by Tamara Leigh
The physician’s expression faltered. “I told her I am fair certain the rash is from contact with foxglove, my lord, but she wished assurance it was not the pox. Thus, I informed her it was not the usual sort, but to be certain it is not that which afflicts many a Daughter of Eve, I would need to perform a thorough examination.” He held up a hand. “Which I would not do without your consent.”
Lothaire breathed deep. “’Tis fortunate in this you know my mind, Martin. But most unfortunate you know not my mind in other things. You ought to thank God you are soon to depart High Castle.” Not at all satisfied by the man’s wide-flung eyes and sputtering, Lothaire strode from the hall.
When Tina admitted him to the chamber, Laura’s gaze awaited his, and what he saw there would have been of great detriment to the physician were the man within reach.
“See, Lord Soames,” Clarice called from where she perched on the mattress alongside her mother, “here is the true reason she could not attend the day’s shearing.” She nodded at the bandaged hands cradled in her own. “She but feared needlessly worrying us. Blessedly, ’tis only a rash.”
Lothaire moved his gaze from Laura’s hands to the sheet drawn up around her waist to her loosed hair whose waves spilled over the shoulders of her chemise. Here an eyeful of what would await him on their nuptial night.
“So the physician has informed me,” he said and looked to the maid. “Would you take the young lady to my solar and aid her in washing away the day’s labors?”
He knew Tina’s hesitation had merit, but unseemly though it was for him to be alone with Laura in her chamber, he needed to speak with her in private. True, the matter could wait, but he could not knowing she suffered in the time between what was appropriate and what was not.
Ignoring the voice increasingly fond of naming him a fool where she was concerned, he prompted with, “I would not ask it were it not of great import and were I not soon to wed your lady.”
The maid looked to where Laura sat propped on pillows. “Milady?”
Laura inclined her head. “Go with Tina, Clarice. Lord Soames and I will not be long.”
“I shall tell you of the shearing later,” the girl said and followed the maid into the corridor.
When the door closed, Laura said in a strained voice, “What did Martin tell you?”
“What nearly saw him in need of a physician’s services.” He strode to the bed. “I apologize for what he suggested could be the cause of your affliction. Never would such occur to me. Never would I believe it.”
The easing of her shoulders evidencing her relief, she said, “I am glad in this you do not assume the worst of me.”
“But?”
She shook her head, seamed her lips.
He did not think before acting, and then it seemed too late to correct the impropriety. Having lowered his damply-clothed body to the mattress edge, he said, “You expected me to think the worst?”
“It follows.”
The accusation tempted him to defend his right to think it, but he checked the words.
“I thank you for seeing me as I truly am,” she whispered.
He looked to her hands. “You are in pain?”
“Less so. The bandages and salve provide relief, but ’tis possible the wedding will have to be postponed.” To his annoyance, his body liked that less than his mind which would rather argue that the sooner they wed the sooner Lexeter would benefit from the tax break. And the sooner his mother—and Martin—would depart High Castle.
“It is not unheard of for a lady to wear gloves on such an occasion,” he said. “Unless you fall most ill, I see no reason to delay the ceremony.”
Her smile was hardly genuine. “Lexeter—of utmost importance and consideration.”
He should let her believe that, especially as much of it was true, but he said, “As well you know, I desire you.”
She looked down. “You wish me in your bed.”
“I do, and more now I see you like this with your hair unbound.” Though his reach caused her to press back into the pillows, he hooked a finger around a bronze tress. “Here you sit like a bride awaiting her groom, your chemise the only garment that must needs be removed to reveal all of the woman you have become.” He let the tress slide away, moved the backs of his fingers down the neckline of her chemise, watched color rise up her chest. “Four days hence, the wishing will be done, Laura. You will be in our bed and know my desire as I shall know yours.”
“Lothaire.”
He looked up, but though he hoped what he felt might be found in her eyes, that was not what he saw there. It was wariness—and something else. Regret? Distaste? If so, because he was not whom she wished him to be?
