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Konrad frowned and took another swig of ale. It seemed to him that if Lady Constance was not a fan of knightly pursuits, then such a present was unlikely to curry favor. He cleared his throat. “Maybe you ought to get her something she likes,” he suggested uncomfortably.

“Such as?”

“A book?” he suggested feebly, as Farleigh clapped a hand to his forehead.

“You mean commission a poet!” he yelled, drowning out Konrad’s words. “Of course! Why did I not think of that?” He fingered his hairless chin. “I could get him to pen me a ballad that pleads my cause!”

Konrad eyed him doubtfully before inspiration struck. “Why don’t you just ask Vawdrey how he won over his wife?” he suggested, with what he thought to be an almost staggering logic.

Farleigh cast him a horrified glance before lowering his voice. “Everyone knows Vawdrey seduced the Lady Eden,” he answered in hushed tones. “It was a huge scandal at the time. Do you not remember the queen demanded an account of it at court?”

“No, did he?” Konrad asked with a certain grudging respect. He knew Vawdrey was brave, but not that brave. Even he could tell the Lady Eden was a formidable sort.

“I could never disrespect Constance so,” Farleigh said virtuously.

“Hmmm.” For his part, Konrad was starting to think Farleigh’s cause was a hopeless one. “Where did you get the necklace?” he asked on impulse. He did not think Aimee possessed much by way of jewelry. In any case, she never seemed to wear much.

Farleigh brightened. “A goldsmith currently much in favor at court. He has premises in Bulwark Lane. Blyfield is his name.”

“He ever do any work resetting jewels?” Konrad asked, thinking of the sorry state of what remained of the Bartree jewels. They had been wrenched from their gold settings which had been donated to the Blechmarsh cause. His father had kept the precious stones back, though he had gladly handed over every piece of plate, coronet, ring, brooch, chain, or chalice about the place.

Farleigh shrugged. “As to that, I couldn’t say,” he admitted. “But it’s likely, if they are good enough quality.”

Konrad bristled, but realizing that Farleigh meant no offense, he let the implied insult pass.

He considered the matter as Farleigh wolfed down his share of the meal. He would pay a visit to this jeweler on Bulwark Lane. He should have thought of it before, of course. Women liked jewels and received them on betrothals and marriages. That Aimee had not had been an oversight on his behalf. Their meal finished, the two knights bade each other farewell, Farleigh thanking him fervently for his ‘advice’. Konrad suspected his intention was to seek out a poet forthwith.

Konrad turned his feet impulsively toward the house on Lime Street. Jakeman had retrieved the last of his banners and practice spears, and he had returned Actaeon to the ostlers himself before his meal. Making your way through the twisting streets and alleys of Caer Lyoness was far easier on foot. He would collect the pouch of jewels from his strongbox and take them to the goldsmith. After all, why should he not, he reasoned with himself. Aimee was their rightful owner now.

Letting himself into the house, he ran straight up the stairs to his own bedchamber. Throwing open the cabinet doors, he retrieved the key from around his neck and undid the big, studded strongbox he kept right at the bottom. It was a large, battered trunk, which had been with him for many years and contained all his most valuable treasures.

Ignoring the several bags of gold which Ankatel had bestowed on him and the shredded gown he had balled up in one corner, he reached instead for a leather pouch and tucked it into his tunic. Then he took out the uppermost bag of coins, which constituted his winnings from the previous day. It felt right somehow that it should be his own money which paid for Aimee’s finery. He relocked the trunk and closed the cabinet, turning around.

That was when his eye fell on the little velvet bag on his pillow bearer. He made his way toward it with some reluctance and tipped the contents of the drawstring bag into the center of his palm. Was she going to reward him every time he bedded her, he wondered impatiently. A gold signet rolled to its side, showing its oval cabochon of red carnelian. As suspected, it was carved with the Kentigern portcullis. Konrad rolled his eyes.

Did she not think he would have reached the grand age of thirty-one without possessing a signet ring? True, the one he had been given by his father on his twenty-first birthday had been stolen from his finger as he lay near death on a muddy battlefield. But he had inherited his late father’s own ring two years later. The thing had never fitted him, and he had to wear it about his neck, but even so, it was functional still for pressing into sealing wax.

It was not half so fine as this one though, he acknowledged, sliding it onto his finger with ease and lifting it for further scrutinization. For the first time, he noticed the gold border that circled the emblem was intricately carved with a lettering he had to squint to make out. With a muffled exclamation, he read the familiar words. Resilient Under Adversity.

When had she found out his family motto?He lowered his hand, staring blindly ahead of him. Could it be, he pondered slowly, that Aimee Ankatel had noticed he wore no signet ring upon his finger? Not at Kellingford, no, but later mayhap, when he had taken that meal at her father’s house? The idea that even then she had she been looking for ways to please him gave him the oddest sensation of tightness in his chest.

The thought of buying her gifts or betrothal tokens had not even occurred to him. In truth, he had not thought of her at all. But she had thought of him, he realized with uncomfortable clarity. Maybe constantly since he had caught her fancy. The thought was a strangely disquieting one.

He remembered the encouraging smiles, the frequent way she had touched his hand at their wedding feast, the hopeful look in her eye. She had not been so free and easy with him since, he did not think. That struck him now as all wrong. If the stark reality of the wedding bed had not been enough to kill Aimee Ankatel’s idealistic fancies, then his behavior at the palace had likely dealt the death blow.

His steps slowed as he recalled other things he would as soon not remember. Leaving her at the foot of the stairs to deal with the dismissal of the wedding attendants. He should not have done that. He had been irritated, harried by the heat and his responsibilities toward his own kinswomen. Not just that though, he acknowledged. He had blamed Aimee for the ostentation of their wedding celebrations.

It had been an embarrassing rigmarole for him to get through, but she had been a young and hopeful bride who had thought herself … what? In love with him? The startling notion caused him to stand stock still in the act of shutting his bedchamber door behind him. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. In truth, nothing else really made sense when it came to her selecting him for a bridegroom.

Why else would she have picked him over the many younger and handsomer knights paraded before her? Renlow for one, Farleigh was another. Both were far better suited for Ankatel’s beauteous daughter than he. They might not have a title, but what did that matter when you had as much wealth as Ankatel?

I do not love you anymore. He had no notion why Aimee’s words kept drifting back into his head.

He started down the passageway, squaring his shoulders to face the fact head on. She had seen him suffer a crashing defeat to Renlow. She had thought his subsequent actions demonstrated some nobility of character he did not possess. She had fancied herself in love with some chivalric figure and then, gods help her, she had woken to the reality she was wedded to an inconsiderate brute without a noble bone in his body.

Even then, he reflected, she had not despaired but tried to make things work and win his favor. She had welcomed his return to her bed. She had worn his colors to the summer tournament. And she had suffered for it. Not only that, he thought, she had demonstrated the value the Bartrees had always prized most highly. Aimee had shown resilience under adversity.

He dared not dwell on the pleasure he had drawn from her body the previous night. He should have been down on his knees apologizing, not slinging her over his shoulder like that. Gods! So lost in thought was he that he did not even register at first the voices drifting along the corridor. Then he heard masculine laughter and bristled all over. Who the hells was that in his house?