His Bride

by Gayle Callen

  She kept her hands in the warm earth, pulling weeds and cutting back some of the overgrowth. Anything to forget the embarrassment of having practically begged to see her husband’s naked body. Even now she groaned and covered her face, not caring where she spread the dirt. She had meant only to look at his injuries, but somehow that was not what the words had conveyed once she’d said them.

  But was it such a bad thing to be misunderstood? She did not yet have the courage to ask Edmund why he did not come to her bed, so letting him know that his injuries did not bother her might ease this awkwardness between them. Patience, something she was normally so good at, now seemed to be stretching thin. She needed this marriage to succeed, and not only for herself.

  During every good meal she ate, she wondered what her family was eating. How were they getting along without her help in the kitchen and without her selling their baked goods to the local bakeries? She’d handled the business side of their baking, and she knew her sister Caroline, her replacement, was shyer than she was. Athelina and Lydia were more than competent to help their mother bake. And then there was her father, who’d seemed even thinner during their final embrace. How grateful she would be if she could make things easier for her family. She would not give up trying to push her way into her husband’s life.

  If there was one way she could please a man, it was by her baking skills. Before supper, she invaded the kitchen and asked for a small space to work in.

  Mrs. Haskell looked down on her with a frown, and the cook, Mr. Throckmorten, a sandy-haired man only a few years older than Gwyneth was, gave an affronted gasp.

  Gwyneth went to him immediately. “Mr. Throckmorten, I assure you I mean this with no disrespect. Baking was what I did in London, and I thought to make my husband something…special to eat.”

  She glanced at Mrs. Haskell, whose anger had melted into a sympathetic smile.

  “Lady Blackwell is a new bride, Mr. Throckmorten, and I remember well how that felt.”

  “I have never been married,” the cook said, nodding, as he seemed to think it over.

  “Were you not conversing with a certain young woman in Swintongate?” Mrs. Haskell asked.

  Gwyneth was stunned when the usually dour woman actually winked at her. She smiled back.

  Mr. Throckmorten cleared his throat. “Now, Mrs. Haskell, I cannot possibly imagine what you mean.” He turned to Gwyneth. “My lady, let me remove these pans from the table.”

  Relieved and happy, Gwyneth pinned her apron on, rolled up her sleeves, and began to work on her famous ginger cake.

  Edmund was at the kennels, overseeing the feeding of his hunting dogs, when he heard Geoff call out his name. He looked over his shoulder to see the man bearing down on him.

  Edmund smiled and held up a hand. “Surely I did not forget a chess match. ’Tis all you reserve your ire for.”

  Geoff gave a smile to the groom and pulled Edmund aside by the elbow. “I’ve been sitting in your dining room, having dinner alone with your wife. How do you think that looks to the servants?”

  “Then don’t eat with her,” he said, turning away.

  Geoff blocked his way. “You promised you’d give her the benefit of the doubt.”

  “I said I’d try.”

  “Try harder. Your wife subtly asked me if your wounds were more extensive than she knows about.”

  “She wanted to look at my leg today,” Edmund said, shaking his head.

  “Of course she did. She’s probably wondering if you can perform as a man.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Edmund practically growled the question. “Do you believe I should bed her if I have no trust in her? I couldn’t use her like that.”

  Geoff opened his mouth as if to respond, then sighed and shook his head. “I guess that would be a lie on your part, wouldn’t it?”

  “I know what I am doing.”

  “So you keep saying.” He suddenly put a hand on Edmund’s back and pushed. “But tonight you’re going to keep up appearances by eating supper with your wife, who baked you something to please you.”

  “Baked? Whyever would she do that?”

  “Because that’s what she knows. Did you ever ask what she and her family did to survive?”

  “But they’re cousins to the Langstons. She was the earl’s ward.”

  “Then that old man doesn’t know the meaning of ‘ward.’ She never stayed with him. The house lived in by Gwyneth, her three sisters, and their parents is smaller than your stables. Gwyneth has spent years walking London’s dangerous streets, selling their baked goods to local bakeries.”

  Edmund let himself be pushed toward the castle. “So she says.”

  “I saw how she lived,” Geoff interrupted. “Did you even notice the poor quality of her clothing?”

  “Even more reason for her to succumb to the earl’s pressure.” Edmund strode across the courtyard. The sun was setting and the servants fleeing the castle for the night, giving him guilty nods, which he returned. He glanced at Geoff’s angry expression and spoke in a lower voice. “If you must know, I never see her clothing when I look at her body, I only imagine what’s under—” He broke off at Geoff’s assessing gaze.

  His friend gave him another push, which made him stumble. “Now go eat with your wife and give her my regrets.”

  Chapter 7

  When Edmund first glimpsed Gwyneth in the winter parlor, she hadn’t seen him. He watched her sitting by herself in front of windows which glistened with the setting sun. She steadily ate her food, but her face betrayed distant thoughts and a subtle melancholy that made him feel uneasy.

  For the first time, he truly looked at her gown, at the plain, even rough fabric, and the lack of decoration. Not that she needed frills to look beautiful. He imagined her walking city streets, prey for every unsavory criminal—even a nobly born rake. When he sent her back to her family, he would make sure she had money to make her independent of the Langstons.

