by Kris Tualla
Jakob dipped his chin. “I understand.”
As he followed the servant, Jakob reminded himself to remain calm. His pride was riled up and stoked by impatience, and he was keenly aware of it. Though he was here to air his grievances with the way Avery had comported herself, he knew that he must not attack her with his words. Even so, he wanted answers.
Needed them.
The door stood open, and the majordomo entered the room first. Jakob followed, his heart pounding and his palms sweating.
When Avery saw him, her normally pale skin whitened alarmingly. Her jaw fell slack, and her eyes grew round as platters under the black plunging knives of her brows.
“You!”
*****
Avery watched the walls of the room begin to swirl and melt. She slipped into a dark cloud, first falling, and then rising, before settling on a cushion. Though the relaxing oblivion was enticing, she drew a deep breath and opened her eyes. Bits of her body slowly returned to their appropriate places from wherever they had flown.
Jakob Petter Hansen hovered over her, his reddish-golden hair resembling a halo and his blue eyes dark with concern.
“A wet cloth!” he barked. “Now!”
Avery started to sit up, but he pushed her back down on the couch.
“Be still a moment.”
She did not argue with him.
Esteban started to lay the cloth on Avery’s forehead, but Jakob took it from the majordomo. He refolded it needlessly to make some esoteric point, and then gently placed the soothing linen across her brow.
“When did you eat last?”
Avery looked at Esteban for confirmation. “I have not eaten since I broke my fast this morning.”
Jakob rounded on the man. “Please bring food for both of us. I, too, have not eaten since the morning. And a pitcher of cool ale, if you have it.”
The majordomo pulled himself up to his full height—considerably less than Jakob’s—and glared at the knight. “I take my instructions from the Vizcondesa.”
Avery lifted her hand, surprised by the amount of effort that simple movement required. “It is fine, Esteban. Please do as Sir Hansen requests.”
“You are acquainted with this man?” Esteban’s nose twitched his surprised displeasure. “Are you quite certain you do not wish me to stay, my lady?”
Avery huffed a sigh of defeat. “Yes, I am acquainted with him. And I assure you that I am quite safe.” Her gaze cut to Jakob’s stern expression; her assumption was clearly correct. “I believe the knight and I have much to discuss.”
With a lingering scowl of warning aimed at Jakob, the majordomo left the room.
Avery did sit up then; lying on her back made her feel far too vulnerable. She wondered if she had regained enough control of her body to move to a chair.
“Would you prefer a chair?” Jakob offered. Her glance must have revealed the direction of her thoughts.
“Yes, I would. Thank you.”
Jakob pulled the largest upholstered chair toward the couch and offered his arm.
As wobbly as she felt, Avery could not accept his assistance. She was already at enough of a disadvantage in this awkward reunion. Not only was she surprised by the Norseman’s sudden appearance, she had fainted from hunger and headache when she saw him.
And none of that even began to touch on her unexplained flight from England following his declaration of love and proposal of marriage, nor the truth of her situation here.
There was indeed much to discuss.
Avery stood, stepped to the chair, and sank gratefully into its supportive embrace. Jakob’s jaw clenched, displaying his irritation. He pulled another chair close to face hers.
“How did you find me?” she began, her voice sounding much weaker than she hoped.
Jakob cut her an angry gaze. “You were kind enough to march down one of Barcelona’s main thoroughfares upon my arrival.”
She cleared her throat, hoping that would help. “You—and Percival, I assume—arrived yesterday, then.”
“Yes. And it seems condolences are in order on the death of your new husband,” he growled.
Avery rubbed her forehead. Did he say new?
“When was the marriage arranged?” he continued. “You clearly wasted no time entering into it once you left England.”
She dropped her hand and stared at him, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I only have one question.” Jakob’s fierce scowl reminded her of a snorting bull in the ring, about to charge his tormenters. She could feel the heat of his anger radiating off his body. “Did you love him?”
“Jakob—”
He cut off her explanation. “Yes or no.”
“No. It was arranged.” Avery shook her still-muzzy head. “What do you mean by new husband?”
That question clearly caught him off guard. “You said—when I told you about my marriage—you said you were a—a widow,” he stammered.
Guilt wrapped bony fingers around Avery’s chest and squeezed it. Hard. “No, I did not say I was a widow.”
Confusion twisted his features. “Yes. You did.”
“No,” Avery said softly, heart pushing against the guilty constrictor. “I was not a widow. Not just yet.”
Jakob’s eye narrowed and a whoosh of understanding left his body. “You were still married to the Vizconde?”
She nodded.
“All the time I—we—you were married?” he bellowed.
“I am so sorry, Jakob,” she croaked. “No one knew.”
Jakob leapt to his feet and began to pace in long, limping strides around the room. He scuttled his hands through his hair, loosening the shoulder-length brassy locks from their leather thong. His countenance was as thunderous as an autumn tempest and his blue eyes darkened like storm clouds.
“Gud forbanner det til helvete!”
It wasn’t until Jakob swore loudly in Norsk that she realized he had been speaking to her in Spanish. He whirled to face her.
“What do you mean no one knew?”
