by Tamara Leigh
“Laura?”
She sprang off the chair, turned to find Lothaire approaching from the direction of the kitchen. “You are back early.”
“It is the eve of our wedding.” He halted before her. His face and hands were clean. Or mostly. As usual, stubborn darkness edged his nails. As for his clothes, they were fouled with dirt, what appeared to be oil, and a multitude of white hairs that evidenced shorn sheep.
“You look lovely,” he said.
Laura felt a pang of guilt over being far more presentable than the Baron of Lexeter. “I thank you, my lord.”
“Sir Angus informed me of what happened this morn. I am sorry for the loss of your gown, and that I shall not see you in finery fit for a queen.”
“Ah, but you prefer me in simpler garments.”
“I do, but it is a loss, and the queen shall be displeased.”
“Were she told of it. I see no reason to inform her.”
His smile was slight. “I am grateful. When she receives your missive, she will be ill enough with me over the delay in moving my mother to her dower property.”
Once more gripped with fear Lady Raisa was responsible for the fire, Laura said, “I have not yet sent that missive, it being my hope once you and I speak vows you will see her safely removed.”
Something like understanding flashed in Lothaire’s eyes, and she wondered if it also occurred to him the toppled chair was no accident.
“I assure you, Lady Raisa shall depart High Castle as soon as possible.”
“How soon?” she asked with more urgency than intended.
“If the physician feels she is strong enough to make the journey, within a sennight of our wedding."
“And if he deems she is not strong enough?”
She felt his struggle and hated that she sounded as if she had no care for his mother’s well-being, but the fear that had subsided these past weeks following the woman’s attack had returned. And was more pressing. A bruise was one thing, a potentially fatal fire quite another.
“I will see it done, Laura,” he said as if that was assurance enough, then cupped her elbow. “Sir Angus tells the chamber has been thoroughly cleaned. Show me.”
Eschewing argument, she allowed him to guide her up the stairs.
“Nay,” Lothaire said the moment they stepped into the chamber. “It may be clean, but it yet smells of smoke.”
The scent did irritate, making her sniff. “There is more of a breeze than earlier.” She nodded at the open windows. “When I seek my bed this eve, the smell should be much resolved.”
“Not enough. You, Clarice, and Tina shall sleep in the solar.”
She blinked. “What of you?”
“Sir Angus will make room for me in his chamber.”
Her heart swelled. “That is thoughtful.”
Lips curving wryly, he said, “I can be on occasion.”
Laura knew she should not do it, and she could have suppressed the impulse the young Laura would not have, but she stepped in front of him, reached her body up his, and offered her mouth.
Though his pupils spread wide as he considered her lips and his head started to lower, he took a step back.
“Lothaire?”
“If you are truly uncomfortable being desired, my lady, you ought not do that—and certainly not in a chamber defined by the presence of a bed.”
She loathed herself for not suppressing the impulse. Now he either believed she had lied or had so little control she was more the harlot than thought. “You are right. It will not happen again.”
“But I hope it shall, my lady, when the wedding ring on your hand grants me permission to lie down with you and kiss you on your mouth and neck. And other places.”
Even if that was all she wanted from him, that would not be all he did to her, she thought. Lest she begin to tremble, she stepped past and said over her shoulder. “I thank you for the use of the solar.”
She could not sleep. Not here. Not in his bed. Not knowing what would happen there on the morrow. She wanted Lothaire’s kisses, but what came after…
How was she to bear it? For bear it she must to conceive an heir. And if it pained and repulsed her as much as she feared, how was she to conceal her feelings? She had only the one experience, and it had turned more violent when her response was as far from passion as pain was from enjoyment.
She gripped the windowsill, leaned into the embrasure, dropped her chin. Lothaire would not do that to her, but that did not mean he would not be as offended by her response.
If only she had found the words to prepare him for the woman soon come to him. Now it was too near consummation of their vows to lessen the possibility of making ruin of their nuptial night. She had thought he would ask her to elaborate on Simon’s death, and then she would chance revelation, but he seemed to have forgotten it.
Aye, too late now. As told Michael, perhaps once she proved a good wife…
Lifting her face, she wished a cool wind upon it. But unlike the night past, these hours of dark were still and nearly warm, almost suffocating.
Or mayhap it is merely me, she thought and slowly drew a breath so she might feel all of it. Then she turned and peered into the solar’s moonlit expanse.
This room that served not only as the lord’s chamber but a place to conduct business in private was larger than expected and well furnished, though not excessively. The postered bed where Clarice slept was impressive. The rug upon which Tina’s pallet was laid—and from which a soft snore sounded—was in good repair. The large table and matching chairs at which Lothaire might meet other nobles or work his journals were of oak. The chairs before the fireplace were worn but sturdy. Two iron-banded trunks that must contain Lothaire’s personal effects were stacked against the wall alongside the garderobe. But best of all—because she loved water and had not expected such at High Castle—was a large tub.
As when first she entered the solar, she was drawn to it, and once more she ran her fingers over its bulbous wooden rim and smooth, dry inner wall that evidenced Lothaire had not made use of it for some time.
