The Welshman's Bride
Page 14
Why was Angharad coming to the hall and why had the rain not kept her at home?
Genevieve was about to turn on her heel and flee to her bedchamber when she realized that Angharad had seen her. Worse, the woman had a smug, self-satisfied smile on her face as she came striding closer, as if she knew she had the upper hand.
Genevieve’s pride asserted itself and she marched into the hall to wait for Angharad’s arrival. A few servants were laying fresh rushes and she ordered them to stop. They could continue that later; in the meantime, they had other tasks she had set them, outside the hall.
Taking her position in front of the hearth, which sported a bright blaze that warmed the entire room. Genevieve straightened her shoulders and prepared for battle.
Which was not long in coming. In another few moments, Angharad was inside the hall. She threw back her hood and surveyed the room, then Genevieve, with an infuriating impertinence.
Her thick dark hair curled about her face, and her dark eyes seemed full of life, a passionate match to her handsome features. It was not difficult to understand how a man would find her attractive, a realization that did not comfort Genevieve.
Despite that, Genevieve kept her tone level as she said, “Good day, Angharad.”
“It would be a better day if it were not raining fit to drown a body, my lady,” Angharad replied as she approached.
“I am surprised you would come here, then, in this rain.”
“I wanted to bring this,” she replied, holding out her bundle. “A wedding gift it is, for you and Dylan.”
Genevieve supposed this woman had the right to refer to her husband without his proper title, but the lack rankled nonetheless. Still, she overlooked it as she stepped forward to accept the present.
It was woolen cloth, very finely spun and woven, and dyed a pretty, unusual shade of blue.
Genevieve couldn’t help being rather sorry it was so excellent
“He’s gone for the gathering at Craig Fawr, is it?” Angharad asked.
“Yes.”
Angharad’s gaze grew even more intensely scrutinizing. “You are not with child yet.”
“I...” Genevieve swallowed hard. “That is none of your concern.”
Angharad came yet closer, her eyes seeming to bore into Genevieve.
“You are barren.”
Chapter Twelve
Genevieve’s hands tightened on the bundle she held over her cramping stomach.
Forever after, the scent of damp wool would remind her of this moment, and the horrible sense of inevitable prophecy Angharad’s words engendered.
“You don’t know that,” Genevieve managed to reply.
“Don’t I?”
“You cannot know that,” Genevieve said, her voice slightly stronger as she came to believe it.
“I know it.”
For the first time, Genevieve thought she saw pity lurking in the woman’s eyes—and it was this pity that filled her with new dread. “How...how can you? Are you a witch?”
“No, not a witch. But I know things,” Angharad said evenly. “I knew I would bear Dylan a son, and that our son would grow into manhood. I know that Trefor will take his rightful place as lord of Beaufort. And I know that you will never bear a child.”
“Get out!” Genevieve cried, clutching the wool so tightly a stream of water ran onto the stone floor. “Get out and never come to this hall again while I am mistress here!”
With a smile that was both sympathetic and triumphant, Angharad turned away.
Genevieve watched her leave the hall. Then she threw the bundle on the ground and ran to her bedchamber, slamming the door behind her.
Her hand went to her stomach.
“She cannot know!” she whispered fervently. “She is jealous and fateful that’s all.”
Genevieve commanded herself to believe that, in spite of the look of genuine sorrow that had been in Angharad’s eyes.
Three days later, Dylan finally returned. Exhausted, he saluted the sentries and slumped in the saddle while the gates opened to admit him.
As he had left Craig Fawr the moment they were finished the gathering, it was late in the afternoon by the time he rode through the puddled outer ward of Beaufort. The clouds threatened more rain, but he had been determined not to spend another night away from home.
Once in the courtyard, he slipped from his horse and strode toward the hall. It struck him that something seemed to be different, but he was more interested in getting some food and dry clothes and seeing his wife again—especially seeing his wife again—to figure out what it was.
Before he reached the entrance, however, the door flew open and Genevieve ran out.
“Dylan!” she cried, rushing into his arms and hugging him tightly.
He held her close, savoring her welcome. “Did you miss me?”
“Of course I did!” she replied, her breath warm on his chest where his tunic lay open.
“I didn’t think I would be gone this long.”
“If I had known you would be, I would have begged you to stay.”
“Well, I am back now, and the baron has his sheep down,” he replied, pulling away to smile at her.
His brow furrowed slightly when he saw how pale and tired she looked. He should have returned sooner, despite the rain.
“Has it been very difficult for you, with me gone? Have the servants given you trouble?” he asked as he took her hand and led her into the hall.
“The servants have been most obedient,” she replied.
“Good.”
Inside the hall he felt the encompassing warmth coming from the blazing hearth. Before, when he had come home after a journey, even in the wet, there had not been a fire to welcome him.
He suddenly realized what had been different outside.
