‘May we come inside, Father?’ she asked.
Harold moved sideways, gesturing for them to join him. She could not tell what he thought of their circumstances, for he hid his thoughts, as always.
When she drew nearer, she saw that his hair was rimmed with silver, his beard tinged with grey. His eyes held wariness, which was not surprising. She had brought danger among them, for she had no doubt Owen would try to pursue them.
He led them both inside and gave orders for bread and ale. ‘You have not eaten, I suppose?’
‘No. Only travelling food, earlier this morning,’ Rosamund answered. ‘I would be grateful for a hot meal.’
She walked through the Great Hall, searching for a glimpse of her mother, but there was no sign of Agnes. Instead, she spied her sister standing near the far end. Cecilia’s eyes widened, but she stepped forward to greet them with her hands outstretched. ‘Rosamund. I never thought to see you here again.’
‘I didn’t expect to be here myself.’
Her sister’s gaze drifted to Warrick with a questioning look. Rosamund introduced him as her new husband. Though Cecilia greeted him with politeness, there was a strained tone in her voice.
When there was still no sign of Agnes, Rosamund asked, ‘Where is Mother?’ She had not seen her in such a long time. Although she was prepared to receive a lecture on the hasty wedding, she had missed her overbearing presence. Beneath her mother’s criticism lay a woman who truly did care about her.
Cecilia spared a stricken look at their father and then admitted, ‘She died last winter.’
Rosamund’s heart sank at the news, followed by a rush of anger. ‘And no one thought to send word?’ Although Agnes had been a chiding mother who had always found fault with every little thing, Rosamund would have come to her funeral Mass. ‘You should have told me.’
‘Father forbade it,’ Cecilia answered. Then she squeezed her hand and leaned forward. ‘We will speak of this later.’
It seemed that her father had not changed at all. Rosamund realised that if she remained here, he would, no doubt, find a reason to imprison her in her rooms. Or prevent her from seeing Warrick again.
She didn’t know how to manage the tangle of emotions within her. But she knew better than to lash out at her father. He would only lash back at her. Better to be subtle and calm, using her own invisible weapons.
She joined her father at the high table with Warrick at her side. Harold barely acknowledged her husband, and Rosamund decided to confront him. ‘I wish you had told me of Mother’s death.’
‘Why would you care?’ he retorted. ‘You never bothered to visit since your marriage. In three years, we heard nothing from you.’
She met his gaze evenly, her voice quiet. ‘You know why.’ But she guessed it was his own petty vengeance for her silence.
Harold shrugged and lifted his cup of wine. ‘Agnes grew ill from a coughing sickness and did not recover.’
She tore off a piece of bread. ‘I would have come if you had sent word.’
‘But now you come seeking my help?’ Her father poured another cup of wine. A hard edge lined his face, as if he resented her very presence.
‘Do you truly wish to remain enemies?’ she asked softly. ‘After all this time?’
Harold drained the second cup of wine and said nothing. So be it. Rosamund finished her food and wine and then turned to Warrick. ‘I am going up to the solar with my sister. I will join you later.’ She leaned in and kissed his cheek, making it clear to her father that this marriage had been her choice. Warrick held her hand for a brief moment, and she squeezed it with a silent promise.
Cecilia stood from her place and guided her up the stairs. Rosamund walked into the solar and saw a basket near a stool. She recognised it as her mother’s embroidery and picked it up to examine the work. It was a simple pattern of pink roses, and Agnes had begun stitching the greenery. The sight of the linen made her eyes well up with tears. Although she had not been very close to her mother, both of them had loved to sit in the solar and sew. It was a piece of Agnes left behind, and it bruised her heart to see it.
Rosamund held the linen for a moment and asked her sister, ‘May I take this? So that I may finish her work?’
Cecilia nodded. ‘She would have wanted that.’ Her sister went to stand by the window. ‘Whether he admits it or not, Father did miss you. We all did. Mother tried to convince him to go and visit, but he said he would never ride to Pevensham until you invited him.’
