What had changed since he had pressed his mouth to her palm, making her dare to hope the Lothaire of their youth was not entirely lost to her and ask how she was his somehow? It had hurt when he said she was but a means of saving Lexeter, but the next morn prior to their departure from Soaring, he had seemed more distant. And what had caused him to cool toward Michael though their talk of wool the night before had seemed almost friendly?

Though thrice over the past day and a half of travel Laura had asked Lothaire what troubled him, each time whatever lightness could be found about him darkened and he refused to answer. Thus, she feared the nearer they drew to the home he would share with Clarice and her, the more he regretted remaining a suitor.

Clarice also made the journey uncomfortable, but Lothaire was passably civil when the girl made it impossible for him to pretend she did not exist. In his hearing, she grumbled she would not like Lexeter and wished she could live with Michael D’Arci and his wife.

It was obvious she offended, but with flushed face and set jaw, ever Lothaire turned his attention elsewhere.

Laura entreated her daughter to keep her tongue, but though Clarice grudgingly agreed, that grudging was often her undoing after hours in a shared saddle.

“Look, Mother!” she returned Laura to the present. “Is that our home?”

Startled by what seemed excitement, Laura swept her gaze to the distant fortress. It had to be High Castle. Lothaire had said they would reach it some hours after noon, and it was as her young betrothed had described.

Perched on a hillock that resembled a bow with its string drawn all the way to the ear, narrow towers resembling arrows aimed at the heavens, the castle would appear to sit among clouds on days thick with fog. And to the far left grazed sheep who seemed lesser clouds that had lost their way.

Clarice made a sound of disgust, called, “Lord Soames, is that our home?”

Laura shifted her gaze to where he rode ahead and saw his back stiffen, but he slowed, allowing them to draw alongside.

“That is High Castle. There you will live.”

Yet he did not name it their home, Laura noted.

“It is pretty,” her daughter said, though from her tone it was other things as well, pretty being the highest compliment she would offer.

He glanced at Laura. “Pretty, though mostly at a distance. It is in need of repair.”

Clarice sighed. “Lord D’Arci repaired his castle years ago. Why have you not done the same?”

A muscle in his jaw spasmed. “That requires funds that have been lacking.”

“Have you them now? I do not like ugly things.”

Laura grimaced. As Clarice had been encouraged by Lady Maude, and as evidenced by the girl’s clothes and gifts that became more extravagant the older she grew, she had a great taste for beauty.

More color rose in Lothaire’s face, and when he spoke there was strain in his voice. “Funds are being raised, but as it will be years ere Lexeter is whole, best you become accustomed to less than pretty.” He urged his horse forward, and Laura thought he would have spurred away if not for Tina and all the packs.

High Castle proved more distant than it appeared, taking a quarter hour to reach walls that were, indeed, in need of repair. And that was not all. But though many of the buildings in the outer bailey were in poor condition, there was evidence of restoration, primarily to the stables and smithy.

It seemed a good sign the men on the walls and castle folk greeted their lord’s return with enthusiasm, and her foreboding eased when some of the lines in her betrothed’s face disappeared and he returned smiles and raised a hand.

Laura did not expect his mother to greet them before the donjon, since her inquiry into Lady Raisa’s health had yielded she had never fully recovered from the illness that allowed her son to visit his betrothed at Owen absent her escort. But Laura had thought his sister, whom he had told remained unwed, would be among those gathered before the donjon. She had never met the lady, but there were no noblewomen among the servants.

Lothaire lifted Clarice down, then Laura. “Well come to your new home,” he said without hint of welcome and crossed to Tina to aid in her dismount.

Laura raised her gaze up the donjon and glimpsed movement at a window on the uppermost floor. Two figures, one wearing dark green, the other pale blue. Lady Raisa and Lady Sebille?

A hand cupped her elbow, and she peered across her shoulder at Lothaire whose gaze had followed hers. Had he also noted the movement? If so, he said naught, but something told her it was that which returned him to her side.

“Come.” He guided her forward. “Meet those who shall serve my wife.”

Introductions of Baron Soames’s betrothed and her daughter were made quickly, and though the household knights and servants were mostly reserved, none were impolite.

“They are not very friendly,” Clarice bemoaned as she ascended the steps alongside her mother.

