“The Lord will have to do much work in me if ever I am to forgive them.”

Sebille’s declaration was not discreet, but neither could it be heard by those departing Thistle Cross to begin their journey home to the barony of Wiltford. Once more Marshal’s entourage was accompanied by Lexeter’s people for the protection afforded by warriors. Though the demesne was mostly peaceful, brigands were not unheard of, especially during the dark hours.

“I shall pray for you as ever you pray for me, Sebille,” Lothaire said and looked from his sister at his side to Laura and her daughter where they crossed to the gray-and-white speckled palfrey they had ridden to the village.

At a light trot, it would take over a half hour to reach High Castle, and though the clouds were not so heavily hung they portended a storm, that scent was on the air. Hopefully, whatever stirred above would pass—or at least hold off until the villagers reached their homes and Baron Marshal and his party arrived at a neighboring castle where they would spend this night en route to Wiltford.

“It is sorrowful your mother could not attend the mass and burial,” said Father Atticus who stood on Lothaire’s other side.

His regret was sincere, though he knew her attendance would have risked the dignity and solemnity due her husband. She was too bitter and her mind increasingly slippery to present well as the grieving widow. Worse, in the presence of the Marshals and the woman who had cuckolded her son, she might have made a spectacle of all. For that, Lothaire had been relieved his mother would not leave her bed.

“It is sorrowful,” he said, “but for the best.”

The man nodded, sent his gaze in Laura and Clarice’s direction. “You are certain you do not wish to postpone the wedding, my lord?”

“I think you ought to,” Sebille said, her voice louder, the despair that had nearly suffocated during their father’s burial giving way to offense.

“It is past time we rise above our losses,” Lothaire said. “Six days hence, Lexeter shall have a new lady.”

Father Atticus cleared his throat. “In the scores of years you shall be wed to the lady, God willing,” he said, the last surely added in remembrance of the many last rites given to women who died in childbirth, “there is little difference between a sennight and a fortnight, my lord.”

“Wait, Lothaire,” Sebille urged. “Only a fortnight.”

“It is decided, but I thank you both for your counsel.”

“’Tis because of Lady Raisa,” his sister said. “You are eager to rid yourself of her.”

This was not a conversation he wished to have, especially this day. “You know our mother.” He moved his eyes from his sister to the priest. “Though she accepts my marriage to Lady Laura is necessary, the sooner she and my betrothed are no longer in close proximity, the sooner there shall be peace at High Castle.”

Sebille made a sound of dissent, and he thought she would argue, but Father Atticus said, “In that you are right, my lord,” and inclined his head, causing his gray-streaked cap of dark hair to swing forward and conceal his eyes like blinders on a horse.

Sebille gripped Lothaire’s arm. “Mayhap you will be as pleased to see me depart.”

He ground his teeth. “You know I will not, that I would have you remain at High Castle, but that is your decision. I only pray you will be without regrets.”

She withdrew her hand, and when her wet eyes flicked to Angus, he knew her thoughts were of the man she could have wed and with whom she might now have children.

Lothaire sighed, said to the priest, “I thank you for making right all these years of wrong. At last Ricard Soames is at peace.”

Father Atticus inclined his head. “Come see me ere the wedding, hmm?”

“I shall try, but with much shearing to be done, it may not be possible.”

“Then I should come to you?” Another sacrifice like that made this day—entering the donjon to perform the funeral mass though he disliked being so near Lexeter’s lady.

“I will come to you,” Lothaire said. “Until then, Father.” He took his sister’s arm and guided her to her mount. Once she was astride, he moved toward Laura but corrected his course when he saw she had gained the saddle and settled Clarice in front of her.

Lothaire swung atop his horse, considered the church where Laura and he would wed, next the graveyard to which one more Soames had been added. Then he urged his horse forward into what he hoped was a blessed future for all of Lexeter.

* * *

“Your sire’s?”

Lothaire raised his gaze to the one he had not expected to return to the hall following a somber supper after which Laura and Clarice had retreated to their chamber. He had not meant to linger belowstairs, and yet here his betrothed found him. In the absence of hearing his tread along the corridor, had she come looking for him?

She halted before him where he leaned against the wall alongside the massive fireplace with Tomas at his feet, looked to what he held between thumb and forefinger. “’Twas your father’s? Found with his body?”

“Aye, his signet ring.”

“Now yours.”

“Replaced long ago—twice, in fact.”

“Twice?”

He looked to those who had bedded down for the night and those yet to do so. “You wish to speak, my lady, or do you but pass through on your way to the kitchen?”

She raised her chin. “’Twas for you I returned to the hall.”

“For what purpose?”

“I thought if you are not ready to gain your rest you would like company.”

He almost smiled. “Are you worried for me, Laura? Do you seek to ease my grieving?”

“I am worried. I know your father has been long gone and you were but six—”

“Methinks it best we continue this elsewhere.” He glanced at two knights who did not appear to be listening but whose bodies had a lean that revealed their lord and future lady were of interest.

