Her mother smiled expansively, squeezed her hand, then turned away, tears glittering on her lashes, and began an animated conversation with Aunt Philippa.
Whistles and claps of approval erupted from the company as two page boys brought in the dressed peacock, then set about carving it. Other boys began loading the tables with the rest of the feast, and Chloe gazed at the jovial gathering, pondering how different things might have been if she’d wed Lord Brooke. After enduring a couple of months of misery, she would have become a traitor’s widow—penniless and despised. Would the man have revealed his true nature and purpose to her if she had married him? And would he have continued wearing the mask of the joyless Puritan, and kept all his nefarious dealings concealed from her?
The people of England had her new husband to thank for Brooke’s downfall, though they knew it not. His quick thinking and courage had netted Walsingham the traitor with the torn ear, the man who had turned out to be Brooke’s courier. Of course, her husband had been determined to spare her the details, but she understood that the courier had been “persuaded” to point the finger of blame at Brooke. Witnesses had been found to corroborate the connection between Brooke, his courier, a brace of Spanish woolen merchants, and the weasel-faced Harris. Nothing more had been needed to send Brooke to the executioner’s block, his noble blood sparing him the indignity of being hanged, drawn and quartered for his crimes.
Chloe shuddered, and took a swift draft of her spiced wine. It would not do to think about such grim things at her own wedding. Her thoughts were dancing about like a cat on fresh snow—up one moment, and down the next—while her stomach was so full of expectation concerning her wedding night, she could barely find room for food.
Robert must have been keeping a watchful eye on her. She looked down to discover that he’d filled her plate with tempting morsels of plum pudding, minced meat tart, and peacock breast in orange sauce.
“You’ll be lightheaded if you drink without eating,” he advised. “I’ll not have you dancing like a clodhopper, or falling over and being trampled upon. Remember, ’tis traditional for you to dance with any soul who asks you. Though I hope I shall be able to fend them off in favor of myself.”
His fingers went to his breast, where Chloe knew he wore the locket bearing his sister Meg’s likeness. She rested her fingers on his arm.
“You’re worried about Meg. Pray, don’t. Her message said she’d miss our wedding day, but I’m sure she and her little daughter will be here upon the morrow. There’ll be enough vittles left over for her to have a generous sample of the bride feast.”
Meg’s avaricious husband had not survived his illness, leaving her a free woman. She was meant to be joining Chloe and Robert at the manor for the festive season, but her little daughter had had a touch of the croup, so their departure for Blacklands had been delayed.
“Nay, love. I’ll not fret. They must come only when they feel safe to do so. But in truth, when I touch this locket now, I’m not thinking of her. I’m thinking of you.”
Chloe gazed at him, puzzled. With a grin, he tugged on the golden chain, pulled the locket from its hiding place, and flipped it open. Instead of Meg’s portrait, a shining lock of chestnut hair nestled inside the jewel.
She gasped. “Mine?”
He nodded. “I’ve had another locket made to contain Meg’s portrait, which I will give as a gift for my little niece, Jane.”
“But when—”
“I didn’t tell you the whole of it when I showed you how I drugged and searched you on that eventful night, so many moons ago. I helped myself to a keepsake—a lock of your hair. I have worn it next to my heart ever since.”
“Presumptuous knave! Vile hearted villain! You stole that from me.”
In mock fury, she threw a manchet roll at him, which he caught deftly before taking a bite.
“I mean to steal more than that, my lady. I already have your heart—there is but one thing more.”
Righteous rage fought with the urge to laugh, and Chloe eventually gave in to the latter. “You are an unconscionable rogue, Sir Robert Mallory.”
“And you are all my dreams come true, Lady Mallory.” He gave her a feral grin. “Now, aren’t you going to eat anything at all? Not even a few bites of your father’s peacock? We’ll not taste that again in our lives, I warrant.”
She accepted a sliver of breast meat from the end of his knife, and chewed it. Then chewed it some more.
Robert chuckled. “I know. I don’t blame my cook. The stuffed skin certainly looks splendid as a centerpiece, even if the bird’s flesh is tough. Forgive me—I was getting my own back for that manchet roll.”
Chloe managed to swallow her mouthful, then glared at her husband. “Any more delicate morsels you want to try me with?”
