Lady Betrayed

by Tamara Leigh

  Setting his teeth, he turned.

  She stood before the dais upon which the lord’s table was raised. Wisps of silver hair visible beneath her veil, face loose and heavily lined, she arched thin eyebrows above eyes so lightly lidded they seemed unusually large.

  Having wed a man six years younger than she and birthed Lothaire just past the age of thirty, Raisa Soames could more easily be his grandmother. Though fifty and nine, she looked older. But then, she had always appeared aged beyond her years. For that and her severe temperament, it was told her husband time and again strayed from the marriage bed.

  “My son,” she said with an imperious lift of her chin, “I asked you a question.”

  And he would answer when he answered. They were years beyond her ability to intimidate and dominate him, but ever she tried to take back ground lost ten years past after his first betrothal was broken.

  Resenting that even a glancing thought for that lady could yet feel like a blade between the ribs, he rolled the missive and slid it beneath his belt.

  His mother stared at what he denied her greedy eyes and grasping hands, the color blooming in her cheeks proving blood yet coursed beneath her skin.

  “I am summoned to court, Mother.”

  She drew a sharp breath. “For?”

  “What we knew would call me to Eleanor’s side if I failed to find a bride with a sizable enough dowry to make Lexeter whole.”

  She lunged onto the dais and would have dropped to her knees had he not caught her arm and pulled her up beside him.

  Gripping his tunic, she said, “You have not searched far enough.” Her saliva sprayed his face. “Now see, our future is in the hands of that French harlot!”

  She was not entirely wrong. Since the annulment of his unfortunate marriage to Lady Beata Fauvel a year past, he could have searched harder, but the thought of awakening beside a woman he wanted only for the wealth she brought her husband had put him off the hunt. Too, when he himself was not working the land to turn it profitable, he pursued his only other passion—becoming a warrior worthy of donning a Wulfrith dagger.

  Of that his mother remained unaware, though not for lack of trying to discover where twice now he had gone for three and four weeks, where he suffered humiliation after humiliation and sometimes at the hands of mere squires, where he was to have gone a sennight hence—Wulfen Castle.

  Much to Abel Wulfrith’s displeasure, Lothaire had slammed his pride to the ground and accepted the man’s offer to train him into a formidable knight. He had known it was but a taunt, but he had dared, and Sir Abel’s brother, Everard, had sighed and said if the offer was made, it must be fulfilled.

  Despite the pain and humiliation dealt him, Lothaire had discovered a liking for the two brothers, and even the eldest, Baron Wulfrith. More surprising, Sir Abel had become easier in his pupil’s company during the second visit. They could never be friends, Lothaire having no use for such, but there was something appealing about spending time with men his own age with similar interests.

  Now he would have to send word he would not avail himself of Wulfrith training this next month. More unfortunate, even if he returned from court with a wife, it would be months before he could resume training since he would have to wait until next Sir Abel relieved one of his brothers of the task of training up England’s worthiest knights.

  “I shall accompany you,” his mother broke into his thoughts. “King Henry’s harlot will know exactly what you require in a wife—a sizable dowry, pretty, but not too pretty—”

  “I go alone.” Lothaire unhooked his mother’s hands from his tunic.

  “But my son—”

  “You shall remain here.” Ensuring she had her balance, he stepped back. “And if the queen provides a wife, you will relinquish the title of Lady of Lexeter without protest, else I will see you removed to your dower property.” Which he would have done years ago if not for her poor health.

  Light leapt in her eyes, but naught resembling the sparkle of stars on a moonless night. This was fire—so hot it would disfigure any who drew near. And here came the threat that was the greatest control she wielded over him.

  “Sebille will go with me. You know she will.”

  His older, unwed sister had only her mother to live for, though twice Lothaire could have secured a husband for her had Raisa Soames not deemed a landless knight beneath her daughter.

  “For years that has worked, Mother, most notably when you defied me and risked all of Lexeter by sending men to murder Lady Beata and her husband last year. It will be different if you threaten my wife.”

