Four days since he had said they must remedy their unconsummated marriage. Four days in which they had not, though each night he lay down beside her and on the night past had turned his hand around hers as if to pull her to him. Though Laura could understand the past three nights since he had resumed the work of wool and each day returned after a dozen hours, neither had he moved to make love to her the first night after their wedding.

For what did he wait? Not that she was ready—indeed, doubted she would be until she chanced the whole truth about Clarice’s conception. But he could not know that burden she yet carried, so why did he hold himself from her?

Never had they spoken more at supper nor lingered over conversation afterward. Indeed, these past two nights, following what was becoming regular games of chess with Clarice, they had remained at the hearth longer than they should have considering how little sleep Lothaire had. And it was more his—and her daughter’s—doing than hers. Laura had but to question him about Lexeter’s wool production and he of few words became one of many, and more so with his stepdaughter’s prideful comments that revealed the depth of her interest in what was a strange fit for one who liked pretty things—above all, being one of those pretty things.

On days Clarice did not depart the castle, she clothed and adorned herself as she had upon the barony of Owen, but when Lothaire permitted her to accompany him to the shearings, she resembled a very pretty boy, having acquired chausses from Lothaire’s squire to wear beneath gowns no longer of a length suitable for a young lady but whose laces could be loosened to accommodate her growing torso.

It made Laura happy to see her daughter settling in well, and she knew it was mostly because of Lothaire. And had yet another reason to love him.

“May I join you?”

She swept her gaze from Lothaire and Clarice’s chess game to Sebille as the lady lowered to the chair on one side of the bench Laura perched on with her back to a warming fire. “Of course, my lady.”

An uncomfortable silence fell, more so since the two women had rarely encountered each other since the wedding—and the reason the lady was often absent the hall. According to Lothaire, his sister readied their mother for her move to her dower property three days hence, following the celebratory shearing supper that marked the end of the wool gathering.

“You are well, Lady Sebille?”

“As well as can be.”

Laura guessed it would be hard for her to leave behind Sir Angus though there seemed no hope for them.

“And your mother?”

Sebille snorted. “Could she convincingly affect an attack of the heart, she would so she might remain at High Castle. She insists only she can keep her beloved son safe from…”

Laura glanced at Lothaire and Clarice, was glad their discussion of a chess move held their attention. “Safe from me,” she said low.

The lady sighed. “Her son is all to her.”

“She is blessed to have you.”

Sebille leaned forward. “That I would not argue, but she would. Though once she called me her miracle and loved me well, now I am her daughter only insofar as the duty owed her.”

Miracle? Laura mused, but fearing she would trespass in asking the meaning, let it go. Keeping her own voice low, she said, “Lothaire believes you ought to give her into the care of a servant and remain at High Castle.”

The lady’s eyebrows rose. “So now my brother confides in you.”

“I am his wife.”

“And you are keeping him content, are you?”

Laura gasped. Though the lady guessed wrong, it offended.

Sebille flicked a hand. “Forgive me. A more difficult week I have not had.”

“I understand.” Rather, she tried.

“What of you, Lady Laura? Do you agree I ought to remain here?”

“If ’twould suit you. I know it is too soon for us to be friends, but did we spend more time together, I believe it possible.”

The lady lowered her chin. To hide tears? Laura wondered.

“Do you truly think so?” Sebille said softly.

“I do. Will you not consider staying? Your brother is most concerned for your well-being.”

She looked up and, eyes moist, said, “This I know, and that he believes once Lady Raisa is removed from High Castle Sir Angus and I might find the happiness denied us when I chose a path opposite his.”

“It seems you yet feel for him.”

“I wish I did not. However, even could I abandon my duty to Lady Raisa, I fear ’tis too late for Angus and me.”

“Perhaps in the matter of children, but—”

“I do not speak of babes, Lady Laura.” Her voice rose, causing Lothaire to look around.

His gaze moved between the two women, and Laura wondered if Sebille’s smile was as forced as her own. Though certain he had known his wife and sister conversed, had he been unaware of what was spoken between them, he would not likely be henceforth.

And it seemed his sister knew it as well. When Lothaire returned to the game, she stood and leaned down. “Not of babes, Lady Laura. I speak of betrayal so sinful it cannot be undone, and for which there is little hope it will not happen again. Thus, my course is set.” She straightened and turned toward the kitchen.

Laura was tempted to follow and tell her she believed Sir Angus was honorable enough to forego further dalliances were Sebille to remain at High Castle and wed him. However, before she could yield to the yearning, the physician exited the kitchen corridor and the two spoke low, then they moved back toward the kitchen and went from sight.

“All is well?” Lothaire asked and she found him nearly upon her, Clarice at his side as well as that beast of a dog, Tomas.