“They are respectful as is required of them,” Lothaire said.

The girl clicked her tongue. “As are Lord D’Arci’s retainers, but his are more agreeable.”

Feeling Lothaire’s tension rise, Laura said, “Clarice, it is not for you to—”

“Nay,” Lothaire said as they neared the landing, “she may speak as she finds—providing she does so discreetly.”

Laura looked sidelong at him, saw his eyes were upon her daughter on the other side of her.

“They must not only earn your respect, Lady Clarice,” he said, “you must earn theirs.”

“Why? ’Twas not required upon Owen, nor at Castle Soaring.”

As Lothaire said something beneath his breath, Laura rasped, “Clarice!”

Her daughter heaved a sigh, and as the donjon’s doors were opened by a pock-marked soldier of middling years, surged forward and entered ahead of the man who lorded these lands.

“’Tis obvious you must better learn a parent’s role ere being entrusted with mothering my heir,” Lothaire rasped as they entered the hall.

Outwardly, Laura did not stumble. Inwardly, she tripped so hard scathing words nearly flew off her tongue. None need tell her she was deficient in raising her child, least of all this man whose losses did not come near to numbering hers—he who had well enough forgotten her that he wed another.

And lost her, she reminded herself. Breathing deep to slow her heart and cool the heat flaying her cheeks, she wondered what he had felt for his wife, something she had tried not to ponder for years. Had he loved her as once he had loved Laura? More? How had the lady died? In childbirth? If so, perhaps his losses did number hers. Might even exceed them.

“The hall,” he said and halted at its center.

Laura lifted her gaze she had fixed to the floor so he would not see the effect of his words and caught her breath. The great room was in better repair than what lay outside its walls. Though it evidenced neglect and age that would require much cleaning, polishing, and repair to set it aright, it was extravagant.

A massive hearth faced with beautifully carved stone discolored by soot stretched half the length of one wall, a half dozen sumptuous tapestries marked by stains and dulled by dust hung ceiling to floor, three alcoves boasted disarrayed benches and small tables, many-branched candlesticks wrought of iron as tall as a man stood crookedly in the hall’s four corners, the dais constructed of the same stone as the hearth was stained by cast-off food, and upon it sat a table whose front was curtained with gathered material that sagged—at one of those gaps the shining eyes of what was surely a dog.

A shiver of anticipation went through Laura. The household given to another woman would soon be hers, as ever it should have been. No longer would she merely be led through life. She would lead others, ensuring the donjon was comfortable and hospitable—a credit to her husband and his station. For Clarice she had awakened, and though her daughter’s happiness and security was of greatest concern, here was something for her. If never she was loved by her daughter or husband, she would have this.

“You are smiling.”

Had been, the corners of her mouth lowering as she swept her regard to the man who would give his household into her keeping. “I thought never to be here.”

He raised his eyebrows. “As did I, but what Eleanor wants, Eleanor takes.”

The freedom to choose the one who ordered his servants and birthed his heir.

Little chance I will know his love again, she thought. I shall have to be content with being the one who loves, though not by way of words. Too much I would bleed to speak what may never again pass his lips.

Unless you tell him, she recalled Michael’s encouragement.

I shall, she silently vowed. Though he may not believe me and think more ill of me, when the time is as right as I can make it, I will reveal what would not have happened had I been less foolish.

She tried for a smile of apology, but it shook her mouth. “I am sorry you felt you had no choice.”

“At least ’tis not without some gain,” he said of the tax relief that would allow Lexeter to rise above its financial woes. The queen had explained it to Laura and been pleased her cousin had enough wits to understand how great a boon it was for the man who would not otherwise wed a used woman.

Laura inclined her head. “I would like to be shown to my chamber. My daughter and I are travel worn.”

He dropped his hand from her. “As I have matters to attend to, Sir Angus will escort you.” He summoned a knight to whom she had been introduced minutes earlier.

He was handsome, perhaps a dozen years older than Lothaire, and the smile he once more bestowed upon her seemed genuine.

After receiving his lord’s instructions, the knight said in a voice touched with a Scottish accent, “This way, my lady.”

Laura motioned to her daughter and maid, and as they fell in behind, heard Clarice grumble over the state of the hall and knew it a futile hope Lothaire did not hear.

