Only because Lothaire saw her sway and did not request permission to leave the queen’s side did he reach Laura before she hit the floor. He caught her around the waist, swung her into his arms, turned to the queen.
Eleanor’s smile was all satisfaction. “Would she could have seen how you flew to her side.” She gestured to the sitting area. “Best she recover here rather than grease squeaky tongues by you carrying her to her chamber.”
Discovering Laura was not much heavier than ten years past, wondering if she might be lighter out of her heavily embroidered gown, Lothaire conveyed her to one of the couches.
As he lowered her, her lids fluttered and she met his gaze. “I am going home with you.”
Was it a question? Or did she merely acknowledge what she dreaded?
He settled her head on a cushion, slid his arms from beneath her, impulsively hooked a tress off a cheek as smooth as he remembered.
“You are going home with me,” he said low. He thought it relief in her eyes, but it was so soon replaced by regret it could have been imagined. Or wished for.
“Why?” she breathed.
He owed her no answer, but he said, “You are my somehow.”
She frowned, gave her head a shake as if to clear it. “You think you have won, but I fear not.”
“We shall make the best of what we have been dealt,” he said gruffly. “You and I.”
“Clarice?” she said with such desperation he was ashamed he had not included her.
“And Clarice,” he forced the girl’s name across his tongue and drew back. “Rest now. We depart on the morrow.”
She stared a moment longer, then lowered her lids.
And Lothaire was struck by how little it had taken for his heart to pick up where it left off. But then he remembered he was no longer fewer than a score of years aged. That Laura Middleton had made a cuckold of him.
Chapter 8
Castle Soaring, England
May, 1163
It should not have taken three days to reach Castle Soaring.
Laura did not need Lothaire to speak it, and he did not, but she felt his impatience. Unfortunately, not only did Tina sit a saddle poorly, but the maid did so amid numerous packs containing the gowns Laura had taken to court and two more stuffed with the fine material and embellishments gifted the future Lady of Lexeter.
In Lothaire’s hearing, Eleanor had ordered a wedding gown be fashioned as befitting the cousin of the Queen of England.
Clearly, Laura’s betrothed had been displeased, but he inclined his head, as done often throughout the journey that followed, speaking as few words as possible to his betrothed. And not many more to the knights and squire who had accompanied him to Windsor. But of greater note—and blessing—was he did not present as smug over making good his belief Laura would be his. Because he now regretted his win?
Cease! she told herself as they slowed their mounts before the donjon. It matters not. It is done.
Her heart lightened to see she was to be received by Maude’s second stepson, Michael D’Arci, and his beautiful wife, Lady Beatrix of the Wulfriths. But when the latter stepped forward and Clarice was not to be found behind the lady’s skirts, Laura’s heart once more took on weight.
As anxious as she was for Lothaire to meet his future stepdaughter, it boded ill Clarice was not here to greet her mother.
Is it me? Laura wondered. Or Lothaire? She had told her daughter the queen was to provide a husband and father, and Clarice had not been pleased. Nor had Laura expected her to be. But she had known it would go worse were no warning given and had hoped during her absence her daughter would settle into the idea of a home of her own where she was not made to feel tolerated as she had been by the Baron of Owen’s wife.
Laura moved out of Lady Beatrix’s hug, looked to Michael who had stepped forward to welcome Lothaire.
Doubtless, they remembered each other from the one time they met during the first betrothal. After she had flung herself into Michael’s arms, Lothaire had corrected her for being too familiar with Maude’s stepson. But he had not been harsh, for she had earlier assured him her enthusiasm was that of a sister for a brother.
Blessedly, the missive Laura had inked at Windsor and sent ahead to Soaring had prepared Michael to receive the man who believed himself betrayed. She had also closed the missive with the words—Lord Soames does not know. Thus, Michael was assured their secret was safe and prepared for Lothaire’s bitterness over the belief Laura had cuckolded him.
“It has been a long time,” Lady Beatrix’s husband said, his tone telling it could have been much longer.
Laura tensed. Though she appreciated Michael cared enough to worry over the queen’s choice of a husband, she did not wish Lothaire offended.
“Not as long as it feels,” he gave back.
“Over ten years,” Laura forced herself to enter the conversation. “Imagine how blessed we shall be if we look back on this day ten years hence and think it a short time.”
Their eyes swept to her, and she pushed a smile onto her lips and wished she could show teeth to make it more believable. “As ’tis past the nooning hour, Lord D’Arci, I pray you will grant us a night’s lodging.”
“Unnecessary,” Lothaire said. “There is an inn four leagues distant.”
“Husband?” Lady Beatrix said sharply.
Michael’s smile was all for his wife. “We insist you spend the night, Lord Soames, not only for the sake of your travel-weary betrothed but her daughter. Though we received word of your arrival, we could not know which day you would appear. Thus, Clarice’s evening was promised to our children, and we would not disappoint them or her.”
Laura frowned, looked to Beatrix.
“She is much the little m-mother.” The lady brightened her smile as if unconcerned over the bump in her speech. “It has been good for her.”
Remembering how angry Clarice had been when told her mother was bound for court, Laura thanked the Lord her daughter had not been miserable all these weeks. “Lord Soames,” she said, “pray, let us accept the hospitality of the D’Arcis.”
After a long moment, he inclined his head. And she loved him a little more.
“Where is Clarice?” she asked Beatrix.
“Methinks she watches us.” The lady put her head slightly back to indicate either an upper floor or the donjon’s roof.
The roof, Laura guessed. Since Maude’s death, the girl often sought the solitude of that great height. Indeed, it was upon the donjon’s roof at Owen the incident had occurred which forced Laura to awaken.
“May I go to her, Lady Beatrix?”
“Of course. She will be glad to receive you.”
Laura started up the steps, remembered Tina, and turned to ask Michael to aid the woman in dismounting. But Lothaire was alongside the maid, arms raised.