“Praise the Lord ye finally ceased your haunting and gained some sleep last eve, even be it in a chair.”

Laura swept her gaze to the upper portion of the mirror in which Tina’s reflection hovered above her own. “Did I much disturb your sleep?”

“Indeed. I kept driftin’ off, but for what—an hour? two?—ye stood at the window, wandered the chamber, petted the tub.”

Laura sighed. “Forgive me. Had I known, I would have tried the chair sooner.”

“I wish ye had, though not for me. For ye.” She leaned around, looked close upon her lady’s face. “We shall have to pinch yer cheeks to put color in them ere ye meet Lord Soames at the church door, else he might think ye afeared of him.”

On this day she was…

“And a bit of powder ought to cover the dark ‘neath your eyes.”

Tina was right. If one looked beyond beautifully curled and braided hair, they might think Lothaire’s bride ill. Laura nodded. “Aye, powder and pinches.”

“As for the tub”—the woman jerked her head toward it—“on the morn after yer wedding night we shall put it to good use, even if I must needs lug every blessed pail meself.”

Laura turned on the stool and threw her arms around Tina. “How I love thee!”

Surprise stiffened the maid, then she went all soft and tucked her lady nearer. “Oh milady, how I love thee.” They held each other until Tina sighed and ended the embrace. “Now then…” She reached for the powder. “…Baron Soames will be wantin’ his bride.”

An hour later, the garlanded wagon carrying Laura, her daughter, and maid halted before the church at Thistle Cross, outside which were gathered far more of Lexeter’s people than expected. It would have been an impressive number were Laura of a mind to be impressed, but she was too anxious and became more so when she saw Lothaire before the steps alongside Father Atticus.

“Mayhap my new father is as handsome as Baron Marshal,” Clarice whispered. “Does he not look fine, Mother?”

As nearly she had once imagined he would look on their wedding day. The blond of his hair was darker, and though he was only slightly taller, he was considerably more muscular than the young man who had courted her. As for the garments his squire had collected from the solar this morn, they were the fine ones he had worn at court and tall boots once more gripped his calves.

It seemed silly to think him the most handsome of men, but weathered though she knew he was up close, he was that to her. “He looks most fine,” she said and, when Sir Angus came alongside the wagon, accepted his offer to lift her down.

While he next assisted Clarice and Tina, Laura smoothed the skirt of her dark red gown and adjusted the gold cape pinned to her shoulders with small brooches. Then Sir Angus took her arm and led her toward the church that was flanked by Lexeter’s people.

To her surprise, Sebille was present. To her relief, Lady Raisa and the physician were not.

Laura withheld her gaze from Lothaire until she halted before him. She did not care—not overly much—that his smile was more for the benefit of their audience. It seemed genuine and comforted.

“Your lady,” Sir Angus said and removed his hand from Laura and stepped back.

Taking hold of her arm, Lothaire leaned down. “Are you well?”

Wondering if she ought to have allowed Tina to apply another layer of powder, wishing she had not forgotten to pinch her cheeks, Laura whispered, “I am. I but had difficulty finding my rest last eve.”

His smile curved a bit more. “This night you shall sleep in my arms.”

In the next instant, the troubling of Lothaire’s brow evidenced she had gone paler. But he said naught and turned her toward Father Atticus.

The man nodded at the bride and groom, and she glimpsed concern in his eyes before he began to question them in a loud clear voice.

He asked them to confirm they were not too closely related to prevent them from wedding. They said they were not. Did their parents consent to their union? Though Laura could not know and Lothaire certainly did, they said they were unaware of any objection. Had the banns been read the proscribed three Sundays? Well the priest knew it was so, but they confirmed it for all present. Lastly, they were asked if they entered into marriage of their own will. Lothaire said he did, and though he did so without hesitation, he surely felt the queen’s breath on his neck. As Laura agreed she freely gave herself, she wished for the joy and anticipation of the nuptial night to come as imagined ten years past.

That done, silence followed where the bride’s dowry ought to be cited. Though the people would be curious, they would have to remain so, even if they wrongly concluded Laura brought to the marriage only the promise of an heir. As directed, the king and queen’s tax break was to be held close.

Father Atticus looked to Lothaire, inclined his head.

A jangle drawing Laura’s regard to that which her groom unfastened from his belt, she extended her left hand. He set the pouch in her palm, the coins of which would be distributed to the poor, the symbolism of which was the new Lady of Lexeter might act on behalf of her husband in matters of finance.

