Love at First Sight Read Free Page A

castle’s great hall several hours later. Despite the activity in the bailey that surrounded her—the shouts of men practicing with weapons, the servants wrestling with squawking chickens and clanging milk pails, the flash of guards’ swords from the wallwalk overhead—she felt isolated.
    Fifty pieces of gold. A fortune. The answer to her prayers. Golde repeated it over and again in her head as she stared heavenward at the great hall’s massive, weatherbeaten timbers. ’Twas absurd that she should feel so intimidated. And cold. Despite the afternoon warmth, a shiver threatened to climb her back.
    A brush against her sleeve redirected her thoughts. “Touch me again, Sperville,” she threatened, “and you will draw back a stump.”
    The chamberlain’s hand halted its quest to remove yet another imaginary piece of lint from her best blue tunic. Sniffing, he opened the massive oak portal, and ushered her into the great hall.
    Golde squinted through the cavernous gloom. At the far end of the enormous trabeated room, a shadowed figure rose to stand before a table atop a dais. Again, a shiver threatened. Was this the saintly lord of whom the chamberlain spoke with such reverence?
    Nay. This man had seen them. The Baron of Skyenvic, Golde reminded herself, was blind.
    Sperville made a grab for her arm and she jerked it out of his reach. “I need not your assistance,” she hissed. Did the chamberlain think her incapable of correctly placing one foot before the other?
    Her lip curled as she moved to keep pace with his stately gait. Doubtless, Spindleshanks would split hairs over the length of a proper stride. And at the moment, she desired nothing so much as to meet this quintessential Gavarnie Delamaure, empty his coffers, and be gone. ’Twas hardly imperative that she wait five weeks for Sir Varin and Amulf to collect her.
    “Who have you there?” The cordial man queried as she and Sperville reached the foot of the dais. Fair-featured, he appeared to be kind in spirit and, were she interested, not bad to look upon. So why did she feel such discomfort?
    A dry, coughing fit suddenly seized Spindleshanks.
    His eyes widened, while his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously to the twitching rhythm of his nose.
    Golde’s uneasy feeling intensified.
    “Christ’s blood, Sperville. Speak or remove your scrawny hide from my presence.”
    Golde started, and her gaze jerked to the spot from whence the new voice had emanated. ’Twas little wonder she felt such disquiet. How had she not noticed the man sitting in the huge dragon-carved chair at the far end of the long table? He fair exuded rancor. Dressed in black, he looked much like a great scorch mark that had been seared into the wood.
    Sir Sperville cleared his throat. “Mistress Golde.” He bowed toward her, then extended his hand to the dark-visaged man. “His Lordship, Sir Gavarnie Delamaure, Baron of Skyenvic.”
    Upon learning that this man was the baron, she understood nothing else the chamberlain said, so captivated was she by the lord’s face. Swarthy and pox-scarred, ’twas as arrogant as ’twas bitter, forbidding as the sheer cliffs that rose defiantly above the English Channel. And like the battered cliffs that fought the sea’s merciless onslaught, it was a face that knew not how to compromise. It would break before yielding.
    A chill raced over her shoulders and down her spine.
    In the next instant, heated anger prickled her flesh.
    He is praised by serf and Church alike. Wisdom tempers his judgment and manner
so
that he is never cruel or cross.
    A pox on Spindleshanks. He should be boiled in oil for the falsehoods he’d spouted.
    Delamaure was no elderly saint hoping to reach heaven. Nor was he some bumbling lord with whom to trifle. The spells and potions that so becharmed her usual culls would have no effect on this man. He would recognize her mummery for what it was.
    His teeth flashed white against his dark skin, and she marveled at how the pockmarks did