“I will deal with you later,” he warned.
Ceidre’s breast rose and fell and she fought to contain real tears. She watched Rolfe dismount, saw Alice smile up at his dark visage and place her delicate white hand on his sleeve. “Do not bother yourself with her, my lord,” Alice said. “As you remarked, she is just one of many by-blows, and of no import. Tell me, ’tis true? We are to be wed?” Her tone was bright and eager.
“Yes.”
They walked inside, arm in arm, Ceidre unable to look away, stunned with Alice’s enthusiasm. As they disappeared from her view, Ceidre heard her sister laugh, charmingly, coquettishly. Her hand found the mule’s neck, and she began to stroke its soft fur blindly.
“I am sorry, Ceidre,” Athelstan said sympathetically.
“See to these men,” Ceidre said, her voice high. “They need refreshment. Their mounts need feed, and the dun has lost a shoe.”
“Yes, mistress.”
Ceidre slid off the mule and only then did tears start to slip down her face. But she would let no one see. Just as she had never let anyone see her hurt and disappointment, not when strangers recoiled from her, nor when her father failed to find her a husband. Especially this time would she hide her feelings, for there was no reason for her to be hurt and disappointed.
Rolfe was rigid with restrained fury.
That witch had lied. She had deceived him. She was not the lady Alice, not his bride. She would pay dearly for her deception.
And he was to marry another.
“My lord? Your bath grows cold.”
Rolfe had been scowling, nostrils flared, gazing at the tub in front of the hearth without seeing it. He was in the Lord’s Chamber, which had been hastily prepared for him. Now, at the sound of his bride’s hesitant voice, he lifted his gaze and pinned her. For the first time, he studied her.
Alice was pretty, but it was a hard fact to discern after being in her sister’s presence for the past day. She was very pale, her skin a foil to her dark, curling hair. She was short and petite, with none of Ceidre’s lushness. She could not compare to her sister, and Rolfe recognized the deep, yawning pit of disappointment for what it was.
He also knew, had he never met the witch, he would have been satisfied with Alice and not given it a second thought. This, however, was not now the case.
Alice smiled tremulously. “My lord? You brood so. Perhaps some ale would lighten your soul.”
“Why do you not ask about your brothers?”
Alice hesitated. “Your arrival has completely fogged my mind.” She laughed nervously.
“Will you resist this marriage?”
“Oh, no!” She was clearly pleased with him for a husband.
“You find me to your liking?”
She blushed. “I am in need of a husband, my lord. My betrothed died shortly after Hastings, and in the past few years, with all the rebellions, Edwin has not had time to arrange another match. And I am getting old.”
He nodded, she made perfect sense. “You are younger than your sister.”
Briefly Alice’s face tightened, then the look vanished. “I am twenty, she is two years more.” Her nose went in the air. “Why do you concern yourself with her? She is just one of countless brats my father sired. Why, he did not even see fit to arrange a marriage for her! And now”—she smirked—“no one will have her, because of her evil eye! She is a witch, you know.”
Rolfe’s jaw tensed. He was no fool. Alice clearly despised her sister, but he found it hard to believe that she actually thought her a witch. “There will be no more talk like that of your sister,” he commanded. “She is no witch.”
Alice bit her lip, then lowered her head in obedience. Rolfe stripped off his mail hauberk, tossing it onto the floor. Alice rushed to his side. She helped him remove his vast sword, then his undertunic. She stared at the pouch hanging around his neck. “Why, ’tis hers!”
“And now ’tis mine,” Rolfe said calmly, piercing her with a look. He removed it and placed it carefully with his things. Alice began removing his garters. Rolfe looked down on the top of her bent head and wished it were Ceidre performing the task. When he was naked, he turned his back to her and stepped into the steaming water. Alice hastily averted her eyes from his hard, powerful body with a shudder.
“Would you like your back soaped, my lord?”
Yes, I would like to be soaped, by that bronze-haired witch. “What I would like,” he said, “is some wine. Is there any wine on this manor, Lady?”
“I think so,” Alice said.
