His Bride

by Gayle Callen

  The lane ran between two houses and opened up on a small village green with a well at the center. The tavern was almost indistinguishable from the rest of the houses, except for the small, crude sign showing a drawing of a full tankard next to a meat pie.

  On the green, Edmund dismounted first, leaving Gwyneth to clutch the saddle tightly. Would The General bolt with only her on his back? But Edmund reached up and caught her about the waist. She practically jumped toward him and ended up falling against his chest.

  She grinned as she found her footing. “Forgive me. That beast frightens me.”

  He seemed to search her eyes, even as he allowed her to remain leaning against him. “I didn’t think anything truly frightened you.”

  Deciding to press him a bit, she placed her hands flat against his chest. “Certainly you do not frighten me, Edmund, though you might make everyone else cower with that voice of yours.” She felt the strong beat of his heart under her palm.

  His eyebrows lowered as his gaze drifted from her eyes to her mouth. “You think it is only my voice that affects people?”

  She shrugged and patted his chest. “I have seen no other reason.”

  His frown intensified, and his voice became a low growl. “You are very naïve, Gwyneth.”

  He stepped away from her and went to the well, and she felt chilled without his warmth. After dropping the bucket in and listening to the splash, he pulled it up again by the rope. Spilling the water into a trough, he led The General over to it, and as the horse drank, he loosened the girth, then tied the reins loosely through a ring nearby.

  “You’re not afraid someone will take him?” she asked in surprise.

  He gave her an ironic look. “This isn’t London. Everyone knows who owns him.”

  “He certainly is distinctive,” she said with a laugh.

  She caught up with him as he limped toward the tavern. Suddenly a group of children came running between two houses onto the green. Laughing, they tossed a ball among themselves until they caught sight of her and Edmund. She smiled and waved, but one by one they stopped short, and their little faces reflected horror. Without even touching her husband, she knew he stiffened, and she gripped his hand firmly in her own.

  As if suddenly unfrozen, the children turned and ran back the way they’d come, casting anxious glances over their shoulders. One little girl even had tears streaming from her eyes, and Gwyneth prayed that Edmund hadn’t seen.

  But one look into his expressionless face let her know he had. She wanted to bring his cold hand up and press kisses to it, warming it with her mouth.

  “Edmund,” she whispered, “they know no better.”

  He looked down at their joined hands, then back into her eyes. “Perhaps they know better than you.”

  He pulled away and kept on walking, while she followed behind more slowly. Her heart could have broken in pity for him, because she could not imagine being so feared. She knew now that she was the only one who could make things different for him.

  Edmund felt more than saw Gwyneth fall into step at his side. He was walking too fast for her, but she quickened her pace without complaint.

  He had known this day was bound to happen, but he’d never imagined the shame of it would feel like a kick to the stomach. Did one ever become accustomed to striking terror in eight-year-olds? All his protestations had never stopped his tenants from believing he’d had a hand in Elizabeth’s death.

  Yet Gwyneth had taken his hand, offering comfort.

  Suddenly he felt her hand slide between his body and his arm. Stunned, he bent his elbow without thinking, and they were linked as they walked. She didn’t look up at him, just wore her usual smile as she studied everything around her with interest. He told himself to push her away, but the tavern door was before him, and he opened it instead, then released her arm to put a guiding hand on her lower back. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him like a woman in love.

  Then he knew her game, and he helplessly watched her play it as if she were a seasoned actor. She projected such innocence and goodness as she looked at the dozen or so assembled villagers. She wanted them all to think they had a normal, happy marriage. Was that for his benefit—or hers?

  Goodman Walcot, the owner, came forward, wiping his large hands on a towel. The man’s shaggy beard and mustache framed a generous smile. He was always good-natured, for he knew how to keep his customers.

  “Sir Edmund,” he said jovially, and his merry eyes played over Gwyneth, “a good day to you.”

  “Goodman Walcot, I would like to introduce my wife, Gwyneth, Lady Blackwell.”

  To Edmund’s surprise, Gwyneth slid her slender hand back under his elbow.

  “Goodman Walcot,” she said, smiling that angelic smile, “I am so pleased to meet you. My husband has spoken often of his friends in the village.”

  Edmund wanted to roll his eyes, for surely his tenants, suspicious as always, would not believe such foolishness. But as he looked about the low-ceilinged chamber, he could see men and woman eyeing Gwyneth with interest.

  Goodman Walcot gave a little bow over the large roll of his stomach. “He should have brought you here before now.”

  “I would have liked to,” she said almost conspiratorially.

  Edmund stiffened.

  “But I fear I have been busy becoming accustomed to my new duties. I am only a city girl, Goodman Walcot, and easily overwhelmed. But Edmund”—and here she blushed like a well-satisfied bride—“Sir Edmund—is very patient with me.”

  Edmund wanted to laugh and almost bit his lip to stop himself. Patient?

  Although there was a low rumble of laughter about the room, Gwyneth seemed not to notice. She just smiled up at Edmund serenely as Goodman Walcot showed them to a table. Unlike the long tables and benches that lined the room, this was small and private, with two chairs. Edmund set her basket beneath the table then helped her to sit, and her smile turned intimate as she reached up to touch his cheek in full view of the interested occupants. He froze, still bent over her, stunned by her gesture.

