“All that I require is the truth as you see it,” Grayson answered evenly. “Nothing more or less.”
Catherine felt her stomach unknot a little; she hazarded a glance at her husband. He looked calm, his green eyes directed at her with a warm, penetrating expression.
Uncertainty assailed her; she felt as if she danced on the edge of a dangerous precipice, where a wrong answer might spell immediate, painful retribution. Grasping the only position of safety she could see, Catherine murmured, “My opinion matters not, my lord. ’Tis trivial, while your knowledge is what—”
“And yet I will have it,” Grayson insisted. “I am not accustomed to making requests more than once, lady, however, I’ll ask you again. What is your view on why your own people gave descriptions of you that were so conflicting with your true appearance?”
Catherine flinched and looked to Eduard in desperation, more confused than ever about how to answer. Eduard’s gaze was flat, and the thought flashed through Catherine’s mind, then, of telling her husband the whole truth, so that Eduard could be detained and prevented from harming her children once the lie was revealed. But at that moment, Eduard lifted a tiny roasted starling from a platter on the table and snapped the delicate bird’s head from its neck. Then he blinked at her and licked his fingers.
Catherine’s idea fizzled to nothingness, doused by waves of fear. Eduard was not stupid. Even if Gray believed her tale of plots to kill him, her children would be doomed. Eduard always protected himself, down to the smallest detail, and he would have foreseen this possibility and prepared for it.
Her only salvation rested in concocting an answer that would sound plausible to her husband. What she had in mind meant humiliating herself, but considering the alternative, it was a small price to pay. Clearing her throat, Catherine shifted her gaze to Gray. “I’m flattered that you wish my thoughts on the matter, my lord. In truth I believe that the contrary description you received of me arose from my peoples’ loyalty to me.”
Gray’s ebony brow arched in the same wicked way she remembered from the chapel. “Explain.” Though the word sounded conversational, nothing softened the severity of his command.
“As you wish.” Catherine flushed but met his gaze straight on, for once confident that the core of what she spoke, at least, would be the truth.
“My lack of attributes has long been acknowledged, my lord. My own father revealed that from infancy, ’twas clear to all that I’d never achieve a state of feminine delicacy. ’Tis a fact that I have learned to accept, though, apparently many of my people do not. In their desire to aid me in gaining a husband, it seems that they painted me in a much fairer light than I deserve.”
The heat burned so in her cheeks that she felt her face must ignite to flames. She looked away, finally, unable to bear Gray’s searching gaze longer, but glad that her humiliating speech was done. She’d simply made use of the truth. Her unfeminine stature had been a source of shame for as long as she could remember. No man could be blamed for being disappointed when he looked upon her, and that was part of the reason, Father had assured her, that he, Geoffrey, or any other who held responsibility over her, found frequent occasion to beat her. She sighed and stared down at her hands folded in her lap.
Grayson studied his wife’s profile, uncertainty making him scowl. He’d felt something soften in him at the resignation he’d heard in her voice, and it warred with the hard shell of reserve he’d erected around himself concerning this marriage. She’d sounded so sincere. To his mind, no sane person could call her plain, and yet she had just bluntly declared it so. ’Twas true she’d never be a Court beauty, not with her impressive stature and vibrant coloring. But those same attributes also attracted Gray like no pale and delicate noblewoman ever would.
Why, then, did she belittle herself? So caught up was he in thoughts of her strange response, that he hardly noticed when Eduard stood up and excused himself from the table.
Narrowing his eyes, Gray twirled the stem of his goblet and gazed at his wife. A tiny bell went off in his mind, reminding him that he wasn’t considering all that he knew of the fairer sex. By the time he’d won his first tournament, he’d been wise to women’s more subtle methods of entrapment, emotional or otherwise.
And his answer rested there, he decided. Like her brother, Elise toyed with him, only her game was in seeking compliments. Such banter was a form of intimacy, he knew, and of the kind that would lead to just the sort of emotional closeness he wanted to avoid establishing with his wife.
