by Tamara Leigh
She had wept since, but never like that. And never again would she. Such loss she would not know again.
What of Clarice? she reminded herself of her resolve to become the mother she had not been.
“I shall,” she whispered. “I will love you more than ever I have loved. And perhaps one day you will grant me a measure of the affection gifted your grandmother.”
She breathed deep through her nose, parted her lips, and on the exhale let the scent of grass, flowers, and bread baking in the palace’s kitchen slide their taste across her tongue. So intense was it, she smiled.
I am awake, she told herself. I shall not sleep again.
She opened her eyes, wondered if the clouds scattered across the sky would join forces to provide a cool drink to the garden’s loveliest occupants. By day’s end, she thought, and hoped the clouds would not work themselves into a great storm more apt to drown than water all that thirsted.
Now where was one of those who sought to become her lord husband?
She lowered her chin. And there stood the memory that made her question if she were yet inside it.
Nay, this Lothaire’s face was not that of a young man, and he was in the garden of Windsor where he ought not be.
She tried to hold onto her smile so he would not know how deeply he affected her, but it quivered so much she lowered it.
“Lord Soames, are you to be my first…” She raised her eyebrows. “What should I name you? Appointment? Ah, that sounds too much like business. Rendezvous? Nay, slightly scandalous. Audience?”
“Appointment,” he said, continuing to lean against the tree where he had watched her for how long she could not know.
That realization unsettled her, though she assured herself no matter what had passed over her face, he could not guess what went behind it.
“Then I should invite you to join me on the bench?” She glanced at the place beside her, silently beseeched, Pray, stay where you are. Better, mount your horse and leave me with three suitors. I do not need a fourth. I do not need you.
He pushed off the tree and strode forward in tall boots that beautifully fit his muscled calves.
Try though she did to appear relaxed, her back stiffened and hands convulsed amid her skirts when he lowered beside her, leaving barely enough space to allow another to sit between them.
The last time we sat this near, ere long we were nearer yet, her thoughts defied her. My hands as much in his hair as his were in mine. And his lips smiled upon mine. Has he been as unhappy as I?
She looked sidelong at him.
His gaze awaited hers, moved down her nose to her mouth, quickly returned to her eyes. “I am to be kind to you.” Resentment punctuated his words. “The queen’s orders.”
That hurt, though it was his due. He had every reason to feel she had betrayed him in the worst way, but having failed on the night past to send him running, she would have to make it very difficult to be kind to her.
“Poor Lothaire.” Her heart ached over his name. “As much as you hate me, you must be in dire straits to seek the hand of a whore.”
A sharp breath flared his nostrils.
She pushed a sorrowful smile onto her lips. “That is what I am, is it not? And should you be so desperate as to entertain doubt, I have the daughter to prove it.”
He did not leave as he ought to, and so she steeled herself for her next words. “Clarice is lovely—has her father’s eyes. Of course, if you prevail against my other suitors, you will see for yourself. Every day.”
He rose and strode opposite.
Laura kept her chin up and stared after him lest he look back.
He did not.
Better this way, she told herself. Better for both of us. Better for Clarice.
Certain he would go directly to the stables and be away from Windsor as soon as his horse could be saddled, Laura sagged, put her face in her hands, and cried. One last time.
Lothaire halted. He was doing exactly what she wanted—fleeing the one who could be Lexeter’s only hope, proving she was as much a coward as he. She may have fallen into sin, but the woman who taunted him, seeking to make him forget she was his somehow, was not the same he had once called Laura love. She whom he had fled was an entirely different creature, just as she wished him to believe.
He turned, with apology sidestepped an elderly couple who strolled the path, and shortly passed beneath the vine-covered arbor.
The sun in Laura’s hair revealing there was still red among tresses that had darkened over the years, she sat forward, elbows tight to her sides, face in her hands.
He paused to listen. Though she made no sound, the jerk of her shoulders told she wept, and he was glad. Here was proof some of the young woman he had loved yet breathed. He could not feel for her again, but for Lexeter he would tolerate her. And the daughter who had her father’s eyes.
He continued forward. When she did not respond in any way to indicate she was aware of his return, he dropped to his haunches and caught up the hem of a heavily beaded skirt shot through with gold thread—revealing a pretty ankle and shapely calf.
She gasped, lifted her head. As he stared into her moist eyes, he recalled once he had thought them so dark they would haunt did they not sparkle like stars on a moonless night. He had thought right. They haunted. And moved him as he did not wish to be moved.
He thrust the handful of skirt at her. “Dry your tears, Lady, and resolve to turning your efforts to discouraging your other suitors.”
Her mouth worked, but no words passed her lips. Then she snatched the material from him and sat back. But rather than wipe at her eyes and cheeks, she swept her skirt down as if modesty were of greater import than erasing evidence of emotions she had not wished him to know she possessed.
He shrugged, straightened, and as her gaze followed him upright, said, “When this farce is done and our queen well-entertained, you shall be going home with me.”
She swallowed loudly. “I will not.”
