The Snow White Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  “Which was why I would evade it, of course.”

  “It makes little sense.” Alexander paced the width of the now-empty chapel, shoving a hand through his hair. “Why did you not confess to being Ewen’s widow? Do you not think it of import which of my neighbors I offend? I am scarce in a position to defend myself against them all.”

  “It is but a cut!” Eleanor cried in frustration.

  “Had you merely surrendered your name to me, I would have known the truth,” he retorted. “Why did you hide it from me?”

  Eleanor flung out her hands. “How did a single wound upon my thumb awaken such doubts within you?”

  “They must have been there all along,” he said, his manner grim. “But your beauty distracted me from their importance.”

  It was impossible to be flattered by his comment in such context. “But these questions are not important, not to our match. Alan’s scheme is not relevant, not now!”

  He folded his arms across his chest and regarded her. “Then answer my queries for me. If the truth matters so little, then your answers should not delay us overmuch.” Eleanor took a deep breath, disliking the corner in which she found herself. Oh, for a child in her belly already!

  But she had no child, and indeed they had not even met abed yet. She dared not confess as much to Alexander, though, for he could spurn her all too readily with that morsel of information.

  And Alan was still dangerously close at hand.

  “You are churlish to demand such confessions so soon after our nuptials,” she said, her tone light. “Surely we can discuss such matters at our leisure?”

  Alexander glowered at her. “Answer but one question and I shall leave the matter be.”

  Eleanor straightened, praying that he would not ask the one question that could send all awry. “Fair enough,” she said with a confidence she did not feel.

  “Explain the cut to me.”

  Eleanor felt her lips part, though no words erupted for a moment. “Your sisters saw me injure myself,” she said in sudden inspiration. “I am certain that they will recall how inadvertent it was.” She forced a laugh. “Truly, Alexander, you make much of little.”

  He watched her, his expression inscrutable. “Understand this, my lady fair. I will endeavor to build a marriage from a poor beginning, but I will not tolerate one based upon a lie. Honesty must be the cornerstone of our match, Eleanor, for without honesty, we can build nothing at all. Trust rests upon honesty’s foundation, as does affection and even love. All are undermined by deception and, truly, there is nothing so capable of infuriating me as a lie.”

  She did not like how his voice lowered. “And without honesty?” she dared to ask.

  Alexander shook his head. “Then, in truth, we have no match and it is but a formality to see such a false marriage annulled.” His sudden glance was piercing and she feared he would see her many secrets. “Did we meet abed last night? Did I claim your maidenhead in truth? Do not lie to me, Eleanor.”

  Eleanor held his regard, for in this moment, she had no choice but to tell a falsehood. “Of course we did,” she lied, hoping against hope that Alexander never learned the truth.

  And she was a poor liar, as poor a liar as she had feared. He studied her for a long moment and she knew she did not imagine either his delay in offering his hand to her or the formality of his posture.

  He did not believe her.

  She had lied to ensure this match, but in so doing had condemned it. There was a barrier between them, one that had not been there before. Just as he had said, her lie undermined all they might possess together.

  As Eleanor put her hand within Alexander’s, she wondered what she could do to make this matter come aright.

  * * * * *

  Alexander was livid.

  Eleanor lied. Despite his warning, despite his. insistence that she provide him with the truth, despite his appeal for honesty between them, Eleanor lied. The blood upon his linens was from her thumb, he would have wagered his soul upon it.

  Her husbands had not failed to consummate their matches. He had not assaulted the lady himself, much less bedded her. He had not forgotten what had occurred between them, for nothing had occurred. Eleanor had tricked him, undoubtedly with the aid of his conniving sisters, and they most assuredly all found it a merry jest.

  He had not lied in declaring that nothing infuriated him more than a falsehood, unless perhaps it was a falsehood that could prove expensive for all beneath his hand.

