Lavender Vows by Colleen Gleason Page A

their smart, shrewd eyes. There were none better than those from his father’s stables, and none better than his own Rock, the grey-brown steed that rode and kicked and fought as solidly as its namesake.
     
    The animal was glad to see him, and although he wasn’t as gentle as a mare, he did toss his jet black mane and dance in greeting. Bernard shared some aged carrots and an apple core he’d sneaked from the kitchen earlier that day, patting Rock’s velvety nose with affection.
     
    A soft cry from the depths of the stables reached his keen ears, even over the whuffling and stamping of the horses. Turning instinctively, Bernard thought to investigate, then halted. ’Twas likely only a man-at-arms finding his pleasure with one of the buxom serving wenches that adorned Wyckford Heath Hall. The piles of hay in a stable were warm and soft, if a bit prickly to the one on the bottom, and as good place as any to find privacy with Wyckford Castle being filled to the rafters by wedding-goers.
     
    Bernard returned to Rock, allowing him to butt his head against his unshaven cheek, but keeping his ears attuned to from where the sound had come. He tried to return his thoughts to the path upon which they should be focused—finding a wife for himself, for his father’s threat was not an idle one—but something nagged in the back of his mind.
     
    At last, with a frown at his foolishness, he gave Rock a quick pat and walked silently toward the back of the stable. In the event that it was just a randy man-at-arms rolling in the hay with his lady, Bernard could slip away silently with no one the wiser. But if, as the upright hair at the back of his neck warned, ’twas something more….
     
    A dim light shone in the depths of the stable, and as he turned a corner, he found himself in a small room, lit by a torch on the wall.
     
    A girl sat in the hay, her skirts bunched around her as she bent her attention to something he could not identify. Her back was to him, with a long braid that fell from an intricate headdress that did not belong to a serving wench.
     
    She turned, saying, “Leonard, if you would—” Her words ended in a small gasp as she caught sight of Bernard.
     
    As she scrambled to her feet, her eyes wide in a face shadowed by the flickering torch, Bernard noted that she was more than a girl, and most definitely not a mere serving wench. Even in the low light he could see the quality of her gown, and the glitter of some jewels in her hair and at her well-rounded bosom.
     
    “My lady, I did not mean to disturb you,” he began, not quite certain how to proceed as she looked at him with such fearful eyes.
     
    He knew that his great stature and solidness was oftentimes disconcerting for women. Something about this female who, though fear shone in her eyes, stood as tall as her height allowed, made him particularly conscious of his imposing appearance. He stepped backward to put space between them. “I meant only to assure myself that naught was amiss. I heard a sound that sounded like distress, and thought to see if I could be of assistance.”
     
    She had a heart-shaped face, angelic and delicate, with ropes of honey-gold hair that glinted even in the flame-light. As he stood there, caught suddenly by her beauty, he saw the fear lessen in her eyes. “You heard my cry?” she repeated, her head tilting slightly, as she seemed to turn the words over in her mind. “You would have come to my aid?”
     
    “Aye, of course, my lady,” Bernard replied. He didn’t stumble on the form of address. It was obvious she was of noble title—but what was not so clear was why she was in the stables, alone, during a wedding celebration. And what was she doing in the hay?
     
    Curious, he took a step forward without thinking about how this would affect her—but she did not move away and only gave the barest flinch as he came closer. “What do you here?” he asked.
     
    She did not need to answer, for at once he saw for