Chapter 3
Chapter Three
As Harwyn helped me dress for the evening meal, she touched my stomach with her fingertips.
“No bruises, lady,” she said. “’Tis a good sign in a husband if he does not beat his wife as often as a father beats his daughter.”
I shivered at the recollection of Papa’s beatings. I had been a willful, disobedient child and he’d been determined to ensure that I did not become a willful, disobedient wife.
“I wager Lord Mortlock would not administer a beating over a spilled flagon of wine or bowl of potage,” Harwyn said.
Papa had once beaten me so severely for tipping over his wine that I was unable to eat for two days.
His methods of education were deliberate, the blows aimed at the center of my body where they could be concealed.
All for my benefit. Visible marks on a woman’s body were evidence of disobedience.
No man would want such a woman for a wife.
With Papa, years of observation had taught me what to expect from him. As for my husband, I spent little time with him. Yet, even in a few short days, I noticed a sly furtiveness in his behavior. His men would act differently around him, as if they anticipated something.
Sighing, I shook my head. “I would rather my husband discipline me as Papa did. At least I’d know what he expected of me. But, I do not understand him. Something seems afoot. The very air here is thick with it, and it centers on him. Do the servants speak to you of it?”
“No, lady. They say little and cease all conversation when I approach them.”
“I am sorry for that, Harwyn,” I said. “I had hoped you’d find some companionship here.”
“I have you, my lady.”
“And I you.”
I lifted my arms as Harwyn helped me into my overgown, pulling it over my head, and smoothing it down. The pale gray silk matched the color of my eyes and provided a deep contrast to my black hair.
“Harwyn, do you know aught of his manservant?”
“Lady?”
“The one who accompanies him everywhere.”
“Ah, Monsieur Vane.”
“Vane?”
“Vane Sawford.” Harwyn rolled her eyes. “From what I hear, he has bedded most of the maidservants, who regularly vie for his attention. Rumor has it, he seduced one of Lord Mortlock’s previous wives, though I also hear she threw herself at Sawford like a wanton.”
“Idle gossip, nothing more.”
“Nay, my lady. Lord Mortlock had her put to death for adultery…”
Her voice trailed off as I drew in a sharp breath.
“Oh, my lady, forgive me!”
I shook my head. “There’s nothing wrong in telling me, Harwyn. If the danger exists, it’s best I know of it.”
Harwyn began brushing my hair before braiding it. Then she secured a veil over my hair, and placed a light hand on my shoulders to indicate she had finished.
“Be careful of him.”
“Of whom?”
“Monsieur Vane. He moves about too quietly for my liking and always appears when you least expect it. Do not secure his notice. He has a way of seeing right inside a person.”
“Nonsense!” I said. “How could you form an opinion of him so readily?”
“Out of my regard for your welfare—and for your life.”
I thought of my first encounter with Vane Sawford, the strange sensations I had experienced and my suspicions of being watched. I took Harwyn’s hand.
“I know,” I whispered. “I am grateful for your caution. Rest assured, I don’t intend to spend any more time in his company than is absolutely necessary.”
I stood up and Harwyn moved to open the door.
“What is this?”
She bent down and picked up a folded piece of parchment and handed it to me. Written in a clear, bold hand was a brief message in French.
Have a care, Lady Lisetta. You are in danger, but you have a friend here who watches over you.
“What can it mean?” Harwyn said, her voice wavering. “Someone knows you can read.”
“Not necessarily,” I replied, “but it may be a trick. We must be ever watchful.”
“Is there any truth in those words?”
I laughed mirthlessly. “The danger, aye. I am merely the latest in a long line of disposable wives. But as to having a friend, I trust none but you.”
“Wise words.”
My smile faded. “I will never forget Maman, of that you can be certain.”
That night, after the usual ritual in the solar, my husband spoke to me.
“I shall be leaving tomorrow, wife, and expect no trouble from you in my absence. Sawford will tend to my affairs in my stead, and I’m certain he will take care of you also.”
As Sawford took my arm, my husband called out after us.
“I expect that mare to be in foal when I return, Sawford.”
Sawford bowed before returning me to my room.
His closeness compared to previous nights was unsettling. We reached the threshold of my room and, to my shame, my heartbeat increased and the heat rose in my face. My skin tightened with apprehension in his presence, but his heavy, powerful silence caused a flutter of need to curl low in my belly.
“You are to be in charge of the stables as well as the estate?” I couldn’t help asking. My curiosity was piqued and I ached with desperation to break the silence.
He let out a sharp breath through his nose.
“After a fashion.”
His jaw tightened. Was he angry at my curiosity, a trait which in a woman was more likely to yield punishment than praise? Lord save me, would he tell my husband? The mask slipped back into place, and I kept my voice low and cold.
“A rather strange occupation for a mere serf.”
He snorted. “You know very well, madam, that you hold me in considerably more interest than you would a mere serf.”
Was he taunting me, or could he see through the mask of aloofness?
I did not trust myself to speak further. I should have heeded Harwyn’s words. Sawford wasa man to be feared.
He released his grip, and I ran across the threshold, shutting the door in his face.
I leaned against the thick piece of oak separating us.
Terror gripped me that he might force his way through; but, part of me wished he would, hoping he would touch me once more, as gently as he had caressed my mouth with his thumb. I clung to that moment of tenderness.
