compliment brought a moment of confusion to his face, a touch of doubt to his gaze. ‘Does that mean yes? That you will marry me?’
She wanted to scream no to this man she barely knew. Was he cruel or kind? Had he wealth or only his armour?
And yet, all that mattered less now than what he knew.
He knew of her humiliation. He knew that her husband had betrayed her with another woman. Seen the crumpled evidence of her failure as a wife.
Suddenly, knowing she would have to please a husband again, the familiar fears returned. Would he, like Scargill, think her breasts too small and her hips too thin? Would he, too, grow to hate the sound of her voice and tell her to shut her mouth?
And even though she must expect that this man, too, would seek another’s bed some day, the first time he came to her bed, he would already count her a failure. He already knew she had not been enough for her husband.
And yet, he had asked. Does that mean yes? An awkward question, but surprisingly kind. As if pretending the choice were hers. It was not. For she had known one thing, always. No woman could refuse a marriage.
And so, with head high and lips pressed firmly into a smile, she nodded. ‘Yes. I will marry you.’
I will marry you. Words enough to satisfy canon law. That would allow her to call him husband.
He let out a breath, as if with her assent, the hardest part had passed. ‘Then we are betrothed.’ Yet that look of uncertainty lingered on his face, as if the Wolf had become a Lamb. ‘Have you nothing more to say?’
She coughed, to cover the laughter that threatened to bubble over. A woman did not laugh at her husband. Not if she wished a smooth existence. But this man seemed full of contradictions, by turn stern, angry, kind and even, for a moment, as uncertain of the future as she.
There were questions she should ask, important ones about her land and his family, where they would marry, where they would live. But the answers barely mattered now. My Lord of Spain had decreed it. So it would be. All she could do was to bow her head, bite her tongue and submit to this man’s will. ‘What happens next?’
‘I have duties with my lord, as do you with the Queen. We will continue to fulfil them.’
She nodded, as briefly as he, with a half-smile as if his answer pleased her. It was a partial, but perplexing reprieve. ‘But I am to meet your family, move my belongings, settle into your holdings and establish a home...’ When she had married Scargill, there was a flurry of activity, settling details of property and management of the holdings, making room for him in the home that had been hers...
All to be ready for the arrival of a baby that never came.
‘Nothing will change.’ He said those words as if they were a vow, then rose, as if the conversation was complete and everything settled.
Nothing? It was evident that the man had never married, or he would know that everything was to change. Or, perhaps, it was true for him. Only Valerie would, once again, rearrange her life to accommodate a husband. And, if he had no home of his own, perhaps they would live at Florham, as she and Scargill had done. The very possibility was a comfort.
‘Is it my place to tell the Queen that I am to be wed?’ How were such things done? Her life had been tied to the earth, not to the court.
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is for My Lord of Spain to do. I do not know the way of such things.’
‘As you will, my lord.’
He shrugged his shoulders, as if to throw off the title. ‘You must not call me that.’
My lord. It was the title Scargill preferred above all others. ‘But so you shall be.’
‘Call me something else.’
‘The Wolf?’ She permitted herself half of a smile. ‘I think I prefer my lord.’
‘My father called me Gil.’
‘Gil.’ A name bright and strong. Easy to speak. ‘Then it will be as you wish. Gil.’
He nodded, awkward, then stood. ‘Tomorrow I go to Losford on behalf of the King. We will discuss arrangements when I return.’ Duty done, he bowed. Brief. Perfunctory. ‘Goodnight, Lady Valerie.’
His task complete, as if dusting his hands of dirt.
He was three steps away when she called after him. ‘If you are to be Gil, I must be Valerie.’
He looked back, then honoured her with a stiff nod, as if every interaction was painful.
But then, he took a step towards her and did not look away. Tangled in his gaze, she rose from the bench and moved in his direction. Time slowed. Her pulse quickened. Close now, she could see his lips, no longer unyielding but softer than she had thought. One breath more, two, and they would make another step, touch, and—
‘Goodnight, Valerie.’
And then, he was gone.
Nothing will change.
She only wished it were true.
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