by Gayle Callen
Geoffrey lowered his voice, but she still heard him.
“It is her wedding day, Edmund.”
She slowly walked down the stairs and was surprised when Lucy clutched her hand, staring at Gwyneth’s new husband in fear.
Sir Edmund looked up at the sun and then sighed. “We will spare the time, then. My lady?”
He turned back to Gwyneth, who released Lucy and hurried to his side, then hesitated when she caught sight of his warhorse.
“Aye, my lord?”
“There is no need to take the coach through these narrow streets. You shall ride with me.”
Before she understood what he was about, he caught her hand and pulled her closer, then swung her up in his massive arms as if she were a puff of wool. With eyes that felt wide and too dry, she stared at his horse.
“My lord, please stop!” she cried, stiffening and trying not to struggle.
His face went dark, and in a low voice he said, “If you do not wish me to touch you, at least have the decency not to show my men.”
Gwyneth had no idea what he meant, but she shook her head anyway. “’Tis not that, but your horse. I—I—” She felt like such a fool, and her voice dropped to a pained whisper. “I am afraid of horses, my lord.” She prided herself on her strong mind and calm will, and it brought her near tears to have to confess such a foolish weakness to her new husband.
She lay curled in his strong embrace and pleaded with her eyes, wrapping her arms about his neck. He stared at her for a long time, and then she felt his palm slide down her thigh. She gasped at such a familiarity, even as she tried to remember that he was her husband now.
“You feel strong enough to walk,” Sir Edmund said.
She heard the soldiers laughing at his words and felt his tension ease. Somehow she had embarrassed him, and her foolish confession had made it go away. She was grateful at least for that. He set her down, then turned for the reins of his horse and limped at her side.
Geoffrey led the party down a few streets, past the market cross in the center of Richmond, and to a prosperous three-story inn. Every building here seemed to be made of the same gray stone and roof slates, but what made it pretty were the flowers planted along the roads that wound up the hillside. Gwyneth found herself wishing that they could live in a town like this.
As she followed her husband into the cool interior of the inn, she tried to remember the few things she knew of him. Geoffrey was loyal to Sir Edmund and had said little of him. All Gwyneth knew was that he’d been knighted on the field of battle.
He was supposed to be a common man, little schooled in the way of the nobility. For this she was grateful. Although noble blood ran in her veins, she had not been raised at court and was glad her husband would not think less of her for that. Her mother had taught her a smattering of French and Greek, her numbers, and something of the countries of the world. Like any lady, she’d learned to sing and embroider, but it was truly in a kitchen that she excelled—not a ladylike accomplishment, but one she was proud of.
They entered the warm, gloomy public room of the inn, and she watched as people at the benches and tables went silent as the armed party passed. She saw looks of fear that she well understood. Geoffrey led them into a private dining chamber with its own lead-paned windows to let in the sunlight, then bade her sit at her husband’s side. The soldiers seemed at ease with their lord and sprawled wherever they wanted. Geoffrey sat down in their midst and soon had all the men laughing. Lucy struck up a tentative conversation with the vicar, which left Gwyneth with no one to talk to—but her husband.
She quickly realized he was not a talkative man, but she could not blame him. She wasn’t certain what to say either. Instead, she watched him eat.
And was pleasantly amazed. Her mother could not have faulted his manners. He ate with a politeness and cleanliness that intrigued her. Did he learn such things among soldiers? If not, where? But how to ask one’s husband why he didn’t have the table manners of a boar? She experienced the sensation of his sleeve brushing hers, of his head and shoulders above hers. He was such a big man.
The silence was pressing on her with a heavy weight. She found herself filling the void with images of the two of them alone in a bedchamber. As her husband, he had the right to do anything he wanted to her, and she could not refuse him. She would be wearing the night rail her mother had given her, and her husband would be wearing…what? Did men wear nightclothes to bed? She didn’t even want to think about that.
“Sir Edmund?” she said.
He glanced sideways at her, said, “Aye?” then took another bite of lamb.
“What is Castle Wintering like?”
Again he gave her that inscrutable glance. “Like?” he echoed almost distastefully. “’Tis a place to live, a place to work.”
“Have you always lived there?”
This time he turned his body to face her. On the bench, his knee brushed hers, sending interesting shivers through her. She lowered her lashes and swallowed a spoonful of pigeon pie that she’d barely chewed. It seemed to stick in her throat.
“You are Elizabeth’s cousin, are you not?” he asked.
Bewildered, she nodded.
“Did she not talk of our marriage?”
“Nay, my lord,” she said, unwilling to reveal the few angry things Elizabeth had said.
One of his eyebrows rose, and it was apparent he didn’t believe her. “I was given Castle Wintering as part of my wife’s dowry only two years ago.”
“Oh,” she breathed, realizing he was almost as new to the area as she was. “Then where was your first home?”
He tore a piece of bread from the round loaf. “Too many places to mention.”
Gwyneth didn’t know what to say to that. She sensed he didn’t want her probing deeply, and though she waited, he had no questions of his own.
Amidst conversations and laughter, she sat in pained silence next to the man who wanted to know nothing about her but would expect to share her bed and know her body intimately.