“I wish your sister would remain here with us,” she said.

“As do I, but one day she shall return.”

Laura knew it was wrong to wish for another’s death, and she did not, but for Sebille’s sake and Lady Raisa’s suffering were it as serious as the physician reported, she hoped one day would come ere the passing of too many that could seal Sebille’s loss of Sir Angus.

“Mother?” Clarice dropped onto the bench beside her. “I know I was to spend the morrow with you, but might I accompany Father to the shearing of the upper eastern flock?”

There seemed an endless number of flocks, each identified by its location upon Lexeter. And still Laura had not accompanied Lothaire to learn firsthand the work of wool. Could she, she would join her daughter on the morrow, but she was to oversee preparation of the great quantity of food that High Castle’s kitchen would supply the shearing supper.

Laura wanted to agree to Clarice’s request, but though her duties would be more difficult with her daughter at her side, compelled as she was to explain and supervise the girl’s contributions, she shook her head. “Had I not great need of you to ensure the supper adequately reflects the Baron of Lexeter’s gratitude for those who have labored hard, I would permit it. Too, methinks you will enjoy the celebration more having finished what you and I began.”

Clarice’s hopeful smile forsaken, her jaw quivered and eyes moistened. And Laura had to resist the impulse to reverse her decision. Blessedly, it was easier done when she glanced at Lothaire and saw approval in his eyes.

“But Mother—”

“Your mother has spoken and wisely,” Lothaire said. “Now I am sure Tina is eager to see you abed so she may gain her own rest.”

Resentment flashing in the girl’s eyes, she stood. “Good eve,” she said to Laura, then to Lothaire, “Good eve, Lord Soames.”

When she was gone, he said, “But minutes earlier she called me Father.”

“Do not think ill of her. She is but disappointed.”

“I do not think ill of her, Laura. I dislike that she retaliates for my support of you by rejecting me as a parent, but she did better than expected. And it seems you made the right decision.”

Neck beginning to ache at looking so far up him, she stood. “Seems?”

“I am less experienced at parenting, but I believe I am accomplished at putting men to work whether to defend Lexeter or work the land, and in such a way most are pleased with the results. I do not believe what is required for raising a child well can be that different, though I am thinking it is more difficult.” He smiled wryly. “Regardless of the depth of a parent’s feelings, they surely go deeper than that felt for one who is an acquaintance or even a friend.”

As Laura took in his words, she was flooded with regret. “I wish…” She closed her mouth.

“What?”

Though she feared she would regret answering, she said, “I wish I had been here to see you grow into the man you have become. When you appeared at court, I thought you the same I had known—only older and angry. You are so much more, and I am ashamed I cannot claim the same.”

“I think you are wrong.” He lifted her hand, and she thought how small and slender it appeared compared to his. Then she noticed the state of his nails that evidenced the work of the commoner and hurt that it was more often the tools of hard labor with which he occupied himself when it ought to be the weapons of a warrior and the quill of a lord administering his lands.

“What is it?” he asked.

She looked up. “I am thinking how large your hand is compared to mine.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

Hating she might have shamed him, she said, “And how well I like the way your fingers fit mine.”

She did not think he believed her, but he inclined his head, set her hand on his arm, and led her to the stairs.

Was this the night he would make her his wife in full? she wondered and wished all of Simon was told no matter what Lothaire might think of her—were she completely honest.

She did not have to be, she reasoned. After all, Simon and Maude were the only ones who knew the whole truth of what had happened. As both were dead, they could no longer defend the ravisher.

You would hide the lie amidst the truth? her conscience prompted.

Would it really hurt? she considered. No matter what she had done, she had not wanted Simon to possess her.

The opening of the solar door made her startle. She could not remember ascending the stairs nor walking the corridor.

“Laura,” Lothaire said where he stood on the threshold. “I am worn through. It will not be this night.”

He read her wrong, though not entirely. Still, she was grateful, and more so when she determined that once they were abed she would tell him the rest of Simon so when he claimed his rights over her body he would do so knowing—even if not believing—her tale.

She jerked her chin. “I am weary too.”

He drew her inside, closed the door, then crossed to the table to perform his nightly ablutions. Laura performed hers alongside him, but when he took up soap and submerged his hands in the basin of water, she stepped nearer.

Feeling him stiffen, she slid her own hands into the water and took the soap from him.

“What do you, Laura?”

She lifted one of his hands between hers, looked up. “Let me at least do this for you.”

“I do not require—”

“Pray, Lothaire, let me.”

His nostrils dilated, but he did not wrench free, and she bent her head and began soaping one calloused hand then the other.

He was rigid throughout, and more so when she took up a washcloth to aid in removing the darkness from his fingertips and around his nails. But though she was able to lighten them, she could not remove all evidence of his hard labor.