  “Foolish boy! Ever you do not see the Delilah who would make of you a Samson, stealing your strength and leaving you weak as a woman.”

  He had heard this many times before. Indeed, one of his first acts of rebellion against her tyranny had been to grow his hair. She had hated it, though it had been just long enough to catch back at the nape when he was first betrothed to Laura. After that lady’s betrayal, he had meant to cut it to more easily forget their hands in each other’s hair, but that would have pleased his mother. Upon learning the cause for the broken betrothal and seeing her son’s misery, over and again she had cursed Laura for cutting her Samson’s hair.

  “And the Jezebel!” She jabbed a finger at him. “You do not see she who would make of you an Ahab, provoking the Lord and bringing ill upon your house. But I see them and would not have you suffer again as that wicked—”

  “Enough!” Lothaire stepped from the dais and tossed over his shoulder, “You may wish me to be a boy, but I have not been since—”

  “Since that harlot made a cuckold of you, just as over and again your father made a mockery of our wedding vows.”

  He did not break stride.

  “You still think on her,” she scorned. “I know you do.”

  He halted. Though she spoke of Laura, neither had the woman he wed after her been pure.

  Do I hate my mother? he wondered. Certes, she gave him little cause to love her.

  He turned. “That would please you, hmm? For me to regret more not heeding your advice than that she lay with another.”

  “You should have listened to me! How many times did I warn—?”

  “I did listen. You said she would make a fitting wife.”

  “Until time and again she called you back to her, like a siren seeking to drag you down into the dark. Into sin!”

  It was as his mother wished to believe, though he knew her objections thereafter were rooted in jealousy. She had never fully recovered from the wasting sickness that prevented her from accompanying him to Owen for his second visit with his betrothed. Hence, four more times he had visited Laura unchaperoned, and each time was sweeter than the last.

  Nay, not the last. That was when he learned the truth of her. Even now, ten years gone, he could see her standing before the pond. Alone, though not entirely alone.

  “Leave it be, Mother,” he said and strode to the stairs.

  He closed himself in the solar and, when his breathing calmed, read the queen’s missive again. He did not like the wording. It begged an unsettling question. Did she or did she not have a wife for him? She said she did, and yet in closing she wavered.

  We shall expect you within a fortnight, Lord Soames. Do you present well, we believe you will gain the hand of the lady who brings to her marriage the relief many a lord seeks to save his lands. Do not disappoint us.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Windsor Castle, England

  Late May, 1163

  She knew she was awake, but it seemed more a dream she inhabited as she stared at the lady before her.

  It was the finest mirror, with so little distortion she wondered if she had truly seen herself before. The pond she had not visited since before Clarice’s birth had offered the truest reflection when it was at its stillest, but she had never presented as clearly as this.

  She did not think herself beautiful, but she was quite fair, especially after a month beneath the eye of the q
ueen who oft sighed over all that must be done to transform her guest from sickly to desirable.

  Desirable. Laura hated the word. It told of things that happened in the dark whether a woman wished it or not.

  “Milady?”

  She blinked, looked to the maid beside her. “Am I ready, Tina?”

  “Oh, lass.” She stepped near, patted her lady’s cheek. “More ready than ever I have seen you. And it has been six years since Lady Maude gave ye into my care, hmm?”

  Six years—following the visit to Simon’s half-brother whose wife had nearly suffered the same as Laura.

  How she adored Michael and Lady Beatrix. How she wished she could accept their offer for Clarice and her to live at Castle Soaring. The temptation was great, but she knew that were she to accept, she would not fully awaken as she must. And she was determined she would not be a burden to anyone again—excepting whomever she wed, but he would have payment enough in the bedroom.

  She almost smiled at the realization her throat did not burn with bile. She was growing accustomed to the idea of violation. And that was good, for a poor marriage it would be—and of detriment to Clarice—if the man whose ring she wore learned how she felt about what he did to her.

