She had feared she would cry. It proved difficult to direct servants, not only due to lack of experience in prioritizing tasks, but the inability to exude confidence which caused resistance toward one who was not yet Lady of Lexeter.

But then Sir Angus returned with the assurance Clarice was not a burden to his lord and tidings the old baron's burial would take place as soon as he was delivered to Lexeter. From that point onward, the task given her was less daunting owing to the knight's assistance with the servants. Though Lady Sebille had said Sir Angus was inept at household management, under his discreet guidance Laura fared well. A nod from him here, a shake of his head there, and the servants to whom she passed on his urgings began to move faster and with greater purpose.

Cook was another matter. He was not exactly disrespectful and acknowledged that in a sennight it was Laura with whom he would consult over the menu, but he did not temper his frustration that the nooning meal Lady Sebille had approved for the morrow would not be served.

“I am sorry to give so little notice,” Laura said and glanced past the middle-aged man whose stained apron so well fit him it emphasized muscles more suited to a soldier than one who wielded blades over meat and vegetables. Sir Angus’s shake of the head indicating she should not have apologized, she inwardly groaned. She ought to have been kind but firm in informing the man a meal incapable of being stretched to feed the Baron of Wiltford’s party—should they accept Lexeter’s hospitality—must be altered.

Laura cleared her throat. “Most unfortunate, only this day were we informed of the possibility of guests.”

The cook grunted. “I’ve only enough venison for stew—hardly a meal fit for noble guests, my lady, but there is naught for it.”

Laura inclined her head. “I have faith you will ensure ’tis agreeable.” That was as Lady Maude would have said, gently issuing a challenge for the man to prove worthy of his station.

He scowled and started toward the kitchen.

“Well executed,” Sir Angus said low.

She did not agree, but she had done her best. Smoothing the skirt of the old, plain gown into which she had changed, she said, “I thank you for your aid, Sir Knight.”

“My pleasure, my lady.”

Laura looked around the hall. “I wish there were time to clean the tapestries. They are much dulled by dust and smoke.”

“Surely a good beating will suffice.”

She sighed. “And see much of the work in the hall undone—dust everywhere.”

“Not if the tapestries are removed and cleaned outside on the donjon’s steps.”

Laura looked to him. “You are right.”

“Then we shall require ladders.”

Two hours later, several tapestries had been beaten fairly clean and were being returned to their hooks, while another was unrolled on the steps. As women and men took brooms to it, Laura returned to the hall and, catching Sir Angus’s eye, crossed to his side. “I thank you. The room is much brightened. I dare hope Baron Soames will be pleased.”

“I am heartened you wish to please him, my lady.”

“Of course I do. I…” She set a hand on his arm. “No matter the past, Sir Angus, I hope in time I will prove a good wife to your lord.”

He looked to her hand on him. “I am more inclined to believe you than not, Lady Laura. But you must know my first loyalty shall ever be to my lord.”

Too late, his consideration of her hand on his sleeve and now his words alerted her to the inappropriateness of such familiarity—especially in light of what he believed of her.

She lowered her hand and retreated a step. “Baron Soames is blessed to have a friend in you.”

His smile was slight. “I do not know I am that to him—he has little use for friends—but I watch more than just his back, my lady. Closely.”

“Sir Angus…Lady Laura,” Lady Sebille’s voice sounded, and they turned to where she advanced on them. “Where is my brother?”

Curtly, the knight dipped his chin. “Baron Soames is confident his betrothed can put the household in order and determined his time is better spent preparing for the shearing.”

She halted before him. “He ought to be here.”

“I but relay his message, my lady. I am sure he will return as soon as he is able.”

She shifted her gaze to Laura. “With so much to be done to receive Baron Marshal, I am all surprise you waste precious time chatting.”

The lady’s disapproval thick as cold soup, Laura felt as if caught in a compromising position.

“I assure you,” Sir Angus said, “’tis not idle talk in which we indulge.” He jutted his chin to the tapestry being set on its hooks. “Much the lady has accomplished during your absence. And you? Your mother is apprised of the old baron's return?”

She looked between Laura and him, drew a whistling breath through her nose. “All has been made known to Lady Raisa. As expected, she is distressed.”

Laura did not doubt that. No matter how severe the lady, no matter it was twenty years since her husband’s disappearance, the return of his remains would be painful—and could prove more so when she and her daughter learned they would be interred without delay.

“Indeed,” Lady Sebille said, “methinks it may be some time ere the Lady of Lexeter is able to attend her husband’s burial—mayhap a sennight.”

The knight caught Laura's eye, raised his eyebrows as if to remind her it was for Lothaire to reveal the burial arrangements, then strode away.

