Elizabeth raised her hand. “I did not mean to offer criticism, my lord. I thought only to explain what I have done. You have no gentlewomen here, and the others have no real idea of raising a baron’s daughter as she should be raised. Someday little Willow will have the task of running her own castle and folk. I but wish to see her properly trained for her station and responsibilities.” Even as the bastard child of a baron, Willow could expect to make a good match.
“As you have been trained?” he asked.
She tried to read his voice for a hint as to why he had asked the question, but there was none. She could only answer him as if the query were a casual one. “Yes, as I have been. My mother took her duty to heart. I know how to make servants obey with enthusiasm. I can oversee the making of candles, food and clothing, and the preserving of stores for the winter. I can organize cleaning, dry herbs, entertain guests of high rank and keep ledgers with a legible hand.” She shrugged, as if these accomplishments were nothing more than her duty. “I am as I was taught to be.”
She looked into Raynor’s eyes, willing him to see that she was not trying to take over his life, but only to live hers. To fulfill the work she had been trained to do.
Raynor stared at her for a long moment, then answered, “I begin to see why we are at odds.” He looked away. “Mayhap I should simply leave you to it. I shall have to give the matter some thought.”
With that, he turned and strode off.
Elizabeth was left staring after him, wondering what that last cryptic remark had meant.
* * *
That night, Raynor watched while Elizabeth went about her duties in the hall. The evening meal had been delicious, and served at the height of its readiness, as all the meals had been since the second day of Elizabeth’s residence at Warwicke.
As he sat sharing a drink of ale with Bronic, Raynor realized he felt good, pleasantly full, relaxed and peaceful. His gaze went again to his wife, who was directing one of the churls in removing some soiled rushes.
As a heavy and unquestionably wistful sigh escaped him, he looked up to see Bronic studying him. Feeling that he had given away more of his thoughts than he would have liked, Raynor took a sip from his pewter cup.
But just then Bronic’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “She is a good woman, the lady Elizabeth.”
Unbidden Raynor recalled that one moment of suspicion of his brother, the day Elizabeth had taken out the castle windows. But as he had then, Raynor dismissed it immediately. He strove to keep any hint of reaction from his voice. “What makes you say so, brother?”
Bronic shook his head condescendingly, his square jaw jutting out. “It appears you are the only one who does not see the truth of this, Raynor. Your lady wife works from morning to night to see to the good and comfort of all in this keep. Not in my memory have we been so well cared for, and with so little complaint.”
“She makes us soft,” Raynor replied, fighting the stirrings of contentment inside himself. He was afraid to give in to those feelings, afraid of losing himself in Elizabeth. And not because she made his life comfortable.
His gaze went to her, held captive like an animal in a trap as she tossed her black hair, laughing softly as she said something that made the churl flush with pleasure. Elizabeth turned to beckon another boy, raising her arm, and he could not look away from the gentle curve of her breast in rich blue velvet.
Night and day he thought of little save Elizabeth and where she was, who she spoke to, what she said.
He had not so much as lain with her, and already he was slave to her wiles. Raynor ran an agitated hand through his thick, dark hair.
Almost against his will, he found himself telling his brother of the confusion in his heart.
As if sensing that Raynor was truly seeking some kind of answer, Bronic replied without his usual sarcasm. “What say you, Raynor?” He leaned forward. “In so many ways, Lady Elizabeth seems nigh on to being the perfect woman. She cares for Willow as if she was her own. She works alongside the castlefolk, making them love her without question. Your lady’s gentleness and care of all of us is unstinting.”
Raynor interrupted then, unable to let that last remark pass. “Not all.”
“Aye, all,” Bronic replied impatiently. “For you more than anyone else, Raynor. Have you not seen that, in spite of your ill humor and bad temper, she treats you with unfailing courtesy?” As Raynor’s eyes widened in disbelief, Bronic added. “That is, until you drive her beyond it.”
For a long moment, Raynor sat thinking. Though some of what his brother said could certainly be debated, most could not be denied. She was a good woman in all these areas. But there were other things about Elizabeth that were equally true, things that could not be passed over.
“On the other side of the coin,” Raynor said, “she is headstrong, willful and demanding. She deliberately defies my every wish, and cares only for her own desires.”
Bronic began to laugh, and Raynor scowled as the blond man spoke freely. “Brother mine, Lady Elizabeth cannot disobey wishes she knows nothing about. It does not occur to her to ask you so that you may be defied. She simply goes on as she thinks is best.” He paused, pointing a blunt finger toward his brother. “The problem, Raynor, is that you and she are too much alike. Think on this. Do you feel you are disobeying your wife when you fail to consult her on a matter you are perfectly capable of deciding on your own?”
Raynor’s scowl deepened. “'Tis not the same. I am lord of this keep.” He raised his hand in a sweeping gesture. “The responsibility of all rests with me.”
Bronic stood with a shrug. “As she feels it is with her.” He turned and left a very confused Raynor staring after him.
Raynor remembered what Elizabeth had said to him earlier in the day, how she had been trained to do the tasks she performed. His impulse then had been that she should do so. But the thought of allowing her to have her will without his restraining hand...well, it was daunting, to say the least. How far would Elizabeth go, should he give her free reign?
His gaze went back to his wife, across the hall. Could he trust her to push no farther? Would she try to pry her way into the rest of his life, as his mother had done?
Elizabeth was now directing a woman in the cleaning of a tabletop. When she shook her head and took the cloth, bending to finish the task herself, the fabric of her blue cote stretched taut over the gentle swell of her bottom. Raynor felt a tightening in his groin, and shifted on his seat. But he was unable to look away as she straightened and smoothed the raven curls that had escaped her braid.
