Enduringly Yours

by Stocum, Olivia

  “You can aim high. You should aim high.”

  Peter wasn’t sure what to say. “Thank you,” was all that came to mind.

  John hooked his arm around Peter’s shoulders, ruffling his hair with his other hand. “Will you attend your own wedding? Or will I have to force you?”

  “I will be there. Let me know when she is ready.”

  * * *

  Zipporah looked around the guest chamber she was sharing with Alana. Her own chamber was barren, of course, her things still at Ravenmore. She had no idea where she and Peter would be sleeping tonight.

  Neither did she care.

  This time around, he was being forced to marry her. Wasn’t that the very thing she’d wanted to avoid three years ago? It was sickening how their lives had come full circle.

  She frowned at her choices for a wedding gown. There were several laid over a bed for her to examine. They were donated from her guests, since there wasn’t enough time to have one made.

  Zipporah looked at the raven-haired seamstress who was awaiting a decision.

  “How long will it take to alter it?” Zipporah asked.

  “Once you pick one, my lady, it will depend on how many alterations are required.” By her tone of voice, Zipporah could tell the woman was ready to get on with it. She was no doubt feeling the pressure of having to finish in time. Zipporah understood completely. She was feeling pressured too.

  Just pick one, you silly twit!

  Her eyes fell upon a forest green gown made of high quality wool. It was embroidered with silk thread. Someone had spent hours illustrating tiny bearded unicorns dancing around fruit trees. Zipporah had already tried the gown on and found it almost fit, save needing to be taken in around the bust line. Green symbolized fertility. A bride who wore green was making a statement. She frowned. Statement or not, the green one was the most obvious choice since it almost fit. Zipporah handed it over.

  “This one,” she said.

  The seamstress’s knowing smile almost made her change her mind. She didn’t, because this one was the most obvious choice. The most practical choice.

  And as beautiful as the gown was, she hated it already. She hated this day, and she hated Peter.

  Nay, she didn’t hate Peter. But she wanted to.

  Zipporah cleared her throat. “How long?”

  The seamstress looked it over. “I will have it done in time, I assure you, my lady.” Her left eye ticked as she hurried from the chamber.

  Alana came around, scooping up the other gowns. She looked at Zipporah from over them. “Do you know what chamber you will be using tonight?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I will return these to their owners, and then I will find out. I’d like to make up the chamber myself.”

  “You do not have to do that.”

  “I want to. One of us might as well be happy on their wedding night.”

  Zipporah faked a smile. There was no point in trying to explain the situation. Alana was being kind, and Zipporah decided to let her. “Of course. Thank you.”

  Alana left with the clothing. Zipporah’s mother arrived on her heels with freshly cut roses. Lady Havendell pulled her garden shears out of her belt and began snipping away.

  “Have a seat and I will dress your hair,” she said. “Which gown did you decide on?”

  Zipporah sat in the chair before the dressing table. “The green one. It almost fits.”

  “A fitting choice, then?”

  She made a face. “Do not remind me.”

  “John does have his reasons for all of this. Once the betrothal agreement has been read before witnesses, we will all be better off.” She paused. “And I like the green one.”

  “Now you want me to have a real wedding?”

  “Now there is Gilburn on the loose.”

  “I told Peter about Katrina. Actually, I thought he already knew and I . . . let’s just say my timing was off.”

  “Oh, Zipporah.”

  “He is not happy with me. I told you he wouldn’t be when he found out.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that it might be the way he found out?”

  “He shouldn’t be forced to marry me like this.”

  “Too late for that.” Her mother took a clarifying breath, her chin creasing against her wimple. “If ever too people belonged together, it is you and Peter. I see it, John sees it, and I imagine half the countryside can see it.”

  “I am going to be sick.”

  Alana returned unexpectedly, her arms still filled with gowns. “I almost forgot.” She unloaded the clothing onto the bed, then removed the silver circlet from her head. A brown curl fell into her face. She brushed it back. “I want you to use this. It was my grandmother’s.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Please do. She loved my grandfather, whereas, I will never love my husband.”

  Zipporah reached for the silver band. “You do not know that.”

  Alana leveled a look at her.

  “Well, maybe you will not have to marry the duke.”

  “What duke?” Lady Havendell asked.

  “Besville.”

  “Ah,” she sounded. Her brows furrowed, and then a small smile lit her face. “Have you a knight who loves you?”

  “Mother,” Zipporah warned.

  Lady Havendell shrugged.

  “Nay.” Alana glanced out the narrow arched window, eyes distant. “I do not have a knight who cares for me.”

  “There is time yet to find one.”

  Zipporah handed her mother the circlet. Lady Havendell must have been lost in good memories, because she was still smiling. She positioned the silver band over Zipporah’s head.

  “My mother ran away with my father,” Zipporah said.

  “I choice I do not regret.”

  “There is no one for me to run away with,” Alana said. “Besides, the fate of my brother’s estate hangs in the balance. I have no choice.”