Lady Sebille kept her back to him a long moment, swung around, and watched him cross to the tapestry that had been rehung on the wall. When he aided a shapely young woman in descending the final rungs of a ladder, Lothaire’s sister sucked a sharp breath.

Then still she wanted the man she had rejected? Laura wondered. Certes, the disapproval to which she had subjected Laura thickened as if jealousy were stirred into it.

“Careful, Lady Laura,” Lady Sebille said so low that had she not named the woman alongside her, it would have seemed she spoke to herself. “Gallant and helpful Sir Angus may be, but he has a great appetite for women.”

Laura did not know how to respond, on one side uncertain as to why the lady warned her, on the other side surely expected to have no knowledge that once the knight had been fond of his lord’s sister.

“As you—and I assure you, my brother—know well, flirtation can lead to ruination.”

Now Laura sucked air. The lady’s warning was as it sounded. “I was not flirting with Sir Angus.”

Lady Sebille tsked. “I am sure that woman would say the same.” She nodded at the servant. “But look at her. See what she invites.”

“Lady Sebille—”

“Look at her,” she repeated, this time with beseeching.

The woman laughed at something Sir Angus said, stepped nearer.

“Women like that turn good men bad.” Lothaire’s sister met Laura’s gaze. “Ricard Soames was a good man and father, but he yielded to temptation, just as Sir Angus does. For it, my sire is but bones. For it, Lexeter was nearly ruined by the excesses of a grieving wife.”

More laughter that returned Lady Sebille’s regard to the woman who glided a hand down the knight’s arm. Then the servant turned and, with a roll of the hips, moved toward the next tapestry to come down.

“I shall have to speak with her,” Lady Sebille said. “If she wishes to continue feeding her pack of brothers and sisters, she will have to turn her attentions to those nearer her station.” The lady's hand closed around her prayer beads. “And of course, more time at prayer would not go amiss.”

So much spoken that told there was far more unspoken. But though curiosity eased Laura’s outrage over the lady’s belief her exchange with Sir Angus had been flirtation, she knew the answers to her questions would not be given.

Patience, she counseled. And observation. Eventually, she would better understand the family amongst whom she was to raise her daughter.

Lady Sebille’s elevated brow prompting a response, Laura said, “Even unanswered prayer does not go amiss, I suppose.”

That brow lowered and the light clatter of beads over which she worked her fingers went silent. “All prayer is answered, Lady Laura. Just because you do not like the Lord’s response does not mean you do not have His ear. He sees and hears and feels all.”

Hence, the reason His arms were ever too full? Laura questioned as she struggled to press down further offense at being taken to task by one who may have loved and lost but had not been forced down that path—at least, not by violent, painfully degrading means.

Laura drew a deep breath. “You are right. My apologies. I fear I am embittered by a life turned opposite the direction I wished to travel.”

“And who is to blame for that, Lady Laura? Certes, not the Lord.”

Laura felt her chest expand, pressed her lips so the air straining her lungs did not escape on words she would regret. She had thought she might come to enjoy the company of Lothaire’s sister, but now…

“I pray you will excuse me, Lady Sebille. There is much work to be done.”

Hardly had she taken a step than the woman caught her arm. “Forgive me,” she said. “I am also embittered by a life gone awry—though mayhap I fool myself in believing it was ever mine to direct. And now with the return of my father…”

Laura appreciated her attempt to rectify her transgression, but she needed to distance herself. “I understand, Lady Sebille, but I must resume my duties if I am to do right by your brother, as I know is of utmost importance to the sister who loves him well.”

“Of course.” She inclined her head. “And I shall consult with Cook lest the Baron of Wiltford avail himself of our hospitality.”

“Forgive me,” Laura hastened. “It was probably not my place, but I have discussed a change of menu with him.”

Lady Sebille’s lashes fluttered. “As it is to be your place, ’tis good you did, especially since he can be disagreeable. Thus, the sooner you have him in hand, the better.”

Laura inclined her head. “I hope I shall see you at supper, Lady Sebille.”

“Likely, I will be with Lady Raisa. Now since I am not needed, I shall seek the Lord’s guidance for the morrow.”

Which she could not know would be more difficult yet, but that was for Lothaire to tell.

Laura watched the woman's wraithlike figure cross the hall. Had she not been looking for Lady Sebille’s seeking of Lothaire’s man, she might not have noticed the slight turn of the woman’s head toward where he stabilized the ladder climbed by the servant Lady Sebille believed tempted him. It was an advantageous position, one that would allow him a view up the woman’s skirts, but he did not tip his head back.

