A Whisper of Rosemary by Colleen Gleason Read Free Book Online Page B

enough.
     
    Verna pulled the long, loose fitting tunic over Maris’s head. There were no sides to the tunic, merely a hole for her head with a deep neckline to show off the golden bliaut underneath. A gold girdle wrought in the shape of loose flowers and leaves cinched the tunic at her waist.
     
    Maris was strangely nervous at the thought of descending the stairs to dinner. She knew that her father’s mind had been made up, and the man she was to marry awaited her below. As much as she might abhor the idea of marriage, Maris had come to realize that it was for the good of Langumont that she must wed …and that it would do her little benefit to anger her father by rebuffing her intended betrothed.
     
    There was no time to redo her hair, so Verna left it in the heavy plait that hung down her back. Flyaway wisps of rich, chestnut brown had sprung from the braid, framing her face. Verna tucked them under the sheer, gold shot wimple that was draped over her mistress’s head and neck. A thin-filigreed headdress held the wimple in place, and Maris was dressed for dinner.
     
    She inched her way along the hall and toward the steps that would bring her to her father’s table for dinner. Reluctantly, she started down the stairs, enjoying her vantage point of the hall.
     
    The familiar sounds of preparation for the evening meal drifted up to her. Serfs bustled about, men-at-arms pulled the long trestle tables together and settled benches along each one. Female serfs stood aside, ready with trenchers and crudely carved wooden cups to place on the tables. The three dogs that were allowed in the hall slept next to the fire, knowing that their scraps would come much later. Maris allowed those three hounds in the hall only because they were her father’s favorite hunting dogs—or had been before one was blinded, one lost a leg, and the third got so old he couldn’t run any longer.
     
    A group of men-at-arms sat in front of the blazing fire. Some were engrossed in games of chess or chance and others were drinking ale and sharing jests. Still others were flirting with the female serfs hoping to find one to share their bed, no doubt.
     
    Maris’s feet brought her closer to the bottom of the stairs—directly across the room from her father’s table. She wove her way carefully between the tables, serfs, and men-at-arms toward the dais. As soon as the dais came into full view, she saw that her father was engrossed in conversation with a man who was undoubtedly her unwanted suitor.
     
    Her stomach gave a little lurch of disappointment. It had to be the man Papa was expecting. Her betrothed. Praise God, at least he seemed close to her in age, and he had all of his hair. If she were truly fortunate, he’d be in possession of a full set of teeth as well. And even sitting next to her broad-shouldered father, the guest was solid and imposing.
     
    Maris straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and drew a deep, steadying breath. She had no choice in the matter, so ’twas best that she begin this on her own terms: strong and with confidence.
     
    Just then, the dark-haired man looked up, directly at her, and in that horrible instant, she recognized him.
     
    The man who’d nearly run her down last night.
     
    ~*~
     
    From his seat at the high table, Dirick was struggling with the same shock and chagrin that was reflected in the woman’s face—albeit briefly. For, no sooner had their eyes met than the surprise disappeared from her expression.
     
    Thus, he attempted to talk himself out of it—perhaps he’d imagined the flash of recognition there. There was the faulty light in the hall, and the distance…surely she wasn’t the woman from last night. The one whom he’d nearly trampled, insulted and then propositioned?
     
    He’d lost track of what he’d been saying to Lord Merle and as she made her way closer to the dais, he found it impossible to look away. Whether it was because of the young woman’s beauty—which was