The fireplace took up a full half of one wall; it was surmounted by a heavy mantel carved with Montisfryn’s arms, repeated again and again, interspersed with shields and weapons. The walls were half-paneled in oak, the rich amber complementing the mantel’s pale sandstone. Above the paneling, the walls had been plastered and painted with local scenes—hunting, fishing, hawking, harvesting—lending color and interest to the room.
A single large, heavily carved chair sat before the hearth, its embroidered cushions displaying the dragon and lion crest. Lips curving, she noted the simple chests pushed back against the wall, then let her gaze wander on—to the bed.
Huge, four-postered, draped with scarlet and gold velvet curtains tied back with tasseled cords, the carved oak bed dominated the chamber. Both head and foot boards were ornately worked, with oak leaves and fruit surrounding Montisfryn’s coat of arms. The four pillars supporting the canopy of scarlet and gold silk were carved to appear lagged with heavy ropes.
It was a handsome example of the woodcarver’s art.
It was an unexpectedly familiar sight.
Her mouth was dry. Eloise swallowed. Beyond the bed sat more chests, a carved bench and two stools; a rare carpet splashed jewel colors across the floor. Of these, she was only dimly aware. Her senses had fixed on the bed— and there they remained.
Even the curtain cords were the same as those on the bed she had shared with Raoul.
“Lady?”
Realizing her hand had risen to her throat, she lowered it and turned. Blinking, she focused on Rovogatti. “Ah…yes. Over there, I think.”
Following her gesture, the Genoese placed her chest against the wall beneath an empty shelf. Spying Jenni in the doorway, the herb-box in her arms, Eloise waved her forward. “Let Rovogatti put that on the shelf.”
That done, Jenni faced her, dutifully awaiting instructions. With a respectful nod, Rovogatti made to slip away—Eloise stayed him. “Nay—a moment.” She glanced again at Jenni. “Neither of you have lived here before—you will need quarters assigned to you. I have discussed the matter with Sir Edmund; there’s a chamber in the keep, behind the old hall which is now the armory. Both Sir Edmund and I see no obstacle were you wishful of sharing it—if that is your inclination?”
Jenni shot a questioning glance at Rovogatti. He answered with a quick nod. Jenni turned a glowing face to Eloise. “Lady—I know not how to thank you.” She flew forward; grasping Eloise’s hand, she pressed it fervently.
“Nay, Jenni.” Eloise struggled to keep her own smile within bounds. “Do not thank me yet—tis likely the chamber is deep in dust, and I cannot spare any to help you.”
“Nay, lady—I care not for that. I will set all aright, and that most gladly.” Jenni released her and stepped back. “But first I’ll unpack your things, then come help you downstairs. I saw they’re sore-pressed in the hall.”
“True, but I believe I’ll be happier do you unpack, then apply yourself to getting your own room in order. I would not have you up half the night at the task.”
“But—”
“Nay, Jenni. Do as I say. I have helpers enough in the hall.” Glancing at Rovogatti, Eloise smiled. “But first I suggest you both go find this room and discover whether it will suit.”
“Nay, lady.” Rovogatti bowed deeply. “We have no doubt on that score.” He exchanged a quick glance with Jenni, then said, “We are your servants always, lady. You have our thanks.”
Eloise was touched; smiling, she waved them away. They withdrew.
Leaving her with the bed at her back.
For long moments, hands clasped before her, she stood and stared at the blank wall beside the door.
“Beg pardon, lady.”
Eloise blinked. A young maid stood bobbing in the doorway, round eyes fixed on her face.
“Tis that Sir Edmund’s wishful to know if you want the hearth irons dipped, or if a good scrubbing will do?”
Eloise blinked again. “Ah…” With a grimace, she waved the maid back. “I will come and see.”
She left the room without a backward glance.
*
Three hours later, Eloise hurried down the private stair, the supper gong echoing in her ears. As she set foot on the dais, she looked up—and saw Montisfryn pass under the arch from the main entrance. He stopped; hands rising to his hips, he gazed about him.
Her eyes on his face, she glided forward to stand at the right of his great chair. Slowly, he strolled up the chamber, taking in all the changes, openly noting each aspect that made up his hall. Her expression impassive, she savored the slow change in his, from amazement to relief, and, at the last, when his gaze met hers, to deep appreciation.
There was a low murmur as his senior retainers and the men-at-arms joined those already at the boards. All threw wondering glances about, grins and ready praise on their lips.
It was his praise she sought.
When he joined her by his chair, he gave it—unstintingly with his eyes, rather more circumspectly with his words. Taking her hand, he reached for the goblet the cellarer had already filled. Raising it, he lifted her hand and turned to the company.
“I bid you welcome your new chatelaine.”
The answering roar echoed from the vaulted ceiling. All raised their mugs high; some called her name. Her cheeks warm, she gracefully inclined her head. When the din died, she met his gaze, then, veiling her eyes, declared in a steady voice that carried the length of the hall, “I am pleased to join your household, lord.”