The door opened and a servant entered with a tray of food. The aromas of roasted pork, smoked fish, fresh bread, and garlic-infused olive oil made her belly rumble in relief. Esteban followed with a fresh decanter of sangria, and a pitcher of cooled ale.
Avery and Jakob waited in a silence as volatile as lightning. Esteban instructed the servant where to put the tray, and shot Avery an inquisitive glance.
She gave a little nod, indicating she was in no danger from the tall, sullen knight. Esteban tilted his head toward the bell pull, and both men exited the room. The heavy door shut with an iron clank.
“Are you hungry?” she ventured.
Jakob crossed the space between them in three quick strides. “What do you mean no one knew?”
She rose to her feet with care, having regained some small measure of her composure. She met his angry stare with one of her own.
“The tale is a lengthy one, and I am weak from hunger.” She pushed past him and took a seat at the table holding the tray. “You may join me. Or not. That is your decision.”
Avery poured out the olive oil and tore a chunk from the warm loaf of bread. She dipped it in the oil and took a bite. The garlic tickled her sinuses and began to soothe her headache.
After a tense moment, Jakob joined her.
He took the chair facing hers and forked a chunk of pork onto his pewter plate. He took a bite, and then imitated her actions with the bread and olive oil. A look of surprise eased his features.
“This is very good.” He took another bite and his stomach gurgled loudly. “It is truly better that we do not talk with empty bellies.”
Avery could not think of an answer more elaborate than, “Yes.”
Jakob rose and poured two goblets of the ale. He set one in front of her, drank the other, and then refilled it.
He pointed at her cup. “Drink that. The ale will restore you better than wine.”
Avery did as he bid—anything to calm his
mood before she began her explanation.
The pair ate their supper without attempting conversation. Avery was the first one to set aside her utensils. Determined to control the coming exchange, she felt she should begin speaking while Jakob was still engaged with his meal.
“My story began fourteen years ago, when I was twenty years of age,” she stated without preamble. “When my father arranged my marriage with a very wealthy merchant, Paolo Pacheco Mendoza.”
Chapter Four
Jakob chewed slowly, watching Avery carefully for any signs of guile. The situation she described was quite common thus far, and he had no reason not to believe her.
Yet.
“Vizconde Paolo Pacheco Mendoza was twenty-one years my senior. And I was his third wife.” Avery took another gulp of the pale ale.
Jakob wagged his head. “Because of your connection with Catherine, I would have thought your status higher than vizcondesa.”
She nodded, the color in her cheeks heightening. “My father was an earl, and my mother a marquésa.”
So arranging the marriage of a woman to a man below her station had already been accomplished in Avery’s family. “Why did you marry a vizconde?”
“He offered my father money. Quite a lot of money, in fact.” The color in her pale cheeks blazed. “He hoped I would give him children. More specifically, an heir.”
“Neither one of his previous wives…” Jakob left the sentence hanging.
She lifted a curved eyebrow. “Nor any of his many mistresses, as it turned out.”
Jakob hated to continue poking her bruises, but he needed to understand everything clearly. “What you told me about never having children—”
“Was absolutely true!” she interrupted.
A chill skated up Jakob’s spine. “What happened to his first two wives?”
Avery looked away. “Dead.”
“How?”
She shrugged. “I lived in Madrid, and Paolo lived here, in Barcelona. By the time I arrived in his home as his new bride, no one would tell me.”
Jakob didn’t have to ask if Avery found that suspicious; the stark alarm in her eyes, prompted by the telling, was obvious. An entire new array of realizations blossomed in Jakob’s mind.
She would have feared for her own life.
“How did you come to be in Catherine’s court?” he probed.
Avery sighed. “She was prevented from coming to my wedding, of course. Arthur was dead by then, and she was betrothed to Henry—though his father was fighting that arrangement.”
Jakob nodded his understanding. “Then she did marry Henry. After his father died.”
“Yes. Five years after I married Paolo, Catherine was finally able to marry Henry.”
“Did she know you were so unhappy?”
Avery recoiled. “I did not say I was unhappy.”
“No,” Jakob conceded. “But you were miserable, were you not? And afraid for your life, if you did not produce an heir for the Vizconde?”
“How could you possibly…” She stared at him, stunned at his apparently accurate deconstruction of her life. Her entire frame slumped in acquiescence. “I—I was in hell.”
Jakob understood, though he had not yet deigned to soften his demeanor. While the lady’s pieces were falling neatly in place, he was still very angry with her. Her betrayal seared through his core.
“And so your dearest friend, Catherine, rescued you as soon as she was crowned queen, by inviting you to join her court as her chief lady-in-waiting.”
She gave a little nod. “Yes.”
And then the final candle lit in Jakob’s mind. He narrowed his gaze. “Your husband had no idea where you had gone, had he.”
“No.” Her lips moved in a rueful twist. “I became the Lady Avery Albergar of Toledo. And my very life depended on that secret never being discovered or revealed.”
Jakob rubbed a hand over his mouth, considering that information. “Did the ‘Ice Maiden’ truly never take a lover?” he pressed.
Avery recoiled again, this time in anger not surprise. “No! I shall not burn in hell for adultery, no matter what sort of man I was married to!”
