Blisters. A dozen or more small, red-ringed bumps.

She had not known of them until she scratched an itch and her fingertips tripped over the swellings. Holding her breath, she turned her hands front to back. Both afflicted, the left more than the right.

“Dear Lord,” she whispered.

Tina finished lacing the back of her lady’s gown and came around. “Milady?”

Laura retreated a step, held out her hands. “There is something wrong with me.”

The maid’s eyes widened. “So there is, milady.”

Laura’s next words were choked. “The pox?”

Tina bit her lip, and when she moved closer to examine the blisters, Laura lurched back and sat down hard in the chair. “Pray, come no nearer.”

The maid continued forward. “I will not touch, milady. Now hold out yer hands so I may look close upon them, for I have seen the pox at its worst.”

Laura did as told.

Tina leaned this way and that, shook her head. “I am fair certain this be not the pox.”

“What then?”

“I cannot say.” The maid straightened. “Though ye will not like consulting the physician, methinks ye ought to.”

Laura snatched her hands to her waist. “Indeed I do not like it.”

“He will know more than I, milady.”

The thought of being touched by the man whose examination had humiliated Lady Beata made Laura’s stomach roil.

“I should summon him, milady?”

She looked to her hands again, hoped it mere imagining more blisters had arisen. “Aye, but after Clarice and my betrothed have departed.”

“What should I tell Lord Soames?”

Laura was to have accompanied him and her daughter to observe the sheep shearing this second day following the burial of Ricard Soames. Doubtless, they awaited her in the hall.

“As I would not have Clarice alarmed nor disrupt the baron’s day, tell him I slept poorly and require further rest. When they are gone, send the physician to me.”

Tina hastened from the chamber.

Clenching her hands to keep from raking at blisters that had begun to burn, Laura tried to distract herself by deciding what to do with a day whose plans were ruined. If the physician allayed her fears and provided a salve to relieve the discomfort, she would make a menu for next week’s meals, then once more apply herself to the wedding gown Tina had completed the morn of the burial.

She looked to where she had draped it over the chair opposite. It was over-embellished, Tina determined to make use of every bauble of the queen’s generosity. Even had Lothaire not expressed a preference for Laura’s simpler gowns, she would have been uncomfortable in such splendor. Blessedly, Tina had not seemed offended when her lady told the garment was too elaborate and apologized for not paying closer attention beyond its embroidery.

Tina had said she would remove the pearls and silver beads, but Laura had declined and sat up late last eve snipping them away. It was no easy task, the maid’s stitches and knots tight to the cloth, but another hour and it would be done—providing Laura’s affliction did not prove dire.

Shortly, Tina reported Lothaire and Clarice had departed and the physician would come after he gave Lady Raisa her medicinals.

“Did Baron Soames seem upset?” Laura asked where she sat on her hands to keep from scratching at them.

“Nay, milady.”

“Tina?” Laura said firmly.

The maid grimaced. “’Twas merely disappointment he expressed, as did your daughter. Certes, they both wished your accompaniment.”

More likely, they believed she lazed abed regardless of the promise made her daughter who had seemed pleased by Laura’s interest in Lexeter’s wool. When the two returned later this afternoon—or this eve—they would learn of the physician’s diagnosis and she would be redeemed.

Though the time it took Martin to tend Lady Raisa felt like half a day, Laura did not believe it exaggeration that one hour passed before the man arrived.

He knocked sharply and entered. Halting at the center of the chamber, he jutted his chin. “Show me, my lady.”

He so soon offended Laura nearly had to swallow her tongue to keep anger from it.

Dragging her hands from beneath her, she whimpered when the relief provided by the pressure was repaid with pain all the sharper for its suppression. There were more blisters, now spreading down her wrists. She thrust her hands forward.

Maintaining his distance, Martin considered them.

“Surely you ought to draw nearer for a proper diagnosis,” Laura snipped.

He grimaced. “I would, but unlike many, I believe close proximity passes affliction to the innocent.”

“But you are a physician—or so you claim to be.”

His brow lowered. “I am a man of medicine, but not a fool. My first concern is for Lady Raisa, as it should be and as her son requires. ’Twould be unforgivably negligent did I risk her delicate health by passing your sickness to her.”