  Gwyneth looked up with a bright smile. “Good evening, Edmund.”

  He nodded and pulled out his chair. “Geoff asked me to tell you that he had to…that he forgot an appointment in the village.”

  The lie was so clumsy that he waited for her to look suspicious. But her smile only softened as he sat down near her.

  “I don’t mind,” she said quietly. “Allow me to prepare your plate.”

  He watched as she served him from platters of mutton and beef then added a small meat pie. As she leaned forward to hand him his plate, he again only noticed her gown as it tightened over her breasts. He had not forgotten the sight of her in her revealing wedding gown and the sheer night rail, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d show her how undamaged his vital parts were.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes until the awkwardness began to unsettle even Edmund.

  “I’ve told you about my family,” he said gruffly, “but you have never mentioned yours.” As if they’d had dozens of conversations. Idiot. He didn’t want to make her suspicious as he pried for information.

  She gave a happy blush. “I did not want you to think all I do is talk.”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “Tell me when I start saying things that Lord Langston must have told you about me.”

  The earl had never said anything except that Gwyneth was related to him.

  “My parents are both still alive. When I was young, we lived on a small farm in the countryside north of London, but we moved to the city many years ago.”

  “Why?”

  “My father became ill and could no longer do the physical labor a farm requires. In London he became a personal guard for a wool merchant.”

  He knew from experience how little that paid. Where was the dowry her Langston mother must have brought to the marriage?

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “Three sisters,” she said.

  To his fascination she laughed, and he tried not to stare like an unseasoned squire at her lovely face.


  “So you can imagine my father’s relief that one of us married. It gives hope to the others.”

  He wanted to say that if her sisters looked anything like her, they wouldn’t have a problem. But such words would only encourage her.

  “Caroline is three years younger than I am, and she is a very composed lady compared to me.”

  “How old are you?” he suddenly asked.

  “I have twenty-three years,” she said, her voice more subdued. “Does it bother you much that I am so old?”

  “Old? I am one and thirty. Does it bother you?”

  She grinned, and he regretted adding to the conversation, because just looking at her made him think of what he wanted to do with her.

  “Of course it does not bother me. A girl expects her husband to be older. Caroline is twenty, and I do worry about her sometimes.”

  “Why?”

  “She has never been the healthiest girl, and it makes her seem so fragile. But we are the dearest of friends, and I miss her terribly. Athelina, who has seventeen years, is quite intelligent and borrows books from her friends whenever she can. I do worry that she’s more interested in reading than in men. Lydia has fourteen years and is almost a son to Papa with her boyish ways. I fear she does not wish to grow up. But she has time yet.”

  He listened to the love in her voice, her worries, and he wondered how much of it was true. “And what did you do before you married me?”

  She smiled and eyed him. “You do not think I was waiting for a husband, do you?”

  “And why not?”

  “I was too busy,” she said with a shrug. “There was much baking to be done. It is how we help Papa. Our tarts and cakes and breads are very popular in the city.”

  “Not many women would do such a thing.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?” she asked in a puzzled voice.

  God above, how could she even be related to Elizabeth? Or was her goodness part of the earl’s plot, with some hidden purpose he had yet to discover?

  Edmund looked down at the food he hadn’t begun to eat because he’d been so fascinated watching Gwyneth’s face. He took his fork and eating knife out of a pouch at his waist and cut himself a piece of mutton.

  She leaned toward him, her eyes wide.

  “What is wrong?” he asked, frowning. He wanted to back away, as her very nearness tested his restraint. Smelling her scent would be his undoing.

  “That is just like the large serving forks we use in the kitchen, only smaller,” she said. “I have never seen such a thing before.”

  “I purchased it in France. ’Tis very useful.”

  “Might I try it?”

  “I have only one.”

  “If you don’t mind, I shall try yours.”

  His mind stumbled to a halt as she took the fork from his hand, pierced her meat and raised it to her lips. Watching her mouth touch what had been in his mouth sent a shudder through him, but he didn’t look away—couldn’t look away. Her gaze rose to lock with his as she slowly slid the fork from her mouth. When she smiled, there was a touch of gravy at the corner of her lip. He imagined licking it away, thrusting his tongue inside her mouth for the real taste of her.

  When she handed the fork back to him, he deliberately made sure not to touch her.

  She smiled. “What a novel thing. We should have some made for the castle.”

  “It is frivolous. There is too much real work to be done.”

  Her smiled faded. “Oh, of course.”

  They finished eating in silence, and he told himself that this was the wisest course. But already he’d begun to wait for her smiles.

  When he pushed his plate aside, she slid a small cake in front of her and cut him a piece. This must have been what she’d worked on just for him. When he bit into it, he wasn’t a bit surprised to find it delicious. She was watching him.

  He had to say something. “This is very good. Throckmorten never baked this before.”

  That small smile touched her lips. “That is because I made it.”

  “You could charge much for this, and a person would pay it.” He was foolish to give her compliments.

  She blushed again, and her eyes softened, and he knew he’d made a grave mistake. He finished the last bite and stood up.

  “Good night, Gwyneth.”