But she certainly wouldn’t feel sorry for herself. At least his scent was pleasant, not unbearable, as the merchant’s had been, and his features were attractive, though hard. He couldn’t be more than ten years older than she. She had known an arranged marriage would be difficult, but she would willingly brave anything, even an indifferent husband, if it meant helping her family.
Edmund looked out across the room and chewed another piece of bread, though it might have tasted like dirt for all he knew. Anything to keep the woman from asking questions. Why couldn’t she make this easy and be afraid of him—though for a moment, he remembered how startled and sick he’d felt when he’d lifted her up and thought she was frightened of his touch. When it had turned out to be his horse—his horse!—he had been almost too relieved.
What was wrong with him? He shouldn’t be having this much trouble remembering who she was.
She acted differently from Elizabeth and her parents, but that was probably part of the plan. When he looked into her seemingly honest face, he was supposed to forget her family and fall under her spell. He glanced sideways at her as she toyed with her stewed fish. Surely that gown was part of the plan, too.
He swigged a mouthful of ale to wash down the dry bread and continued to stare at her now that she wasn’t watching. His height enabled him to look down her bodice, and if she moved the right way, he would see everything. She hadn’t done that yet, but it didn’t keep him from hoping. If he couldn’t touch, at least he could look.
He heard someone clear his throat and glanced up to see Geoff watching him, a grin stretching his face. Edmund narrowed his eyes at him, but Geoff only raised his goblet in a toast toward Gwyneth, who didn’t seem to know that anything unusual was going on around her.
Geoff mouthed the word “chamber,” and pointed above him. Edmund understood the reference immediately and gave a quick shake of his head. No, he would not take her to bed here. He wanted to be back in his own lair, where he had p
lenty of places to escape her plots.
“My lord?”
He turned his head and found Gwyneth staring up at him, those golden-brown eyes seeing into him, mesmerizing him. This was not a good sign. “What is it?”
“I must…leave the room for a moment.”
Her dark-fringed lashes were lowered, and a becoming blush swept over her cheeks.
“Take your maid with you. I do not want you alone here.”
She nodded, motioned to the dark-haired girl, and they both left.
The mood in the chamber became considerably more boisterous, and he caught his men winking and elbowing one another while raising their tankards to him. He knew what they were thinking: she was an agreeable wench to take to bed. He downed the rest of his ale and thought of the night ahead, when he would send Gwyneth away from him.
Geoff slid onto the bench at his side. “Before the wedding, you asked me to keep my eyes open for anything suspicious.”
“And?”
“People walking by the courtyard walls of the church often lingered to stare but never for long. Except for one man.”
Edmund stiffened. He was not about to explain his strange marriage to Geoff, but he had asked pointed questions about Gwyneth’s journey north, which had been enough to make his friend curious. “What did this man look like?”
“Not poor by any means. His garments were subdued but expensive in cut and fabric. I did not recognize his face, but I couldn’t help noticing him because he wore a strange fur hat on a hot summer day.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing but watch the entire ceremony, which was peculiar in and of itself. After you’d said your final vows, I turned, and he was gone.”
Edmund urged Geoff to rejoin the merriment, then sat and wondered how closely Earl Langston was watching him.
When Gwyneth descended from the second floor of the inn, she steeled herself to return to the dining chamber and her husband’s silence. This time she would make merry conversation and have him laughing in a trice. She was usually good at talking with people.
But Sir Edmund and his soldiers had already gathered in the taproom, obviously impatient to be on their way home.
Home. She so wanted that word to mean something to her marriage. Right now all it made her think about was the small cottage in London that had been the center of her world. She started to imagine what her parents and sisters were doing at this moment, but she had to force the thought aside as it made tears well up in her eyes. She would not cry on her wedding day and make her husband think she was not grateful to him.
Outside, village boys were holding the reins of the troop’s horses. Sir Edmund and Geoffrey tossed coins to them, and the boys merrily ran away. Gwyneth remained staring up at her husband’s horse, so much larger and wilder than the rest. It seemed to watch her as it pawed the ground, ready to kick.
The men were paying little attention to them, and all mounted their horses as the two women waited. Gwyneth was impressed by how easily Sir Edmund swung his lame leg over the horse’s back. Once he was mounted, the injury didn’t seem to bother him, though the leg was held stiff and straight. The horse seemed totally under his command, like one of Lucifer’s minions.
“Milady,” Lucy said into her ear, “Methinks they forgot us already.”
Gwyneth frowned and waited, but the men were talking and gesturing like the rough soldiers they were, and Geoffrey and Sir Edmund were conversing, their view blocked by the soldiers. She was not about to walk into the midst of those horses to get their attention. Her husband would remember her soon enough.
But the horses began to move off. The women exchanged glances, linked arms, and started to walk behind them, carefully stepping over the horses’ leavings.
Suddenly Sir Edmund’s horse separated itself from the others, and he wheeled the animal about and came toward them. Gwyneth froze, barely stopping herself from shrinking back. He guided the animal sideways as he looked down upon her.
