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Elizabeth sighed. ‘I fear so. And my toes. Jane Bringsty urges pennyroyal salve on me, but to no avail.’
‘We must look after you here. I cannot have a Malinder bride suffering.’
He looked again at her hands, warmly enclosed within his. They might be damaged and painful, but her fingers were long and slender, the nails pale ovals. They could be beautiful, he suspected. And it reminded him that he must give her some symbol of their union. Not a ring yet, he decided. Not until she could wear it with pride and some satisfaction. But he knew exactly what he would give her.
Elizabeth made no attempt to pull away. When, in a noble gesture of chivalry towards his bride, Richard bent his head to kiss her work-scarred hands, he felt the slightest return of pressure as she tightened her fingers on his. The little gesture of trust tugged at his heart, surprising him, so that he felt compelled to turn her hand to press his lips to her palm. In contrast to her fingers the skin was enticingly soft so that he lingered, his lips warming, then looking up to find her eyes searching his face. He was transfixed by the beauty of their violet depths, a leaping connection that made him want to soothe and reassure her as he would a newly broken mare.
For a long moment they simply stared at each other.
The she pulled her hands free and the moment was broken.
‘Let us go down. The wind has too much of an edge here.’ He made to lead her down the steps, placing himself unobtrusively between the lady and the increasing gusts. ‘Food, I think. And you need to be introduced to those of the household whom you have not already met.’
On level ground again within the courtyard, sheltered from the worst, he pulled her hand through his arm to walk back to the living quarters, in no manner dissatisfied with the turn of events. Outspoken to a fault she might be, she would never be easy to live with—too much obstinacy, too wilful, he had decided—but there was at least a measure of agreement between them.
Whilst Elizabeth de Lacy fought a difficult battle to repress the little spurt of hope that warmed her heart. Takecare! she warned herself. It would be too easy to allow this man to break down the barriers so effectively constructed over the years to protect her heart from further hurt. But Richard Malinder was kind. He had shown her a level of understanding that she had not expected, and his arm was strong beneath her hand.
‘What is it?’
Glancing across at her as they reached the courtyard, he seemed to catch her line of thought, and smiled at her as he made his enquiry. But Elizabeth, after a little hesitation, merely shook her head and veiled her eyes with dark lashes. How could she tell this man who was concerned for her happiness and the state of her hands that he was so very beautiful? That his dark hair, ruffled to a tangle by the wind, and the stunning lines, the flat planes of his face, brought an uncomfortable flutter to her heart.
A sudden gust of wind blew her cloak, rippled her veil. She raised her hands to hold it secure, conscious of her unsatisfactory pinning of the folds. Aware of nothing but the sheer magnetism of this dark figure who stood so close and to whom she would soon be bound. Aware of nothing but the throb of her blood beneath his touch. The imprint of his mouth on her palm still burned like a brand. She closed her fingers tightly over it.
Before they parted company at the main door, their paths crossed that of Robert, who had unashamedly been watching their approach. Smiling, he bowed to the departing Elizabeth, then cast a wry look towards at his cousin.
‘A pity that she…’
Robert lurched to a stop as he read the cool expression, most definitely a warning that dared him to say more. ‘No matter. I was always tactless.’ And then, irrepressible to the last, ‘But she’s not a cosy armful, and you can’t argue that she is!’
Richard merely stared at his cousin, searching for a suitable reply, only to find himself thinking of Gwladys. Beautiful, desirable in face and figure, any man’s dream to own and hold. He remembered as a young man falling hopelessly in love with her undeniable beauty, his physical response to her, his desire to kiss her and caress her into mindless delight. He recalled his pride in her as his wife and his hopes for that marriage. How his breath had caught, his loins stirred whenever he set eyes on her. Now Elizabeth… A complicated woman who roused in him—what? He wasn’t sure.
‘No, she’s not a cosy armful. But at least Elizabeth is honest. I think she might be incapable of dissembling,’ he replied, unaware of the snap in his voice until he saw Robert’s reaction. ‘Unlike Gwladys, who…’ Richard shifted, impatient with himself, conscious of Robert’s arched stare, his piqued interest at what had been a carelessly thoughtless comment on his part. He should not have made it. But at least he knew Robert would not ask.
