About the Author

ANNE O’BRIEN taught history in the East Riding of Yorkshire before deciding to fulfil an ambition to write historical fiction. She now lives in an eighteenth-century timbered cottage with her husband in the Welsh Marches, a wild, beautiful place renowned for its black-and-white timbered houses, ruined castles and priories and magnificent churches. Steeped in history, famous people and bloody deeds, as well as ghosts and folklore, the Marches provide inspiration for her interest in medieval England.

Visit her at www.anneobrienbooks.com

Also by

ANNE

O’BRIEN

VIRGIN WIDOW

DEVIL’S CONSORT

PURITAN BRIDE

THE KING’S CONCUBINE

Marriage Under Siege

Anne O’Brien

My Lord,

If you have received this you will be free and in Ludlow with Mary and Joshua. I know that you blame me for your imprisonment at Leintwardine. It was not by my hand, but I fear that nothing I can say, considering our past history, will put my actions into a better light.

I have done what I can to put matters right between us and pray that it will be enough. When we married, I did not realise that divided loyalties, even when they do not exist, could cause so much suspicion and pain.

I pray for your safety. As I told you at Leintwardine, I do not, for one moment, regret our marriage. But sometimes destiny is a stern master and cannot be gainsaid. I understand your sentiments towards me. I am only sorry that I was never able to prove my love for you. I have never found it easy to explain my emotions—and would not have burdened you with them anyway.

For the rest, I cannot write it.

God keep you safe.

Honoria

Prologue

They drew rein at the crossroads.

‘So, Josh—what now? Ludlow is closer than Brampton Percy and it has the guarantee of a welcome and a few home comforts. Do you go home?’

‘Perhaps not.’ Sir Joshua Hopton, eldest son and heir to one of the foremost Parliamentarian families in Ludlow, tried without success to tuck his cloak more securely round him. Rain dripped from the brim of his hat, but was ignored. They were so wet that it mattered little. ‘I have a mind to witness your homecoming as the new Lord—so I will forgo the delights of Ludlow until tomorrow.’

‘Well, then, let us go on. You will no doubt be as welcome as I am.’ A swirl of low cloud and mist hid the faint gleam of cynicism in the cold eyes of Sir Joshua’s companion as he shortened his reins, slippery from the wet. ‘More so, I venture.’

Without further conversation, they turned their horses to the west, towards the Marches’ stronghold of Brampton Percy as a fresh flurry of rain, heavily spiked with hail, pattered with diamond-bright intensity on men and horseflesh alike.

Their escort fell in behind.

Chapter One

An hour later the two round towers, built to overawe the local populace and protect the gateway with its massive double portcullis, loomed dark and forbidding before the small party of travellers. The March day was now drawing to an early close with scudding clouds and a chilling wind that whipped the travel-stained cloaks, tugged at broad-brimmed hats and unsettled the weary horses. It was not weather in which to travel, given the choice. Nor was the castle a welcoming prospect, but the two men approached confidently, knowing that they were expected and that the gate would not be closed against them.

It had been a long journey from London to this small cluster of houses and its imposing castle of Brampton Percy in the depths of the Welsh Marches. Days of poor weather, poor accommodation and even poorer roads in the year of Our Lord 1643. The War, now into its second year, had given rise to any amount of lawlessness, encouraging robbers and thieves to watch the two men with their entourage and their loaded pack horses with more than a little interest, but they had finally arrived at their destination without event. Perhaps the air of determination, of watchfulness and well-honed competence that surrounded the travellers, together with the clear array of weapons, had kept the footpads at bay. Certainly none had been prepared to take the risk.

More problematic had been the small groups of armed forces that frequently travelled the roads in these troubled times. It was not always easy to identify their affinity, to determine friend from foe, Royalist from Parliamentarian. For these two travellers and their dependants, a Parliamentarian force would have signified a friend, an exchange of news, some protection if they chose to travel on together. A Royalist party would have signalled at best instant captivity and a hefty ransom after a long and uncomfortable imprisonment in some local stronghold, at worst, ignominious death, their bodies stripped of everything of value and left to rot in a roadside ditch. So they had travelled carefully and discreetly, their clothes dark and serviceable, nothing to advertise their economic circumstances or social standing other than the quality of their horseflesh and the tally of servants who accompanied them.

On this final afternoon in the rural fastness of north-west Herefordshire, the heavy showers of rain and sleet had cleared, but there was no glimmer of sun or lightening of the heavy clouds, making the sight of the gatehouse doubly welcome. The village street was silent except for chickens scratching in the mud, the inhabitants taking refuge from the elements and the uncertainty, but the travellers were aware of watchful eyes as they passed. Their hands tightened on their sword hilts. No one could afford to be complacent, even when the assurance of hospitality was close at hand.

They made their way past the darkened forge at the crossroads, the timbered inn, the squat shape of St Barnabas’s church with its square tower, until their horses’ hooves clattered on the wet cobbles before the gateway. Immediately they were hailed by a watchman who had been posted to warn of their coming. After the briefest of conversations one of the metal-studded gates was pulled back, allowing them access across a wide dry ditch and beneath the fearsome metal teeth of the portcullis above their heads to the relative sanctuary of an inner passage, which led in turn to an inner courtyard. Someone had hung a lantern in readiness. It guttered, flickering wildly in the draughts, and did little to dispel the shadows of the inner court but yet was a sign of welcome to warm the hearts of the travellers. Servants now emerged from the stableblock and from the heavy wooden door that led from the top of an outdoor stone staircase into the Great Hall of the main house. They were clearly expected. Horses were held, baggage untied, the weary animals led away for food and grooming, servants shepherded in the direction of the kitchen range, leaving the two men to stand and take stock of their surroundings.

‘An impressive establishment.’ Sir Joshua, the shorter of the two, looked around with interest, trying unsuccessfully to keep his already saturated boots out of the standing water that was refusing to drain from the cobbled courtyard. ‘A little medieval for my taste, with little prospect of comfort—but definitely impressive. Built to keep out the Welsh, I expect, as well as the border raiders. Do you remember much of it?’

‘More or less, but I have not been here for years. Lord Edward was not the most welcoming member of the family in recent times.’ His companion, taller, broader, pulled off his hat and ran a hand through the heavy waves of damp hair that clung uncomfortably to his neck.

