So that was it—she was to be a lovely queen, and all was arranged between this dreadful man and the father she adored right up until this moment. There was to be no discussion, no romantic proposal and particularly no opportunity to decline. Deora took a chance and looked at him again. He was perhaps not the ugliest of men, but he was too thin, not much taller than she, and had a way of dropping one side of his mouth when he spoke. It was quite irritating. His hair was a shade or two darker than blond and although his beard was trimmed, the right side was cut lower on his cheek than the left. Over a red shirt with puffed sleeves, he wore a long white tunic made of linen, with a wide red belt at the waist. He had on red hosiery that matched his belt, three expensive medallions, a jeweled ring on each finger, two daggers complete with sheaths, a small leather money pouch, and a sword that nearly touched the ground. Without all the unnecessary adornment, he might have portrayed the look of a perfect gentleman, except his pointed shoes clearly had not been cleaned recently.
He was a liar as well. He was not next in line to the throne of England and even a simpleton would not believe he was. If he were fifth or even fourth in line, she would be surprised. Of course, there were always rumors of a war with Scotland, the barons would necessarily be called into battle, and if he were fortunate enough to survive while the others in line died, perhaps the throne was not so far away after all. The thought of him cowering in the bushes during a battle almost made her smile.
“In the spring...” he was saying.
“In the spring, what?”
“My dear, it is obvious my glad tidings have overwhelmed you, for you have not heard a word I have said. We will marry in the spring.”
Should she mention it was already spring, or should she let him think he walked in a garden in full bloom in winter? “Ah, you mean in spring next, My Lord. I see.”
“Next? Nay, Deora, I mean this spring. In a fortnight, if all can be arranged. I have waited two full months already.”
“Have you? I was not aware of that.”
“Well of course not, it was at the King’s bidding I came to meet you in the month of April, do you not remember?”
How could she forget? He stared at her from across the table, made her feel like a squirrel in a cage and refused to look away. His manners were deplorable and...oh why go on about it, she was a squirrel in a cage and it was time to admit it. “A fortnight is a bit soon for a bride to prepare.”
He reached for her hand again, missed, took her elbow instead and guided her down a path that led them still farther away from the manor. “You need not worry, my dear. Your father began preparations some time ago. All that remains is the fitting of your gown. May I say how lovely you will surely look?”
She turned her head away and rolled her eyes. “I see.” She was to be a lovely bride and then a lovely queen. Did this man know no other words of praise? The longer they walked, the more concerned she became. “My Lord, ‘tis not proper to be so far away from...”
“You are safe with me.”
“But a bride with a tarnished reputation cannot be pleasing for any man. I insist you take me back at once.”
“Not without a kiss.”
She stared at him for far longer than was proper. “You flatter me, My Lord, but I do not give my kisses until after I am wed. Surely you understand a woman’s desire to be chaste when she marries.”
“A kiss does not make a woman wanton. Have you never been kissed before?”
She forced a smile. “Aye, once when I was not yet ten.” Hoping he would not object, she turned around and started walking back toward the manor. Perhaps if she could keep him talking. “As I recall, it took a full month for the swelling to leave the poor boy’s eye.” She heard his chuckle and to her relief, he hurried to catch up with her. “Is your home very far away?”
He was even more intrigued. There was nothing he liked better than a woman who pretended not to want him, and perhaps would even fight his advances. “‘Tis a day’s ride is all. We must spend our wedding night outside, I am afraid, but I will bring ample bedding for your comfort. We will have guards, naturally, but...”
“You wish me to sleep outside? ‘Tis unthinkable.”
“Well yes, but...”
“Perhaps I might come to you the next day instead.” She did not stop walking but Lord Trumble did, so she glanced back. “After two months of waiting, what is one more day? I much prefer a proper bed.”
It took a moment for him to think of an alternative. “Your father has beds. I will stay the night with you and we will take our leave the next morning.”
She was afraid he might think of that. “Very well.” They were back to the manor and Deora breathed easier. “If you will forgive me, My Lord, I must leave you now for my comfort.” He was not pleased, but he nodded anyway, so she gave a quick curtsey and rushed into the house.
As soon as she closed the door, she spotted her father waiting for her on the other side of the large, lavishly decorated receiving room. She loved this room’s gold window coverings, hand-woven red rugs, oak furniture and colorful wall hangings. But not today. She wanted very much to throttle her father, but what could she do? Her dreams of falling in love were clearly dashed, and making her father suffer for it seemed unreasonable. He was, after all, just doing what all English fathers did—seeing to the best possible match for their daughters. Until she could think of a way out of her misery, the least she could do was pretend happiness for his sake. Deora ran across the room and threw herself into his arms. “I am betrothed, Father.” Already she was considering ways to save herself. Perhaps a horrible disease might do.