“It will not be the life our foolish young selves imagined,” he continued, “but it will be of great advantage to my family and people. Even to you, methinks, and your daughter. Many a night I spend away from High Castle, and when I am home, I am oft gone from dawn to eventide. Once you have given me an heir, I will not bother you again.”
Sparks flew from eyes he could not help wishing were sparkles, then bitter laughter sprang from her. “So you have become your father.”
He frowned, tried to remember what he had revealed of his sire who, at that time, was a dozen years missing from Lexeter. If she referred to Ricard Soames’s faithlessness, that he had not revealed, meaning another had.
“How many mistresses?” she confirmed her knowledge of his mother’s heartache. “How many more illegitimate children have you than I?”
Realizing it mattered not who had told her—whether it was their all-knowing queen or idle conversation Laura happened upon, he caught up her hand. Before she could snatch it away, he pressed his lips to the backs of her fingers. “I will leave that to you to discover when we wed”—he smiled as she pulled free—“a month hence.”
“Go home, Lord Soames,” she hissed. “Go home to your mother who will praise the Lord you escaped me again.”
More easily he recalled what he had shared about the controlling Raisa Soames who, mostly bedridden throughout their betrothal, had disapproved of how often he visited Laura—heaping guilt on him, bemoaning she should not have accepted such a woman for her son’s wife, warning that as entranced as he was, she could prove a Delilah and a Jezebel.
That last he had not shared with Laura. Never had he cause to—at least until Lady Maude sent him away, refusing to reveal the reason for his broken betrothal. Minutes later, Laura had turned at the pond’s bank, her hand resting on the reason they would never wed.
“Were we not greatly in need of what you bring to the marriage,” he said, “my mother would, indeed, praise the Lord you are not to be her daughter-in-law. But she knows wha
t is needed, and you will provide it.” He inclined his head. “I shall see you at dinner, my lady.”
He stalked away.
A half hour later, in Lothaire’s hearing, Lord Gadot was most unfortunate to boast to Lord Thierry of what he would do to Lady Laura on their nuptial night.
Chapter 6
He was everywhere, would not be discouraged no matter how often she displeased the queen with shows of preference for her other suitors.
Lothaire Soames was not the one. Though the effort to prove Eleanor wrong so exhausted that Laura was too worn to complete her prayers before falling asleep each night and every morn had to be pried out of bed by a clucking Tina, she remained determined to wed any but him—especially after their exchange in the garden four days past when he made it clear she would never be more to him than a means of returning prosperity to Lexeter and gaining an heir. Far less it would ache to wed a man she did not love who did not love her than one she loved who would never love her again. And might ever loathe her.
Now once more the two of them sat at meal, a trencher of pheasant stew between them which she was content to allow him to empty. Unlike whilst seated with her other suitors, she was relegated to a lower table. Not as punishment, though she had thought it at first, but to allow the queen to better observe Lothaire and her.
He leaned near, and when she looked sidelong at him, she saw he smiled—doubtless, for Eleanor’s benefit. “You do not have to appear to enjoy my company as much as you do the others’, but do you not converse with your future husband, our sovereign will be compelled to remind you of proper etiquette. Again.”
She turned her face to him, felt the lonely occupant of her chest move toward his fortified one. He knew of her daily summons to the queen’s apartments? Of Eleanor’s exasperation over Laura’s resistance to Lothaire whether at meal, in the garden, or moving about the crowded hall? How? Had the queen told him?
Nay. Laura had noted the interest shown Lothaire by one of Eleanor’s ladies, a pretty woman who could not be more than ten and ten and who was often present during Laura’s audience with Eleanor. The lady watched Lothaire, at every opportunity given—or made—conversed with him. And he was receptive, especially when Laura came to his notice.
“Lady Elizabeth,” she said and returned his false smile. “Have you made her your mistress yet?” As his eyes darkened, she laughed for the queen. “Do not answer that. Truly, I do not care.”
He drew nearer, and she felt his warm breath fan her jaw, slip beneath the neck of her gown, brush the tops of her breasts. “No matter how you wish it, no matter how coarse you present, Lady Laura, each time you tempt me to abandon my purpose I have but to recall you in the garden—weeping over me.”
It had been a blade to the heart to find him returned. Afterward, she had been tempted to abandon her purpose and accept Michael and Lady Beatrix’s offer to reside at Castle Soaring. But Clarice needed a home of her own and no longer would Laura be a burden to any. As painful as it was to be awake, she would remain in the world her daughter inhabited.
She broadened her smile. “Though you waste your time and mine, Lord Soames, let us please the queen. Converse with me.”
Something flickered across his face, and she guessed he had not expected her to bend. But then, she had not the other times he tried to engage her.
“Speak to me of your daughter,” he said.
And now something surely flickered across her face. Far more than dismay. Not quite fear. “Already I have told she has her father’s eyes, and you must know she is nine years aged. What more need be told? And why?”
He did not try to maintain his smile. “The why is obvious. Until I can wed her away, she shall occupy my home. Regardless of whether I am present, she will affect the workings of my household.”
“Then no more need be told,” Laura said. “Neither my daughter nor I will occupy your home. I shall wed another.”
