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Hillstone Manor. She’d not heard of it, nor did she know if it was Lord Waryn’s primary residence. In fact, she knew very little and was becoming increasingly agitated about the fact.

“I can not travel without her,” she started, only to be silenced by her own father.

“If your husband has ordered it, you will obey, Phillipa.” Though his tone was even, his eyes flashed at her, leaving little doubt as to his temperament. Nothing angered him more than she or her sister speaking out of turn or questioning his decrees.

“Aye, Father,” she said.

“Hillstone,” her father muttered. He did not seem pleased but neither did he question Waryn further. If it was beyond odd to whisk the bride from the chapel doors to her future home, without so much as a meal or toast, Phillipa would not know. She’d attended weddings before, but none such as this one. Rushed, without preamble or adequate planning, it was as if this morn were nothing more than a regular mass. Except that she wore her best gown, a maroon velvet lined in gold thread. A gown that was the very opposite of one made for travel.

“My gown,” she blurted, earning a sharp look from her father. Phillipa clamped her mouth shut.

“What of your gown?” Lord Waryn asked, clearly impatient to be on his way.

“’Tis of no concern.”

He looked as if he would turn away at first, but instead her husband sighed. “If you wish to say something, my lady, do so.”

She glanced at her father and a memory flooded back to her. She’d been ten and six. Her father sat next to her on the dais and spoke similar words. They’d been speaking of a possible suitor for her after a previous betrothal had fallen apart. When she heard the man’s name, Phillipa had spoken without thinking.

“I will not marry an old man,” she’d said, moments before her father slapped her so hard across the cheek that the entire hall went silent. The sound reverberated even over his precious musicians.

“You will never question me again in my own hall,” he’d said, his tone inviting no argument. Of course, she’d had none. Embarrassed, her cheek on fire, Phillipa bowed her head and hadn’t raised it until well after the meal had been served. It had been the first, though certainly not the last, time her father had struck her.

When her husband waited for her response and then finally realized she’d give none, he inclined his head to her father in parting and descended the chapel stairs. With no choice but to follow, Phillipa lifted the hem of her gown on both sides, not wishing to ride in the heavy fabric, and turned to bow to her father. When she did, holding on to a last hope that he might suddenly embrace her, maybe apologize for his harsh treatment and offer some words of regret for her leaving, he gave her the same look as he had the day she left for court.

As if it mattered not to him whether Phillipa stayed or left.

“Goodbye, Father,” she said finally, attempting to ignore the lump in her throat. He hated her. Even now that she was of some use to him, would enable him to remain in good standing—or even elevate his standing—with the king, he looked at her as he would a stableboy.

Leaning forward, he whispered into her ear. “You will write to me by the feast day of Saint Martin.”

’Twas in just a few short weeks. What could she hope to learn by then? “Aye, Father,” she said as he moved away without so much as another word in parting. He joined the others making their way to the hall, and never looked back. Not once. Phillipa knew this because she watched him, waiting.

Phillipa should hate him back. Amice told her so. Friends of hers at court whose fathers treated them similarly, as if they were nothing more than property to be bartered to the highest bidder, said they hated their fathers. And perhaps they did. But she could not do it. Certainly, she didn’t like him. But neither did she wish him ill. Phillipa wished no one ill, not even the man who’d just sentenced her to a loveless, miserable marriage.

She could refuse, of course. But then she would have both he and the king he served to answer to. Perhaps that would be better, Phillipa thought as she made her way down the stairs, than to answer to her husband who watched her as if he might take a dagger to her throat while she slept.

Phillipa had so many questions. When had Amice left, and how had he arranged her belongings without her knowledge? She spied a small, familiar trunk atop the packhorse that must be hers. What was inside? Where was Hillstone Manor and how long would it take to get there?

Instead of asking any of them, she mounted Lady, displaying at least one of her skills—something she prided herself on, as it was all she had to herself. She sat upright with a confidence she possessed only here, atop her palfrey. Lady’s virtues were her own, her flaws, ones Phillipa both understood and commiserated with. She loved the only gift she’d ever received from her father as much, or more, as she loved herself.

So without assistance, despite her gown, Phillipa grabbed Lady’s reins, comfortable for the first time that day, never expecting the look of admiration on her husband’s face when she glanced his way for guidance. It was a look she should not hope to garner again, but Lord help her, one she could easily come to desire.

Chapter Seven

“She’s not complained once.” Holt turned on his mount. “Haydn?”

He resisted the urge to look back. They’d ridden all afternoon, but he’d only been in her presence once, when they’d stopped for her benefit. At his mother’s insistence, they’d taken six men along with them. His wife currently rode in the back with two of them. The others were on their way, with the maid and the remainder of his wife’s dowry, to Hillstone.

“Why would she complain?”

Holt looked at him as if he were daft. “Perhaps because you plopped the woman on a horse within minutes of your nuptials, denying her even a wedding feast.”

Haydn gave his brother a look, but as usual, he didn’t back down.

“Aye, she’s dangerous. And this is not a real marriage,” Holt repeated his words back to him. “But Christ’s wounds, brother.”

If he was being harsh, it was for them both. What purpose would it serve, becoming acquainted with a woman he had little intention of seeing often after she was settled? If Lady Phillipa planned to report back to her father, and thus the king, on his family’s dealings, he would be certain there was nothing to report.