As they climbed the stairs, a man garbed in a long green tunic appeared on the landing above and halted his descent. Broad of shoulders and silver of hair yet stranded with the dark of his youth, he stepped to the side so as not to impede their progress.

“Lady Laura,” Sir Angus said when they reached the landing, “this is High Castle’s physician, Martin.” He nodded at the short man who, despite a deeply-lined face that told he was over three score aged, was yet attractive and straight of back.

Guessing by the color he wore he was one of those who had watched their lord’s return from the upper window, Laura said, “I am pleased to meet you, Martin.”

“And I you, Lady Laura.” It was said with little sincerity. Then his eyes sharpened and brow grew more furrowed. “Surely not Laura Middleton?”

Her surname almost spat, evidencing he had served this family many years, she stiffened her spine. “Lady Laura Middleton, soon to be Lady Laura Soames.”

His upper lip hitched and nostrils flared, but his reaction to the joining of her name with his lord’s seemed a small thing compared to the shock that went through her. It was the first time in a decade she had spoken her name alongside Lothaire's.

“This is Clarice, Lady Laura’s daughter,” Sir Angus said. Though he likely sought to lessen the tension, it thickened when the physician’s gaze landed on the girl, causing Clarice's mouth to tighten.

Fearing whatever words formed behind her lips, Laura said, “And here is my maid, Tina.” She nodded at the woman.

As though a servant were beneath him, the physician turned away, though not to descend to the hall that had been his destination. But as he set foot on the stairs that accessed the third floor, Sir Angus caught his arm.

“Baron Soames waits on you.” The knight’s tone evidenced rebuke. “He would know the state of his mother’s health.”

A flush crept up the man’s neck. “First, I must speak with Lady Raisa.”

To inform her of the identity of her son’s betrothed, Laura guessed.

“Nay, Martin, first you must wait on the Lord of Lexeter, he who pays your wages.”

The man’s jaw clenched so hard Laura heard the grind of his teeth, then he pulled free and started down the stairs.

“Mercy,” Tina muttered.

“I do not like him,” Clarice said, blessedly not loud enough to carry far. “I pray I do not fall ill.”

“Worry not,” Sir Angus said, “though soured by age and circumstance, Martin is accomplished at healing and knows well his medicinals.”

Were he of a mind to minister to one who sought his care, Laura thought.

“Martin has tended my lord’s mother for over a score of years,” he added.

Of course he had.

Grateful for Sir Angus’s intercession, Laura managed a smile. “If you would show us to our chamber, we shall allow you to return to your duties.”

He turned and led the way down the corridor.

* * *

The lady of the castle was distraught. Lothaire did not need the physician to tell him that, nor give his opinion on his lord’s betrothed whom he had encountered abovestairs—doubtless, an unpleasant meeting once the man learned the identity of the woman Sebille and he had looked upon from the upper window.

Of course Martin did not like the cuckolding Laura Middleton, protective as he was of Raisa, but just as Lothaire’s mother would not long suffer the barony’s new mistress, neither would the physician. When Raisa moved to her dower property, Martin would go with her, meaning another physician must be found—further expense to make the bellies of Lexeter’s coffers groan. As for Sebille, unless she could be persuaded to abandon the burden of companion and caregiver to their mother, she would also be leaving.

Breathing deep, Lothaire reminded himself his immediate concern was the audience with his mother, which would be more difficult had Angus not insisted the physician report to his lord. Otherwise, Martin would have informed Raisa of who came to High Castle, and she would be beyond distraught.

As Lothaire believed it better he deliver the tidings, he had sent a missive to Sebille and Angus ahead of his return. After informing them to hold close the knowledge of whom he was to wed, he had directed them to prepare the castle folk to receive their new lady, prepare the second-floor room Laura would occupy until the wedding, and move Lady Raisa to the third floor rear-facing chamber to ensure she was not at a window when he returned from court and—of equal import—put distance between her and the lady she loathed.

“This will end your mother,” the physician’s hiss returned the Baron of Lexeter to the man’s presence.

“Not if I am the one to tell her. I shall make her see the good of it.”

“What good?”

Lothaire raised his eyebrows. “You shall remain belowstairs until I send for you.”

“But Lady Raisa—”

“Until I send for you, Martin.” Lothaire gestured at the chairs before the hearth.

