“Aye,” said Robert. “For two hundred years, every Lady Ravenwood has died in the attempt to bear an heir.”
“Indeed?”
“Invariably.”
“What more do the people say?”
“More?”
“Fairy-tale curses usually have a cure, do they not?”
Robert unleashed a broad smile. With dramatic flair, he pointed at William. “Right,” he said. “The only remedy is true love.”
William snorted. “A rare commodity.”
“Nonexistent, to hear you tell it,” Robert quipped. “But if a Ravenwood heir were conceived in love, the curse would end.”
William fell silent. He knew firsthand the pitfalls of love, true or otherwise.
“I wonder,” said Robert, “does Lady Emma share the people’s belief?”
“Certainly not.”
“’Tis possible, though.”
“And as probable as seating a king below the salt.”
Robert shrugged, then turned away as a horn sounded from the great hall. Seconds later, Geoffrey and Robert’s towheaded squire, Guy, appeared in the doorway.
“Dinner, sir,” Geoffrey announced.
William nodded and stood.
Robert followed suit. “I still say gossip may have colored Lady Emma’s opinion,” he said. “These Saxons are a superstitious lot.”
“Perhaps,” William replied, starting toward the door, “but make no mistake. By Midsummer next, I shall have an heir.”
Chapter Three
The next morning, Emma basked in the myriad scents of her garden. The sun stared down at her through a sky as blue as the bundle of cornflowers in her hand. The flower petals had many uses. They colored ink and garnished vegetable dishes, and Emma herself used them to heal the various wounds and digestive disorders of the keep’s inhabitants.
If only there were some magical medicine to rid me of duty, she thought.
Her feigned illness the day before had allowed her to take both dinner and supper alone in her chamber. She had needed air, a chance to think. On swift wings, morning had come, but it brought no answers.
So she’d come to her garden to lose herself in clipping weeds and collecting herbs. She crouched over her work with enthusiasm, absorbing the resilience of the moist, rich soil. The natural rhythm of daily tasks was like a balm. Even the clangs from the smithy and the clucking of hens comforted her.
A shadow fell over her, and she started.
“Gracious,” a familiar voice said behind her.
Emma heaved a sigh as she stood and turned. ’Twas just Meg.
Old Meg was the only mother figure Emma had ever known. No one knew her age, but she was the twin sister of Emma’s great-grandmother and her mother’s namesake. She was also the one living person with eyes the exact shade of Emma’s. Alert and spry, the elderly woman had taught Emma all she knew about plants, healing, and friendship.
The sunlight danced in Meg’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, child.”
Emma shrugged and expelled a nervous giggle. “No matter. Even a pigeon might scare me this morning.”
“Is he so terrifying?”
“My bridegroom?”
“Who else?”
Emma looked down at her handful of flowers, noting for the first time that their color matched her attire. As she stared, one blue seemed to bleed into the other.
“Emma?” Meg prompted.
Bright violet eyes met an older, almost identical pair. “’Tis difficult to explain.”
Meg crossed her arms, causing the loose, gray folds of her tunic to shift like a storm cloud gliding through a restless sky. “Try,” she said gently.
Emma took a deep breath. “He…bothers me.”
“Interesting.”
“Annoying, I’d say.”
“Was he unkind to you?”
Emma kicked a wayward pebble. “He had the gall to lecture me on duty.”
“Had he need to?”
“Hardly.” Emma stooped to pick up her basket of collected plants. “I eat, drink, and sleep duty.”
Meg stepped closer and peered into Emma’s basket. “Dittany. Are Father Cedric’s joints paining him again?”
“Unfortunately.”
“And horehound. Has someone a cough?”
“No, but winter will arrive soon enough.”
“’Tis wise to prepare for the future, however uncertain it may be.”
Meg’s words encompassed more than weather or medicine, and Emma knew it. With a sigh, she dropped the cornflowers into her basket. “If only there were no curse.”