  His sisters and new wife knew nothing of the realities confronting him. His father had always allied with the Black Douglas family and now Alexander had alienated Alan. It would only be a matter of time before an army came to his gates and Kinfairlie would not be able to withstand a major assault. Alexander had no coin in his treasury to prepare for that inevitability. The prospect that those dependent upon him would suffer because his sisters sought to see themselves amused infuriated him beyond all belief.

  Alexander entered the hall in a foul mood, escorted Eleanor to the high table, and left her there without a word. He spied Matthew and strode to that young man’s side.

  “Matthew, you must still have my signet ring,” he said, his manner yet terse. “I would have it returned this morn.” Alexander put out his hand, and Matthew colored.

  “I do not have it, my lord,” the younger man said.

  “What is this?” Matthew’s father demanded. “You cannot have lost the laird’s signet ring!” Those seated at other tables turned at the miller’s raised voice.

  “Where is the ring, Matthew?” Alexander asked, his patience nigh expired.

  “I returned it to you, my lord,” Matthew said, his gaze darting along the floor. He seemed uncommonly shy this day.

  Alexander feared that Matthew lied to him as well, but he strove to be fair. “When?”

  “When—when you retired, my lord. I returned it to you then.”

  Alexander exchanged a glance with the miller. “Are you certain of this? The ring does not grace my finger this morn.”

  “Perhaps you did not don it this day, my lord.”

  “Perhaps you did not return it, Matthew.”

  “Do you call my son a liar, my lord?” the miller asked softly, and Alexander knew that his frustration with Eleanor had affected his manner.

  “No, of course not,” he said, forcing a smile. “I am merely vexed because I cannot find the ring. As you know, it is the mark of my authority and not an item one would wish to misplace.”

  Matthew stared stubbornly at the floor, his ears a vivid hue of red, and said no more.

  The miller cleared his throat. “Perhaps you put it in a different place than is your custom, my lord,” he suggested. “You were not, after all, your usual self last night.”

  “So I understand,” Alexander said. He nodded to miller and son, then strode back to the high table. It was strange how the evening ended so abruptly in his recollection, for he knew he had not drunk that much of the wine. Of course, he had not eaten much either, so the wine might have had a more potent effect upon him.

  “Where is the ring?” Eleanor asked when he took his place beside her, for she clearly guessed his mission.

  Alexander shrugged. “Matthew says he returned it to me when I made to retire.”

  “Liar!” she muttered.

  Alexander spared her a glance, intrigued by her charge.

  “I remember every step betwixt high table and solar,” she said with such resolve that he believed her. “And Matthew did not return your ring.”

  “I can scarce call him a liar when I do not recall events myself,” Alexander said.

  “Then perhaps you should not have drunk so much wine,” Elizabeth teased.

  “I did not drink much wine. That is what is so curious.” Alexander caught the guilty expression upon Isabella’s face, then noted the glance she exchanged with Madeline and Vivienne.

  The odd manner spread down the high table. Rhys was suddenly grim. Eleanor had developed a fascina
tion with her soup, though she only filled the spoon and let the soup dribble back into her bowl. Elizabeth seemed to savor a private joke while Annelise was crimson from hair to throat.

  Alexander surveyed his siblings and pushed back slightly from the board. “In fact, the last thing I recall was you, Isabella, bringing Eleanor and me each a cup of wine.”

  Isabella flushed scarlet in her turn. “I wished only to ensure that you had some of it,” she said so brightly that he knew she concocted a tale. “People drank it with such gusto that I feared you would be left without a taste at all.”

  “And you insisted which cup I should take.” Alexander felt taut with the certainty that he had been the butt of a jest that was not amusing in the least. “What was in the wine, Isabella?”

  She fidgeted. “Nothing. Nothing at all, save the wine itself.”

  “You are a less adept liar than my wife,” Alexander said with heat. He cast down his napkin and raised his voice. “What was in the wine?”

  Isabella granted him a mutinous glance. “You have need of a wife. We cannot trust you to not marry us against our wills, as you did with Vivienne and Madeline.”

  “Perhaps a woman will take our sides more readily,” Annelise suggested.