Laura was not surprised. He might give in to temptation, but he seemed too honorable to leer or make lewd advances. And yet, not so honorable in that he allowed Lady Sebille to witness his temptations. To rouse jealousy? If so, was it an act of reprisal or of purpose—that he yet hoped to gain the lady’s hand and thought to move her in that direction?

The latter, Laura decided, then set her mind to assuming the role Lady Raisa would unwillingly relinquish.

* * *

Wearied and disheveled, a greater contrast the two could not have presented to the great room into which they stepped.

Lothaire halted so abruptly the girl on his heels bumped into him.

“Forgive me, Lord Soames.” She jumped from behind. “I ought not follow so—” Her gasp reflected his own disbelief.

Though Angus had met them in the outer bailey as the horses were given into the care of stable boys and assured his lord Laura had set the hall aright as much as possible, Lothaire had not thought this much was possible.

Though the shining extravagance that prevailed following the disappearance of his father was far from restored, the smoke-discolored walls yet in need of paint and most of the fine furnishings sold by Lothaire after he took control of Lexeter, the hall was beyond presentable. And it smelled better than he, which said much since he had made an effort to purge the day’s filth.

When the last of the flock was washed and the stream undammed one last time to replace the fouled water with fresh, he and the workers, including Clarice, had submerged their clothed bodies and rubbed themselves as clean as possible. But Lothaire had gone further, applying the washing lye used to remove the foulest matter from fleeces.

He had done so in preparation to see his father laid to rest on the morrow, but the moment Laura hastened from the kitchen corridor and her eyes fell upon him, he had to admit he had done it for her as well.

She stilled, mouth convulsed as if to suppress a smile, then she saw her daughter. “What has happened, Clarice?”

“Naught ill,” the girl said as her mother rushed forward.

“But your hair and gown—”

“Sheep mother! Only sheep.”

Laura halted before them, the stir of fresh rushes underfoot causing the herbs with which they had been scented to spring upon the air. Hands at her sides closing as if to keep them from pulling the girl to her, she said, “Sheep?” and glanced at Lothaire.

It was the first time he had looked closely on her face in over a sennight, the side braid she had worn to disguise her injury abandoned to reveal clear, unpowdered skin. “Aye, sheep,” he said.

“I helped, Mother—with the small ones. ’Tis hard work, and I had to rest often, but Lord Soames says I did well.” Clarice looked to him. “Did you not?”

“For it, we are returned to High Castle sooner,” he said, then to Laura, “I apologize for not earlier delivering your daughter and to have once again missed supper. As we are behind in shearing, and I shall be much occupied on the morrow, I determined to make good use of the hours remaining of daylight.”

Guessing from the flick of her eyes at Clarice she questioned if the girl knew what would so occupy him, he gave a slight nod. He had been brief in the telling since he did not think it necessary for one of Clarice’s age to know the circumstances of his father’s death, but he had prepared her to conduct herself as befitting a member of the Soames family.

“I understand,” Laura said. “When your squire told you had returned, I asked Cook to prepare a platter of viands to be served hearthside since the castle folk have begun bedding down.”

“I thank you.” Disturbed by how pretty she looked in a plain gown surely chosen for the work overseen this day, he started past her but paused. “I am pleased by what has been accomplished in my absence, Lady Laura. I do not know when last the hall appeared so inviting.”

Color pinked her cheeks. “The servants were eager to please their lord, and Sir Angus kindly advised me how to direct them.” She looked momentarily down. “I have had little experience with such.”

He inclined his head. “He is a good man. Forsooth, my best.”

“You are fortunate.” Before the smile she gifted him could reach her eyes—were that possible—sounds from the kitchen corridor turned her around. “Here is your meal. Come, you must have quite the appetite.”

Lothaire did not, having joined the workers in filling their grumbling bellies with dried meat, biscuits, and ale, but Clarice had to be hungry.

Such an interesting girl she was, happily spending the day in the water doing the work of laborers or resting on the bank alongside a sunning lamb she had helped clean. That was the young Laura in her. But as for the one who required a nudge from Lothaire to swallow her complaints over the food and then mostly picked and sipped at the offerings…

That was of this more proper, reserved Laura, she of gowns so elaborate one could not dispute she was kin to a queen. Which was why what she wore this eve so affected him. Though of good cloth, it was beautifully simple, much the way she had dressed in her youth.

“I am starved!” Clarice exclaimed and ran forward.

That was her mother in her as well. Spontaneous, with only enough disregard of propriety to be charming—at least to one who had given his heart to Laura, fool that he had been.