“I know, child.” Meg took the basket. “If I could lift that burden, I would in a heartbeat.”
Emma searched Meg’s eyes. Anguish glistened within them.
“You were lucky,” Emma said. “You escaped wedlock.”
Meg nodded. “My sister married instead.”
Emma trembled despite the sun’s warmth. “And then she died in childbirth.”
Meg stood motionless. “I want to ask you something. If the curse were lifted, how would you feel about Sir William?”
Emma frowned. “What are you asking?”
“Are you attracted to him?”
A sly memory crept into Emma’s mind. Black, abysmal eyes pierced hers. Fierce masculinity—too near, and yet not near enough—prickled her skin.
“You’re blushing,” Meg remarked.
Emma’s hands flew to her cheeks. They were hot, mutinous.
Meg grinned. “I thought as much.”
“What?”
“You’re a smart girl. I trow you understand.”
Emma pursed her lips. “I’m glad I amuse you.”
“And I’m glad an attraction exists.”
“Yet if I heed it, I could die.”
Meg sobered. “I see your point. Forgive me.”
“There’s naught to forgive,” Emma said. “Walk with me.”
Together, they navigated the garden paths and started toward Emma’s workshop.
“I only wish things were different,” Emma said.
Meg laid a hand on Emma’s back. “Perhaps they will be, if you give them time.”
“Time is not a luxury I possess.”
Just then, they encountered two young laundresses hanging sheets and tablecloths in the courtyard.
“Good morrow, Ethel, Winifred.” Emma nodded to each in turn.
The servants looked up from their work. “Good morrow, my lady.”
“Is your supply of wood ash holding out?” Emma inquired.
“Aye, my lady.” Ethel adjusted her headrail.
“Good.” Emma continued on with Meg.
A few steps farther, a slim, ungainly boy of ten scampered toward them with broom in hand.
“How fares your puppy, Edwin?” Emma asked.
“Very well, my lady,” the stableboy said, “since you mended his leg.”
“And your mother,” said Emma, “is she using the poultice I gave her?”
Edwin nodded. “Every day, and she’s much the better for it. But she’ll be needing more soon.”
“I’ll see to it,” Emma promised.
“Thank you, my lady,” Edwin said.
Emma smiled fondly at him as he scurried off to the stable.
“You’ve such an eye for detail,” Meg murmured. “I’m amazed you haven’t noticed.”
Emma stopped at the entrance to her workshop. “Have I overlooked something?”
Meg lowered her eyes. “Nothing of consequence. Come, let’s get to work.”
As the older woman disappeared through the doorway, Emma paused to consider her cryptic remark. But, finding no solution, she shook it off and followed Meg inside.
****
“I’ll expect a ready supply of weapons, bowstrings, and arrows,” William ordered, his towering, muscular frame blocking the armory’s only exit. His inspection was complete.
“Aye, sir,” said the castle’s stout and painfully nervous armorer. The
man’s blue eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets.
“My men brought their own weaponry, but they’ll need more if there’s a siege,” William continued. “And I’ll not have the locals ill-equipped for their service. All weapons must be kept in prime condition.”
“Always, sir,” the armorer pledged.
William nodded his approval. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said in a clear, resonant tone which carried to all servants in the vicinity.
Satisfied, he withdrew and started across the bailey. Ravenwood buzzed with activity. The grooms in the stable fed the horses and swept the stalls. The smith pounded out horseshoes at his forge, while close by, knights and their squires plunged and parried in swordplay. Scullions carried buckets of water from the well to the kitchens, from whence streamed the tantalizing smell of roasting meat.
William drank in the scent, and his stomach rumbled. He was about to explore the kitchens when he spotted Tilda scuttling toward the keep.
“Tilda!” he shouted above the din.
The handmaiden froze as he closed the distance between them.
“Sir William,” she answered, clasping her hands together.
“Where is your mistress?” he asked.
