Mary Reed McCall

by Secret Vows

  Grayson studied his wife’s profile, uncertainty making him scowl. He’d felt something soften in him at the resignation he’d heard in her voice, and it warred with the hard shell of reserve he’d erected around himself concerning this marriage. She’d sounded so sincere. To his mind, no sane person could call her plain, and yet she had just bluntly declared it so. ’Twas true she’d never be a Court beauty, not with her impressive stature and vibrant coloring. But those same attributes also attracted Gray like no pale and delicate noblewoman ever would.

  Why, then, did she belittle herself? So caught up was he in thoughts of her strange response, that he hardly noticed when Eduard stood up and excused himself from the table.

  Narrowing his eyes, Gray twirled the stem of his goblet and gazed at his wife. A tiny bell went off in his mind, reminding him that he wasn’t considering all that he knew of the fairer sex. By the time he’d won his first tournament, he’d been wise to women’s more subtle methods of entrapment, emotional or otherwise.

  And his answer rested there, he decided. Like her brother, Elise toyed with him, only her game was in seeking compliments. Such banter was a form of intimacy, he knew, and of the kind that would lead to just the sort of emotional closeness he wanted to avoid establishing with his wife.

  Gesturing for the serving boys to bring fresh platters of meats and delicacies to their table, Gray forced himself to turn his attention back to the feast. He’d not fall for such a snare. Nay, he’d do better spending his time in making the rest of the evening tolerable. Besides, he was surprised to discover that he was beginning to feel hungry.

  He occupied himself with serving slices of capon in a succulent gravy onto the trencher he shared with his wife, following it up with a generous helping of roasted pork and several flaky pastries stuffed with mincemeat and berries. Bypassing the whole swan, with its graceful neck, Gray chose portions of tiny sweet onion floating in butter. As a final thought, he heaped spoonfuls of spiced apples and peaches along the edge of their trencher.

  Gray noticed that Elise sat still as a statue, pale now, while he arranged their food. However, her gaze kept drifting nervously to the arched doorway through which her brother had disappeared, as if she awaited his return. It annoyed Gray to realize that she seemed unaware of how considerate he was being. She couldn’t know, of course, that he’d never even allowed another woman to share his trencher, no less to serve her.

  But Alban knew. His friend was seated across from them, not far down the table; Gray saw that from the moment he’d begun selecting foods to share with his wife, Alban had paused mid-motion in his eating, his hand halfway to his mouth.

  Gray cleared his throat and gave Alban a look that made clear he was to behave as if what he’d just witnessed was commonplace. The awe-struck look faded from Alban’s face under the attack of a merry grin. His friend wasted no time in raising his cup in salute, nodding and calling for a drink to bless the union between the Lord of Ravenslock and his new bride.

  When the entire hall followed suit, Elise looked as if she might faint. Now that he’d spent some time with her, Gray noticed that she seemed rather timid. Almost roughly, he indicated that she should begin eating. Elise wouldn’t meet his gaze but gave him a nod and picked at one of the pastries. It was obvious that she forced herself.

  Gray frowned. At this rate, she’d starve to death before they’d been wed a month. But before he could address the issue, one of Eduard’s pages came up to the table; his master had been delayed in his errand, the boy said, but he assured them that he would return to the feast as soon as possible. Gray nodded and turned to Elise again, intent on insisting that she eat.

  He never needed to utter the command. He watched, stunned and appreciative, as she began to polish off every last morsel of food he’d placed on her side of the trencher. What had inspired her sudden change in mood boggled his mind, but he wasn’t about to interrupt her by asking.

  She seemed to relax during the remainder of the meal, even venturing to ask him several shy questions about his holdings. At one point she became almost animated, her hands moving with the grace of bird’s wings as she described the beauty of the willow fields near her previous home. Then she directed her gaze upon him, murmuring, “Is it possible that you have willow swamps here on your land? ’Tis almost time to gather the withies, and I could replenish my stock.”

