The sun in Laura’s hair revealing there was still red among tresses that had darkened over the years, she sat forward, elbows tight to her sides, face in her hands.
He paused to listen. Though she made no sound, the jerk of her shoulders told she wept, and he was glad. Here was proof some of the young woman he had loved yet breathed. He could not feel for her again, but for Lexeter he would tolerate her. And the daughter who had her father’s eyes.
He continued forward. When she did not respond in any way to indicate she was aware of his return, he dropped to his haunches and caught up the hem of a heavily beaded skirt shot through with gold thread—revealing a pretty ankle and shapely calf.
She gasped, lifted her head. As he stared into her moist eyes, he recalled once he had thought them so dark they would haunt did they not sparkle like stars on a moonless night. He had thought right. They haunted. And moved him as he did not wish to be moved.
He thrust the handful of skirt at her. “Dry your tears, Lady, and resolve to turning your efforts to discouraging your other suitors.”
Her mouth worked, but no words passed her lips. Then she snatched the material from him and sat back. But rather than wipe at her eyes and cheeks, she swept her skirt down as if modesty were of greater import than erasing evidence of emotions she had not wished him to know she possessed.
He shrugged, straightened, and as her gaze followed him upright, said, “When this farce is done and our queen well-entertained, you shall be going home with me.”
She swallowed loudly. “I will not.”
“It will not be the life our foolish young selves imagined,” he continued, “but it will be of great advantage to my family and people. Even to you, methinks, and your daughter. Many a night I spend away from High Castle, and when I am home, I am oft gone from dawn to eventide. Once you have given me an heir, I will not bother you again.”
Sparks flew from eyes he could not help wishing were sparkles, then bitter laughter sprang from her. “So you have become your father.”
He frowned, tried to remember what he had revealed of his sire who, at that time, was a dozen years missing from Lexeter. If she referred to Ricard Soames’s faithlessness, that he had not revealed, meaning another had.
“How many mistresses?” she confirmed her knowledge of his mother’s heartache. “How many more illegitimate children have you than I?”
Realizing it mattered not who had told her—whether it was their all-knowing queen or idle conversation Laura happened upon, he caught up her hand. Before she could snatch it away, he pressed his lips to the backs of her fingers. “I will leave that to you to discover when we wed”—he smiled as she pulled free—“a month hence.”
“Go home, Lord Soames,” she hissed. “Go home to your mother who will praise the Lord you escaped me again.”
More easily he recalled what he had shared about the controlling Raisa Soames who, mostly bedridden throughout their betrothal, had disapproved of how often he visited Laura—heaping guilt on him, bemoaning she should not have accepted such a woman for her son’s wife, warning that as entranced as he was, she could prove a Delilah and a Jezebel.
That last he had not shared with Laura. Never had he cause to—at least until Lady Maude sent him away, refusing to reveal the reason for his broken betrothal. Minutes later, Laura had turned at the pond’s bank, her hand resting on the reason they would never wed.
“Were we not greatly in need of what you bring to the marriage,” he said, “my mother would, indeed, praise the Lord you are not to be her daughter-in-law. But she knows what is needed, and you will provide it.” He inclined his head. “I shall see you at dinner, my lady.”
He stalked away.
A half hour later, in Lothaire’s hearing, Lord Gadot was most unfortunate to boast to Lord Thierry of what he would do to Lady Laura on their nuptial night.
Chapter 6
He was everywhere, would not be discouraged no matter how often she displeased the queen with shows of preference for her other suitors.
Lothaire Soames was not the one. Though the effort to prove Eleanor wrong so exhausted that Laura was too worn to complete her prayers before falling asleep each night and every morn had to be pried out of bed by a clucking Tina, she remained determined to wed any but him—especially after their exchange in the garden four days past when he made it clear she would never be more to him than a means of returning prosperity to Lexeter and gaining an heir. Far less it would ache to wed a man she did not love who did not love her than one she loved who would never love her again. And might ever loathe her.
Now once more the two of them sat at meal, a trencher of pheasant stew between them which she was content to allow him to empty. Unlike whilst seated with her other suitors, she was relegated to a lower table. Not as punishment, though she had thought it at first, but to allow the queen to better observe Lothaire and her.
He leaned near, and when she looked sidelong at him, she saw he smiled—doubtless, for Eleanor’s benefit. “You do not have to appear to enjoy my company as much as you do the others’, but do you not converse with your future husband, our sovereign will be compelled to remind you of proper etiquette. Again.”
She turned her face to him, felt the lonely occupant of her chest move toward his fortified one. He knew of her daily summons to the queen’s apartments? Of Eleanor’s exasperation over Laura’s resistance to Lothaire whether at meal, in the garden, or moving about the crowded hall? How? Had the queen told him?
Nay. Laura had noted the interest shown Lothaire by one of Eleanor’s ladies, a pretty woman who could not be more than ten and ten and who was often present during Laura’s audience with Eleanor. The lady watched Lothaire, at every opportunity given—or made—conversed with him. And he was receptive, especially when Laura came to his notice.
“Lady Elizabeth,” she said and returned his false smile. “Have you made her your mistress yet?” As his eyes darkened, she laughed for the queen. “Do not answer that. Truly, I do not care.”
He drew nearer, and she felt his warm breath fan her jaw, slip beneath the neck of her gown, brush the tops of her breasts. “No matter how you wish it, no matter how coarse you present, Lady Laura, each time you tempt me to abandon my purpose I have but to recall you in the garden—weeping over me.”
It had been a blade to the heart to find him returned. Afterward, she had been tempted to abandon her purpose and accept Michael and Lady Beatrix’s offer to reside at Castle Soaring. But Clarice needed a home of her own and no longer would Laura be a burden to any. As painful as it was to be awake, she would remain in the world her daughter inhabited.
She broadened her smile. “Though you waste your time and mine, Lord Soames, let us please the queen. Converse with me.”
Something flickered across his face, and she guessed he had not expected her to bend. But then, she had not the other times he tried to engage her.