  “Thank you for your kindness, Edmund,” she said softly—but loud enough to carry in the stillness.

  Oh, she was good at this. Even he was falling under her spell. He sat down across from her, let her take his hand as he ordered fish soup and bread for them both. But her playacting chilled him. If she was this good at pretending for an audience that they had a normal marriage, was she already fooling him as well?

  Because every soft touch was torture, and every smile made him wonder how things would have been if he could have trusted her.

  Two of the village women ventured forward timidly to speak to her, casting worried glances at him. As Gwyneth stood up, the women exchanged smiles. All he could do was drink his ale and watch her work her magic.

  When the meal was finally over, he rose before she had even finished drinking. Yet she dutifully set down her tankard and stood up without complaint. A quick escape seemed unlikely when Goodman Walcot strolled over and smiled at Gwyneth.

  “Lady Blackwell, has Sir Edmund shown you the falls yet?”

  “Falls?” she echoed, looking up at Edmund with interest.

  “The Swaledale Falls. Famous waterfall in these parts. ’Tis not much out of the way to Castle Wintering.”

  She put her delicate hand on Edmund’s arm and smiled up at him. “Sir Edmund, might we?”

  “If there’s enough light,” he said reluctantly.

  While he paid for their meal, he noticed Gwyneth waving good-bye to the other patrons. She received a few nods in return and even one smile, though he thought it was a pitying one.

  When she headed for The General, Edmund shook his head. “I have people to see here first.”

  “Wonderful!” She took the basket from him and swung it merrily at her side.

  Within a couple of hours, he introduced her to the smith, the miller, and the carpenter, people who treated Gwyneth respectfully because he paid for their skill. Their wives wer
e friendly enough, and he watched Gwyneth stoop to speak to a child who hid behind her mother’s skirts and peered fearfully at him.

  At mid-afternoon, they returned to The General, who regarded them impatiently.

  Edmund had thought putting Gwyneth in his lap so many times in one day would stop affecting him, but it didn’t. Every time she lay across his thighs, he could feel her backside rubbing into his groin, leaving him in a state of perpetual arousal. Her skirts fluttered in the breeze, making him itch to slide his hand underneath. Her lovely face was always just beneath his, and more than once they’d glanced at each other at the same moment. Her lips had been right there, parted, waiting for a kiss he could not give.

  Why had he ever agreed to this excursion?

  When he once again had Gwyneth in front of him, with that damnable basket blocking his easy access to the reins, he guided The General out of the village.

  He spent a few peaceful moments rocking to the movement of the horse, listening to the wind pick up, and trying to forget that his willing wife leaned so freely and comfortably against him.

  He could tell she looked up at him by the way her head slid along his shoulder. He didn’t look down, knowing he could not stare at her lips much longer without doing something about this hunger to kiss her.

  “Edmund,” she said, “I forgot to thank you for the fabric.”

  “That is not necessary. I only reminded Mrs. Haskell about it. It was part of the castle stores, after all.”

  With an intriguing sideways glance, she smiled up at him. “Then my thanks for thinking about me.”

  This was not a place he cared to tread. Fortunately she went on talking.

  “’Tis a shame my sister Caroline isn’t here.”

  He frowned down at her, wondering where this topic could lead.

  “She is a much better seamstress than I am.”

  “There are good seamstresses in Swintongate.”

  He saw her smile fade.

  “So you don’t think I did a fine enough job on this gown?” she asked.

  Edmund realized belatedly that the gown was new, made from the fabric he’d given her. It was grass-green, with a neckline that only hinted at the valley between her breasts, even from his perspective above her. When she raised her gaze to his, she must have seen where he’d been looking, although she gave no sign but a faint blush.

  “You did a very competent job,” he said in an overly serious voice.

  Her face broke into a smile. “You are laughing at me.”

  “You are searching for compliments. And do I look like I’m laughing?”

  “Not on the outside, but I’m trying to learn to read your eyes.”

  Frowning, he gazed at the meandering road. He prided himself on his impassive face and did not like the thought that a wife of only eight days could read him so easily.

  “And I am not searching for compliments,” she said with mock severity. “You implied that I needed a seamstress, and I was only countering that.”

  “You said that you wished you had a better seamstress, and I was offering a suggestion.”

  She leaned back even farther to study his face. Her head rested on his shoulder, and her hair tumbled down his arm, brushing his thigh.

  “You can be very amusing,” she said contemplatively.

  What did he say to that? Aye, a long time ago he’d been considered amusing, but that had been a marriage—a lifetime—ago.

  To distract her, he said, “We’re almost to the falls.”

  A slow smile spread across her face, and he couldn’t stop himself from watching it happen.

  “You remembered,” she said softly.

  Something in her expression wouldn’t let him look away, a combination of curiosity and tenderness and longing. Such sentiments called to him in a dangerous way.

  Gruffly, he said, “There was nothing to remember. ’Tis on the way home.”

