WolfeStrike (De Wolfe Pack Generations #2) - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,68

was the least bit intimidated by the enormous warrior. He almost couldn’t blame Steffan for running from him. Almost. But since he knew his son had been in the wrong, and Blayth had every right to be angry, he did the only thing he could do under the circumstances.

He groveled.

“I am honored to make your acquaintance, my lord,” he said. “I am also glad that you are fortuitously here today. It gives me the opportunity to apologize to you in person for my son’s actions. Please believe me when I say I was completely unaware of the betrothal. What Steffan did was inexcusable and it is my greatest hope that you will accept my apology.”

His polite pleading took some the wind out of Blayth’s sails. He had just been informed by Christian that Steffan de Featherstone’s father had unexpectedly arrived and given that his anger on the matter was still fresh, he was fully prepared to berate Gilbert de Featherstone for raising such a dishonorable son.

But Gilbert didn’t give him that opportunity. Although the man was clearly appalled by his son’s actions, Blayth’s anger still wasn’t appeased.

“It is well within my rights to demand compensation,” Blayth said. “Your son abandoned my daughter. I have every right to demand a pound of flesh.”

Gilbert nodded. “I realize that, my lord,” he said. “And I heartily endorse your right of compensation. I have brought all manner of gifts with me. I would consider it a personal favor if you would accept them as a token of my deepest apologies. If that is not enough, I would willingly give more.”

The gifts meant for Tor would now have a new and perhaps more important purpose. Gilbert had met Blayth’s anger with more groveling and now there was nothing more Blayth could say, to be truthful. It was clear that Gilbert’s apologizing knew no limits.

The man was all but pleading.

Blayth looked at Tor, who shrugged faintly. Blayth sensed that he was somehow siding with Gilbert. After a moment, he sighed heavily.

“Sit down, de Featherstone,” he said gruffly. As both Gilbert and Tor reclaimed their seats, Blayth pointed to his daughter. “This is Isabella, whom your son shunned. Look at that face. She is as sweet as she is beautiful. Your son has hurt her deeply.”

Gilbert looked at Isabella, who was a bit wide-eyed at her father’s dramatics. “My lady,” he said, putting his hand over his heart. “My son was a fool. He had no right to treat you so poorly. He has paid for this foolishness with his life. I pray you can forgive, with time. Steffan was a good lad when he was younger, but as he got older… I do not know why he did what he did. I wish I could give you a reason, but I have not seen my son in some time. Men change. Clearly, he changed and I am sorry you bore the brunt of that.”

Isabella looked to her father with some uncertainty before returning her focus to Gilbert. “Your apology is appreciated, my lord,” she said. “I… I am sorry that Steffan is dead. I did not wish that upon him.”

“I did,” Blayth muttered, sitting at the table. “He deserved what he got, de Featherstone. He tried to kill Tor’s half-brother and Tor had every right to run him through. I’m sure he has told you that by now.”

Tor grunted softly, looking to his blabber-mouth uncle. “I have not yet had the opportunity,” he said deliberately. “Thank you for being the bearer of that particular bit if news.”

Across the table, Gilbert stiffened. “You?” he said to Tor. “You killed him? Why did you not tell me that?”

Tor shook his head. “As I said, I have not yet had the opportunity,” he said, but there was no remorse in his manner. “Your son tried to kill my half-brother. I was perfectly within my rights to protect Alexander. The cost, unfortunately, was Steffan’s life. But that is the price he paid for attacking my half-brother.”

He said it firmly. Gilbert looked at him with some exasperation before finally shaking his head and returning to his cup. He drained the contents and moved to pour himself more.

“I am not disputing you,” he muttered. “I understand. Then it was your half-brother who was the squire?”

“Alexander is only seventeen years of age.”

Gilbert rolled his eyes. “My son not only ran away from a beautiful bride, but he tried to kill a child.” He waved his hand at them. “Oh, I know that your