Weary of jealousy, resentment, and anger, he told himself he must get past the past and said low, “What is amiss, Laura?”
“I am not comfortable being…” She swallowed. “…desired.”
He drew his fingers back up her chemise’s neckline, over her throat, across her jaw. “Then you should not present thus, Laura Middleton.”
He said it with teasing that would have made the young Laura laugh and tease in return, but this Laura appeared further distressed. And something about that troubled him deeply, and not only because he feared her aversion was exclusive to him. It was as though…
Before he could follow the thought to its end, she said, “I am as God made me. I vow, had I known you would come to my chamber, you would not have found me in such a state.” Her tone was defensive, as if he accused her of seduction. “I would have—”
“I know you did not expect me, Laura. I know this is not an attempt to seduce me. I but speak as I find.” He slid his thumb in the dip between chin and lip, causing her to draw a quick breath that lowered her jaw and shifted his touch to her bottom lip. He was surprised by how sensuous it felt though it was not his mouth upon hers—the bow soft, full, and touched by the moisture of her inner lip, then there was the light scrape of her teeth across the pad of his thumb. No matter her bandaged hands, no matter the sight and scent he presented, no matter the impropriety of sitting upon her bed, he wanted to kiss her. Even if that kiss became more. Especially if it became more.
That last admission made him gain his feet and berate himself for feelings surely not unlike those that had caused her to betray him. Of course she was not comfortable being desired. Had she not a misbegotten child to prove the folly of desire outside of marriage?
“Forgive me,” he said. “Just as I should not have done ten years past, I should not speak thus nor touch you as the lover I do not yet have the right to be, that which made you—” He shook his head. “If you wish to delay the wedding, we shall. Now I leave you to your rest.”
“That which made me what?” she called, halting his progress to the door.
He turned. “I know you are not all to blame for Clarice, that it also falls upon me.”
“How?”
“Had I been honorable and responsible as one of greater years ought to be, had I respected you more and not yielded to kisses and caresses, you would not have become impatient to experience what comes after that which ought to be discovered in the marriage bed.”
She sank back against the pillows. “You think you made me a whore.” She sighed. “Rest easy, Lothaire. You had naught to do with Clarice’s conception. Even had we never met, methinks it would have happened.”
Because she had felt much for Michael D’Arci long before she was betrothed to Lothaire? He wanted to ask when she first realized she was in love with Lady Maude’s stepson, but he said, “We shall never know. Sleep well, my lady.”
Laura watched him go, and her heart ached more that only now with the distance between them stretching she should notice the state of his clothes and disarray of barely bound hair. He had probably smelled more musty than Clarice, but that had also escaped her though he had drawn even nearer.
When the door closed, she let the tears fall. Never had she considered he would claim responsibility for their broken be
trothal, for it was true he had naught to do with it. Though as children Simon and she had played at husband and wife, once she left the girl behind she had not regarded Lady Maude’s son as anything more than a friend and brother and discouraged him accordingly. Even had she been betrothed to one other than Lothaire and not loved her intended, she would have resisted Simon’s claim on her. And very likely still he would have done as he had done.
She lifted a hand to wipe at her eyes, paused over the bandages that could grant respite from Lothaire’s desire. Only respite. Best to have done with their nuptial night and see what could be made of it.
“Four days,” she said. “Even if I must wear gloves.”
Lady Laura was miserable, and more so than expected. Unfortunately, this was not her wedding day. That had been the plan before all went askew. But providing she did not suspect the source of her affliction, all would come right. This day’s misery could double. Or worse.
Those imaginings might have caused the one who turned them over to smile despite the certainty the Lord saw all that went below—including here in this dark crack of existence—but deeper reflection proved them mere indulgence.
Were the lady’s wedding day to be spoiled, another means must be found. But between now and then, evidence of this day’s trickery must be swept asunder. No easy feat, but neither a great challenge. Timing was all, and there were yet days in which to see it done.