The man’s stocky body swelled as if to set upon an enemy, but as ever—excepting when Lothaire was a boy and his offenses earned him a shove, a shake, or a cuff to the ear—Martin acceded with a curt nod.

Lothaire lifted his tankard of bitterly warm ale and drank as he followed the physician’s progress to the hearth. When the man dropped so heavily into a chair it screeched backward, Lothaire turned his thoughts to the meeting to be had after he conferred with Sir Angus. But not for the first time these two days, his mind veered off its path and conjured remembrance of the night at Castle Soaring.

He hated that it bothered so much to discover Laura yet felt for another what he had once believed she would only feel for him. Turn his stomach though it did to admit it—even if only to himself—from the moment he had caught her up in his arms in the queen’s apartment, to the moment he pressed his lips to her palm and she whispered the same memories haunted her, to the moment ere she went into Michael D’Arci’s arms, he had thought they could do better than make the best of their marriage. That they might even reclaim a fraction of the love they had once shared.

“Fool,” he muttered and nodded to the servant who approached with a pitcher of ale.

Shortly, Angus reappeared. Out of hearing of the physician, the knight reassured his lord that though Laura’s encounter with the man had been tense, naught untoward had happened, then he told that the lady and her daughter were pleased with their accommodations.

Next, Lothaire asked after his mother. As expected, Raisa was fitful over her confinement and Sebille bore the brunt of her anger.

That last was told with resentment, a reminder that once Angus had wished to wed Sebille. When Raisa rejected his offer, Sebille refused to go against her mother’s wishes despite Lothaire’s consent. It was many years since the knight had ceased his pursuit of Sebille after exhausting his patience on waiting for Lady Raisa’s wasting sickness to claim her so her daughter was free to wed. Now, even if the tidings the Baron of Lexeter was to wed his former betrothed put his mother in her grave, it would likely change naught.

The Sebille whom Angus had loved was gone. Though she had once been vibrant and joyful, the loss of their father had caused much of the light to go out of the girl deemed a miracle by their parents. One would not know she had once had a lovely lilt to her voice and been quick to smile and laugh. As for her appearance, except on the rare occasion she washed the hair severely braided back off her face, one would not know it was golden-red, and her feminine curves had been lost to an appetite so diminished one sometimes had to look twice to be certain of her presence when she stood in profile. Though thirty and one years aged, it was almost more believable she was Lothaire’s mother.

“I am sorry Lady Raisa was difficult,” Lothaire said.

Angus arched an eyebrow. “I am not the one to suffer for it.”

As ever when his sister rose between them, Lothaire longed to apologize for what Angus and Sebille had lost. But it would only unsettle the knight whose attempts to suppress his anger would turn him silent for days.

Deciding it was time to reveal to his mother who would birth Lexeter’s heir, Lothaire thanked Angus and strode to the stairs. He took them two at a time, continued past the first landing, and ascended the second flight.

Sebille stood halfway down the corridor, face gaunt, hands clasped beneath barely existent breasts.

As he neared, he saw the circlet of rough-hewn stones by which she counted her prayers spilled over her fingers to gently sway against the worn blue of her gown. “Forgive me for being so long in returning,” he said, halting before her.

Her shrug was so slight it might have been merely an inhalation. “Is Lexeter saved, dear Brother?”

He longed to remind her it did not need saving. However, the new taxes that would pass over his demesne like the spirit of the Lord had passed over the Hebrews who marked their homes with lamb’s blood to save their firstborns, could have proven the ruin of Lexeter.

“It is saved.”

“By Lady Laura.” Sebille glanced at the door behind which their mother awaited him. “Lady Raisa will make misery of you.”

“More of you.”

Once again, a shrug that might or might not be. “Now you shall have to send her to her dower property.”

As the queen required and Lothaire did not regret. “You will not be persuaded to remain at High Castle, Sebille?”

“For what? I must have a purpose, and that I have in serving the Lady of Lexeter who shall soon relinquish that title.”

“It does not have to be that way. You are still young—”

“I am not, Lothaire.” She unclasped her hands, loosed prayer beads that fell against her skirt and swung from the girdle to which they were attached. “Prepare yourself,” she said and led her brother to their mother’s chamber and fit the key.