“Lady Ayla? He wants you,” a woman said from the stable aisle.
It was Megh, the plump, square-faced woman who tended to Ayla’s quarters. Megh's brown eyes looked frantic as she paused outside the stall, clasping and unclasping her hands.
“Is he in a mood?” Ayla asked, trying to sound calm.
“Fiercely,” Megh whispered.
“Chamber or study?” Her own voice sounded quiet, almost stiff. Gemshorn, sensing her anxiety, sidestepped out from under the brush.
“Neither. He’s in your room.”
“He’s inmy—?” Ayla started. She looked at Megh, then back at the tall gray horse. “But he never…”
Newwasn’t good, when it came to Ditmar.Newwas always bad.
She could run. The thought was there, in the back of her mind, every hour of every day. She could saddle Gem and plunge outside the castle walls, race deep into the mountains that leered up around castle Blackfell like an iron vise. She could go so far, so fast, that nobody would ever find her. She could run until she forgot his face.
But it was a fantasy to believe she’d get away. Anywhere she ran, he’d track her down, with dogs and men and horses.
Even if she could somehow succeed, there were others to think about. He’d hurt the servants and guards if they failed to stop her escape. He’d hurt her father, who she still loved, evenif it was through his own folly she’d ended up Ditmar’s wife. Her mother, her brother, her sister in law, her nephews, the youngest just a babe. None ofthembore blame for her current predicament.
But Ditmar would doubtlessly ruin them if she fled. That was the way of things, with lords and knights. Men with swords were not to be trusted. All they knew was how to hurt.
She stepped outside the stall, latching the door behind her, and bent to set the brush in the bin on the floor. A bit of straw clung to her plum-colored gown. Ayla reached down to dust it from her skirts, carefully inspecting them for anything else that could stoke Ditmar’s rage. She straightened to see Andrek, the chief hostler, watching her from across the way with a pitying expression.
Her cheeks flared. It was hard to hide the truth from the servants, but it made her feel shameful, like it was somehow her fault. Sheknewbetter, but it didn’t stop the emotion from creeping in.Holding her head high, Ayla tucked her hands inside her sleeves and walked across the courtyard back into her husband’s castle. Nobody needed to know that her stomach churned and her palms sweat.
Megh left her at the base of the inner stairs, with a quick, bracing hug. Ayla let go reluctantly and forced herself to walk up alone, each step growing heavier the closer she drew to the black wooden door to her room.
And then she stopped, steeling herself for a moment. Ayla flinched as the unmistakable sound of shattering glass, and a man’s deep cursing, snapped through the closed door. If she waited any longer, it would only get worse.
She whispered a prayer, reached out a shaking hand, and slowly turned the knob.
Lord Ditmar of Blackfell stood before the window seat on the far wall, shoulders heaving as he stared out at the landscape.Harsh white light silhouetted his body. Between them lay the ruins of her bedchamber. The contents of her wardrobe scattered across the floor, silk and wool and linens dyed as richly colorful as jewels. Her mirror was broken; every drawer of her dressing table upended. He’d even torn down the stilder-berry garland Megh had hung along the walls for Ayla to enjoy. Now the branches of pale green nettles with their bursts of dangerous white berries lay in heaps along the floor.
Worst of all, the green glass vase, the last remaining piece of glass she'd blown herself, lay smashed into a thousand glittering pieces. Now there was nothing to remind her of the art she'd once loved.
Her mattress still sat on the wooden frame, though the linens were torn loose. It was a small blessing. If he’d found the books she hid beneath the bed, surely the mattress would be on the floor, or cut open and the horsehair stuffing pulled out.
“My lord?” Ayla fought to keep her voice even.
Normally, when he wanted her, he summoned her to his own bedchamber or his study. Considering the books were the only thing she kept hidden within her small, square bedchamber, she couldn’t think what had sent him into today’s rampage.
“So this is what comes of marrying a merchant’s get, instead of a lady of breeding,” Ditmar said to the open window, as if talking to himself. Her room had no glass panes. A thread of wind ruffled his hair.
“If I have displeased, I apologize,” Ayla whispered. Every hair of her body stood on alert, screaming to run. But the only way through Ditmar’s anger was to face it and let him dole out whatever punishment he thought she’d earned. Ayla tucked her hands deeper into her embroidered skirts to hide the tremble, and kept her expression calm. Ditmar turned to face her.
He was an ugly man even at the best of times, as beady-eyed as a boar, with red, puffy skin and lips more prone to grimacethan smile. She hadn’t minded his looks at first, and if he’d had a beating heart instead of one made of ice, she would have accepted his appearance without complaint. These days, she found him hard to look at.
“What is this?” her husband held up a small oval leaf.
Ayla’s mouth went dry.
Mercy. No matter how Ditmar had found out, he was going to kill her this time. There was nothing she could say. She forced herself to meet his eyes, since he would take looking away as a confession.
“It appears to be a leaf, my lord.” The maids had helped her hide the contraceptive tea leaves in a box in the lower pantry, where only the kitchen staff went, so that they couldn’t be traced back to her. Had one of them turned on her?
It felt impossible. The household servants were the closest thing she had to friends.
