by Tamara Leigh
Laura had forgotten he had not finished that tale. “What happened with Lady Beata?”
He sat back but did not pull free. “Though obvious she had feelings for Sir Durand, her father stole her away from the king’s man. En route to the church where we were to wed, she and her sire exchanged words that made me suspect they hid something. Ere the ceremony I listened in on them and learned that after Lady Beata’s cousin killed my father over a woman’s favors, her sire aided in hiding his body. When I showed myself and the lady refused to wed me, I reasoned the wealth she brought to our marriage was the least owed my family and threatened to reveal her father’s complicity.” He drew a deep breath. “No sooner were vows spoken than Sir Durand overtook us. Just as Eleanor arranged the marriage you and I will make, she arranged the annulment of my union with Lady Beata—all the more easily granted when I attested to its lack of consummation.”
“You did not oppose the annulment?”
“I did not. As it was out of anger I wronged the lady, I was grateful there was no opportunity of consummation that might once more see me sharing my life with one who loved another.”
Laura recalled Eleanor saying Lothaire’s marriage to his former betrothed would right another of his wrongs. Doubtless, Lady Beata was the first he had made right.
“I am glad you saw your error, Lothaire, though I am not surprised. You are a good man.” Further evidence was what Michael had revealed to her at Castle Soaring. “I understand you received training at Wulfen Castle.”
His eyebrows rose. “Lady Beatrix told you.” Before she could deny it was she, he said, “Aye, though Abel Wulfrith’s offer to better my knightly skills was meant as an insult, I set aside my pride and accepted. As you know, my mother would not permit me to be fostered.”
It had been the same for Simon, though finally Lady Maude’s stepson had sent his brother away. But it had been too late, proving the ruin of the sweet boy he had been.
“Thus, I received my training in arms here,” Lothaire continued. “I do not believe I was deficient ere availing myself of the skills taught me at Wulfen, but I am better able to protect those for whom I am responsible.”
Which now included Laura and her daughter. She smiled. “Aye, you are a good man. And worthy.”
He stared at her so long the weight between them seemed to lighten, then his eyes moved to her mouth, down her neck, and shifted to her fingers upon his. Freeing a hand, he pinched her sleeve’s cuff. “I like this gown better than the others.”
His finger against the heel of her palm making her shiver, she had only enough voice to whisper, “’Tis plain.”
He inclined his head. “The others try so hard to outshine your beauty they offend, whereas this one…” His gaze returned to hers. “…plays well with memories of the young woman I knew.”
She could not think what to say.
He pressed his thumb to her wrist. “Your heart beats fast.”
“I feel it.” She moistened her lips. “Does yours beat as fast?”
He raised her hand to his chest. “Does it?”
She savored the thud—so strong and rapid that now she was the one remembering. The last time she had felt this was during his departure from Owen shortly before her ruin. He had leaned down from his mount and stroked her cheek in lieu of a kiss that could not be given in Lady Maude’s presence. When he called her Laura love, she had reached up and placed her hand just there. And been happy knowing how much his heart moved for Laura Middleton, soon to be Laura Soames.
“Does it?” Lothaire’s voice was so deep it throbbed through her palm and up her arm.
“’Tis like a hammer on steel,” she whispered.
He leaned toward her, not close enough to kiss but near enough that if she met him halfway her lips would be upon his. Was that what he wanted? If so and she breached the space, would he still want it? And what of her? She thought it what she desired—certes, for this her own heart threatened to abandon her chest—but the last time she had been kissed…
The memory flashed through her, and as it moved her toward what had come after, Lothaire pulled her to him.
His face before hers. Only his.
His breath brushing her lips. Only his.
His mouth nearly upon hers. Only his.
“Lothaire?”
Lashes sweeping her eyebrow, nose brushing hers, he lightly touched his lips to hers.
“You are sure?” she breathed.
