“Alan Douglas is scarcely a man whose word is of repute!”
“Consider that he, too, alluded to some tale that she had killed her first spouse as well. ”
“She explained this to me. It is not of import.”
“Consider that she did not confess to you her full name,” Rhys said with resolve. “I do not excuse my wife and her sisters from responsibility in this ploy, but Eleanor was the sole one who knew that wedding her would pit you against your neighbors. She should have spoken of her alliances.”
“She and I have discussed this matter as well.”
“Aye, and if you wed a woman charged with murder, even if that is but rumor, you must wonder at the truth of it when your own life is in peril.” Rhys held up two fingers. “Twice in so many days your life has hung in the balance, Alexander. What does your wife gain in your absence? Kinfairlie is a prize, to be sure.”
Alexander turned away with a frown, not wanting to correct Rhys’s notions of Kinfairlie’s wealth. Any confession to Rhys would be certain to make its way to Madeline’s ears and thence to those of all his siblings. “It is not so rich as that,” he said gruffly.
Rhys snorted. “It is more than many can call to their names, to be sure. Do you not think it odd that a woman should be so anxious to wed as your lady has proved to be?” Rhys leaned forward. “Do you not think it odd that when you proposed to annul the match, the lady not only ensured that your nuptials were consummated, but that there were witnesses of her deed? You cannot easily put her aside after that.”
“I do not think she called for the witnesses,” Alexander said.
“Believe what you must.”
Alexander stared at the board, doubts roiling within him. “She has confessed only to wanting a son,” he said quietly.
Rhys scoffed “So with your demise, she would administer Kinfairlie as regent in that son’s stead. She would not be the first woman intent upon ensuring herself affluent and powerful without the burden of a spouse.”
“Rhys, you cannot know this…” Alexander protested.
“No, I cannot.” Rhys pushed to his feet. “It is no more than rumor and speculation, and I pray that I do not malign an innocent woman. But there were whispers in your hall, Alexander, and suspicion in the thoughts of many.”
“Alan Douglas does not have a word of repute.”
“Yet still his brother, Ewen, is dead, and still his lady wife came here with no more than the garb upon her back. Why else would she have fled Tivotdale upon her husband’s demise, other than her own guilt?”
Alexander stared at the table, his thoughts roiling. Rhys heaved a sigh. “We plan to depart for Caerwyn on the morrow, as you well know, though if you would have us linger at Kinfairlie, we will do this. I would not leave you in peril.”
Alexander forced a smile, defending his lady wife without a second thought. “Rhys, I appreciate your counsel, but I think you make much of little. Rumor has served the lady poorly, as have her former spouses, but I know our match will prove amiable.”
“Then ask her about this. That is all I request of you. At least have her explanation of what occurred at Tivotdale.”
“He struck her, Rhys.”
“That would not see a man dead.”
Alexander wondered, for Rhys spoke justly. What had occurred at Tivotdale? Why had Eleanor fled, and done so in such fear of pursuit?
Rhys studied Alexander for a long moment, then shrugged. “I thank you for the courtesy of accepting my honest speech for what it is,” he said, his tone more formal than it had been previously.
“I thank you for your counsel, Rhys.”
Rhys left him then. Alexander watched as Madeline came to her spouse with a smile and Rhys bent his head toward his lady wife. His hand landed upon her belly as he attended her words and Alexander was pleased at the light in his sister’s eyes.
He turned away, thinking it unseemly to watch them so openly, and considered the ale in his cup. Surely Rhys was wrong? But Eleanor had been too close at hand the night before, and she had lingered uncommonly long in the kitchens. There was no reason for her to have performed an inventory on Christmas night, to be sure. She could have brought the wine to him herself, instead of finding other labors in the kitchens.
Unless she wished to be certain that her victim was beyond aid by the time she ascended to the solar.