And Richard found his thoughts leaping from beautiful Gwladys to Elizabeth de Lacy. It was not as uncomfortable a leap as he might have suspected. She’s not beautiful, butneither is she plain. She talks to people. She has beautifuleyes. She speaks openly without dissembling. Her touch isfirm and responsive when I take her hand. She smoothedthe wound on my hand as if my pain mattered to her. WhenI kissed her hand, she responded. What would it be like…?
What would it be like to kiss her lips?
Richard cursed himself for a fool.
Elizabeth found a refuge in the solar where she could consider, and marvel at Richard Malinder’s effect on her. Hardly had she sunk to her knees before a welcome fire than the door opened to admit Mistress Anne, a vision of delectable feminine fashion. A fur-edged side-less surcote fit snugly over a vibrant green cotehardie, falling in dramatic folds from the jewelled belt around her elegant hips, a fashion guaranteed to draw the eye to the girl’s soft curves. The transparent veil did nothing to hide the glory of her plaited hair.
‘Elizabeth. If you need anything for your marriage, Richard is to ride to Hereford tomorrow,’ Anne announced in a glory of self-importance.
‘Thank you. I will speak to him.’ A little wary.
Anne seated herself comfortably beside the fire in a confiding manner, folded her hands. Smiled. ‘He will make time to see Mistress Joanna there, I expect.’
The moment hung in silence, as the dust motes hung in the still air, glinting in the sun. Not at all innocent, but sharp edged and deadly. Recognising it for what it was, a malicious tease, Elizabeth titled her chin, waited.
‘Did you not know? Well, of course, how should you!’ Anne, brow smooth, eyes wide, was all concern and gentle compassion. ‘But best that you should know what everyone at Ledenshall knows.’
‘And what is that?’ Elizabeth’s breathing was shallow. ‘Who is Joanna?’
‘Richard’s mistress, of course. Everyone knows Richard has a mistress in Hereford.’
Ah! ‘And you thought, in your concern for my peace of mind, that you should inform me of Richard’s liaison?’
‘Why, yes. Do you think me insensitive? Forgive me, dear Elizabeth, I presumed you would wish to know. I meant no ill will. I would never deliberately hurt you.’ Anne’s smile was sorrowful, her eyes not so.
Elizabeth marvelled at her control. She titled her head in speculative interest, kept her gaze steady, her voice supremely composed. When she answered it was with the slightest lift of her shoulders. ‘Richard’s concerns are, of course, his own. Mine too, perhaps, when we are wed, but certainly, Mistress Anne, they are not yours.’
‘Why, no. Of course not. Forgive me my ill judgement.’
But the damage was done. Anne Malinder did not stay.
Alone again, Elizabeth allowed the fury within her to settle from flame to ash. So Richard had a mistress in Hereford called Joanna. Of course she would wish to know of such a liaison, and of course Richard might have a mistress, but she would rather not hear it from Mistress Anne’s viperous tongue. Elizabeth’s fingers curled into admirable claws. How she had stopped herself from attacking the malicious little creature, verbally at least, she had no idea. Then her nails dug into her palms as she recalled how impossibly beautiful Anne Malinder was with the sunlight on her red-gold hair, gleaming in her emerald eyes.
Her thoughts turned to her betrothed with a sinking heart. She had thought him kind this morning in their meeting on the battlements. Yes, he was, but only because it did not matter to him. He did not need an intimate relationship with her beyond the purely physical to achieve an heir. How foolish to allow that little seed of hopeful anticipation to become implanted in her heart.
So Elizabeth raised her head, lifted her chin, drawing on pride as she had so many times before. She would make the best of this marriage and make use of Richard Malinder as he would make use of her, if that was the best she could do. She would administer Ledenshall Castle with all her considerable ability. She would dress well for the marriage as befitted a Malinder bride. She would challenge Mistress Anne’s determination to hurt and wound. She would certainly show no weakness before her or respond to her barbed arrows. If battle lines had been drawn between them on the previous day, Elizabeth now silently declared war.
And it was in this mood that she found herself cornered by Jane Bringsty, who sought her mistress out with deliberate and heavy footsteps, intent on good advice and herbal potions.
‘There’s one thing that you should do before you spend many more nights under this roof, my lady.’ Jane handed over a small pot of a slimy green substance with an unpleasant smell. She saw the frown immediately forming between Elizabeth’s brows. ‘Use it and don’t fuss. It will bring nothing but ease.’