Because he had known how deeply she had hated him. Her heart hardened at the invisible wall of bitterness that had kept them apart over the years. Turning the subject, Rosamund ventured, ‘I thought you would have been married by now with a household of your own.’
Her sister’s expression turned wry. ‘No one wanted to marry me.’
‘But that’s foolish. You are a beautiful woman, one any man would be proud to wed.’
Cecilia smiled, and she sighed. ‘They call me a shrew and sing songs about me because I refused to wed the man Father chose.’
Rosamund blinked at that, but her sister admitted, ‘He was a terrible suitor—a cruel man who starved his hounds and beat them. I would never want a man like that to sire children...especially with me.’ Cecilia shrugged. ‘Father swore that if I did not marry Gerard, I would have to stay at home and wed no one. Or perhaps I could join a convent.’ With a wry expression, she finished, ‘You can see what my choice was.’
‘Do you want to be married?’ Rosamund asked, sitting down and picking up a needle. She chose a lighter shade of green for the embroidery, wanting to add depth to her mother’s stitching.
‘I might. But only if he is a good man.’ Cecilia pulled up a stool and sat across from her. ‘I overheard them say you are expecting Alan’s child. When will you give birth?’
Rosamund lowered her gaze to the stitching. ‘In the winter.’ She was deliberately vague, not wanting to reveal anything.
Her sister nodded, resting her hands upon her lap. ‘I bid you good fortune with your child.’ She waited a moment and asked, ‘Is it so terrible to lie with a man? The very thought sounds awful.’
A slight motion caught her attention, and Rosamund saw Warrick standing just outside the doorway. He tilted his head, and there was amusement on his face, letting her know he had overheard her sister’s question.
‘Rosamund?’ Cecilia prompted. ‘Well, is it? I would like to be forewarned.’
She smiled serenely. ‘No, it’s not awful at all. When you are wedded to a man you love, it’s wonderful.’
Her sister studied her and her expression held doubt. ‘But...doesn’t it hurt?’
She caught her husband’s gaze behind Cecilia and met it evenly. ‘There is nowhere else I would rather be than in Warrick’s arms.’
He studied her a moment before he disappeared from her view. She could only hope that he understood and would forgive her for the secret she had kept.
* * *
Warrick waited for Rosamund after she emerged from the solar. His wife’s cheeks were bright, but she behaved as if he had not overheard them speaking. He followed her to the chamber they would share, but as they walked through the castle, he felt his own restlessness intensifying. It bothered him that he’d been forced to bring her here, to face her father once more. They needed a home of their own, a place where he could command his own soldiers and his own estate.
He had told Rosamund that he intended to speak with the king, to fight for Pevensham. And he would, for the sake of the people. None wished to be governed by Owen de Courcy. But he knew that Rosamund’s claim to the land was feeble, at best. If there was no child, then they were powerless to help.
Even if they could not regain Pevensham, he intended to appeal to the king, offering everything he could give, in return for a parcel of land. Gaining l
and of his own was a means of fighting against the ghosts of his past, proving his worth.
His wife interrupted his thoughts by taking him by the hand and leading him towards their bed. ‘We need to talk, Warrick.’
Truthfully, there was nothing to say. But he sat down and she stood between his legs before she reached out for his other hand. Her palms were warm, and her eyes fixed upon him. ‘I do not want you to appeal to the king. Owen can take Pevensham, and we need never see him again. We can go to Ireland, as you said. I believe Owen would keep his word and give us an estate there.’
It was clear that she wanted to take the safest path, surrendering everything. But he didn’t believe for a moment that Owen would surrender land.
‘Owen will give us nothing,’ he said. ‘He will likely sell off whatever he can to repay his debts.’
She rested her hands upon his shoulders, distracting him with her nearness. ‘Or we can live with your brother Rhys in Scotland. All that matters is that we are safe.’