Alexander heaved a sigh, awkward with his own suspicions. He could not argue that her seduction of him had been deliberate, and even she had not protested that conclusion. He recalled Eleanor’s capabilities with accounts, her counsel on balancing his ledgers, her competent administration of his hall. What need had such a woman of a spouse, once she had a son?
The lady had as much as admitted that she had no intent to love him. Indeed, she did not believe in love, which meant that her objectives must all be worldly ones.
Like property and power.
Could Rhys be right?
Alexander pushed to his feet, newly restless. He strode to the kitchens to assure himself that Anthony recovered.
It would be reprehensible if that man’s loyalty was rewarded with malice. Alexander hoped and prayed that no one in his household paid the price for any foul intent toward himself.
* * * * *
The castellan’s pallet had been moved closer to the hearth, yet out of the way, the better to see him warm. Anthony must have been recovering, for he had braced himself on one elbow to watch the proceedings.
“You should use less saffron in the sauce,” he said to the cook. “It is cursed expensive and my lord is not wrought of coin.”
“If there is not sufficient saffron, the sauce will be thin and pale,” the cook argued. “Which will tell every guest that his presence at the laird’s table is not welcome.”
“But still…” Anthony argued.
“But still, the lady has ordered a saffron sauce!”
“But still…” Anthony persisted.
“But still,” the cook retorted, his voice rising with every word. “It is Christmas and the cost of saffron is of less import than a proper sauce!”
“Well said,” Alexander interjected.
Everyone in the kitchen straightened at his words and spun to face him, for they had been unaware of his presence.
The cook bowed deeply. “Good day, my lord. Would you review the menu for the morrow?”
“Has my lady wife discussed it with you?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then I trust all is well.”
“Yes, my lord.” The cook waved at his minions and they scampered back to their labors. His wife chopped scallions with a vengeance, her lips tight with disapproval.
“Is there a matter of concern, Rose?” Alexander asked, and that woman took a fortifying breath.
“I would beg your leave, my lord, to speak freely.”
Alexander inclined his head. “Of course.” He feared that Rose would indict Eleanor as well, but she jabbed her knife in Anthony’s direction.
“If ever a man deserved another measure of what laid him low, there he be! All the day long he has counseled us upon what we know best how to do, and truly”—she waggled the blade with no small threat—“my patience thins.” She drew another breath and met Alexander’s gaze. “If it pleases my lord, it would also please us to have your castellan heal elsewhere.”
Alexander dropped his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “My mother oft said that any man sufficiently hale to complain is sufficiently hale to rise from the sickbed.”
Rose smiled with satisfaction. “I always knew your mother to be wise beyond compare, my lord. God rest her soul.” And she crossed herself, that considerable blade yet in her hand.
“Use some care, Rose, or you will be bereft of a nose,” Alexander teased, and the cook’s wife laughed. He made his way to Anthony’s side and was pleased to see that the older man’s eyes gleamed and his color was good. “What say you, Anthony? Do you feel hale again?”
“I but await instructio
n from your lady wife, my lord, for she is beyond competent in such matters.” The older man beamed, his admiration for Eleanor clearly undiminished. “The lady Eleanor insisted that she would look upon me this evening and I pledged to await her decision at that time.” The company in the kitchens groaned as one.
“Perhaps you might be persuaded to take a respite in the great hall,” Alexander suggested. “The Yule log burns there, so the hall is almost as warm as the kitchens, and you can better supervise the replacement of the strewing herbs from there.”
“An excellent notion, my lord. I should not wish for your lady to find disfavor with such a simple matter.” The cook gestured and two young boys rushed to aid Anthony to rise to his feet. Alexander swallowed a smile at his impression that the castellan was being ushered out of the kitchen with haste. He winked at the cook as he accompanied the castellan, and the cook winked in return.
He knew he did not imagine the muted cheer that echoed in their wake.