Without comment, because it was the simplest thing to do—and true—Elizabeth obediently began to smooth the salve of pennyroyal into her hands and fingers, her mind occupied with the bright memory of Richard Malinder’s cool mouth against her damaged skin.
‘What is it that I should do before I stay here longer?’ She drew in her breath at the hot itch as her fingers grew warm.
‘Get rid of that woman—of Mistress Anne Malinder.’
Elizabeth’s eyes flew to her servant’s face, to see there not the mild mischief as she had expected, but something deeper, more severe.
‘I think we are in agreement, Jane,’ Elizabeth replied carefully. ‘I cannot like her. But she’ll be gone back to Moccas as soon as the wedding ceremonies are over.’
‘Tomorrow would not be soon enough. A little belladonna administered in her wine. Not enough to cause harm, but—’
Elizabeth’s expression became stern. ‘No, Jane. You will not. I don’t fear her.’
‘Well, you should. She’s a danger.’
‘Have you been scrying again?’ Elizabeth’s demanded, her fingers stilled.
‘What if I have?’ Jane bustled about the chamber, folding the borrowed cloak, then returned to fix her mistress with a stare. ‘But I did not need to. Nor do you if you’ll be honest with yourself. Mistress Anne is easy to read. I have your best interests in my thoughts and actions. She does not.’
‘What did you see?’ Curiosity got the better of Elizabeth, even as she silently reproved herself for encouraging such dabblings.
‘Not much, but enough to know.’ Satisfied, Jane took the pot of salve from her mistress and replaced the stopper. ‘The dark man who would wish you ill is still there.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘Enough of him. Anne Malinder is red-gold and venomous, her green eyes glossed with sly envy and jealousy. She wants him. If you take my advice, a quick bout of sickness would persuade that lady to remove herself to her own home, far away from you and his lordship. I wager she’d not be interested in feasting and dancing with pains in her limbs and in her belly.’
It was an engaging picture. For a second Elizabeth enjoyed it. Then stared aghast at Jane’s suggestion and her own momentary compliance. ‘Hear me, Jane. I’ll not have it.’
‘You’ll regret it!’ Jane’s lips closed with a snap.
‘Do you suggest that Lord Richard would not have the power or inclination to withstand Anne Malinder?’ A flame of disappointment began to flicker in Elizabeth’s stomach.
‘What man was ever so foolish as to resist so fine a figure and so blatant an invitation?’ Jane Bringsty stood with hands fisted on broad hips, sure of her argument. ‘Have sense, my lady. She dresses as if to attend a court function with a remarkable show of throat and bosom for so chilly a season.’
‘Perhaps.’ The image of Anne in a glory of patterned emerald velvet and fur crept unbidden into Elizabeth’s mind. ‘Her manner of dress is her own choice.’
‘Powdered aconitum root would do the trick,’ Jane continued, unconvinced. ‘It would give her the shivers as if she has the ague. She’d soon wrap up warm within her cloak, enough to hide her undoubted attractions.’
Which made Elizabeth smile. ‘I’ll not have it, Jane,’ she repeated, despite the appeal.
‘Very well, my lady.’ On which note of reproach, Mistress Bringsty exited with disapproval in her portly step, only lingering in the doorway to state once again, ‘You’ll regret it. Never say I didn’t warn you.’ The door swung shut behind her.
The cat stayed to curl on Elizabeth’s lap in comfort. Yawned widely, but fixed her mistress with narrow eyes. Not unlike, Elizabeth realised, the sharp green gaze of Lady Anne.
‘I know. We are surrounded by influences, generous and malign.’ She smoothed her hand over the dense black fur of the cat’s head and back, rousing an instant rumble of pleasure. ‘I like him,’ she whispered. ‘Richard Malinder is dark as a crow’s wing, without doubt, but he’s not the one of Jane’s predictions. I saw him in the scrying bowl at Llanwardine. I felt the bond with him even though I denied it.’ Her fingers dug into the black fur, causing the cat to arch in protest. ‘He is not my enemy. I can’t ever believe that,’ she murmured. ‘But what does he think of me?’
Against all common sense, Elizabeth de Lacy allowed herself to dream.
Chapter Five
Throughout the days before her marriage, Elizabeth found herself fractious, and beleaguered.
