“Guests, my lord husband,” Marie cooed. Anna could not describe her voice otherwise. “What a marvel, and so thoughtful on your part. I yearn for an evening of good company.” The lady fluttered and spoke with a slight accent, her dark lashes dropping demurely even as her rosy lips curved in a smile. “What a delight it shall be to have guests at the board on this dreary winter night.”
Before Royce could protest, the lady swept forward to greet the new arrivals. That she targeted Bartholomew did little to improve Anna’s mood. “Sir! I am Lady Marie of Haynesdale, and I am delighted to welcome you and your party to our humble abode.”
Humble? Anna recalled how the carpenters and laborers had been driven to build this keep with all speed, and the estimates of how much coin had been expended. There had been word in the village that the king himself did not possess a keep so fine.
Marie meanwhile offered her hand to Bartholomew and addressed him in fluid French. Anna fumed in silence, doubting it was a coincidence that the lady’s wimple was so sheer that her pale throat was fully visible through it, as well as the pale swell of her breasts.
And Bartholomew, curse him, not only replied with charm and grace, butlooked.
Though he did reply in English and turn almost immediately to her. “And this is my lady wife, who has recently put her hand in mine, to my own good fortune,” he said, gesturing to Anna. “Anna de Beaumonte.”
Marie barely spared Anna a glance. “Charmed, I am sure,” she said, then encouraged Bartholomew to introduce her to the others. Somehow the lady contrived that he was the one to escort her into the hall. Anna disliked how she laughed and flirted with him in French. She did not have to understand the words to recognize the lady’s intent.
Nor it seemed did Royce. His brow was dark when he offered Anna his elbow. The sole benefit of his sour mood was that he did not deign to converse with her or even grant her more than a cursory glance. She might have kept her head down had she not been astounded by the splendid interior of the great hall. Lavish tapestries hung on each wall, larger than she might have believed possible to weave. There were two fireplaces and servants were stoking the fires in them both.
Royce said something to her. It had to be French, for Anna did not understand.
Anna smiled. “What a welcoming hall you have, sir.”
He frowned a little at her and she ducked her head, letting her hood hide her features from him. “You do not converse in French?”
“I was raised in an abbey, sir, that of St. Mary in Whitby. The nuns chose not to speak French, so I never learned it.”
“I see. And your kin?”
“My mother died when I was young, sir. Perhaps you knew of her? Elizabeth de Beaumonte was known to many, so the sisters have told me.”
“Indeed. A beauty much admired, and one who died too young.”
“I thank you, sir.” Anna crossed herself, in memory of her own mother as well as Elizabeth, whom she had never known.
“Raised in the convent,” Royce mused. “Of course, one heard that was your fate, but it seems you have left that life behind.”
He turned a piercing gaze upon her and Anna’s heart fluttered. That eye patch did make him look menacing, and what she knew of him did not temper the impression. “Aye, sir, and not by choice. I was abducted by a villain of foul intent, but was so fortunate as to be aided by a noble knight.” To her relief, she blushed easily. “He fair stole my heart with his gallantry, and I chose to wed him rather than return to the abbey.”
“And is this a defiance of your mother’s plan for your future?”
“Nay, she merely wanted me to be raised in safety and to learn my prayers well, that I might one day be a good wife to a better man.” Anna smiled. “And so that day is come, and I have proof that God has held me in the palm of his hand, all these years.”
“Not so many years as that,” Royce mused. “You are young.”
“The better that I might give my husband more sons, sir,” she dared to say.
“And there is a fine sentiment,” the baron said with approval. He cleared his throat and she felt the weight of his gaze land upon her again. “Elizabeth de Beaumonte,” he repeated, considering the name anew. “What happened to your father’s wealth?”
Anna did not know, so she contrived a plausible tale. “The crown claimed it, sir, and the king holds the seal.”
“Your husband should appeal for it to be granted to him.”
“I could not say, sir. It is not a woman’s place to be so concerned with the worldly matters of her lord husband.”
He arched a brow. “Indeed? And what is her place?”
“To obey, sir. Of course.”
Royce sniffed. “I should have found a convent bride,” he muttered, then raised his voice. He called for wine and for ale, then seated her at his right hand at the board. Anna could not believe that she would be compelled to make conversation with this man, above all others. She glanced toward Bartholomew, but he was leaving the hall with Royce’s wife. That woman laughed lightly at some jest he made and Anna found herself seething that he was so quickly gone.
What of his pledge to remain by her side?