There hadn’t been a pile of wood by the kitchen, and the well had a new roof.
“I have our chamber prepared for your return,” Genevieve said, turning his thoughts in another, much more interesting direction, “and I told Cait to take some food there for your refreshment.”
“You must have missed me indeed, to want to have me so soon in the bedchamber.”
She flushed slightly, but did not smile.
Concerned, he nevertheless thought any more questions about what had gone on during his absence could wait until they were alone. He quickened his pace, noticing the fresh rushes and sweetsmelling herbs beneath his feet, and the lack of cobwebs, and that the tables gleamed from being polished with wax.
None of those things was nearly as important as being with Genevieve again.
In another few moments, and after passing a group of serving women who smiled and nodded but seemed surprisingly subdued, Dylan and Genevieve were in the bedchamber. A steaming bath awaited him, with fresh linens laid around the edge for padding. Another pile of thick linen lay nearby. On a small table was a carafe of wine, a loaf of bread, cheese and a basket of apples. A brazier provided welcome heat.
All that was lacking, he thought with a grin, was the bedcovers pulled back in anticipation.
Thinking of that, he turned to his wife, who frowned worriedly. “I hope the bathwater is not too cool.”
“It looks fine to me,” he answered, pulling off his wet cloak and nonchalantly beginning to remove his clothing.
“If you do not hurry, you may take a chill.”
“I won’t,” he assured her. “I am feeling quite warm.”
He glanced at her as he tugged off his damp breeches. “Have you taken a chill? You look pale.”
“I am not sick.”
“Glad I am to hear it. You look tired, too. Have you not been sleeping well?”
He stepped into the warm water with a grateful sigh, then sat down with another. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the edge. “This is perfect.”
He opened one eye to regard her. “I confess I slept poorly, too.”
“You did?”
He closed his eyes and slid deeper into the tub. “Ay
e. I missed you, Genevieve.”
“I missed you, too. Very much,” she whispered close by.
He heard a small splash and felt the water ripple. He opened his eyes as she leaned over the tub and, with her sleeve rolled up, proceeded to soap his chest.
This was so delightful, he didn’t speak but simply enjoyed the sensation.
“If you move forward, I can wash your back,” she murmured.
He obeyed and let out a low groan of pure enjoyment at her ministrations. “Perhaps it is worth leaving you for a little, if I am always to have such a reception when I return.”
“I would rather you did not go,” she said, and there was no answering teasing tone in her voice.
He grabbed her hand, turned and gazed into her face. She was pale, and tired—and suddenly an explanation for both jumped into his head.
“Genevieve, can you be with child already?” he asked happily.
“No. The day after you left, I...” She took a deep breath. “I am not with child.”
“ooh.”
He tried not to sound as disappointed as he felt as he faced forward again. “Well, not yet, anyway.”
She resumed soaping his back. “No, not yet.”
At the mournful sound of her voice, he again turned to regard her intently.
“Something happened when I was away,” he said, and it was not a question. “Something to upset you. What?”
“We can talk about it when you’re dry.”
“Then I will get out now and get dry.”
“You do not have—”
She fell silent when he rose and reached for a large square of dry linen. He quickly got out of the tub and briskly dried his body. She fetched him a dry tunic, breeches and stockings. When he was dressed, he said, “Now, tell me.”
“You must be hungry,” she replied, not meeting his gaze. “There is bread and—”
“I will not even sit down until you tell me,” he said sternly.
Genevieve had counted every moment he was away, anxious for him to return so that she could speak to him of Angharad’s words, and yet now, when the time had come, she felt even more frightened to speak of it.
“Well?”
“It is nothing. A woman’s foolishness, that’s all. I am not used to the Welsh, so surely...” Her voice trailed off feebly.
His severe expression softened and he came to her, taking her gently in his strong arms. She could hear the soft beating of his heart in her ear, a sound of comfort. “Tell me what—or who—has upset you, Genevieve.”
She could not resist his gentle plea. “Angharad.”
The beating of his heart quickened, and that sent new shivers of dread along her spine. “What did Angharad say?”
“She said...” A sob choked her.
He cupped her chin gently and raised her face. “What did Angharad say?” he repeated softly.
“She said I was barren,” Genevieve whispered as a tear slipped down her cheek.
He seemed to go utterly still, and for an instant, even his eyes looked blank. And then he tried to smile. “Pay no attention to Angharad.”
His words gave her no comfort.
“Is she a witch?”
“No.”
She took him by the shoulders and searched his face, seeking the truth—and finding it. “But you believe her.”
He twisted away and ran a hand through his damp hair. “No, I do not.”
“Do not lie to me, Dylan. You think she is right.”
He went to the table and poured some wine into the goblet.
“You know she is right!”
He went to pick up the goblet, then hesitated, finally looking at her with anguish in his eyes. “No, I do not know. But I fear....”
“You think she might be right.”
