by Gayle Callen
Surely if she was a good, hard-working wife to him, she could persuade him to offer small dowries to her sisters. After all, wasn’t she bringing a large dowry to him herself, thanks to the Langstons?
“What are you thinking about, my dear?” Lord Langston asked.
“I am thinking how kind you are to offer a dowry for me, my lord,” Gwyneth said firmly, looking up in time to see them exchange relieved glances. “When will Sir Edmund come to London for the ceremony?”
“He cannot spare the time,” said Lady Langston. “He is sending an escort to bring you north to Castle Wintering.”
The name of the castle sent a strange chill through her. She inwardly berated herself for foolishness, even as she imagined how lonely her new life would be. She wouldn’t be getting married amidst a family celebration—not her family anyway. None of her three sisters could be spared from the family bakery to travel with her. She would be alone with her new husband. She had to force aside thoughts of a wedding night with a man she’d never met.
Earl Langston stared out the window at the receding figure of his cousin Gwyneth and allowed his satisfaction to show.
His wife came to his side. “Everything worked out as we planned.”
“Aye, my lady wife. Blackwell signed the contract, and Gwyneth agreed to it. Not that she had much choice. The pressure I would have put on her father might have been…distressing to his health. And she’ll be away from London, where she cannot cause trouble with what she knows about our daughter.”
“If only Blackwell had been willing to sell us the property instead. The gall of that baseborn churl to obstruct us! We could have begun mining immediately. You said if we started rumors that he killed Elizabeth, he would have no choice but to do as we wished. She was so unhappy that it was apparent to all that he was at fault.”
“Patience, Letitia. The steward at Castle Wintering has made certain that all the servants understand that Blackwell killed Elizabeth but that we cannot prove who Blackwell hired to do it. And Blackwell has done as we wished—he’s taking another Langston bride. We shall send the bailiff from our Durham properties to witness the wedding. Then he can examine the ore site to see if Blackwell has discovered it. If it is undisturbed, the lead ore will wait.”
She flung up her hands and strode away from him. “But you have made certain we must wait years. It will take many female brats before that barbarian realizes that Alyce Hall’s branch of the family never has boys. Since the marriage contract states that the property returns to us if he has no sons, this could last beyond our death!”
“And you do not wish to provide for your sons’ future?”
At least she still retained the ability to blush, the earl thought with his usual exasperation.
“But I wish to provide for ours as well, you fool,” she said.
When she returned to his side, he gripped her arm tightly to hold her still. He watched her blanch and enjoyed her wince. “Do you not yet trust my abilities, my lady wife? After all, Blackwell believes that we’ve raised Gwyneth as almost our ward.”
She bit her lip. “I trusted you with our children, and our daughter ended up married to an ignorant monster. And now she’s—”
He quickly spoke before the inevitable self-pitying tears began. “Elizabeth chose poorly, Letitia, but we have begun to remedy the insult to our family. I have not fully informed you of the extent of my plan.”
Her stare was skeptical. “And I am supposed to trust this? You challenged him, when we could just have waited for him to lose the estate to taxes.”
He softened his grip, and her shoulders relaxed. “I was correct about the rumors of murder forcing Blackwell to accept our offer, wasn’t I? Then trust me in this. I would not risk the chance that he would grovel to a wealthy friend for the money. Edmund Blackwell will fail as a landholder long before we have to care what brats he sires. I’ve already made certain of it. And then the land will be ours again, and he will be ruined.”
Gwyneth had never imagined how difficult it would be to leave her family. Her father’s frailty weighed on her, and she prayed that she would see him again someday. Would her new husband ever bring her to London to visit her parents?
They had once lived on a farm north of the city, when her father had been whole and could support his family by working the land. They’d been so happy there. His illness had necessitated their move to London, where her father could guard merchants, a less demanding occupation. Even that had eventually proved too much for him.
Now her three sisters would have to assist their mother without her. They supplied several of the London bakeries with their baked goods, and Gwyneth had always been the one to deal with their customers.