‘And what if you are with child?’ he ventured.
‘We both know who the father is. And our son would have no true right to govern Pevensham.’ Rosamund lowered her forehead to touch his. ‘I would rather be wedded to you and raise our children knowing their father’s name.’
Warrick had no desire to behave like a coward, knowing what Owen would do to the estate. He stood from the bed, his height towering over Rosamund. ‘So you would abandon the people of Pevensham and let Owen take command? Was that what Alan wanted?’
She faltered at that. ‘The people were loyal to the de Courcy name, not to me or Alan.’
‘Or perhaps they were afraid of Owen?’ he ventured.
Rosamund gave no answer, but slid her hands beneath his tunic to touch his bare chest. He understood that this was a distraction, a means of avoiding the truth. But the scent of her skin allured him, and he could not resist threading his hands in her dark hair.
‘All of us were afraid of Owen,’ she admitted at last. She moved her hands upon his heart. ‘It’s why I want to leave. I never want to see him again.’
‘You need not be afraid of any man,’ he said.
Rosamund straightened and took a breath. ‘But Owen will not rest if there is the threat of a child.’ She rested her cheek against his chest, and her fear was palpable. ‘If you leave, he will come after me.’
Now he understood the true reason for her fear. ‘Your father will guard you,’ he assured her. ‘He has a stronghold here and dozens of men. Owen cannot reach you, so long as you stay behind these walls.’
‘I trust him not. Nor my father.’ Her voice held melancholy, and he wanted to comfort her. ‘And you are still leaving me behind.’
He pulled back from the embrace, meeting her gaze. ‘Owen must be brought to justice for what he did.’
But he could see upon her face that she did not believe him. ‘It’s more than that, isn’t it?’
He could not speak reassuring lies to her, no matter what she might wish. Instead, he took a step back from her. ‘I know you are tired. Rest now.’
But Rosamund reached for the laces of her gown and began to loosen them. The blue gown she wore was fitted to her arms, and she struggled to loosen it. ‘Will you help me, Warrick?’ Her voice was soft and inviting. Desire roared through him, though his mind warned him not to touch her.
Yet, she could not unfasten the gown without help, and she had no maidservant this night. For a moment, he rested his hands upon her gown, sliding it down to her shoulders, revealing her shift. The thin linen revealed the silhouette of her full breasts, and he wanted nothing more than to lower it to her waist, cupping her until her nipples rose beneath his hands.
But once her gown lay pooled at her feet, he stepped away. His body urged him to claim her, to join with her until her flesh merged with his.
Yet, he gathered command of himself, pushing back the physical needs. She turned to face him, and her expression held sorrow. ‘You have not forgiven me, have you?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘It will take more time, Rosamund.’ His voice came out harsher than he’d intended, and he tried to soften his tone. ‘I am leaving on the morrow with my men,’ he told her. ‘Owen may follow us, but he will not find you.’
‘And what if he finds you?’ Her expression held uneasiness. ‘You only have two men.’
‘We can defend ourselves, if need be.’
She moved closer to him, drawing him into her arms. ‘Do not go with anger between us.’ Once again, she moved her hands beneath his tunic. Rosamund slid her fingers over his spine, over the scarred flesh. ‘I wish I could turn back the years, Warrick.’ For a moment, her thoughts remained veiled, though he could see the worry in her eyes.
Then her expression transformed when her hand passed over a different scar on his lower back. He tensed the moment she touched it. Then he guided her hand away, holding her palms in his.
‘That scar isn’t from the whipping, is it?’ she murmured. ‘It’s a burn mark.’
‘It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter.’ He squeezed her hands, fully intending to leave her to sleep alone.
But Rosamund would not be deterred. ‘If it didn’t matter to you, you would tell me. But this bothers you, doesn’t it?’
She wasn’t going to relent on this, and well he knew it. And yet, he didn’t want to open up the nightmares of the past.
She traced the outline of the mark, and said quietly, ‘Someone burned you with a hot poker. Did your father do this to you?’