‘That’s families for you. And now it’s all yours!’

‘Mmm. But do I want it?’ The new owner turned on his heel and surveyed the claustrophobic weight of the heavy stone walls that surrounded them on all four sides, the small windows and the filthy cobbles, with a jaundiced air. ‘There was some argument years back. The story goes, according to my mother, that Lord Edward ordered my father out of the house at the point of a blunderbuss and threatened to fire without warning if he ever set eyes on him or my mother again. Or their children! I believe he described us as hell-born brats. Which was, as I recall, in all honesty the truth!’ A flash of a grin lit his face in the sombre light. ‘It did not trouble my sire overly. He never had any expectations of inheriting, after all. And he hated Edward like the Devil.’

The two men turned towards the outer staircase which would take them up to the main door.

‘Medieval or not,’ the new, albeit reluctant, lord continued, ‘I shall be glad to get out of this wind. I presume you will stay the night, Josh.’

Sir Joshua Hopton laughed. ‘Nothing would get me to travel on tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough. Lead on, Francis. As this is one of the strongest Royalist areas in the country, I do not fancy my chances if I travel on alone and am recognised. My family is too well known for its disloyal sympathies in this locality.’

‘Come, then. I will be glad to give you the freedom of Brampton Percy’s hospitality. Don’t look too closely to your left, but the rat that has just run along the wall is as large as an Irish wolfhound. Are you sure you wish to stay? Your bedchamber might boast a similar occupant.’

On a companionable laugh, the two men stepped through the doorway into a vast high-beamed room that had been constructed as the Great Hall of the twelfth-century border fortress of Brampton Percy. It was vast and echoing, still in the state of its original construction with an open minstrels’ gallery at the far end and any number of wooden screens, strategically placed in an attempt to deflect the prevalent draughts. Apart from a carved oak chest and two oak chairs with high backs and carved arms, the room was empty.

‘Welcome, my lord.’ A quiet voice spoke from behind them and a dark-suited individual emerged from the doorway, which would undoubtedly lead to the servants’ quarters, to bow with grave courtesy and respect. He was of slight build, elderly, with close-cropped white hair, clad in black. He addressed his next words to the new owner, clearly recognising him. ‘We have been expecting you, Sir Francis. My Lord Mansell, as I should now say. You will most likely not remember me. I am Foxton, Lord Edward’s Steward. If I may say so, my lord, I remember you from your visits here as a boy.’ His face remained solemn, but the wavering light from the candle that he carried caught the faintest of twinkles in his dark eyes.

‘Foxton. Yes, of course.’ A smile crossed Lord Mansell’s dark features, lightening his somewhat bleak expression as memories of happier times touched him. ‘The years pass, do they not? I believe I have one painful memory.’ His smile took on a wry twist. ‘Did you not cuff my ear for breaking a pane of rare coloured glass in the chapel?’

‘Indeed I did, my lord,’ the Steward replied with placid acknowledgement. ‘Children can be most high spirited. As you say, it is many years ago.’ Foxton placed the candle on the oak chest and stepped closer. ‘Allow me to take your cloaks and hats.’

‘This is Sir Joshua Hopton.’ Mansell indicated his fellow traveller. ‘He will stay tonight and then travel on to Ludlow tomorrow. I presume we can accommodate him?’

‘Of course, my lord. There will be no difficulty.’

They unfastened mud-caked cloaks, shaking off excess moisture, and handed over hats and gloves. Mansell looked askance at his boots and breeches, also liberally spattered and stained with signs of hard travel. ‘We are not fit for company, Foxton, but I believe that food and drink would be most welcome before anything else—and a fire. We have travelled far and fast today.’

‘Not to mention a comfortable seat.’ Sir Joshua groaned as he stretched his arms, flexed his shoulders. ‘I was becoming welded to that animal to my detriment. Anything with a cushion will be an answer to a prayer.’

‘Of course, Sir Joshua. All has been prepared in the old solar. Robert here will show you the way, my lord, if you have forgot. I hope you will accept my condolences on this sad occasion. All at Brampton Percy are relieved that you could come here so rapidly, given the unexpectedness of Lord Edward’s death and the dangers that threaten God-fearing folk when they set foot outside their homes.’

‘Thank you, Foxton. It is good to be here.’ Mansell’s words were politely bland, but he refused to meet Josh’s eye, deciding that it would not be politic to inform his new Steward of his true sentiments towards his inheritance.

‘I doubt they will be so delighted with your presence when they realise that your views on the present state of affairs in general and His Majesty in particular do not match so well with those of Lord Edward.’ Josh’s words were quietly spoken, for Francis’s ears only. ‘Or those of the rest of this county.’ His brows rose in anticipation. ‘It will be interesting to see the reaction when your neighbours discover that they have acquired a Parliamentarian fox in their comfortable Royalist hen-coop.’

‘Very true.’ Mansell grimaced, but refused to be drawn further. ‘I think that perhaps I will not mention that tonight—it is likely to be an inflammatory subject, as you say, and I have not the energy for anything more than food and a bed. Tomorrow, we shall see.’ He turned back to Foxton, who was preparing to carry off the garments in the direction of the kitchens. ‘Lord Edward’s burial, Master Foxton. Have arrangements been made for it to take place?’

‘Indeed, my lord. The Reverend Gower—the recent incumbent in the church here—has it all in hand. It is to be conducted here tomorrow, Wednesday, at St Barnabas’s, if that is to your convenience.’

‘I do not see any reason why not.’

They turned to follow in the wake of Robert—a soberly dressed servant whose lack of co-ordination and interested glances towards the newcomers betrayed his youth—heading towards the staircase at the far end of the Hall. Their boots sounded hollowly on the oaken boards of the vast room.

‘There is no need for you to feel that you should stay for that event.’ Mansell turned towards his friend, returning to the previous conversation, understanding Sir Joshua’s desire to reassure himself of the safety of his family in Ludlow. ‘And on first acquaintance, I doubt that I can offer you much in the way of comfort here.’ He raised his head to take in the hammer beams above with their festoons of cobwebs and shivered a little as the draughts permeated his damp clothes. There was clearly no form of heat in the room, no warming and welcoming fire, in spite of the vast cavern of a fireplace built into one wall. ‘I would think that nothing has been spent on this place, and certainly no major improvements made since it was built—when?—over three hundred years ago.’