The problem was, as Elizabeth freely admitted to herself, she was feeling lonely. Lewis had taken himself off to Talgarth to report her safe arrival to Sir John. David too had abandoned her to join Richard on his visit to Hereford. Even her betrothed had left her, and in the end with such a leave-taking as to shock her to her bones, giving her more than a hint of the Black Malinder beneath the surface charm.
His farewell, in full public gaze in the courtyard, had been formal, hurried and unsettling.
‘God keep you, lady. I’ll be back for the ceremony.’
A brief inclination of his head, an even briefer squeeze of her hand and he had gone to mount the bay stallion. Was that all he would say? Perhaps it was in the circumstances, surrounded as they were by men-at-arms and baggage wagons, or perhaps the anticipation of seeing his mistress again was strong. But Elizabeth, with narrowed eyes on his splendid shoulders as he gathered up his reins, was reluctant to give him the benefit of any doubt. He was brushing her off as if she was less than important to him. Her stare was less than friendly.
By chance Richard caught the condemnation. For a long moment he looked at her, then tossed the reins to his squire, handed over his gauntlets and strode back.
‘That’s no suitable leave-taking of a bridegroom to his sweet betrothed.’
Elizabeth coloured at the sardonic words. He must have read every thought in her head. But then he cupped her face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs over her cheekbones, and when she would have stepped back in quick retreat with a murmur of self-consciousness, he took her mouth with his, despite their audience.
Heat and power. A lingering and most thorough possession. Elizabeth could think of nothing at all as the breath left her body, until he lifted his head and, still unsmiling, raised his brows in wry enquiry. Nor could she find a word to say. Was this a wooing? More like a binding to his will. There was a ruthlessness in him, as instantly proved when he took her wrist and pulled her with him towards his mount.
From the saddle he leaned down. ‘Smile at me, Elizabeth.’
She kept her face stern, chin tilted.
His own smile was edged. ‘Perhaps you will smile when I return.’ And then he was gone, leaving her standing alone in the courtyard.
So she felt bereft. And Elizabeth watched for his return, although would have admitted it to no one. Her ears were tuned to the sound of approaching hoofbeats, of raised voices in the courtyard, of warnings from the guards on the gatehouse battlements and the raising of the portcullis, her hopes to be dashed again and again when the new arrivals proved to be only more wedding guests.
How could he matter so much to her? She had barely known him for longer than twenty-four hours in her whole life. She sighed as she surveyed the empty road, her fingers clenched against the stone coping. Perhaps he would arrive barely in time to exchange vows at the church door. It could hardly matter to him since this marriage was based on nothing but political necessity. It should not matter to her. She felt her temper rise. It would probably not matter to him even if he were wed in his campaigning gear, travel-soiled, sweat-stained and dusty from a week’s riding along the March. Why she should be concerned with her own appearance, she had no idea. Richard Malinder would only care that the alliance be made.
The days passed, the hour of the marriage drawing closer. What was he doing to be away so long? It came into her mind that Anne Malinder had known the truth. That Richard’s visit to Hereford involved a long-standing relationship with a woman called Joanna. It was like a cold hand closing its fingers around her heart. Elizabeth hid her anxieties behind an impassively solemn exterior, perfected with long practice. But her temper and her patience shortened by the day.
Meanwhile she was beleaguered by well-meaning attempts to improve her appearance and Anne Malinder’s less than subtle hints at her deficiencies.
‘I feel like a goose being fattened for a Twelfth Night feast,’ Elizabeth grumbled as another platter of little venison pasties, crisp and golden, appeared at her right hand as she sat and set the stitches in her wedding gown. Yet Elizabeth, grateful for the concern, duly tried to eat. She must do so if she did not want Richard Malinder to look aghast at the lack of covering on her bones. If he was able to count her ribs, surely he must turn from her in disgust. Doubtless Joanne was an enticing owner of sensual curves to lure Richard to her bed. So she ate.
She found herself under siege as she rubbed Jane’s salves and potions into her hands, as well as drinking, under protest, a bitter decoction of white willow bark to clear and brighten her skin. But it was entirely possible, she decided finally, with a little spurt of pleasure, that the bridal ring would slide easily past her knuckle rather than stick fast.