“Lady Blackwell, were you going to walk all the way to Wintering?”
For one moment, she thought her husband’s straight lips might have twitched with amusement at his own folly. Or was she just longing for the gentle humor she so enjoyed with her family?
And then she realized he’d called her by her new name, and she felt like a different person, a stranger.
“Sir Edmund, I assumed you would eventually remember me. But just in case, we had planned to return to the coach.”
He frowned and leaned forward on the pommel, staring down at her. “The coach will have a difficult time these last few miles up the dale. It is very rocky and uneven. ’Twould be best if you rode with me.”
“No, my lord. I have traveled in that coach for more than a week now, and I assure you that my…posterior is quite accustomed to bouncing.”
Sir Edmund’s eyes widened, and now she was certain she saw laughter there.
“Have I said something humorous, my lord?”
Lucy gripped her elbow harder and hissed in her ear, “Gwyn, I think yer words could be taken for…bed talk.”
“Bed talk?” she repeated a little too loudly.
To her mortification, her husband seemed to choke as he whirled his horse about.
“To the coach, then!” he called to his men.
He did not offer her a ride this time, and it was just as well. Her face was as red as her mother’s roses.
Chapter 3
Gwyneth and Lucy clung to each other as the coach threatened to tip over because of the steep grade of the road. Sir Edmund was right, but she just couldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting the truth. He would only want her to get up on his fiendishly tall horse. The thought of sitting on such a wild animal terrified her. But the coach was slowing everyone down, and she could see her husband glancing at the setting sun with obvious impatience.
Impatience for what? she wondered, feeling a little shiver of nervous excitement. Could it be that he was anxious to come to their wedding bed, that he thought her too beautiful to resist?
Gwyneth knew she was getting carried away by her fancies. He didn’t have to resist her; he had earned the right through marriage to do whatever he wanted to her. She chewed on her lip and imagined the kind of lover he would be. Would he hurry, or would he take his time to make her feel comfortable? Her mother had told her that the latter was important in a man, that it was a husband’s duty to make his bride feel cherished. She could not imagine Sir Edmund Blackwell whispering poetic words in her ear.
As the road leveled off, Lucy tugged on her arm and pointed out the window. “Milady, look!”
“Surely ’tis not more sheep,” she teased.
Lucy just rolled her eyes and leaned farther out. Gwyneth peered past her shoulder. The road was following a small river. Rocks broke up the smooth flow of the water and also littered the grassy slopes of the steep hills. Far in the distance, where the valley narrowed, a small castle cut into the hillside. Its single turret pointed to the sky. With the sun setting, only the opposite side of the valley was still light; the castle blended in with the shadows.
“’Tis lovely,” Lucy breathed.
Gwyneth could only agree. She’d only been a little girl when they’d lived on a farm, so she had almost forgotten what such open spaces felt like. It was freedom, wild and pure as the wind that blew her hair about. It was peace, without the London sounds of hawkers shouting their wares and the jingle of many horses crowding the streets. Could it become her home? Or would her husband always make her feel like the second wife, the intruder?
Gwyneth leaned out the other window and saw Sir Edmund in the lead, practically standing in his stirrups as he leaned forward. No matter how impassive he’d seemed back at the inn when they’d discussed his estate, she could tell by his proud expression that he thought of Castle Wintering as his home. Though he’d lived there only two years, it was apparent he put his heart and soul into it.
Geoffrey caught up to him, and a challenging glan
ce between them sent them galloping down the dirt road like mischievous boys. The soldiers streamed behind them, shouting and taking bets amongst themselves. Cheering on her husband, Gwyneth waved her own hand in exultation. When she couldn’t see them well any more, she sat back in the coach, wearing a smile that wouldn’t leave her face.
Lucy was watching her with bewilderment.
Feeling embarrassed, Gwyneth asked, “Is something wrong?”
“For a woman who never met her husband before their weddin’ day, ye seem awful happy.”
Her smiled faded as she contemplated Lucy’s words. “All along I have had no choice in this matter. Why should I make it worse on myself and everyone else by being miserable?”
Lucy lowered her voice and couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Are ye not…afraid?”
“A little,” she conceded.
“He’s a big man—a stranger.”
“Aye.” Gwyneth’s anxiety rattled back to life. She glanced out the window again. The sun was totally behind the hills now, and the closer they got to Castle Wintering, the more something seemed wrong. Clearly there had once been a high wall encircling it, for now she could see rubble where it had collapsed in sections. There were no people on the road except them, although along each side of the valley, she could see herds of grazing sheep and cattle and the occasional shepherd. Farther up the valley stretched acres of orchards and gardens and farmland. But the closer they got to the castle, the more decayed and overgrown it looked, hunched against the hillside, a dark, silent presence marring the valley.
Finally they passed between the broken gates and into a large courtyard carpeted with weeds growing in random tufts. She could see outbuildings along the walls and the last soldier leading his horse into what had to be a stable. But except for Ranalf, their coachman, she and Lucy were alone. Somewhere a door slammed, and then there was silence but for hens clucking in the dirt.
“They forgot us again,” Lucy said morosely.
