say any more. Her brothers and uncles were always hostile where suitors were concerned. Normally, they had her blessing to do anything necessary to drive the fools away. But Sir Garren was different; half of her wanted him to leave, but the other half was quite interested in him.
She thought about him, standing on the battlements, the soft breeze blowing through his hair and the moonlight reflectingoff his features. He had laughed at one point and the sight of his smile had made her feel strangely weak. No man had ever had that effect on her, and she’d known many to come to Framlingham on the quest to gain her hand. They’d tried every known trick, every known charm. But she hadn’t fallen for it.
What made Garren different, she didn’t know. But she didn’t feel like seeing him this eve. She didn’t want him to go, she didn’t want him to stay, she didn’t want to speak with him, yet she felt the strange urge to be in the same room with him. She decided, at that moment, that she was going mad.
“Go down to the hall and give father my message,” she didn’t want her brother standing there watching her in her moment of dementia. “Tell him I have retired for the night.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.” She smiled at her brother’s dubious face. “Please. Go now.”
He left, reluctantly. Aglette slipped in when Dixon left and began preparing Derica’s bed for sleep. One of her duties was to brush out her mistress’ hair. Even though Derica had recently done just that, she was so lost in thought that she hardly realized when Aglette unbraided her hair and began running the comb through it again.