  “Would you like another piece?” she asked, looking at him in disappointment.

  “Not tonight.” He made himself turn away from the promise in her eyes.

  Gwyneth watched as he shut the door behind him. Mixed with her sadness were fresh stirrings of anger. How was she to reach her husband?

  She continued to sit at the table long after the sun had set. Mrs. Haskell quietly came in and lit candles but seemed to sense Gwyneth’s mood and said little.

  “My lady, is there anything I can get for you before I leave for the night?”

  The sympathy in her voice almost made tears rise in Gwyneth’s eyes, but she was still too angry to cry.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Haskell. I shall see you on the morrow.”

  When she was alone again, she gathered her resolve and left the winter parlor. She walked across the deserted great hall, where no one feasted, no one celebrated. She felt very alone. Even Lucy was more a maid than a companion, as the girl began to forge a new life that couldn’t include her mistress.

  Purposefully Gwyneth entered the corridor to the servants’ wing and stopped when she came to Edmund’s door. She raised a hand to knock but could only freeze in indecision. What did she mean to do, demand a wedding night? This could not be the way to woo a man such as her husband, who seemed wounded by his first marriage and everything else life had thrown at him. Surely he would be offended and refuse her. Or would he be angry and hurt her in his hurry to finish the consummation? Was that how she wanted to start her real marriage?

  Defeated, she was about to leave when she realized the door was open a crack. She could see the fire in the hearth, which was the only source of light in the room, and the edge of her husband standing before it. She gently touched the door and gave the tiniest of pushes. It opened another couple of inches, and she could see all of Edmund now, not quite in profile, standing still before the fire as he stared down into it. She held her breath, but it seemed that he hadn’t noticed the door moving.

  And then he shrugged the doublet off his shoulders, and she forgot everything else. His white shirt was loose about his neck but snug across his broad back, as if there weren’t garments big enough for him. Even his breeches, which were normally worn loose on a man, seemed tight. When they sagged, she realized with shock that he was unfastening them. He pulled his shirt off over his head, then let the breeches fall until he was wearing only a scrap of linen about his hips. Beneath his garments was a body as well muscled and sleek as a work of art. She’d glimpsed such a statue at Langston House and had not imagined that a living man could look that way. Even his scars, like the ones that twisted up his right thigh, fascinated her.

  Gwyneth’s face felt hot, and that heat moved down through her body until it centered strangely between her thighs. What was this feeling, this yearning? She wanted to be held in his strong arms and maybe feel safe. Was this how other wives felt?

  Then suddenly Edmund turned and saw her. She was so frozen by the sight of his sculpted chest that she only flinched when he threw the door wide. He filled the doorway and her view, and it seemed that she couldn’t catch her breath, even as he frowned down at her.

  And then she turned and fled, knowing she’d made a terrible mistake by moving too quickly with her husband. He’d only reject her again, as he’d done each night. But this time she’d have to see it in his face.

  Edmund slammed closed the door so hard, he thought the hinges would break. Gwyneth had finally seen his damaged body. Elizabeth used to cower when he was naked, as if he was about to beat her instead of make love to her.

  He pulled his breeches back on and sat down heavily in a wooden chair that creaked under his weight. Ex
cept for Elizabeth, he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t paid a woman for sex. And Elizabeth had only wanted the thrill of the unknown. Then she’d panicked at the thought of marrying against her father’s wishes. Unbeknownst to Edmund, she’d told her brothers it was Alex Thornton, his close friend and the brother of a viscount, who had compromised her. When Edmund had realized what was going on, he forced Elizabeth to tell the truth, and she’d never forgiven him for it. Neither had her parents.

  As the night aged, he thought about Gwyneth lying alone in that fairy-tale chamber. Gwyneth, who baked for him, who wanted him to accept her. Gwyneth, who ran from him.

  Did it even make sense? Perhaps he was on guard against the wrong person. But he had no way of knowing. Even the stranger who’d been at his wedding had disappeared.

  He didn’t go to watch Gwyneth sleep that night. All the next day he avoided the castle, taking bread and cheese for his noon meal as he went from farm to farm, discussing with his tenants which fields to harvest first. He ate supper alone at the tavern in Swintongate, where he always received prompt service and wary glances. But he still had to go back to Castle Wintering, back to Gwyneth.

  Gwyneth made sure her day was busy so thoughts of her husband could remain in the distance. Mrs. Haskell brought two more girls from the village to work in the spinning chamber, and Gwyneth spent many hours there. In London, she’d bought her fabric already made. She was fascinated that here she had to oversee each step of the process, from carding tufts of wool to weed out the impurities to the final weaving of yarn into cloth on giant looms. She had so much to learn and did it gladly. Better still, she was becoming acquainted with the household staff. Soon she hoped she would not feel so awkward giving orders.

  When Edmund didn’t come home at noon, she ate dinner in the great hall with the servants and found herself more at ease than she’d been since she arrived. She sat with Lucy, who pointed out the servants she didn’t know by name and explained their duties. Then Lucy gushed about her soldier, Hugh Ludlow, and Gwyneth could only be pleased for her. At least someone was feeling at home in this old castle.