by Anne O'Brien
Richard Malinder, another early riser, watched her investigate. He saw the flutter of movement, saw her emerge from the Great Hall in a well-worn cloak which swirled some ten inches from the ground as the tall figure strode across the inner court yard. Noted the energy, the light, confident step as the lady explored his home. Her curiosity, her quick agility as she ran up the stair case, striding around to inspect the view on all four sides. And she talked to people as she passed. The guards on duty. His steward, Master Kilpin, answered some query with a nod and a wave of his arm. The servant girls from the dairy. Anyone who crossed her path. It was as if the pale, damply reserved creature of the previous day had been reborn, a butterfly, if still a sombre one, so perhaps a moth—his lips twitched—emerging from a dull chrysalis.
He should speak with her. He had agreed to take her in matrimony, had he not? Lord Richard had to resist a sigh after that one vivid memory of her, naked and vulnerable, wary as a wild hare before the hunting dogs. No time for regrets now. He climbed the stair case to meet his betrothed where she leaned on the stone parapet to look to the distant Welsh hills.
Elizabeth turned quickly at the sound of his boots on stone. Solemn, her steady gaze watchful, careful, but unnervingly direct. Waiting, he realised, to gauge his mood.
‘You took no harm from your journey, Lady.’
‘No. I am quite recovered from the drenching. Thank you, my lord.’
She said no more but stood, motionless, cautious, as he advanced. He held out his hand in invitation. Elizabeth promptly placed hers there with no sign of reluctance. Richard’s interest was caught. Perhaps she was not wary at all, simply circumspect, unwilling to give too much of herself away until she had taken his measure. Then she surprised him when she reversed their clasped hands, turning his uppermost to reveal the back of his own wrist. And touched the long red scratch gently with apologetic fingers.
‘I’m sorry for this.’
His brows twitched in sardonic humour. ‘I take it the animal isn’t hidden beneath your cloak this morning.’
‘No.’ The corner of her mouth quirked in the faintest of responses. The deep blue of her eyes, reflecting the rich hue of the cloak, picked up a glint of gold from the weak rays of the sun.
‘Do I call you Beth? Or Bess?’ he asked. ‘What do your family call you?’
‘I am Elizabeth,’ she replied gravely.
‘Then Elizabeth it shall be.’ It told him much of her up bringing, that she had never been named informally with affection. ‘Do you approve?’ he asked.
‘Of what?’
‘Ledenshall.’ He gestured to their surroundings. ‘Your new home.’
‘Of course.’ The slightest hint of colour rose from the fur at her neckline, as if in guilt that she had been found out in some lack of courtesy. ‘You didn’t mind?’ A quick contact of eyes, as if she feared a reprimand.
‘Of course not. It’s your home. You’re free to enjoy it.’ A contradiction here, he realised, between confidence and vulnerability. He thought about what he wanted to say to put her at her ease, which she clearly wasn’t. ‘I’m sorry you should have had to face this ordeal alone. Your uncle should have been here to welcome you.’
The heightened colour deepened. ‘And I am sure we can deal well enough without him, my lord. Sir John is the last person I would expect to be here to make me comfort able.’ She closed her lips firmly.
So the tale of the estrangement between uncle and niece was true. He found Elizabeth was now looking squarely at him, head tilted, whilst Richard awaited the outcome, senses on the alert. It was not often that young women appraised him in so serious a manner, without a smile on their lips or an invitation in their eyes. She was definitely taking his measure. Her words surprised him further.
‘Let us be frank. We both know it, my lord. I am here as a replacement for my cousin Maude because Sir John wishes it,’ she announced gruffly. ‘And because for you the de Lacy connection would have its advantages in the March. There’s no need for pretence between us. You did not want me, I know. But I presume that Sir John was most persuasive with my dowry—my mother’s Vaughan lands, I expect. And, of course, you’ll need a Malinder heir. I shall do all in my power to oblige.’
Well, here was plain speaking. But if her words took him aback, he hid it and answered in kind. ‘That is all true. And I warrant that my offer to take you as Lady of Ledenshall would give you far more sat is faction than the narrow life of a nun in Llanwardine. There are advantages on both sides.’