  “Perhaps you are fortunate that there was not more added to your wine,” Elizabeth said. “For the weight of your authority is onerous indeed, Alexander.”

  “Aha!” Alexander roared. “So it was tainted.”

  “I told you that naught good would come of this,” Rhys informed Madeline.

  “He is hale enough,” that woman said. “Alexander, you make much of little. We wished only to give you a measure of your own treatment in return, and see Eleanor’s safety assured as well.”

  “So you see me sedated, you see that my allies are turned against me”—he turned to Eleanor, who had the grace to look discomfited—“you lie to me, and you expect me to greet this revelation with good cheer.”

  He cast a glance over the hall and found the old midwife grinning at him. She was half-mad, was Jeannie, but her expression told him that she knew something of the matter. He gestured to her. “Jeannie, did you mix a potion last evening?”

  “Aye, I did, my lord, the better to ensure that you slumbered deeply. I trust the taste was favorable enough.”

  “I never guessed the wine was tainted, if that is your meaning.”

  Jeannie nodded with pride and whispered to herself.

  “Jeannie, since you know what you mixed, tell me this,” Alexander demanded. The entire company was rapt. “Could a man have lain with a woman, could he have planted his seed within her, after drinking of that potion?”

  Jeannie laughed. She slapped her thighs and laughed so hard that none could doubt the answer. “He would have neither the will nor the means, my lord, after that cup’s contents. All of him would slumber, if you understand my import. All of him would be so limp as to be without life.”

  Alexander lowered his voice, addressing only his kin at the high table. He spoke through gritted teeth and there was heat in his words. “But there was blood in my bed. The blood seemingly of a lady’s maidenhead, yet apparently shed by a woman twice widowed.”

  Alexander lifted Eleanor’s hand, displaying the cut upon her thumb to the entire table. It confirmed his suspicions when not one of his siblings was surprised by the sight. “But it was blood from her thumb and I would wager that you all knew it well.”

  “Alexander,” Madeline began to protest, but Alexander had no interest in her side of matters.

  Intriguingly, Eleanor said nothing in her own defense. She was pale and sat with her hands clenched tightly together, her head bowed.

  “You tricked me,” Alexander said to his sisters, his words hot. “So fair enough, you have had your jest The amusement ends immediately, however.”

  “But, Alexander…” Vivienne protested.

  “You cannot…” Madeline began.

  But Alexander had risen to his feet, anger burning hot in his chest. They had lied, they had deceived him, they had seen one of his allies alienated, and they had put every soul in Kinfairlie at risk. Alexander Lammergeier did not find humor in the situation.

  “Be merry, all of you,” he shouted to the company. “Partake of the hospitality of Kinfairlie, but know that you celebrate no nuptials this day.”

  The assembly stared at him in astonishment “My wedding was but a jest, contrived by the lady and my sisters, in honor of our evening of misrule. Surely you are all entertained.” Alexander halted, but no one smiled. “So, feast, all of you, eat your fill and savor the tale of my own folly. Father Malachy, I would ask you to strike the entry in your ledger this day, as if no wedding had been performed.”

  The priest stood and visibly took a deep breath. He shook his head. “I cannot undo what has been done, my lord. The banns were waived, at your insistence and over my protest, and thus I would counsel you to stand by what you have done. Many a match begins inauspiciously and proceeds well.”

  Alexander granted the priest a stony glare, displeased at yet more defiance. “No match of merit is based upon a lie,” he said with resolve, “for affection cannot take root in deceit.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Madeline began to protest.

  “I have a thought upon that matter,” Vivienne said, both sisters rising to their feet in indignation.

  Alexander ignored them both, for the priest did not waver in his conviction. “I leave you all to the meat, then, for I have a letter to write to the bishop. When all is said and done, the lady and I will annul our match as if it never had been pledged, upon that you can all rely.”

  With that, Alexander left the board, fuming.

  He glanced back but once from the foot of the stairs, and saw Eleanor staring fixedly across the hall, her chin high and her shoulders squared. He knew a moment’s doubt then, for he should not have embarrassed her so. It was not seemly.