God, but she was beautiful, he told himself. There was no use in trying to deny it, even to himself—any man would find her so. But she was not some other man’s, she was his, though in truth he knew nothing of her. Then, unbidden, a strange thought occurred to him.
Was it not odd that Bronic seemed to know so much of what Elizabeth was about? As soon as the thought was formed, Raynor pushed it aside in shame. He would not believe ill of his brother.
* * *
Elizabeth could feel Raynor’s eyes upon her like a touch. Since the afternoon they’d spent with Willow, there was a new intensity in the way he looked at her.
She was near to screaming with frustration and confusion. What did he want from her? The heat of his gaze told its own story. But surely, if he desired her, Raynor would say so? She was his wife, and he had the right to take her when and where he would.
It was especially hurtful for Elizabeth to know that though he did not even act upon his desire for her, he still seemed to love Louisa. What traits had that gentle damsel possessed that Elizabeth did not? Had she been more beautiful, more kind, more caring? Who could say what strange fusion of qualities brought about the love of a man like Raynor?
Elizabeth knew she was jealous—oh, yes, without doubt, and of a woman who was near three years gone from this life. Though she did keep trying to remind herself that she should be gladdened to know that Raynor had loved Louisa. If he had been capable of loving once, then could he not come to care for her at least a little?
Though the possibility was remote, it seemed not so much so as before.
She knew that for Raynor to love her was beyond expectation. The circumstances of their marriage had seen to that. He would never be able to completely forgive her for what had happened. His pride and his need for the freedom to choose his own way were too strong for that.
The question was, could he learn to respect and honor her? Even that much would be as near to heaven as Elizabeth could imagine.
Long after she had left the hall and gone to her chamber for the night, these troubles would not cease plaguing Elizabeth. Her big bed sat ready, the heavy draperies pulled back invitingly on the warmth of the fire. Olwyn helped her to change into a sleeping gown of fine gauze, then left to seek her own rest.
But even after Olwyn had left, Elizabeth could not stop thinking about Raynor. Her desire to make him see that they must learn to live together with some small trace of harmony would not be dimmed this night.
Finally Elizabeth knew she could wait no more. There was never an opportunity in the day for her to speak with Raynor on any personal subject. Today, when they made the swing for Willow, had been the first time. And even then they had been within full sight of all who worked about the castle grounds.
How could she ever hope to make him understand, if she had no opportunity to tell him how she felt, to make him understand that it was important to make peace? His actions today with Willow made her think he might be ready to try.
Determined to act before she could change her mind, Elizabeth took her ruby velvet robe from the end of the bed and drew it on. She had no trouble locating Raynor’s chamber, for it was the only room in the keep that she had not yet entered.
The chamber was bathed in the light from the fire, and she was surprised to see how neatly her husband lived. Two chests stood against the inner wall, their tops closed. Only a comb and a carefully folded cloak on one. The floor was bare, and there was no decoration save a coat of arms above the heavy curtained bed. The draperies looked clean, but the once-gold color had faded to dull yellow.
Elizabeth was appalled at the spareness of the chamber, and knew an intense desire to set it aright.
As baron of Warwicke, Raynor was deserving of some comforts. His people did not go without, as he cared well for them and made certain their homes and farms were in good repair.
But knowing how Raynor felt about her interfering, she would not change things without consulting him. Elizabeth made a mental note to speak to him about getting new carpets and draperies, if naught else.
But not this night. Tonight they had more important matters to discuss.
As she came farther into the room, Elizabeth heard the sound of someone moving in the bed.
She hesitated a moment, then squared her slender shoulders. “Raynor, it is I, Elizabeth.”
A moment later, a head came out from between the bedclothes. It was not Raynor.
A mass of pale blond hair framed the pretty female face that looked at her with shock. It was the very same serving woman who had looked at her so resentfully on her first day at Warwicke. That resentment was now explained.
A blaze of red rose up to obscure Elizabeth’s vision, and a throbbing rage filled her veins, making her limbs shake. How dare he! When he would not so much as touch her, his own lawfully wedded wife!
Without a moment’s hesitation, Elizabeth moved to the bed and jerked the curtains open. She was not surprised to find the slut unclothed.
What did surprise her was that Raynor was not in the bed.
Disappointment at not being able to vent her spleen upon him made her seethe. Killing him would simply have to wait until he returned. First she would deal with his leman. “Get up,” Elizabeth growled.
The girl cowered there for a moment. Then, as if she suddenly realized she was fighting for her very position as Raynor’s harlot, she raised her head, tossing her hair back from her shoulders to expose swelling breasts and a narrow waist. “I am waiting for my lord.”
Elizabeth was not impressed by this view of the wench’s charms. Ripping one of the bed curtains down, she tossed it to the little trollop. “I said get up!”
The girl cringed, but did not move. “You have no right to send me away. My lord Warwicke wants me in his bed.”
Elizabeth felt a stab of pain in her belly at the knowledge that the words were true, but they did not sway her. She leaned closer. “On my authority as mistress in this keep, I order you to get out of that bed. Does my husband wish to rut with you, he will take you in the stable, or somewhere equally fitting. You will not now, nor ever again, venture into a place that is mine and mine alone.”
The girl quaked, grabbing up the curtain and holding it over her nakedness, but she had not lost all her fight. She jumped down, standing with her head high, though tears streaked her pale cheeks. “Don’t mistake, Lady Elizabeth. Everyone knows you don’t share my lord’s bed. 'Tis a disgrace that you won’t have him, nor will you let him have another.”
Elizabeth would have laughed, had the situation been less volatile. Did they really believe it was she who rejected Raynor?
If only the truth were known.