‘Your first impression is most astute, my lord.’

The voice, calm and well modulated and distinctly feminine, took Mansell by surprise. He came to a rapid halt and looked round, keen eyes searching the deep shadows. He could not see the owner.

‘Most of the castle dates back over three hundred and fifty years, my Lord Mansell,’ the observation continued from his right. ‘And I can vouch for the fact that there has been little, if any, attempt to either improve, refurbish or extend it—to the detriment of all comfort and pleasure.’

He swung round. And saw a figure, certainly the owner of the voice, partly concealed in the shadows by the carved screen that ran along the north side of the Great Hall. Her clothes were dark; a glimpse of the pale skin of hands and face being the only sign that initially caught his attention. Presuming that it was merely a servant girl, if an unusually outspoken one, engaged in conducting her own household tasks, he would have continued his progress with merely an inclination of the head in her direction and a lift of his brows, but a discreet cough from Foxton behind him drew Mansell’s attention.

‘My lord …’

The lady approached with graceful steps to stand beside Foxton, her eyes never leaving Mansell’s face. As she emerged from the shadows he glimpsed a movement beside her which soon transformed itself into a large hound. It remained close to the lady’s skirts, as if it sensed her need for protection, its pale eyes fixed on Mansell, its lips lifted into the faintest of snarls, exposing long teeth. Mansell assessed its elegant limbs, its rough grey pelt, its broad head tapering to a narrow muzzle and allowed his lips to curl into a slight smile. So here was the wolfhound itself! The dog growled low in its throat, only quietening when a slender hand was placed on its head in warning.

Thus Mansell turned his attention to the lady, but with cursory interest. A relative? A female dependant? Clearly not a servant, not even the housekeeper, as now indicated by the style and quality of her raiment.

She stood quietly before him, waiting for Foxton, or Mansell, to take the initiative. She was dressed completely in black from head to foot with no decoration or redeeming features, no jewellery, no lace, but her gown was of the finest silk and the fashioning spoke of London. Her brown hair was neatly and severely confined at the nape of her neck, without curls or ringlets to soften the impression. An oval face with clear hazel eyes, well-marked brows and an unsmiling mouth. Her skin was pale, with delicate smudges beneath her eyes, the severe colour of her dress robbing her of even a reflected tint that might have been flattering. She looked, he thought, on the verge of total exhaustion. She was young, but yet not a girl. Not a beauty, but with a composed serenity that had its own attraction. Serene, that is, until he noted her hands, which were clasped before her, but not loosely. Her fingers, slender and elegant, were white with tension. And he could see a pulse beating rapidly in her throat above the high neckline of her gown. He returned his gaze to her face, his brows raised in polite enquiry. The lady simply stood and waited. He had the impression—why, he was unsure—that she had been standing in the shadows of the room since his arrival, watching and listening, making her own judgement. A finger of disquiet touched his spine.

Mansell had no idea who she was. And yet, there was perhaps something familiar about her … He cast a glance at Foxton to help him out of this uncomfortable situation. Before the steward could speak, the lady curtsied and spoke. Her voice, as before, was calm and soft, quite confident, confirming that she was no housekeeper.

‘We have been expecting you, Lord Mansell. You must be weary after your journey.’ There was not even the faintest smile of welcome to warm the conventional words. ‘And your travelling companion. I have arranged for food and wine in the solar, if that will please you. It is the warmest room.’

‘Thank you. Foxton has so directed us. Mistress …?’ He saw the quick glance pass between Foxton and the lady.

‘I see that Lord Edward did not see fit to inform you, my lord.’ She met his enquiring gaze without shyness, her composure still intact. It ruffled him that he was the only one to feel in any way compromised by this situation.

‘Inform me? I am not sure …’ Impatience simmered. His brows snapped together in a heavy frown, usually guaranteed to provoke an instant response. Josh saw it and awaited the outcome with interest.

‘My lord.’ Foxton came to his rescue. ‘If I might be permitted to introduce you.’ He bowed towards the still figure at his side, his face enigmatic, but his eyes sharp. ‘I have the honour to introduce to you Honoria, Lady Mansell. The wife—the recent bride—of Lord Edward. This gentleman, my lady, is Sir Francis Brampton, a distant cousin of Lord Edward and, as heir to the title, now Lord Mansell. And Sir Joshua Hopton, who travels with him.’

The lady sank into a deep curtsy as the two gentlemen bowed. Sir Francis took the opportunity to attempt to marshal the jumble of facts and impressions that assailed him. This was not what he expected when he had received the news of Edward’s sudden death. This could probably provide him with an unnecessary complication. He forced his mind to focus on the most startling of the developments.

‘Edward’s wife? I was not aware.’ He fixed the lady with a stark stare as if the fault were hers. And then frowned as he took in her neat hair and clear features. ‘And yet … I believe that we have met before, my lady.’

‘We have, my lord, but I did not expect you to remember. It was more than two years ago—in London, before the outbreak of hostilities.’

‘Of course.’ He failed to hide the surprise in his voice. ‘You are Mistress Ingram, the Laxton heiress, if I am not mistaken. You were at Court in the autumn of 1640. At Whitehall. I was there with Katherine …’

‘Yes. I am—that is to say, I was Honoria Ingram.’

‘Indeed, we were introduced at one of the Queen’s masques. One of Inigo Jones’s extravaganzas.’ There was the merest hint of distaste in his voice.

‘I was there with Sir Robert Denham, my guardian, and his family.’

‘I know Sir Robert, of course. But my cousin’s wife! I had no idea …’

‘How should you, my lord?’ She watched his reactions with some detached interest, but without emotion, without involvement.

‘Lord Edward had always given the impression—to my father—that he had chosen not to marry and never would. We were given to believe that he did not hold women and the state of matrimony in very high regard.’

‘As for that, my lord, I am not in a position to give an opinion.’

The lady before him grew even paler, if that were possible. Lord Francis groaned inwardly at his clumsy choice of words and his thoughtless lack of tact. There was no excuse for it. Sir Joshua’s inelegant attempts to cover a laugh with a fit of coughing irritated him further and elicited a fierce glance in his direction before Mansell turned back to his cousin’s widow in a hopeless attempt to mend a few fences.

‘Forgive me, my lady. That was unwarranted. I did not intend any discourtesy. My manners appear to have gone begging after four days of travel in adverse conditions. Will you accept my apology?’