Tilda swallowed hard. “She was headed for her workshop when last I saw her.”
“Workshop?”
She pointed over her shoulder. “The wooden hut near the herb garden. She should still be there.”
“Good,” said William. “Go about your work.”
Tilda curtsied, then hurried away.
His steps quickened as he approached the hut, but once there, he lingered beside the entrance. Emma and a veiled woman stood with their backs to the door. Absorbed in their work, they huddled over a large, wooden table.
He noted at once the neatness of the space. His bride obviously respected discipline and order, at least in her workshop. Flagons, jars, and stoppered bottles of all sizes lined the long, well-dusted shelves. Equidistant bunches of dried herbs hung in straight rows from the wooden beams above.
Amid the familiar scents of plants like basil and cowslip, an alien, pungent odor tickled his nostrils. He fought and defeated a sneeze, but the women sensed his presence all the same. They turned together, and two extraordinary pairs of eyes met his stare.
“Sir William,” Emma said.
“My lady.” With a casual air, he stepped over the threshold.
Emma motioned to the older woman. “This is Meg.”
He nodded to Meg. Her eyes lit up, and she flashed him a miraculously even-toothed smile. The action created a grid of wrinkles from her mouth to the corners of her eyes.
She turned to Emma. “Shall I stay or go?”
“Leave us,” William said.
“Of course,” Meg responded. Still beaming, she slipped from the hut.
He returned his attention to Emma. Their gazes locked, and for several seconds, neither one moved.
Abruptly, she straightened and lifted her chin. “Was it necessary to dismiss her?”
You’re a bold one, he thought with a smile. Why it pleased him, he couldn’t say.
He stepped closer to her. “She was more than willing to go.”
Emma leaned back against her worktable. “Why are you here?”
“Why not?”
“A direct answer will suffice.”
His mouth twitched. “I wanted to inquire after your health.”
She lowered her eyes. “Oh. I feel better today.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Her bewitching, violet eyes looked up at him. His stomach dropped.
Easy now, he cautioned himself.
“I’ll want you by my side to greet our guests,” he said aloud.
“Aldred and Wulfstan,” she said.
William nodded. “What do you know of them?”
“I know Aldred isn’t half the man his brother is,” Emma said hotly.
He frowned. “Explain.”
“Aldred preens himself over his military prowess and the fear he inspires in Nihtscua’s people.”
“Nihtscua Keep. His estate to the north.”
“Aye. He has no honor, only an insatiable lust for blood.”
“And power?”
“By the barrelful.”
“What can you tell me of Wulfstan?”
“He’s as different from Aldred as water from stone. His only hunger is for knowledge.”
“Of what?”
“The workings of our world and the realms beyond.”
“Magic?”
“Some call it that.”
“I see. A man of mystery.”
“He is that,” Emma said in a softer voice, “but he has a quiet dignity, too. Those who fear Wulfstan misjudge his studies and his abilities. In truth, Nihtscua would fare much better were he its master.”
William’s nostrils flared. Her affection for the Saxon was obvious. It stirred in him a demon which had remained long dormant, but he stifled the emotion as quickly as it had surfaced.
“Nihtscua,” he said, in control once more. “What does it mean?”
“Shadow of night.”
“Suitably dark.”
She cocked her head to the side. “You think so? ‘William the Storm’ is hardly a beacon of hope.”
He bristled. “You dare flout my name?”
“On the contrary, I admire it. I’ll take a good storm over insipid sunshine any day. The writhing clouds and biting wind are far more exciting.”
Her words held passion and promise. They sparked an immediate response in him. His manhood was rigid, ready.
For a long moment, she stared into his eyes. Then she cleared her throat and whirled to face her worktable. His gaze burned a trail of desire down her back, following her two long braids to the provocative curves where they stopped.
God’s teeth, he cursed inwardly. How shall I wait until tomorrow night?
