Still Lothaire was with his mother. As in his younger years when he prayed in the chapel ere gaining his night’s rest, several times this past fortnight Laura had heard him enter and exit the sanctuary beyond the chamber she shared with Clarice. With all he must face on the morrow, he would surely come again this eve.

Lest she sleep through his prayers, she eschewed the comfort of a bench and leaned against the cool stone wall at the rear of the chapel. Each time her lids lowered and knees softened, the sensation of falling returned her to her senses.

Lothaire entered at what she guessed was middle night—and immediately broke stride, gripped his dagger’s hilt, and pivoted toward her with an expression so fierce she could not move. But he could.

“’Tis Laura!” she gasped.

That snapped him to a halt and kept the point of his blade from exiting its sheath.

As he peered into her darkness, the flickering candles on the altar revealed one she hardly recognized. He wore the skin of a warrior never before seen. Though the sight made her tremble, she ached for all she had missed of the man he had become in the years since their parting.

Upper lip lowering over bared teeth, he thrust the dagger back into its scabbard. “What do you here, Laura?”

As she approached, she guessed from the deep wrinkles about his tunic’s waist he had sat long with his mother, might even have slept. “I must speak with you.”

“About?”

She stepped into his light and stared into a face framed by hair that had mostly come free of the thong at his nape. “About the morrow, this day, and what came before.”

His lids narrowed. “Before?”

“I did not know I am to be your third wife.”

His lids flickered. “Sebille told you?”

“She did.”

“Does it matter?”

She might have taken offense were his words not weighted with more fatigue than derision. “Only so I know what I shall face when I stand before Baron Marshal and the woman who was your wife ere she was his.”

The breath Lothaire drew adding to his height, he said, “I do not think this the place to discuss it.”

“Would it so offend the Lord?” she said and, at his hesitation, added, “The hall is taken with those at rest. Until we wed, ’twould be unseemly for me to enter your bedchamber.”

“And you are no longer unseemly, hmm?”

His sarcasm stilled her, but before she could force a response, he said, “Forgive me. I am raw from the audience with my mother.”

She swallowed hard. “May we speak here?”

He looked to the altar, the hair brushing his jaw so tempting her fingers she pressed them into her palms to keep them from betraying her. “We may, but first prayer,” he said.

She should have expected that, but she was not prepared to kneel alongside him as she had done upon the barony of Owen. Never had she been as eager to pray as during his visits. Hand in hand, they had traversed the aisle. Reluctantly, they had released each other’s fingers. On separate kneelers, they had lingered over their conversations with God. Silently she had bemoaned that soon they would part and the night between them and the morn would be long.

“First prayer,” she acceded and, as she followed him, recalled that ten years past the walk had been filled with lovely imaginings of when she would traverse a chapel beside her new husband and a priest would speak the nuptial mass over them.

To her surprise, one that so pained she thought her heart might bleed, Lothaire caught up her hand when they reached the altar. Broad calloused fingers a breathtaking contrast to her slender soft ones, he handed her onto a kneeler. Then as if as surprised by the gesture as she, he immediately released her.

When he lowered to the other kneeler and bowed his head, Laura raised her palm. It had not forgotten his. And never would it.

Clasping her hands hard, she closed her eyes. Over the next quarter hour, she asked the Lord to be with them this night, on the morrow when Lothaire’s departed father returned to his family, and a sennight hence when their lives were joined to secure both Clarice’s and Lexeter’s future.

Ever Lothaire’s prayers had surpassed her own, and that had not changed. Her beseeching done, she sank back on her heels and watched him as she had done the young man. Years ago, he had grinned when, upon opening his eyes, she swept back his hair and slid her fingers over his scalp. His reminder such behavior was not appropriate in the house of the Lord had been more teasing than correction. Were she to give in to that impulse when he finished these prayers, would there be any teasing about him?

Not this Lothaire. But God willing, eventually some lightness might be found between them.

He raised his head and looked sidelong at her. “I thought never again to be at prayer with you.”

“I thought the same.”

He inclined his head. “It grows late. Let us speak and be done with it.”

