“Never.” She moved onto her side to face him. “Hold me like this—for now.”
He drew her nearer, made a pillow of his forearm. “There is something of which I would like to speak that I meant to last eve but could not find the right place to do so,” he said.
“Something is amiss?”
“Nay, something is explained that ought to have been sooner, though I understand why you did not—why you felt you needed to lie.”
Her heart stuttered. Did he not believe Simon had fathered Clarice after all? He must have felt her fear, for he hastened to explain, “I speak of the bruise on your face. Last eve Sebille revealed it was gained by my mother’s attack.”
She gasped. “Then you also know I slapped her. I should not have, but—”
“I know she provoked you, Laura, would have known even had my sister not revealed it. Will you tell me how?”
The beat of his heart beneath her fist alerting her she had gathered up a handful of his tunic, she opened her fingers and pressed her palm to his chest. “I know she worries for you, that you are precious to her, but when she said Clarice would become a harlot like her mother… I am sorry I slapped her, but though I know she is old, she is not as infirm as she would have you believe.” And for which Laura was endlessly grateful the lady would depart High Castle this day, though she would take Sebille with her.
“That my sister also confirmed,” Lothaire said, “but you are not to be sorry. It is I who regret my belief Clarice struck you. I thank the Lord there was time and distance between that belief and when next I was near enough to confront her. Had I accused her…” He sighed. “I like her, and my word I give I will not seek to wed her away until she is of a very good age and herself wishes it.”
Laura’s eyes teared. “I thank you. I have so much to make up with her methinks I shall need every day you provide.”
“Not as many as you think. She cares much for you, oft seeks assurance I take seriously the need to make you fall in love with me so you will be happy again.”
“I shall assure her ’tis done.”
“As shall I. Now another thing.” A muscle in his jaw convulsed. “My mother will not depart High Castle this day.”
She startled. “Why?”
“You need not ink your quill, Laura. What the queen ordered and to which I am agreeable, shall soon be done. Do you trust me enough to accept my word for it, or would you have me further explain what I prefer not to at this time?”
She longed for an explanation but said, “Of course I trust you.”
He touched his mouth to her brow. “One thing more, then I would savor holding you.”
She smiled. “Tell me quick.”
“Sebille has decided she will not accompany our mother to her dower property.”
Laura blinked. “Then she and Sir Angus…?”
“I think not, but does not the Lord enjoy making belief of our disbelief?”
“I pray He shall so they may find each other again as we have been blessed to do.”
Lothaire lowered to the mattress and tucked her head beneath his chin. Holding to the woman with whom he would spend his life, he savored her back to sleep.
“They are silent to a man, my lord, the same ere their first escape.”
Lothaire sighed. “Either they have not the proper inducement or they are confident of their escape.”
Angus shrugged. “The jailer broke the younger one’s nose ere I could stop him, but it only served to close their mouths tighter.”
That angered Lothaire on two opposing fronts. He had told Nigel there was to be no violence, and if all went to plan there should be no need. But had there been, it was the husband of the lady nearly ravished who ought to have the satisfaction of driving a fist into the miscreant’s face. However, certain it would not end there, Lothaire stayed away. And perhaps Nigel should have as well. A great grudge he bore his prisoners, having been knocked unconscious by whoever had freed the assassins last year.
“How did they react when told it is the queen’s cousin who was attacked?” Lothaire asked.
“I could see the prospect of being transported to the king’s prison alarmed, but they refused to name who hired them and reveal the extent of the damage they were to inflict.”
It hardly mattered, Lothaire supposed, having known the best chance of learning who meant to aid Raisa again was to lull the offender into believing it possible to free his accomplices in the same manner as before.
Lothaire had been tempted to confide the plan to Nigel, but the man was not known for discretion, especially when he had a tankard of ale too many.
Lothaire looked around the outer bailey, did not see who should not be seen—four of his most trusted men paired off to ensure they remained worthy of his trust. Of the plan, they knew only they were to keep watch on the dungeon’s entrance, and if they could not identify who entered, must learn who exited by whatever means necessary without revealing their hiding places.
“Methinks we shall have our answers,” Lothaire said. “Hopefully, this eve.”
“I will keep watch as well, my lord.”
Lothaire started toward the inner drawbridge, came back around. “I must ask something, but ere I do, I would have you know naught is required that you do not wish.”
Wariness flickered in Angus’s eyes, but rather than give his consent to proceed he said, “I am sorry, my lord, especially for your sister, but though I have a care for the memory of her, my feelings are not what they were, and I do not believe there enough rain and sunshine to revive them. If you can accept that, and can she should she need to, I shall remain in your service. Otherwise, I must seek to serve another lord.”
Lothaire longed to argue he had believed the same—or worse—of his relationship with Laura, that the Lord had provided the warming sunshine and gentle rain to revive it. But he would simply have to pray Sebille and Angus found their way back to each other. “You cannot tell me not to have hope, Angus, but I accept your decision.”
The knight inclined his head.
Heart heavy, Lothaire strode toward the donjon where his beloved awaited him.
This sense. This feeling it best to wait. Or perhaps do naught and let be what was to be. But there was danger in that as well, and there seemed not enough trippings of the fingers to begin to rouse the Lord’s sympathy.
At this moment no longer the watcher, far more the worrier, the one who needed to make a decision tucked into the chair, drove elbows into sides, and bent forward on a groan so pitiful it sounded like a hurting dog.
What to do? Stay the course or change course? Though this one was long tried and true, something told it had become littered with obstacles.
Pressing deeper into the chair. Driving elbows harder into sides. Bending farther forward. So slight a groan it was as if the dog had died. Then slamming back, splaying arms, and sighing as reason prevailed. As this was the culmination of all, thus of greatest import, this feeling was worry only.
Stay the course, run faster now the end was near, and win the prize for which all had been done.
It could not be too late to be happy. Could it?