  Still no bile.

  “Six years, Tina. I pray I we have many more.”

  And she would, Maude’s stepson having agreed the maid could leave Owen, and Queen Eleanor concurring that Laura’s husband would accept Tina’s services to his wife.

  “’Tis time,” the maid said.

  Laura slid her palms down the skirt of one of dozens of gowns gifted her by Maude over the years.

  The queen had been pleased with the quality and colors of Laura’s wardrobe, surely having expected the royal coffers to bear the cost of clothing her in finery needed to capture a husband.

  Though a few gowns were no longer fashionable, a seamstress had been engaged to alter their fit and design.

  Were I happy, Laura thought, I would feel like a princess.

  “I am ready,” she said and followed Tina to the door of the luxurious apartment that had been hers these past weeks. Soon she would leave it, collect her daughter from Michael D’Arci and Lady Beatrix, and journey to wherever she would spend the remainder of her life with the man to whom she would give herself to provide her daughter a good future.

  Now to see who so badly needed funds he would pay the price of a used lady newly awakened.

  Which one was she?

  The tall lady whose eyes rushed about the hall as if in search of someone? The heavily freckled lady twisting a tress of red hair? The beautiful blond lady of an age several years beyond his own? What of the lady with hair the color of burnished bronze?

  Lothaire looked nearer upon the latter. She stood in profile, but there was no doubt she was lovely, albeit thinner than he liked.

  He grunted. Though given a choice he would pick a wife passing pretty and pure of body, what mattered was that she possess lands or dowry enough to return Lexeter to the prosperity it had enjoyed before his father’s murder over twenty years past.

  He stiffened, pushed that reminder aside. Though determined to learn where Ricard Soames was buried so he could be moved to consecrated ground, Lothaire was here to secure a wife.

  He looked to the queen who had yet to grant him an audience though he had arrived at Windsor last eve. Likely, she was still displeased with him for wedding Lady Beata Fauvel without her permission, forcing her to arrange an annulment of the unconsummated marriage before she could wed her favorite—Sir Durand Marshal—to the lady.

  As he started to move his gaze from Eleanor, she settled hers on him. And smiled.

  That he did not expect. Though he did not like her, he returned the smile.

  She inclined her head and pointedly looked toward a gathering to her left.

  The lady with the burnished bronze hair, then. And she had added another nobleman to her audience.

  He was not displeased with the queen’s offering. Of all those whose unveiled hair proclaimed them unwed, she was among the few with whom he would have sought an acquaintance. Young enough to bear children, but not so young he would suffer the foolishness of a girl who believed her maturing body made her a woman. Though more pleasing to the eye than he liked, he would simply have to be vigilant. As for her weight, once she knew he was not the sort who found half-starved women desirable, she would eat more.

  He looked back at Eleanor who frowned and gestured for him to approach the lady.

  Wishing he had a name by which to call her, he strode forward. As he neared, he studied her face in profile and revised his opinion. Given a choice, he would not make this lady’s acquaintance. Too much she resembled his first betrothed, albeit more mature. Unfortunately, he dare not further displease the queen, and he must wed a lady who brought a goodly amount of coin to the marriage.

  He was several strides distant when she tapped the air between her and a nobleman of middling years and said, “Fie on you, Lord Benton.”

  Now he had a name, one that stopped him and blew warm breath into his cold places. But it could not be. She had no dowry, her father having disavowed her.

  At what did the queen play? Eleanor had to know that once he had been betrothed to this lady. Was this punishment for his defiance?

  Feeling his chest and shoulders rise and fall, hearing blood thrum through his veins, he looked to Eleanor.

  She raised her eyebrows, impatiently motioned him to resume his approach.

  Dear Lord, he silently beseeched, make me stone. Open wide a path to sooner see me away from here.

  Continuing forward, he altered his course and inserted himself between Lord Benton and another nobleman. He had only a moment to take in her lovely face before shuttering his own.

  Lids fluttering, breath catching, she stumbled back and dropped her chin.