And will not be again, he reminded himself as he watched daughter overtake mother. More than once this day he had wished it was Laura at the stream with him, she who had loved the water and unashamedly spoken of when they would swim and bathe together.

That was the Laura whose betrayal he might be able to forgive were she to return laughter and joy to his life—above all, be faithful henceforth. But if she yet loved Clarice’s father and that man was Michael D’Arci…

Cease torturing yourself, he silently commanded and strode to the hearth.

Cheese, bread, and fruit were arranged on a platter alongside a pitcher of wine. Though Lothaire had believed himself sated, he ate as more of the castle folk gained their pallets and, between bites and long drinks, listened to Clarice regale her mother with tales of washing sheep.

“At first, I was upset at wetting my gown, but as I have nearly outgrown it and the work of many makes work light—as Lady Maude would say, would she not?—I decided to help. And the lambs are so sweet, not at all temperamental like Grandmother.”

Laura lowered her goblet. “Grandmother?”

“An older ewe. Lord Soames washed her first—walked her backward into the water so she would not be so frightened, then pulled her to the middle of the pool where she could not touch bottom.”

“But surely she went under?”

“Indeed not! Sheep float. Can you believe it? Lord Soames says it is because of air trapped in their fleeces.”

A seemingly genuine laugh sounded from Laura. “That I would like to see.”

“Then you ought to join us the next time. Should she not, Lord Soames?”

Imagining Laura in the water, gown clinging to her curves, tempting his thoughts to the marriage bed before it was that, he could not think how to respond.

“Lord Soames?” Clarice pressed.

He caught Laura peering at him from beneath her lashes before she swept her gaze to her goblet. And remembered their first meeting when she had done the same, her slippers tight together where they peeped from beneath her skirts. His mother had been impressed with her modesty and silence—as had he until his subsequent unchaperoned visits caused the young woman to cast off that mask to reveal someone he had not expected to like but had come to love.

Clarice made a sound of disgust. “Lord Soames, do you not hear me?”

“Forgive me. I am worn and much in need of rest. If your mother wishes to learn the work of wool, she is welcome to accompany us, but do not press her. She is no longer a girl but a fine lady and—”

“I would like to accompany you,” Laura said. “That is, if your offer is genuine and it would not be an imposition.”

“The offer is genuine,” he said, glimpsing no falsity in her expression, “but it shall require that you awaken as early as your daughter.”

“That I shall do henceforth, as befitting the future Lady of Lexeter.”

“I am glad.” He stood. “Now ere I gain my bed, I must see to my mother. Good eve, Lady Laura…Lady Clarice.”

“Good eve!” Clarice called, causing several of those settling into sleep to grumble and grunt.

Lothaire raised a hand and continued to the stairs. When he reached the third floor landing, he paused to steel himself for his audience with Raisa. “Lord, grant me patience,” he rasped and firmly tread the floorboards.

His sister occupied a chair pulled close to the candlelit bed. As he strode inside, she stood and nodded at their mother. “She does not sleep, only closed her eyes when she heard your boots upon the corridor.”

“A body can fall asleep quickly,” Raisa hissed and lifted her lids. “Especially one who shall soon take her place beside the husband finally returned to her as but a box of bones.”

Halting alongside Sebille, Lothaire met his mother’s gaze. “At last, he shall rest in consecrated ground. That is much for which to be grateful.”

“Do I live long enough to see it.”

It was the opening he required, though he had not thought it would be granted so quickly. “Therefore, the burial shall take place when he is delivered on the morrow.”

“So soon?” Sebille exclaimed.

“Disrespectful!” Raisa gasped.

“I do not believe so,” Lothaire said. “For over a year we have known with certainty he is dead and mourned throughout. The sooner he rests in consecrated ground, the sooner we can look to the future as I am certain he would have us do.”

“You are certain of naught—concerned only with your future,” Raisa snapped.

As Sebille felt her way back onto the chair, Lothaire said, “My future and the future of Lexeter—hence, your future and Sebille’s—is of great concern. If this land is to recover from the excesses and neglect of the past, the sheep must be sheared and a marriage made without delay.”

Raisa thrust to sitting and pointed a bent finger at him. “Ever you seek to blame me for the barony’s failings, but ’twas your father—”

“Regardless of who is at fault,” Lothaire cut across excuses he had heard time and again, “Lexeter has been slow to recover. Thus, as it is past time we do right for these lands and its people, word has been sent to the lesser castles and villages instructing all work be suspended on the morrow so prayers may be offered up for the old baron and any who wish to attend his burial.”

As his mother’s jaw worked over words she sought to string together, he saw what appeared to be scratches down one side of her face. As they were mostly faded, he was swept with guilt at not noticing them during a more recent visit.