  She had lied to him, though, despite his granting her the chance to surrender the truth. Alexander told himself not to let her beauty or her spirit weaken his resolve. She had participated in the deceit against him, and even given a chance to explain herself, she had persisted in the lie.

  He had no need of such an untrustworthy wife, no matter that every soul in his hall thought otherwise.

  The sooner he wrote to the bishop, the better.

  5

  “What was in the potion, Jeannie?” Eleanor demanded once Alexander was gone and the hall had descended into pandemonium.

  “I have no need to confess my secrets to you,” the old crone said with a cackle.

  Eleanor fixed her with a stem eye. “You could be tried for attempting to murder the laird to whom your fealty is sworn,” she said, seeing the ripple of shock that roiled through the company. She stood and walked toward the old midwife, whose bravery faded with every step Eleanor took.

  “I did no such deed. Every soul knows that I hold no malice against the laird.”

  Eleanor began to count effects on her fingers as every soul in the hall listened attentively. “His pulse was wild last evening, and his skin was flushed.”

  “That is not uncommon for a man in his nuptial bed,” jested one stalwart soul, but Eleanor did not spare him so much as a glance.

  She continued to count, her gaze fixed on old Jeannie.

  “He was uncertain of his whereabouts; his thoughts wandered; his pupils were as tiny as the head of a pin.” Eleanor halted beside the midwife, who fidgeted. “His belly heaved this morn with some gusto, after he slept deeply indeed. You and I both know these to be the marks of a poison in a man’s blood.” She leaned closer. “What would we have seen if we had put a drop of his urine in the eye of a cat?”

  The harridan started, then stared at Eleanor with fear. “You cannot know what I used. You cannot guess!”

  “It was nightshade,” Eleanor said, and saw acknowledgment in the old woman’s expression before she turned away.

  “You should not reveal my secrets,” Jea
nnie complained.

  “You should not try to kill your laird,” Eleanor snapped, and pivoted to face the high table. She cursed herself, for she should have guessed the herb sooner. Only nightshade could affect a man with such haste.

  But nightshade could easily kill a man, howsoever hale he might be. Alexander had eaten precious little the night before, far less than any soul might have anticipated. That he had done so because he had escorted her outside, the better to persuade her to stay, was terrifying, indeed. His pursuit of her could have led to his demise—and the way his very presence addled her wits had kept her from thinking so clearly as to be of aid to him.

  She was a fool, indeed!

  But she was not the only fool in this matter. Eleanor glared at Isabella. “What folly was in your head that you granted Alexander nightshade?” Every person at the high table started at her tone, save Madeline’s spouse, Rhys. He regarded her with wary respect.

  “Jeannie said she knew the right potion to mix,” Isabella said, clearly not realizing the potency of this plant.

  “And you trust her word, so readily as that?” The entire company watched Eleanor, but she was too angry to care. “Nightshade can kill a man. Merely three berries will kill a child. Three!”

  “It makes a man sleep,” Jeannie declared with a shake of her head. “You respect it overmuch.”

  “While you do not respect it enough. A man will awaken from a sleep induced by nightshade, but only if the measure is correct. And the difference between a measure to make a man sleep for a night and the measure that will make him slumber for all eternity is slight indeed.” Eleanor shook a finger at Isabella. “You may have meant well, but there was dangerous folly in this. Your brother could have been found dead this morn.”

  “I know the measure,” Jeannie insisted.

  That the woman could believe herself so certain of what could not be known with certitude only made Eleanor more furious. She turned on the woman with such anger that the harridan cringed.

  “You of all souls should know the folly of that declaration! Each plant has its own strength, and the differences must be respected. Every handful of soil will vary in the potency it grants such a plant. And even from year to year, even plants growing in the same place, will vary in their strength due to sun and rain and heat. It is not for nothing that the goddess Atropos was said by the Greeks to use nightshade to cut the thread of life.” Eleanor took a shaking breath. “I was taught that only fools and murderers use nightshade. Which, Jeannie, are you?”