  “When I married Lord Havendell, he had a sword and his horse to his name.” She paused. “And his Knight’s Spurs.” She tucked a rosebud into Zipporah’s hair. “Oh, he was lovely too. So tall and handsome. I first met him at Mêlée. He said he saw me in the stands and he just knew. It took me longer. Aye, I thought he was beautiful, all muscle and brilliant smiles. But I needed more.”

  She continued with Zipporah’s hair, silent now. Zipporah didn’t dare say anything as she remembered her father strong and fully alive. Alana sighed longingly, then took up the gowns and backed out of the chamber.

  Zipporah looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her long waves were loose; as was generally the custom for virgin brides . . . Rosebuds were tucked into the circlet, and ribbons woven into small sections of hair.

  “Perhaps I should be wearing a wimple,” Zipporah said.

  Her mother shook her head. “Stop.”

  Zipporah remained in the chamber until her gown arrived. There was little time to spare. The seamstress was blowing straggled locks out of her face. Zipporah stopped her before she could leave the room.

  “Thank you.”

  She nodded, curtsying. “I hope it is to your satisfaction, my lady.”

  “I’m sure it is perfect.” Unlike the rest of her life.

  “We had better hurry,” her mother said, “or you will be late.”

  “Good. There is no sense in being there earlier than absolutely necessary.”

  “Everything is going to be fine. You will see.” Her mother helped her into the gown, then took her by the hand. “It is time.”

  “What if he does not come?”

  “Peter will come. That man would move mountains for you.”

  “Do not count on it.”

  They met Alana in the great hall. She had changed into an ivory kyrtle with long bell sleeves. Together they made their way to the chapel, servants and villagers trailing behind. The moment she stepped inside the church, Zipporah found it hard to breathe. Her laces felt too tight. The circlet made her head ache.
<
br />   Peter was there, standing before the altar in the surcoat she had mended. She never did get around to making him a new one. If she’d known they would be having a wedding, she would have—never mind. It didn’t matter anyway.

  John took her from her mother, no doubt intending to give her away. He kissed her hands. “He will recover, my lady.”

  She hoped her dark look was answer enough.

  “The two of you need to spend some time in the stocks. Right next to each other, where you will be forced to work out your differences.” His eyes took on a calculating gleam. “That is not a bad idea.”

  “Just give me away, John,” she gritted. “Quickly, before you get any more ideas.”

  Frowning, he led her to Peter and placed her hand in his. Peter wouldn’t look at her. She had to bite her bottom lip to keep from crying while the priest conducted the ceremony. The betrothal agreement was read before a church full of witnesses. And in a cloud of disappointment, she was announced his wife.

  Zipporah tasted blood. She’d bitten into her lip. A single drop fell. She watched it, as if in slow motion, splatter on the stone floor. It was time for Peter to kiss her. She kept her head down until he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him.

  His eyes widened when he saw her. He let out a short, agonized breath. Tilting her face back, he kissed her carefully. Peter wiped the pad of his thumb over her mouth, then took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. Unsure of what was going through his head, she walked beside him, silently, watching the stone floor, not trusting him and not squeezing his hand in response.

  They left the chapel and were followed by their guests into the castle keep for a celebratory meal. Zipporah picked at her food and drank more wine than she should have, trying to block out the noise that was buzzing like bees in her head. They were herded, sheep to the slaughter, upstairs to Edward’s old chamber. It had no doubt been her mother’s idea to put them there.

  The priest sprinkled holy water on the bed. One of the guests, a young lord, chuckled to himself as he drank out of an oversized tankard. “Mayhap we should stay, lads,” he called. “To witness the transaction.”

  There was always one, Zipporah thought. Their night would not be complete without a drunken fool and a lewd suggestion or two.

  “Sir Mark,” Lady Havendell said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Please take care of Lord Edmund.”

  “Aye, my lady.” Edmund was removed by the back of his tunic collar, ale slopping onto the floor.

  John and Lady Havendell shooed everyone else out of the room and the door was closed behind them. Zipporah had to force her eyes to focus. A fire was crackling in the hearth. The shutters were closed. The bed was lined with wolf pelts, a scarlet coverlet peeled aside and waiting for them.

  “Alana went to too much trouble,” Zipporah said. She rubbed her temples. “My head hurts.”

  “You drank too much.”

  This was the last place she wanted to be, and the last person she wanted to be with. Peter barred the door, then came up behind her, and removed the circlet from her head. He took the flowers and ribbons carefully from her hair. She felt cold inside, but she reached for her laces, loosening them. She turned to face him, ties still in her hands.

  This was their duty. King and country.

  He tipped her face toward his. She didn’t meet his gaze. “Do not. Do not talk to me right now.”

  “Zipporah?”

  “Not a word.”

  Sighing, he helped her with her gown. She stripped out of the shift she’d been so unwilling to remove before, dumping it onto the floor. Peter ran his fingers over the white scars from her pregnancy.

  “You are beautiful,” he said, his voice rough.

  Her head pounded. She didn’t know what to think. “Do not. Do not talk.”

