by Tamara Leigh
A sennight, he told himself and returned the ring to his purse.
“You will not wear it?” she asked.
“Later.” Once Lexeter’s fortunes were reversed, he would set aside the cheaply fashioned ring that was all he could afford when he came into his lordship—that which had never adorned his hand for its ability to reveal how far his family had fallen.
“After your mourning is done?” she pressed.
“Perhaps.” He took another draught of wine.
“But—”
“Tell me about Donnie.”
She caught her breath, and her head jerked so violently she would have slopped wine onto the table had he filled her goblet fuller. It made him regret his change of topic. He wished to know what had happened between the boy and her daughter, but he had not meant to distress her. However, what could have waited a while longer was before them now.
She moistened her lips. “I have not thanked you for being so kind to Clarice.”
Did she now change the subject, or ease into an answer?
“It has been difficult for her since we lost Lady Maude, and though I try not to fail her, my choices have further tipped her world. Whereas you…” She lowered the goblet, clasped her hands atop the table. “You who have no obligation to do so are setting her world right side up.”
“I am to be her stepfather.”
“Even so, I did not expect you to become easy with her—certainly not this soon.”
Now came a crack of lightning that made her glance at the ceiling.
“I am not easy with her,” Lothaire admitted, “but neither am I as uncomfortable as expected. Mayhap because she has much the young Laura about her.”
She flushed as if pleased, and in her face he glimpsed that younger woman. Once more feeling his body tug toward hers, he said, “Mayhap we ought to leave the matter of Donnie for another day.” He raised his goblet to drain it that he might sooner distance himself from the temptation of her.
But she said, “Another day will not make the telling easier.”
“Then tell me.”
Laura did not want to, the boy’s name on Lothaire’s lips having been as near a blow one might deliver without actually slamming knuckles against skin and bone, but he ought to know.
“What did Clarice tell you about Donnie?” she asked.
“He is several years older than she, the heir of Lady Maude’s eldest stepson, and the argument I happened upon between the two of you was over him.”
She nodded. “Much of it.”
“She seems to believe he is the reason you left Owen to seek a husband.”
“He was not the only reason. Even before I…” Should she reveal what she had seen? Might it cause Lothaire to treat Clarice differently, especially considering what he believed of her mother?
“I can guess what your daughter meant when she said the boy was more than a friend, Laura,” he prompted, “but I prefer not to make assumptions.”
As she drew a breath, she caught the sound of rain tapping at shutters that, thrown wide, would offer a view of the garden. “Even before I found a twelve-year-old boy pressing a nine-year-old girl against a wall and kissing her, I knew I had to make a better life for Clarice. Donnie was the slap that brought me fully awake—confirmation I must wed to provide a home away from those who would take advantage of a fatherless girl.”
She closed her eyes as she once more recalled the snare into which she, desperate to wed any but Lothaire, had nearly led her daughter. And shuddered.
“Laura?”
She returned Lothaire to focus. “Lord Benton,” she gasped. “What if I had…?”
The understanding in his eyes caused tears to flood her own. “Eleanor may be the most manipulative female in the history of womankind, Laura, but never would she have given Clarice and you into the keeping of one such as Benton. She aspired to do what was best for you. And she did.”
“Aye, but what of you?”
His jaw shifted, and he said gruffly, “Was the boy forcing Clarice?”
She should be grateful for another change of topic, but he might as well have said that had marriage to another provided the same benefit for Lexeter, he would not have agreed to take her to wife. Though he wanted her in his bed, another would slake his passion as well—nay, better.
“Was he, Laura?”
Though her daughter’s willing participation would reflect poorly on Clarice, she could not lie. “He did not force her.”
Now Lothaire hesitated, but though she steeled herself for a knowing glint in his eyes, it did not appear. “As I can attest, boys—even girls—are wont to test the breadth of adulthood ere they are prepared for the consequences,” he said.
To which she could also attest, and not only from the intimacies shared with him.
“However,” he continued, “’tis unlikely Clarice and the boy’s explorations would have progressed further.”
Laura gasped. “Perhaps not then, but eventually he would have ruined her.”
“You do not know that.”
“Do I not?” She surged to her feet, and though she told herself to close her mouth, the rest tumbled out. “Know you how his mother defended him when I told her what I stopped? She said of course her son did not respect one whom all knew to be misbegotten, especially since Clarice was willing to follow her mother’s example. The lady’s only concession was to agree it best her son gain his experience with a girl more easily set out of their household should he get her with child.” Realizing she was shaking, she gripped the table’s edge. “Concession, not consolation. No assurance that what happened to me…” She scoffed. “I need not tell you of my ruin.”
The soft went out of his eyes. “Indeed you need not.” It was so quietly said she felt the hurt of all those years past when she had turned from the pond to reveal the reason for their broken betrothal. In that moment, she longed to tell him all as Michael advised ere they wed. And she might have had he not said, “Do you love him still?”
“Him?”
“Your daughter believes if I can make you fall in love with me as you loved her father, our marriage will be a good one.”
Another blow. Never had Laura spoken ill of Clarice’s sire when she was unable to avoid talk of him, just as never had she spoken well of him. “Sh-she said that?”
