Impostress (22 page)

"Lord Kelan?" the guard called through the door.

"I'll be down soon," Kelan yelled from the bed as his arms surrounded his wife, then added in a whisper only she could hear, "When I'm finished here."

* * * * *

In the end, they were late. For their first dinner. She'd plaited her hair hastily and donned one of the dresses she'd brought with her. The apple green silk rustled as she walked. The embroidered bodice was tight, the square neckline lower than she would have liked, but she felt radiant as Kelan's wife, no matter how false the title was.

"Hurry," he insisted, taking her hand as they hastened down the staircase. A loud buzz of conversation wafted throughout the corridors and seemed to carry with it the scents of roasted meat, baked bread, and all sorts of tantalizing spices. Kiera's stomach growled, for she was hungry. Yet the thought of meeting all of Kelan's servants, subjects, and family members was formidable.

As they reached the great hall, a trumpet sounded and a man with a deep voice announced, "Welcome back the Lord of Penbrooke and his new bride, Lady Elyn."

Kiera nearly tripped, yet Kelan smiled widely as, from the tables set up on the floor of the great hall, people rose and applauded, smiling as they took their place at the head table. Musicians played from the balcony, stopping only as Kelan greeted everyone within the hall and introduced her as "Lady Elyn of Penbrooke."

Kiera withered inside. She managed to smile and nod, but felt every bit the fraud she was. Hildy had been right; she should have told the truth before they left Lawenydd, for every day that passed made the truth more .difficult to admit. The longer she played the part of Kelan's wife, the more likely his fury would rise, his shame and embarrassment double.

The feast was grand, course after course carried in by servants who wended through the peasants' tables to offer each succulent dish first to the baron and his new bride. Kiera died a thousand deaths knowing she was the reason for this incredible celebration. It was all she could do to force a smile and watch as stuffed heron and pike, salmon and roasted boar, custards, pies, and tarts, more food than Kiera could possibly eat, were brought before her. She sat wedged between Kelan and his brother, Tadd, the rogue who had ridden with them and now seemed amused that the Lord of Penbrooke had finally wed. Next to Tadd was Daylynn, a beautiful dark-haired girl who eyed Kiera as if she were an oddity, a person most rare. Another sister, Bryanna, was friendly and warm, though there was a sadness to her eyes, which Kiera assumed was because of their mother's ill health. But the person who worried her most was seated on the far side of Kelan. His sister Morwenna, who, while nibbling at her food, studied her new sister-in-law as they made conversation.

"So, you do remember Castle Fenn?" Morwenna asked, between bites of a fine fish pastry.

"Of course." Kiera nodded but felt the warning hairs on the back of her neck raise.

"And there was a squire there you fancied, wasn't there? Brock of Oak Crest?"

Kiera's heart dropped like a stone. Where was this conversation leading? "Aye, I remember him, I think."

"What happened to him?"

"I know not," she said quickly and plopped a jellied egg into her mouth in the hopes of ending the conversation.

Little lines of concentration formed between Morwenna's arched eyebrows. She fingered her knife. "Did I not hear that he was betrothed to Wynnifrydd, the Lord of Fenn's daughter?"

"Was he?" Kiera asked, lifting a shoulder and trying not to notice that any trace of merriment had left Kelan's face.

From the other side of her Tadd spoke up. "Aye. I'm sure of it." He motioned to a page to refill his mazer. "The wedding was planned for ... what? This week, I think."

"This week?" Kiera repeated, her worries intensifying.

"Tomorrow, I believe." Tadd waited as the page filled his uplifted cup. "Thank you, John."

The floppy-haired page nodded, then, not once looking her in the eye, began refilling Kiera's mazer.

Tomorrow? Brock is slated to marry Wynnifrydd tomorrow?

Then what of Elyn? Had the wedding been called off? Or was Brock going through with the marriage? Kiera took a calming drink of wine.
Think, Kiera, think.
Where was her sister? Kiera had begun to worry that Elyn might not have returned to Lawenydd because she'd run off with the man she loved, that both she and Brock had spurned their intended spouses and ridden away to some unknown fate. At that private thought, Kiera became angry, then stupidly hopeful. Now, she had the quicksilver intuition of why her emotions had been at odds, for she could no longer deny the unthinkable idea that she was beginning to fall in love with Kelan.