“I am not,” he rasped, but before disappointment could deliver its sting, his mouth was fully on hers.
She thought she would know his kiss, but it was barely familiar. Because it was too long since last she had been thus with him? Or because the kiss was more certain than what she had shared with a younger Lothaire? Perhaps both, but certainly the latter. He had been wed, even if to a woman who loved another, and were he at all like his father, there had been others with whom he was intimate. Whereas she…
Once more battling memories, she slid her arms around his neck, pressed nearer, kissed him back.
He groaned and deepened the kiss.
It was exciting…dizzying…wondrous—until there was no more sweet about it, no more coaxing, and hands were where they ought not be. Not rough like—
She shoved that memory aside. Nay, not rough, but desperate. Too desperate. Not cruel like—
Laura wrenched free and stumbled upright. Though so unbalanced she barely kept her feet beneath her, fear of a man at her back made her swing around.
Lothaire had also risen and was reaching to her.
Only to steady me, she told herself, but she retreated further. Not that he would—
Or would he?
Nay, he did not regard her through the eyes of a predator but with regret. And when she managed to remain upright, the hand he reached to her fell to his side with what seemed relief.
“I know better,” he said. “Pray, forgive me.” He blew breath up his face, causing the hair falling around his cheeks to shift. “But now you know I am no longer a boy, surely you understand why I hesitated to speak here. No matter your betrayal, I want you in my bed.” A bitter laugh. “I thought you wished it as well, but perhaps not. Perhaps as when we were first betrothed, ’tis another you want—the one who fathered Clarice.”
Feeling as if punched in the belly, Laura could not find her breath, but when she did, it burst from her on words over which she had no control. “I do not want him! If needs be, in my own blood I shall write it!”
Lothaire searched her eyes, but whatever he found beyond their color, his tightening lips told he did not believe her. “You are saying you want me—my kisses and caresses?”
Lest what leapt through her present as revulsion rather than fear, she averted her gaze. “I do not know what I say.” She ran her hands down her skirt, tugged it back into place. “All I am sure of is that I am glad ’twas you whom Eleanor called to her side. You who shall take me to wife.”
“You tell, and yet you fear me.”
He might not see it, but he sensed it.
“As you are no longer a boy, I am no longer a girl.” Realizing she continued to pluck at a gown that needed no further straightening, she folded her hands at her waist. “You are wrong if you think these ten years have been easier for the woman I am than the man you are. Different burdens, aye, but burdens nonetheless. Still, I shall strive to be a good wife, in bed and out.”
Lothaire watched her in the dim, wished she would speak what she did not so he might understand—even if he did not like it. Or perhaps more in the hope he would so dislike it that it would ease the ache of this body wanting hers.
“For Clarice you sacrifice yourself?” he said with more knowing than bitterness. Her relationship with her daughter might have been built on sand, but he believed her attempt to rebuild it on rock was genuine.
“’Tis true I am prepared to sacrifice myself, but I have hope I do not. Just as I have hope that in wedding me you do not truly sacrifice yourself for Lexeter.”
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He raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps if we both seek to put the past behind us, we shall.”
She inclined her head. “I am very tired as I know you must be.”
“So I am,” he said and led her to her chamber.
At the door, she looked across her shoulder. “I thank you for your honesty. It better prepares me for the morrow.”
Lothaire also wished honesty that he might know how he had lost her to Clarice’s father and if she had truly loved the man and still loved him though she vowed she did not want him. But those things—and greater insight into Clarice’s Donnie—must save for another day.
“I am glad you shall be at my side upon my father’s return,” he said. “Good eve, my lady.”
Chapter 18
Solemn. As was fitting.
Honorable. As expected.
Mournful. Greater than anticipated.
But more than Baron Marshal’s impressive procession numbering two dozen armored and sword-girded men astride fine horses, that last was due to the multitude who journeyed from across Lexeter to pay their respects. The common folk had begun arriving shortly after dawn, but those in the outer bailey were outnumbered by the scores ascending the hill behind the greenery-festooned wagon bearing the casket of Ricard Soames.
