Reina had little opportunity to talk to Lady Roghton, at least not until supper was nearly finished. Roghton had dominated the conversation, and his lady had sat meekly to his left, uttering not a word and looking as miserable as she must feel. Reina tried to imagine herself in the lady’s position. Had she not had a loving father, such could have indeed happened to her. It made her sick to think about it.
When Roghton, who had stuffed himself with everything near to hand, was finally replete, his interest was snared by the more uninhibited talk among the men at the lower tables. Reina was left alone with Lady Roghton, who moved closer on the bench as soon as her husband left. But she was now faced with the dilemma of what to say that would not smack of sympathy. She need not have worried. The blond beauty was not at all hesitant, now that she was no longer cowed by Lord Roghton’s presence.
“I was told your husband is Ranulf Fitz Hugh?”
“Do you know him?”
“I am not sure,” Lady Roghton demurred. “Is he tall, very tall, and all golden?”
Reina was amused. “Aye, that could well describe him.”
“Then heismy Ranulf,” the woman said excitedly. “This is incredible! Ranulf? Lord of Clydon? ’Tis a shame I missed him, but I heard someone say he is in London, so I will be sure to find him there.”
Reina could do no more than stare. Had the woman forgotten whom she was speaking to? Was she even aware of that possessive “my” she had let slip? ’Twas difficult to tell. Her manner had completely changed. She was fairly bubbling with excitement.
“When—when did you know Ranulf?” Reina asked.
“Oh, ’twas long ago, but he will not have forgotten me.” She laughed, a sweet, musical sound. “Of course you can guess our relationship. Every woman at Montfort wanted him, he was so beautiful to look at. How could I resist him? I even bore him a child.”
Anne? SweetJesú, this was Lady Anne!
The shock must have been apparent in Reina’s face, for the woman added mistakenly, “You did not know? But ’tis naught to concern yourself with. Men are never faithful, you know. They spread their bastards all over the countryside. Why, Ranulf is one himself.” And then she smiled. “’Tis why I am so amazed he has come to be Lord of Clydon.”
Reina took a sip of wine, hoping it would defuse the fury she suddenly felt. What kind of woman would say such things to a man’s wife—unless she hoped to make trouble between them? Walter was right about the lady. She was naught but a calculating bitch beneath the sweet smiles and angelic looks. Andshehad pitied her?
“You did not say what happened to this child you bore,” Reina said tightly, realizing Anne wanted her to think she had this link to Ranulf.
The lady was disconcerted by the question. “Did I not? He died, poor thing. I was so devastated.”
“He?”
“I believe—” she started doubtfully, but was quick to correct the impression. “Well, of course ’twas a boy. I would know what I gave birth to.”
SweetJesú, she actually did not know, had not cared. To Reina, as an expectant mother, that fact was nearly as inconceivable as what the lady had done with the child, her daughter, her flesh and blood—oh, God!
Reina stood up, unable to bear another moment of Lady Anne’s presence. “’Tis fortunate Ranulf is not here,” she said and walked away.
Anne smiled, misunderstanding what had been a warning were she smart enough to realize it.
Chapter Forty-five
Ranulf bounded up the stairs to the Great Hall, uncaring of the noise he made or of the hour, which was late. He had missed Clydon. Three weeks was too long a time to be away from—well, he might as well admit it. ’Twas his wife he had missed, not Clydon. She might be willful, temperamental, at times extremely aggravating, but when he was with her, he felt more special than he ever had in his life—cared for, important, needed. She saw to his every comfort, nursed him when he was ill, scolded him when he pushed himself too far, worried over him. He did not have to be on his guard with her, or suspect her every word and motive, for she had proved herself to be different from what he had come to expect in women. Even his new relationship with his father did not come close to the way Reina made him feel.
He ought to tell her, but he knew not the courtly words a lady would expect to hear. Did he try to wax lyrical, she was more like to laugh at him than take him seriously. Besides, she must know how he felt. Women were supposed to be intuitive about such things. And he knew how she felt, had known since she first called him lackwit, a name she reserved only for those she cared about.
Aye, he knew her well. The only thing he did not know was why she was taking so long to tell him of the child she carried. But as his father had warned him, and Walter, too, who had been at home for the birthing of two younger sisters, ’twas not unusual for a woman to behave strangely in that condition.
Considering his thoughts and where he was rushing to, Ranulf was ill prepared for the woman who stepped into his path as he crossed the darkened hall. She appeared so suddenly he nearly knocked her over. He started to apologize, then saw who she was. The words died in his throat.
Anne had seen him coming. She had been trying to wake her drunken husband, who had fallen asleep by the hearth. Now she was glad he had drunk himself into a stupor. The opportunity was heaven-sent. She would not waste it.
“So you do remember me, Ranulf,” she said with satisfaction, and added for good measure, knowing no man liked to be taken for granted: “Your wife would have had me believing you had forgotten all your previous lovers when you wed her. She claimed to have your affections firmly in hand.”
All of Ranulf’s old wariness came rushing to the fore. He knew his wife would intimate no such thing, leastwise not to a stranger, but that only proved that once a liar, always a liar. This woman had not changed at all. She was as beautiful as ever, nay, more so with the added fullness of maturity. Her soul was still black as sin, however, and if she had been in Reina’s company for any time at all, there was no telling what mischief she had caused.
He decided to play along with her for the moment, though his hands itched to close around her throat. She was a woman who picked her words carefully. Everything she said was for effect, good or bad. She had to have a reason for wanting him to feel resentment for his wife’s loose tongue.
“’Tis a surprise, lady, to find you here.”