  “Lady Laura?” Lord Benton gripped her arm.

  “Forgive me!” she gasped. “The heel of my slipper has failed.” Though she put forward its toe, it provided no evidence of that which remained beneath her skirts.

  She sighed, looked up. As if Lothaire were not a flicker of the eyes away, she smiled at Lord Benton. “Pray, excuse me.” She moved her smile to the others. “I shall remedy the situation as soon as possible.”

  “Do not forget your promise to sit with me at meal,” said a short but handsome man to Lothaire’s right.

  “I shall not, Lord Gadot.” She swung away and, lacking a hitch in her step, moved toward the stairs.

  Lord Benton looked to Lothaire. “You are?”

  “Baron Soames.”

  The man’s brow lowered. “Another rival? Or just passing through?”

  “Rival?”

  “For the lady’s hand,” Lord Gadot said and winked. “Quite the surprise she is so lovely, eh? I was certain she must be the freckled one, else the lady nearing the end of her child-bearing years, but the Lord is kind. I would very much like Lady Laura in my bed.”

  For a moment, Lothaire did not know himself. But a reminder of who she was—a Jezebel from the top to the bottom of her—kept his hand from his dagger and the fist he made of it at his side.

  “Ah, but whoever wins her must needs watch her closely,” said the third nobleman who, were he capable of wielding a sword, would find his swing hindered by excessive weight. “I have no wish to be made a cuckold.”

  As the others murmured agreement, it occurred to Lothaire the comment was meant to discourage the other rivals. Still, he ached that her sin was so well known. Blessedly, none looked upon him in any way to indicate they knew he was a victim of that lady’s cuckolding.

  “Are you a rival, Baron Soames?” Lord Benton asked again.

  “Just passing through.” Lothaire pivoted opposite the three who sought to wed the woman he had once wanted for his own. But no more. Not ever again. As soon as he gained an audience with the queen, he would make it known Laura Middleton was unacceptable. If she insisted on finding a wife for him, it would have
to be another.

  Upon reaching a sideboard, he accepted a goblet of wine from a servant. Once his face was composed as much as possible, he turned.

  The queen remained seated. Though she conversed with one of her ladies, her eyes were upon him.

  She liked this game of hers—wanted to watch the players dance on their twisted and knotted strings. But he would not, and eventually she would weary of her sport and summon him.

  Unless she had another lady able to raise Lexeter out of its financial difficulties, he would depart on the morrow, ride for Wulfen, and make good out of bad by sharpening his sword skill with the anger coursing his veins.

  Abel Wulfrith’s opponent would prove far more worthy. Near deadly.

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed this excerpt of the seventh book in the AGE OF FAITH series. Look for Lady Laura and Sir Lothaire Soames’s Winter 2017/18 release.

  For new releases and special promotions, subscribe to Tamara Leigh’s mailing list: www.tamaraleigh.com

  TAMARA LEIGH NOVELS

  CLEAN READ HISTORICAL ROMANCE

  ~ THE FEUD: A MEDIEVAL ROMANCE SERIES ~

  Baron Of Godsmere: Book One Amazon (eBook/print/audio)

  Baron Of Emberly: Book Two Amazon (eBook/print/audio)

  Baron of Blackwood: Book Three Amazon (eBook/print/audio)

  ~ LADY: A MEDIEVAL ROMANCE SERIES ~

  Lady At Arms: Book One Amazon (eBook/print/audio)

  Lady Of Eve: Book Two Amazon (eBook/print/audio)

  ~ BEYOND TIME: A MEDIEVAL TIME TRAVEL ROMANCE SERIES ~

  Dreamspell: Book One Amazon (eBook/print/audio)

  Lady Ever After: Book Two Amazon (eBook)

  ~ STAND-ALONE MEDIEVAL ROMANCE NOVELS ~

  Lady Of Fire Amazon (eBook/print/audio)

  Lady Of Conquest Amazon (eBook/print/audio)