Chosen for the Marriage Bed. Anne O'Brien

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      Throughout the days before her marriage, Elizabeth found herself fractious, and beleaguered.

      The problem was, as Elizabeth freely admitted to herself, she was feeling lonely. Lewis had taken himself off to Talgarth to report her safe arrival to Sir John. David too had abandoned her to join Richard on his visit to Hereford. Even her betrothed had left her, and in the end with such a leave-taking as to shock her to her bones, giving her more than a hint of the Black Malinder beneath the surface charm.

      His farewell, in full public gaze in the courtyard, had been formal, hurried and unsettling.

      ‘God keep you, lady. I’ll be back for the ceremony.’

      A brief inclination of his head, an even briefer squeeze of her hand and he had gone to mount the bay stallion. Was that all he would say? Perhaps it was in the circumstances, surrounded as they were by men-at-arms and baggage wagons, or perhaps the anticipation of seeing his mistress again was strong. But Elizabeth, with narrowed eyes on his splendid shoulders as he gathered up his reins, was reluctant to give him the benefit of any doubt. He was brushing her off as if she was less than important to him. Her stare was less than friendly.

      By chance Richard caught the condemnation. For a long moment he looked at her, then tossed the reins to his squire, handed over his gauntlets and strode back.

      ‘That’s no suitable leave-taking of a bridegroom to his sweet betrothed.’

      Elizabeth coloured at the sardonic words. He must have read every thought in her head. But then he cupped her face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs over her cheekbones, and when she would have stepped back in quick retreat with a murmur of self-consciousness, he took her mouth with his, despite their audience.

      Heat and power. A lingering and most thorough possession. Elizabeth could think of nothing at all as the breath left her body, until he lifted his head and, still unsmiling, raised his brows in wry enquiry. Nor could she find a word to say. Was this a wooing? More like a binding to his will. There was a ruthlessness in him, as instantly proved when he took her wrist and pulled her with him towards his mount.

      From the saddle he leaned down. ‘Smile at me, Elizabeth.’

      She kept her face stern, chin tilted.

      His own smile was edged. ‘Perhaps you will smile when I return.’ And then he was gone, leaving her standing alone in the courtyard.

      So she felt bereft. And Elizabeth watched for his return, although would have admitted it to no one. Her ears were tuned to the sound of approaching hoofbeats, of raised voices in the courtyard, of warnings from the guards on the gatehouse battlements and the raising of the portcullis, her hopes to be dashed again and again when the new arrivals proved to be only more wedding guests.

      How could he matter so much to her? She had barely known him for longer than twenty-four hours in her whole life. She sighed as she surveyed the empty road, her fingers clenched against the stone coping. Perhaps he would arrive barely in time to exchange vows at the church door. It could hardly matter to him since this marriage was based on nothing but political necessity. It should not matter to her. She felt her temper rise. It would probably not matter to him even if he were wed in his campaigning gear, travel-soiled, sweat-stained and dusty from a week’s riding along the March. Why she should be concerned with her own appearance, she had no idea. Richard Malinder would only care that the alliance be made.

      The days passed, the hour of the marriage drawing closer. What was he doing to be away so long? It came into her mind that Anne Malinder had known the truth. That Richard’s visit to Hereford involved a long-standing relationship with a woman called Joanna. It was like a cold hand closing its fingers around her heart. Elizabeth hid her anxieties behind an impassively solemn exterior, perfected with long practice. But her temper and her patience shortened by the day.

      Meanwhile she was beleaguered by well-meaning attempts to improve her appearance and Anne Malinder’s less than subtle hints at her deficiencies.

      ‘I feel like a goose being fattened for a Twelfth Night feast,’ Elizabeth grumbled as another platter of little venison pasties, crisp and golden, appeared at her right hand as she sat and set the stitches in her wedding gown. Yet Elizabeth, grateful for the concern, duly tried to eat. She must do so if she did not want Richard Malinder to look aghast at the lack of covering on her bones. If he was able to count her ribs, surely he must turn from her in disgust. Doubtless Joanne was an enticing owner of sensual curves to lure Richard to her bed. So she ate.

      She found herself under siege as she rubbed Jane’s salves and potions into her hands, as well as drinking, under protest, a bitter decoction of white willow bark to clear and brighten her skin. But it was entirely possible, she decided finally, with a little spurt of pleasure, that the bridal ring would slide easily past her knuckle rather than stick fast.

      But it would take a miracle to improve the disaster of her hair. In her worst moments of depression Elizabeth remembered it as it had been. Long and thick and straight. Black with the shining iridescence of a magpie’s feathers. As black as Richard’s. She imagined, unable to resist a smile, his being able to run his fingers through the length of it, СКАЧАТЬ