Dear God in heaven.
That ridiculous notion hit her hard and she nearly choked on her wine.
In love? With this stranger? A man I barely know? My sister's husband?
'Twas folly. Worse than folly!

Now, with the fear that Brock was truly marrying Wynnifrydd, Kiera's worries redoubled. Had harm befallen Elyn? Or ... even worse, had she somehow lost her life? An accident? A cutthroat in the forest? Her stomach squeezed painfully and it occurred to her that she might never know. Just as she'd never found out what had happened to Obsidian.

She was no longer hungry, her appetite having been chased away by worry. Yet support came from an unexpected corner.

"Morwenna, you and Elyn were at Fenn years ago; what were you, Elyn—around thirteen at the time?" Kelan's mouth was pinched, his jaw tight, yet he said, "What happened, then, 'tis of no matter now."

"And we all know how things can change over the years, do we not?" Tadd asked, leaning back in his chair. With a careless smile, he looked at Kiera and winked slowly. "Your husband was not always the upstanding honest man he is today, you know. There was a time when the baron was anything but law-abiding. 'Twas a good thing my father bribed the sheriff, or Kelan might well have ended up hanging from a noose rather than ruling a barony."

"He exaggerates," Kelan said, his eyes sparking as he scraped back his chair. "And as I said, what happened before matters not." His gaze moved from one upturned face to the next. "Lady Elyn and I are married." Kiera felt the color drain from her face. Oh, this was as bad as Hildy had predicted. Worse! Kelan lifted his mazer and the hall fell silent. "A toast," he proclaimed and glanced down at Kiera, then nodded in her direction. "To my wife, Lady Elyn of Penbrooke."

It was late in the day when Joseph slipped through the shadows of Oak Crest after hours of trying to locate Lady Elyn within the keep. Hildy had explained to him about Elyn's foolhardy and selfish plan. Before she'd asked, he'd volunteered to search for the stubborn lady. So far, he had failed. Three days had passed since the night Kiera, pretending to be her older sister, had left for Penbrooke. Joseph's gut tightened when he thought of what Lady Kiera must have had to endure with the Baron of Penbrooke, all for the sake of Lady Elyn. So what had happened to her? Where the devil was she? The answer, it seemed to Joseph, lay with Brock of Oak Crest. And so, hoping to find Elyn and drag her back to Lawenydd, he'd ridden as if Satan himself were chasing him. Unfortunately, Joseph had been unable to escape his duties for a full day, then it had taken another day to travel to Oak Crest, and today he had futilely spent his time spying, trying to hear word of Lady Elyn. As time passed he knew that he would be missed at Lawenydd. Well, so be it.

Sometimes there was duty and other times duty had to be damned for a greater cause. And the search for Lady Elyn was the greatest cause of all.

He slid silently into the stables, exhausted, smelling the acrid odor of urine mixed with dust and the scent of horses—this, finally, was familiar territory. He'd grown up living with horses, and so he felt at home for the first time since leaving Lawenydd.

After riding hell-bent for a day and leaving his own mount in the forest tied in a copse of oak, he'd slipped through the castle gates with a group of peasants, then blended in with the farmers and merchants and peddlers setting up to sell their wares. He'd managed to search some of the buildings and the baileys, listening to craftsmen talk or the gossip of the women gathering eggs and hanging laundry. The castle was abuzz with the upcoming nuptials of the baron's son, Sir Brock, and Lady Wynnifrydd of Fenn.

"She's a bossy one, she is," one old crone had confided to another this morning as Joseph had found an ax and begun splitting firewood. Since it had been raining off and on for the past few days, he'd drawn his cowl over his head, and with his back to the women, no one had paid him any attention. "Sir Brock will have his hands full with that one."

"A pity," the other woman had sighed, "to be married to a shrew." She'd laughed heartily while her friend had snorted. Joseph had hazarded a glance over his shoulder. The shorter, scrawny woman had filled her basket with eggs while the laundress had been hastily retrieving sheets before the rain began in earnest.

" 'Tis what he deserves, don't ye think? And then his father will be well rid of him. Sir Brock can become Lord of Fenn someday and it's good riddance, I say. He won't be botherin' us for a while, not until the Baron Nevyll, God preserve him, passes on." Sketching a sign of the cross over her chest, she'd stepped around a puddle and hastily tossed the half-dried clothes into a large basket. " 'Tis my guess that Lady Wynnifrydd will want him to stay on at Fenn as long as Lord Nevyll is alive. Have ye seen the way she looks down that long nose of hers, her nostrils flarin' an' all? It's as if Oak Crest isn't good enough for the likes of her." The laundress had snorted at this notion. "Nay, she'll not be wantin' to stay here a second after she's gotten that wedding band from Sir Brock."

