He raised tired eyes to hers. “Aye, my lady. I knew.”
She flopped down in a chair and glared at him. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it was not my place to do so.” His tone gentled. “Don’t cry. Everything will be fine. How’s your arm? Are you still in pain?”
Lora hiccupped. “Yes, Master William. I’m in pain. A lot of pain. But it goes beyond my stupid elbow. And nobody cares. Nobody.” She knew she sounded childish and managed to blush at her own petulance.
“That’s not true, Lora.”
“But I don’t want to marry this man. He’s more than twice my age!”
“In that, you have little choice.” He sighed. “’Tis the way of things for high-born women. You must accept it. Your life could be much worse.”
A small shadow darted across the window, swift as an arrow. Lora knew what it was. At the sound of her mother’s voice calling her name, she rose to her feet. “A gilded cage, Master William. I live in a gilded cage.”
William’s response followed her across the threshold.
“Do not try to open it, my lady. For his sake and yours.”
*
Three days had passed since Lora had learned of her betrothal. Three torturous days of forced smiles and dress fittings, wedged in between sleepless nights. The bruise had been exposed and explained away by a lie.
“I slipped on the bottom step,” she said, crossing her fingers against the untruth, “and banged my elbow.”
Shadowed by her mother, fussing, and Fritha, primping, Lora had not had a chance to speak to Gareth. Indeed, they had shared only occasional glances and smiles across the great hall.
No doubt he knew of the forthcoming marriage. Everybody knew. Everybody was happy about it.
Except Lora.
Lora wanted to weep. She wanted to scream. She wanted to clench her fists, stamp her feet, and tell everyone to leave her alone. She wanted to make a stand and refuse to wed Lord Grant, the thirty-five-year-old stranger who would be arriving in a few days. The thought of meeting him set her stomach rolling.
But she didn’t dare go against the earl. Did she?
At last, that morning, she’d managed to escape the bonds of wedding plans, feigning a desire to visit the herb gardens to gather lavender. “For my trousseau chest,” she’d declared to her mother. “Besides, I feel like some fresh air.”
But she had not lingered long in the garden. Lora lifted the small bouquet to her nose, breathed in the soothing scent, and headed toward the well.
Dawn that day had revealed clouded skies, but the sun had since split the clouds apart. Lora wondered, in a moment of fancy, if it had acted purposely, its sole intent to caress Gareth’s shirtless, sculpted body. His skin, sheathed with sweat, shone like burnished bronze in the sunlight. Damp tendrils of his rich, dark hair framed his face and brushed across his shoulders. A sparse triangle of equally dark curls splayed across his chest, tapering down to a thin line that disappeared beneath his belted breeches.
He wasn’t wearing the medallion, Lora noticed, without little surprise. Such an item would likely draw attention and unwanted questions.
His hammer played a tune and his chisel danced across the stone, forming and shaping as it went. From her vantage at the corner of the keep, Lora watched and admired. God must be a master mason, too, she thought, for had He not chiseled an image of male perfection in the Welshman? Lora knew the pleasure of being held in his arms, kissed by his lips, and soothed by his voice.
She wanted him.
Him.
Not some mature husband with title and wealth, one who had negotiated a marriage as one might negotiate to obtain a piece of livestock.
With another sniff of lavender and a quick glance around her, Lora approached the well. Gareth’s hand on the hammer paused mid-strike, and he lifted his head, his bold eyes feasting on her body. She shivered.
“Gareth.”
“My lady.” His chest rose and fell. “You should not be here unaccompanied.”
“I have to see you tonight.”
“Lora—”
“There are things to be said.”
He shook his head. “I think not.”
“Please, Gareth. Don’t make me beg.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “I believe you just did, lass.”
“I’m to be married,” she blurted out. By all the saints, she made it sound like a death sentence.
“I know.” He shouldered the hammer and the smile disappeared. “Congratulations.”
“You don’t understand.” She fought against an unwelcome urge to cry. “I want… I need to see you. Just one more time.”
