“Here, at Whitebrook,” Carys replied. “I have lived here my whole life. I have never been anywhere else.”
“Not even to London?”
“Oh, no,” Carys said sincerely. “Mother will not allow it. She says it is a den of thieves, murderers and gluttons. She fears for my safety there.”
Elizabeau struggled not to giggle. “And she is correct. It is a wild place.”
Carys stopped combing; she came around to look Elizabeau in the eye, her expression a mixture of awe and curiosity. “Have you been there, then?”
“Aye.”
“Do… do women really paint their faces and put holes in their ears in which to wear jewels?”
Elizabeau did chuckle, then. “I have seen such things. But they are women we do not speak of.”
Carys’ eyes widened. “Whores?”
Elizabeau’s own eyes widened at the blunt response. “Where did you hear such a word?”
Carys’ looked stricken. “Do not tell my mother I said that; she’ll box my ears!”
Elizabeau laid a hand on the girl’s arm. “Have no fear. I would never tell on you.”
Carys smiled sheepishly, returning her attention to Elizabeau’s drying hair. She resumed combing. “How did you meet my brother? In London?”
“Aye,” Elizabeau replied truthfully.
“Did he champion you? Save you from a dastardly murderer?”
Elizabeau thought on the rough introduction she had to Rhys. “In fact, he did,” she replied with more truth. “Your brother is a very brave and noble man.”
Carys stopped combing, looking at Elizabeau with such a dreamy expression that Elizabeau found herself fighting off the giggles again. It was a silly, romantic gaze.
“He saved you?” Carys sighed. “How chivalrous.”
Elizabeau could see in their short conversation that Carys was a naïve young girl with a mist of romantic ideals fogging her mind. Elizabeau thought back to the days when she held such ideals. But those days were long gone, and she was sorry. She doubted she’d ever see those days again although there were times when Rhys looked at her that she could imagine feeling such a thing once more. But not with him.
“Aye, he is,” she replied quietly, reaching for the wine decanter that Rhys’ mother had left for her. “Now, would you mind finishing my hair so that I may dress? My sniffles have abated for the moment and I would hate for them to return and ruin your mother’s hard work.”
Carys resumed her task with a fury even though her thoughts lingered on her brave brother and his chivalrous deeds. She wished in her heart that someday, a knight would do the same for her. With a little furious combing and fluffing, Elizabeau’s golden red hair was shiny and soft, falling straight to her buttocks with no curl to it. It was like a waterfall of golden-red. But Elizabeau didn’t notice the beauty of her hair reflected in the firelight, or pay attention as Carys brushed the straight, glistening strands repeatedly. She drank her wine, thinking on the chivalrous knight that was Rhys du Bois and feeling pangs of disappointment such as she had never known. The more she drank, the stronger the pangs became.
Elizabeau woke up in the strange, dark room. The fire in the hearth was burning softly in the darkness and the smell of smoke was heavy. She lay there a moment, staring up at the ceiling and trying to orient herself. It took her several long, anxious moments to remember that she was at Whitebrook and this was the chamber she had bathed in. Shifting slightly, she could see that she was still wrapped in the large piece of drying linen. She remembered drinking too much wine and becoming very sleepy. Somehow, she made it over to the bed and passed out.
Rolling onto her side, she felt a bit woozy and she realized she was still a bit drunk. As she gripped the side of the bed, she saw very large legs seated in a chair next to her. With a start, her head snapped up to see Rhys gazing down at her.
“So you are awake,” he said quietly. “I thought for certain you would sleep well into morning.”
Her head was throbbing. “Why… why would you say that?”
He smiled faintly, sitting forward so that his elbows were resting on his knees. “Because you’re ill, we’ve been riding day and night for eight days, and,” he jerked his head in the direction of the table, “because you drank as much wine as I can.”
On her stomach, she propped herself up on her elbows and put both hands on her forehead. “God’s Bones,” she hissed. “What a mistake that was. I feel awful.”
His grin widened. “At least you are no longer sniffling.”
As if it just occurred to her, she wriggled her nose and sniffed for good measure. “Not much,” she looked at him. “Amazing. I thought for sure I was going to die of the chill.”