She was also fatigued, but it hurt he was so eager to be rid of her. She glanced at where he knelt. “Here?”

He stood and raised her to her feet.

They were too near, and though she tried to give volume to her voice, it was breathy. “I thank you.”

He released her. She thought they might sit, but he remained unmoving, and she guessed it was because even the benches near the altar were in shadow. Whereas she had most often imagined being intimate with Lothaire in daylight, whether the sun cast halos against a wall or sparkled on water, the dark seemed the preferred medium in which lovers became better known to each other. Did the shadows present too much temptation?

She gripped her hands at her waist. “You told your mother and sister the old baron is to be buried on the morrow?”

“I did. As expected, it was not well received—an offense to my sister, an inconvenience to my mother.”

That last surprised only for its honesty. It seemed she was not alone in believing the woman who had slammed the face of her son’s betrothed onto the table was too unfeeling to love. Had she always been? And was it possible Lothaire would believe Laura were she to reveal her encounter with Lady Raisa—that her slap had been provoked?

She was tempted to test him, but as naught had transpired between her and the lady since, perhaps it was best consigned to the past. But if Lothaire did not soon remove the woman from High Castle…

“For what else did you seek me here?” he asked.

Trying not to be unnerved by his impatience, she said, “This day your sister accused me of flirting with Sir Angus whilst he aided me in directing the servants.”

“I am aware.”

Of course he was. Sebille had warned she would protect him from further betrayal.

“My mother told me,” he said, “not my sister.”

She pressed her shoulders back. “Regardless, there is no truth to it.”

“I am glad.”

Glad, but no acknowledgement of her innocence, nor disbelief over the accusation. Now herself impatient to seek her bed, she said, “Your sister indicated Lexeter’s financial difficulties are due to the excesses of a grieving wife.”

Something not quite a smile touched his lips. “She would not have you believe I am at fault for our reduced circumstances.”

“I did not think you were. After all, our first betrothal was sought for my generous dowry.”

He frowned.

“Lady Maude was thorough as my father required. Thus, I was aware the dowry was of greater import than the possibility of mutual happiness. It made me sad until your second visit when we—” She closed her mouth. He did not need to be told what already he knew of their beautiful courtship. Though he believed she had cuckolded him in the end, he could not question how enthralled she had been with the young man who, shed of his mother, had proven they could be wondrously happy.

As if Lothaire was also uncomfortable dabbling in a past that had promised much and delivered naught, he said, “What Sebille believes is mostly true. Months following our father’s disappearance, our mother accepted he was dead and began indulging in the things denied her whilst he lived—finery like that gifted his mistresses, elaborate furnishings, choice foodstuffs, the best French wines. When the steward protested the lightening of Lexeter’s coffers, she dismissed him, took charge of the finances, and cast coin where she pleased. Had our father’s wool business been given the attention it required, the barony could have afforded many of her extravagances, but she had not the mind nor care for such. Shortly after you broke our betrothal, I wrested control of Lexeter from her. But too much damage was done.”

His tale made her ache, that last more so. She had known she hurt him deeply the day she turned from the pond to reveal her reason for rejecting him, but to learn of the burden he had carried alongside that pain…

“It was a difficult year,” he said, “one in which I was able to keep hold of Lexeter by selling off most of the costly furnishings and some of my mother’s fine clothes.”

She wished she had been at his side…

“The barony’s recovery has been slow, so when the opportunity to sooner set it aright was offered in the form of a wealthy heiress—my first wife, Lady Edeva—I took it.” He fell silent, then said, “Now we return to the matter of my second wife, if Lady Beata can be named that.”

Guessing the tale was not one quickly told, Laura settled into her feet.

“Come.” He drew her to the nearest bench, and keeping a respectable distance between them, lowered beside her. “Lady Beata’s father, realizing he was about to lose another infant son to sickness, summoned his daughter from France to take her place as his heir. As this outspoken and rather inappropriate lady was widowed by a man of so great an age she was more a daughter to him, she was called The Vestal Wife. You have heard of her?”

“I have, and that after she lost her husband she was called the Vestal Widow.”

