The Briton by Catherine Palmer Read Free Book Online Page A

held out a hand toward the fire in the center of the hut. Jacques realized his companion’s ability to converse with them was good, for he had been brought up not far from this place. This would be a help in days to come.
    “Greetings all three,” Martin said. “Ladies, I beg you to remove your wet cloaks and take places beside the blaze.”
    “Thank you, sir,” the younger woman said. “You are good.”
    As she removed her mantle, Jacques knew for certain that this was the woman who had mesmerized him during the feast at Rossall Hall. And it was she to whom he had given his first kiss in many a long year.
    “Only God is truly good,” Martin replied with a smile as the other men made room for the women to seat themselves on a low bench. “So you are from Warbreck? We passed through that village this very day.”
    Jacques grimaced. Leave it to Martin to welcome total strangers without removing their weapons and to disclose information they hadn’t even requested. Jacques must speak to his friend about this on the morrow, though he feared it would do little good.
    When Edgard’s daughter turned her face into the light of the fire, Jacques could no longer keep his thoughts focused Catherine Palmer
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    on Martin’s latest faux pas. The woman again captured him—
    her dark beauty smiting him with misty memories of days he could hardly recall and fancies he had rarely permitted himself to imagine.
    She was beautiful—truly, the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld. Long black braids reached down past her shoulders, and her brown eyes danced in the flames. Yet, despite the woman’s loveliness, Jacques knew from their prior encounter that she had a sharp tongue and strong opinions.
    “I am Bronwen, daughter of Edgard the Briton,” she stated in her own language. “This is my nurse, Enit. We hail from Rossall Hall.”
    “Not Warbreck?” Martin registered confusion. “But Rossall is a fine keep, too, I understand. We have just roasted a small deer, and here on the fire, you see I am baking bread and warming drink. I hope you’ll join us for dinner. You must be hungry after such a journey.”
    “I confess I am half-starved,” Bronwen acknowledged.
    “I’m sure we all would enjoy a hot meal.”
    After speaking, she glanced directly at Jacques, who had kept to his station in the corner of the room. Clearly, she had noted his presence. But had she recognized him? From beneath his hood, he stared at her. What was it about the woman that drew him so? And why had he been so foolish, so recklessly impulsive, as to kiss her that night on the beach?
    Even now he could hardly countenance what he had done—
    yet the memory of that moment haunted him like nothing else.
    The men cordially welcomed their guests and resumed their muted conversations. As expected, none drew attention to their master’s presence in the room. Jacques had trained them well. Bronwen the Briton, however, peered at him now 50
    The Briton
    and again—often enough that he began to suspect she had recognized him.
    In the warmth of the fire, she and her nurse spread their skirts to dry. Their once ashen faces began to regain color, and they smiled as they whispered to each other—their good spirits obviously restored. As the maiden unbraided her wet hair, her nurse produced an ivory comb and set to work on the tangled knots in her charge’s black tresses.
    Martin began to slice the meat as the company watched in anticipation. Earlier, he had wrapped a few wild turnips and onions in wet leaves and placed them among the coals. The scent of roasted deer, steamed vegetables and baking bread began to fill the hut, and Jacques acknowledged his own hunger. He did not wish to reveal himself to the women, yet how could he resist the opportunity to fill his belly after his long journey?
    “I’m sure I shall never be completely warm again,” the nurse said with a small laugh. “Such waves and wind! It’s cold enough to starve an otter to death in