The lady gave her head a little shake. ‘It is not necessary, my lord. Your assessment of the situation is most percipient and quite correct. I believe that it was certainly not Lord Edward’s intent to marry until very recently. The prospect of a fortune in land and coin, however, can make even the most obstinate or the most jaundiced of men change his mind.’ The pause was barely discernible. ‘And Lord Edward was, without doubt, both.’

‘How long ago—since you were married?’ Mansell could not mistake the bitterness in her tone, however much she might try to conceal it, as she exposed the reason for the marriage with such terrible clarity.

For the first time the lady hesitated a little before she replied, perhaps disinclined to reveal more. There was the ghost of some emotion in her clear gaze, a mere shadow, but it was too fleeting for him to interpret. Her face remained impassive and her voice, when she finally answered, was without inflection as if explaining a matter of no account.

‘Four weeks ago, my lord, I was a bride. Now, I am a widow. I believe that it is Mr Wellings’s intention—Lord Edward’s lawyer from Ludlow, you understand—to discuss your inheritance and my jointure with you on Thursday, the day after the funeral.’ She turned away towards the staircase, effectively masking any further reaction to his questions and hindering any attempt on Mansell’s part to pry further. ‘Now, my lord, perhaps you and Sir Joshua would care to leave this extremely draughty hall for a place of a little more comfort. My solar is at least warm and relatively draught free. I am afraid that you will not find Brampton Percy, as you so astutely commented, very conducive to either comfort or convenience.’

Chapter Two

Wednesday, the day of Lord Edward Mansell’s funeral, saw a continuation of steady rain and high winds. It seemed to the new Lord Mansell most apposite to be standing beside a coffin in a gloomy churchyard in such dire conditions. It matched his mood exactly. The trees, some such as the towering horse chestnuts with the merest hint of spring growth, were lashed without sympathy as the rain drummed heavily on the surface of Lord Edward’s coffin and on the small crowd of mourners who had turned out to mark his passing. There was a collective sigh of relief as Lord Edward’s earthly remains were finally carried into the church where they would be laid to rest in the family vault, allowing everyone to get in out of the rain.

Few of the local families had chosen to attend the passing of the old lord. The war was beginning to stretch the traditional ties of local loyalties and Lord Edward had never been a popular member of the county elite. Too irascible, too penny-pinching, reluctant to extend even the basic needs of hospitality to his neighbours. And, more often than not, downright unpleasant. Therefore, given the state of the roads and the possibility of enemy action, even on a small local scale, many had elected to stay at home.

There was no sign of Viscount Scudamore of Holme Lacy, although it was true to say, even by those who disliked his youthful flippancy and lack of respect for convention, that he would have the furthest to travel. But also absent was any representative of Fitzwilliam Coningsby of Hampton Court near Leominster. Or Henry Lingen. But some had made the effort. Henry Vaughan was present, as well as Sir Richard Hopton. And Mansell was conscious of Sir William Croft’s brooding presence at his shoulder throughout the burial service. There was family connection here, through history and marriage, but the new lord did not relish the forthcoming conversation with his powerful relative. Sir William, major landowner in the county and owner of Croft Castle, had a reputation as a staunch Royalist and had, without doubt, more than a little influence in county politics.

The family retainers from Brampton Percy were present in force, of course, and some tenants from the village cottages and surrounding farms—but they had braved the weather more to get their first sighting of the new Lord Mansell, he mused cynically, than any desire to pay their last respects to Lord Edward.

The Reverend Stanley Gower droned on through the service, his nasal intonation increased by a heavy cold, as damp and chill rose from the stone floor and walls and the congregation coughed and shuffled.

‘For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother Edward here departed …’

Mansell sighed silently, doubting that any of those present regarded Lord Edward Mansell in the light of a dear brother. He kept his gaze fixed on the scarred boards of the old box pew before him, effectively masking his own thoughts. Sir Joshua sat at his side, gallantly lending his support—as he had cheerfully explained when he postponed his journey to Ludlow, the prospect of enjoying the explosion of temperament when Croft was made privy to his new neighbour’s political leanings was too good an opportunity to miss. Mansell had expressed himself forcefully and succinctly, threatening to banish Josh from the proceedings and send him on his way if he dared say one word out of place but, indeed, he appreciated the solid presence beside him in the grim atmosphere.

Alone in the old lord’s pew, the worn outline of the Brampton coat of arms engraved on the door, sat Lady Mansell. It had been her own choice to sit alone. Mansell had every intention of lending his support to the widow, but she had chosen otherwise. She had absented herself from the company until the last moment, deliberately isolating herself in her lord’s pew. He turned his head slightly to assess her state of mind, intrigued by this unlooked-for influence on his inheritance.

Honoria Brampton remained unaware of his regard. She sat perfectly still, gloved hands folded in her lap, the hood of her cloak pushed back from her neat coils of hair. No shuffling, no fidgeting, she looked straight ahead towards the distant altar. Lord Mansell could detect no trace of tears, no obvious distress on her calm face, her eyes somewhat expressionless and unfocused. He frowned a little, but had to admit that after their single encounter he would have expected no less.

On the previous night she had arranged for the provision of food and warmth and then simply withdrawn with instructions to the servants to ensure their comfort. She had made no effort to entertain, to explain the death of her husband, to enquire after their journey. All was competently and capably ordered, but Lady Mansell was personally uninvolved. And yet not, it would seem, from overwhelming grief. Mansell shrugged his shoulders in discomfort within his sodden cloak and shuffled his booted feet on the cold flags. It was, of course, difficult to judge on such slight acquaintance and it would be unfair of him to presume.

The service came to an end, even the Reverend Gower spurred into hurrying his words as the restlessness of the congregation made itself felt and his cold threatened to overwhelm him. The coffin was duly carried to the south aisle and manoeuvred, with some difficulty and muttered imprecations, to be lowered into the vault below the stone flags with the decayed remains of other de Bramptons.

‘… dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life …’

The congregation proceeded in a wave of relief out into the churchyard.

‘Well, my lord.’ Croft appeared at Mansell’s side and offered his hand. ‘Unpleasant circumstances, I know, but welcome to the county. I knew your father, of course. I shall be pleased to make your acquaintance, my boy. And introduce you with pleasure to the rest of my family on a more auspicious occasion.’

