The ends of her mouth curled up. “Good,” she said. “We understand one another.”
“I think we are starting to.”
Her triumphant grin told him everything he needed to know, and it was a great pity. A pity he couldn’t continue this conversation and a pity he couldn’t come to know a woman who very quickly had his attention. Nearly seventeen years of loneliness he never knew he suffered from had suddenly been recognized with the event of the busty blonde lass. God, how he’d missed laughing with a pretty, witty woman.
He wondered if he was going to deeply regret killing Steffan de Featherstone in the days to come.
CHAPTER FOUR
For a provincial knight, he was handsome.
Quite handsome, really. If she was honest about it, he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen.
Pity he was a provincial knight.
On their ride south from Haltwhistle, she tried to pretend that she wasn’t looking at him even though she was. He was very big – perhaps even the biggest man she’d ever seen, tall as well as muscular. He had a square jaw and green eyes, and in the dim light of the tavern, she thought he had blond hair. But in the light of day, before he’d put his helm back on, she could see that his hair was red with a dusting of silver and gold. Blended together, it made him look like a blond.
No matter what his hair color was, it was beautiful.
So was he.
Truth be told, she had no idea that there were men of such magnificence this far north. Although she had been born at her family’s home in Carlisle, she had not spent an over amount of time in the north. Her mother, a worldly woman of some means, preferred the cities and her own family’s home in London, and that was where Isalyn had spent a large part of her life.
To her, the north of England was full of barbarians. On her infrequent trips home, she had mostly spent them at the family manse in Carlisle, as that was an acceptable abode for the most part. Carlisle was a fairly cosmopolitan city, but it was nothing like her beloved London.
She loved the city life.
Isalyn’s father and brother loved the country manse at Featherstone that had been in her family for over a century. It was a pretty place and when Isalyn had been young, she had spent a few happy summers playing in the elaborate garden or splashing in the brook that ran next to the property. She had been terribly young then, those carefree days of youth, and it had been before her parents decided to live separately and her mother had taken her to London.
But Isalyn did remember those younger years, like bits of a dream. She remembered her mother laughing, and her father laughing, and her brother pulling her hair. She remembered the days as seemingly bucolic and happy when they were a family.
But those days were long gone and now, she could hardly stand to return to Featherstone. She told herself it was because it was too rural. She was a lass who needed the excitement of a city, as she had told Tor. But perhaps the truth was that the memories there were just too painful because they had been so short lived. It was difficult to return to a home where there was no longer any love or laughter, and perhaps that’s why she wanted to stay away most of all.
It reminded her of things that had ended.
It reminded her of a mother who had died three years ago, right about the time Isalyn was becoming a young woman. Her mother had a cancer that ate away at her until she died a painful and lingering death. Isalyn had been devastated by the death of the woman who had been her very best friend and she had spent years mourning her mother as if her death had only happened the day before. Her aunt, who was her mother’s older sister, filled in as best she could, but she was devastated, too. There wasn’t a lot of room for Isalyn’s grief to a woman who was more concerned with her own sorrow.
And then, there was her brother.
Steffan was most definitely his father’s son. Arrogant, irresponsible, and largely immune to the sufferings of the world around him, Steffan had hardly seen his mother in the time his parents had been separated and he didn’t much seem to care. With their parents separated, Isalyn had gone with her mother and Steffan had remained with his father, and Steffan had lived as if he didn’t have a sister or a mother. She’d hardly seen the man growing up and the last time had been a few years ago.
There had been rumors, of course. Rumors of Steffan’s behavior that had trickled down to Isalyn’s mother. Even in London, they had heard of Steffan’s recklessness and of his inability to behave as a knight should. He was evidently a gambler and had stretched thin his finances because of it.
There were times when Isalyn forgot she even had a brother and, quite frankly, that was fine with her. Steffan had never made any great attempt to have a relationship with her and she had made no great attempt to have a relationship with him, so the siblings were ambivalent towards one another.
Even with this visit to Featherstone to see her father, Isalyn hadn’t even seen her brother because, according to her father, he now served the House of de Royans. That had apparently been going on for the past two years and Gilbert seemed both proud and lonely for the fact that his son served another house. Steffan had no intention of going into the family business and that, too, seemed to weigh heavily on Gilbert.
Steffan wanted to be a knight, not a worthless merchant, as he put it.
Thoughts of Isalyn’s mother and a brother faded as they drew closer to Featherstone. They could see the big manse in the distance, a jewel nestled among the pastoral greenery. Isalyn’s focus returned to Tor, riding slightly ahead of her astride one of the biggest horses she had ever seen.
She was curious about the man beyond their conversation at the tavern.
“Sir Tor?” she called.
He turned as much as he was able given the restrictions of his armor. “My lady?”
“Tor. Tor,” she said, drawing his name out. “It is an interesting name. May I beg you to tell me who you are named for?”
He smiled weakly. “My Christian name is Thomas,” he said. “I am named for my grandmother’s father, but I also have an uncle who is named Thomas. When I was serving on the Welsh Marches, the Welsh gave me the name of Tor. It means a strong and impenetrable rock formation, and my family took up calling me that as well so I would be called differently from my uncle. But my father still calls me Tommy. He is the only one who does.”
“You have a big family?”
He nodded. “I have nine siblings,” he said. “Some from my father’s first marriage, some from my stepmother’s first marriage, and then some by their marriage together. I am the second eldest, my father’s son by blood.”
Isalyn thought on having ten brothers and sisters. “That is a lot of children.”
Tor snorted. “My Uncle Tommy has eleven children although, in fairness, several of them are adopted,” he said. “The de Wolfe family is quite large.”
“There are de Wolfes in Wolverhampton, too.”
“Those are cousins. My grandfather’s eldest brother was the Earl of Wolverhampton and those are his descendants.”
It seemed like a large family, indeed. Isalyn’s gaze trailed over to the second knight in their escort, riding silently as she and Tor chattered away.
“And you, Sir Nat?” she said politely. “You are part of this enormous family?”