‘Don’t,’ he cried. ‘Don’t give me Lorcan’s old shit about making your own way in the world! You are not a child, Wynter. You will be sixteen years old at the end of the month and you have nothing. Your father has raised you on delusions. He should have spent his time securing a future for you, instead of indulging those damn games of make-believe! Carpenter indeed! Who the hell is ever going to hire you? You are a woman. Even if you ever do secure work, can you see yourself climbing the scaffolds with your belly full of that vagabond’s pups?’
The word pups was such an unfortunate choice that Wynter couldn’t help but smile. Cubs might be a touch more accurate, she thought, but she refrained from articulating the comment. Bad enough that Alberon considered Christopher a gypsy. What colour would he turn if Wynter revealed the rather more dangerous aspect of her young man’s nature?
‘What are you grinning for?’ cried Alberon.
She shrugged, her smile widening, and he ran his hands through his hair, staring at her in disbelief. Her smiling silence seemed to calm him down a little and he began to pace, his brow creased in thought.
‘Anyone can make a mistake,’ he muttered. ‘Women have recovered from much worse. Mind you, usually women with far greater prospects than yours. Still, a sizeable dowry can be arranged . . .’
‘Albi,’ she said.
‘Of course you’ve no damned land. No annuity of your own. No God-cursed family connections. But you are not unattractive, and you are still relatively young . . .’
‘Albi.’
‘Your friendship with us might stand to you. If there is no issue from this dalliance and the men here can be persuaded to keep their mouths shut.’ He glared out the door. ‘He can be paid off . . .’
‘Goddamn it, Alberon! That is enough!’
He came to a halt, staring belligerently at her, and she sighed.
‘Albi,’ said Wynter gently. ‘I trust Christopher Garron. I love him. And he loves me. Would you deny me that, Albi? In this terrible bloody world, would you deny me that?’
The little servant was blatantly eavesdropping now, standing out in the open, his face rapt. She and Alberon were better than a play, it seemed, and he had quite forgot himself in their dramatics. His round eyes brimmed with the tragic wonder of Wynter’s speech, and he clasped his hands at his chest.
‘Oh,’ he whispered, ‘that’s righteous lovely.’
Alberon turned to him, and the little fellow froze like a rabbit under torchlight. ‘Boy?’ grated Alberon. ‘Have you nothing to do with yourself other than act the old maid?’
The poor child stared with panic-stricken eyes, and Wynter took pity on him. ‘I should very much like some breakfast, Anthony. Would there be anything available to eat or drink?’
‘Wouldst . . . wouldst like some gruel, Protector Lady? I can get thee—’ ‘You can get thee bloody out,’ yelled Alberon, swiping the air in mock threat. Anthony squeaked and fled, and Alberon strode in his wake, yelling after his retreating back, ‘Get some God-cursed tea while you’re at it!’
There was a distant little ‘aye Highness’.
Alberon stood at the head of the slope, glaring downwards. Wynter had no doubt that he was looking at Christopher, who undoubtedly was staring right back. She sighed and waited patiently while her brother had himself a good look at the man she had chosen as her own. She briefly considered introducing them properly and letting them talk, but there were many things she wanted to discuss with Alberon. Wynter did not think that it would be conducive to open conversation were the two men to commence the prowling that would be their inevitable reaction to each other. No. Introductions could wait.
‘Well,’ murmured the Prince, ‘I suppose a marriage, no matter how ill-advised, is one solution to your hopelessly slandered reputation. Should the worst come to the worst, as it inevitably will with a fellow such as him, we can always wed you off again as a dowered widow.’
‘Alberon,’ she hissed.
He did not turn around.
‘Alberon!’ she insisted.
He tilted his head, which was as far as she suspected he would go towards looking her way.
‘There will be no widowhood in my future, brother. No matter how much my husband sullies the landscape of your plans for me.’
Alberon shrugged. ‘Court life is a danger to us all,’ he said. ‘Nothing lasts forever.’
‘You had better make sure my husband lasts forever, Alberon Kingsson. Crown Prince or not, you will