But her mother reassured her and displayed genuine enthusiasm and gratitude because Gwyneth would finally have a home of her own. She even calmed Gwyneth’s fears about her wedding night with an explanation of what would happen. Although Gwyneth was grateful for the truth, she worried about doing such things with a stranger. And what if he wasn’t as gentle as her mother said husbands should be?
The trip to Yorkshire took ten long days. Sir Edmund’s soldiers were pleasant, especially the sergeant in charge, Sir Geoffrey Drake, who had a good-natured smile and seemed too irreverent to be a military man. Even his garments were too rich for a soldier, but a soldier was what he professed himself to be. She was grateful for the friendship he offered her, and interested to realize that he seemed to be Sir Edmund’s friend as well.
Thank goodness for Lucy Tyler, who’d insisted she accompany Gwyneth. She was a tall, thin girl, with startling black hair and ambitious eyes, who’d often had to walk the streets selling the fish her father caught. They had met the first day Gwyneth’s family moved to London. They had been two little girls dealing with the danger of city life and had become good friends in the process.
The day before Gwyneth was to leave, Lucy had volunteered her services as companion and maid, hoping to send money home to her own struggling family. It was a great relief to Gwyneth not to face the wild north all alone.
On the last part of their journey, they rode through the broad, fertile plains of the York valley, and Geoffrey pointed off to the northwest, where the Pennines rose flat-topped to the sky. He explained that Castle Wintering was in Swaledale, the valley of the River Swale, which flowed from the Pennines. But for the wedding, Sir Edmund would meet them the next day in Richmond. Gwyneth’s dulled nerves roared back to life as she realized she would be married on the morrow. What would her groom look like? She’d spent the entire journey trying to remember everything Elizabeth had ever said about him, but her cousin’s usual conversation had been only about herself.
In the morning, she and Lucy were escorted into Richmond, a village of stone houses in the shadow of Richmond Castle, which had been built on a cliff above the River Swale. While Gwyneth’s stomach tightened with nervous spasms, she consoled herself with the thought of a warm bath at an inn before she would meet her husband.
Geoffrey dashed those hopes as he rode alongside their coach. He informed her that she and Sir Edmund were returning to Castle Wintering today after the wedding ceremony.
“Sir Geoffrey!” Lucy protested, leaning over Gwyneth’s lap to look out the window. “Mistress Gwyneth is a bride. Surely she can prepare. She never even met the man.”
He shrugged, his expression reluctant. “I understand, ladies, but Edmund…he has much to do. The letter I just received—”
“I am sorry, Geoffrey,” Gwyneth said, “but I shan’t marry until I can change into my best gown. Please find a suitable place.”
“There’s no one who will see you but Edmund and myself. We’ll be late—”
Her heart did a little flip of disappointment on hearing that not one of Sir Edmund’s friends and villagers would be coming. “Regardless, I am changing. Do what you must.” She had never felt so certain of anything. Her life was out of her control—but how she met her fate was not. She would not be wed wearing dusty
travel garments, with her face full of perspiration and dirt.
Soon they turned into a quiet church courtyard with benches and a garden on one side and a graveyard on the other. While Geoffrey went inside the church, Gwyneth and Lucy stepped out of the coach and stared up at the largest black stallion they had ever seen. Its back was well above Gwyneth’s head, and it seemed to roll its eyes as if possessed by the devil. It tossed its shiny mane and snorted at them, and the silly childhood fear of horses that Gwyneth thought she’d conquered came flooding back.
It had to be Sir Edmund Blackwell’s horse, and she stayed well away, wondering about the size of the man who could ride such an animal. Geoffrey returned with the black-robed vicar, who smiled and bowed as he escorted her to a small chamber at the rear of the church. Lucy followed with the gown, and they were left alone.