The statement pleased him—she read as much in his eyes. His gaze flicked to the carved chair to the left of his, presently vacant, then he raised a brow at her. Calmly, she sat on the bench to the right of his chair. With a fleeting frown, he permitted it. He took his seat beside her, before stating, his voice low, “Lanella would not mind.”
“Nay, but I am not your wife.” It was the most definitive gesture, the right that only his wife could claim, to sit in the carved chair, the mate of his, on his left at his table. She would yield him most of what he sought to claim, but not that. Not yet.
He shot her a severe look, but accepted her decree.
“Your stepmother begs you will excuse her.” Eloise drew the first of the supper dishes closer. “She was tired by the festivities at dinner, and is resting. Twill take a little time before she’s used to coming among the household again—she’s been hiding away for years, I understand.”
Alaun frowned. “Aye.” Absentmindedly, he took a bite of the dumpling Eloise had placed on his plate. It was delicious—cheesy and well-flavored. He glanced at the other dishes; all held simple, but tempting fare—egg and cheese concoctions flavored with herbs—with slices of crisp, fresh bread. Yet another surprise his chatelaine had served him; he was beginning to wonder how many more she had in store.
The celebratory dinner had been a riotous success, the open air feeding appetites and encouraging boisterous revelry. Everyone had joined in the chorus of Alardice’s new ballad, “Montisfryn” rolling in a great roar again and again across the courtyard. And Lanella, for the first time in years, had been a part of it. As the meal had wended its way through the various courses, many of his retainers had stopped by the high table to bow, or drop a curtsy, and whisper a word of greeting, then to shyly welcome his new chatelaine.
Those long golden moments spent basking in the afternoon sunshine were etched in his mind; the fact that he owed them to Eloise hadn’t escaped him.
Just as his hall, restored to its full grandeur, the carving ornamenting both stone and wood leaping sharp to the eye, the long trailing pennants bright as the colors on an illuminator’s palette, hanging free, high above on their newly polished poles, all owed their resurrection to his latest vassal.
She had slipped away from the dinner table to attend to it. Others had followed, not summoned but going when they saw their new mistress off to work.
He set down his goblet. “Lady—”
“Can I tempt you, lord?” Her eyes met h
is as she lifted a platter. Her lips curved lightly. “With one of these pastries?”
He narrowed his eyes, but reached for a golden pastry. “Eloise, I would thank you. For all this.” With the fan-shaped pastry, he transcribed an arc encompassing the whole hall.
With a light smile, she looked away. “Nay, lord—how so? Tis merely my duty.”
For some unfathomable reason, her answer irritated. Like a burr, it got under his shirt and itched. Shifting in his seat, he reluctantly gave his attention to Sir Howell Davarost, sitting in dull inconsequence beyond Lanella’s empty chair.
At the conclusion of the meal, Eloise turned to Alaun. “With your permission, lord, I would withdraw. Your people have earned their rest this day. Twould be unkind in me to dally.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest that he might see things differently; instead, with a grunt, he assented. With her usual calm dignity, she rose and departed.
Eloise took the main stair from the hall to the solar, expecting the other ladies present—Mistress Davarost and her companion—to join her there. To her surprise, they did not. Passing the door she had deliberately left open, they disappeared down the corridor to the visitors’ wing. Eloise frowned. She hadn’t been introduced to either lady, an oversight due, no doubt, to the non-stop activity of the day; she had been looking forward to making their acquaintance. Deprived of all potential for social distraction, she idly wandered the room, studying the tapestries and the exquisite embroideries.
She opened a shutter and peeked out. It was dark; she could see little. Closing the shutter, she remembered the weaver’s comments about the looms. She would need to organize some female companionship for both Lanella’s and her own sake. Some young girls to train, too.
Glancing about, she frowned. Never before in either cloister or castle had she been without the company of other ladies. She had not before considered such companionship, the often ceaseless prattle, in any way necessary.
Tonight, she would have welcomed both Emma and Julia with open arms.
With a snort, she swung about. Crossing her arms, she stared at the floor. And dragged in a deep breath.
Prevarication was senseless—she could hardly fool herself. Eventually, Montisfryn would retire, and would expect to find her awaiting him. In his bed.
There was no point putting off the inevitable.
Dragging in another breath, she straightened her spine and lifted her head. With determined stride, she headed for the door.
Bilder was sorting weapons and armor in the anteroom. He nodded respectfully, then went on with his work. Beyond him in the shadows by the wall, Eloise glimpsed three neat pallets and three boyish faces in which a certain awe could be discerned. With a regal nod, she passed on—to wrestle with Montisfryn’s door.
Entering the bedchamber, she closed the door behind her. She looked at the fireplace; a goodly blaze cast warmth and light into the room.
Gathering her courage, she turned to the bed.
The curtains had been loosened, but not drawn; the bed itself lay wreathed in shadows. One of the curtain cords lay, snakelike, across one corner, the silken tassel winking evilly in the flickering light.
Eloise stared at it. Minutes slipped by.
Then, moving slowly and deliberately, she turned and opened the door.
Bilder looked up as she emerged. Surprise and incipient consternation flooded his face. “Lady…?”
