“Your rooms are on the opposite side of the donjon. Don’t offer lies.”
Caught. Her father was many things, but he was not a fool. His harsh expression regarded her as if weighing a decision. Honora folded her hands and waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, her agitation heightened. Was he going to punish her? What did he want?
“Nothing happened,” she offered. “I left immediately.”
“That does not matter. You are a widow and must comport yourself with virtue.”
He made it sound as though she’d invaded MacEgan’s bedchamber with the intent of deflowering him. Her cheeks burned brighter at the memory of his strong, naked body. Ewan had never looked like that as an adolescent. But now . . . Her body tightened at the memory of his kiss. Her fingernails dug into her wrists as she fought to subdue the thought.
“Is it your intention to remarry?” her father was asking.
“No!” she blurted out. Hadn’t she endured marriage once before? Her husband Ranulf hadn’t lived for more than a year, praise be. And God willing, she would never have another husband.
Her father steepled his hands. “I thought Ranulf would be a good husband for you, that he would provide you with a comfortable home. None of us expected him to die so soon.”
Honora didn’t admit she was glad Ranulf was dead. But why would Nicholas think that she’d want another husband? There was no need.
She crossed herself, in a half-hearted gesture of forgiveness. “I don’t want to be married again.”
Nicholas regarded her with a serious expression. “You cannot remain here forever, Honora. It’s been half a year since you left Ceredys.”
And yet, it didn’t seem long enough. Her shoulders lowered, the guilt bearing down on her.
“One third of Ranulf’s estate belongs to you by law,” Nicholas continued, narrowing his gaze at her. “A pity you didn’t have any sons of your own. You’d have gotten more.”
And thank Heaven for that. She wanted no son of Ceredys blood, no permanent reminder of Ranulf St. Leger. Her husband had left most of the land to his son John, who was born of a former marriage.
Like a serpent John was, sleek and deceptive. She shivered at the memory. He could have her third of the estate and her dowry land, if it meant getting rid of him.
She blamed herself for what had happened at Ceredys. Even with the influence of John’s grandmother Marie St. Leger, Honora had been unable to stop John from stripping away every last penny of rents from the villagers.
What kind of a warrior could she call herself if she let her people endure such a fate? Time had slipped away from her, and she still had not managed to conceive of a suitable plan.
“How much longer do you intend to hide behind my walls?” her father asked softly.
“I’m not hiding.”
He cast a look that said he didn’t believe her.
“I will go back,” she said quietly. “Soon enough.” If John were removed from power, she could try to repair the damage he’d done. But she couldn’t overthrow him without help. “I would ask you again to lend me soldiers.”
“No. It isn’t my place, nor yours, to meddle with John’s . . . difficulties at Ceredys.”
“He’s robbed them of their food,” she protested. “You cannot stand by and do nothing. There are innocent folk suffering from what he’s done.”
His expression hardened. “Then perhaps you should marry a man with an army.”
Honora expelled a sigh of frustration, shaking her head. She would find a way to help them without relying upon another husband.
Nicholas continued on, oblivious to her refusal. “It would be the sensible thing to do. You’re young enough to bear many sons.”
Honora reached to her side, but she’d forgotten that her dagger wasn’t there. Squeezing the hilt usually brought her comfort, but she doubted if anything could calm her temper rising this time.
“Father, please.” She closed her eyes, wishing there were some way to make him understand. “I need time.”
She would not marry again. Never could she forget the ten months of Hell she’d suffered, nor the months afterward of avoiding John.
“You’re not getting any younger. And if you want any children at all, you’ve no choice.”