  “Your stock, lady? And what do you do with these withies, as you call them?”

  She smiled, and the beauty of her expression took his breath away. He couldn’t help but notice that she talked with what seemed an almost palpable excitement. “After they’re boiled and dried, I weave them into all sorts of shapes and fancies. My last work took form slowly, but it turned out to be a fine, comfortable chair.” She directed the full force of her gaze on him, suddenly, her face alight. “Mayhap I could weave another like it, as a gift for you?”

  He was struck by the joy radiating from her blue eyes; it washed over him in a torrent, blinding him to everything but the desire to bask in it for as long as he could.

  Without forethought, he answered, “’Twould please me well. I’m not certain if willow fields grow on these lands, but perhaps in a few days I can free some time to help you find them.”

  As soon as he said it he could have bitten off his own tongue, but by then it was too late. He looked away, silently cursing himself, unable to fathom what had possessed him to make such an offer. The woman had lulled him into a conversational mood, damn her.

  Alban leaned in to offer them a platter of cheeses, wafers, and cakes baked in the shape of doves, smiling as he commented, “Your husband’s holdings are vast, milady. He governs much more than this one estate, though this castle and its lands are by far his most valuable prize to date.”

  Alban seemed to ignore Gray’s pointed glare. His friend continued blithely, “As a native of this region, I’m quite familiar with these lands. I’d be happy to assist you both in mapping out a route that provides the most thorough overview of the area, if you wish to look for willows with Lord Camville.”

  “Perhaps you should simply escort my wife yourself,” Gray offered dryly.

  “Nay, I couldn’t.” Alban feigned courtly surprise. “That pleasure is not mine to enjoy.”

  If Elise noticed the undercurrents of his exchange with Alban, she hid it well. Glancing at her to gauge her response, Gray felt a flash of concern; her face had gone ashen again, and those graceful hands were clenched still, as before, in her lap.

  “My lady, are you ill?” he asked quietly. “Shall I—”

  “Ah, my dear new brother by marriage. A thousand pardons to you and my sister for my absence.”

  Gray snapped his gaze to Eduard, who talked as he approached, his face sharp with an expression that for some reason made Gray’s hand itch to slip down and grip the hilt of his broadsword. That Eduard would throw down a challenge here and now at the wedding feast seemed unlikely, but Gray knew from experience that anything was possible with the man. Hatred for him rose full in his throat again, along with a battle-honed instinct to gut him where he stood. Gray stood to face his rival, noticing that Elise pushed herself slowly to her feet as well.

  Yet instead of issuing a challenge, Eduard thrust his hand forward with a brocade-wrapped bundle clutched in his fist. “’Tis here, finally. The wedding gift that I wanted to give to my dear sister.” As he swung the parcel toward Elise, its wrapping fell away, revealing a beautiful oil portrait of two blond children, clutching hands and smiling in their matching silken garments.

  Elise sucked in her breath, reacting, Gray decided, as if her brother dangled a snake in her face. Eduard’s lip edged up at one corner. “Come, sister, and accept your gift. ’Tis a fine copy of the twins, is it not? I had this portrait of Ian and Isabel commissioned earlier, as a memento of home, and it has only just arrived by messenger.”

  “Twins?” Gray asked, feeling the bottom drop from his stomach. Alban caught his gaze, concern written in his expression. G
ray clenched his jaw, willing the painful memories of Gillian back; he concentrated instead on the portrait and his certainty that the children painted there must be related to his new wife and her brother. “Who are they?”

  “They—they’re—” Elise tried to answer, but she sounded breathless and shaky.

  “’Tis a portrait of our niece and nephew, Ian and Isabel. They are the children of our elder departed brother, Geoffrey, and Elise became quite attached to them. I thought ’twould bring her pleasure to be able to gaze upon their faces whenever she wished.”

  Grayson instinctively gripped his wife’s elbow when she swayed and clutched the edge of the table. “Are you unwell, lady?” he murmured again, this time with more insistence.