  All right, so that wasn’t quite true, but he watched some of the happiness fade from her eyes and was relieved.

  He guided the horse off the path and into the trees until the woodland became too thick. He let Gwyneth down first, a quick movement they’d become good at, then dismounted.

  “You can leave the basket here,” he said.

  She shook her head. “We can have something to eat before we leave.”

  Now she’d maneuvered him into a romantic outing in the woods. But looking into her expressive face, he saw a spirit of adventure as she learned to live in a new place so far from her home and family. He thought that she would approach lovemaking with the same abandon and eagerness.

  He stopped that thought before it could work its way in a hot flash to his groin.

  Edmund led her through the woods, holding branches for her until she could grab them herself. The ground sloped downward, and as it leveled off and the trees thinned, the River Swale appeared before them. This far up the dale it was shallow and wide and tumbled over rock formations as far upriver as they could see. Mist rose from small waterfalls cascading everywhere.

  Gwyneth came up to his side, and her smile lit her face like a sunrise. “Edmund, it is so beautiful.”

  She dropped the basket on the dry bank, kicked off her shoes, and reached beneath her skirts to her knees. He stared at the glimpse of her bare lower legs, so delicate and feminine. He could imagine tracing the gentle slope of her calf up behind her knee, then sliding his fingers up the soft insides of her thighs.

  He suddenly realized she was watching him looking at her legs, and she wore a half-smile that made her look like a woman who wanted to be seduced. Folding his arms across his chest, he frowned at her. He was doing so much frowning lately that it was giving him an aching head.

  She only laughed as she pulled off her stockings.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “Walking in the water. I am quite overheated.” She gave a saucy little lift to her shoulders as she turned and stepped into the river.

  He watched her shudder, then she spread her arms wide and looked up at the sky.

  “I never knew such places existed!” she cried, spinning about to smile at him. Suddenly off balance, she whirled her arms to right herself.

  Edmund hurried to the water’s edge, reaching for her. “Gwyneth, get back here before you fall. Moss grows on all these rocks.”

  She shook her head even as she stepped up onto a rock ledge where a tiny waterfall spilled. She dipped her toes in the spray and looked up at him.

  “Gwyneth.” He said her name with a growl.

  She had the nerve to laugh. “If you’re worried, then come with me.”

  Lifting up her skirts to her knees, she waded in even farther. He knew he couldn’t go barefoot. He didn’t have the balance he used to have. So, cursing under his breath, he trudged right in, feeling the cold water seep into his leather boots.

  “Gwyneth!”

  When she looked over her shoulder and saw him, she laughed and jumped to the next rock with the grace of a fairy sprite. He felt like an ox lumbering up the river after her.

  When he was finally close enough, he ordered, “Take my hand.”

  She splashed between two rocks to reach him, then leaned against his side and slid her hand so naturally into his. He spread his legs wide to balance himself amidst the slippery rocks.

  “What a successful day,” she said, glancing up at him with a smile.

  Distracted by the touch of her along the length of his body, he managed to remember what she’d just said. “What constitutes a success?”

  “That I met so many people,” she answered, taking another step through the water. He followed in her wake. “I made sure to find out who had older children who could use work.”

  “Why?”

  “We definitely need more servants inside the castle. I could use help in all the gardens, too.” She glanced almost nervously at him. “You did say I could do as I wished as the lady of the castle.”

  “I did. Just clear all hiring with M
rs. Haskell, who knows who the good workers are.”

  “Everyone I met seems quite capable.”

  “There used to be more idlers before, but now they all seem to work well out of fear.”

  Her gaze was puzzled, and she seemed to stiffen. “What do you mean?”

  He’d deliberately started this conversation to look for a reaction of guilt on her part, but he almost hated breaking the spell of magic she wove about this place.

  “Well, I am a murderer, aren’t I?”

  Chapter 10

  Stunned, Gwyneth stared up at her husband. Many in the valley thought he was a murderer, and Edmund accepted it all as his due without defending himself. The water was suddenly cold as it swirled about her calves, and the brightness of the day faded. She pretended to lose her balance, and as she hoped, he quickly grabbed her other hand. She held him firmly and looked into his inscrutable eyes.

  “We both know that you are not a murderer, Edmund,” she said, hiding the compassion she knew he’d hate.

  “Perhaps the Langstons did not bother to inform you of my scandalous deeds.”

  “They didn’t need to inform me about this. I was the one who found Elizabeth’s body.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to probe her honesty with a searching gaze. “You?”

  Gwyneth had thought he knew all of this, and to have to remind him only gave her pain. “While you were in France, I spent the last few months of her life at court as her companion.”

  “Companion? She never needed anyone’s company but her own.”

  “So I found out,” she said dryly. “But when Earl Langston sent for me, it seemed like such an exciting thing to go to court with my fascinating cousin. I was an unpaid maid.”

  He studied her with narrowed eyes. “Did they not care for you as they did for Elizabeth?”

  “If you mean did they handle the marriage negotiations, then yes. But other than that and my brief months with Elizabeth I never saw the Langstons.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His gaze was so direct, but she could read nothing in his face.