by Tamara Leigh
“Lord Gadot.”
“Then you may ask of him the truth about his cuts and bruises and, I believe, a very loose tooth.”
Laura made a sound of disgust, reached for her own goblet.
“Food would benefit you more, my lady.” Once again, his breath warmed her jaw and wandered downward.
“I eat when I have an appetite, Lord Soames. At the moment, I am without one.”
He considered her, then drew back.
It was another hour before she joined Lord Gadot. And time and again, she sought evidence of that loose tooth.
Chapter 7
This is the first of all days to come, Laura told herself as she halted before the queen. Lord, bless it as much as possible. Above all, for Clarice.
“Rise, Lady Laura.”
She straightened, met her sovereign’s gaze.
“You are prepared to show gratitude for our time, effort, and wisdom by accepting our decision?”
Deep breath. “I am, Your Majesty.”
Eleanor looked past Laura, inclined her head.
Behind, the door opened and closed, then silence as all waited for the lady who had admitted Laura to return with the one chosen by the queen.
They did not wait long.
Laura stopped her breath at the sound of the door opening, suppressed the impulse to peer over her shoulder, hoped it was Lord Benton who drew alongside.
It was Lord Thierry, the last of the three she would have chosen. Not that he was disagreeable—outside of imbibing too often and too much.
But at least he is not Lothaire, she tried to console herself.
More footsteps, and not of the slippered sort. Boots.
She glanced past Lord Thierry, saw Lord Benton halt beside the other man.
Laura looked her question at the queen, but Eleanor’s eyes were on whoever next entered.
Then like a horse at auction, Laura Middleton was to stand before its bidders while the winner was named. Worse, one of those bidders was Lothaire, and without looking to her right, she knew from his long-reaching stride he entered last.
She clasped her hands at her waist, prayed to the Lord to calm her racing heart and still her body that one need not look near upon to know it quaked.
“Let us begin,” Queen Eleanor said. “The decision is made as to who shall wed Lady Laura, and she has agreed to abide by our determination.” She moved her gaze over the five, returned to the man directly to Laura’s right. “Lord Thierry, step forward.”
He gave a grunt of satisfaction and did as bid.
“We thank you for your time and interest in taking Lady Laura to wife, Lord Thierry. But we find you wanting. Too much you drink. Too much you gamble. And so seriously does your behavior compromise your lands, we do not believe what the lady brings to the marriage will save them. Your leave is granted.”
Speaking no word in his defense, he turned and, shame-faced, lumbered opposite.
Eleanor swept a hand toward Laura, and her three remaining suitors closed the gap left by the rejected lord.
Laura glanced at Lord Benton, her first choice of a husband. Was he next to be sent away?
“Lord Gadot, step forward.”
No pattern, then.
“We thank you for your time and interest in taking Lady Laura to wife, Lord Gadot. But we find you wanting. Too indiscreet you are in numbering your mistresses.”
Laura caught her breath. She had guessed that of Lothaire, not this one.
“Too much you boast of past and future trysts, including those you anticipate having with the lady who might have become your wife.”
Laura snapped her chin around, saw color pour into the nobleman’s cheeks. Again, not what she would have guessed of him. Though it was obvious he thought well of himself, he had been attentive and spoke no inappropriate word to her.
“Thus,” Eleanor continued, “too much you deserve that face. A pity it soon heals.”
Laura’s knees weakened. Lothaire had not been trying to frighten away a rival. His knuckles had been battered in defense of her.
“Your leave is granted, Lord Gadot.”
As he pivoted, a hand gripped Laura’s elbow, and Lord Benton said low, “Are you well, my lady?”
She looked up. He was kind, would make a better husband than Lothaire though her heart was pulled past this one. “I am well.”
“Lord Benton, I believe Lady Laura can stand on her own.”
He released her.