Jakob leaned back in his chair and regarded the elegant woman across the small table from him. In spite of the purple smudges under her eyes, and her gaunt, pale face, the dark and vibrant beauty he which knew in England was not gone—merely dimmed by her unpleasant and burdensome circumstances.
“Why did you come back to Barcelona so suddenly?” he asked.
“My husband was dying.” Avery rolled her eyes. “At the last.”
“At the last?”
She took a fortifying sip of her ale and settled her shoulders before she spoke. “I received word five years ago from a priest who serves in the cathedral—the only person whom I could trust with my situation and my whereabouts, you understand. Because I told him in confidence. In the confessional.”
He gave a little nod, encouraging her to continue.
“He wrote to tell me that Paolo was suffering the effects of syphilis. He was concerned for my health.” Avery waved a hand before Jakob could speak. “I had been gone for four years at that point. I was, thankfully, not afflicted.”
Jakob stood, stretching his stiff leg, and refilled his cup with the last of the ale. He lifted the decanter of wine in Avery’s direction, his silent question obvious.
She shook her head and claimed the last piece of bread, tearing it into tiny pieces, and eating them one at a time.
Jakob recognized that anxious sort of action. It was the type of thing one does when anticipating something uncomfortable is about to happen.
She is correct.
He reclaimed his seat and faced her. He kept his tone calm, though a multitude of emotions surged and bubbled under his heart.
“I must assume the priest wrote to you once again, this time to inform you of your husband’s approaching death?”
“I had to come back, Jakob.” Her bottomless dark eyes pled for his understanding. “There was so much to do to prepare beforehand, and decide upon afterwards.”
He shook his head slowly and stared down at the remnants of his meal on the gleaming pewter platter; he could not gaze into those entrancing eyes and remain stern.
His voice was low, and even he could recognize the pain it held. “Why did you not tell me?”
Jakob heard her breath catch in her throat. “I could not.”
“Could not?” He lifted his eyes to hers, then. “Or would not?”
She stretched out her hand. “My heart was breaking, Jakob.”
His fist hit the table so hard that his empty cup tipped over. “Your heart?” he shouted. “What about mine?”
Her hand jerked backward and landed on her throat.
Jakob pointed a stiff finger in her face. “I told you things—”
His Spanish failed him in the midst of his anger and anguish, so he continued in English. “Things that I never told anyone else. Ever! I trusted you. I laid bare my soul to you. Do you remember that?”
A sob escaped her, and her shoulders convulsed. She nodded, her distressed countenance sculpted by fear and uncertainty.
Jakob forced his fist open. “I did not know—and I still do not know—why you did not trust me in return!”
Avery’s gaze dropped to the carpet. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles stood out like sun-bleached pebbles on a worn beach.
He loosed an arrow into her defense. “You knew exactly what Henry was compelling me to do.”
She coughed a sob, and clapped her hand over her mouth. His shot had hit its target.
“I trusted you with that as well, did I not?” The second arrow landed true. Avery flinched visibly and cowered under his verbal attack.
He stood now, and put his hands on the table, leaning forward to send the mortal arrow. He wanted her to feel the same sort of piercing pain that he felt when she abandoned him without word or warning.
He spoke the next wo
rds quietly, their misleading gentleness enhancing their impact. “I had mistakenly believed that we were friends.”
*****
A keening wail emanated from the depths Avery’s chest.
The doors to the drawing room flew open. Esteban was on Jakob before Avery was aware of him; and he had the knight in a sort of locking grip.
“Let go of me!” Jakob shouted. “I am leaving!”
Avery jumped up too quickly, and a horde of black gnats danced in her vision.
“Leave him be, Esteban!” she croaked.
The majordomo wrestled with the Norseman for a moment, unsure of what to do. Avery rounded the table on alarmingly unsteady limbs and grabbed his elbow.
“Sir Hansen is lea—leaving. Le—let him go!”
Esteban pulled his arms away from Jakob’s body suddenly and with a menacing flourish. But he remained close by, panting.
Jakob straightened his body and his clothes without a word. Turning on his heel, he walked in a slow and dignified manner to the doorway. Avery knew what it cost him to hide his limp, but hide it he did.
He paused there, and looked back at her.
Her world froze. She waited for him to speak as long as her nerves would allow. “Jakob—”
“No.” He wagged his head sadly. “I’ll not be so foolish as to love anyone else, ever again.”
And then he was gone.
*****
When Jakob walked out on her, Avery couldn’t breathe. She gasped for breath, unable to pull enough air into her lungs. She flailed for the chair which Esteban shoved against the back of her knees. She fell into it, sobbing and incoherent, until her lady’s maid was summoned.
Zurina took command and somehow managed to move Avery upstairs, place a hot cup of tea in her hand, and get her undressed and into this bath.
Her bath water was infused with lavender and eucalyptus, both intended to soothe her aching head, as was the tea made from chamomile and willow bark. Nothing could stop the constant flow of tears, however, and her eyes swelled and stung with them.
Her middle-aged maidservant moved quietly around the room, straightening random things, and generally just remaining in her lady’s presence until Avery called on her services once again.