A grunt drew Laura’s regard to the hearth where Tina stood flushed and stiff. She did not like the man any more than her lady liked him.

“I cannot say I think highly of your competence as a physician,” Laura bit. “Pray, persuade me otherwise by identifying what this is.”

His upper lip curled, but whatever ill he wished to speak, he did not. At last he asked, “Have you been in the garden?”

“On the day past.”

“Then possibly foxglove, the plant whose stalks drip bell-shaped flowers.” He nodded. “Methinks you touched what you should not.”

Laura knew the plant and that even if one did not ingest its poison, brief contact could cause a rash. Hence, Lady Maude had removed foxgloves from her garden when Clarice began to walk.

“I saw none there, Martin.”

“Did you pick flowers?”

“Roses only.” And she had thorn pricks to prove it, remembrance of which made her skin itch more.

Another nod. “Once Lady Raisa’s children were of an age to obey, she planted foxglove between the rosebushes. Though the plants did not take well, from time to time one struggles up through the earth as I have noted whilst gathering herbs. ’Tis rare one blooms, which is surely why you did not recognize it as such.”

It made sense, and Laura wished it to since the diagnosis could be worse. “You are certain ’tis not the pox?”

“Not the usual pox, but…”

“But?”

He cleared his throat. “’Tis a delicate matter, and I would not wish to offend my lord’s betrothed.”

“How might you offend?”

He pursed his lips, swung them side to side. “To be certain, a closer examination is required.”

“Then draw nearer.”

With obvious reluctance, he closed the distance between them and leaned forward. “I am fair certain ’tis foxglove, my lady.”

“Then not the usual nor unusual pox.”

“That last cannot be excluded without a thorough examination—one I would require my lord’s permission to perform.”

“I do not understand.”

“As told, my lady, it is a delicate matter.”

Laura thrust up out of the chair, causing him to spring back on his short legs. “Speak!”

He looked to Tina as if she might offer aid, but the maid said, “Lest ye forget, Physician, soon ye shall answer to milady the same as ye answer to yer lord.”

He tossed up his hands. “If Baron Soames is angered by what I tell, ’tis of your doing, Lady Laura.”

Suppressing the longing to scratch at her hands, she said, “I take responsibility.”

“Very well. When I name that other pox unusual, I do so in reference to those of the nobility who are far less susceptible than common folk.”

Laura ground her teeth at the insult to Tina.

He sighed. “But since you have engaged in behavior displeasing to the Lord, embracing the sins of the flesh and making yourself a Daughter of Eve rather than a sister of Mary, it is quite possible you are afflicted with that best known to those whose profession it is to provide favors of the flesh.”

Laura was so shocked she could only stare, then struggle to control the urge to slap him as she had been unable to do with Lady Raisa.

“Ye dare!” Tina recovered before her mistress.

“Your lady insisted!”

The maid gave a cry, hastened forward, and struck his arm. “Out with ye, foul being!” As if a broom to the debris he had become to her lady, she pushed and swept him over the threshold.

But before she could slam the door, he turned. “I shall send salve. Whether your lady’s skin is afflicted by foxglove or that other pox, ’twill provide relief and aid with healing.”

“Be quick about it!” Tina slammed the door and hastened back. “Put from yer mind what he said, milady, hear?” She reached for Laura’s hands, but her lady snatched them away.

“I should have known of which pox he spoke,” Laura said. “He tried to warn me—”

“I think it more likely he baited ye, milady.” The maid wiped her palms on her skirts as if she were more fouled by touching him than she would be had she caught up Laura’s hands.

“As it is likely foxglove, it matters not,” Laura said. “And as easy as it would be to wallow in anger toward him, my time is better spent thanking the Lord ’tis but a skin irritation. So that I shall do. I only hope Martin does not tell my betrothed he suspects it could be the unusual sort of pox.” She raked her teeth over her lower lip, considered her wedding gown. “Four days, then I wed, providing I am sufficiently healed.”

“Ye shall be, milady. I will tend yer hands and take good care of ye.”

“I thank you.” Laura nodded at the gown. “I thought I might spend some of the day removing more pearls and beads, but my hands hurt, and if these blisters weep, the cloth might be ruined.”

“Worry not, milady. I shall pluck out the rest.”

“Nay, I shall do it. Mayhap in a few days I will be well enough healed.”

