The physician’s expression faltered. “I told her I am fair certain the rash is from contact with foxglove, my lord, but she wished assurance it was not the pox. Thus, I informed her it was not the usual sort, but to be certain it is not that which afflicts many a Daughter of Eve, I would need to perform a thorough examination.” He held up a hand. “Which I would not do without your consent.”
Lothaire breathed deep. “’Tis fortunate in this you know my mind, Martin. But most unfortunate you know not my mind in other things. You ought to thank God you are soon to depart High Castle.” Not at all satisfied by the man’s wide-flung eyes and sputtering, Lothaire strode from the hall.
When Tina admitted him to the chamber, Laura’s gaze awaited his, and what he saw there would have been of great detriment to the physician were the man within reach.
“See, Lord Soames,” Clarice called from where she perched on the mattress alongside her mother, “here is the true reason she could not attend the day’s shearing.” She nodded at the bandaged hands cradled in her own. “She but feared needlessly worrying us. Blessedly, ’tis only a rash.”
Lothaire moved his gaze from Laura’s hands to the sheet drawn up around her waist to her loosed hair whose waves spilled over the shoulders of her chemise. Here an eyeful of what would await him on their nuptial night.
“So the physician has informed me,” he said and looked to the maid. “Would you take the young lady to my solar and aid her in washing away the day’s labors?”
He knew Tina’s hesitation had merit, but unseemly though it was for him to be alone with Laura in her chamber, he needed to speak with her in private. True, the matter could wait, but he could not knowing she suffered in the time between what was appropriate and what was not.
Ignoring the voice increasingly fond of naming him a fool where she was concerned, he prompted with, “I would not ask it were it not of great import and were I not soon to wed your lady.”
The maid looked to where Laura sat propped on pillows. “Milady?”
Laura inclined her head. “Go with Tina, Clarice. Lord Soames and I will not be long.”
“I shall tell you of the shearing later,” the girl said and followed the maid into the corridor.
When the door closed, Laura said in a strained voice, “What did Martin tell you?”
“What nearly saw him in need of a physician’s services.” He strode to the bed. “I apologize for what he suggested could be the cause of your affliction. Never would such occur to me. Never would I believe it.”
The easing of her shoulders evidencing her relief, she said, “I am glad in this you do not assume the worst of me.”
“But?”
She shook her head, seamed her lips.
He did not think before acting, and then it seemed too late to correct the impropriety. Having lowered his damply-clothed body to the mattress edge, he said, “You expected me to think the worst?”
“It follows.”
The accusation tempted him to defend his right to think it, but he checked the words.
“I thank you for seeing me as I truly am,” she whispered.
He looked to her hands. “You are in pain?”
“Less so. The bandages and salve provide relief, but ’tis possible the wedding will have to be postponed.” To his annoyance, his body liked that less than his mind which would rather argue that the sooner they wed the sooner Lexeter would benefit from the tax break. And the sooner his mother—and Martin—would depart High Castle.
“It is not unheard of for a lady to wear gloves on such an occasion,” he said. “Unless you fall most ill, I see no reason to delay the ceremony.”
Her smile was hardly genuine. “Lexeter—of utmost importance and consideration.”
He should let her believe that, especially as much of it was true, but he said, “As well you know, I desire you.”
She looked down. “You wish me in your bed.”
“I do, and more now I see you like this with your hair unbound.” Though his reach caused her to press back into the pillows, he hooked a finger around a bronze tress. “Here you sit like a bride awaiting her groom, your chemise the only garment that must needs be removed to reveal all of the woman you have become.” He let the tress slide away, moved the backs of his fingers down the neckline of her chemise, watched color rise up her chest. “Four days hence, the wishing will be done, Laura. You will be in our bed and know my desire as I shall know yours.”
“Lothaire.”
He looked up, but though he hoped what he felt might be found in her eyes, that was not what he saw there. It was wariness—and something else. Regret? Distaste? If so, because he was not whom she wished him to be?
Weary of jealousy, resentment, and anger, he told himself he must get past the past and said low, “What is amiss, Laura?”
“I am not comfortable being…” She swallowed. “…desired.”
He drew his fingers back up her chemise’s neckline, over her throat, across her jaw. “Then you should not present thus, Laura Middleton.”
He said it with teasing that would have made the young Laura laugh and tease in return, but this Laura appeared further distressed. And something about that troubled him deeply, and not only because he feared her aversion was exclusive to him. It was as though…
Before he could follow the thought to its end, she said, “I am as God made me. I vow, had I known you would come to my chamber, you would not have found me in such a state.” Her tone was defensive, as if he accused her of seduction. “I would have—”
“I know you did not expect me, Laura. I know this is not an attempt to seduce me. I but speak as I find.” He slid his thumb in the dip between chin and lip, causing her to draw a quick breath that lowered her jaw and shifted his touch to her bottom lip. He was surprised by how sensuous it felt though it was not his mouth upon hers—the bow soft, full, and touched by the moisture of her inner lip, then there was the light scrape of her teeth across the pad of his thumb. No matter her bandaged hands, no matter the sight and scent he presented, no matter the impropriety of sitting upon her bed, he wanted to kiss her. Even if that kiss became more. Especially if it became more.
That last admission made him gain his feet and berate himself for feelings surely not unlike those that had caused her to betray him. Of course she was not comfortable being desired. Had she not a misbegotten child to prove the folly of desire outside of marriage?
“Forgive me,” he said. “Just as I should not have done ten years past, I should not speak thus nor touch you as the lover I do not yet have the right to be, that which made you—” He shook his head. “If you wish to delay the wedding, we shall. Now I leave you to your rest.”
“That which made me what?” she called, halting his progress to the door.
He turned. “I know you are not all to blame for Clarice, that it also falls upon me.”
“How?”
“Had I been honorable and responsible as one of greater years ought to be, had I respected you more and not yielded to kisses and caresses, you would not have become impatient to experience what comes after that which ought to be discovered in the marriage bed.”