Though Angus had met them in the outer bailey as the horses were given into the care of stable boys and assured his lord Laura had set the hall aright as much as possible, Lothaire had not thought this much was possible.
Though the shining extravagance that prevailed following the disappearance of his father was far from restored, the smoke-discolored walls yet in need of paint and most of the fine furnishings sold by Lothaire after he took control of Lexeter, the hall was beyond presentable. And it smelled better than he, which said much since he had made an effort to purge the day’s filth.
When the last of the flock was washed and the stream undammed one last time to replace the fouled water with fresh, he and the workers, including Clarice, had submerged their clothed bodies and rubbed themselves as clean as possible. But Lothaire had gone further, applying the washing lye used to remove the foulest matter from fleeces.
He had done so in preparation to see his father laid to rest on the morrow, but the moment Laura hastened from the kitchen corridor and her eyes fell upon him, he had to admit he had done it for her as well.
She stilled, mouth convulsed as if to suppress a smile, then she saw her daughter. “What has happened, Clarice?”
“Naught ill,” the girl said as her mother rushed forward.
“But your hair and gown—”
“Sheep mother! Only sheep.”
Laura halted before them, the stir of fresh rushes underfoot causing the herbs with which they had been scented to spring upon the air. Hands at her sides closing as if to keep them from pulling the girl to her, she said, “Sheep?” and glanced at Lothaire.
It was the first time he had looked closely on her face in over a sennight, the side braid she had worn to disguise her injury abandoned to reveal clear, unpowdered skin. “Aye, sheep,” he said.
“I helped, Mother—with the small ones. ’Tis hard work, and I had to rest often, but Lord Soames says I did well.” Clarice looked to him. “Did you not?”
“For it, we are returned to High Castle sooner,” he said, then to Laura, “I apologize for not earlier delivering your daughter and to have once again missed supper. As we are behind in shearing, and I shall be much occupied on the morrow, I determined to make good use of the hours remaining of daylight.”
Guessing from the flick of her eyes at Clarice she questioned if the girl knew what would so occupy him, he gave a slight nod. He had been brief in the telling since he did not think it necessary for one of Clarice’s age to know the circumstances of his father’s death, but he had prepared her to conduct herself as befitting a member of the Soames family.
“I understand,” Laura said. “When your squire told you had returned, I asked Cook to prepare a platter of viands to be served hearthside since the castle folk have begun bedding down.”
“I thank you.” Disturbed by how pretty she looked in a plain gown surely chosen for the work overseen this day, he started past her but paused. “I am pleased by what has been accomplished in my absence, Lady Laura. I do not know when last the hall appeared so inviting.”
Color pinked her cheeks. “The servants were eager to please their lord, and Sir Angus kindly advised me how to direct them.” She looked momentarily down. “I have had little experience with such.”
He inclined his head. “He is a good man. Forsooth, my best.”
“You are fortunate.” Before the smile she gifted him could reach her eyes—were that possible—sounds from the kitchen corridor turned her around. “Here is your meal. Come, you must have quite the appetite.”
Lothaire did not, having joined the workers in filling their grumbling bellies with dried meat, biscuits, and ale, but Clarice had to be hungry.
Such an interesting girl she was, happily spending the day in the water doing the work of laborers or resting on the bank alongside a sunning lamb she had helped clean. That was the young Laura in her. But as for the one who required a nudge from Lothaire to swallow her complaints over the food and then mostly picked and sipped at the offerings…
That was of this more proper, reserved Laura, she of gowns so elaborate one could not dispute she was kin to a queen. Which was why what she wore this eve so affected him. Though of good cloth, it was beautifully simple, much the way she had dressed in her youth.
“I am starved!” Clarice exclaimed and ran forward.
That was her mother in her as well. Spontaneous, with only enough disregard of propriety to be charming—at least to one who had given his heart to Laura, fool that he had been.
And will not be again, he reminded himself as he watched daughter overtake mother. More than once this day he had wished it was Laura at the stream with him, she who had loved the water and unashamedly spoken of when they would swim and bathe together.
That was the Laura whose betrayal he might be able to forgive were she to return laughter and joy to his life—above all, be faithful henceforth. But if she yet loved Clarice’s father and that man was Michael D’Arci…
Cease torturing yourself, he silently commanded and strode to the hearth.
Cheese, bread, and fruit were arranged on a platter alongside a pitcher of wine. Though Lothaire had believed himself sated, he ate as more of the castle folk gained their pallets and, between bites and long drinks, listened to Clarice regale her mother with tales of washing sheep.
“At first, I was upset at wetting my gown, but as I have nearly outgrown it and the work of many makes work light—as Lady Maude would say, would she not?—I decided to help. And the lambs are so sweet, not at all temperamental like Grandmother.”
Laura lowered her goblet. “Grandmother?”
“An older ewe. Lord Soames washed her first—walked her backward into the water so she would not be so frightened, then pulled her to the middle of the pool where she could not touch bottom.”
“But surely she went under?”
“Indeed not! Sheep float. Can you believe it? Lord Soames says it is because of air trapped in their fleeces.”
A seemingly genuine laugh sounded from Laura. “That I would like to see.”
“Then you ought to join us the next time. Should she not, Lord Soames?”
Imagining Laura in the water, gown clinging to her curves, tempting his thoughts to the marriage bed before it was that, he could not think how to respond.
“Lord Soames?” Clarice pressed.
He caught Laura peering at him from beneath her lashes before she swept her gaze to her goblet. And remembered their first meeting when she had done the same, her slippers tight together where they peeped from beneath her skirts. His mother had been impressed with her modesty and silence—as had he until his subsequent unchaperoned visits caused the young woman to cast off that mask to reveal someone he had not expected to like but had come to love.
Clarice made a sound of disgust. “Lord Soames, do you not hear me?”
“Forgive me. I am worn and much in need of rest. If your mother wishes to learn the work of wool, she is welcome to accompany us, but do not press her. She is no longer a girl but a fine lady and—”