“If you’re really not hungry, mayhap we should take a walk about the manor, and see if we can’t awaken your appetite. Now would be a good moment to slip out, when our guests are intent on feasting. You go first, and I shall follow shortly. We’ll meet outside the main door.”
When Chloe rejoined her husband, she discovered how deliciously warm it had been inside, but resisted the temptation to return. Robert stood before her, his hand held out, and a look of such happiness on his face that she fell immediately under his spell.
“’Tis cold, Husband, but if a walk is what you want, I cannot deny you. It is our wedding day, after all.”
“And Christmas,” he reminded her, glancing at a large bough of mistletoe fastened to the stone molding above the door. “Kiss me, so that our union may be blessed.”
She went willingly into his arms and lost herself in the enchantment of his kiss, until the steely cold seeped into her, and she shivered.
He broke the kiss with a sigh of satisfaction. “There’ll time for more kisses later. Now, let’s seize our cloaks and take a brisk walk. You’ll soon be ready to do justice to your wedding banquet.”
Wrapping her cloak about her shoulders, he stole the opportunity to pull her close and kiss her again. “I don’t really need the mistletoe as an excuse, do I?” He grinned at her.
“Nor do I.” She felt her cheeks redden.
“Come.” He gave her his arm and led her around the corner of the house and past the scaffolding where the roof repairs had been taking place. She couldn’t help but steer Robert well away from the area, which made him chuckle.
“Have no fear, my love. I always keep a wary eye open in this spot, to be sure nothing descends on us from above. Although I cannot complain at the happy accident that threw you into my lap that first day we met.”
“I can complain.” She tried to look annoyed. “You made a spectacle of me, sitting there with my head in your lap.”
“At least no one knew you were a wench. I can’t believe you fooled me for a minute.”
“I suppose there was a lot of dust in the air.”
“When I first discovered you were a woman, I couldn’t stop thinking about your bottom in those tight breeches. I don’t suppose you’d consider wearing them again?”
“Certainly not!” She thought about it a moment. If he liked her like that… “Well, mayhap. But you’ll have to prove you deserve it.”
“I’m more than willing to do that.”
They’d reached the stables now, and she could hear the soft snorting of the horses within, and the sound of them munching their fodder.
“Let’s step into the stables. At least some warmth is to be found there.” Robert opened the door and ushered her into the shadowy interior.
A ladder disappeared up into the hayloft. He glanced upward. “What do you say, Wife? We could spread our cloaks up there and forget the world and all its demands. At least for a little while.”
She smiled, and placed a foot on the first rung. “I once forced you to sleep in a hayloft. This would give me the chance to make it up to you.”
“Wife,” he said, sweeping her into his arms for a kiss, “I love the way you think.”
“And
I love you, Husband, and everything about you. And I always will.”
She preceded him up the ladder into the warm, welcoming darkness, and sent up a prayer that none would find them for a goodly while. It was the first time she’d truly had her husband to herself, and intended to make the most of it.
And he, as it turned out, was eager to do the same.
Afterwards, as she lay blissful and trembling in his embrace, she sent up another prayer.
This time, it was one of thanks.
About the Author
Elizabeth Keysian is an international bestselling author of heart-pounding Regency romances, set mostly in the West of England. She is working on a fresh series for Dragonblade Publishing called Trysts and Treachery, which is set in the Tudor era. Though primarily a writer of romance, she loves to put a bit of mystery, adventure, and suspense into her stories, and refuses to let her characters take themselves too seriously.
Elizabeth likes to write from experience, not easy when her works range from the medieval to the Victorian eras. However, her passion for re-enactment has helped, as have the many years she spent working in museums and British archaeology. If you find some detail in her work you’ve never come across before, you can bet she either dug it up, quite literally, or found it on a museum shelf.
Social media/web links
Newsletter
eepurl.com/cxe369
Amazon page
amazon.com/Elizabeth-Keysian/e/B06VVL9JMB
Twitter
twitter.com/EKeysian
Facebook
m.facebook.com/LizKeysian
BookBub
bookbub.com/profile/elizabeth-keysian
Website
elizabethkeysian.com
Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4) Page 21