The colour flared as if she had been struck, and he was sorry for his lack of finesse, but her reply was immediate. ‘That is also true. I regret Maude’s loss to you. She had the promise of such beauty and spirit.’
What could he say to that? His mind scrabbled for an answer, until it was made obvious that she had no expectation of empty flattering remarks.
‘I have studied what I see in my mirror, my lord.’ She turned from him to look out over the battlements. ‘I shall try to be everything a wife should be. You need not fear for my loyalty, if that would be a concern. I would not wish it to be an issue between us.’ Now he was definitely startled that she should pick up so contentious an issue, almost as if she could read his mind. Honesty indeed on such brief acquaintance, even if it proved to be painful. ‘My family is Yorkist—you and I have been brought up as enemies from our cradles, and I shall always consider the claim of the Plantagenet House of York to be superior to that of poor mad King Henry. But I swear that my loyalty in marriage will be to you.’
Richard looked at his bride’s stern face with a complex mix of astonishment and admiration and decided to be just as forth right. ‘My own oath is given to that same King Henry, whatever the state of his wits, because he is the anointed King, whilst the Plantagenets have bloody treachery in mind.’ He smiled a little as she stiffened at his accusation. ‘I see we shall never agree on this divisive issue—but with such honesty between us, we shall do well enough together.’
‘I expect we shall.’ She risked a slanted glance ‘We are both adult and see the value of honesty and loyalty between man and wife. I dislike pretence and disguise.’
‘And I.’ How strong she was beneath her pale fragility, how magnificently controlled in the circumstances. But she was not a comfort able presence. He felt it was a bit like negotiating an alliance with a potential enemy with the flags of war still raised on both sides.
‘And the marriage ceremony?’ Elizabeth asked bluntly.
‘Soon. I see no reason to prolong the arrangements.’ He leaned against the parapet to watch the play of emotion over her face. ‘If that is to your liking, of course—I suppose I should never underestimate the amount of time needed by the females of a house hold.’
‘I have no objection. I have no experience of such matters.’ Her flat words were accompanied by a little lift of her shoulders as if she did not care.
Although his hackles rose, instinct quickly told Richard Malinder that it was a pretence. It mattered to her, though she would not admit it. He did not think she would admit anything to him—yet. He took possession of her hands again, turning them over, smoothing them with fingers callused from sword and reins. Hers were no better than his, he mused, no softer, and impossibly red and rough with swollen knuckles and chapped skin, nails chipped and broken. Not the hands of a lady of birth. His lips tightened as he came to under stand her life at Llanwardine.
‘You will not have to scrub floors here, lady.’
‘Thank God.’ She looked at her hands with a little frown of distaste. ‘This was from digging for roots in frozen ground. And breaking the ice on the water to wash the bowls after meals.’
‘Chilblains?’ he enquired in some sympathy. He enfolded her fingers gently within his.
Elizabeth sighed. ‘I fear so. And my toes. Jane Bringsty urges pennyroyal salve on me, but to no avail.’
‘We must look after you here. I cannot have a Malinder bride suffering.’
He looked again at her han
ds, warmly enclosed within his. They might be damaged and painful, but her fingers were long and slender, the nails pale ovals. They could be beautiful, he suspected. And it reminded him that he must give her some symbol of their union. Not a ring yet, he decided. Not until she could wear it with pride and some sat is faction. But he knew exactly what he would give her.
Elizabeth made no attempt to pull away. When, in a noble gesture of chivalry towards his bride, Richard bent his head to kiss her work-scarred hands, he felt the slightest return of pressure as she tightened her fingers on his. The little gesture of trust tugged at his heart, surprising him, so that he felt compelled to turn her hand to press his lips to her palm. In contrast to her fingers the skin was enticingly soft so that he lingered, his lips warming, then looking up to find her eyes searching his face. He was trans fixed by the beauty of their violet depths, a leaping connection that made him want to soothe and reassure her as he would a newly broken mare.