“Lord Soames.” Eleanor motioned him to close the space left by Lord Gadot’s departure, then looked to Laura. “You are all surprise, Lady Laura. But we know our subjects, and when we must know them better, we spare no effort to discover what they hide—especially that we might protect those too vulnerable and young to protect themselves.”
“I understand, Your Majesty.”
“Not as much as you shall.” Eleanor smiled. “Lord Soames, step forward.”
I am glad, Laura told herself. As shall he be when he rides away. He will make Lexeter prosperous without me.
“Rather, come stand beside us, Lord Soames.”
Laura stared at the queen.
She raised her eyebrows. “As Lord Gadot learned, the Baron of Lexeter is not always in control of his temper.”
Laura watched him stiffly cross the apartment and position himself alongside the queen and in front of the knight who stood guard over her. Did Eleanor fear he would attack Lord Benton when the other man was awarded what Lothaire had boasted would be his?
“Lord Benton, step forward.”
Laura felt his eyes upon her. And uncertainty she only now realized had been certainty a moment earlier. Why did the queen make him suffer? It was cruel, and Laura had not thought her bent that way.
“We do not thank you for your time and interest, Lord Benton, for we find you wanting in the extreme.”
Of a sudden, Laura was in greater need of a hand to hold her upright. Beyond the implication Lord Benton’s character was more warped than the other two, was the shock of who was to be her betrothed. Again.
Stiffening her legs to keep them from folding, she swept her regard to Lothaire. Before he blinked, she glimpsed relief in his eyes—and something akin to happiness. Was it possible? If so, surely for being the victor and making good his promise she would depart Windsor with him.
“Too much appetite you have for very young women, Lord Benton.” Eleanor’s upper lip curled. “Or should we say girls? We should. Therefore, Lady Laura is too old for you and her daughter too young.”
Her meaning slammed through Laura, sent her thoughts spinning back through the encounters with Lord Benton. Often he had asked about Clarice. And unlike Lothaire, he had very much wanted to know of the girl’s appearance. Laura had revealed little, but only because she feared he would probe further, trying the doors behind which lay the circumstances of her daughter’s conception.
“Your leave is happily granted.”
He turned, but rather than shame-faced like Lord Thierry, his countenance was marred by anger. Narrowing his eyes at Laura, he strode past.
Feeling light of head, she lowered her gaze to the rug beneath her feet whose fleur de lis pattern was not as distinct as before.
“Lord Benton!” the queen called when he reached the door.
“Your Majesty?”
“We are thinking a pilgrimage would be of great benefit—a long one, mayhap to the Holy Land. Confine yourself to your chamber. We shall send a priest to you.”
He did not answer, and the door closed moments later.
“Lady Laura, I present your betrothed, Baron Soames.”
Boots across the floor. The fleur de lis rising to meet her and yet no clearer than before.
“God’s arms!” the queen exclaimed as night drew its curtains across day. “We did not mean to frighten her so.”
Only because Lothaire saw her sway and did not request permission to leave the queen’s side did he reach Laura before she hit the floor. He caught her around the
waist, swung her into his arms, turned to the queen.
Eleanor’s smile was all satisfaction. “Would she could have seen how you flew to her side.” She gestured to the sitting area. “Best she recover here rather than grease squeaky tongues by you carrying her to her chamber.”
Discovering Laura was not much heavier than ten years past, wondering if she might be lighter out of her heavily embroidered gown, Lothaire conveyed her to one of the couches.
As he lowered her, her lids fluttered and she met his gaze. “I am going home with you.”
Was it a question? Or did she merely acknowledge what she dreaded?
He settled her head on a cushion, slid his arms from beneath her, impulsively hooked a tress off a cheek as smooth as he remembered.
“You are going home with me,” he said low. He thought it relief in her eyes, but it was so soon replaced by regret it could have been imagined. Or wished for.
“Why?” she breathed.
He owed her no answer, but he said, “You are my somehow.”
She frowned, gave her head a shake as if to clear it. “You think you have won, but I fear not.”
