Medieval Ever After Read Online Free Page B

shallow English wenches tell stories that are meant to bleed the heart of sympathy, but I do not lie and I do not weave elaborate fabrications,” she seethed. “What I told you was the truth. I should have expected no sympathy from a dishonorable English hound that would hang a young boy and call it justice.”
    Stephen merely lifted an eyebrow. “I did not hang a young boy. And he would not have been hanged had your father possessed any honor and stuck to his bargain.”
    “He tried to keep his promise but his men would not listen,” she fired back passionately. “Do you not understand this? He wanted to honor the deal struck with the English, to surrender the city on the appointed date, but his men refused to do his bidding. So my father watched as you hanged my little brother, a sweet young lad who had never caused harm to anyone. He watched, weeping, as Thomas was hanged beyond the city walls. He cried his name as my brother breathed his last. Don’t you dare accuse my father of a lack of honor; you are hardly worthy to speak the man’s name much less judge him.”
    Stephen still sat perched on the edge of the table, his arms crossed as she fired her speech at him with all the subtlety of an exploding trebuchet. He was, in fact, mildly impressed with her courage. And the more he watched her, the more intrigued he was with her unearthly beauty and inherent strength.
    “Then your father is a poor commander,” his manner was cool. “Had he been a capable leader, his men would have done his bidding without question. It simply proves my point that the Scots are savages without honor, your father included. He is a weakling to have allowed his son to be hanged because he was unable to control his men.”
    She stared at him, so much rage and disbelief in her mind that she could no longer verbalize it. Unable to stomach the sight of him any longer, she turned away from him.
    “You contemptible bastard,” she hissed.
    Stephen didn’t take offense one way or the other; he had no regard for what she thought of him. She was intelligent and well spoken, and she was undeniably beautiful. But the fact of the matter was that she was a stranger, and an enemy at that, now destined to be his wife. He was more displeased with the prospect than he had been when he had first entered the room.
    There was no more point in conversation; they had said all that needed saying and anything more might see them start a physical battle. There was bitterness between them and a good deal of animosity, and with nothing more to do but wait, Stephen remained perched on the end of the table, watching the weak fire in the hearth and wondering what his future held for him with an enemy wife. He suspected he was going to have to be on his guard every hour of every day so she would not slit his throat while he slept. He suspected separate bowers would be in order, his with a big fat lock.
    The night dragged on as the acrimonious mood settled. By his estimate, Stephen had been staring into the flames for almost an hour when there was a soft knock at the door. Rising, he went to the panel and unbolted it. De Lara was on the other side.
    “The priest has arrived,” he told him. “Are you ready?”
    Stephen didn’t say a word; he moved to grab his betrothed from her seat against the wall only to realize that she had fallen asleep sitting up. He paused, his hand on her arm, refraining from yanking her awake. For some reason, he didn’t feel like being overly cruel to the woman in spite of the harsh words between them; he watched her as she slept, the gentle curve of her face and the way her perfect little nose twitched now and again. It was rather fascinating. The longer he watched her, the more entranced he became.
    “Stephen,” de Lara had come in to the room and was standing behind him. “Hurry up! There is no time to waste.”
    Snapping out of his trance, Stephen grasped her arm and shook it gently. “My lady?” he said quietly. “’Tis