Once Laura fastened it on her girdle, the priest said, “And now to plight your troth.”

Lothaire took Laura’s right hand and turned to fully face her.

She peeked up at him from beneath her lashes, and receiving a smile, tilted her face up.

“I, Lothaire Soames, Baron of Lexeter,” he said loud for all to hear, “take thee, Laura Middleton, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for fairer for fouler, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, ’til death us depart, if Holy Church will it ordain. And thereto I plight thee my troth.” Then in a voice for her alone, he added, “At long last.”

Tears disturbing her vision, she realized her hand was trembling when he gently squeezed it.

Her vows were identical to his but for the insertion of one that made all the difference. “…to be meek and obedient in bed and at table,” she pushed past her lips, “’til death us depart, if Holy Church it will ordain. And thereto I plight thee my troth.” Then for him alone, she also added, “At long last.”

Did his eyes brighten, or was it only the sun in them?

Next, Father Atticus blessed the ring and passed it to Lothaire. As the groom briefly slid it on each finger of her left hand ahead of the finger it would adorn to her end days, he said, “In the name of the Father…in the name of the Son…in the name of the Holy Ghost…with this ring I thee wed.”

The warmed band settled at the base of her finger, then that portion of the ceremony concluded, Lothaire turned Laura toward those gathered to witness the marriage and she removed the pouch from her girdle.

Those in greatest need came forward—the aged, the orphaned, those afflicted with defects of birth, illness, and injuries—and into each palm she pressed a coin. When the pouch was empty, the church doors were opened and Lothaire led his bride inside.

Side by side they knelt at the altar, and when Sir Angus and Sebille stretched the pall over them, they bent their heads and the longest portion of the ceremony commenced. At the end of the mass, Father Atticus gave the groom the kiss of peace, which Lothaire passed to Laura—a chaste kiss, but the salty taste of him was still on her lips when she sat before him on his destrier and the wedding party started back toward High Castle for the feast.

And the nuptial night Laura was determined Lothaire would not find wanting.

* * *

The scent of roses. Far different from that of ale, wine, and the oaken casks in which those drinks were stored in a cellar.

The sight of red, cupped petals. Far different from that of earthen floor, barrels, sacks, and burdened shelves.

The sound of silence. Far different from that of creaking wood steps and scampering rats.

“Far different,” Laura said.

“Different, my lady?”

Having forgotten she was not alone, she swung around to face the priest where he stood before the window awaiting Lothaire’s arrival, after which he would see the married couple situated beneath the covers and pray the joining proved fertile, evidencing any promiscuity on the bride’s part was forgiven.

That last made Laura glad she knew what to expect and it was not exclusive to her. Even had she wed ten years past whilst pure, such a blessing would have been spoken over the couple once they were abed. Still, the priest would have excluded the groom from forgiveness of sexual sin.

She smoothed her white chemise whose bodice was pleated around the neck, forced a smile, and was as surprised by her words as he seemed when she said, “Aye, ten years different.”

He considered her long, nodded. “How different, may I ask?”

“From what I expected and wanted. But I would like to believe I am here now because God knows me better than my husband and makes a way for us to mend the past so there are yet blessings to be had from our marriage.” She tapped her teeth against her lower lip. “Might I believe that? Or do you think…?”

“Tell me, my child.”

“Is it too late?”

“For what?”

Her hands hurt, and when she looked down she saw how tightly she gripped them. “For Lothaire to love me even half as much as once he did?”

“You profess to love him, my lady?”

Though she might regret her honesty, she said, “I did. I do. Never did I cease. But if he cannot love me again, I shall pray my heart releases him as his has released mine.”

He crossed to her side. “Nay, my lady, do not pray such. Far better to love without profit than love not and reap bitterness.”

She stared.

“Better than any, Lady Raisa and her daughter taught me that.” He patted her arm. “Love no matter the hurt, else any chance you have at being loved—regardless how small or seemingly hopeless—will be lost.”

“I thank you, Father.” She was grateful for his kindness though he could offer no assurance of substance Lothaire might love her again. Thus, she was to love in the absence of love returned on the chance it would encourage her husband to feel something more enduring than desire.

She winced at allowing that last word to enter her thoughts, hoped Lothaire would not speak it this night lest she be overwhelmed by memories of her pleading with Simon. When she had declared she did not love or want him, he had childishly retorted he would not love her. He would simply desire her, thus requiring naught of her but that she lie still. But she had fought him, and he had subdued her with violence whose only benefit was bruises, scratches, and torn garments that allowed Lady Maude to see her son as the miscreant he had become during his knighthood training.