He went rigid, not wanting to speak of it. ‘Let the past remain buried, Rosamund.’
But she touched his face gently and pleaded, ‘Tell me what happened, Warrick.’
* * *
Warrick didn’t want to relive that part of his life, especially now. But he realised that he could voice a demand of his own in return. He rested his hands upon her waist. ‘If I tell you of this, then you must tell me about our daughter,’ he said quietly. ‘And what happened to you when you learned you were pregnant with her.’
His wife hesitated, studying him with indecision. ‘And if I do, will you forgive me for my silence?’
It was difficult to make a promise like this, when he knew not if he could. All he could say was, ‘I don’t know, Rosamund.’
While he waited for her to speak, she took a seat upon the bed. She took a quiet breath and began, ‘I told my father that I would wed Alan, and he promised to release you. After that, he took me home where the betrothal agreement was finished and signed. It felt as if I were living another woman’s life for the first month. I did as I was told and was obedient to my father. But every night, I wept for you.’
She traced the outline of his shoulder. ‘Then I started getting sick. It wasn’t like most women who are with child and are only sick in the mornings. I was violently ill for most of the day. My father caught me one night, and he knew what was happening.’ Her voice softened. ‘When he accused me of being with child, I was filled with such joy, because that meant Alan could never wed me. I believed that my father would send word to you, and we would be married, as I had dreamed. Instead, he forced me to wed Alan within a sennight.’
‘I came to your wedding,’ he reminded her. ‘And you never spoke to me. You obeyed your father’s orders without even trying to leave.’
She closed her eyes as if pushing back the memory. ‘He invited you to the wedding so he could use you to command me. He swore he would kill you where you stood if I refused to speak my vows.’
‘He would not have done such a thing,’ Warrick contradicted. Such would be considered murder in the eyes of the king and would demand justice.
Rosamund let out a breath of air. ‘He had enough coins to hire any number of mercenaries to wield a blade. And I do not doubt he would have kept his word. My father wanted to cont
rol me, to bend me to his will. And so he did.’
The enigmatic look returned to her face, as if she were still haunted by it. But there was also a thread of steel, her invisible determination not to be Harold’s pawn again.
She reached down to touch the scarred mark upon his backside. ‘Now tell me who did this to you and why. Then I will tell you of our daughter.’
Her light touch was soft, but he had never forgotten the searing pain of the red-hot poker. ‘I witnessed something I was not meant to see,’ he said. He rolled to his back and stared up at the ceiling. ‘My father remarried after the death of my mother, and his new wife, Analise, promised him another son. Edward never cared about a child, since he already had Rhys, Joan, and me. I was six years old, but I remember when Analise gave birth to a daughter.’ A chill iced through him as he remembered the fragile infant with reddened skin and dark blue eyes that stared at him. She had reminded him of a baby wren, newly emerged from a shell.
‘I was so proud to be a big brother, to have someone smaller than me. Mary cried a lot, and it seemed that she was always hungry. Analise did not have a wet nurse for her, and she told my father she would feed the babe herself. But I never saw her do so, and I thought she was starving the child.’
Which now, he believed was quite likely. Analise had never wanted a daughter and it was easiest to claim that the child was sickly.
‘I heard her screaming in her cradle one night, and I slipped into Analise’s bedchamber. She was not there, and I believed it was my task to protect my sister. I picked Mary up and held her, but she would not stop crying.’ He spoke the words, wishing he could blot out the memory of the wailing infant.
‘That night, I had brought her some warm goat’s milk. I dipped my finger in it, and put it to her lips. She drank it from my fingers, and only then did she stop crying.’ The coldness in his chest deepened, spreading throughout his body. ‘Analise caught me feeding my sister, and she was furious. She struck me and took the babe from my arms. Then she threw Mary to the floor and killed her.’ The raw memory haunted him still, and even Rosamund’s words of comfort would not diminish the grief.
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