She longed for a bath—the wonderful weightlessness and liquid heat, rivulets of perspiration coursing her face, sinking beneath the surface and peering up at the ceiling through water and gently waving hair.
Had she not postponed entering the solar until it was time to sleep, she would have had Tina arrange for water to be heated and carried abovestairs. Perhaps then she would have been able to sleep—or at least rest.
Laura pulled her shawl more closely around her, looked to the mattress she had lain upon until certain her daughter and Tina slept. It was where she ought to be found in the morn, but though exceedingly tired, she would not be able to find her rest there. Best she try the chair whose discomfort would ensure any sleep gained was not so deep she was unable to slip back into bed ere Clarice and Tina awakened.
The chair proving fairly comfortable, Laura’s wakefulness was short-lived. Throughout the night, she awoke often, and returned to bed only when darkness receded in advance of the dawn. None would ever know her first full night in Lothaire’s bed was yet to come.
Chapter 24
“Praise the Lord ye finally ceased your haunting and gained some sleep last eve, even be it in a chair.”
Laura swept her gaze to the upper portion of the mirror in which Tina’s reflection hovered above her own. “Did I much disturb your sleep?”
“Indeed. I kept driftin’ off, but for what—an hour? two?—ye stood at the window, wandered the chamber, petted the tub.”
Laura sighed. “Forgive me. Had I known, I would have tried the chair sooner.”
“I wish ye had, though not for me. For ye.” She leaned around, looked close upon her lady’s face. “We shall have to pinch yer cheeks to put color in them ere ye meet Lord Soames at the church door, else he might think ye afeared of him.”
On this day she was…
“And a bit of powder ought to cover the dark ‘neath your eyes.”
&nb
sp; Tina was right. If one looked beyond beautifully curled and braided hair, they might think Lothaire’s bride ill. Laura nodded. “Aye, powder and pinches.”
“As for the tub”—the woman jerked her head toward it—“on the morn after yer wedding night we shall put it to good use, even if I must needs lug every blessed pail meself.”
Laura turned on the stool and threw her arms around Tina. “How I love thee!”
Surprise stiffened the maid, then she went all soft and tucked her lady nearer. “Oh milady, how I love thee.” They held each other until Tina sighed and ended the embrace. “Now then…” She reached for the powder. “…Baron Soames will be wantin’ his bride.”
An hour later, the garlanded wagon carrying Laura, her daughter, and maid halted before the church at Thistle Cross, outside which were gathered far more of Lexeter’s people than expected. It would have been an impressive number were Laura of a mind to be impressed, but she was too anxious and became more so when she saw Lothaire before the steps alongside Father Atticus.
“Mayhap my new father is as handsome as Baron Marshal,” Clarice whispered. “Does he not look fine, Mother?”
As nearly she had once imagined he would look on their wedding day. The blond of his hair was darker, and though he was only slightly taller, he was considerably more muscular than the young man who had courted her. As for the garments his squire had collected from the solar this morn, they were the fine ones he had worn at court and tall boots once more gripped his calves.
It seemed silly to think him the most handsome of men, but weathered though she knew he was up close, he was that to her. “He looks most fine,” she said and, when Sir Angus came alongside the wagon, accepted his offer to lift her down.
While he next assisted Clarice and Tina, Laura smoothed the skirt of her dark red gown and adjusted the gold cape pinned to her shoulders with small brooches. Then Sir Angus took her arm and led her toward the church that was flanked by Lexeter’s people.
To her surprise, Sebille was present. To her relief, Lady Raisa and the physician were not.
Laura withheld her gaze from Lothaire until she halted before him. She did not care—not overly much—that his smile was more for the benefit of their audience. It seemed genuine and comforted.
“Your lady,” Sir Angus said and removed his hand from Laura and stepped back.
Taking hold of her arm, Lothaire leaned down. “Are you well?”
Wondering if she ought to have allowed Tina to apply another layer of powder, wishing she had not forgotten to pinch her cheeks, Laura whispered, “I am. I but had difficulty finding my rest last eve.”
His smile curved a bit more. “This night you shall sleep in my arms.”
In the next instant, the troubling of Lothaire’s brow evidenced she had gone paler. But he said naught and turned her toward Father Atticus.
The man nodded at the bride and groom, and she glimpsed concern in his eyes before he began to question them in a loud clear voice.
He asked them to confirm they were not too closely related to prevent them from wedding. They said they were not. Did their parents consent to their union? Though Laura could not know and Lothaire certainly did, they said they were unaware of any objection. Had the banns been read the proscribed three Sundays? Well the priest knew it was so, but they confirmed it for all present. Lastly, they were asked if they entered into marriage of their own will. Lothaire said he did, and though he did so without hesitation, he surely felt the queen’s breath on his neck. As Laura agreed she freely gave herself, she wished for the joy and anticipation of the nuptial night to come as imagined ten years past.
That done, silence followed where the bride’s dowry ought to be cited. Though the people would be curious, they would have to remain so, even if they wrongly concluded Laura brought to the marriage only the promise of an heir. As directed, the king and queen’s tax break was to be held close.