Lothaire would not like it, but he would not know. Father Atticus would not like it, but neither would he know. The Lord would not like it, but he would forgive. As for this conscience that had no cause to be troubled, it would untrouble itself.
The brazier having lost much of its heat—further evidence of little regard for one who had more in common with Lady Laura’s daughter than was known—the one made to feel of no consequence drew the covers over chest, neck, and face. And ere sleep deepened the dark crack, determined how best to be shed of evidence that could demand investigation. Now only one thing was needed—opportunity.
Chapter 22
Only one day more. And on this, the eve of their wedding, Lothaire made of it the same as he had every day past—riding out early to do the work of wool.
Watching him and a handful of men-at-arms grow distant, Laura did not yield to resentment. Too much she admired the man with whom she would spend the remainder of her life. Though many a nobleman would seek to improve his circumstances by tourneying or selling his sword arm to the highest bidder, she suspected few would debase their nobility by laboring alongside commoners. As seen nearly every eve Lothaire returned to the castle disheveled and damp from his attempt to wash away the filth, and as told by Clarice who had accompanied him several times, he did not merely oversee the work. He cast himself into it.
When the sun made to mount the sky in earnest—gripping its pommel, fitting its stirrup, swinging itself atop the horizon—Lothaire and his men went from sight, the only evidence of the path they had taken the disturbance of the morning mist and slow descent of dust kicked up by hooves.
Lingering atop the gatehouse she had ascended unbeknownst to her betrothed, Laura felt the regard of the garrison and castle folk beginning their day’s work in the smithy, stables, and laundry. They were curious, and doubtless more so knowing though she was their lord’s first betrothed, only now she was to be his wife. She nearly cringed, certain the reason their betrothal had taken ten years to come to fruition was also known. Not that Lothaire would have revealed it, but others would have since Clarice’s birth had not been hidden. And certainly Lady Raisa would not wish it believed her son was at fault.
It would not be easy for Laura to earn the respect of these people, but she would—and in doing so honor her husband.
Breathing the scent and warmth of the new summer day, she looked to her hands. They were not entirely healed, but on the morrow it would not be necessary to don gloves. Only if one looked near upon them would they find proof of the discomfort borne these past days, which would have been less tolerable lacking the physician’s salve. At least in that Martin was competent. And Laura was further grateful for his near absence, whether of his own will he avoided her or Lothaire had warned him away.
Regardless, there was much to do in preparation for the morrow’s wedding and feast. And Clarice, who had made an effort to hide her disappointment over assisting her mother rather than riding out with Lothaire, would learn more duties of a lady.
Minutes later, Laura thanked the porter by name and stepped into the hall in advance of its emptying with the physician’s departure by way of the stairs.
“Come see what we have done, Mother!”
Not empty after all, Laura corrected as she followed her daughter’s voice to the left corner opposite the high table where the girl stood with two others around one of four many-branched candlesticks. The smithy had returned them to the hall on the day past, having straightened out their bends and mended their breaks. They were elegant again, and more so fit with tallow candles as tall as Laura’s forearm and so white they appeared lit in the absence of flame.
“Lovely,” she said when she stood with the others peering upward. “The feast shall be all the more special. I thank you, Clarice and Tina—and you, Sir Angus, not only for arranging the repairs, but your height which I am certain is responsible for seeing the candles properly fit.”
He dipped his head. “I am glad to be of service, my lady.”
“As am I,” a voice called, and they looked around at Sebille who moved toward them from the dais.
Doubtless, she had been breaking her fast at the high table, rendered mostly invisible garbed as she was in a gown of nondescript color and by how quiet and still she could be.
The lady halted before Laura, looked to the knight. “Shall we fit the rest of the candles, Sir Angus?”
His smile was taut. “I thank you, but as you see, Lady Clarice and the superb Tina have all in hand.” He nodded at the two who held baskets of candles, winked at the latter.