“What did you tell the steward, Lora?”
Lora tensed. “Master William?”
A small muscle twitched in his jaw. “Aye. What did you tell him?”
“Why? Has he said something to you?”
“He asked me how long it would take to finish this job.”
“That’s all?”
Gareth shrugged. “It was the way he said it, the way he looked at me.”
Lora sighed. “He saw me the other night, all covered in mud, and questioned me. I told him how you saved my life, but nothing else. He made me promise not to go near the well again until you’d finished building the wall. He’s very protective of me. He always has been.”
At that, his mouth twitched. “With good reason, it seems.”
Lora cast a nervous glance over her shoulder and waved an impatient hand. “I cannot stay long. Will you be here later?”
“Nay, lass.”
“But you said you cared about me.”
His expression softened. “I do, cariad. More than you know.”
“Then why won’t you…?” Lora heaved a sigh. She didn’t need to ask the question, for she already knew the answer and it tore at her heart.
They could never be together. Never.
A cloud passed over the sun. Lora shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself.
“It would seem the stories about the well are only fairy tales, Gareth. There’s no such thing as magic.”
“Aye, there is,” he said. “Believe me, Lora, there is. It just needs time to work, that’s all.”
Chapter 6
It took every ounce of Lora’s willpower to remain seated. The urge to run and keep running twisted inside her like a separate, imprisoned creature. The food sat untouched on her plate and her trembling hands were reluctant to lift the goblet for fear of slopping wine all over herself. The smile she wore wasn’t genuine either. It was merely a mask, put in place to conceal her real feelings.
It seemed to be working, because everyone around her appeared to be oblivious to her true anguish. Well, not everyone. Lora knew of three people in the great hall who saw beyond her false facade. They did not, however, share the same interpretation of it.
Lady Elizabeth, apparently convinced that Lora only needed reassurance, offered up frequent nods of encouragement. It will be all right, my daughter, they implied. Give it time. Edward seems like a fine man.
Give it time? Time was in short supply, Lora thought. And it could not be stopped.
Master William had his mouth constantly buried in his wine goblet, which was unlike him. He had always been the stalwart one, scrupulous and sober, so his indulgent behavior surprised Lora.
When he did lift his face, she realized it wore a mask similar to hers. The wine had glazed his eyes with a soft glow, but his stiff smile went no farther than the contrived upturn of his lips. He regarded her with a measure of regret in his expression. Accept it, little ’un, she imagined him saying. ’Tis the way of things for the high-born.
Gareth’s warm gaze had been caressing her all evening from across the hall. She felt his eyes on her, although she couldn’t tell what emotions they expressed. He, more than anyone, knew what lay in Lora’s heart. How could he not? She had given him the blessed thing. How could she ever give her heart to the man sitting beside her when it already belonged to another?
“You are not hungry, my lady?” Edward’s voice, close to her ear, made her jump. “Forgive me,” he added. “I did not mean to startle you.”
Still holding onto her smile, Lora looked at her future husband. He had arrived that afternoon, complete with entourage, and the banquet at Rothwyn that night was being held in his honor. Lora’s first impression of her betrothed was guarded. So far, he had been charming and polite, but he exuded an air of authority with a definite hint of austerity. She felt small next to him, and the feeling had nothing to do with her height.
Edward Grant intimidated her.
“My appetite eludes me,” she replied. “It must be all this excitement.”
“Excitement? Hmm. Maybe.” His brow lifted in a presumptuous fashion. “Or fear, perhaps?”
She frowned, unhappy that he had seen through her mask. “Fear of what, my lord?”
“A who, not a what.” He squeezed her hand. “Me.”
Lora tensed, trying to decide if he was teasing her or not. She removed her smile and met his gaze and his question head on. “Should I have reason to fear you?”
He bent his face to hers and lowered his voice. “Only if you dishonor me, my lady, which I’m certain you never will. It pleases me that you are yet young and malleable. I’m sure you’ll quickly learn what I expect from a wife.”
