LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance Read Online Free PDF Page A

took to wife one like my Irish mother.”
    The lady’s eyes widened. “I am not Irish.”
    Liam’s tension returned. Was she offended at being equated with people on that side of him? Regardless, it called to mind Maynard’s hatred of the Irish, and before he could think better of his words, he said low, “Of course, I am sure that what mattered most to Maynard was your ability to make an heir.”
    She drew a sharp breath, glanced at her son who had wandered to a side table where drink was being poured. “What matters, Sir Liam, is Maynard took me to wife—unlike your father, who did not wed your mother. That my son is legitimate—unlike you. And Oliver is the heir of Ashlingford—again, unlike you.”
    Before Liam could further betray the first lesson taught him during his knighthood training, he clenched his teeth. They stared at each another, and when finally he found words he would not later regret, he said, “Are you finished, Lady Joslyn?”
    If she feared him, it did not show. “Quite.” She shifted her gaze to the hearth, and Liam followed it to his uncle.
    Ivo gave a slight shake of his head—a warning she should not pursue whatever had roused his nephew. In this, she would be wise to heed the priest’s counsel.
    The tables and benches having been positioned during the pouring of ale, Liam strode toward them and shouted, “To meal!”

    She had been cruel. Crueler even than Liam Fawke, who she prayed did not know the truth of her marriage—that he merely guessed well. She did not share Maynard’s hatred of the Irish, which she suspected had all to do with his half brother, but Liam Fawke’s baiting had riled her. When he had responded to her vehement denial she was Irish by saying Maynard had wanted her for her ability to give him a son, she had breathed in the shame she had cast from her upon Oliver’s birth. And breathed out spite.
    Now with her son seated on her right, Father Ivo on her left, Joslyn stared at her food as she heard again the harshly superior words that had named Liam Fawke’s father a knave, his mother a whore, and him a whoreson.
    That was not who she was. Or was it?
    She gave a slight shake of her head. She had spoken out of fear of the man whose coming Maynard had said would endanger their son. And Liam Fawke had given her cause to believe it. He had nearly ridden her down, snatched Oliver, and forced his way into her home. And he was not done.
    Drawing a full breath, she looked to where Oliver had come up on his knees to search out choice morsels from her trencher.
    Filthy little urchin , Liam Fawke had called him—and it was true. Oliver was beyond pleased to sit at table wearing his garden dirt, having never before been allowed.
    What would her father say of his grandson if he walked in? More, what would he say of his daughter, who not only allowed it but also looked the urchin? He would be horrified, though with enough ale in him, he would likely find humor in it.
    “Lady, I fear you tread too heavily.”
    Startled by the whisper at her ear, she looked into Father Ivo’s mature, fairly attractive face. “Pardon?”
    “Do not push the knave,” he said from behind the hand towel he pressed to his mouth. “Allow me to prepare the way for Oliver and all will come right.”
    She glanced at Liam Fawke, who sat across the table and three chairs down. Though his eyes were on his goblet, he appeared to be listening to the knight beside him. “How?” she asked. “I—”
    “Speak no more. I will come to you this eve.”
    Her thoughts running ahead, hope beginning to flow, she nodded.
    “My uncle is an interesting man, do you not think, Lady Joslyn?”
    Attempting to hide her surprise behind a quickly composed face, she looked into Liam Fawke’s green eyes. “As we are hardly acquainted, I cannot say.”
    His smile was keen-edged. He could not know what had been said between them, but he knew it had to do with him. “Ah, but I am sure you will become close friends.