Before he could ask after them, she fell onto the pillows, turned her back to him, and commenced groaning. “Trollops…whores…harlots… The ruin of your father. He the ruin of us. A good wife and mother I was. None dare dispute that!”

Lothaire could but would not. Before Ricard Soames’s disappearance, Raisa had shown little regard for her son, so entranced was she with the miraculous daughter made with the young husband who had wed Raisa for alliance and a generous dowry. Thus, the heir of Lexeter had been made to feel a nuisance by his mother and even, on occasion, his father.

Blessedly, Sebille had doted on her little brother just as their parents doted on her. But all changed with Ricard Soames’s disappearance. Embittered by the loss of her husband whose faithlessness placed the burden of Lexeter on her, it seemed Raisa no longer had tolerance or time for love. She had divided herself between administering the barony, grooming its heir, and—of great detriment—extravagance previously denied her.

Lothaire had longed for his mother to return her attention to Sebille, and not only because life was suffocating for one accustomed to running about unfettered. His sister having become so sorrowful it was increasingly difficult to remember how joyous she had been, he had thought she would recover if their mother but showed her half the regard she had ere Ricard’s disappearance. But Raisa had seemed content to let her miraculous daughter fade.

“Nay, none dare dispute it,” that much aged woman returned him to the present.

Though in the past she had dragged Lothaire so near the edge of her void he had defended himself and the stands he took by speaking against her mothering, with her decline in health he had vowed it was a weapon he would no longer wield. Thus, ofttimes it was necessary to withdraw from her lest he break his word.

“It is too soon to bury Father,” Sebille said softly, and Lothaire ached over how fragile she appeared. “But methinks you are right, Lothaire. ’Tis best done now.”

Raisa sprang upright, landed fierce eyes on her daughter, and screeched, “Get out!”

Sebille gaped.

“Out, I say!”

Anger bolted through Lothaire, but reason prevailed. Too much his sister suffered Raisa’s misery and here was permission to escape it—a gift of solitude she needed more than her brother who had known his father’s affection but had either been too young to grasp its depth or not been as loved as Sebille.

“Go,” he said. “I will stay with Mother a while.”

She hesitated, then stiffly crossed the room and closed the door behind her.

“Neither do you wish to be here,” Lady Raisa said. “Why do you not also abandon me?”

He dropped into the chair. “You are my mother, I am your son. Now tell me what comfort I can give a grieving widow so she may attend her husband’s burial.” They were mostly words, for though he had pressed Durand Marshal to discover the whereabouts of Ricard Soames’s remains so the Lady of Lexeter could begin to heal, he was fairly certain her anger was too great for her to grieve her departed husband.

“Even for love of your mother, you will not be moved from tossing your father in the ground come the morrow?”

“It has been arranged and will be done.”

“That you may sooner send me from High Castle?”

There was that, too, though it had not been a conscious consideration. He had assured the queen it would be done to ensure the safety of Laura and her daughter, it being but a year since Raisa sent men to murder those soon to return the body of Ricard Soames.

He clasped his hands between his knees, leaned forward. “There is to be a new Lady of Lexeter. For both your sakes, distance must be put between you.”

Her jaw shifted. “Sebille will go with me.”

“This I know.”

She curled her fingers over the coverlet, slowly gathered it up her chest. “Then who will watch over you?”

“I am a grown man—”

“And Laura Middleton is now a grown woman—one of great appetites.”

He narrowed his lids. “What is it you wish me to beg you to reveal?”

A corner of her mouth lifted. “It may not be as dire as feared—yet—but your sister observed something disturbing.”

The muscles of Lothaire’s legs twitched with the longing to leave. Chances were Raisa would exaggerate what her daughter had seen, but on the chance she did not, he said, “Tell, Mother.”

“Your betrothed is too familiar with Sir Angus. Though she denied it when Sebille confronted her, she worked her flirtations upon him.”

Jealousy rose through Lothaire, but he pushed it down. There was naught over which to be concerned. Not only was he confident of the knight’s loyalty, but Sebille viewed women who received the most innocent attention from Angus as being flirtatious. However, that of which he could not be confident was Laura. She had betrayed him once—

He sliced the thought in two, consigned one half to darkness.

“Worry not,” he said. “I will not be cuckolded again.”

“As much as you are absent from High Castle, you cannot keep close watch on her, my son. Did Sebille and I remain—”

“Nay.” He sat back and thrust his feet out before him. “We will speak no more of this. Now rest. The morrow will be long.”

She continued to grumble and snap. But when she finally quieted, the long day had settled into his bones, and the sleep he feigned became truth.