Even had Laura not seen the hurt flash across the lady’s face, she would have felt it. “I could use your help, Lady Sebille,” she said. “I must finalize the menu with Cook and would be grateful for your…” She trailed off as Lothaire’s sister turned on a toe.
“Is she angry?” Clarice asked when Sebille disappeared up the stairs.
“No more than usual,” Angus muttered and grimaced when Laura shot her gaze to his.
“She is not friendly,” Clarice said. “Nor the physician. Do you not think it too, Tina?”
“Methinks it best I keep my opinion to meself whilst we set the rest of these candles.” The maid bustled toward the candlestick to the right of the high table, and Clarice ran to catch up with her.
“I know,” Sir Angus said. “I should not have winked at your maid.”
Laura sighed. “I think not.”
“Fire!” Sebille’s cry spun Laura around and caused Sir Angus to lunge toward the stairs.
“Stay with Tina, Clarice!” Laura called as she followed the knight.
Before she reached the stairs she smelled smoke, halfway up she saw its haze, and upon reaching the landing she glimpsed Sir Angus darting into the chamber Laura shared with Clarice and Tina.
“Out, Sebille!” he shouted.
A moment later, the lady exited with the force of one flung. She slapped hands to the wall opposite the door from which smoke puffed, pushed off, and stumbled down the corridor.
“Do not go in,” she rasped and caught hold of Laura’s arm.
“Sir Angus—”
“’Tis mostly smoke, Lady Laura. Methinks something was set too near the brazier.”
“I have put it out!” the knight called and gave a hacking cough.
Laura ceased resisting Sebille’s effort to hold her back, and as she waited for the knight to emerge, wondered what had caught fire. There was a chair near the brazier, but not too near, and Tina swept the rushes well back from the source of heat lest a spark set all afire. So what had fa
llen victim to coals that had little to recommend them after holding back the night’s chill?
Shortly, Sir Angus appeared amid the smoke. “Come away,” he said and gripped the women’s arms. “I used the basin of water to douse the offender and threw open the shutters, but it will be some time ere the chamber is fit to enter.”
“My wedding gown is in there,” Laura said as he drew them down the corridor.
“If ’twas the same placed near the brazier, my lady, it is too late.” He coughed, cleared his throat. “That is what I doused. I am sorry, but it is ruined.”
Laura gasped. How was it the gown fashioned of Eleanor’s generosity and Tina’s hard work was lost? “’Twas draped over the chair’s back,” she protested as he assisted them down the stairs up which servants bounded. “How could it catch fire?”
“The chair was toppled, my lady.” He paused to instruct the servants in remedying the damage, and when he and the ladies resumed their descent said, “’Tis possible a dog overturned it, mayhap the one with whom your daughter likes to keep company.”
Had it been Tomas? He was so large and smelled so foul Laura discouraged Clarice from allowing the animal in their chamber. Had the beast ventured abovestairs in search of the girl? That made little sense as Clarice had been in the hall where Tomas dwelt when he was not out of doors.
“Mayhap it was…” Sebille’s suggestion died amidst a cough so terrible the knight halted on the stairs to allow her to bend and clear her lungs.
When she straightened, tears streamed her cheeks.
“What do you think it was, my lady?” Laura asked.
Sebille averted her gaze. “Silly me. I thought it might be the wind come through the windows, but Sir Angus told he opened the shutters to let out the smoke.”
Absurd, even had the shutters been wide open on a morn cooled by a breeze of so little force one had to close their eyes to confirm its presence. Nay, Sebille had nearly said something else, perhaps of detriment, though not to herself. To her mother who was not as bedridden as she wished Lothaire to believe and who was opposed to her son wedding a harlot? Had Lady Raisa once more descended to the second floor? Tipped the chair into the brazier? Made ruin of a wedding gown befitting a relation of the queen but not a licentious bride?