“Where is your groom?” Father Atticus returned her to the present. Hands clasped behind his back, he turned toward the door.

Laura glanced at the bed whose rose petals upon white linen was so lovely it was almost a pity only Tina who had scattered them, the priest, and the newlywed couple would look upon them.

Almost a pity. Such relief Laura had breathed when Lothaire announced his wife and he did not require an escort abovestairs. Much to the disappointment of many a reveler, they were denied the tradition of crowding the chamber with as many as could fit so they might witness the bride and groom being put to bed.

When Laura had looked questioningly at Lothaire, he had murmured, “For Clarice. And you.”

Minutes later, the door opened and Lothaire entered. His feet were bare and body covered in a tunic that fell just below his knees to reveal muscular calves, but what made her stare was his dark blond hair around his shoulders. She was accustomed to it slipping free of its thong, but never had she seen it entirely loosed, not even when they were younger. And how it shone, as if his squire had persuaded him to remain seated long enough to comb it through many a time. It made her fingers long to feel it.

She was so captivated she did not realize he might be similarly affected by her appearance until he halted before her and she looked up. And saw there the young man who, done with watching the clouds pass, levered onto an elbow and blotted out the sky as he gazed upon her below him. Then kissed her.

She was certain he wanted to kiss her now. But it would have to wait until the priest withdrew.

“My lady wife,” Lothaire said low.

“My lord husband.”

Father Atticus cleared his throat. “Methinks it time the bride and groom were abed.”

Wondering what she had revealed of herself, not only to Lothaire but this man of God who believed she had betrayed his lord with another man, Laura dropped her chin.

A hand cupped her elbow, but it was not her husband’s.

“Come, Daughter.” The priest guided her to the side of the bed farthest from the door, the same she had stretched upon last eve until Clarice and Tina slept.

As she lowered to the mattress amid rose petals and settled into the pillows stacked against the headboard, Lothaire did the same on the opposite side.

Father Atticus pulled the top sheet from where it had been folded at the foot of the bed, covering Laura up to her waist, then strode to the other side and covered her husband. “Let us pray.”

Laura bowed her head. To her surprise and gratitude, the priest did not ask the Lord to remove from the bride any taint of promiscuity. And much too soon the blessing of the bed was done.

“My lady.” Father Atticus dipped his head. “My lord.” He turned, extinguished the candles save the two on the bedside tables, and exited.

Alarmed by how dim it was, though not so much she would be unable to see Lothaire clearly once she resolved to look at him, Laura held her gaze to the door. And nearly snatched her hand from beneath her husband’s when he covered it.

“Laura?”

It sounded like a question, but surely not, for what had he to ask? In the eyes of God, Church, and all those present for the ceremony, she was his to do with as he pleased. And she was to be meek and obedient.

Only when he gently pried open her fingers did she become aware of having made a fist of them.

“Three weeks,” he murmured as he slid his fingers between hers and settled their calloused pads against the heel off her palm. “They passed too slowly. But not for you, hmm?”

She looked sidelong at him, wished what must be done this night did not have to be done, that she could curl against his side and fall asleep with the beat of his heart in her ear.

“This is not as once I imagined,” she said. “Not that I expected it to be.”

He sighed. “Though it was not to have been this way, there is naught for it but to go forward.”

She jerked her chin. “Then let us.”

Keeping hold of her hand atop the sheet, he turned onto his side and set his face above hers.

She closed her eyes, but when he did not kiss her, she raised her lids. “What is it, Lothaire?”

“I like looking at you. Ever I have.” He leaned closer, and his wine-warmed breath made her shudder, then he brushed his lower lip up hers. “Kiss me, Laura love.”

She stopped breathing. Ten years. Ten lonely, aching years since he had called her that. Though it could not mean the same as it had then and never would in so great a measure, it gave hope there would be enough crumbs of love in the years to come that she might gain a piece of the whole.

She leaned up, set her lips on his, and holding tight to his one hand, slid her other hand around his neck.

“Laura,” he rasped and pressed his mouth so hungrily to hers that what she had felt when they kissed in the chapel seemed but a shadow of this. Here in their bed, this exciting, dizzying, wondrous kiss was just the beginning. And she would not fear the end of it.

This was Lothaire. Her Lothaire. Forever and ever and—

His hand was sliding up her calf as it raised the hem of her chemise, stroking the back of her knee, splaying her inner thigh.