That cursed note! It affected me more than I cared to admit. The hope that someone watched over me in friendship had shattered, not comforted me. Though I loved Harwyn, I desperately wanted a friend here. But I had no desire to risk trusting a stranger.
In all likelihood, the note was a ruse and my husband had asked someone to spy on me.
Perhaps this was how he removed his wives when he’d grown tired of them.
I served little purpose for him other than to perform a nightly ritual in the solar.
Mayhap he’d soon tire of me, and then I would suffer the same fate of my predecessors.
Was the note the first step in this process?
I bit my lip, letting out a cry when I drew blood.
A noise made me fall silent. I held my breath and pressed my ear against the door, straining to listen.
The door handle moved and I backed away.
Dear Lord; Sawford was still there. After a moment, I heard the telltale sound of his boots clicking on the floor, growing fainter.
Sawford was gone, but he had heard my cry. My vulnerability had been stripped bare and while my husband was away, I would be entirely at Sawford’s mercy.
As the days passed by, I found myself able to lift the sense of oppression by keeping occupied.
I spent the daylight hours tending to the various injuries and ailments of the household staff.
I engaged in little conversation with those I treated, tying bandages, applying poultices, and administering healing herbs in silence.
I studied each visitor carefully for signs they were the author of the note, but with no success.
Harwyn kept watch when she spent time with the other servants, but, at length, we almost gave up on the idea of ever finding out who had composed it.
Until one morning, when I entered the treatment room to find a folded piece of parchment on the table beside a jar of dried rosemary.
I opened it to reveal the most beautiful love poem I had ever read.
The words were written in the same hand which had penned the first note.
They spoke of the beauty of my eyes, likening them to the moonlit reflection of the lake.
Anywhere else, those words would be enchanting, but here, at Mortlock Fort, they only heightened my sense of danger.
Someone was either deliberately trying to entrap me or I had an admirer. And both possibilities were fatal.
I closed my eyes, trying to calm my fluttering heartbeat, but opened them almost immediately, as I was overpowered by a specific memory: the smell of burning oil, the sound of wood crackling, and my mother’s screams…
A knock on the door brought me to my senses. Composing myself, I tucked the parchment into the front of my gown and called out. A maidservant walked in, showing me a minor burn to her hand.
Occupation was the best cure for my inner turmoil. I busied myself with setting the room into order, cataloguing the various items, and treating the handful of servants who visited me that morning. After I had dismissed my last visitor, I pulled out the poem and read it again.
How cruel fate could be! On second reading, the words were even more passionate, describing me as if the author knew me intimately.
Below the poem was a brief note saying that the author watched over me from afar and would fight to his last breath to keep me from harm.
Did I have a protector? If so, he was surely doomed, for I was constantly watched.
Though my husband was away, his men stared at me with their lustful gazes.
I would hurry past them, always fearing they would force themselves on me.
But not Sawford. His gaze held no lust. He regarded me dispassionately, calculatingly, as if sizing me up to determine my worth as a commodity.
Percy was the only man in Mortlock’s employ I felt I could come close to liking.
His youthful exuberance for swordplay and delight at the prospect of a future knighthood had yet to be tempered by the harsh realities of life.
Whenever he saw me, he nodded and smiled, and I struggled not to respond, desperately wanting to discourage him.
My fear was that his partiality, if noticed, risked both our heads.
Was he the author of the note?
My cheeks burned with shame at the small spark of desire those words of love ignited.
I thought of Eve, who had given into sinful temptation, thereby condemning every woman to a similar fate.
Was it so sinful to wish for love? My mother had longed for love and had paid the greatest price of all.
She had begged me not to give in to temptation, not only of the flesh but, also, of the heart.
But my flesh had reacted too swiftly and easily to Vane Sawford’s touch. Now my heart showed the same weakness for a few marks on a piece of parchment. I was a fool, weaker than my poor mother had been and destined to fail as she had.
Beset by a yearning for sanctuary, I scrunched up the parchment in my hand and left the room, running up the spiral staircase to my bedchamber.
On reaching the top, I gave a small cry of fright as I caught sight of the tall silhouette of Vane Sawford on the top step.
Had I not stopped so abruptly, I’d have run straight into him.
The only acknowledgement he gave me was a slight lift of his eyebrows.
Then he stepped closer, and I froze. I squeezed my fist against the note, concealing it behind me, praying that he’d not heard the sound of the parchment crackling.
His cold blue gaze bore into mine, and I quailed under his scrutiny.
He knew.
He lifted his hand to my face, and I remained still, clenching my jaw while fighting the urge to run.
My skin tightened as he ran his fingers across my cheek.
I parted my lips and took in a sharp breath.
He kept his gaze locked on mine until he removed his hand.
Then he looked down, his eyes widening. Following his gaze, to see what had fascinated him, I noticed a bead of moisture on the tip of his forefinger. It was a solitary tear.
I straightened my shoulders and spoke coldly.
“Let me pass.”
I expected a sneering response, but he merely complied, and stood aside. Only when I was inside my chamber, with the door closed behind me, did I lift my hands to my face. My cheeks were wet with tears.
The mask of the lady had dissolved and Vane Sawford had seen the desperate creature beneath. Before my wedding, Papa had told me he would instruct my husband to keep me on a tight rein. Sawford now held those reins, and I feared he was waiting for an opportunity to use them.