  After a strained pause, she shook her head. “Nay, I’m fine.”

  Looking to Eduard, she leveled her gaze at him. “’Tis just that this gift was unexpected. And I—I am overcome by the stunning likeness that the artist achieved.” Gently shaking Gray’s hand from her arm, she stood erect under her own power. “Would it be possible to grant me a few moments with my brother? I wish to…to thank him in private for his gift.”

  Gray nodded in silence, watching the purposeful rhythm to Elise’s steps as she walked with Eduard to a more secluded area of the hall. Though he caught only glimpses of her profile, he couldn’t miss the tight line of her lips or her sudden pallor.

  Alban moved in close behind Gray. “’Tis a strange reaction from your wife.” He glanced to the portrait that had been left partially wrapped on the table. “The gift is beautiful, yet she seemed none too pleased with it.”

  Gray’s eyes narrowed as he studied the hushed conversation taking place between brother and sister across the hall. “Aye, ’tis odd indeed.” He folded his arms across his chest. “There’s more to all of this than either of them are letting on.”

  He settled his wife into his sight like a hunter marks his prey. Sitting down, he leaned his elbow on the table and absently rubbed his finger across his lip as he let his gaze bore into her, relentless. Penetrating.

  Finally he saw a delicate shudder ripple up her back. Like a cat alerted to danger, she looked at him sideways, her glance barely connecting with his before shifting away again. After a few more murmured words to Eduard, she turned to inquire something from one of the lady maids who stood ready to accompany her to the bridal chamber. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, she skittered from the hall, casting one more anxious glance at Gray before she began to climb the steps that led to his chamber.

  As he watched her go, realization stamped a burning brand across his chest and deep into his groin. Heat flooded him, for the time being masking the suspicion that had begun to cloud his mind. He understood with sudden clarity that his wife was going upstairs for a particular reason tonight, and it threatened to make him cease taking the deep, regular breaths that usually filled his lungs…

  Because he realized that at this very moment, Elise was leaving the hall to ready herself for their marriage bed.

  Chapter 2

  Darkness blanketed the chamber in velvet folds, mirroring the bone-deep weariness Catherine felt seeping through her limbs. Confronting Eduard had sapped the last of her strength, and seeing her children’s portrait had ground her soul to nothingness.

  She sank onto a bench by the fire, aware that for the first time since this morning she was alone. Thankfully, Grayson had squashed the revelers’ plans for the customary, rollicking escort of men to their bridal rooms. She needed fear nothing now but her husband’s entrance to their chamber.

  Her arms hung limp by her sides, her hands resting on the cushion. Her body felt depleted, yet her mind burned feverishly with images of the day. It was finished, God help her, the advance and retreat, the posturing and pretense. For better or worse, she was Baron Grayson de Camville’s new wife. His counterfeit bride.

  Mustering the strength to look around, Catherine took in the comfortable arrangements of her husband’s bedchamber—her bedchamber now, as well. The thought filled her with dread. All that saved her from collapsing under the atrocity of what Eduard wanted her to do was the knowledge that she wasn’t expected to act against her husband for several months.

  Eduard had instructed her on the long journey to Ravenslock; first, she must establish trust. Become the dutiful, loving wife. Then, when sufficient time had passed, Eduard would send word to her, and his hireling would strike; when it was over, none would dare suspect the loyal wife of complicity in her husband’s death.

  Quivers rippled through her stomach again, making her shudder. Slowly, deliberately, she reached up to unfasten the circlet from her brow. ’Twas time to prepare herself for the farce of her wedding night. She slipped her amethyst kirtle over her head. But she paused before removing her smock. Somehow the thought of exposing her skin to the night air made her cringe. She couldn’t do it. Not yet. It would seem too final.

  And yet she knew the time was fast coming when she must submit to Grayson de Camville, to her husband’s most intimate caresses. To his touch and his possession. And it was going to be all she could do not to weep and beg him to leave her alone.