Lord Stuart Medwin took hold of her arms and stood her back. He was not smiling, but then, he rarely had the last month complete. Once a lowly steward to Lord Alcott of Cumberland, he pleased the king by killing Alcott and was granted the manor and considerable land as a reward. He preferred the darker tunic of a quiet and reserved gentleman to the more flamboyant, lighter colors and styles of the day. The charcoal color of his outer tunic with a lighter gray trim, served to accentuate the gray along the sides of his dark hair. “Trumble is a wealthy man, Deora, and I could not have chosen better for you.”
“You have done very well, but in a fortnight, Father? How have you managed to arrange it?”
“Are you very angry with me for not letting you do the choosing?”
She looped her arm through his and began to walk with him to the sitting room. “I would have preferred it, but I am certain your arrangements will be agreeable. Now, you must tell me all about it.”
Deora only half listened. She was an only child, her father was extremely wealthy and since women could not inherit, his wealth would go to her husband. It was not fair, but there it was. The home she loved, the vast lands, the livestock and even her horse would be the property of Lord Elseway Trumble. Even his name was incredibly stupid. Who in the world names a child Elseway? She doubted she could say it without laughing, and might even slip up and call him ‘Otherwise Trumble’ as her father once did.
Instead of sitting in one of the comfortable chairs scattered around the large room, she took a good long look at the things she loved in it. Soon, she was so distracted by the small collection of books, the hand painted vases and the fine oak furniture; she didn’t hear a word he said. Her sewing was in a basket on a small table near her favorite chair, and she yearned for all those yesterdays when she could curl up, sew and keep her father company, while he sat at his desk and tended his business.
Perhaps she could run away.
Deora listened for a moment as her father began reciting the list of invited guests. The king had declined, thank goodness, for marriage to Trumble was certain to be embarrassing enough without the whole court there to laugh at her. How could her father betroth her to such an undeserving man?
Aye, she could run, but to where?
IT WAS A FULL HOUR before Deora made her way up the stairs to her bedchamber where she could at last be alone. She loved thi
s room too. She loved cutting fresh flowers every morning and filling all five of her vases with them. She loved the colorful bed covering her mother made before she passed, and she loved the maple wood table and chairs her father commissioned especially for her.
Lord Trumble intended to stay the whole fortnight, which meant fourteen more days of miserable walks in the garden, stares over the table at meals and the boring talk of war and conquest the men were so fond of discussing. Then he would be in a bed on their wedding night—with her in it.
Deora sat down on a chair and wanted to cry, but red and swollen eyes would give her true feelings away and she must not let on—not if she planned to run. She simply must pretend excitement and gladness.
Too soon, a knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She pulled herself together and slowly got up to answer it.
“‘Tis your wedding gown,” Swete announced. Deora couldn’t remember a time when Swete had not been with them. She was older, with grown children of her own, but Swete still had the look of a teenager with light brown hair and brown eyes. She had a gold silk gown, with an over-abundance of brown trim, draped across her arms and her eyes were searching her mistress’ face. “Does it please you?”
Deora forced her delight and gently touched the smooth material. “Will you help me try it on?” She watched her beloved maid lay the gown on her bed, and then turned around so Swete could unfasten the one she had on. In silence, she slipped the wedding gown on, waited until it was fastened and then walked to the mirror. The fit was almost perfect and she was relieved. At least she would not have to endure fourteen days of fittings for the ugliest gown she had ever seen. Smiling had never been so painful. Obviously, the material was of her father’s choosing. She kept smiling as she mentioned an inch shorter would make it perfect, took it off, put on a robe and watched a happy maid leave the room.
Although it surely took considerable work to make it, it was unusual for Swete to like a gown such as that and Deora found it strange, but guessed the maid was just keeping up appearances for her sake. Perhaps Swete would help her escape. She might even let Deora have some peasant clothing, although Swete was somewhat shorter and a little more round. Perhaps Swete could also tell her where to run. It was something to consider.
A few minutes later, Swete was back and tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Lord Trumble does not like the gown. He wants you to wear green in the tradition of his family and your father has agreed.”
Deora slumped. “There, there, do not cry. I will wear this gown for another occasion.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. Now, do we have green cloth or must it be sent for?”
“Your father already sent a rider, my lady, but it will be a rush to get it made.”
“Then perhaps we might postpone the wedding a day or two.”
“Oh no, my lady. Lord Trumble demands all be ready in time.”
“I see.” She put a hand on Swete’s shoulder to comfort her. “This is what becomes of a wedding when we let men do the planning.” Then she wrapped her arms around the only close friend she had in the world. “Did you not say my sewing was as fine as any? I will help you.”
Swete hugged her back. “I will miss you so when you are gone.”
“You are not coming with me?”
“Nay, your husband will have ample maids for your comfort, I heard him say.”
More good news, she thought—a husband she did not want, a home she was sure to hate and no friend to share her misery with. Happy news, indeed.
End of sample chapter.
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Marti Talbott's Highlander Series, Volume 5 Page 19