The Redeeming (16 page)

Might her husband not come? He had not humiliated her by ordering the examination, which gave her hope he was not as foul as his father and brothers, and he had agreed to wed her despite her lost virtue, but perhaps he regretted doing so. After all, if their marriage was not consummated, he could seek an annulment.

A half hour later, the priest crossed to the door and murmured that he would return. When he did, he brought her husband with him.

Christian Lavonne met her gaze, and though she half-expected his eyes to reflect a quantity of drink, they did not.

Gaenor looked away as he shed his clothes. When he slid in beside her, the priest stepped forward to bless the marriage bed again. Afterward, he extinguished all but a single candle and withdrew.

Though Gaenor longed to look anywhere but at her husband, she reminded herself she was forgiven and turned her face to him—only to warm at the sight of his bare chest and shoulders above the sheet.

“’Tis done,” he said gruffly.

She tried to relax so he would not feel her tension when he reached for her, but he turned away. She did not know if she should be thankful or offended. All she knew was that she should not be ashamed. What was done was done, and long before she had met this man.

Although it pained her to speak, she said, “There is to be no consummation?”

He rolled onto his back and met her gaze. “When your menses flow as witness to your empty womb,
wife
, I will touch you. Not a day before.”

His eyes were like the coldest, rain-soaked morning, but rather than rouse fear, they pointed her toward the door behind which her own anger resided. “Then you believe I have recently laid with Sir Durand.”
Bar the door, Gaenor. Do not let it out.
“You think I lie.”

Candlelight upon his hard face, he said, “Only a fool would believe otherwise, and I have no intention of being deceived again, my lady.”

“Deceived?”
Do not!
“Again? No deceit have I worked on you. Though I sinned, I made no attempt to conceal the truth—unlike you,
Sir Matthew
, who quite enjoyed the deceit worked upon me. Who kissed me and—”

“Aye, kissed you and believed it meant something to you.”

Gaenor blinked, as did her anger. His kiss
had
meant something—more than she dared tell. She swallowed. “You are saying it meant something to you?”

He stared at her, and she almost hated herself for allowing herself to hope. She really was a fool. “Nay”—she shook her head—”it meant naught to you who arranged to meet me and never appeared.”

“Much to your disappointment. Escape was all you wanted, Gaenor. You allowed me near only that I might aid in returning you to your lover.”

“Not so!”

“It is so. Thus, do not speak to me of deceit when you wear it so well yourself.”

She caught her breath. “What of the bargain struck with my brother?” She saw from the flash in his eyes that he was surprised she knew. “You trifled with my sister’s life as if it was of no value other than to gain what you wanted.”

“You are wrong. My bargain with your brother gained naught that I wanted—only what was necessary to ensure peace.”

His words were meant to injure, and they did. Not that they should, for he had made the exchange with Garr before meeting her. He could not possibly have wanted her then, though at the stream it had seemed he did.

Fingers aching from the ferocity with which she gripped the sheet, Gaenor realized how far she was from where she ought to be after all the time she had spent prostrated before the Lord. She might not yet be able to forgive Christian, but she could prevent the discord between them from taking a more dire turn.

Determined to embrace the reprieve granted until her monthly flux, she said, “Good eve, Husband,” and turned her back to him. To her surprise, she began to drift almost immediately, and it was not long before she slept.

I
n the hours before light peeled back the night, Christian brooded over what Gaenor had said and his response.

Though he had vowed he would not be drawn into an argument, he had risen to her bait and found himself dangling from her hook. Words had been spoken that should not have been, and if he did not more carefully guard his emotions, more would be said that was better left unsaid.

Hearing her breath catch, he hoped it did not mean she was about to toss again as she had done throughout the night. Not that it had disturbed his own rest. Indeed, he would have preferred that to be the extent of it. It was his senses that were disturbed each time her arm or leg touched his.

When Gaenor remained unmoving, he looked to the window. Though he usually rose in advance of the dawn, it was not acceptable to do so following his wedding night. Thus, willing the sun to more quickly light the sky, he threw back the covers, dropped his feet to the floor, and dragged on the hose and breeches he had left at the foot of the bed.

For a quarter hour, he paced the chamber as light crept within and avoided looking at the sleeping figure of his wife. He tried to stop turning over what had been spoken between them, but that left only what had not been spoken, specifically how Gaenor had learned of his bargain with her brother. He told himself it did not matter, but it did. If her brothers had not revealed it, and he was inclined to believe they would not, it was Sir Durand who had been present during the meeting with Baron Wulfrith months past.

Was it that which had made Gaenor flee Stern Castle with the man? Or would she have done so regardless?

Christian returned to the bed—and saw she was awake where she lay on her side. He looked from her eyes to the abundance of hair spread on her pillow and could not have been more grateful she had retained her chemise. “Good morn, Wife.”

She raised her eyebrows. “How would you have us proceed?” she asked as if she’d had far enough time to ponder the day ahead.

“As man and wife.”

He thought he saw relief in her eyes—as if she feared the new day would bring talk of an annulment. “Very well.” She rose onto an elbow. “You know ’tis customary to…hang out the sheets?”

As proof of consummation, but even if he had been so foolish to join with her on the night past, there would be no blood to show for it. Only dishonor. “They shall be hung out.”

As she averted her gaze to hide what was surely dismay, he motioned for her to rise. When she did, he swept the bottom sheet from the bed, opened a healing wound on his forearm, and used the sheet to stanch the blood.

“As the injury was gained from a Wulfrith,” he said, “the blood will serve.” He glanced at her where she hugged her arms against the chill morning air.

She frowned. “I do not understand.”