“Women,” Anthony expounded, “have a most admirable affection for detail and your lady wife, true to this, specified very clearly which plants should be strewn in the hall. What foresight you show, my lord, in perceiving that I wished to be present to ensure that all was as she had commanded.” He heaved a sigh when he reached a bench and spared Alexander a glance. “Such a marvel of a woman, of course, must always endure jealous gossip at her own expense in her abode. It is a failure of human nature, after all, to despise those who are better than we ourselves.”
“Truly?” Alexander asked. “What have you heard said against my lady wife?”
“I would not insult your ears with such petty detail, my lord.”
“I bid you tell me, Anthony. I will not surrender such tales to my lady, upon this you have no fear.”
The older man smiled. “You were always a most gallant man. Your father would be proud of you, my lord.” Alexander looked away, not certain he wished to speculate upon that notion.
The castellan cleared his throat. “It was Jeannie, my lord, who said the worst of it. I think her manner sour in the way of one who has been discredited. She was not present to aid me and resents the presence of one who knows as much of herbs as she does, to be sure…”
“And what did Jeannie say?”
“That your lady did not save my life. Can you imagine the folly of that?” Anthony huffed in his outrage. “After your lady deigned to soil her own noble fingers—”
“But what did Jeannie mean?” Alexander interrupted him to ask.
“She said that if it had been a killing dose, I would have died regardless of what your lady did to assist me. She said that among toxins, aconite is most quick and it is fatal.” He held Alexander’s gaze. “You must recall, my lord, that Jeannie is aged and bitter…”
“What else did she say?”
“She said that it must have been a warning, a measure inadequate to kill a man, but one solely meant to weaken him.”
Alexander tented his fingers together as he considered this. Why would any person wish him to be warned? And warned of what? He could not fathom such reasoning, for surely, if a man was wanted dead, there was no justification for a half-measure.
He smiled for Anthony. “I recall also that Jeannie is oft said to be mad.”
“Just so, my lord, just so.” Anthony smiled, reassured that he had not given offense, and Alexander left him to harass the maids who labored in the hall.
He needed to think, and to do so in the absence of his wife. Though the evidence against Eleanor was scant or nonexistent, the possibilities were sufficiently troubling. If Rhys was correct, then Alexander planting his seed in his lady’s belly might see his days numbered.
On the other hand, Rhys did not know all of Eleanor’s tale. Instinct told Alexander that Eleanor had need of his trust to see the wounds of her past healed, despite how evidence might be mustered against her. For the moment, he chose to avoid his lady and her copious charms.
Fortunately, he had duties aplenty to perform.
* * * * *
Something was amiss.
Eleanor could fairly smell it. She awakened alone in Alexander’s bed, and though she lingered there until the sky darkened, he did not return to her. She washed and dressed then and descended to the hall. Every person there greeted her politely, but their gazes danced away from hers. No one stayed by her side, though their manners could not be faulted.
It was wariness she sensed and Eleanor knew the reason for it. Only Anthony greeted her with what appeared to be genuine pleasure. He expressed gratitude for her aid and attention, though was clearly glad to be given leave to return to his duties.
And then Eleanor was alone again, as she had been alone for most of her days and nights. She checked upon the various tasks she had left requests to be done, though she knew full well what she would find. Every command she had granted had been fulfilled, every detail was organized as she had seen fit. Alexander’s hall was as well-managed as she could ensure, yet Alexander himself was notably absent.
She heard tell of him heading to the village, that he fulfilled some old tradition by accepting a cup of ale from the sheriff, and felt only disappointment that she had not been included. Doubtless he had not wished to awaken her, for Alexander was chivalrous to a fault, but Eleanor had a persistent sense that there was more to the tale.
His sisters invited her to share in their embroidery, but it was clear that they had each claimed a specific panel of the piece to highlight their own work. They chattered to each other of people she did not know and relations she had never met and past Yuletides that she had not shared. Eleanor knew that they did not mean to be cruel, but she was achingly aware that she was not customarily in their company.