I doubt it. Lord Mansell kept his thoughts to himself and returned the clasp with a smile and inclination of his head. ‘Thank you, Sir William. I remember my father speaking often of you and your boyhood activities. He held you in great affection. I trust you will return with me to the castle. Let us get in out of this Godforsaken rain and see if the content of Lord Edward’s cellar can help to thaw us out.’

‘I would not gamble a fortune on it!’ Sir William guffawed, raindrops clinging to his bushy eyebrows. ‘But I will willingly help you discover the flaws in your inheritance! I am not sure that you will be successful in finding even a keg of ale, much less anything of a stronger nature—I would definitely not bet my last coin on it. Lord Edward did not spend money willingly. Indeed, he claimed that he never had it to spend—but only because he could never be bothered to collect it efficiently. I fear that your new estates will prove to be a burden, my lord, unless you are willing to take the time and energy to whip them into shape.’

Mansell turned away with a shrug and a suitable comment—and was immediately conscious of Lady Mansell’s approach to stand beside him on the mired pathway. She had pulled up the hood to hide her hair and most of her face. She looked lost and fragile, alone amidst the groups of mourners. For one moment he thought that she swayed, that she might lose her balance, so he stepped forward and took her arm in a strong clasp.

‘My lady,’ he murmured in a low voice, ‘are you well? Do you need help?’

Her whole body stiffened under his impersonal touch and, although she did not actively pull away, she gave no outward appreciation of his offer of help. There was the merest flicker of her eyelids as she turned her face to his. And a look of shock as if she had been unaware of her surroundings until that moment, as if she were merely going through the motions of what was expected of her. She blinked at Mansell with a frown of recognition—and then shook her head as she pulled her arm from his grip. He could see her visibly withdraw from him, her eyes fall to hide her thoughts.

‘Thank you, my lord. I need no help. I have to return to the castle to ensure that the guests have all they require.’

She turned and walked away from him towards the forbidding gateway.

A simple repast had been laid out in the Great Hall. Bread, meat, cheese and pasties on large platters. Jugs of wine and larger vessels of beer were available, in spite of Sir William’s fears to the contrary. A vast table had been set up with chairs for those who might be infirm. A fire had been lit in the enormous fireplace. It was too meagre to do more than lift the atmosphere, but it was a gesture, and the few who returned to the castle with Lord Mansell gravitated to its flickering cheerfulness, steam rising from damp velvet and mud-caked leather. The guests expressed their sympathies in suitable if not exactly honest terms to the new lord and to Lady Mansell, the servants efficiently poured beer and mulled wine, and the gathering gradually relaxed into gossip, family matters and local affairs typical of such an event.

Mansell found Foxton hovering at his elbow, an expression of some concern on his lined face.

‘Is everything to your satisfaction, my lord? We did what we could. But you must understand … Forgive me, my lord, but—’

‘Yes. Thank you, Foxton. It is better than I could have expected in the circumstances.’ He made no attempt to cloak his knowledge of the state of the once-magnificent castle of Brampton Percy. It was clear for all to see. A run-down estate. No money, no care over past decades, no stores to draw on in any emergency. Where the money from the rents went, Heaven only knew. If, indeed, they had ever been collected as he’d been led to believe. It had taken Mansell less than twenty-four hours to see the dire need here. And, as Josh had pointed out with delicate malice, it was now all his. ‘You have made the guests feel most welcome, Master Foxton. You have my gratitude.’ A smile of genuine warmth touched his harsh features. ‘I think that Lord Edward was not aware of the debt which he owed to your stewardship. But I am.’

Foxton bowed his appreciation. ‘It is my duty and an honour to serve your family, my lord. As my own father did before me. But this—’ he gestured with his hand ‘—is Lady Mansell’s doing, my lord. She was most particular that we should be able to offer some hospitality, and, not knowing who or how many would wish to mark the passing of Lord Edward … If anyone wishes to stay the night, my lord, a number of bedchambers have been made ready.’

Mansell raised his brows in some surprise at the foresight, but made no comment other than, ‘Thank you, Foxton. I am grateful.’

He turned from his Steward to locate the widow. There she was, almost invisible in the gloom in her black gown, moving between the guests, exchanging a word here, supplying another glass of wine there, listening to a whispered confidence or an offer of condolence. The grey shadow of the huge wolfhound had emerged from its temporary incarceration in the stables to attach itself firmly to her skirts once more. Lady Mansell carried herself confidently, gracefully, apparently having recovered from her momentary dislocation in the churchyard. But although she conversed with ease there was no animation and she did not smile. Her aloof composure struck Mansell anew. But perhaps even more remarkable, he quickly noticed, was the care and deference of the servants towards her. They watched her, ready to anticipate her needs, to respond to her every desire. Even Foxton. She might only have been mistress of Brampton Percy for a bare four weeks, yet in that time, however fickle the loyalties of servants might be, she appeared to have been taken under the caring wing of the whole household.

How did she do it? Mansell mused as he watched her from a distance and later voiced his thoughts to Sir Joshua over a mug of ale. ‘She would appear to have no conversation of any merit—or certainly no desire to entertain. No charm. No warmth. Yet even Sir Edward’s hound follows her every step and appears inseparable from her. What is it that they respond to?’

Sir Joshua shrugged. ‘I know not. I have not seen her smile or show pleasure. I watched Thomas Rudhall try to engage her in conversation a little while ago.’ Joshua turned to survey the assembled group, to locate the gentleman.

‘Oh? Another family connection, I presume.’

‘Yes. A cousin of yours, I would think. And a very important one—in his opinion. And, more to the point, a widower. There he is—the large rumpled individual propping up the fireplace, scattering crumbs as he speaks. From Rudhall Park. Poor Thomas tried very hard to flatter the grieving and wealthy widow with his consequence and attention.’

‘And?’

‘She drew in her skirts as if to avoid contamination and looked at him as if he had crawled out of the slime in your inner courtyard.’ Sir Joshua’s face split in a reminiscent grin. ‘Our self-important Thomas made a hasty exit towards the ale. His dreams of a rich, youthful widow with a handsome jointure to warm his bed shattered by one sharp encounter. I could wish to have heard what she said to him.’