The ones now come unto High Castle had been gathered along the route Baron Marshal and his entourage had taken. Surely for this—to allow those on foot to keep pace—the projected midday arrival had come and gone.
Though Lothaire had been frustrated by the two-hour delay, mostly for the added grief given Sebille by their mother, now that he knew the reason, he was grateful for the consideration shown those who wished to mourn their long-lost lord. And that their numbers were so great. He had been aware his father was respected but had not realized how much. Even had he known, he would not have thought so many would spend a day free of work on a man twenty years gone.
“I know him!” Laura gasped.
Lothaire looked to where she stood at his side. “Who?”
“Is that Baron Marshal at the fore?”
“It is, and his lady wife beside him.”
“I know him—rather, I am acquainted with him, though not as Durand Marshal.”
Lothaire returned his regard to those nearing the drawbridge, considered the one who had wed Lady Beata after him. “By what name do you know him?”
“Sir Piers,” she said almost too low to catch over the stir of those gathered in the outer bailey behind. “’Twas the name he gave Lady Maude and me when our carriage was lamed en route to Castle Soaring six years past. For his kindness in aiding us, Lord D’Arci permitted him a night’s lodging and…” She trailed off.
As she pondered whatever stole her words, jealousy spurted through Lothaire. He was not surprised there had been other visits to Michael D’Arci’s home, but learning this now roused him.
“Ah,” she said. “It has been so many years I near forgot.”
“What?”
“Later, I learned he was in disguise, having disabled our carriage to gain entry to Castle Soaring so he might do the bidding of his lord, Baron Wulfrith. Michael had imprisoned the man’s sister, Lady Beatrix, believing she murdered Si—”
She closed her mouth, and what appeared to be guilt flashed in her eyes before she averted them.
The clop of hooves on the drawbridge that would soon sound with the rumble of wheels sought to drag Lothaire’s gaze back to the procession, but he was too near something she clearly did not wish him near. “You say Simon was murdered?”
Laura shook her head. “Though Lady Maude and I journeyed to Castle Soaring so she could face the woman responsible for her son’s death, it proved an accident had taken his life.” She returned her gaze to Baron Marshal. “I had heard Durand was the real name of Sir Piers but did not consider he and this one were the same.”
Now the wagon was on the drawbridge, and Lothaire gave his attention to the bearer of his father’s remains.
Shortly, Baron Marshal and the lady who had been Beata Soames for a brief time, reined in before Lothaire and Laura where they stood before the raised portcullis.
“Baron Marshal, Lady Beata,” Lothaire said, and wished his voice did not sound so tight. “Though a grim duty brings you to High Castle, you are welcome.”
Durand inclined his head, but the outspoken Beata said, “’Tis grim, indeed, but the least owed your family. My father sends his regrets that he cannot be here. Most unfortunate, illness sees him abed many a day.”
That might be true, but Lothaire suspected it was more than that. Her father had concealed the murder and location of the remains. Now, just as the man had compelled his daughter to wed the son of a murdered man, he expected her to shoulder this burden.
As when Lothaire had risen above anger and come right of mind, realizing he also wronged the lady, he regretted this fell to her. And yet, from what he knew of Lady Beata, she would have insisted on accompanying the procession even were her father present.
“I shall pray your sire recovers,” he said. He did not like the man, but he did not wish him ill.
“I apologize for the delay,” Durand Marshal spoke. “Shortly after we crossed into Lexeter, your people began following, and ’tis a long walk.”
“I am grateful you slowed to allow them to keep pace,” Lothaire said.
The baron inclined his head, looked to Laura. “Last Sunday, I had business upon your sire’s demesne and heard the banns read for your marriage.”