“Malleable?” Ire rising, Lora pulled her hand from beneath his and reached for her goblet. “You make me sound like a lump of potter’s clay to be shaped as you please.” She gulped a mouthful of wine. Edward reached over to a fruit platter, pulled a fat red grape from its stalk, and rolled it between his fingertips. “Perhaps it is not a potter’s touch you need, but that of a stonemason.”
Lora choked on her drink and spat it all over the table. Still sputtering, she wiped her hand across her mouth and blinked at Edward through the veil of resulting tears. By all that was sacred, he could not have chosen a more pertinent analogy.
“Wine should be sipped, my dear.” He popped the grape in his mouth and patted her on the back. “I hope it will not take a stronger hand to sculpt you into a lady befitting your station. I’m sure you’ll find my expectations of you to be quite reasonable. I’m not without patience, and I do want you to be happy.”
Then let me go, Edward, for I can never be truly happy with you.
Fearful her tongue might betray her thoughts, Lora bit down on her bottom lip. She lowered her chin in a feigned gesture of submission, and peered up at the man who would soon have control of her life. He was noble featured, tall and broad-shouldered, with nary a single fair hair out of place. His bejeweled fingers were long and fine, graced with well-manicured nails that were busy drumming a light cadence on the table-top. Edward Grant was a handsome man.
But there were several impediments to the marriage already. When Lora looked at Edward, her heart did not leap with excitement. Desire did not weaken her limbs or heat her blood. Not a single part of her tingled at his touch. She didn’t see magic in his eyes or hear music in his voice.
And she didn’t like the way he said her name.
Edward’s cool, blue gaze assessed her in return, tracing a bold line across her mouth before traveling down her throat to linger on the soft rise of her breasts. Lora recognized desire in his scrutiny, and a sense of outrage flared within her. Only Gareth, she thought, had the right to look at her that way.
Her inner defenses rose like a curtain wall, her mind choosing to ignore Edward’s arguable justification in appraising his future wife. Her teeth released her lip. In doing so, they gave freedom to her zealous tongue.
“Are you an expert on assessing broodmares, my lord?” she snapped, raising her chin again.
A fleeting expression of shock flew across his face. Then his brow cleared and he let out a bark of laughter.
“Ah, my lady.” He ran a fingertip along her jaw. “I foresee an interesting union between us. And yes, I do know a little about broodmares. They are often resistant at first, nipping and kicking in protest, but with a little persuasion and an expert touch, they always succumb to the stallion’s demands.”
Lora let out a soft gasp at his meaning and silently cursed the flush that burned across her cheeks. It occurred to her that it would not be easy to try and outwit Edward Grant.
Nor would it be wise.
*
Later that night, after wine had laid waste to decorum, Rothwyn’s hallways echoed with the raucous songs of drunken men. Lora, pacing in her chamber, wondered if Gareth was among them. She doubted it. She couldn’t imagine his gentle voice forming such bawdy words.
Besides, he had left the hall quite early in the evening, bidding her farewell with a subtle nod and faint smile. Oh, how she’d yearned to see what emotions simmered in his eyes.
In her mind, she’d called his name and run after him. He’d turned, blessed her with his beautiful smile, and led her out into the soft twilight. And then…ah, such delicious imaginings.
Reality had interrupted her pleasant reverie when Edward, playing to the boisterous crowd, had insisted on feeding Lora a sweetmeat. His fingers teased her lips open, forcing her to take the morsel in a fashion that set his eyes alight with desire, while drawing whistles and guffaws from the guests.
Indignant and embarrassed, Lora had refused a second offering. Edward laughed and kissed her hand, obviously amused by her discomfort.
He reminded her of a cat toying with a mouse.
A little later, she’d scrubbed his kiss from her hand as he and the earl left the great hall together. The men had, no doubt, gone to discuss the finer points of the union and put ink and seal to parchment. Lora was nothing more than a chattel, her virtue part of her dowry, her destiny signed and sealed. A privileged future, some would say. Aye, privilege she would have. That, and a lifetime of unfulfilled dreams.