“Come.” He tucked the ring into the purse on his belt, pushed off the wall, and strode to the corridor that led to the kitchen if one traversed its entire length. Halfway down, Lothaire retrieved a torch from a wall sconce, turned onto a short corridor, and opened a door at its end.

“Have a care where you place your feet,” he said. “The stairs are steep and in need of repair.” He was a step down when he realized she did not follow. He looked around at where she stood unmoving. “Laura?”

“Why the cellar?” she said so low he might not have understood in the absence of context.

“At meal you said you liked the wine. It is our finest, a cask held in reserve until opened this eve in honor of my sire. I thought another pour would be welcome.”

At her hesitation, he guessed she feared it would be too much temptation were she to accompany him into the donjon’s deepest, darkest place. Considering what had happened between them in the chapel, she had good cause.

“Forgive me,” he said, “I am not thinking right. I will fill a flask and bring it to the kitchen.”

She nodded and turned away.

Lothaire did not keep her waiting long. Upon entering the kitchen, he found it more brightly lit than usual at this time of night, evidencing Laura had stirred the cooking fires.

He crossed to the shelving where less valuable serving ware was stacked scores high and several deep to accommodate the castle folk at meal. With the exception of the rare occasion High Castle hosted noble guests, as done this day with the Marshals, these plates, bowls, and drinking vessels were used to serve Lothaire and his men. What little gold- and brass-trimmed silver and horn ware had not been sold—consisting of pieces passed down through the generations of the Soames family—was locked away when not in use. Thus, Lothaire retrieved two simple goblets and lowered to the stool across the table from Laura.

Her smile almost shy, he was reminded of their first meeting. But then there had been a sparkle in her eyes he had not yet known was of mischief. In the hour of his family’s grieving, now was not the time to wish that sparkle returned. But he did.

He filled the goblets half full, passed one to her, and was jolted by the brush of her fingertips across his just as a rumble sounded through the stone walls. At least the storm’s arrival was not heralded by a crack of lightning, he mused.

“Do you think the villagers and Baron Marshal’s party are safely inside?” Laura asked.

“Aye, ’tis surely an hour or more since all gained shelter.”

She raised her goblet, sipped. “Tell me about the ring, Lothaire.”

He removed it from his purse and this time she opened her hand beneath his. Wondering if she had been as disturbed by the touch of their fingers as he, he set the signet ring in her palm.

“Why twice replaced?” she asked as she examined it.

He took a drink of the wine, lowered his goblet. “The first time following my father’s disappearance when my mother took control of Lexeter. The second time when I took control and she refused to surrender the ring. She hid it, doubtless with other items that went missing as I settled into my title—valuables whose sale would have eased some of Lexeter’s financial problems.”

“You think she still has them?”

“I do, though not all.”

“How know you?”

“On occasion, she wishes some luxury Lexeter’s coffers cannot afford. On other occasions, she wishes certain services, which require payment to those who do her bidding.”

“What bidding?”

“Those things she does not wish me to know of.”

“Such as?”

That he could not tell, at least not while Raisa resided at High Castle. Much coin his mother had surely paid the men who set upon Durand and Beata on their wedding day. “Activities of which I do not approve,” he said.

She searched his face, held out the ring.

He did not open his palm beneath it, once more subjecting his senses to her touch and his imaginings to those fingers moving up his arm, around his neck, and pressing against his scalp to prolong their kiss.

A sennight, he told himself and returned the ring to his purse.

“You will not wear it?” she asked.

“Later.” Once Lexeter’s fortunes were reversed, he would set aside the cheaply fashioned ring that was all he could afford when he came into his lordship—that which had never adorned his hand for its ability to reveal how far his family had fallen.

“After your mourning is done?” she pressed.

“Perhaps.” He took another draught of wine.

“But—”

“Tell me about Donnie.”

She caught her breath, and her head jerked so violently she would have slopped wine onto the table had he filled her goblet fuller. It made him regret his change of topic. He wished to know what had happened between the boy and her daughter, but he had not meant to distress her. However, what could have waited a while longer was before them now.

She moistened her lips. “I have not thanked you for being so kind to Clarice.”

Did she now change the subject, or ease into an answer?

“It has been difficult for her since we lost Lady Maude, and though I try not to fail her, my choices have further tipped her world. Whereas you…” She lowered the goblet, clasped her hands atop the table. “You who have no obligation to do so are setting her world right side up.”

“I am to be her stepfather.”

“Even so, I did not expect you to become easy with her—certainly not this soon.”

Now came a crack of lightning that made her glance at the ceiling.

“I am not easy with her,” Lothaire admitted, “but neither am I as uncomfortable as expected. Mayhap because she has much the young Laura about her.”

She flushed as if pleased, and in her face he glimpsed that younger woman. Once more feeling his body tug toward hers, he said, “Mayhap we ought to leave the matter of Donnie for another day.” He raised his goblet to drain it that he might sooner distance himself from the temptation of her.

But she said, “Another day will not make the telling easier.”