Gwyneth felt unreal as she washed her body with tepid water from a basin. She had wanted to bathe and perfume herself, but it was not to be. She could only put on the blue cloth gown over her smock and petticoats and allow Lucy to button it up the front. Before she left London, her mother had cheerfully told her that she’d lowered the square neckline to display the assets Gwyneth was bringing to the wedding, but she had not realized how exposed she would feel. She tried to tuck a piece of lace in her bodice, but with a frown, Lucy removed it and tied a long scarf about her waist.
When they went back to the courtyard, Geoffrey rose from the bench with a smile and motioned for them to sit.
Minutes passed, and Gwyneth’s nerves were stretched taut. Lucy got up to wander through the garden, sniffing roses and daisies. Gwyneth couldn’t move her legs to do the same. Why did Sir Edmund make them wait, if he was in such a hurry?
Wearing a smile, Lucy eventually came back, holding up a circlet of blossoms. “I’ve made ye a garland for your hair, mistress.”
Gwyneth felt foolish tears sting her eyes as she bowed her head and let the girl place the flowers in her hair. “Lucy, please, I’ve been your friend forever. Call me by my name.”
“Soon ye’ll be Lady Blackwell, mistress,” she said soothingly. “Won’t that be fine?”
When she heard a door open at the top of the stairs, Gwyneth shuddered and slowly looked up.
Chapter 2
Sir Edmund Blackwell—for who else could it be?—stood before the doors of the church, clothed in a loose leather tunic, belted at the waist, over plain cloth breeches. A cloak was thrown back on his shoulders. He was taller than any man Gwyneth had ever seen. His shoulders filled the door frame, and surely he’d had to duck to step outside. She didn’t think she could have put her arms around his barrel chest. His devil-black hair was cropped in layers close to his head. His clean-shaven face had the hard, spare lines of a granite cliff, not handsome, but impressively male and darkened by the sun. This was a man who’d seen more of battlefields and death than home and family. There was no welcoming smile or even nervousness. Beneath his frowning brow, pale blue eyes the color of a dawn sky shone out at her, assessing, and maybe finding her lacking.
Gwyneth remembered her manners and slowly rose from the bench. His piercing, uncomfortable gaze slid down her body and back up. She thought of introducing herself, but he never even looked away, as if he just…knew her, knew everything about her.
“You are Mistress Gwyneth Hall.”
It was a statement of fact, said in a deep voice that rumbled through her chest.
“Sir Edmund.” Sweeping into a curtsy, she wanted to breathe a sigh of relief at how normal she sounded.
Still standing at her side, Geoffrey smiled. “My sincerest apologies for not thinking to introduce the two of you,” he said in a voice that sounded strangely cheerful in the tense silence.
But she couldn’t look at Geoffrey for staring at her betrothed.
Edmund reached out a large hand toward her. “Come here, Mistress Hall.”
Gwyneth hesitated only a moment, went up a step, then gave him her hand, dwarfed by the size and heat of his. She knew that her face flamed red as she suddenly imagined that hand touching her in ways her mother had described. He drew her the rest of the way up the stairs until she stood at the top, staring into his massive chest. His fingers firmly took her chin and lifted her face until she had no choice but to stare into his pale eyes. There were flecks of darker blue there, and she studied them in wonder.
“You have but a moment, mistress,” he said. “Decide now if you will marry me.”
Could he see into her soul? The whole scene felt unreal, with the midday sun beating down on the garden and courtyard. His soldiers had come from behind the building and now stood watching. But here, in the doorway of the church, where she was cast in shadow, the day seemed cold and this man radiated the only heat to be found.
He…tantalized her, awed her, even frightened her, but only because of the way he made her emotions shiver in her chest and weaken her knees. She had never felt this confused before, certainly not on meeting any other man. But he wasn’t just a man. He was an enigma, a challenge. Her life was about to change, and she was ready for it.
“I shall marry you, Sir Edmund.” Her voice rang clearly through the courtyard.
She could hear a sigh of relief spread through the soldiers, and she watched her groom’s eyes look upon her speculatively.
“Have you made your decision then?” she suddenly asked, and almost wished she could bite back her bold words.