She smiled, the gesture not as reassuring as she would have liked. “I believe I’ll spend a little time in the chapel.” She started for the door, then paused to ask, “Where is it?”
*
Slumped in his great chair, Alaun scanned his hall; its transformation from moldering wreck to majestic magnificence had yet to lose its fascination.
Sprawled beside him, Roland was likewise in contemplative mood. Somewhat inebriated, he hoisted his cup. “By the saints and St. George, this place looks better than it ever did! Here’s to the future!” He and the others at the table drank deeply.
Twirling his half-empty goblet, Alaun smiled and leaned toward his cousin. “If you don’t stop drinking soon, the welcoming committee will find no future in you.”
Roland blinked. “Ah.” He blinked again, as if assessing the damage. “P’rhaps you’re right.” He placed his goblet on the table and firmly pushed it away. “Wouldn’t do to disappoint them, would it?”
His smile broadening, Alaun inclined his head. “Just so. Don’t forget that you carry the honor of this house in my stead.”
Roland grimaced. “The saints alone know how many of ‘em there’ll be.” He frowned at his goblet, then grinned. “Sure you don’t want to help and do your share?”
His expression perfectly serious, Alaun dropped a heavy hand on Roland’s shoulder. “I have complete confidence in your ability to fulfill all expectations.”
The others laughed.
Roland humphed. “Speaking of the satisfaction of others, Lanella seemed just like her old self today. Looking at her face, you could almost believe she wasn’t ill at all.”
“Aye.” Frowning, Alaun looked down.
“So!” Roland stretched mightily. “What’s next to tackle?”
Alaun grimaced. “According to Edmund here”—he crooked a thumb at the knight now on his left—“I’ve a full list in the court. But I’m only going to sit until dinnertime.” He considered, then said, “I’d have you take a company and do a round of the villages to the west—let our Welsh neighbors know we’re back to full strength. Then”—he glanced around—“after dinner, perhaps we should investigate the state of the deer herds?”
The suggestion was greeted with vociferous enthusiasm.
Alaun grinned and pushed back from the table. “I suspect I should warn my chatelaine that there’ll be game for the kitchens on the morrow.”
Roland’s brows rose. “Is that what you’re going to discuss with her?” His brows couldn’t get any higher.
“Among other things.” With a lazy smile, Alaun headed for the stairs.
On gaining the dim corridor, he quickened his pace. Burgeoning impatience gripped him.
He went straight through the antechamber, not sparing a glance for Bilder, a shadow at the corner of his vision. Alaun pushed the door to his chamber wide; the squeal of the hinges announced his arrival. Closing the door, he advanced, anticipation lending a salacious quality to his smile.
The bed was empty—untouched.
Unoccupied.
Ten seconds sufficed for him to confirm that Eloise was not in the adjoining chambers. Then he was back at the door, hauling it open, stalking into the anteroom to where Bilder stood waiting.
One glance at his squire’s face told him what his own had become.
“Where is she?” He managed to get the words out without roaring.
“In the chapel, lord.”
He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Then he opened them, and fixed Bilder with a narrow-eyed stare. “The chapel?”
“Aye, lord. Said as she thought to spend some time there.”
His breath hissed out through his clenched teeth. His gaze fell on his three youngest squires, all just fourteen; their awe-struck expressions would, in any other circumstances, have struck him as comical. “Get you abed,” he growled. “I will not need any of you to assist me this night.”
Only Bilder’s lips twitched. “Aye, lord.”
Alaun caught the words as he went through the door. He stalked down the dim corridor, his fists clenched tight. His jaw ached.
Recently—ever since Hereford, in fact—none of his carefully planned maneuvers seemed to go precisely right. Almost right, but never quite as he expected.
For instance, despite Lanella’s tricks, Eloise’s behavior on entering his castle had been everything he could have wished. It was his response that had him mystified. He had expected to be able to let the matter of their relationship rest; he was confident of the outcome—why, then, could he not get her out of his mind?
He could only assume his reaction was due to some deep-seated uncertainty. Hopefully the distracting sensibility would fade once she was legally his.
And now the saints only knew what was going on—he certainly didn’t. Since Hereford, she’d given herself to him so completely, so consistently, he was quite sure the memory of her husband was long dead.
Why, then, was she not in his bed?
Even worse, why was she in the chapel?
With a growl, he swung into the lower corridor. The only thing he felt reasonably certain of was that he probably didn’t want to know.
Gritting his teeth, he strode on.
In the chapel, close by the old hall in the body of the keep, Eloise slowly paced by the faint light of the altar candle. She had uttered countless prayers—to no avail. The saints had offered no aid. Which left her still facing the problem that had brought her there: What alternative could she suggest to sharing Montisfryn’s bed?
Finding the words to tell him that she didn’t like it was a mind-boggling enough task, explaining her aversion when she wasn’t even sure that was what she felt. Would feel, once she lay beside him under the scarlet coverlet. Her memories had haunted her for so long, she couldn’t believe they would simply disappear.
She heard his footsteps an instant before the door flew open. Whirling, she tensed, expecting it to crash. It didn’t—because his hand had clenched tight on the latch. She dragged in a quick breath and drew herself up.
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