Too soon! She was not ready for this nor the weight of his chest upon hers. Though not so heavy she could not draw breath, still she could not breathe—would surely suffocate if she did not get him off her.

She pressed back into the pillows, cried, “Pray, cease!”

He stilled. “Laura?”

She opened her eyes, found his—not Simon’s—face above her. She yet felt the prey, but there was little of the predator about him. Indeed, though his breath was fast and shallow and color high, it was not anger upon his brow. It seemed concern.

If only that were enough, for her to lie back and be the dutiful wife as she had vowed to be and needed to be for Clarice, Lothaire, and Laura Soames.

“I am sorry,” she gasped. “’Tis just…”

The concern on his face drifted away, and as he raised himself and removed his hand from her thigh, anger moved in. “Do you think me still the boy who thought himself a man? That I cannot please you as well as your lover—or ought I say lovers?”

The first of his question broke the skin, the second cut to the bone, and the hurt of it found shelter in her own anger. “I have been with one man only, and he did not please me—was not even half the man you were ten years past.”

Though Lothaire no longer touched her, he remained above her, supported by hands pressed to the mattress on either side. Thus, by swaying candlelight she saw the effect of her declaration—the easing of his jaw, the gathering of eyebrows that told she had thrown open doors to questions best saved for another time and place, and the narrowing of eyes that searched hers for answers.

Still, she was unprepared when he said, “Who was it?”

Oh tongue, she silently bemoaned, what have you done?

“Tell me and let us be done with it, Laura.”

She set a hand on his jaw. “I will, but this night of all nights let us not speak of it. I did not mean you to stop. Truly I did not. I but wish you to go slow.”

“I would know his name.”

“On the morrow I will tell it.”

He closed a hand over hers, drew it from his face, and pressed it to the mattress. “I will not make love to my wife whilst there is another man with us.”

“There is no one here but us. I see only you.”

She heard the grind of his teeth, then he growled, “Tell me.”

The return of his anger relighting hers, she said, “Your bride is meek and obedient as called to be. Now do what you must and be done with it.”

His face darkened further, then with a sound of disgust, he dropped onto his back.

And there they lay side by side until he said, “If I am so disagreeable you are reviled, you should have refused the queen.”

She turned her face to his, saw his forearm was on his brow, eyes on the ceiling. Wishing she had been able to hide her fear, hating she gave him cause to believe he repulsed her, she said, “As told, Lothaire, I am glad it was you the queen chose, not…”

He turned his eyes upon her. “It is no compliment to be favored over a deviant, Laura. Do not try to make it one. All I wish to know is why, feeling toward me as you do, you spoke vows. And do not say you had to make a home for Clarice. You did not.”

She sat up. “You know we could not remain at Owen after Donnie—”

“You could have made your home at Castle Soaring where Clarice was content.”

Laura stared, understood.

“Aye,” he said. “Lady Beatrix told me she and her husband offered their home to you.”

She nodded. “They did, but I could not accept.”

“Why?”

“I could no longer be a burden to others, and I wanted Clarice to have a home of her own so never would she be owing to any. As a wife, I could earn our place by keeping my husband’s household and…”

“Suffering his attentions?”

“Nay!” She reached to him.

“Do not, Laura!”

She snatched her hand back.

“You wish to know what I am inclined to believe?” he said.

She was certain she would not like it, but it was not truly a question he asked.

“I think you could not accept the offer to live at Castle Soaring because, unbeknownst to Lady Beatrix, her husband is Clarice’s father. And if that is not deterrent enough, despite what you would have me believe of the man who made a child on you, perhaps you love him still.”

Laura’s belly churned so violently she feared she would be sick. She weathered silence beneath his regard, then said, “I do not understand why you think ’twas Michael. And again, I tell you it was not.”

He sat up, turned to her. “The night at Castle Soaring, I was at my window when you and he returned from the outer bailey. I saw you go into his arms.”

That was easily recalled, but not because of any passion between Michael and her. It had not been appropriate, but she had missed the brother he had been to her and been so grateful for his kindness that she acted on impulse. Here now proof of what had turned Lothaire cooler toward her and made him curt with Michael. She should have guessed they were seen and judgment passed on one believed to be free with her body.

“Certes, you were not averse to his touch as you are to mine,” Lothaire pressed.

“I was not because I do not fear his touch.”

“As you fear mine.”