Listening intently, Joseph had stepped beneath an overhang near the mason's hut and placed a chunk of oak upon the old stump that was marred by hundreds of scars from ax blades slicing into it.

"Then he can raise the skirts of the wenches at Fenn and leave our girls alone. A randy one Brock is, and rough, I hear." The egg collector had raised her sparse eyebrows. "That's what Glyn told Beanie."

"Ach. The girls waggle their tongues too much. Especially Glyn."

"Nay, they waggle their hips too much and get themselves into trouble with the likes of Sir Brock."

"Well, he's Lady Wynnifrydd's pain now."

"And all the while I thought he'd marry Elyn of Lawenydd; she was sweet on him, I hear. My niece, she's a seamstress over at Lawenydd, and she swears Lady Elyn had her heart set on Sir Brock."

So that was it. Joseph gripped the ax, raised it over his head, and swung down hard.

Crack!

The dry oak had split. Two pieces had spun sharply off the stump, but the gossiping women had paid him little mind.

"If ye ask me, Lady Wynnifrydd and Sir Brock are made for each other. They'll make each other miserable, and that's just fine with me."

" 'Tis lucky for Lady Elyn that she didn't end up with him and married Kelan of Penbrooke instead. I know he was a black sheep and gave his father more than his share of gray hair, but compared to Brock, Kelan of Penbrooke's a prince."

The laundress had chuckled as she hoisted her basket onto one of her ample hips. "I'll have to be hangin' these in the shed," she'd muttered disgustedly under her breath. "I told Dellwynn that it would rain today, but would she listen? Oh, no. Not that one." Balancing the laundry, she'd marched off toward the great hall while chickens had squawked and scurried out of her path.

Joseph had heard other gossip as well, talk of the impending wedding, nasty remarks about the lordship's son, but never once had Elyn been mentioned again.

What to do? he'd wondered as he stacked the wood he'd chopped and cast a glance at the great hall. Joseph had considered confronting Brock, but decided the man would only lie or have him thrown into the dungeons or worse. Already he'd surreptiously scanned Oak Crest's herd of horses that he'd found in the outer bailey. There was no sign of Lady Elyn's mount, the missing mare. But he wasn't convinced that the feisty little horse wasn't hidden somewhere apart from the main herd.

While the stable master had been checking the hooves of a dappled stallion, Joseph had slipped into the open door of the stables. Now he moved quietly in the shadows. A few of the animals snorted, one nickered, and all the while there was the sound of hooves shuffling in the straw and the gentle snoring of a stableboy, his back propped against a post, his cap pulled down over his eyes.

With little trouble Joseph discovered the ladder leading to the upper loft and swung stealthily into the haymow, to settle into a spot in the corner. Noiselessly, he burrowed under the loose straw. Using his mantle as a blanket, he closed his eyes to rest and wait until dark, when he could move around more easily. If he found the mare, he'd take it as proof that Sir Brock had met Lady Elyn. If not, he'd continue looking for her.

And what if you find her? What are you going to do if she won't return to Lawenydd with you? Tie her with ropes? Shackle her? Force her back to her father?

"If needs be," he muttered under his breath. But first he intended to talk to the spoiled son of Oak Crest, regardless of the differences in their stations.

* * * * *

Standing at the fire in his chamber, Kelan fingered the vials he'd brought with him from Lawenydd. One of blood, the other empty. He was certain now that Elyn had used whatever was in the empty vial to make him drowsy, rather than poison him, to keep him in her bedchamber, though he didn't know why. The other ... he knew not.

Did it matter?

Did she not pledge before God to be his wife?

Did she not come with him to Penbrooke and stand at his side?

Had she not met his mother this day, and was not Lenore pleased that she was his wife? Only Morwenna seemed not to trust her, and yes, there was something not right. The small vials in his hand were proof enough of that.

He glanced over his shoulder to his napping wife and his heart melted. Firelight played upon her white skin, turning it golden. Her dark hair was tangled on the pillows, framing a face he'd begun to love.