She stiffened, and Lothaire guessed she had not considered the announcement must not only be made upon Lexeter but her father’s lands to ensure any who wished to contest the union had the opportunity to come forward. That Lothaire had arranged as well. Though he had not expected to hear from the one who had disavowed his daughter, might Laura wonder about it? Hurt over her father’s silence?
Lothaire set a hand on her shoulder. “I understand you are acquainted with my betrothed.”
The baron’s mouth curved. “We met many years ago and under false—albeit necessary—pretenses.”
Grateful Laura had not left him in the dark, Lothaire said, “You called yourself Sir Piers.”
“Aye, the easier to save Lady Beatrix Wulfrith from Michael D’Arci of Castle Soaring. Blessedly, that lady did not need saving. Not only was she in love but loved.”
“A story I would like to hear, but it will have to wait. Now my father is returned, he is to be laid to rest this day.”
The baron’s eyebrows rose. “This day?”
“Another few days may seem naught in the more than twenty years since he breathed his last, but it is too many for his family. And as Lexeter’s people have gathered to pay their respects, a better day could not be had. Too, should your wife and you wish to attend the burial, ’tis convenient.”
“I think it a good thing.” This from Lady Beata, followed by a soft, prettily gapped smile that hardly detracted from her loveliness. “As we would not impose upon your grief by passing the night at High Castle, it also benefits us.”
Lothaire was relieved it would not be necessary to offer lodgings that would distress Sebille and his mother—best for both his family and the Marshals who would not sleep easy beneath High Castle’s roof.
“As my mother is ill,” he said, “the casket will be placed in the donjon chapel where she and my sister may attend the service to be held once you are refreshed with food and drink. Then my father will be taken to the village of Thistle Cross and interred in the churchyard with his forebears.”
“That is well with us,” Baron Marshal said.
Lothaire took Laura’s arm, and the villagers gathered in the outer bailey crowded left and right to allow the procession to pass.
As Lothaire led his betrothed forward, the heads of those on the ground bowed, but the same could not be said of the men on the walls. As instructed, the castle garrison were to save their prayers until Baron Marshal and his warriors departed. Not that Lothaire believed they presented a thr
eat, but danger was most effective when it was not perceived as such. That he had learned long ago, but even better during Abel Wulfrith’s instruction at Wulfen Castle that, surprisingly, was not all to do with the swing and thrust of a blade. Much was strategy and tactics discussed at night during patrol of the walls or demonstrated over games of chess.
That last made Lothaire grimace. Never had he spilled as much blood upon a checkered board than when it was Abel’s brother who sat across from him—Everard who had devoted several afternoons to training Lothaire in a darkened cellar. There he had honed his pupil’s senses of hearing, smell, taste, and instinct despite Lothaire’s initial objections to what seemed a child’s game of Find Me. That it certainly was not.
Laura was relieved by her betrothed’s hand on her that pushed Simon toward the back of her mind, but she dreaded when her betrothed would ask more about Sir Piers’s breach of Castle Soaring’s walls. Even had she held close her recognition of Durand Marshal, it would have been of no benefit. Likely, the baron would have revealed their previous acquaintance, and it would have been ill of her not to prepare Lothaire. But what was done was done, and what was yet to be done had its own worries.
The inner bailey was not as populated as the outer, but scores of castle folk were assembled before the steps on either side of Sir Angus and Tina who had been given charge of Clarice.
Laura had discussed the day’s import with her daughter, and like Lothaire had not told it was by murder the old baron met his end. Clarice had been inquisitive, but Tina had distracted her with talk of which gown was best suited for so sorrowful an occasion and how she would fashion the girl’s hair to make her appear more a young woman than a child.
It had not been mere talk. Even at a distance Clarice presented more as a lady in the making than a girl. Thus, it was unlikely Baron Marshal would recognize her. And neither would Clarice recognize him, having been three years aged when, fastened more often to Lady Maude’s side than Laura’s, she had accompanied them to Castle Soaring.