Father Atticus looked to Lothaire, inclined his head.
A jangle drawing Laura’s regard to that which her groom unfastened from his belt, she extended her left hand. He set the pouch in her palm, the coins of which would be distributed to the poor, the symbolism of which was the new Lady of Lexeter might act on behalf of her husband in matters of finance.
Once Laura fastened it on her girdle, the priest said, “And now to plight your troth.”
Lothaire took Laura’s right hand and turned to fully face her.
She peeked up at him from beneath her lashes, and receiving a smile, tilted her face up.
“I, Lothaire Soames, Baron of Lexeter,” he said loud for all to hear, “take thee, Laura Middleton, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for fairer for fouler, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, ’til death us depart, if Holy Church will it ordain. And thereto I plight thee my troth.” Then in a voice for her alone, he added, “At long last.”
Tears disturbing her vision, she realized her hand was trembling when he gently squeezed it.
Her vows were identical to his but for the insertion of one that made all the difference. “…to be meek and obedient in bed and at table,” she pushed past her lips, “’til death us depart, if Holy Church it will ordain. And thereto I plight thee my troth.” Then for him alone, she also added, “At long last.”
Did his eyes brighten, or was it only the sun in them?
Next, Father Atticus blessed the ring and passed it to Lothaire. As the groom briefly slid it on each finger of her left hand ahead of the finger it would adorn to her end days, he said, “In the name of the Father…in the name of the Son…in the name of the Holy Ghost…with this ring I thee wed.”
The warmed band settled at the base of her finger, then that portion of the ceremony concluded, Lothaire turned Laura toward those gathered to witness the marriage and she removed the pouch from her girdle.
Those in greatest need came forward—the aged, the orphaned, those afflicted with defects of birth, illness, and injuries—and into each palm she pressed a coin. When the pouch was empty, the church doors were opened and Lothaire led his bride inside.
Side by side they knelt at the altar, and when Sir Angus and Sebille stretched the pall over them, they bent their heads and the longest portion of the ceremony commenced. At the end of the mass, Father Atticus gave the groom the kiss of peace, which Lothaire passed to Laura—a chaste kiss, but the salty taste of him was still on her lips when she sat before him on his destrier and the wedding party started back toward High Castle for the feast.
And the nuptial night Laura was determined Lothaire would not find wanting.
The scent of roses. Far different from that of ale, wine, and the oaken casks in which those drinks were stored in a cellar.
The sight of red, cupped petals. Far different from that of earthen floor, barrels, sacks, and burdened shelves.
The sound of silence. Far different from that of creaking wood steps and scampering rats.
“Far different,” Laura said.
“Different, my lady?”
Having forgotten she was not alone, she swung around to face the priest where he stood before the window awaiting Lothaire’s arrival, after which he would see the married couple situated beneath the covers and pray the joining proved fertile, evidencing any promiscuity on the bride’s part was forgiven.
That last made Laura glad she knew what to expect and it was not exclusive to her. Even had she wed ten years past whilst pure, such a blessing would have been spoken over the couple once they were abed. Still, the priest would have excluded the groom from forgiveness of sexual sin.
She smoothed her white chemise whose bodice was pleated around the neck, forced a smile, and was as surprised by her words as he seemed when she said, “Aye, ten years different.”
He considered her long, nodded. “How different, may I ask?”
“From what I expected and wanted. But I would like to believe I am here now because God knows me better than my husband and makes a way for us to m
end the past so there are yet blessings to be had from our marriage.” She tapped her teeth against her lower lip. “Might I believe that? Or do you think…?”
“Tell me, my child.”
“Is it too late?”
“For what?”
Her hands hurt, and when she looked down she saw how tightly she gripped them. “For Lothaire to love me even half as much as once he did?”
“You profess to love him, my lady?”
Though she might regret her honesty, she said, “I did. I do. Never did I cease. But if he cannot love me again, I shall pray my heart releases him as his has released mine.”
He crossed to her side. “Nay, my lady, do not pray such. Far better to love without profit than love not and reap bitterness.”
She stared.
“Better than any, Lady Raisa and her daughter taught me that.” He patted her arm. “Love no matter the hurt, else any chance you have at being loved—regardless how small or seemingly hopeless—will be lost.”
“I thank you, Father.” She was grateful for his kindness though he could offer no assurance of substance Lothaire might love her again. Thus, she was to love in the absence of love returned on the chance it would encourage her husband to feel something more enduring than desire.
She winced at allowing that last word to enter her thoughts, hoped Lothaire would not speak it this night lest she be overwhelmed by memories of her pleading with Simon. When she had declared she did not love or want him, he had childishly retorted he would not love her. He would simply desire her, thus requiring naught of her but that she lie still. But she had fought him, and he had subdued her with violence whose only benefit was bruises, scratches, and torn garments that allowed Lady Maude to see her son as the miscreant he had become during his knighthood training.
“Where is your groom?” Father Atticus returned her to the present. Hands clasped behind his back, he turned toward the door.
