Chapter 18 #2
I could be happy here. They were kind people who worked hard for a living, unconstrained by the rules and traditions of the noble classes.
Perhaps, in time, after I had given him a child and shown how I could work in the home to support him and be a dutiful wife and helpmate, Vane might come to care for me.
Jack breezed gaily into the kitchen, interrupting my thoughts. He held up two bags of flour, a broad grin on his face.
“Have you ever made bread?” he said.
I shook my head.
“Then it’s time you learned.”
He spent the next hour showing me how to make dough and knead it, explaining that we would leave it to rise overnight before taking it to the bakery in the early morning.
At first I struggled with the technique.
My hands were clumsy, and I could not feel the dough’s texture through the bandages.
However, I soon found a rhythm, turning the dough over, pulling and rolling it, until it became smoother and more pliant.
Jack’s gentle praise when I finished was balm to my wounded heart.
Holding up the ball of dough I was so proud of, I swung round to place it on the hearth beside the fireplace.
But I lost my balance and knocked over one of the bags of flour.
Horror gripped my gut as its precious contents spilled onto the floor.
Jack swore under his breath. The finely milled flour was expensive. The chatelaine at Mortlock Fort had ordered it by the sackload but here, in the village, even a small bag was costly. Jack would have toiled for many hours to earn enough to afford it, and I had ruined it.
Childhood memories chilled my blood—Papa beating me after I had spilled his wine, the blows to my stomach—and I braced myself for his fury.
Jack stepped toward me, and I raised one arm to protect myself. Closing my eyes, I, curled my other arm around my stomach to protect the babe.
But the blow never came.
After several heartbeats, I opened my eyes and lifted my gaze.
Jack stood over me, horror and anger in his expression. He moved, and I instinctively shielded my face again.
“Lisetta,” he said, “lower your arm.”
He held out his hand, but I shook my head.
“Devil’s holy co…I mean…heavens above, Lisetta, did you think I would beat you? Over a bag of flour?”
“F-forgive me,” I said. “It was an accident.”
“I’m aware of that. Take my hand.”
He reached out again, and this time I let him pull me upright.
“Are you hurt?”
Still trembling, I shook my head. He tried to draw me to him, but I pulled away.
“I am fine, Monsieur Cooper,” I said evenly, smoothing down the front of my gown.
He sighed. “I think not. You hide much behind your ladylike airs.”
Unwilling to trust him, I said nothing. Eventually he smiled.
“No matter; today is not the day to pursue it. Instead let me teach you the value of friendship.”
I stepped back, flinching, as he raised his hand, but he merely plunged it into the remaining bag of flour on the table, pulled out a fistful and threw it at me. It hit me on the chest, sending a white cloud across my face, making me splutter.
Jack let out a laugh. “Now you must do the same.”
Had he lost his wits? I shook my head, taking another step back, but he persisted.
“You must learn, dear sister, that family and friendship is worth more than a handful of flour.” He nodded toward the bag. “I insist.”
Family and friendship—something I longed for. I had begun to believe it might be possible. Not in a soulless castle where a woman’s only comfort came from her status as a lady, but here, in a peasant’s home, in an obscure little village.
I reached into the bag and scooped up a handful of flour.
“Go on,” he said, nodding.
Closing my eyes, I threw the flour in his direction, opening them again when I heard him cough.
His face was covered, and he grinned, showing large teeth, his mouth a dark, gaping hole in his white face.
His blue eyes twinkled with mirth, and I could not help smiling a little.
He picked up the bag and tipped it over his head to leave a pile of flour on top.
which dispersed into the air when he shook his head from side to side. Then he gave a courtly bow.
“Sir Wilbur Whiteface at your service, my lady.”
The impulse to smile was too much, and he soon had me laughing at his antics. Jumping up and down, he clapped his hands in delight as a boy might at some childish prank. He took my hands in his, and my laughter died as his eyes met mine.
“’Tis good to hear you laugh.”
I shook my head, smiling, “I cannot remember ever laughing like that.”
“I’ll wager you cannot remember the last time you laughed at all,” Jack said. “Do you realize how beautiful you are when you smile? Your eyes sparkle like liquid silver in the sunlight. I can see why my brother married you. He is indeed a fortunate man.”
My smile died.
“He cares not for me,” I whispered.
Jack squeezed my hands gently. “He does—or, at least he will, in time. You are both welcome here, Lisetta—welcome to stay as long as you wish. It would gladden my heart to see you—both of you—settled and happy, here at Balsdean.”
