woman he remembered sat nearby in a large padded chair, stitching something on a small hooped frame.
Through lowered lashes, Richard watched her poke the needle in and out, curse under her breath as the thread knotted, and then put it aside on the floor.
How terribly sad she looked, too morose for tears. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees and her beautiful, long-fingered hands clasped beneath her chin.
“Please,” she whispered, “Please do not let him hate me. I will do anything—”
“Come here,” he ordered, curtly interrupting her prayer.
Perfectly lucid now, his dream did not seem a dream at all. He said a quick prayer himself that their former conversation had been a daft imagining. Still, he feared it was not so.
Her words just now did not bode well at all. There must be a reason she would be praying for him not to hate her.
She complied with his summons immediately, all but leaping from the chair to answer it. “Have you hunger now? Darcy is on her way with your food.”
“A plague on the food! Did you or did you not speak to me earlier? What did you say then? Who in God’s name are you, woman, and where am I?” he demanded, piercing her with his most threatening glare.
She raised her chin and squarely met his glare with the glowing amber of her own. “Aye, we did speak. I told you that I am Sara, Lady of Fernstowe. That is where you are, sir. Castle Fernstowe, near the northern border of England.”
“Yes, yes, I recall your name now,” he grumbled impatiently. “But I imagined you said another thing, that we—”
“Are wed, sir. Aye, we are that.”
What was this nonsense? She stood near, but far enough away that he could not reach to shake the truth from her.
Richard forced a laugh. “I wed once and vowed never to do so again. If you think you can make me believe you are my wife, you must be mad.”
“Nay, not mad. I needed a husband and here you were. The king agreed readily enough. He loaned his priest. He stood by you and assisted you in signing the—”
“He did no such thing! Whatever your game, it will not play, madam!” With all his shouting, Richard’s voice quickly receded to a painful whisper. “It will not play.”
“We are wed, I tell you. I have the documents if you would see them.” She threw out her hands in a gesture of frustration and spun around, giving him her back.
Richard squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his head back against the pillow until his neck cramped.
“No!” he said through gritted teeth. “I sleep. I sleep and am cursed by a fevered nightmare. When I wake, ’twill be to feel the earth beneath me where I fell.”
“Would it were so if you’re fool enough to wish it!”
“Or my sins were greater than I thought and this is hell,” he muttered, throwing his arm over his eyes. “I save a king and this is my thanks?” He scoffed. “Virago.”
“Oh, you are most welcome, husband! Welcome to this bed and for my care, you ungrateful wretch!”
“For God’s sweet sake, woman,” he shouted hoarsely, “would you leave me alone and let me rest in peace!”
“Well, I should have done!” she cried. “But you live. And now you are mine, Richard Strode. For better or worse, you are mine. So make what you will of it!”
The door slammed and Richard knew she was gone.
“Short work of it is what I’ll make, you sharp-tongued witch,” he muttered. “For I will not be wed. Not to you, or any other.”
Chapter Two
Sara fled to the door of her old sleeping chamber, but before her hand touched the door handle, she changed her mind. No, she would not seclude herself in there like a child rebuked. Her behavior toward her husband had been childish enough.
Had she not expected Sir Richard’s anger once he awakened? It was not as though he would thank the angels for the privilege of marrying her. If she’d thought that possible, she would have waited until he knew what he was doing.
The man had been tricked, by her and by his liege. Small wonder he cursed his fate and her, as well. But the marriage was done and he could not undo it, not without demanding annulment and questioning the honor of the King of England to his face. Though her husband’s angry reaction to wedding her had bruised Sara’s feelings, she vowed she would shed no tears over it.
She had passed twenty-one summers and never wept for any man, none save her poor father when the dreadful Scots slew him six months ago.
Simon, Baron of Fernstowe, had been a man to weep for. How she missed him. If only this knight of hers would come to care for her half as much as her beloved sire had done, she would cry tears of joy for it.
Very little hope of that, she thought, scoffing at herself. Even had this fine knight come courting, cap in hand and contract readied, it would have been her lands that he sought, not herself. Ungainly tall as she was and with her face scarred to the bargain, no handsome warrior like Sir Richard Strode would stoop to win her favor. Foolish even to indulge in any fantasy such as that.
She marched down to the kitchens to see to the making of candles and wiped the foolish wishes from her mind.
All the while she issued orders to the maids performing the noisome work, Sara bent her mind to a practical solution. She would win her husband’s respect if nothing else.
And when he bedded her, she meant to make him glad of her attentions. He would find no whimpering virgin twixt the sheets when they sealed their bargain. Untried she might be, but Sara had never whimpered in her life.
She knew full well what to expect. Life in a castle did not lend itself to privacy and she had a curious mind. Though the act itself looked rather awkward, even frightening betimes, so was riding a horse when she thought about it. She had certainly mastered that feat quickly enough, and the rewards had been great. It got her where she wanted to go.
Marriage would be rewarding, she would see to that. She would have protection from the Scots and the husband of her choice. Richard Strode would share Fernstowe and all its profits. And pleasure in the marriage bed, every delight that she could give him.
Sara smoothed her hands over her middle in anticipation, paying little mind to the household task at hand. She watched her women add and stir the bayberry scent to the cauldron of melted wax.
The smell of it always stirred memories of Yuletide seasons, of gifts and celebration and the happy laughter of the children of Fernstowe. She needed little ones of her own, and now would have them.
The sons she would give her husband could be naught but sturdy and wise. She was that way herself and so was Sir Richard, if the king spoke true. Like always bore like. Her husband would be proud then, glad she was no dainty weakling with goose feathers for brains.
She would not dwell upon the daughters she might produce, who