He inclined his head. “Lest the king and queen undertake to wed her to a favorite, Lady Beata’s father attempted to hide the loss of his infant son until he found a husband of greater benefit to his family than to the royal coffers. The lady’s reputation being well known, he had few good prospects. Thus, seeing the potential in Lexeter’s wool, he approached me, confident my need for funds would cause me to overlook her faults. It could not have been easy for him since my father was last seen alive upon his family’s demesne and my mother had long accused them of being responsible for his disappearance.”

“As they were,” Laura prompted.

“Aye, though ’twas not known for certain until the lady’s father enlisted me to aid in stealing her away from Sir Durand, who was to ensure she did not wed without Queen Eleanor’s permission.”

“You forced her to marry you.”

Lothaire eyed her. “I was getting to that, but my trespass against the lady began further back when I required proof she was, indeed, vestal.”

“Proof?”

Despite the dim, she saw a muscle in his jaw convulse. “At my mother’s urging, her physician accompanied me to the barony of Wiltford and the lady was persuaded to undergo an examination.”

Laura had heard such might be done were it suspected a woman would not come to the marriage bed virtuous, but mere imagining of that humiliation so repulsed, her face surely reflected it.

“It was wrong of me, but”—Lothaire’s gaze upon her sharpened—“once, for a time, I had a lady pure of heart, mind, and body. A lady turned only to me.”

The young Laura Middleton. Were she not sitting, her knees might fail her. Sinking her hands into her skirt, she said, “Twice cuckolded, you wished your second wife pure as Lady Edeva and I were not.”

His brow lowered. “Sebille and you talked much.”

“Where her beloved brother is concerned, she believes I am in need of counsel.”

His searching gaze disturbed her, but finally he said, “I sought purity, in part to salve a battered pride, but more for the chance of life with one who did not long for another as my father had done, one whose arms only opened to me as mine would to her.”

“You are saying your first wife longed for another whilst you were wed?”

His tension leapt—so deeply felt she glanced at her hands to be certain they had not strayed to him.

“Of course you wish to know about that as well,” he growled.

“Should I not?”

He set his forearms on his thighs and gripped his hands between them. “It was I who chose the second woman to whom I was betrothed, and I believed I had chosen better than my mother. Lady Edeva had a good dowry, was fine of face and figure, and presented as proper—until the morn after our nuptial night when I discovered my bride had not been chaste. I arose ere my wife and completed my ablutions. Thinking to awaken her, I returned to the bed. Had I not approached her side, I would not have seen the vial amid the rushes that bore traces of the blood she spilled upon the sheet to conceal I was not her first lover.”

Laura did not have to imagine how that betrayal hurt, his ache crossing the space between them.

“I confronted her, but she said the vial was not hers and denied giving herself to another. Though I knew she lied, I resolved to make the best of our marriage. However, she was so unhappy that whenever she wished to visit her family I allowed it. But that last time when I was delayed in returning her to Lexeter…” He shook his head. “I arrived at her family’s home two days late and went to the office of the master of horses to arrange our mounts to be readied at dawn for our departure. He was there.” Lothaire turned his gaze upon Laura. “As was my wife.”

She waited for him to continue. He did not, and it took some moments for her to realize he need not. What he did not speak, his eyes and clenched jaw told. Though she had thought herself prepared for a painful revelation, she startled.

“Aye,” he said, “and I beat him as never have I beaten a man. Had I not felt a grip on my fist—surely of the Lord, for there was no other to stop me—I might have killed him.”

Laura shivered. “What of your wife?”

“The only hand I laid on her was in separating them. ’Tis true Edeva’s cuckoldry was the death of her, but it was not my doing.”

“How?”

“The beating of her lover was no quiet affair. Hardly did I have my mantle around her than her father appeared. Before I could get her away, he slew his master of horses. Had I not placed myself between him and his daughter, methinks she would have fallen to the blade. Immediately, we departed for Lexeter, though I might as well have left her behind. Countless hours I spent on my knees trying to forgive her—and perhaps there would have been peace between us had she not blamed me for the death of the man she loved. Edeva’s unhappiness became misery, her tolerance contempt. I could not even express concern over her wasting away without leaving myself open to accusations and physical attacks she likely hoped would cause me to end her life more quickly than she was capable of doing herself.”