  But she had no choice, she knew. She must play the innocent virgin and allow him all of the liberties a wife owes her husband. Pressing her palm to the flat of her stomach in a vain effort to still the trembling, Catherine reminded herself that this part of her foul bargain would not be the worst. Surely she could survive the bedding she faced with the man who was now her husband. He was handsome, almost to the point of profanity. His shape was finer than any she’d ever seen in a man, and he was clean and well mannered on top of it all. Nay, bedding Grayson de Camville would not be the most difficult part of her unholy agreement.

  Helping to kill him would.

  Catherine pushed herself to her feet as she forced that sickening thought from her mind. She paced to the window, pressing her forehead against the wooden shutters and feeling the night air seep through the cracks to cool her flesh. It might not come to that, she reasoned. There was still time. Time to find another plan, to outwit Eduard and save her children without having to aid in the murder of an innocent man.

  Then, with a grinding jolt, she realized that more time was not necessarily a foregone conclusion. First she had to convince Grayson that she was a virgin. She fingered the tiny bladder of chicken blood that Eduard had instructed her to use when the time came, as proof of her broken maidenhead. Pray God it worked.

  Other men had been known to kill their wives on their wedding night if they discovered that they’d been deceived in such a foul way. One look at her husband made Catherine certain that, should he be that kind of man, a discovery of her true womanly state might mean this night would be her last. And little as she cared for her own life, her children’s safety depended upon her staying alive, with her wits intact so that she could think of a way out of this horrific nightmare.

  Her musings were cut short by the creaking of the door. A faint whisper of air, carrying with it the clean, fragrant scent she recognized as her husband’s, made Catherine’s hands clench. God give her strength now, she prayed, to carry this night to its conclusion with dignity and skill.

  Turning slowly to face him in the shadows of the room, Catherine struggled to smile.

  Gray held back near the door, for the first time in years uncertain as to how he wanted to proceed. By the Rood, but his wife was beautiful. Not in the way women of his experience were attractive—nay, his warrior queen possessed an almost otherworldly quality, both ethereal and entirely physical at the same time. The incongruous blend of opposing forces produced an intoxicating result…lush sensuality that battled with a depth of spirit that seemed to spill out of her and light his chamber with a golden glow.

  Gray took a deep breath and held the air in his lungs for as long as he could, striving to regain some bit of composure before he spoke. ’Twas not like him to be so struck by a maid. But then he wasn’t accustomed to sampling the pleasures of virgins. Those years h
e’d spent in the filthy alleys working for Bernard Thornby when Gillian was still alive had ensured that his first sexual experience and many others thereafter happened with whores.

  After he had escaped that hell to build a life of his own as a knight, he’d taken to bedding women of more noble status, but they too had possessed enough carnal skill to rival the best in Thornby’s trade.

  This woman was different.

  He’d seen that from the moment he’d lifted her veil in the chapel, from the moment he’d gazed into those wide, uncertain eyes. ’Twas that knowledge which explained his strange reaction to her, he reasoned. That and the intimacy of having her standing before him half-clothed in the shadows of his bedchamber.

  “Have I disturbed you too early?” His husky question broke the reverent quiet of the chamber, making him want to grimace at his own awkwardness.

  Pink suffused Elise’s cheeks, deep enough to be seen even in this dim light. “Nay,” she murmured. “’Tis your right as husband to enter this chamber whenever you wish.”

  “And yet I would not disturb you on this of all nights.” Gray’s tongue felt thick as he spoke. Somehow, acknowledging what they were doing here even with such a vague reference made him feel more on edge. Made him feel the desire to possess her burn more fiercely, warring against his better instinct.

  He turned away, breaking the contact of their gazes. Walking to the table, he placed his hands, palm up, in the cool water from the wash bowl there. His mind raced with a thousand thoughts of why he should simply do his duty tonight. Why he should consummate this union with his wife and nothing more. Any further involvement, any emotional attachment to her, would be damaging and foolish.