And that as yet, she did not belong at Kinfairlie.
Vivienne’s two daughters, perhaps sensing her mood, demanded of her a tale, but Eleanor could only deny them. She did not know any tales, at least none suitable for such young girls. They professed astonishment at her ignorance with such youthful candor that she could not be offended, then returned to their mother, who did know many tales.
Once again, Eleanor found herself yearning for all she had not known in her days. Her father had had no patience with fanciful tales and her tutors had not spared the time on such fripperies, at his dictate.
She paced the hall with dissatisfaction, lacking some ingredient in the recipe for her own delight. That it was one she could readily name made little difference.
That it was the presence of a man should have been more troubling than it was.
Alexander remained absent until it was well past time to retire. Eleanor would not name his departure as her malady, for that would imply that she already relied upon him. After all, they had met abed already this day in the quest for their son, so it was of little import if she did not encounter him.
So reason informed her, but still she found herself seeking a glimpse of his merry smile and glancing up whenever the portal to the bailey was opened.
Surely she could not miss her handsome husband so soon after their nuptials, so soon after they had met? Surely she had not been so beguiled by a man’s charm that she had forgotten her own determination to rely on no one?
All the same, it was only after every other soul in Kinfairlie had retired that Eleanor climbed the stairs to the laird’s chamber. The chamber was cold and lonely without the prospect of hearing Alexander’s chuckle, though Anthony had kindled blazes in no less than three braziers. Eleanor shed her garb and climbed into the great, cold bed, listening, listening long into the night.
* * * * *
An afternoon, a night, and a morning without her husband’s presence told Eleanor the truth. She had been judged and found guilty of trying to poison him, even by this man reputed to be just. Eleanor was disappointed, though she called herself a fool for desiring more of him.
That she would never have expected more from a spouse before meeting Alexander, that he had tainted her thoughts so quickly as this, was n
igh too frightening to contemplate.
What else had he changed?
Her expectations abed, to be sure. Eleanor knew that she would never again be able to lie meekly beneath a man laboring for his own pleasure, counting the folds in the draperies upon the bed until he finished his deed.
She descended to the hall, for there were guests departing this day and she would not fail in her duties. Her heart skipped at the first sight of her spouse, who waited at the base of the stairs for her. Eleanor greedily devoured the sight of him, that his hair was yet damp against his collar, that he had changed his chemise. He wore a dark tabard and chausses, as was his custom, the orb of Kinfairlie’s heraldic device fairly glowing against the dark wool of his tabard. His tall boots gleamed and a fur-lined cloak hung over his shoulders.
He looked up at her and she halted on the stairs. She noted that his color was less than it had been, that there were shadows beneath his eyes, and she dared to hope that he, too, had slept poorly alone. Alexander’s grim countenance gave no encouragement to that, though, and Eleanor feared that the awe with which he had first regarded her was banished forevermore.
She was heartsick at the change in her husband, for he was merry no longer. It was worse to know that her own history was responsible. It helped little that she tingled in his very presence, that she yearned to touch him boldly again, that she wanted nothing more than his heat within her.
That was untrue. Eleanor desired Alexander’s smile more than his affection abed. And she wanted to see the glimmer of starlight in his eyes.
But Alexander had no smile for her. He took her hand at the foot of the stairs and placed it within his elbow; his manners perfect, though his manner was cold.
“I trust all is well at the sheriff’s abode,” Eleanor said, feeling the need to exchange some words with him.
“Well enough," he acknowledged, and she ached for a jest or a wink from this formerly teasing man.
“I heard that you shared a cup with him last evening.”
“It is custom.”
Eleanor walked beside her spouse, wondering whether she imagined that whispers flew through the gathered company. Anna, the ostler’s daughter, smirked at her, as if only biding her time before she claimed the laird’s attention. Alexander did not spare Eleanor the slightest glance.
The Snow White Bride Page 18