But it would take a miracle to improve the disaster of her hair. In her worst moments of depression Elizabeth remembered it as it had been. Long and thick and straight. Black with the shining iridescence of a magpie’s feathers. As black as Richard’s. She imagined, unable to resist a smile, his being able to run his fingers through the length of it, before she shook herself back to reality. It still hugged her head in an unlovely manner, a short fur covering. She washed it in the heady liquid of dried lavender flowers steeped in wine that Mistress Bringsty swore by as a tried-and-trusted remedy, but her hair’s growth would be a matter of time that she did not have before her wedding day. It would, she thought, be a matter of devising suitable veiling to cover the worst of the damage. She could not—would not—be wed in a nun-like veil and wimple.
The bridal gown was duly measured, cut and snipped and sewn, the luxurious velvet a deep red, the colour of the best Bordeaux wine, guaranteed to flatter and draw colour into her pale cheeks, a gown to disguise distressingly sharp collar bones and an unfortunately flat chest. And what a miracle, Elizabeth considered cynically, that Richard Malinder should have been thoughtful enough to provide it for her.
‘What a lovely gown this will be,’ Anne Malinder announced. ‘And what a shame you do not have the bosom to carry so fashionable a bodice. I could do so, of course. My own gown for this occasion is fashioned on one of Queen Margaret’s herself. Now her figure is magnificently proportioned.’ Anne allowed her gaze to rest knowingly on Elizabeth, before continuing. ‘I believe it is customary to use the bride’s hair in sewing the wedding gown, for good fortune,’ she informed her as she set her stitches with exemplary skill, the needle no sharper than her tongue, her eyes on her stitches, a smile on her lips. ‘I doubt that will be possible, dear Elizabeth. We could, of course, sew in one of mine. It would be perfect.’
Elizabeth might curb her instincts, watch her words through necessity, but Mistress Bringsty sprang to her defence. ‘We’ve no need of such ruses, which smack of nothing less than witchcraft, Mistress Anne. I can think of better charms from nature’s own goodness to bless this union.’
So into the hem was sewn leaves of periwinkle and a handful of the flat translucent honesty seeds, to promote a lucky and happy marriage. Elizabeth eyed them ruefully. She feared she would need far more than a handful of seeds to bless this marriage. Particularly if, even now as she waited for his return, her bridegroom was enjoying a heated liaison with Mistress Joanna.
Richard’s business in Hereford took longer to complete than he had expected as he had a particular commission of his own, so unavoidably he returned to Ledenshall less than twenty-four hours before the ceremony, which, if he had thought about it, should have warned him of possible consequences. He found Ledenshall in festive and lively uproar, every available space housing some degree of relative or family dependant. He also discovered a bride waiting for him in the courtyard, a bride who had little time for him, spine strikingly rigid, face set, hardly willing to grant him, or her brother David, more than a few words in passing. Certainly not a smile as might be expected between a lady and her betrothed. Much as on his departure, he received nothing but a flat stare.
‘Welcome home.’ Her tone said it all.
Richard dismounted. ‘Elizabeth. We were delayed.’
‘I am aware.’
‘You are well?’
‘Yes. As you see.’
He frowned, displeased with her short reply, her brusque manner. So he would push the issue of their relationship a little more. Stern-faced, his eyes never leaving hers, he held out his hand, palm up in a tacit demand that she respond to him. Instead, his gentle bride thrust her hands behind her back.
Richard held firm, conscious of every eye on the pair of them. Pride stiffened his jaw. He would not be defied in this manner in his own castle by a girl who was not yet his wife. He waited. Until Elizabeth flushed, and, with obvious reluctance, touched her hand briefly to his. With instinctive reactions, he pounced, closed his hand on her sleeve when she would have pulled away. Then raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers with slow deliberation.
‘Elizabeth. I have not abandoned you, as you see.’
‘No, my lord.’ But the tension from her fingers did not ease.
Is that what she had feared? That his absence meant rejection? Surely not. He could hardly refuse to wed her now that she was ensconced in his home as his accepted bride. He swung round at a request from Master Kilpin, to give orders for the disposition of the pack animals and their burden. To discover when he turned back again that the only view he had was of the lady’s retreating figure, shoulders still formidably straight as she marched towards the door.
‘Well…’ He pushed a hand through his disordered hair, admitting to a brush of anger, until he caught David’s grin and raised brows. ‘What did I say?’
‘Nothing.’ David chuckled. ‘And not for some days. That’s the problem.’
‘So what should I have done?’
‘Got back here before the eleventh hour. Elizabeth has a temper.’