‘At least she has good taste.’ Mansell’s lips curled as he assessed his unprepossessing relative, who was at present waxing eloquent and loudly on the strength of local Royalist forces and the certain defeat of Parliament. ‘I imagine that the past four weeks have not been a source of amusement for her. She might not regard wedlock with any degree of tolerance and I wager few women would be attracted by Rudhall’s dubious charms. I remember little of my cousin Edward, but marriage to him must have been … a trial.’ Mansell hesitated a moment, a frown drawing together his heavy brows. ‘Perhaps even worse than that for a gently brought-up girl. Perhaps that is the problem.’

‘At least she now has her freedom. The lady should be rejoicing.’

‘She should indeed. Ah … my own rejoicing is over, Josh! I believe that I must brace myself. Sir William Croft is striding in this direction and I fear I cannot escape. I think the time is fast approaching when I must answer for my sins.’ Mansell’s smile was wry. ‘But I do not believe that I wish to be too apologetic!’

‘When are you ever?’ Josh raised his brows in mock surprise. ‘I will leave you to work out your own salvation, Francis—meanwhile, I will go and talk to the widow and try my own charms on her. If only to ruffle the Rudhall feathers, scruffy as they are. Just try not to shock your powerful relative too much on your first meeting.’

Sir William Croft approached, a tankard of ale clasped in one large hand. In spite of his advancing years he remained robust and active, his broad features ruddy and weatherbeaten, a force to be reckoned with. Authority wrapped him round like a velvet cloak and he wore it comfortably.

‘I suppose I should say that I am sorry about Edward’s demise,’ he stated brusquely, without preamble. ‘But I have to admit to being even more sorry about your brother’s death last month. A terrible thing, to have lost James so young.’

Mansell’s reply was tight-lipped and curt. ‘Yes. A great waste.’

‘And your own tragic loss. Both Katherine and the babe. More than a year ago now, isn’t it? And then your father …’ He shook his head at the terrible unpredictability of life and death. ‘A desperate time for your family.’

‘Yes.’

‘Forgive me, boy.’ Sir William closed a large hand on Mansell’s rigid arm, the warm pressure indicating the depths of sympathy which he would not convey in words. ‘I see you have no wish to speak of it, but it would have been discourteous not to express my condolences—and those of my Lady. Your mother wrote to her about Katherine. We never knew her, of course.’

‘No.’ If Mansell’s response had been coldly controlled before, now it was glacial. The rigid set of his shoulders discouraged further comment on the subject.

Sir William shuffled uncomfortably, then took a deep, spine-stiffening draught from his tankard. ‘Your mother. I suppose she is taking it hard?’

‘Yes.’ Mansell visibly relaxed a little, and took a glass of wine from a servant. ‘She is in London at present with Ned and Cecilia. I fear she finds time heavy on her hands. And is in constant despair that either I or Ned will also become victim of a stray bullet, as James was.’

‘And, of course, it has handed you a lot of unexpected responsibility. How do you feel about it?’

‘Uncomfortable.’ Mansell responded to the older man’s obvious concern with more honesty than he might usually allow. And besides, the new direction held no vicious memories, guaranteed to strike and tear at the unwary with cruel talons. ‘I suddenly seem to have inherited two titles. First my father’s knighthood, and now Edward’s barony, making me responsible for not only my father’s possessions but also Edward’s acres. It was not the life that I had planned.’

‘Don’t forget the inheritance from Edward’s bride,’ Sir William reminded him with a sharp glance. ‘She will have an excellent jointure as his widow from the estate, of course, but Mistress Ingram must have brought great resources with her to the marriage. The Laxton estates in Yorkshire themselves must bring in a tidy sum. I can tell you, it was the talk of Herefordshire when Edward suddenly upped and wed at his time of life. Why in God’s name should he suddenly change the habits of a lifetime? Not to mention the financial cost! We had no idea—always presumed he would go to his grave with no direct dependants. But no—and he must have beggared himself and his tenants in raising the funds to buy Mistress Ingram’s wardship from old Denham. As you will soon be aware, Edward was the worst of landlords. From what I know of the matter, his record-keeping was disorganised in the extreme, his collection of rents erratic and his investment in the estate nil.’ Sir William, a conscientious landlord himself, shook his head in disbelief. ‘His pockets were invariably empty, he was always pleading poverty and living in a style worse than that of his meanest tenant. His lands are widespread with great potential, but you would not think it to look at them. Look at this place.’ He waved his hand to encompass the medieval gloom of the Great Hall. ‘And to bring a new bride here!’ He huffed in disbelief.

‘As you say.’ Mansell did not need to follow Sir William’s gaze to know the truth of it. ‘I was unaware of either the marriage, or the extent of the property that now falls to my care. Or the state in which I find it. I could wish, for the most selfish of reasons, that my brother James had lived to take on the inheritance.’

Sir William nodded. There was nothing to say. He took a contemplative draught of the ale, his thoughtful gaze resting on the lady in question at the far side of the Hall. ‘Poor girl,’ he muttered as if to himself.

‘Why do you say that?’ Mansell realised that it might be in his interests to hear Sir William’s more knowledgeable assessment of the match.

‘Did you know your cousin at all?’ The rough brows rose in exaggerated query.

‘Not really.’

‘I thought not or you would not ask. I would not wish to speak ill of the dead, and certainly not on the day of his burial. But let me just say this—Edward had few friends to respect or mourn him, as is obvious from the paltry turn-out here. Local unrest would not normally keep friends and neighbours away from a good funeral! And his merits as a sensitive and caring husband for a young girl? Well, all I can say is that Denham must have been out of his mind—should never have allowed it.’

Francis watched Lady Mansell as she eased an elderly lady to her feet from a settle by the fire and restored her stick to her gnarled hand. His lips thinned a little in sudden distaste. So his own thoughts on the marriage were confirmed. Poor girl indeed.

‘It will be difficult for you to enjoy your gains in the circumstances, my boy, although we are quieter here than many areas,’ Sir William continued, interrupting his younger relative’s thoughts, sure of his subject now. ‘Most of the families hereabouts are loyal to the King or have the sense to keep their mouths shut and their doubts to themselves. Connections between families are still strong—much intermarriage has strengthened family ties over the centuries of course. Your own family has close connections with many apart from us at Croft Castle. The Scudamores, of course. The Pyes, the Kyrles of Walford—none of them here, you notice. And the Rudhalls—the son was at the church earlier but—ah, yes, there he is by the screen, looking as if he has lost his best hunter as usual. You will have noticed that the Coningsbys did not put in an appearance?’