For a long moment they simply stared at each other.
The she pulled her hands free and the moment was broken.
‘Let us go down. The wind has too much of an edge here.’ He made to lead her down the steps, placing himself unobtrusively between the lady and the increasing gusts. ‘Food, I think. And you need to be introduced to those of the household whom you have not already met.’
On level ground again within the court yard, sheltered from the worst, he pulled her hand through his arm to walk back to the living quarters, in no manner dissatisfied with the turn of events. Out spoken to a fault she might be, she would never be easy to live with—too much obstinacy, too wilful, he had decided—but there was at least a measure of agreement between them.
Whilst Elizabeth de Lacy fought a difficult battle to repress the little spurt of hope that warmed her heart. Take care! she warned herself. It would be too easy to allow this man to break down the barriers so effectively constructed over the years to protect her heart from further hurt. But Richard Malinder was kind. He had shown her a level of under standing that she had not expected, and his arm was strong beneath her hand.
‘What is it?’
Glancing across at her as they reached the court yard, he seemed to catch her line of thought, and smiled at her as he made his enquiry. But Elizabeth, after a little hesitation, merely shook her head and veiled her eyes with dark lashes. How could she tell this man who was concerned for her happiness and the state of her hands that he was so very beautiful? That his dark hair, ruffled to a tangle by the wind, and the stunning lines, the flat planes of his face, brought an uncomfortable flutter to her heart.
A sudden gust of wind blew her cloak, rippled her veil. She raised her hands to hold it secure, conscious of her unsatisfactory pinning of the folds. Aware of nothing but the sheer magnetism of this dark figure who stood so close and to whom she would soon be bound. Aware of nothing but the throb of her blood beneath his touch. The imprint of his mouth on her palm still burned like a brand. She closed her fingers tightly over it.
Before they parted company at the main door, their paths crossed that of Robert, who had unashamedly been watching their approach. Smiling, he bowed to the de parting Elizabeth, then cast a wry look towards at his cousin.
‘A pity that she…’
Robert lurched to a stop as he read the cool expression, most definitely a warning that dared him to say more. ‘No matter. I was always tactless.’ And then, irrepressible to the last, ‘But she’s not a cosy armful, and you can’t argue that she is!’
Richard merely stared at his cousin, searching for a suitable reply, only to find himself thinking of Gwladys. Beautiful, desirable in face and figure, any man’s dream to own and hold. He remembered as a young man falling hopelessly in love with her undeniable beauty, his physical response to her, his desire to kiss her and caress her into mindless delight. He recalled his pride in her as his wife and his hopes for that marriage. How his breath had caught, his loins stirred whenever he set eyes on her. Now Elizabeth… A complicated woman who roused in him—what? He wasn’t sure.
‘No, she’s not a cosy armful. But at least Elizabeth is honest. I think she might be incapable of dissembling,’ he replied, unaware of the snap in his voice until he saw Robert’s reaction. ‘Unlike Gwladys, who…’ Richard shifted, impatient with himself, conscious of Robert’s arched stare, his piqued interest at what had been a carelessly thoughtless comment on his part. He should not have made it. But at least he knew Robert would not ask.
And Richard found his thoughts leaping from beautiful Gwladys to Elizabeth de Lacy. It was not as uncomfortable a leap as he might have suspected. She’s not beautiful, but neither is she plain. She talks to people. She has beautiful eyes. She speaks openly without dissembling. Her touch is firm and responsive when I take her hand. She smoothed the wound on my hand as if my pain mattered to her. When I kissed her hand, she responded. What would it be like…?
What would it be like to kiss her lips?
Richard cursed himself for a fool.
Elizabeth found a refuge in the solar where she could consider, and marvel at Richard Malinder’s effect on her. Hardly had she sunk to her knees before a welcome fire than the door opened to admit Mistress Anne, a vision of delectable feminine fashion. A fur-edged side-less surcote fit snugly over a vibrant green cotehardie, falling in dramatic folds from the jewelled belt around her elegant hips, a fashion guar an teed to draw the eye to the girl’s soft curves. The transparent veil did nothing to hide the glory of her plaited hair.