Laura’s throat tightened. How she had hurt upon learning Lothaire had wed, having hoped he had not done so sooner because he still felt for her…thinking he did so only because he loved again.

“A fever laid low many at High Castle,” he continued, “and my fear Edeva would take ill in her weakened state was realized. Every dawn ere departing the donjon, I opened the door of her chamber and listened for her breathing. Then one morn I heard naught, and when I touched her shoulder, she was cold.”

Laura slid a hand over his two. “I am sorry. Upon hearing you had wed, I imagined you were happy. That you loved again.”

“I am not the fool I once was—at least, where love is concerned. Certes, a fool I made of myself with my second wife.”

Laura had forgotten he had not finished that tale. “What happened with Lady Beata?”

He sat back but did not pull free. “Though obvious she had feelings for Sir Durand, her father stole her away from the king’s man. En route to the church where we were to wed, she and her sire exchanged words that made me suspect they hid something. Ere the ceremony I listened in on them and learned that after Lady Beata’s cousin killed my father over a woman’s favors, her sire aided in hiding his body. When I showed myself and the lady refused to wed me, I reasoned the wealth she brought to our marriage was the least owed my family and threatened to reveal her father’s complicity.” He drew a deep breath. “No sooner were vows spoken than Sir Durand overtook us. Just as Eleanor arranged the marriage you and I will make, she arranged the annulment of my union with Lady Beata—all the more easily granted when I attested to its lack of consummation.”

“You did not oppose the annulment?”

“I did not. As it was out of anger I wronged the lady, I was grateful there was no opportunity of consummation that might once more see me sharing my life with one who loved another.”

Laura recalled Eleanor saying Lothaire’s marriage to his former betrothed would right another of his wrongs. Doubtless, Lady Beata was the first he had made right.

“I am glad you saw your error, Lothaire, though I am not surprised. You are a good man.” Further evidence was what Michael had revealed to her at Castle Soaring. “I understand you received training at Wulfen Castle.”

His eyebrows rose. “Lady Beatrix told you.” Before she could deny it was she, he said, “Aye, though Abel Wulfrith’s offer to better my knightly skills was meant as an insult, I set aside my pride and accepted. As you know, my mother would not permit me to be fostered.”

It had been the same for Simon, though finally Lady Maude’s stepson had sent his brother away. But it had been too late, proving the ruin of the sweet boy he had been.

“Thus, I received my training in arms here,” Lothaire continued. “I do not believe I was deficient ere availing myself of the skills taught me at Wulfen, but I am better able to protect those for whom I am responsible.”

Which now included Laura and her daughter. She smiled. “Aye, you are a good man. And worthy.”

He stared at her so long the weight between them seemed to lighten, then his eyes moved to her mouth, down her neck, and shifted to her fingers upon his. Freeing a hand, he pinched her sleeve’s cuff. “I like this gown better than the others.”

His finger against the heel of her palm making her shiver, she had only enough voice to whisper, “’Tis plain.”

He inclined his head. “The others try so hard to outshine your beauty they offend, whereas this one…” His gaze returned to hers. “…plays well with memories of the young woman I knew.”

She could not think what to say.

He pressed his thumb to her wrist. “Your heart beats fast.”

“I feel it.” She moistened her lips. “Does yours beat as fast?”

He raised her hand to his chest. “Does it?”

She savored the thud—so strong and rapid that now she was the one remembering. The last time she had felt this was during his departure from Owen shortly before her ruin. He had leaned down from his mount and stroked her cheek in lieu of a kiss that could not be given in Lady Maude’s presence. When he called her Laura love, she had reached up and placed her hand just there. And been happy knowing how much his heart moved for Laura Middleton, soon to be Laura Soames.

“Does it?” Lothaire’s voice was so deep it throbbed through her palm and up her arm.

“’Tis like a hammer on steel,” she whispered.

