Simon's Lady Read Online Free PDF

knightly duty. Although his present duty was unusual and he was obeying only grudgingly, he came a fraction closer to accepting it.
    “And Lady Chester?” he inquired sardonically, glancing about the room. “Which one is she?”
    “I don’t see her,” Senlis said slowly. He craned his neck, looking this way and that. “Could she have gone—ah, no, there she is, walking toward the… Well!”
    “Well, what?” Beresford asked sullenly.
    “Look, my dear friend,” Senlis said with a strange note in his voice, “toward the fireplace across the room.”
    Beresford looked over toward one end of the fireplace. His lip curled. “And is Lady Chester the fat one,” he asked with grim satisfaction, “or the wizened one?”
    Senlis followed the line of his friend’s gaze. He shook his head and smiled. “Neither, Simon,” he said. “Look to the other side. You see the woman standing? The dark beauty?”
    Beresford considered the dark beauty. “I see her,” he said indifferently.
    “That,” Senlis said, “is Lady Chester. My guess is the woman standing next to her is Gwyneth of Northumbria.”
    Beresford shifted his gaze from the dark beauty to the young woman standing beside her. Her face was in profile, for she was speaking to Rosalyn. His eyes widened, and he felt a powerful emotion pass through his body like a lightning bolt. He had never experienced such an emotion and so could not identify it. It was odd and unexpected, certainly. It was strong, too. Its unfamiliarity was strangely tantalizing, but it had a distinctly unpleasant twist to it, like a wrenching of internal organs.
    He was looking at the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. Her profile was delicate, with a certain calm strength, her nose straight and finely boned, her lips full. Her skin was a glowing alabaster that, in defiance of nature, was not mineral but floral in quality. Her hair looked like thick, liquid gold spun into filigree braids around her head and caught and curved at the nape by one of those spidery nets webbed with pearls whose correct name he would never know. Her back was straight, her womanly curves were evident and her hands were crossed in front of her. Her long, white fingers were lightly laced.
    “Close your mouth, my man,” Senlis whispered into his ear.
    Beresford mechanically clamped shut the mouth he had not known was open. At that moment, the woman turned her gaze to him. Before she lowered her eyes modestly, he caught a luminous flash of violet.
    “Rosalyn is beckoning us forward, Simon,” Senlis said. “Come and meet your bride.”
    Beresford betrayed no reluctance in crossing the hall at Senlis’s side. It felt strange, though, this simple walk across the room. He would have felt more comfortable galloping across the tourney field, his lance raised and the raw animal power of his charger working beneath him. He would have known just what to do: strike his enemy down and prepare for the next encounter. In the current case, no similarly clear objective presented itself to him, but from force of habit his stride conveyed confidence and strength of purpose.
    When they were standing before the two women, Senlis said, “Simon of Beresford, I have the honor of presenting you to Gwyneth of Northumbria.”
    Rosalyn returned the courtesy by performing the sleekest of introductions, “Gwyneth of Northumbria. Simon of Beresford.”
    Beresford mumbled something, he did not know what. Gwyneth of Northumbria said nothing. Beresford noticed that she was taller than he had expected, for the top of her head came to his chin. He glanced down at her briefly, long enough to see that her eyes were still downcast. Feeling as though he were walking into a fire as a test of courage, he stretched out his hand, and she laid hers in it. His fingers closed over hers, and he was almost surprised that he was not burned by her touch. Her hand was cool, even a little cold. He bowed over it then let it go gracelessly. He had no idea what to