stern. ‘No, Jane. You will not. I don’t fear her.’
‘Well, you should. She’s a danger.’
‘Have you been scrying again?’ Elizabeth’s demanded, her fingers stilled.
‘What if I have?’ Jane bustled about the chamber, folding the borrowed cloak, then returned to fix her mistress with a stare. ‘But I did not need to. Nor do you if you’ll be honest with yourself. Mistress Anne is easy to read. I have your best interests in my thoughts and actions. She does not.’
‘What did you see?’ Curiosity got the better of Elizabeth, even as she silently reproved herself for encouraging such dabblings.
‘Not much, but enough to know.’ Satisfied, Jane took the pot of salve from her mistress and replaced the stopper. ‘The dark man who would wish you ill is still there.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘Enough of him. Anne Malinder is red-gold and venomous, her green eyes glossed with sly envy and jealousy. She wants him. If you take my advice, a quick bout of sickness would persuade that lady to remove herself to her own home, far away from you and his lordship. I wager she’d not be interested in feasting and dancing with pains in her limbs and in her belly.’
It was an engaging picture. For a second Elizabeth enjoyed it. Then stared aghast at Jane’s suggestion and her own momentary compliance. ‘Hear me, Jane. I’ll not have it.’
‘You’ll regret it!’ Jane’s lips closed with a snap.
‘Do you suggest that Lord Richard would not have the power or inclination to withstand Anne Malinder?’ A flame of disappointment began to flicker in Elizabeth’s stomach.
‘What man was ever so foolish as to resist so fine a figure and so blatant an invitation?’ Jane Bringsty stood with hands fisted on broad hips, sure of her argument. ‘Have sense, my lady. She dresses as if to attend a court function with a remarkable show of throat and bosom for so chilly a season.’
‘Perhaps.’ The image of Anne in a glory of patterned emerald velvet and fur crept unbidden into Elizabeth’s mind. ‘Her manner of dress is her own choice.’
‘Powdered aconitum root would do the trick,’ Jane continued, unconvinced. ‘It would give her the shivers as if she has the ague. She’d soon wrap up warm within her cloak, enough to hide her undoubted attractions.’
Which made Elizabeth smile. ‘I’ll not have it, Jane,’ she repeated, despite the appeal.
‘Very well, my lady.’ On which note of reproach, Mistress Bringsty exited with disapproval in her portly step, only lingering in the doorway to state once again, ‘You’ll regret it. Never say I didn’t warn you.’ The door swung shut behind her.
The cat stayed to curl on Elizabeth’s lap in comfort. Yawned widely, but fixed her mistress with narrow eyes. Not unlike, Elizabeth realised, the sharp green gaze of Lady Anne.
‘I know. We are surrounded by influences, generous and malign.’ She smoothed her hand over the dense black fur of the cat’s head and back, rousing an instant rumble of pleasure. ‘I like him,’ she whispered. ‘Richard Malinder is dark as a crow’s wing, without doubt, but he’s not the one of Jane’s predictions. I saw him in the scrying bowl at Llanwardine. I felt the bond with him even though I denied it.’ Her fingers dug into the black fur, causing the cat to arch in protest. ‘He is not my enemy. I can’t ever believe that,’ she murmured. ‘But what does he think of me?’
Against all common sense, Elizabeth de Lacy allowed herself to dream.
Chapter Five
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