“I thank you,” he said as she dried his hands.

“’Tis my honor.” She released him and wiped her own hands on the towel as Lothaire extinguished the candles, leaving only those on the bedside tables lit.

Laura had been bared to him the day of her tub bath and he to her, but they had not repeated that intimacy. Though it was Tina’s duty to aid her lady and Lothaire’s squire’s to assist his lord, neither was called upon, and by unspoken agreement they would not be until the marriage was consummated. Thus, husband and wife kept their backs to each other as they shed the day’s garments and donned their night wear.

The silence oppressive for what Laura would tell this night, she asked over her shoulder, “What will busy you after the shearing supper?”

“Much.”

“But the shearing is done.”

“So you think I shall be at my leisure until next summer,” he said with what sounded like teasing.

“Of course not. I know much goes into the administration of lands, but the work of wool is mostly done, is it not? No longer must you rush to break your fast, miss dinner in the hall, and be late for supper.”

“For a while longer, I must. When the last of the wool is sacked and bundled, the workers given their portion, and three quarters of Lexeter’s share sold and sent overseas, I will have to see to the last quarter.”

Hearing him turn back the covers, Laura ceased pretending she worked the hooks of her chemise, turned, and lowered to the bed.

“The last quarter?” she said, snuffing her candle as he snuffed his.

“Though most of those whose income is derived from the production of wool sell it for others to work into cloth, some years ago I decided Lexeter ought to retain a portion and expand its business into the weaving of cloth. That is what shall occupy me next.”

She turned her face to his, wished she could see him better by moonlight. “It is profitable?”

“Were it, the queen would have been unable to compel me to wed.”

That gave her pause. “Then who would I have married?”

That gave him pause. “None of those Eleanor sent from her presence with their tails tucked tight. She would have found a suitable husband for you.”

Laura nearly argued, though she would not have thought to whilst at Windsor. No matter how well Lothaire received her tale, she wanted none but him.

“If the weaving of cloth is not profitable, why hold back a quarter of wool that could generate income?”

“Few ventures are soon profitable, but if not this year, I believe the income will come next year when the additional funds resulting from Henry and Eleanor’s tax break allow me to expand my operations. Too, it is of benefit to Lexeter’s people who earn extra income over the cold months by weaving my wool alongside theirs.”

“Fascinating.”

“You think so?” he said as if he thought she spoke what he wished to hear.

“It is. I would like to learn more. Mayhap there is something I can do to help.”

“Mayhap,” he said with finality that indicated he wished to sleep.

He was handing her the opportunity to further delay the telling, and she longed to take it, but she said, “Lothaire, there is something I would have told you had you not thought me a liar when I said it was not Michael who fathered Clarice but…Simon.”

Of a sudden, the distance between them felt not a reach but the breadth of the great hall.

“Hear me,” she entreated. “Even if you do not believe what I tell, I must—”

“You must not, Laura. I do not want nor need excuses and most certainly have no wish to hear those names pass your lips. I am content with where we are now and where we are going. I am done with the past, and if there is to be hope for us beyond the getting of an heir and a well-ordered household, you will be done with it as well.”

It was said with such control, command, and threat she nearly bowed to it. “You have to know, Lothaire.”

He surged onto his side and leaned over her. “If you will not quiet for the sake of our marriage, you have but to keep your vow to be meek and obedient. Now speak no more of it.”

One last try, she thought. But one more, and if he will not listen, you can do naught.

She laid a hand on his jaw, felt it stiffen as the coarse stubble of several days’ growth of beard pricked her palm, but before she could speak, he rumbled, “Do not.”

She dropped her hand, thought how pathetic it sounded flopping to the mattress between them. “As you say,” she whispered, “but if ever you wish—”

“Laura!”

She snapped her teeth, put between them, “If ever you wish to know—even if only to understand me—you have but to ask.” She rolled away, and when he returned to his side of the bed realized she had given him her back, which she could not stand to give any man so near her. She started to correct the error but talked herself down. Though she did not want to expose her back to Lothaire, it was not for fear of having too little time and space in which to defend herself. It was because she could not stop loving him and even now, despite her anger, wanted to put her head on his shoulder and curl against him.

Over the next hour, she knew he lay awake the same as she, and when she could pray no more and began to drift into the night, she told herself she was glad he had not let her speak. Had she revealed she had not willingly given herself to Simon, and had he not believed her anymore than that Michael was not Clarice’s father, the progress made toward a passably good marriage might have been impeded, might even have ended were he so reviled by what he thought fantastic lies he determined she would but serve as a womb for breeding and a servant for ensuring the functioning of his household.

Aye, for the best.