“Then tell me.”

Laura did not want to, the boy’s name on Lothaire’s lips having been as near a blow one might deliver without actually slamming knuckles against skin and bone, but he ought to know.

“What did Clarice tell you about Donnie?” she asked.

“He is several years older than she, the heir of Lady Maude’s eldest stepson, and the argument I happened upon between the two of you was over him.”

She nodded. “Much of it.”

“She seems to believe he is the reason you left Owen to seek a husband.”

“He was not the only reason. Even before I…” Should she reveal what she had seen? Might it cause Lothaire to treat Clarice differently, especially considering what he believed of her mother?

“I can guess what your daughter meant when she said the boy was more than a friend, Laura,” he prompted, “but I prefer not to make assumptions.”

As she drew a breath, she caught the sound of rain tapping at shutters that, thrown wide, would offer a view of the garden. “Even before I found a twelve-year-old boy pressing a nine-year-old girl against a wall and kissing her, I knew I had to make a better life for Clarice. Donnie was the slap that brought me fully awake—confirmation I must wed to provide a home away from those who would take advantage of a fatherless girl.”

She closed her eyes as she once more recalled the snare into which she, desperate to wed any but Lothaire, had nearly led her daughter. And shuddered.

“Laura?”

She returned Lothaire to focus. “Lord Benton,” she gasped. “What if I had…?”

The understanding in his eyes caused tears to flood her own. “Eleanor may be the most manipulative female in the history of womankind, Laura, but never would she have given Clarice and you into the keeping of one such as Benton. She aspired to do what was best for you. And she did.”

“Aye, but what of you?”

His jaw shifted, and he said gruffly, “Was the boy forcing Clarice?”

She should be grateful for another change of topic, but he might as well have said that had marriage to another provided the same benefit for Lexeter, he would not have agreed to take her to wife. Though he wanted her in his bed, another would slake his passion as well—nay, better.

“Was he, Laura?”

Though her daughter’s willing participation would reflect poorly on Clarice, she could not lie. “He did not force her.”

Now Lothaire hesitated, but though she steeled herself for a knowing glint in his eyes, it did not appear. “As I can attest, boys—even girls—are wont to test the breadth of adulthood ere they are prepared for the consequences,” he said.

To which she could also attest, and not only from the intimacies shared with him.

“However,” he continued, “’tis unlikely Clarice and the boy’s explorations would have progressed further.”

Laura gasped. “Perhaps not then, but eventually he would have ruined her.”

“You do not know that.”

“Do I not?” She surged to her feet, and though she told herself to close her mouth, the rest tumbled out. “Know you how his mother defended him when I told her what I stopped? She said of course her son did not respect one whom all knew to be misbegotten, especially since Clarice was willing to follow her mother’s example. The lady’s only concession was to agree it best her son gain his experience with a girl more easily set out of their household should he get her with child.” Realizing she was shaking, she gripped the table’s edge. “Concession, not consolation. No assurance that what happened to me…” She scoffed. “I need not tell you of my ruin.”

The soft went out of his eyes. “Indeed you need not.” It was so quietly said she felt the hurt of all those years past when she had turned from the pond to reveal the reason for their broken betrothal. In that moment, she longed to tell him all as Michael advised ere they wed. And she might have had he not said, “Do you love him still?”

“Him?”

“Your daughter believes if I can make you fall in love with me as you loved her father, our marriage will be a good one.”

Another blow. Never had Laura spoken ill of Clarice’s sire when she was unable to avoid talk of him, just as never had she spoken well of him. “Sh-she said that?”

“Aye, that for love and loss of her father she has only known you to be sorrowful.”

It was so far from the truth it was tragic. Was that how Lady Maude had explained Laura’s long sleep to Clarice, or had the girl devised the story to fill what might be becoming a widening hole?

She shook her head. “She knows naught of what she speaks.”

“Mayhap, but that does not answer my question.”

Of whether she yet loved the man with whom he believed she betrayed him. Before she could determine if now was the time to reveal the circumstances of Clarice’s conception, he said, “What is Michael D’Arci to you?”

She stared. And understood. But did he truly suspect Michael of impropriety? “The same as ever he has been—like a brother. Why do you ask?” When he did not answer, she said, “Surely you do not think he and I—”

“I know not what to think, Laura.”

He did believe it possible, and it was painfully amusing how near the truth he was. His only error was that he had the wrong brother. Doubtless, here was the reason he had turned cooler toward Michael and her the morn of their departure from Castle Soaring.

As the rain fell harder, no longer tapping—now slashing at the shutters—Laura felt every one of this day’s hours. Or was it every one of the hours since Simon had stolen her happiness? Those too.

Wondering how they had moved from her attempt to comfort Lothaire over his loss of a sire to the loss of his first betrothed, she released her hold on the table. “All I shall say is that you do Michael D’Arci a grave wrong in thinking such ill of him. And now I am most tired.” She skirted the table, crossed the kitchen, and left him alone with his ill-founded suspicions.