“We shall make the best of what we have been dealt,” he said gruffly. “You and I.”
“Clarice?” she said with such desperation he was ashamed he had not included her.
“And Clarice,” he forced the girl’s name across his tongue and drew back. “Rest now. We depart on the morrow.”
She stared a moment longer, then lowered her lids.
And Lothaire was struck by how little it had taken for his heart to pick up where it left off. But then he remembered he was no longer fewer than a score of years aged. That Laura Middleton had made a cuckold of him.
Chapter 8
Castle Soaring, England
May, 1163
It should not have taken three days to reach Castle Soaring.
Laura did not need Lothaire to speak it, and he did not, but she felt his impatience. Unfortunately, not only did Tina sit a saddle poorly, but the maid did so amid numerous packs containing the gowns Laura had taken to court and two more stuffed with the fine material and embellishments gifted the future Lady of Lexeter.
In Lothaire’s hearing, Eleanor had ordered a wedding gown be fashioned as befitting the cousin of the Queen of England.
Clearly, Laura’s betrothed had been displeased, but he inclined his head, as done often throughout the journey that followed, speaking as few words as possible to his betrothed. And not many more to the knights and squire who had accompanied him to Windsor. But of greater note—and blessing—was he did not present as smug over making good his belief Laura would be his. Because he now regretted his win?
Cease! she told herself as they slowed their mounts before the donjon. It matters not. It is done.
Her heart lightened to see she was to be received by Maude’s second stepson, Michael D’Arci, and his beautiful wife, Lady Beatrix of the Wulfriths. But when the latter stepped forward and Clarice was not to be found behind the lady’s skirts, Laura’s heart once more took on weight.
As anxious as she was for Lothaire to meet his future stepdaughter, it boded ill Clarice was not here to greet her mother.
Is it me? Laura wondered. Or Lothaire? She had told her daughter the queen was to provide a husband and father, and Clarice had not been pleased. Nor had Laura expected her to be. But she had known it would go worse were no warning given and had hoped during her absence her daughter would settle into the idea of a home of her own where she was not made to feel tolerated as she had been by the Baron of Owen’s wife.
Laura moved out of Lady Beatrix’s hug, looked to Michael who had stepped forward to welcome Lothaire.
Doubtless, they remembered each other from the one time they met during the first betrothal. After she had flung herself into Michael’s arms, Lothaire had corrected her for being too familiar with Maude’s stepson. But he had not been harsh, for she had earlier assured him her enthusiasm was that of a sister for a brother.
Blessedly, the missive Laura had inked at Windsor and sent ahead to Soaring had prepared Michael to receive the man who believed himself betrayed. She had also closed the missive with the words—Lord Soames does not know. Thus, Michael was assured their secret was safe and prepared for Lothaire’s bitterness over the belief Laura had cuckolded him.
“It has been a long time,” Lady Beatrix’s husband said, his tone telling it could have been much longer.
Laura tensed. Though she appreciated Michael cared enough to worry over the queen’s choice of a husband, she did not wish Lothaire offended.
“Not as long as it feels,” he gave back.
“Over ten years,” Laura forced herself to enter the conversation. “Imagine how blessed we shall be if we look back on this day ten years hence and think it a short time.”
Their eyes swept to her, and she pushed a smile onto her lips and wished she could show teeth to make it more believable. “As ’tis past the nooning hour, Lord D’Arci, I pray you will grant us a night’s lodging.”
“Unnecessary,” Lothaire said. “There is an inn four leagues distant.”
“Husband?” Lady Beatrix said sharply.
Michael’s smile was all for his wife. “We insist you spend the night, Lord Soames, not only for the sake of your travel-weary betrothed but her daughter. Though we received word of your arrival, we could not know which day you would appear. Thus, Clarice’s evening was promised to our children, and we would not disappoint them or her.”
Laura frowned, looked to Beatrix.