Gesturing for the serving boys to bring fresh platters of meats and delicacies to their table, Gray forced himself to turn his attention back to the feast. He’d not fall for such a snare. Nay, he’d do better spending his time in making the rest of the evening tolerable. Besides, he was surprised to discover that he was beginning to feel hungry.
He occupied himself with serving slices of capon in a succulent gravy onto the trencher he shared with his wife, following it up with a generous helping of roasted pork and several flaky pastries stuffed with mincemeat and berries. Bypassing the whole swan, with its graceful neck, Gray chose portions of tiny sweet onion floating in butter. As a final thought, he heaped spoonfuls of spiced apples and peaches along the edge of their trencher.
Gray noticed that Elise sat still as a statue, pale now, while he arranged their food. However, her gaze kept drifting nervously to the arched doorway through which her brother had disappeared, as if she awaited his return. It annoyed Gray to realize that she seemed unaware of how considerate he was being. She couldn’t know, of course, that he’d never even allowed another woman to share his trencher, no less to serve her.
But Alban knew. His friend was seated across from them, not far down the table; Gray saw that from the moment he’d begun selecting foods to share with his wife, Alban had paused mid-motion in his eating, his hand halfway to his mouth.
Gray cleared his throat and gave Alban a look that made clear he was to behave as if what he’d just witnessed was commonplace. The awe-struck look faded from Alban’s face under the attack of a merry grin. His friend wasted no time in raising his cup in salute, nodding and calling for a drink to bless the union between the Lord of Ravenslock and his new bride.
When the entire hall followed suit, Elise looked as if she might faint. Now that he’d spent some time with her, Gray noticed that she seemed rather timid. Almost roughly, he indicated that she should begin eating. Elise wouldn’t meet his gaze but gave him a nod and picked at one of the pastries. It was obvious that she forced herself.
Gray frowned. At this rate, she’d starve to death before they’d been wed a month. But before he could address the issue, one of Eduard’s pages came up to the table; his master had been delayed in his errand, the boy said, but he assured them that he would return to the feast as soon as possible. Gray nodded and turned to Elise again, intent on insisting that she eat.
He never needed to utter the command. He watched, stunned and appreciative, as she began to polish off every last morsel of food he’d placed on her side of the trencher. What had inspired her sudden change in mood boggled his mind, but he wasn’t about to interrupt her by asking.
She seemed to relax during the remainder of the meal, even venturing to ask him several shy questions about his holdings. At one point she became almost animated, her hands moving with the grace of bird’s wings as she described the beauty of the willow fields near her previous home. Then she directed her gaze upon him, murmuring, “Is it possible that you have willow swamps here on your land? ’Tis almost time to gather the withies, and I could replenish my stock.”
“Your stock, lady? And what do you do with these withies, as you call them?”
She smiled, and the beauty of her expression took his breath away. He couldn’t help but notice that she talked with what seemed an almost palpable excitement. “After they’re boiled and dried, I weave them into all sorts of shapes and fancies. My last work took form slowly, but it turned out to be a fine, comfortable chair.” She directed the full force of her gaze on him, suddenly, her face alight. “Mayhap I could weave another like it, as a gift for you?”
He was struck by the joy radiating from her blue eyes; it washed over him in a torrent, blinding him to everything but the desire to bask in it for as long as he could.
Without forethought, he answered, “’Twould please me well. I’m not certain if willow fields grow on these lands, but perhaps in a few days I can free some time to help you find them.”
As soon as he said it he could have bitten off his own tongue, but by then it was too late. He looked away, silently cursing himself, unable to fathom what had possessed him to make such an offer. The woman had lulled him into a conversational mood, damn her.
Alban leaned in to offer them a platter of cheeses, wafers, and cakes baked in the shape of doves, smiling as he commented, “Your husband’s holdings are vast, milady. He governs much more than this one estate, though this castle and its lands are by far his most valuable prize to date.”