He pitched the wadded sheet to the center of the bed and went to the chest that contained his clothes. “You are my wife now. Any dishonor that stains you, stains me. Thus, do you bring forth Sir Durand’s child, only I will know.”

Unlike on the night past when she had allowed her anger to spew, she controlled the emotions that made her hands clench on her arms.

Christian pulled on tunic and boots. “I am sure your brothers are anxious to know how you fared on our wedding night.” He pushed a hand through his hair to bring it to order. “Do not delay in joining me at meal so that we might ease their concerns.”

He started to turn away, but came back around. “I want your brothers gone from Broehne as soon as possible. Though they will know ‘tis not virgin’s blood that flies from the window of the lord’s solar, I would not have them think our marriage remains unconsummated.”

As she loosened her white knuckled hands from her arms, Christian wondered if her flesh would be bruised. “Of course,” she said. “I do not wish them burdened any more than already they are.”

He strode to the door and closed it behind him.

Gaenor considered the sheet. His blood, not hers. Yet again, he had spared her and her family humiliation—first in agreeing to go through with the marriage, now in making it appear she had come to him untouched. He professed to do so out of self-interest, but might he be influenced by something other than the peace and stability he sought for Abingdale? When her monthly flux arrived a fortnight hence, might there be healing between them?

From the bed, she had watched him pace in and out of her field of vision, had felt his struggle, had hoped not only for his forgiveness, but that she could forgive him for his deception. Hoped, not prayed.

Though Christian had told her not to delay, Gaenor knew she must seek her knees, for what was hope without prayer? Thus, her head was bowed and hands clasped when the door opened and the chatter of women fell away.

She completed her prayer, stood, and turned to the two who stood in the doorway—the young one bearing a gown, the older one an armful of linens.

“My lady,” the latter said with a curtsy.

“My lady,” the younger woman went through the motions with downcast eyes.

“Our lord has sent us to see to your needs.” The older woman bustled forward. “And to hang the morning after sheet.” She peered at it and nodded. “It bodes well.” Her mouth curved with a smile that hinted at warmth. “I am called Josephine.” She beckoned the younger one forward. “Aimee has been given to be your maid.”

Aimee glanced up, and Gaenor glimpsed something like resentment in her eyes.

“I am grateful for your aid,” Gaenor said, though she was not so certain. With the exception of those few days at Stern before Beatrix’s wedding, it was months since she had played the lady and allowed another to see to her dress and ablutions.

“I have brought one of Lady Mary’s gowns.” Aimee unfolded a simply cut pale blue gown and held it up for Gaenor’s approval.

“Lady Mary?” Gaenor asked.

“The baron’s departed mother, my lady,” Josephine said. “’Twas also her gown you wore to speak vows with our lord.”

Gaenor fingered the silken material. Despite the gown’s simplicity, it was cut of fine cloth and well made. “She was nearly as tall as I.”

“Aye, my lady, though the baron’s father…” A shadow crossed her face and she bit her lip.

“What of the baron’s father?”

Josephine shrugged. “Though he is not as tall as his youngest son or departed wife, he is of good height.”

“I have not yet met him.”

“And you will not,” Aimee muttered.

“Aimee!” Josephine rebuked.

Gaenor frowned. “I was told he is bed-ridden.”

Aimee snorted, only to flinch when Josephine stepped toward her and drew back a hand.

“Do not!” Gaenor snapped.

Josephine slowly lowered her arm and looked around.

As both women stared at her, she realized what was required to take her place as lady of the castle. She must be as her mother, Isobel, who owned the respect and admiration of the castle folk.

She stood taller. “I know Broehne Castle has been without a lady for many years, but I am your lady now, and I will not tolerate such disrespect”—she narrowed her gaze at Aimee—“or retribution.” She looked to Josephine.

The surprise on their faces soured, and Gaenor knew her reprimand would unite them where division had existed.

Certain that the days ahead would prove trying as she sought to establish her place at Broehne, she told herself it was to be expected, especially as it was many years since the castle folk had been under the direction of a lady.

“Now, Josephine, I would know the reason I am not to meet my husband’s father.” Not that it was a disappointment, for she knew it was Aldous Lavonne who had ordered his illegitimate son, Robert, to take revenge on Beatrix. And who would have succeeded if not for Christian.

When Josephine’s only response was to press her lips inward, Gaenor looked to the younger woman. “Explain, Aimee.”

She cast her gaze elsewhere.

Gaenor sighed. “As neither of you is capable of adding anything to this discussion, I will seek the old baron myself.” Not that she wished to have any relation with him. Rather, she would know behind which of the closed doors he lay that she might avoid him.

“That, my lady, is not possible,” Josephine finally loosened her lips. With an almost imperious lift of her chin, she said, “The old baron is no longer at Broehne.”

Then Christian had honored her family’s strongly-worded request that his father be removed so she would not suffer his hatred or ill intent.

“Ah!” Aimee turned accusing eyes on the older woman. “You told!”

Josephine swung her head around, and the hands she clenched at her sides revealed she was tempted to use one on Aimee. “’Twas you who first opened the door, insolent wench.”

“You opened it wider!” Aimee stamped a foot. “I—”

“Where is Aldous Lavonne?” Gaenor raised her voice above their squealing.

All semblance of warmth having fled the older woman’s face, Josephine said, “’Tis not our place to tell. You will have to ask our lord.”

Gaenor sighed. “I shall do that. Now attend me that I might break fast with my husband.” It was an order, and so intended that both women would know she would not be snickered at or tread upon. Though it seemed happiness was to be denied her, there was consolation in that it would not be a dull existence.