“Yours is…” She dropped her chin, moved her gaze over the rose petals between them. “You want…”

“I want to make love to my wife, just as he—”

“I tell you he did not! He is not Clarice’s father and never has Lady Beatrix had anything to fear from me. Indeed, ’twas she who sent Michael to me that night when she thought me gone too long.”

He considered her, said, “You deny you care for him?”

“I do not. I love him as a brother.”

Finding hope in the uncertainty in Lothaire’s eyes, she drew a calming breath. “I cannot fault you for thinking the worst, for that is my doing.” And Maude’s, she silently added. For love of the lady and gratitude for the home provided the woman’s illegitimate grandchild, Laura had not revealed the sin of Clarice’s conception was another’s—or mostly. As long accepted, she had been a party to it.

She returned Lothaire to focus, glimpsed pain in his eyes. Though this should not be the time or place, she had made it so by not sooner telling him as Michael urged her to do.

“But you are right in believing Lady Beatrix’s husband is more than a brother to me. He…” She dropped her chin, and he waited. At last as ready as she could be, she said, “Michael D’Arci is Clarice’s uncle. That is why he cares so much. That is why I do not fear his touch.”

Her words shot through Lothaire, flinging themselves here and there in search of a fit. When it found one, he rejected it more quickly than he had done years ago. But though he once more sent it on its way, it returned and fit the hole even better alongside the boy’s slingshot, whatever had nearly struck Lothaire at the pond, and Laura calling out the name of Michael D’Arci’s younger half brother.

Still, he said, “You would have me believe Simon and you… Him?”

“Him,” she said softly.

A moment later, he was off the bed, his back to her. Simon did fit, but as if forced into the hole. What was he missing? What would knock off the resistant edges? Unlike with Michael, Laura had shown no affection for Simon.

“Lothaire?”

He swung around and found her standing before him.

“It was Simon,” she said.

“You lay with that whelp—gave yourself to him? He of blond hair fathered Clarice, not he of dark hair like your daughter’s?”

Her eyes lit with sparks rather than sparkles. “For the last time, I tell you ’twas not Michael.”

“So you wish me to believe, and how convenient Simon is dead.” Though in that moment he realized he had yet to discover the nature of that death, he thrust the curiosity aside. “He who cannot defend himself can easily bear his brother’s sin so Lady Beatrix never learns the truth.”

Laura’s face went livid, and he steeled himself for her denial, but she brushed past him.

“Where are you going, Laura? It is our wedding night.”

She halted, turned. “Then do the deed and make an heir on me that you may sooner seek better company elsewhere, just as your father did.”

As he had allowed her to believe of him that day in the garden at Windsor Castle when she asked how many illegitimate children he had and he told he would leave it to her to discover once they wed.

“Do it,” she prompted.

He shifted his jaw, but it remained so tight it ached. “Were I one to force my attentions on a woman, I could not. You, my lady wife, know well how to cool a man’s ardor. Now be finished with your outrage and come to bed that all believe their lord and lady are pleased with each other.”

“You are right. Appearance is everything.” But it was not the bed to which she retreated. She dropped into a chair before the hearth.

Moments later, his stunned bride was in his arms. Halfway to the bed, she demanded he set her down and began to struggle.

Lest her protests grow loud enough to be heard beyond the solar, Lothaire bent his head and captured them in his mouth. She stiffened before she began to go soft, but there was no time to discover if she would return his kiss. And no need.

He lifted his head as he lowered her to the mattress. “Fear not, Laura. That was but to silence you for the sake of Clarice whom we would not wish to know the true state of her parents’ marriage.” He snapped the sheet over her, causing the rose petals to rise and scent the air before resettling on the bed where their marriage would not be consummated.

“I want to hate you,” she said, tears in her voice as he snuffed her bedside candle.

He did not answer until the second candle was out and it was he who made the chair his bed. “Certes, that would be easier for us both,” he said across the dim. “Mayhap in time.”

She cried, so quietly he might not have known it were the bed’s frame not in need of tightening, her sobs poured into the pillow causing it to creak. When silence fell, excepting the occasional hiccough that made his chest ache, he vehemently wished he did not feel for her anything near what he had felt ten years past. But he loved her still.

He dropped his head back, looked to the formless ceiling, ached that the promise of this day had been severed. Should he have rejected Father Atticus’s counsel and not shown the sword behind his back?

Nay, better he know Laura’s lies now than later so they might sooner go forward. Now they were told, they could put Michael D’Arci behind them, his name never again spoken. And perhaps eventually Lothaire would not see that man in Clarice.