“Aye, that for love and loss of her father she has only known you to be sorrowful.”
It was so far from the truth it was tragic. Was that how Lady Maude had explained Laura’s long sleep to Clarice, or had the girl devised the story to fill what might be becoming a widening hole?
She shook her head. “She knows naught of what she speaks.”
“Mayhap, but that does not answer my question.”
Of whether she yet loved the man with whom he believed she betrayed him. Before she could determine if now was the time to reveal the circumstances of Clarice’s conception, he said, “What is Michael D’Arci to you?”
She stared. And understood. But did he truly suspect Michael of impropriety? “The same as ever he has been—like a brother. Why do you ask?” When he did not answer, she said, “Surely you do not think he and I—”
“I know not what to think, Laura.”
He did believe it possible, and it was painfully amusing how near the truth he was. His only error was that he had the wrong brother. Doubtless, here was the reason he had turned cooler toward Michael and her the morn of their departure from Castle Soaring.
As the rain fell harder, no longer tapping—now slashing at the shutters—Laura felt every one of this day’s hours. Or was it every one of the hours since Simon had stolen her happiness? Those too.
Wondering how they had moved from her attempt to comfort Lothaire over his loss of a sire to the loss of his first betrothed, she released her hold on the table. “All I shall say is that you do Michael D’Arci a grave wrong in thinking such ill of him. And now I am most tired.” She skirted the table, crossed the kitchen, and left him alone with his ill
-founded suspicions.
Chapter 21
Blisters. A dozen or more small, red-ringed bumps.
She had not known of them until she scratched an itch and her fingertips tripped over the swellings. Holding her breath, she turned her hands front to back. Both afflicted, the left more than the right.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered.
Tina finished lacing the back of her lady’s gown and came around. “Milady?”
Laura retreated a step, held out her hands. “There is something wrong with me.”
The maid’s eyes widened. “So there is, milady.”
Laura’s next words were choked. “The pox?”
Tina bit her lip, and when she moved closer to examine the blisters, Laura lurched back and sat down hard in the chair. “Pray, come no nearer.”
The maid continued forward. “I will not touch, milady. Now hold out yer hands so I may look close upon them, for I have seen the pox at its worst.”
Laura did as told.
Tina leaned this way and that, shook her head. “I am fair certain this be not the pox.”
“What then?”
“I cannot say.” The maid straightened. “Though ye will not like consulting the physician, methinks ye ought to.”
Laura snatched her hands to her waist. “Indeed I do not like it.”
“He will know more than I, milady.”
The thought of being touched by the man whose examination had humiliated Lady Beata made Laura’s stomach roil.
“I should summon him, milady?”
She looked to her hands again, hoped it mere imagining more blisters had arisen. “Aye, but after Clarice and my betrothed have departed.”
“What should I tell Lord Soames?”
Laura was to have accompanied him and her daughter to observe the sheep shearing this second day following the burial of Ricard Soames. Doubtless, they awaited her in the hall.
“As I would not have Clarice alarmed nor disrupt the baron’s day, tell him I slept poorly and require further rest. When they are gone, send the physician to me.”
Tina hastened from the chamber.
Clenching her hands to keep from raking at blisters that had begun to burn, Laura tried to distract herself by deciding what to do with a day whose plans were ruined. If the physician allayed her fears and provided a salve to relieve the discomfort, she would make a menu for next week’s meals, then once more apply herself to the wedding gown Tina had completed the morn of the burial.
She looked to where she had draped it over the chair opposite. It was over-embellished, Tina determined to make use of every bauble of the queen’s generosity. Even had Lothaire not expressed a preference for Laura’s simpler gowns, she would have been uncomfortable in such splendor. Blessedly, Tina had not seemed offended when her lady told the garment was too elaborate and apologized for not paying closer attention beyond its embroidery.
Tina had said she would remove the pearls and silver beads, but Laura had declined and sat up late last eve snipping them away. It was no easy task, the maid’s stitches and knots tight to the cloth, but another hour and it would be done—providing Laura’s affliction did not prove dire.
Shortly, Tina reported Lothaire and Clarice had departed and the physician would come after he gave Lady Raisa her medicinals.
“Did Baron Soames seem upset?” Laura asked where she sat on her hands to keep from scratching at them.
“Nay, milady.”
“Tina?” Laura said firmly.
The maid grimaced. “’Twas merely disappointment he expressed, as did your daughter. Certes, they both wished your accompaniment.”
More likely, they believed she lazed abed regardless of the promise made her daughter who had seemed pleased by Laura’s interest in Lexeter’s wool. When the two returned later this afternoon—or this eve—they would learn of the physician’s diagnosis and she would be redeemed.
Though the time it took Martin to tend Lady Raisa felt like half a day, Laura did not believe it exaggeration that one hour passed before the man arrived.
He knocked sharply and entered. Halting at the center of the chamber, he jutted his chin. “Show me, my lady.”
He so soon offended Laura nearly had to swallow her tongue to keep anger from it.