“As you wish, milady.”

* * *

Lothaire was a mess, and would be more so if he yielded to the impulse to bloody his knuckles against the man’s scowl. “You said that to her?” he barked.

The physician’s expression faltered. “I told her I am fair certain the rash is from contact with foxglove, my lord, but she wished assurance it was not the pox. Thus, I informed her it was not the usual sort, but to be certain it is not that which afflicts many a Daughter of Eve, I would need to perform a thorough examination.” He held up a hand. “Which I would not do without your consent.”

Lothaire breathed deep. “’Tis fortunate in this you know my mind, Martin. But most unfortunate you know not my mind in other things. You ought to thank God you are soon to depart High Castle.” Not at all satisfied by the man’s wide-flung eyes and sputtering, Lothaire strode from the hall.

When Tina admitted him to the chamber, Laura’s gaze awaited his, and what he saw there would have been of great detriment to the physician were the man within reach.

“See, Lord Soames,” Clarice called from where she perched on the mattress alongside her mother, “here is the true reason she could not attend the day’s shearing.” She nodded at the bandaged hands cradled in her own. “She but feared needlessly worrying us. Blessedly, ’tis only a rash.”

Lothaire moved his gaze from Laura’s hands to the sheet drawn up around her waist to her loosed hair whose waves spilled over the shoulders of her chemise. Here an eyeful of what would await him on their nuptial night.

“So the physician has informed me,” he said and looked to the maid. “Would you take the young lady to my solar and aid her in washing away the day’s labors?”

He knew Tina’s hesitation had merit, but unseemly though it was for him to be alone with Laura in her chamber, he needed to speak with her in private. True, the matter could wait, but he could not knowing she suffered in the time between what was appropriate and what was not.

Ignoring the voice increasingly fond of naming him a fool where she was concerned, he prompted with, “I would not ask it were it not of great import and were I not soon to wed your lady.”

The maid looked to where Laura sat propped on pillows. “Milady?”

Laura inclined her head. “Go with Tina, Clarice. Lord Soames and I will not be long.”

“I shall tell you of the shearing later,” the girl said and followed the maid into the corridor.

When the door closed, Laura said in a strained voice, “What did Martin tell you?”

“What nearly saw him in need of a physician’s services.” He strode to the bed. “I apologize for what he suggested could be the cause of your affliction. Never would such occur to me. Never would I believe it.”

The easing of her shoulders evidencing her relief, she said, “I am glad in this you do not assume the worst of me.”

“But?”

She shook her head, seamed her lips.

He did not think before acting, and then it seemed too late to correct the impropriety. Having lowered his damply-clothed body to the mattress edge, he said, “You expected me to think the worst?”

“It follows.”

The accusation tempted him to defend his right to think it, but he checked the words.

“I thank you for seeing me as I truly am,” she whispered.

He looked to her hands. “You are in pain?”

“Less so. The bandages and salve provide relief, but ’tis possible the wedding will have to be postponed.” To his annoyance, his body liked that less than his mind which would rather argue that the sooner they wed the sooner Lexeter would benefit from the tax break. And the sooner his mother—and Martin—would depart High Castle.

“It is not unheard of for a lady to wear gloves on such an occasion,” he said. “Unless you fall most ill, I see no reason to delay the ceremony.”

Her smile was hardly genuine. “Lexeter—of utmost importance and consideration.”

He should let her believe that, especially as much of it was true, but he said, “As well you know, I desire you.”

She looked down. “You wish me in your bed.”

“I do, and more now I see you like this with your hair unbound.” Though his reach caused her to press back into the pillows, he hooked a finger around a bronze tress. “Here you sit like a bride awaiting her groom, your chemise the only garment that must needs be removed to reveal all of the woman you have become.” He let the tress slide away, moved the backs of his fingers down the neckline of her chemise, watched color rise up her chest. “Four days hence, the wishing will be done, Laura. You will be in our bed and know my desire as I shall know yours.”

“Lothaire.”

He looked up, but though he hoped what he felt might be found in her eyes, that was not what he saw there. It was wariness—and something else. Regret? Distaste? If so, because he was not whom she wished him to be?

Weary of jealousy, resentment, and anger, he told himself he must get past the past and said low, “What is amiss, Laura?”

“I am not comfortable being…” She swallowed. “…desired.”