He nodded.
“Yet you say she is not a witch!”
“She practices no dark arts, or I would know of it.
“Then she is a seer?”
“Aye, or so she says.”
He went to her and took her hands. “Genevieve, perhaps she is wrong.”
“Has she been wrong before?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “She has dreams, and sometimes—”
“Sometimes?”
“Often,” he amended, “they appear to come true.”
“When has she been wrong before?”
“Genevieve, only God can truly know our destinies.”
She looked at his strong hands holding so tight to hers. Her husband’s hands. Her lover’s hands. “I want so much to have your child, Dylan,” she whispered.
He gathered her into his arms and tenderly stroked her hair. “Forget Angharad’s words, my love, and believe that no mortal person can know what the future holds for any of us.”
Then he kissed her, and as he did, he vowed that he would try to believe that, too.
“Now, what else has happened while I have been away?” he asked with a smile as he moved away toward the table. “Have any lambs come?”
“I don’t know.”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Didn’t Thomas tell you?”
“He came this morning. He said he wanted to speak to me, but I told him if it had to do with the sheep or the farming, he should wait for you. I know nothing of such matters.”
Dylan took a few moments to select an apple. “I see.”
“I really don’t know anything about sheep, Dy-lan.”
He tossed his apple into the air and deftly caught it before facing her, smiling. “I will have to send word to Lady Katherine that she has failed in teaching my wife.”
“I know a lot about wool, though.”
“Well, glad I am to learn you are not going to be completely useless to me.”
She flinched at his flippant words, and he was immediately contrite, throwing the apple back into the basket before he hurried toward her. “Forgive me, Genevieve! I spoke without thinking.”
“As long as you did not mean it,” she said, trying very hard to smile.
“I assure you, my lady,” he said in deeply seductive whisper, coming closer, “you are becoming very necessary to me.”
She went to him and wrapped her arms around him. “And you to me,” she replied softly.
She rose on her toes and kissed him passionately, needing to feel his desire for her in a way she had not before Angharad had come to the hall.
“Let us make a child, Dylan,” she whispered as she pressed more kisses to his stubbled chin, his neck, his chest.
“Right now?” he answered hoarsely. His hands gripped her waist as her lips continued their downward path. “What about your woman’s—?”
She had forgotten that this might not be the best time.
She lifted her head to encounter his rueful countenance.
“Not that I would say no—”
“You are right.”
“Nevertheless, I must learn to watch my tongue.”
He brushed back a curl from her forehead, then lightly kissed the spot. “But we have plenty of time, Genevieve, and I will do my very best to give you a baby.”
She nodded, believing him. Loving him. Needing him in a way she could never have conceived of even three short days ago.
“Now I had better go see Thomas and find out about my flock.”
“And I had best see that preparations are under way for feeding the men when they return.”
He held out his arm to escort her, and led her from the bedchamber. When they were going down the curving stairs, she said, “Dylan, there are some things I must ask you.”
“Such as?”
“I found a bundle of unwashed wool in one of the storerooms. May we use it, or do you wish to sell it?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Use it if you need it, sell it if you don’t.”
“But which would you prefer?”
“Sell it, I suppose.”
“Some of the servants need new clothing. That wool could—”
“Then use it.”
“What do you think would be the better course?”
“That is for you to decide, since it is your money being spent.”
He regarded her with a slightly furrowed brow. “Is this not household business?”
“Where the spending of money is concerned, I must have your approval.”
“Then buy the five,” he said.
“The fourth and fifth may sour before we can use it if we do.”
Mindful that she had been upset earlier, he fought the urge to reply brusquely, all the while inwardly cursing Lady Katherine for instilling such deep-seated notions in her pupils. “Then tell the wine merchant I expect a good price, or we will buy none from him.”
They entered the hall, where the servants were setting up the long tables.
“I already did. He came down two marks a cask from his original price. Now he says this is his last, best offer.”
“If you think his price fair, pay it, and do so for any other purchases you need to make,” he muttered, barely able to keep the frustration from his voice. “Now off I am to find Thomas.”
Eight nights later, Genevieve sat in their bed and awaited Dylan’s return. She had seen too little of him since he had gotten back from Craig Fawr, for it seemed the lambing had begun in earnest. He left at first light with Thomas and the other men, and returned late, to fall into bed too exhausted even to speak beyond a greeting.
But tonight, she thought, tonight would be different, for Llannulid had told her that the final two ewes had lambed.
She surveyed the room. It was warmed with coals glowing in the brazier, and three candles provided light. The shutter was slightly open to allow the spring breeze to scent the air. The wooden tub stood ready, half-full of warm water and covered with towels to try to keep the water from cooling too quickly. He had not used it the other nights, but she thought he might tonight.
With slightly trembling fingers, she adjusted the neck of her shift again before patting her hair, which she had brushed with a hundred strokes.