He leaned toward her, not close enough to kiss but near enough that if she met him halfway her lips would be upon his. Was that what he wanted? If so and she breached the space, would he still want it? And what of her? She thought it what she desired—certes, for this her own heart threatened to abandon her chest—but the last time she had been kissed…

The memory flashed through her, and as it moved her toward what had come after, Lothaire pulled her to him.

His face before hers. Only his.

His breath brushing her lips. Only his.

His mouth nearly upon hers. Only his.

“Lothaire?”

Lashes sweeping her eyebrow, nose brushing hers, he lightly touched his lips to hers.

“You are sure?” she breathed.

“I am not,” he rasped, but before disappointment could deliver its sting, his mouth was fully on hers.

She thought she would know his kiss, but it was barely familiar. Because it was too long since last she had been thus with him? Or because the kiss was more certain than what she had shared with a younger Lothaire? Perhaps both, but certainly the latter. He had been wed, even if to a woman who loved another, and were he at all like his father, there had been others with whom he was intimate. Whereas she…

Once more battling memories, she slid her arms around his neck, pressed nearer, kissed him back.

He groaned and deepened the kiss.

It was exciting…dizzying…wondrous—until there was no more sweet about it, no more coaxing, and hands were where they ought not be. Not rough like—

She shoved that memory aside. Nay, not rough, but desperate. Too desperate. Not cruel like—

Laura wrenched free and stumbled upright. Though so unbalanced she barely kept her feet beneath her, fear of a man at her back made her swing around.

Lothaire had also risen and was reaching to her.

Only to steady me, she told herself, but she retreated further. Not that he would—

Or would he?

Nay, he did not regard her through the eyes of a predator but with regret. And when she managed to remain upright, the hand he reached to her fell to his side with what seemed relief.

“I know better,” he said. “Pray, forgive me.” He blew breath up his face, causing the hair falling around his cheeks to shift. “But now you know I am no longer a boy, surely you understand why I hesitated to speak here. No matter your betrayal, I want you in my bed.” A bitter laugh. “I thought you wished it as well, but perhaps not. Perhaps as when we were first betrothed, ’tis another you want—the one who fathered Clarice.”

Feeling as if punched in the belly, Laura could not find her breath, but when she did, it burst from her on words over which she had no control. “I do not want him! If needs be, in my own blood I shall write it!”

Lothaire searched her eyes, but whatever he found beyond their color, his tightening lips told he did not believe her. “You are saying you want me—my kisses and caresses?”

Lest what leapt through her present as revulsion rather than fear, she averted her gaze. “I do not know what I say.” She ran her hands down her skirt, tugged it back into place. “All I am sure of is that I am glad ’twas you whom Eleanor called to her side. You who shall take me to wife.”

“You tell, and yet you fear me.”

He might not see it, but he sensed it.

“As you are no longer a boy, I am no longer a girl.” Realizing she continued to pluck at a gown that needed no further straightening, she folded her hands at her waist. “You are wrong if you think these ten years have been easier for the woman I am than the man you are. Different burdens, aye, but burdens nonetheless. Still, I shall strive to be a good wife, in bed and out.”

Lothaire watched her in the dim, wished she would speak what she did not so he might understand—even if he did not like it. Or perhaps more in the hope he would so dislike it that it would ease the ache of this body wanting hers.

“For Clarice you sacrifice yourself?” he said with more knowing than bitterness. Her relationship with her daughter might have been built on sand, but he believed her attempt to rebuild it on rock was genuine.

“’Tis true I am prepared to sacrifice myself, but I have hope I do not. Just as I have hope that in wedding me you do not truly sacrifice yourself for Lexeter.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps if we both seek to put the past behind us, we shall.”

She inclined her head. “I am very tired as I know you must be.”

“So I am,” he said and led her to her chamber.

At the door, she looked across her shoulder. “I thank you for your honesty. It better prepares me for the morrow.”

Lothaire also wished honesty that he might know how he had lost her to Clarice’s father and if she had truly loved the man and still loved him though she vowed she did not want him. But those things—and greater insight into Clarice’s Donnie—must save for another day.

“I am glad you shall be at my side upon my father’s return,” he said. “Good eve, my lady.”