Dragging her hands from beneath her, she whimpered when the relief provided by the pressure was repaid with pain all the sharper for its suppression. There were more blisters, now spreading down her wrists. She thrust her hands forward.
Maintaining his distance, Martin considered them.
“Surely you ought to draw nearer for a proper diagnosis,” Laura snipped.
He grimaced. “I would, but unlike many, I believe close proximity passes affliction to the innocent.”
“But you are a physician—or so you claim to be.”
His brow lowered. “I am a man of medicine, but not a fool. My first concern is for Lady Raisa, as it should be and as her son requires. ’Twould be unforgivably negligent did I risk her delicate health by passing your sickness to her.”
A grunt drew Laura’s regard to the hearth where Tina stood flushed and stiff. She did not like the man any more than her lady liked him.
“I cannot say I think highly of your competence as a physician,” Laura bit. “Pray, persuade me otherwise by identifying what this is.”
His upper lip curled, but whatever ill he wished to speak, he did not. At last he asked, “Have you been in the garden?”
“On the day past.”
“Then possibly foxglove, the plant whose stalks drip bell-shaped flowers.” He nodded. “Methinks you touched what you should not.”
Laura knew the plant and that even if one did not ingest its poison, brief contact could cause a rash. Hence, Lady Maude had removed foxgloves from her garden when Clarice began to walk.
“I saw none there, Martin.”
“Did you pick flowers?”
“Roses only.” And she had thorn pricks to prove it, remembrance of which made her skin itch more.
Another nod. “Once Lady Raisa’s children were of an age to obey, she planted foxglove between the rosebushes. Though the plants did not take well, from time to time one struggles up through the earth as I have noted whilst gathering herbs. ’Tis rare one blooms, which is surely why you did not recognize it as such.”
It made sense, and Laura wished it to since the diagnosis could be worse. “You are certain ’tis not the pox?”
“Not the usual pox, but…”
“But?”
He cleared his throat. “’Tis a delicate matter, and I would not wish to offend my lord’s betrothed.”
“How might you offend?”
He pursed his lips, swung them side to side. “To be certain, a closer examination is required.”
“Then draw nearer.”
With obvious reluctance, he closed the distance between them and leaned forward. “I am fair certain ’tis foxglove, my lady.”
“Then not the usual nor unusual pox.”
“That last cannot be excluded without a thorough examination—one I would require my lord’s permission to perform.”
“I do not understand.”
“As told, my lady, it is a delicate matter.”
Laura thrust up out of the chair, causing him to spring back on his short legs. “Speak!”
He looked to Tina as if she might offer aid, but the maid said, “Lest ye forget, Physician, soon ye shall answer to milady the same as ye answer to yer lord.”
He tossed up his hands. “If Baron Soames is angered by what I tell, ’tis of your doing, Lady Laura.”
Suppressing the longing to scratch at her hands, she said, “I take responsibility.”
“Very well. When I name that other pox unusual, I do so in reference to those of the nobility who are far less susceptible than common folk.”
Laura ground her teeth at the insult to Tina.
He sighed. “But since you have engaged in behavior displeasing to the Lord, embracing the
sins of the flesh and making yourself a Daughter of Eve rather than a sister of Mary, it is quite possible you are afflicted with that best known to those whose profession it is to provide favors of the flesh.”
Laura was so shocked she could only stare, then struggle to control the urge to slap him as she had been unable to do with Lady Raisa.
“Ye dare!” Tina recovered before her mistress.
“Your lady insisted!”
The maid gave a cry, hastened forward, and struck his arm. “Out with ye, foul being!” As if a broom to the debris he had become to her lady, she pushed and swept him over the threshold.
But before she could slam the door, he turned. “I shall send salve. Whether your lady’s skin is afflicted by foxglove or that other pox, ’twill provide relief and aid with healing.”
“Be quick about it!” Tina slammed the door and hastened back. “Put from yer mind what he said, milady, hear?” She reached for Laura’s hands, but her lady snatched them away.
“I should have known of which pox he spoke,” Laura said. “He tried to warn me—”
“I think it more likely he baited ye, milady.” The maid wiped her palms on her skirts as if she were more fouled by touching him than she would be had she caught up Laura’s hands.
“As it is likely foxglove, it matters not,” Laura said. “And as easy as it would be to wallow in anger toward him, my time is better spent thanking the Lord ’tis but a skin irritation. So that I shall do. I only hope Martin does not tell my betrothed he suspects it could be the unusual sort of pox.” She raked her teeth over her lower lip, considered her wedding gown. “Four days, then I wed, providing I am sufficiently healed.”
“Ye shall be, milady. I will tend yer hands and take good care of ye.”
“I thank you.” Laura nodded at the gown. “I thought I might spend some of the day removing more pearls and beads, but my hands hurt, and if these blisters weep, the cloth might be ruined.”
“Worry not, milady. I shall pluck out the rest.”
“Nay, I shall do it. Mayhap in a few days I will be well enough healed.”
“As you wish, milady.”
Lothaire was a mess, and would be more so if he yielded to the impulse to bloody his knuckles against the man’s scowl. “You said that to her?” he barked.