Her gut twisted at the thought.
Oh, how she needed the realization of her wish. Was it yet too early to assume nothing would come of it?
It just needs time to work, that’s all.
Time. Lora all but felt the rush of its wings as it flew past, an eternal unstoppable force.
A small gold coin rested on her bedside table, one she’d dug out of her little leather purse earlier. It gleamed in the candlelight, tempting her with an uncertain promise. Was it folly to put so much faith in a tiny piece of precious metal and an ancient legend? A second wish? Well, it wouldn’t hurt, she reasoned, scooping up the coin.
The stairwell and hallways still rang with the sounds of merriment. Lora tiptoed down the stairs, eager to escape the confines of the keep, formulating a new wish in her mind.
She didn’t see the large dark figure by the main door until it loomed up in her path. Her strained nerves all snapped at once and she let out a cry.
“Master William. Oh, dear God. You scared me.”
He belched and squinted at her through languid eyes. “Where are you going, my lady?”
The smell of stale wine wafted across her face. Lora recoiled, her frantic heartbeat rattling in her ears.
“I… nowhere. I mean… I just felt like some air.” She frowned and tightened her grip on the coin, a knot of apprehension formed in her belly. This unkempt William was not the man she knew.
His gaze flicked to her clenched fist and an expression of sadness crossed his face. “Ah, Lora, don’t. That heathen pit does naught but tangle with your dreams.” He hiccupped and waved his hand down the hallway toward Rothwyn’s chapel door. “Try prayer, not pagan wishes. That’s where I’ve been. In there, praying.”
“Praying?” Lora tilted her head and studied his sad expression, curiosity replacing her apprehension. “I never took you for a devout man. Do you really believe God will grant me what I want?”
He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and sucked in a breath. “No, I don’t. You’ll never have what you want, little ’un, but that’s exactly why you must pray. You must pray for the strength to live without it.”
His unexpec
ted response tore at the few shreds of hope she had left. “Never, you say?” She frowned. “I don’t believe in never, and you don’t understand. You can’t even begin to know how I feel.”
His eyes flew open and met hers with a flash of pain. “You’re wrong,” he said. “I know all too well what it is to love in vain. My soul has been starved for years but refuses to die. Why? Because the woman I love still lives. She can never be mine, yet her mere presence on this earth is enough to sustain me. That, and a quiet conversation with God once in a while.”
Lora stared at him, her mind grappling with his astounding confession. “Master William. I-I didn’t…”
He pushed himself upright, swaying a little, and regarded her with his usual solemnity. “You promised me you’d stay away from the well, young lady. I hold you to that promise.” With that, he pulled the door open and vanished into the night, followed by Lora’s belated question, which hung in the air.
“Who is she?”
The question, of course, remained unanswered. For a moment, she considered going after him, but somehow, she knew he already regretted his outburst. William possessed a proud heart. Propriety had always served as his armour and dignity as his shield. The wine in his veins, it seemed, had stripped him bare and exposed a festering wound. But what torment, Lora wondered, had prompted him to overindulge that night?
A sudden roar of laughter from the great hall made her jump. She sighed, the ceaseless sounds of revelry chafing on her ragged nerves. Exhausted and confused, she looked down the hallway to where Rothwyn’s chapel beckoned with a promise of peace and quiet. Perhaps prayer would help, after all.
The chapel door creaked as it opened; a familiar and strangely welcoming sound that echoed off the smooth stone walls. Small, yet exquisitely decorated, the chapel possessed an air of quiet awe and serenity. A solitary candle burned on the altar, creating a bright halo of light in the darkness. The atmosphere drew Lora into its gentle embrace, as if aware of her need for comfort.
Thankful for the solitude, she knelt on the steps of the altar and looked up at the ornate brass cross, trying to sort through her tangled emotions. The gold coin drew heat from her clenched hand and dug into the sensitive skin of her palm. A token intended for a pagan spirit, she thought, with a twinge of religious guilt.
The Wishing Well (Legends of Love Book 1) Page 6