He drew his fingers back up her chemise’s neckline, over her throat, across her jaw. “Then you should not present thus, Laura Middleton.”

He said it with teasing that would have made the young Laura laugh and tease in return, but this Laura appeared further distressed. And something about that troubled him deeply, and not only because he feared her aversion was exclusive to him. It was as though…

Before he could follow the thought to its end, she said, “I am as God made me. I vow, had I known you would come to my chamber, you would not have found me in such a state.” Her tone was defensive, as if he accused her of seduction. “I would have—”

“I know you did not expect me, Laura. I know this is not an attempt to seduce me. I but speak as I find.” He slid his thumb in the dip between chin and lip, causing her to draw a quick breath that lowered her jaw and shifted his touch to her bottom lip. He was surprised by how sensuous it felt though it was not his mouth upon hers—the bow soft, full, and touched by the moisture of her inner lip, then there was the light scrape of her teeth across the pad of his thumb. No matter her bandaged hands, no matter the sight and scent he presented, no matter the impropriety of sitting upon her bed, he wanted to kiss her. Even if that kiss became more. Especially if it became more.

That last admission made him gain his feet and berate himself for feelings surely not unlike those that had caused her to betray him. Of course she was not comfortable being desired. Had she not a misbegotten child to prove the folly of desire outside of marriage?

“Forgive me,” he said. “Just as I should not have done ten years past, I should not speak thus nor touch you as the lover I do not yet have the right to be, that which made you—” He shook his head. “If you wish to delay the wedding, we shall. Now I leave you to your rest.”

“That which made me what?” she called, halting his progress to the door.

He turned. “I know you are not all to blame for Clarice, that it also falls upon me.”

“How?”

“Had I been honorable and responsible as one of greater years ought to be, had I respected you more and not yielded to kisses and caresses, you would not have become impatient to experience what comes after that which ought to be discovered in the marriage bed.”

She sank back against the pillows. “You think you made me a whore.” She sighed. “Rest easy, Lothaire. You had naught to do with Clarice’s conception. Even had we never met, methinks it would have happened.”

Because she had felt much for Michael D’Arci long before she was betrothed to Lothaire? He wanted to ask when she first realized she was in love with Lady Maude’s stepson, but he said, “We shall never know. Sleep well, my lady.”

Laura watched him go, and her heart ached more that only now with the distance between them stretching she should notice the state of his clothes and disarray of barely bound hair. He had probably smelled more musty than Clarice, but that had also escaped her though he had drawn even nearer.

When the door closed, she let the tears fall. Never had she considered he would claim responsibility for their broken betrothal, for it was true he had naught to do with it. Though as children Simon and she had played at husband and wife, once she left the girl behind she had not regarded Lady Maude’s son as anything more than a friend and brother and discouraged him accordingly. Even had she been betrothed to one other than Lothaire and not loved her intended, she would have resisted Simon’s claim on her. And very likely still he would have done as he had done.

She lifted a hand to wipe at her eyes, paused over the bandages that could grant respite from Lothaire’s desire. Only respite. Best to have done with their nuptial night and see what could be made of it.

“Four days,” she said. “Even if I must wear gloves.”

* * *

Lady Laura was miserable, and more so than expected. Unfortunately, this was not her wedding day. That had been the plan before all went askew. But providing she did not suspect the source of her affliction, all would come right. This day’s misery could double. Or worse.

Those imaginings might have caused the one who turned them over to smile despite the certainty the Lord saw all that went below—including here in this dark crack of existence—but deeper reflection proved them mere indulgence.

Were the lady’s wedding day to be spoiled, another means must be found. But between now and then, evidence of this day’s trickery must be swept asunder. No easy feat, but neither a great challenge. Timing was all, and there were yet days in which to see it done.

Lothaire would not like it, but he would not know. Father Atticus would not like it, but neither would he know. The Lord would not like it, but he would forgive. As for this conscience that had no cause to be troubled, it would untrouble itself.

The brazier having lost much of its heat—further evidence of little regard for one who had more in common with Lady Laura’s daughter than was known—the one made to feel of no consequence drew the covers over chest, neck, and face. And ere sleep deepened the dark crack, determined how best to be shed of evidence that could demand investigation. Now only one thing was needed—opportunity.