“Ever you say, but two days hence, I will take you from here. As for what I would know of…Clarice, her appearance matters not. What matters is her disposition. Is she of a compliant nature and well-behaved, or willful and in need of correction?”
She was glad she had allowed him to draw her into conversation—at least, this one. She would be making more of the truth than it was and not clarifying that much of the difficulty was a result of Maude’s passing, but if he could be dissuaded from his pursuit…
For Queen Eleanor and to better gauge his reaction, Laura angled her body toward his. “Compliant? Hmm. Well-behaved?” She shrugged a shoulder. “She can be. Oft is. But her—” She closed her mouth against naming Maude Clarice’s grandmother.
“Her?” Lothaire prompted.
She moistened her lips, touched a hand to her chest. “Her mother has been lax and spoiled her. Though she is quite mature for her nine years, sometimes I know not what to do with her, especially when she is in a mood to disrupt the household.”
There was promise in the narrowing of Lothaire’s lids, but then he laughed. It was at her expense, but she drank it in as the lines of his face eased save those that expressed joy around the eyes and mouth.
Before her was the young man she had taught how to smile often and laugh well. So glad was she to see him that were they alone she might fling her arms around him and weep over their lost years.
When he sobered, his lips remained curved, and she had to avert her gaze lest he think her captivated. It was the queen who came to her regard. Lothaire’s laughter having drawn Eleanor’s attention, her eyes were all approval, and something told Laura that were she nearer her sovereign, she would glimpse wonder there as well.
No man laughed like Lothaire—providing the laughter was genuine. The sound swelled from depths one would not guess he possessed, so quiet and controlled did he normally present. And so wonderfully forceful was his laughter, Laura was certain it could enter all in its hearing and make even the bitterest soul smile.
“Keep doing that,” he said.
She returned his beloved face to focus. “What?”
“Smiling.” He glanced toward the high table. “It pleases the queen.”
Laura was smiling, in the next instant was not.
Lothaire’s mouth also eased. “I have not done that in a long time,” he said, “but you amuse me.”
“How did I accomplish so great a feat?”
“Your belief the prospect of an uncontrollable child will discourage what cannot be discouraged. More, how still you wet your lips and your voice deepens when you seek to convince me of the improbable.”
Then he had also been revisiting their past.
“Though of course, whereas now you seek to deceive, then you sought to tease.”
She momentarily closed her eyes. When she opened them, she beseeched, “If ever you truly felt for me—”
“I did, Laura,” he said gruffly. “Did.”
His familiar use of her name made tears flood her eyes, but she did not look away. “Then do not do this to us, Lothaire. Leave me to another so those memories are not sullied.”
His jaw shifted. “They have long been sullied. You fool yourself to think otherwise.”
She longed to flee the hall, let the unwounded laugh and judge her as harshly as dared those with sins of their own, but she held against all stuffed inside that wanted out.
A huff of bitter laughter parted her lips, and she thought, So this is how it feels to be fully awake.
Lothaire sighed. “I should not have said that, but this cuckold seems determined to cede ground gained with you and the queen. Certes, I must be vigilant in keeping him locked away these next two days.”
Laura looked to Eleanor. Where approval had shone was its opposite. And she did not doubt it was directed at her.
Wishing she did not disappoint the one who had answered her appeal for aid, who believed she knew what was best for her relation, Laura determined to present as passably agreeable.
She turned back to Lothaire, but before she could summon idl
e conversation, he said, “The queen told me of Lady Maude’s passing. My condolences. I know how close you were.”
Her heart’s ache revived, she said, “She is greatly missed.”
“A terrible loss, especially for her son.”
Now her heart jolted. Her distress must have shone, for he frowned and asked, “How is Simon?”
She could not maintain his gaze. “He is dead.”
After a long moment, he said, “I am sorry.”
“’Twas a long time ago.”
“In battle?”
“It happened whilst in service to his lord.” It was true, though there had been no honor in the manner of his death. Hoping to leave Simon D’Arci be, she swept her eyes around the hall and was grateful Lord Gadot handed her a distraction. As with each time she looked upon his handsome face these past days, she winced. Here was something safe over which Lothaire and she could converse.
“Poor Lord Gadot. You noticed his face?” She shook her head. “He says never again will he accept a challenge to mount an untamed horse whilst he has too much drink in him.”
Lothaire laughed again, almost as sincerely. “So that is what he told you.”
She blinked. “You know different?”
He lowered his goblet and reached a hand to her. “I assure you, my lady, the mounting of a horse was not what earned him a beaten face.”
She stared at scabbed and abraded knuckles. Did he speak true? The incident had happened the day Lothaire appeared before her in the garden, and she had not noticed the injury to his hand in all the days since. But then, she avoided looking close upon him.
She swept her gaze to his. “Why?” she said, then caught her breath. “As I seek to discourage you, you seek to discourage him—to frighten him away.”
She thought he might laugh again, but he smiled. “Were he truly a rival, I might.” He raised his goblet.
“Then?” she pressed.
“You would not believe me. So tell, with whom are you to watch the play this eve?”