‘I had. Is there a reason? Your knowledge of my family intricacies is much greater than mine.’

‘No marriage connections with the Coningsbys, of course—but a deadly feud between Fitzwilliam Coningsby and Edward going back many years; I have forgotten the details. But a lot of history there. You might find that you inherit it along with the property. You might want to watch your back, my boy.’

‘I am sure I shall soon discover. But tell me, Sir William, how did my cousin’s loyalties lie in present politics?’

‘Royalist, of course. Hereford is well under the command of Coningsby as Governor in the city. He and I muster the trained bands as required. There has been little unrest so far. The nearest Parliamentary garrison is Gloucester under Colonel Massey and that is too far away to be much of a threat in everyday matters. So we organise affairs to our own liking with little interference from those self-serving blackguards such as John Pym in London.’

Mansell took a deep breath. It really would not be politic to remain silent longer on such a crucial issue, however difficult the outcome. His eyes held Sir William’s in a forthright stare. ‘Perhaps I should tell you clearly, Sir William. My own sympathies lie with Parliament. I cannot in all conscience support a man such as Charles Stuart who would bleed his country dry, ignore the advice of Parliament—or even its very existence—and would have used the Catholic Irish to invade and subjugate his own people. I am not a Royalist—and nor would I be content to keep my mouth shut and my head down, as you put it. I will speak up for my beliefs, and act on them if necessary.’

Silence. As sharp as the honed blade at Sir William’s side.

Sir William took another gulp of ale. ‘Well, my boy.’ He eyed Mansell quizzically, perhaps a hint of respect in his fierce eyes under their grizzled brows. ‘That will put the hunting cat amongst the local pigeons. I like a man who knows his own mind and is not afraid to state it. But are you sure? I had never expected your father’s son to speak such treason. And neither would he! He will be turning in his grave to hear you!’

Mansell laughed, but harshly, and the bitterness did not escape Sir William. ‘Oh, yes. I am sure. Will this situation—your family connection with a traitor—make matters uncomfortable for you?’

‘Yes. It will. No point in beating about the bush. My wife will expect me to welcome you for the sake of your father and mother. My political associates will damn you as spawn of the Devil. So what am I expected to do?’ Sir William finished the ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he contemplated the future. The lines of authority and experience around his eyes deepened as he weighed the situation. Mansell simply waited for him to come to a most personal decision, hoping that he had not totally alienated this proud but honest man. He was not disappointed.

‘I will try not to forget what I owe to family. Or the strength of historical connection. I owe that to your family and mine. But I never dreamed … Did your father know of your … your political inclination before he died?’

‘Yes, he did. And although he could not support me—he remained true to the Stuart cause until the end—he did not try to dissuade me. But our relationship was not easy in the months before he died.’ Mansell’s eyes were bleak as he remembered the pain and disillusion which had marked his father’s last days.

‘Well, then. It has indeed been a day of revelation.’ Sir William hesitated a moment. ‘It could put you in a dangerous position, you realise.’

‘How so? I am hardly a threat to my neighbours, outnumbered as I am.’

‘So it would seem. But a Parliamentarian stronghold such as this in a Royalist enclave? A severe weakness, many would say, particularly as some of your neighbours might believe that your potential influence is now too great, given your fortunate increase in wealth and property. Some might decide that it would be best policy to divest you of some of that influence. Permanently!’ He showed his teeth without humour. ‘Some such as Fitzwilliam Coningsby!’

‘You are surely not thinking of a physical assault, are you?’ Mansell did not know whether to laugh at the prospect or to be horrified.

‘I hope not. But put your mind to your other properties. It would do well for you to see to their security before word of this gets out. As it most assuredly will.’

‘And you would give me that time, Sir William?’

‘I could. For the sake of family, you understand. But don’t expect too much of me. I am not enamoured of the work of Mr Pym and his rabble of supporters who would oust the rightful monarch—and replace him with what? God only knows. It would put all our lives and property in danger if we allowed such a thing to happen. Yours too, my lord.’

‘Now is not the time for such a discussion. But I am grateful for your advice and tolerance, Sir William. I hope that I can repay it.’ His features were softened a little by a genuine smile. ‘And not put you into too great a difficulty with Lady Croft.’

Sir William grunted, turning to collect his cloak and hat from the chest against the wall. ‘I must be going. What will Lady Mansell do now?’

‘I have no idea. Although I expect that she is more than well provided for. I presume, given the wardship, that she has no family to return to.’

Sir William shook his head. ‘These are not good times for young women, particularly wealthy ones, to exert their independence.’

‘I am aware. That, Sir William, is the next problem for me to consider.’

‘I wish you good fortune. And if you will take my advice, you will mention your allegiance towards Parliament to no one, at least not until you are certain that you can hold your property. I would hate you to lose it before you have taken possession!’ He laced his cloak and pulled his hat low on his brow. ‘Take care, my boy. Take care.’ Sir William clapped Mansell on the shoulder. ‘Local politics run very deep.’

The guests had all gone at last. Honoria, Lady Mansell, stood with her back to the smoking fire, listening to the silence around her. Absently she stroked the coarse shoulders of Morrighan, the wolfhound, who pressed close. Now what? Until this moment there had been so many necessary tasks for her to supervise or undertake, so much to fill her mind. Now there was nothing—until the business dealings with Mr Wellings, Edward’s lawyer, on the following morning. No one had taken up the offer of hospitality. How would they, in all honesty, wish to stay in this dismal castle, the very air redolent of despair, of hopelessness. Even Sir Joshua had gone to pack his few possessions prior to making the short journey to Ludlow before night fell. What should she do now? Her brain seemed to be incapable of coming to any sensible decision. All she wished to do was retire to her room and sleep for a week. Or weep from the relief that she was no longer governed by Lord Edward’s demands. But she would not! Tears solved no problems.

The great door at the end of the Hall opened to admit a blast of cold air and the new lord. He hesitated for a moment as he saw her there and then, as if reaching a difficult decision, walked slowly towards her, eyes intent. She lowered hers. It would not do to increase her vulnerability by a show of emotion or uncertainty. Or weakness. If she had learnt anything at all in her short life, it was just that.

