Page 66 of Ella’s Desire

Bronson entered the room and the door clicked closed behind him. “Rafe.”

The servant paused in his frantic race across the room. “Aye, my lord?”

“What would you say are my…” Bronson paused, feeling suddenly like the court fool. “What would you say are some of my best qualities?”

The question was vain and insipid, but Rafe’s face didn’t reflect any judgment. Instead he pursed his lips in genuine consideration. “You’re generous, my lord. You are the most charming of all the courtiers and always know what to say to the ladies.”

The servant nodded with his own satisfaction at his answer and resumed the task of gathering the provisions for Bronson’s journey to find Lark.

But Bronson was not as pleased by the answers. Charming and generous. Was that really all that made him up? His ability to please? To charm? To pay?

In none of Ella’s stories had the men been courtiers who could shift to please everyone around them. Nay, they were men, sure in who they were, filled to the brim with conviction and purpose.

“Is that all?” Bronson asked.

Rafe paused once more and slowly lifted his head from the hauberk he was laying out.

“Do I have purpose in life?” Bronson pressed. “Am I perhaps poetic? Or…?”

Or what? God in heaven, why had he even bothered with this terrible conversation?

Rafe’s fingers nervously plucked over the chainmail. “You are kind,” the servant answered slowly. “You often consider other’s feelings, and you care for Lady Calville and Lady Lark. I believe that to be your best quality.”

Bronson ran a hand through his hair, and for once didn’t bother to smooth it back down. Aye, he was trying to save Brigid and Lark and was doing a poor job of it. Lark was now missing because he’d brought her to the border.

“Is this about Lady Ella, my lord?” Rafe carried over the padded underclothes that went beneath the chainmail.

Bronson held still to be dressed. “Aye,” he conceded.

“She is an intelligent woman.” Rafe stepped onto a small stool and raised the gambeson over Bronson’s head.

“I’m aware.”

“Mayhap charming her will not be as effective.”

The gambeson fell over Bronson’s face, momentarily blinding him before it settled over his shoulders. “I’m aware,” he repeated grimly.

“Then might I suggest the truth?” Rafe met his gaze. “Whatever it may be, however difficult it might be to dislodge. She’s not from our world. She is her own person, without worry to the thoughts of others. I think she would like you to be the same.”

Bronson gritted his teeth. “Aye.”

Rafe worked at the ties on the gambeson, securing it. If the servant was right and Ella did crave the truth about Bronson, the time of their search would be perfect for telling her about his father. Pathetic though it might be, he even needed to explain how he had been convinced to wed her.

And he needed to be himself.

Except after a lifetime of being a courtier, such a prospect was not as easily achieved as one might assume.

Once he was fully dressed by Rafe, Bronson was finally prepared not only for the search party and battle, but for handling Ella as well. The armor was heavy and awkward, practically sparkling in its newness, as it had all only been worn for ceremony rather than its true purpose.

Bronson made his way in clanks and clinks down to the stables, his own clanging steps reverberating off the walls around him. Ella was there already, speaking in soothing tones to Kipper. Both the horse and the lady appeared comfortable in their armor. Her battle axe was slung on one side of the saddle with another weapon on the other. Good God, was that a mace?

He turned his attention to her, taking in the fitted chainmail shirt and plated tunic belted over it. Greaves covered her legs and she held a helm propped against one hip. Her normally loose, flowing hair had been braided back, out of her way.

She looked every bit of a soldier as any man he had ever seen.

As if sensing his assessment, she cocked her chin up at him. “I told you I’m not meant for court, my lord.” With that, she lowered her helmet onto her head and swung easily onto her horse.

Except she was wrong. She was exactly meant for court. It was women like her—