from the chapel, or at least she’d pretended to be, sparing a quarrel last night, but letting her annoyance fester all the more, probably even as she slept.
Becca had been tempted to wake her sister and tell her that Sir Blaidd had kissed her, to warn Laelia that the man was up to no good. Becca had considered speaking to her father in the morning, too, and telling him to send Sir Blaidd away. Surely he shouldn’t be courting Laelia.
But now, in the light of day, and considering how rarely her father ever paid heed to her concerns, she decided that the less said about what had happened last night, the better. There was no reason yet to believe that Sir Blaidd would be deemed any more worthy of Laelia’s hand than any of the other myriad suitors who had come to Throckton Castle.
She hadn’t exactly been a model of ladylike behavior herself. She should have left the chapel the moment Sir Blaidd arrived. Regardless of his manner and his voice and his apology, she should have fled.
Therefore, rather than risk unnecessary conflict, she decided to say nothing of her nocturnal encounter with Sir Blaidd Morgan, unless and until it seemed he was in contention for Laelia’s hand.
“You were very rude to Sir Blaidd yesterday,” Laelia suddenly declared as she regarded Becca’s reflection in her mirror. “And as for that business at the gate—I suppose Dobbin put you up to it?”
“Of course he didn’t. It was my idea,” Becca replied firmly as she tied the side lacings of her over-tunic. She wore a gown of plain brown wool beneath it, and a linen shift under that, and rarely required assistance to dress.
“That makes it even worse. And then to march out of the hall like a…like…I don’t know what! If Sir Blaidd decides to leave today, it’ll be all your fault!”
Becca didn’t appreciate being scolded like an errant child. “You sound quite taken with the Welshman. I didn’t think you could be so easily impressed.”
“Easily impressed?” Laelia repeated indignantly as Meg finished brushing her hair and began to braid it as quickly as she could, clearly wanting to finish her duties and be gone. “I’m not easily impressed—but he’s handsome, he’s charming and he’s a courtier. Even you must admit that it’s rare we get a man from court coming here, given Father’s opinion of Queen Eleanor.”
It sounded as if Sir Blaidd had already found favor with Laelia. “Ah, yes, for a moment I forgot how much you yearn to be presented at court.”
“While you would rather stay here in this…this wilderness, consorting with the peasants,” Laelia replied.
“I enjoy consorting with the peasants,” Becca said evenly as she began to make her bed.
Laelia pulled a face. “Will you never have any regard for your rank and title?”
“I do, as well as for the responsibilities that go with it. But I have no wish to marry a man just so I can be presented at court.”
“That isn’t the only thing I like about Sir Blaidd. I daresay the only thing that you’ve noticed about him is that he’s a man, and you hate men.”
“I don’t hate men.”
“You certainly do!” Laelia exclaimed as Meg tied the first braid with an emerald-green ribbon. “No man who’s come here has ever found favor with you.”
“That’s because they’ve all been vain, spoiled and arrogant.”
“Even you can’t think Sir Blaidd is vain. His clothes are plain, his accoutrements, too, and he didn’t seem very arrogant to me.”
He had been very simply dressed when Becca had first seen him at the gate, the sodden cloak clinging to his broad shoulders, his damp breeches to his muscular thighs. Later, he’d changed into a simple tunic with a narrow trimming of embroidery about the hem and a plain white shirt beneath. “Maybe he dresses that way because he’s poor,” she said, which would mean he would certainly not be considered a fit husband for Laelia.
“He’s not. Father says so.”
It was on the tip of Becca’s tongue to point out that their father had been known to make a few mistakes. His vocal condemnation of the king’s wife at feast times and other public gatherings was hardly wise. However, Becca didn’t think it was time to bring him into this argument. “What about that hair of his? That hardly seems a fitting style for the king’s court.”
Laelia considered, as if the question were of national importance. “It looks well on him, so perhaps it is. If not, should we marry, I’ll ask him to cut it.”
“What if he won’t?”
Laelia gave Becca a superior little smile that never failed to annoy her, for it hinted at a vast and secret feminine knowledge she would never possess. “I’m sure he’ll do it if his wife asks him.” That thought seemed to put her in a forgiving mood. “To be sure, he’s a bit rough around the edges, but I can fix that.”
Becca imagined Sir Blaidd with his “rough edges” smoothed out until he was like every other bland and smooth-talking nobleman she had ever met. She didn’t think that would be an improvement.
Perhaps she should at least give some hint that he might not be as wonderful as her sister seemed to think he was. “If I’m not in favor of him as a husband for you, Laelia, it’s precisely because he is so charming and good-looking. He’s probably had scores of lovers, and likely keeps a mistress—maybe more than one. He’ll probably never be faithful.”
Laelia regarded her reflection without a hint of distress. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he has lovers now. But once he’s married to me, he won’t be tempted.”
“I don’t think marriage to anybody would make much of a difference. If he’s a lascivious scoundrel, chances are he’ll be one after marriage, too, no matter who his wife is, or how much he claims to love her.”
Her coiffure now complete, Laelia gave a long-suffering sigh as she rose. “You would think an archangel would make a terrible husband.”
Before Becca could point out that archangels didn’t marry, Laelia gave her a pointed look, silently reminding her it was time to be on their way to the chapel for morning Mass.
“You go ahead,” Becca said. “I need to talk with Meg for a moment.”
“Very well, but don’t be late.”
Again, Laelia spoke as if Becca were a child. Her jaw clenched as Laelia sailed out the door and closed it firmly behind her.
“I ain’t done nothing wrong, I hope, my lady,” Meg said, a frown darkening her usually cheerful face. “Or forgot something.”
“I’m not going to scold you,” Becca said kindly. She gestured toward the stool and Meg perched on it, as tentatively as if she expected it to disappear at any second. “I wanted to speak to you about Trevelyan Fitzroy.”
With an expression of dismay, Meg sat up even straighter. “I ain’t done nothing unseemly!”
“I don’t believe you have, but I wanted to warn you to take care. I’m sure he’s a very persuasive and fascinating young man, but you’re a servant, and he’s not. He may want to
