all. Suspicion filled his mind; he wondered
seriously what game he was playing. He didn't like the implications at all.
"And you, Sir
Garren?" Donat entered the conversation from across the table. "Do
you find it barbaric to wed a woman you do not know, someone who obviously has
no interest or need for you?"
Garren was cool. "I
have no need or interest, either, but I will attend my duty. The barbaric
nature of the deal has no bearing on my personal feelings for the matter."
Donat and his brothers
were working up a righteous flare. "Derica deserves better than the likes
of you," Donat hissed. "At least we do not have an ancestor that
surrendered like a coward to William the Bastard. Suppose cowardice runs in
your blood, eh?"
"Would you like to
find out?"
"Indeed!"
"Sit down, Donat,"
Bertram bellowed. "There will be no fighting on the eve of your sister's
wedding."
The table was growing
unruly. Hoyt's weeping grew louder. Donat's green eyes blazed at his father.
"'Tis not fighting, Father. Call it a test of worthiness."
"He is worthy else
I would not have agreed to a contract."
It was apparent that
Donat was surprised not to have his father's support. "You agreed to the
contract based on your friendship with his father. As le Mon clearly stated, he
is nothing like his father. Doesn't Derica at least deserve to know what kind
of man she will be forced to spend her life with?"
Bertram wouldn't dignify
the challenge to his authority as head of the House. His gaze was steady on his
middle son. "Take your seat, Donat. We will speak of this no further.
"
Donat wouldn't give up without
a fight. He thrust a hand at Derica. "But look at her; she is clearly
miserable. She clearly despises this man."
Derica's head came up
sharply. "You do not speak for me, Donat de Rosa," she snapped.
Realizing what she had just said, her cheeks flamed as she looked at the
surprised faces around her. "That is... I mean to say that...!" She
suddenly bolted to her feet, throwing her napkin to the table. "I think
you are all horrid. Each and every one of you."
She tripped over Hoyt in
her attempt to flee the table, knocking his wimple into the subtlety in front
of him. The tumbling wimple also managed to clip a chalice, which tipped over
and splashed red wine onto Donat's linen tunic. Donat, trying to evade the spilling
liquid, leapt up and knocked Dixon across the side of the head with his
forearm. Dixon, outraged, threw a punch into Donat's face that sent the brother
tumbling. In seconds, a full -scale fight erupted at the head table. It seemed
that the de Rosas needed little provocation to leap into battle, with others or
just with themselves.
Garren pushed himself
back, away from the flying fists. The only family member not fighting was the
eldest brother Daniel, and he immediately excused himself. Meanwhile, Derica
was tangled in Hoyt's skirts and Garren reached over, unwrapping the material
from her ankle. Before she stumbled further in her haste to leave the table, he
grasped her hand to steady her, but she jerked her arm away.
"I do not require
your assistance," she hissed.
Garren allowed himself
to look at her for the first time since arriving back at Framlingham. He'd
spend the past several hours attempting desperately not to think of her, much
less look at her. Now, in the midst of a melee, he could think or see nothing
else.
"My
apologies," he said. "I did not want you to fall and hurt
yourself."
Derica glared at him,
gathering her skirts. Before she could reply, they were both startled by Hoyt's
flying fist, sending his younger brother Lon to the floor when the man spilled
more wine on him in his attempt to stop his nephews from fighting. Hoyt had an
enormous hand and an enormous punch, and in spite of Derica's declaration of no
assistance needed, Garren took firm hold of her and half carried her, half
pulled her, off the dais.
The table was in a nasty
uproar. Garren took Derica to the small alcove directly behind the
seriously what game he was playing. He didn't like the implications at all.
"And you, Sir
Garren?" Donat entered the conversation from across the table. "Do
you find it barbaric to wed a woman you do not know, someone who obviously has
no interest or need for you?"
Garren was cool. "I
have no need or interest, either, but I will attend my duty. The barbaric
nature of the deal has no bearing on my personal feelings for the matter."
Donat and his brothers
were working up a righteous flare. "Derica deserves better than the likes
of you," Donat hissed. "At least we do not have an ancestor that
surrendered like a coward to William the Bastard. Suppose cowardice runs in
your blood, eh?"
"Would you like to
find out?"
"Indeed!"
"Sit down, Donat,"
Bertram bellowed. "There will be no fighting on the eve of your sister's
wedding."
The table was growing
unruly. Hoyt's weeping grew louder. Donat's green eyes blazed at his father.
"'Tis not fighting, Father. Call it a test of worthiness."
"He is worthy else
I would not have agreed to a contract."
It was apparent that
Donat was surprised not to have his father's support. "You agreed to the
contract based on your friendship with his father. As le Mon clearly stated, he
is nothing like his father. Doesn't Derica at least deserve to know what kind
of man she will be forced to spend her life with?"
Bertram wouldn't dignify
the challenge to his authority as head of the House. His gaze was steady on his
middle son. "Take your seat, Donat. We will speak of this no further.
"
Donat wouldn't give up without
a fight. He thrust a hand at Derica. "But look at her; she is clearly
miserable. She clearly despises this man."
Derica's head came up
sharply. "You do not speak for me, Donat de Rosa," she snapped.
Realizing what she had just said, her cheeks flamed as she looked at the
surprised faces around her. "That is... I mean to say that...!" She
suddenly bolted to her feet, throwing her napkin to the table. "I think
you are all horrid. Each and every one of you."
She tripped over Hoyt in
her attempt to flee the table, knocking his wimple into the subtlety in front
of him. The tumbling wimple also managed to clip a chalice, which tipped over
and splashed red wine onto Donat's linen tunic. Donat, trying to evade the spilling
liquid, leapt up and knocked Dixon across the side of the head with his
forearm. Dixon, outraged, threw a punch into Donat's face that sent the brother
tumbling. In seconds, a full -scale fight erupted at the head table. It seemed
that the de Rosas needed little provocation to leap into battle, with others or
just with themselves.
Garren pushed himself
back, away from the flying fists. The only family member not fighting was the
eldest brother Daniel, and he immediately excused himself. Meanwhile, Derica
was tangled in Hoyt's skirts and Garren reached over, unwrapping the material
from her ankle. Before she stumbled further in her haste to leave the table, he
grasped her hand to steady her, but she jerked her arm away.
"I do not require
your assistance," she hissed.
Garren allowed himself
to look at her for the first time since arriving back at Framlingham. He'd
spend the past several hours attempting desperately not to think of her, much
less look at her. Now, in the midst of a melee, he could think or see nothing
else.
"My
apologies," he said. "I did not want you to fall and hurt
yourself."
Derica glared at him,
gathering her skirts. Before she could reply, they were both startled by Hoyt's
flying fist, sending his younger brother Lon to the floor when the man spilled
more wine on him in his attempt to stop his nephews from fighting. Hoyt had an
enormous hand and an enormous punch, and in spite of Derica's declaration of no
assistance needed, Garren took firm hold of her and half carried her, half
pulled her, off the dais.
The table was in a nasty
uproar. Garren took Derica to the small alcove directly behind the
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