“She is much the little m-mother.” The lady brightened her smile as if unconcerned over the bump in her speech. “It has been good for her.”
Remembering how angry Clarice had been when told her mother was bound for court, Laura thanked the Lord her daughter had not been miserable all these weeks. “Lord Soames,” she said, “pray, let us accept the hospitality of the D’Arcis.”
After a long moment, he inclined his head. And she loved him a little more.
“Where is Clarice?” she asked Beatrix.
“Methinks she watches us.” The lady put her head slightly back to indicate either an upper floor or the donjon’s roof.
The roof, Laura guessed. Since Maude’s death, the girl often sought the solitude of that great height. Indeed, it was upon the donjon’s roof at Owen the incident had occurred which forced Laura to awaken.
“May I go to her, Lady Beatrix?”
“Of course. She will be glad to receive you.”
Laura started up the steps, remembered Tina, and turned to ask Michael to aid the woman in dismounting. But Lothaire was alongside the maid, arms raised.
Wishing he could love her even a little bit, she ascended the steps.
Six years past, here is where I opened my eyes just enough to think it possible to awaken, she thought as she moved through the hall toward the stairs. Here is where I revealed Lady Beatrix was not alone in her suffering. Here is where Michael learned how much he wronged the lady with whom he was falling in love.
If not for Clarice and that Laura loved Michael and Beatrix well, she might have resided here rather than seek a husband. And likely would have remained half asleep the rest of her life.
She found Clarice sitting in the embrasure of a battlement that overlooked the inner bailey.
When the girl heard footsteps, she dropped her feet to the ground. “You are returned.”
Despite the cool reception, Laura did not slow her step. “Forgive me for being gone so long,” she said and wrapped her arms around her little girl and hugged her so near she sensed it was discomfort rather than distaste that made Clarice protest.
“Mother!” She strained backward, stilled when she saw Laura’s tears. “What is wrong? Do you not like the husband the queen chose?”
It was not Lothaire she was thinking of. It was that one whose face returned to her time and again whether awake or at sleep. The one she would have chosen for a husband. Thinking to save herse
lf from pain and her daughter from the knowledge Lothaire could not wait to rid himself of another man’s child, Clarice would have been exposed to the perverse Lord Benton. Rather than secure a good future for the girl, Laura might have caused her to suffer a life worse than her mother's.
“I saw him, though I could see little of his face,” her daughter said, eyes moistening. “He is larger than Lord D’Arci. Is he a bad man?”
“Nay!” Laura dropped to her knees, gently gripped Clarice’s arms. “Baron Soames is a good man. He may not be of the affectionate sort, but he will protect you. His home will be our home. Our very own. You want that, do you not?”
The girl drew her lower lip between her teeth. “I wish us to live here with Lady Beatrix and Lord D’Arci.”
Laura momentarily closed her eyes. “I am to wed within a month, and where I go you go. You are my daughter.”
Clarice’s lower jaw jutted. “You say that because Lady Maude is gone, and now you must be a mother to me.”
Laura started to deny it, but it was the truth. Had Maude not died, she would not be awake. “I am sorry, Clarice. I know often I have been absent from your life, but I am present now and shall remain so.”
“How?” She pulled free. “You are to be a wife.”
Laura stood. “That does not mean I cannot be a mother.”
“What if I need you when he needs you?”
Laura did not know how to answer the question that revealed vulnerability often hidden behind the impression Clarice was older than her nine years. Or perhaps she did know. Lothaire had said he would be gone often. “Baron Soames is much occupied with the administration of his lands. We shall have plenty of time together.”
The girl thought on it, said, “Will he like me?”
Laura breathed down tears. “You will need time to become acquainted, but once you do, how could he not?”
Her evasive answer did not escape Clarice, who narrowed her eyes. “Does he like you?”
“He wishes to wed me.” More evasion.
Now her lids became slits. “Because the queen told him he should?”