‘Elizabeth. If you need anything for your marriage, Richard is to ride to Hereford tomorrow,’ Anne announced in a glory of self-importance.
‘Thank you. I will speak to him.’ A little wary.
Anne seated herself comfort ably beside the fire in a confiding manner, folded her hands. Smiled. ‘He will make time to see Mistress Joanna there, I expect.’
The moment hung in silence, as the dust motes hung in the still air, glinting in the sun. Not at all innocent, but sharp edged and deadly. Recognising it for what it was, a malicious tease, Elizabeth titled her chin, waited.
‘Did you not know? Well, of course, how should you!’ Anne, brow smooth, eyes wide, was all concern and gentle compassion. ‘But best that you should know what everyone at Ledenshall knows.’
‘And what is that?’ Elizabeth’s breathing was shallow. ‘Who is Joanna?’
‘Richard’s mistress, of course. Everyone knows Richard has a mistress in Hereford.’
Ah! ‘And you thought, in your concern for my peace of mind, that you should inform me of Richard’s liaison?’
‘Why, yes. Do you think me insensitive? Forgive me, dear Elizabeth, I presumed you would wish to know. I meant no ill will. I would never deliberately hurt you.’ Anne’s smile was sorrowful, her eyes not so.
Elizabeth marvelled at her control. She titled her head in speculative interest, kept her gaze steady, her voice supremely composed. When she answered it was with the slightest lift of her shoulders. ‘Richard’s concerns are, of course, his own. Mine too, perhaps, when we are wed, but certainly, Mistress Anne, they are not yours.’
‘Why, no. Of course not. Forgive me my ill judgement.’
But the damage was done. Anne Malinder did not stay.
Alone again, Elizabeth allowed the fury within her to settle from flame to ash. So Richard had a mistress in Hereford called Joanna. Of course she would wish to know of such a liaison, and of course Richard might have a mistress, but she would rather not hear it from Mistress Anne’s viperous tongue. Elizabeth’s fingers curled into admirable claws. How she had stopped herself from at tacking the malicious little creature, verbally at least, she had no idea. Then her nails dug into her palms as she recalled how impossibly beautiful Anne Malinder was with the sunlight on her red-gold hair, gleaming in her emerald eyes.
Her thoughts turned to her betrothed with a sinking heart. She had thought him kind this morning in their meeting on the battlements. Yes, he was, but only because it did not matter to h
im. He did not need an intimate relationship with her beyond the purely physical to achieve an heir. How foolish to allow that little seed of hopeful anticipation to become implanted in her heart.
So Elizabeth raised her head, lifted her chin, drawing on pride as she had so many times before. She would make the best of this marriage and make use of Richard Malinder as he would make use of her, if that was the best she could do. She would ad minister Ledenshall Castle with all her considerable ability. She would dress well for the marriage as befitted a Malinder bride. She would challenge Mistress Anne’s determination to hurt and wound. She would certainly show no weakness before her or respond to her barbed arrows. If battle lines had been drawn between them on the previous day, Elizabeth now silently declared war.
And it was in this mood that she found herself cornered by Jane Bringsty, who sought her mistress out with deliberate and heavy foot steps, intent on good advice and herbal potions.
‘There’s one thing that you should do before you spend many more nights under this roof, my lady.’ Jane handed over a small pot of a slimy green sub stance with an un pleasant smell. She saw the frown immediately forming between Elizabeth’s brows. ‘Use it and don’t fuss. It will bring nothing but ease.’
Without comment, because it was the simplest thing to do—and true—Elizabeth obediently began to smooth the salve of pennyroyal into her hands and fingers, her mind occupied with the bright memory of Richard Malinder’s cool mouth against her damaged skin.
‘What is it that I should do before I stay here longer?’ She drew in her breath at the hot itch as her fingers grew warm.
‘Get rid of that woman—of Mistress Anne Malinder.’
Elizabeth’s eyes flew to her servant’s face, to see there not the mild mischief as she had expected, but some thing deeper, more severe.