“You are kind.” I dipped my head forward and brushed my lips against his knuckles.
“What are you doing with my brother?”
I stiffened at the deep voice.
Vane stood in the doorway, his cold blue gaze on me.
I released Jack’s hands and backed away.
“Nothing of any import, husband.”
“We were making dough,” Jack explained.
Vane cast his eyes over the kitchen, the mess, the flour on the floor, and over our clothes.
“So I see.”
“Come, brother, no harm done,” Jack said, smiling.
Vane said nothing. The silence in the room thickened, and a tension swelled in the air which Jack tried to break.
“You’re a fortunate man, Valentine,” he said. “You have a lovely wife.”
Vane’s eyes narrowed and Jack continued hastily. “She’s almost as lovely as my Lily.”
I rubbed my hands together, dispersing the flour, anticipating an angry outburst, but my husband merely turned his back and left the room.
Supper was a strained event, Lily the only one inclined to speak as she related gossip from the village.
She declined my offer of help when she cleared the table, and I followed Vane to our room.
Though he’d hardly spoken, the tension in him at dinner was obvious.
Spooning stew into his mouth, he appeared relaxed but his body was taut.
As I sat beside him, I could barely swallow a mouthful.
Following him up the stairs, I rubbed my aching back.
He threw off his clothes and sat on the bed, watching me while I finished undressing. Picking up my nightshift with shaking hands, I started in fright at the harshness in his voice.
“Leave that. Come here.”
He pulled me onto his lap, his thick manhood bulging against my thigh. He took my head in his hands and turned my face toward him. I tipped my head up until our lips met but he pushed me away.
“No kissing, get up.”
He pushed me onto my hands and knees on the bed. The tears that had threatened to form during supper spilled onto the blanket in front of me. An image invaded my mind; Vane plowing into Celia soullessly, using her body as a vessel for his lust.
“No,” I pleaded.
“You forget, madam, that you are my wife to do with as I please.”
He circled his hands around my waist.
“Not like this, please; not like her,” I whispered so quietly I was unsure he would hear.
The tears spilled down my cheeks, and I let out a sob.
“Vane!”
He stiffened at my cry before he huffed with exasperation and pulled away. I remained on all fours, too afraid to move. My nightshift landed against my thigh as he threw it at me.
“Put it on before I change my mind.”
I obeyed him and slipped under the blankets but sat up when he pulled his chausses back on.
“Where are you going?”
“’Tis not for a wife to ask that of her husband,” he said.
“Do you intend to take a whore?”
Fury blazed in his eyes. “You dare question me when you seek to cuckold me with my own brother?”
How could he accuse me of such a deed? Anger exploded within me and I lunged at him. I loved him against all reason, yet he cared nothing for me and accused me of the very sin he was about to commit. I swung my hand to strike him, but he caught my wrist.
“Do not provoke me, woman. A husband has every right to control an errant wife in any manner he sees fit.”
He increased the pressure on my wrist until I feared the bones would snap, before letting go as I cowered before him, cradling my hand.
“Go, then!” I cried, “for I care not. I hate you.”
“Then I shall find love elsewhere tonight,” he said.
“There will always be plenty of willing women to console me for having shackled myself to a haughty shrew with a heart of ice. I should have left you at Mortlock, to the mercy of the king’s men.
Mayhap they would have warmed you up if the fire had not claimed you first.”
His words tore into my heart as if he had plunged his sword into my chest. I bit my tongue to stop the scream building up in my throat, focusing on the sharp pain.
Closing my eyes, I counted my breaths—one, two, three—until the door closed, and he was gone.
There was nothing left to do other than pray sleep would come before he returned smelling of whores and ale.
Once again smoke and heat engulfed my dreams. Several figures stood before me, taunting, laughing, and holding torches aloft.
The shrill cackles of whores mingled with deep laughter, the sound of my husband’s mirth.
His naked body entwined with Celia’s as the whores moaned in ecstasy, squirming, wraithlike, in front of him, flickering in unison with the dancing flames.
“There are plenty of women willing,” Vane laughed. “Why would I want you when I have her?” He lunged forward, thrusting his torch, and speared me in the middle. A burst of agony ripped through me, and I screamed.
I sat up, my throat hoarse. I was alone.
Vane had not returned. Another nightmare, yet the pain had been so vivid.
I massaged my stomach muscles which were rock hard with cramp.
When the pain eased I lay back, whimpering softly to myself.
But sleep eluded me for the rest of the night.
Only when the first slivers of sunlight heralded the dawn did I close my eyes and drift once more into blessed oblivion.