  Clearly frustrated, he pulled her into his arms. Nothing about the way his body felt against hers was surprising. But her usual fire for him felt like a dull, painful ache.

  Peter carried her to bed, laying her out on the pelts. She ran her palms over thick gray wolf’s fur, felt the warm softness of it against her bare skin. He undressed, but seemed hesitant to actually join her. She took his hand and pulled him down.

  It was ridiculously easy to coax him into doing his duty.

  * * *

  When Zipporah awoke the next morning, it took her a moment to focus her swollen eyes, and then another to realize she was in Edward’s old chamber. Her skull ached and her mouth tasted fuzzy; aftereffects of the night before.

  She turned, expecting to see Peter asleep next to her. All that greeted her was a crumpled pillow. She sat up, wincing when her brains followed a moment after her skull. Her hair tumbled down her naked back.

  “Peter?”

  “I’m here,” he said.

  He was sitting in a chair watching her. She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, belatedly pulling the sheet up to cover herself. “What are you doing?”

  “Watching you sleep. Did you think I was gone?”

  “I . . . just woke up.”

  He held out his hand to her. “Come, please.”

  She stood, wrapping the sheet around her shoulders. His fingers closed over hers and he eased her onto his lap. “I need to question Fredrick this morning.”

  “I know.”

  “I still want to keep you under guard until I find Gilburn.”

  “Too much to hope he might give up?”

  “It is never too late for revenge.” Peter scrubbed a hand over blond stubble. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “What?”

  “Can you live with me now?”

  She straightened to look at his face. “What are you talking about?”

  “I will always need you more than you need me.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “Aye, it is. But I’m too selfish to do anything about it.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Why do you think I climbed the trellis to your window in the first place? I have always needed you, in more ways than you can imagine.”

  Her throat was dry. Her voice cracked. “I need you,” she said. “Of course I need you. How could you wonder?”

  He shrugged.

  “Is that what this was all about? Did you ruin my wedding because of it?”

  “I have been avoiding you, because I knew I let you down.”

  “I hate you.” It wasn’t nice, but part of her really had resented him for the last three and a half years. Maybe she needed to get it out of her system.

  They sat in silence for a time.

  “I do not really hate you,” she whispered.

  “I will make it up to you.”

  “I thought you were avoiding me because you were angry about Katrina.”

  “Nay. It was my fault. Last night was too.”

  “Last night was not the best for us. We have been better.”

  “Much better.” Peter kissed her shoulder.

  Standing, she shrugged out of the sheet. “I think I could be persuaded to let you try again, Sir Knight.”

  Eyes darkened as his pupils dilated. This was the first time in three years he’d gotten a really good look at her. A really long look that was.

  He was still looking.

  “Peter?”

  He smiled. “I’m coming.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Peter had expected more of a familial resemblance between Gilburn and his cousin, Fredrick. Fredrick was of an average height and build, with medium brown hair and eyes. There was little about him that would stand out in a crowd, and he looked nothing like his tall, dark kinsman.

  John was standing next to Peter in the guard tower cell that Fredrick was being detained in. Zipporah was behind him. He caught a glimpse of her coming up on her toes to peek over his shoulder.

  He should have told her nay when she had asked to come. As much as he knew she needed closure, he didn’t like bringing her into the finer
details.

  “I think we should let Brunswick the Torturer have a go at him,” John said, cracking his knuckles.

  Fredrick’s eyes widened.

  Peter eyed John. “I do not think that will be necessary.”

  “Perhaps not. But it would definitely be faster.” He grinned.

  “Brunswick isn’t here anyway,” Zipporah said. “He is caring for his sick mother.”

  “You are not helping,” John whispered.

  “I have never heard him referred to as The Torturer before,” she whispered back. “Certainly he has been called upon to keep order, but that is different than torture, I should think.”

  “Lass, you need to learn how to interrogate prisoners.”

  “Why do you not teach Alana? She seems interested.”

  John nodded, looking suddenly thoughtful.

  “Am I to be hung?” Fredrick interrupted, glancing at the solitary window in his cell as if contemplating escape. It was barred and too small for a grown man to climb out of anyway.

  “That all depends,” Peter said.

  “Aye,” John stated, “you are. But if you tell us everything you know, we will be quick about it. Otherwise . . .”

  “How about you start by telling me what you know about this.” Peter tossed the pouch of herbs at Fredrick.

  He caught it, his face draining of color. “Well I . . .” Fredrick swallowed. “You’re going to hang me anyway.”

  “It could be worse,” John said. “We could leave you here to rot.”

  “Go.” Peter gestured to John. “Take Zipporah with you. I will be out in a moment.”

  “Peter,” Zipporah said.

  “Go.”

  She glared at him as John took her by the arm and led her out of the cell, closing the door behind them.

  Peter pulled up a stool and sat across from Fredrick. “Hungry?”

  “A little.”

  “Would you like a meal?”

  “Will you hang me if I tell you everything?”

  “Depends.”

  “Will you leave me here to rot?”

  “Not likely. Waste of room, and food.”

  “My cousin is still out there.”