Battling his instincts, he claimed a space beside her at the table’s edge. He watched intently as she placed a handful of leaves in a mortar.
“So this is your work,” he said.
“Aye.” Her gaze fixed on the task. “The people depend on me, and I’m happy to serve.”
She wrapped her delicate fingers around a thick, stone pestle. The action did nothing to ease his condition. He had to make conversation, or he’d have his bride on the table faster than a Turk wielded a scimitar.
He pointed to the small pile of red berries beside a cluster of twigs. “What are those?”
“Hawthorn branches and their fruit. You’ve probably tasted the berries in jellies and sauces, but a powder made from the seeds is good for the heart. Don’t expect to see the blossoms in any of the local cottages, though. ’Tis bad luck, I’m told.”
Her wide grin proved she didn’t share the belief. He couldn’t help grinning back.
“I didn’t recognize the plant,” he said, “but I’ve heard the legends. The ancient Greeks and Romans thought it protected them from evil spirits.”
“Ah, so you listen to legends too. I thought you only made them.”
William didn’t know whether to laugh or take offense, but at least his blood had cooled. His gaze dropped to the leaves Emma bruised in the mortar. “What’s that there?”
“Mandrake. It can be deadly, but in moderation, it makes a soothing ointment. ’Tis likewise a stimulant.”
“How so?” He pretended ignorance. This plant had inspired its own tales.
“It encourages the act of—” She broke off and looked at him. Her amethyst eyes were large, hypnotic.
A new shaft of desire sliced through him. “What does it encourage?”
She opened her mouth, but no sound escaped.
He lowered his gaze to her full, sensual lips. Their natural shade was a deep pink. Almost purple. The upper lip was unusually plump, as ripe and tempting as its counterpart.
In a hushed voice, he continued, “You were saying…”
“I was?”
“Y
ou were. Mandrake encourages…”
“Passion.”
He inched toward her. He would kiss her, teach her the meaning of the word.
“Oh!” another female cried.
Emma sprang away from him, and his attention snapped to the intruder. Gertrude darkened the doorway.
The chit’s green eyes narrowed. “Forgive me.”
“State your purpose,” he ordered.
Gertrude’s gaze shot to Emma. “John would speak with you.”
“John is our steward,” Emma explained.
“I know,” said William. “I met him yesterday, while you dined alone in your chamber.”
Color flooded Emma’s cheeks. “Oh,” she said. “I wasn’t informed.”
“John awaits you in the kitchen,” Gertrude pressed. “He has questions touching the wedding banquet.”
Emma started forward, but her foot froze midair. She cast William a sidelong glance. “By your leave,” she said.
He nodded. “Proceed.”
Her hips swayed as she stepped over the doorsill and disappeared in a flurry of blue. He licked his lips and smiled.
His bride might concern herself with the nuptial feast, but his appetite craved something far more delectable. ’Twould be a wedding night to remember.
Chapter Four
Emma followed her cousin into the sweltering heat of the kitchens, and a heady mixture of spices, roasting meats, and freshly baked bread seduced her senses. The main kitchen was enormous, and its walls rang with the head cook’s constant commands. Undercooks lined the trestle tables and hastened to obey. They chopped vegetables, plucked poultry, and pressed pastry dough into huge pie dishes. Some tended the iron cauldrons which hung by hook and chain over the blazing hearth, while others basted a wild boar carcass rotated by the turnspit.
Most were so engrossed in their work that they never noticed the two young women. Sidestepping a trio of hungry, hopeful kittens, Gertrude led Emma to a corner which seemed the only space not in use.
“Where’s John?” Emma asked through the clamor.
Gertrude averted her gaze to her yellow tunic. “I’ve no idea. I lied to save you.”
“I needed saving,” said Emma.
“The filthy Norman dog,” Gertrude spat. “How could you bear to stand so close to him?”
“Oh, I can bear it. The trouble is convincing myself otherwise.”
“You cannot be serious.”
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