Geoffrey chuckled into the silence, but Sir Edmund only continued to stare at her, his hand on her face, each fingertip a hot coal that burned her. Had her words been reckless? Would he even now send her home disgraced and penniless?
Each breath Edmund inhaled seemed to him a struggle of enormous proportions—all because of one small, fragile-looking woman who stood proudly before him.
Gwyneth Hall, his bride.
He had first glimpsed her sitting beside the garden in a shaft of sunlight while he had stood in the cold shadows of the church. Now he kept his fingers on her face because the touch of her warm skin brought to life long-buried emotions, and he needed that reminder of what to guard against.
He’d made his own plans guaranteed to best Earl Langston. He would use the dowry to rebuild his lands, and when he’d earned enough money, he would repay the dowry and annul the marriage, breaking his ties with the Langstons. Seeking an annulment meant he could never bed his bride. He had thought that would be easy if she was anything like her cousin Elizabeth. He had convinced himself that the Langstons would give him a woman past her prime, an ugly cousin whom they’d been unable to marry off.
But instead, Gwyneth was a delicate maiden, her hair hanging freely in golden curls about her shoulders. No strand looked the same shade of yellow, and the differences seemed a riotous blend of color shining about her face. Her skin had seen a touch of the sun, which had mellowed an Englishwoman’s usual pasty complexion into a feast of pale peach. Her eyes, so unafraid and bold, were warm brown with the palest hint of gold like her hair.
And when he had looked down her body, his vow of celibacy hit a low blow to his groin. Gwyneth wore a maiden’s gown, cut low to show a groom the wonders that awaited him on the wedding night. The slopes of her breasts were the same mellow peach color, and between them lurked a valley of shadows and promise. She did not have Elizabeth’s ethereal beauty, but Gwyneth Hall was lush in her own delicate way, with an earthy sensuality that made him think of home instead of just a place to live.
He dropped his hand from her face.
God above, he would not do this again, he thought. It was a good thing that he would forgo this wedding night. He had allowed his lust for Elizabeth to overcome his good sense—with disastrous results. She’d proven that a woman was not the sum of her appearance.
Though Gwyneth’s eyes might be windows deeper into herself, he would not trust what he might see there. She was a pawn in Langston’s game, and it was up to him to find out how deeply she was under the earl’s control.
Edmund scrutinized
her until he saw apprehension awaken in her eyes. “Aye, girl, my decision is made. Mr. Collins?” He turned to the clergyman, who stiffened abruptly at the summons. “Bring your prayer book. We will wed.”
The marriage ceremony there on the church steps bound Gwyneth’s life to that of a stranger. Sir Edmund watched the vicar as if it was nothing to him to marry someone he’d never met, while she stared at her groom’s profile, with its strong nose and square jaw. At the right time, he put a gold ring on her finger, and the ring felt heavy with new obligations. At the end, she raised her face for his kiss, but his lips only touched her cheek. Her unease sounded the first of many warnings.
Geoffrey broke bride cakes and handed them about to the wedded couple, the soldiers, the vicar, and Lucy. Gwyneth drank from the same cup of wine as her new husband, celebrating that the marriage was properly done.
And then it was all over, and she was bound forever in wedlock to Sir Edmund Blackwell. She was a man’s wife, and it still felt so very strange.
Watching her new husband walk down the stairs, she realized what he had concealed by remaining at the church door: he was lame. One knee did not bend like the other, and he had to take each of the stairs one at a time. Once on flat ground, he walked with an awkward gait, bringing his permanently straight right leg forward.
Suddenly Sir Edmund turned and caught her staring at him. He arched his brow, but she only smiled, for such a deformity mattered not a whit to her. When he turned abruptly away, her smile died.
“Geoff,” he called, “saddle the horses. I cannot be gone long from the castle.”
“But Edmund,” Geoffrey said, glancing almost guiltily at Gwyneth, who still remained on the church stairs, “I have already sent one of the men to procure a meal at a nearby inn.”
