She met his gaze evenly, her voice quiet. ‘You know why.’ But she guessed it was his own petty vengeance for her silence.
Harold shrugged and lifted his cup of wine. ‘Agnes grew ill from a coughing sickness and did not recover.’
She tore off a piece of bread. ‘I would have come if you had sent word.’
‘But now you come seeking my help?’ Her father poured another cup of wine. A hard edge lined his face, as if he resented her very presence.
‘Do you truly wish to remain enemies?’ she asked softly. ‘After all this time?’
Harold drained the second cup of wine and said nothing. So be it. Rosamund finished her food and wine and then turned to Warrick. ‘I am going up to the solar with my sister. I will join you later.’ She leaned in and kissed his cheek, making it clear to her father that this marriage had been her choice. Warrick held her hand for a brief moment, and she squeezed it with a silent promise.
Cecilia stood from her place and guided her up the stairs. Rosamund walked into the solar and saw a basket near a stool. She recognised it as her mother’s embroidery and picked it up to examine the work. It was a simple pattern of pink roses, and Agnes had begun stitching the greenery. The sight of the linen made her eyes well up with tears. Although she had not been very close to her mother, both of them had loved to sit in the solar and sew. It was a piece of Agnes left behind, and it bruised her heart to see it.
Rosamund held the linen for a moment and asked her sister, ‘May I take this? So that I may finish her work?’
Cecilia nodded. ‘She would have wanted that.’ Her sister went to stand by the window. ‘Whether he admits it or not, Father did miss you. We all did. Mother tried to convince him to go and visit, but he said he would never ride to Pevensham until you invited him.’
Because he had known how deeply she had hated him. Her heart hardened at the invisible wall of bitterness that had kept them apart over the years. Turning the subject, Rosamund ventured, ‘I thought you would have been married by now with a household of your own.’
Her sister’s expression turned wry. ‘No one wanted to marry me.’
‘But that’s foolish. You are a beautiful woman, one any man would be proud to wed.’
Cecilia smiled, and she sighed. ‘They call me a shrew and sing songs about me because I refused to wed the man Father chose.’
Rosamund blinked at that, but her sister admitted, ‘He was a terrible suitor—a cruel man who starved his hounds and beat them. I would never want a man like that to sire children...especially with me.’ Cecilia shrugged. ‘Father swore that if I did not marry Gerard, I would have to stay at home and wed no one. Or perhaps I could join a convent.’ With a wry expression, she finished, ‘You can see what my choice was.’
‘Do you want to be married?’ Rosamund asked, sitting down and picking up a needle. She chose a lighter shade of green for the embroidery, wanting to add depth to her mother’s stitching.
‘I might. But only if he is a good man.’ Cecilia pulled up a stool and sat across from her. ‘I overheard them say you are expecting Alan’s child. When will you give birth?’
Rosamund lowered her gaze to the stitching. ‘In the winter.’ She was deliberately vague, not wanting to reveal anything.
Her sister nodded, resting her hands upon her lap. ‘I bid you good fortune with your child.’ She waited a moment and asked, ‘Is it so terrible to lie with a man? The very thought sounds awful.’
A slight motion caught her attention, and Rosamund saw Warrick standing just outside the doorway. He tilted his head, and there was amusement on his face, letting her know he had overheard her sister’s question.
‘Rosamund?’ Cecilia prompted. ‘Well, is it? I would like to be forewarned.’
She smiled serenely. ‘No, it’s not awful at all. When you are wedded to a man you love, it’s wonderful.’
Her sister studied her and her expression held doubt. ‘But...doesn’t it hurt?’
She caught her husband’s gaze behind Cecilia and met it evenly. ‘There is nowhere else I would rather be than in Warrick’s arms.’
He studied her a moment before he disappeared from her view. She could only hope that he understood and would forgive her for the secret she had kept.
* * *
Warrick waited for Rosamund after she emerged from the solar. His wife’s cheeks were bright, but she behaved as if he had not overheard them speaking. He followed her to the chamber they would share, but as they walked through the castle, he felt his own restlessness intensifying. It bothered him that he’d been forced to bring her here, to face her father once more. They needed a home of their own, a place where he could command his own soldiers and his own estate.
He had told Rosamund that he intended to speak with the king, to fight for Pevensham. And he would, for the sake of the people. None wished to be governed by Owen de Courcy. But he knew that Rosamund’s claim to the land was feeble, at best. If there was no child, then they were powerless to help.
Even if they could not regain Pevensham, he intended to appeal to the king, offering everything he could give, in return for a parcel of land. Gaining land of his own was a means of fighting against the ghosts of his past, proving his worth.
His wife interrupted his thoughts by taking him by the hand and leading him towards their bed. ‘We need to talk, Warrick.’
Truthfully, there was nothing to say. But he sat down and she stood between his legs before she reached out for his other hand. Her palms were warm, and her eyes fixed upon him. ‘I do not want you to appeal to the king. Owen can take Pevensham, and we need never see him again. We can go to Ireland, as you said. I believe Owen would keep his word and give us an estate there.’