She remembered him vividly from their first encounter at Whitehall. He had not remembered her, except as a vague acquaintance—indeed, how should he? She was not a noticeable person, would not draw a man’s attention in a crowd. Her hair, her face, her figure were all acceptable, she supposed, but really quite commonplace. Certainly not attractive enough to catch the eye of a man such as Francis Brampton, as he was then styled. But she remembered him.

And she remembered his wife. His betrothed as she had been then in the final months of 1640. Katherine. A lively, laughing sprite of a girl. A vibrant beauty with slender figure, tawny hair and jade green eyes, a young girl experiencing the pleasures of Court for the first time—the allure of the masques, the songs, the dancing. And they had so clearly been in love. A glance. A touch. A smile. Such small gestures had shouted their passion to the roof timbers. So much promise for the future of their marriage together. With an effort of will, Honoria closed her eyes to blot out the memory and governed her mind against the envy that had engulfed her and still had the power to bruise her heart. How could her own experience of marriage have been so empty of love, so painful and humiliating?

But, after all, what right had she to complain? Katherine was dead.

Honoria saw Mansell now when she raised her eyes once more, her control again securely in place, her lips firm. Not a courtier, in spite of his appearance at the sophisticated Court of Charles and Henrietta Maria, but rather a man of action. A soldier, perhaps. She knew that he was a younger son and so had been prepared to make a name for himself as a soldier or, more likely, politician. But then his elder brother had died, in a minor, meaningless skirmish against opposing forces near their estates in Suffolk, thus thrusting Sir Francis, as he became, into the role of head of family, into the elite of county society.

Honoria studied him. He was tall and rangy, well coordinated with long, lean muscles. Hard and fit, he carried no extra weight, his black velvet coat emphasising his broad shoulders and the sleek line of waist and thigh. She could imagine him being equally at home in the saddle or wielding a sword in battle. He walked towards her with long strides, with a natural grace and elegance, of which he was probably unaware.

He was not conventionally handsome, she decided—his features were too strong for that. But striking. Definitely not a man to be ignored in any circles. His hair, which waved to his shoulders, was dark brown with hints of gold and russet. His eyebrows were darker, drawing attention to remarkable pale grey eyes, which could appear almost silver when caught by the light, or dark and stormy when passions moved him. They were beautiful, she decided. And they made her shiver a little with their intensity. A masterful nose and firm lips, now set in a straight, uncompromising line. No, not handsome, but a striking face that would be impossible to overlook or forget. And made more memorable by a thin scar, which ran along his brow from his temple to clip the edge of one fine eyebrow. An old scar, thin and silver against his tanned skin. Honoria found that she could not take her eyes from him. And yet she was forced to acknowledge that he would be a dangerous man to cross. His face was imprinted with harsh lines of temper and a determination to have his own way, and it seemed to Honoria, given his confident arrogance, that he would enjoy much success.

She sighed a little. What would it have been like if she had been wed to Francis Brampton—Lord Mansell, as she must now learn to think of him—instead of Lord Edward? Handsome the new Lord Mansell might not be, but she had been well aware of the number of eyes that had followed him at Court. Followed him with feminine interest and speculation in spite of his recent betrothal. She herself had not been immune … But where had that thought come from? She pulled her scattered wits together. She had no idea what had prompted such a daydream—and it would not do to think further along those lines. To show emotion was to put yourself in the power of those who witnessed it. She must keep her feelings close at all costs.

Mansell continued to approach, unaware of the disturbing thoughts that ran through the lady’s mind. No, he decided, he hardly remembered her from their first meeting. Only a vague impression of a young woman within Denham’s family. How should it have been otherwise when he had been caught up in the glory of new love, held captive by Katherine’s vivid face and vibrant colouring. God—how he had loved her! And been consumed by the miracle that she should love him. It seemed like yesterday—and yet a lifetime ago. No! He would not have been aware of the woman who stood before him, shrouded in black and an indefinable air of desolation. Attractive enough, he supposed. Well born, rich—but nothing to compare with the girl who had shared his childhood and had bestowed on him her love and her heart so willingly. He could almost hear Katherine’s laughter. He closed his mind against the sharp lance of pain, forcing his thoughts back to the immediate problem. At that moment he sincerely doubted if Edward’s widow ever laughed!

The widow raised her eyes to his as he halted before her. ‘I trust that the arrangements were to your liking, my lord?’

‘Excellent—in the circumstances.’ His smile of thanks warmed his features. ‘I understand from Foxton that I have you to thank for the arrangements—and the spread of food. I have to admit that I had not given it much thought.’

‘How should you? Men rarely do. You merely expect it to be done.’

Mansell raised his brows, the smile fading, at the quick response. Had she intended such needle-sharp judgement? He could detect no malice in the lady’s face. Nothing except for a soul-crushing weariness that she could not disguise. He chose to control his instinctive reaction and bit down on a curt reply.

‘I could have no complaint, and nor could our guests, my lady. Unless it was the length of time it took the Reverend Gower to bury my late unlamented cousin.’

As on the previous evening, it crossed his mind that perhaps that was not the most tactful of comments to make to Edward’s widow, but she accepted the criticism of her lord with her usual lack of response. No touch of humour. No smile. Merely a frigid acceptance.

‘I believe that your family connection with Lord Edward is somewhat distant, my lord?’

‘Indeed.’ Mansell moved closer to the fire. ‘Some three generations back, I believe. My great-grandfather was brother to Edward’s great-grandfather, which makes us … well, second or third cousins, I suppose. And I had no expectation of this inheritance, of course.’

‘I heard about your brother’s recent death, my lord. And that of your wife and son. I am sorry for your tragic loss. It must be very hard to accept it.’ He heard a note of true regret in her voice. Even as he mentally withdrew from further expressions of sympathy—had he not suffered enough for one day?—he saw a shiver run through her so that he surprised himself and her by reaching out to cover her clasped hands with his own. And he kept the contact even when the wolfhound showed her teeth in silent warning.

Her hands were icy.

‘You are frozen, my lady. This is no place for you.’

Honoria choked back the sudden threat of tears at such an unexpected expression of consideration, silently horrified at how little it took to disturb her.

‘It is no matter,’ she answered in a low voice. ‘I will see to the clearing of the repast now. I will talk to Master Foxton and Mistress Morgan.’

‘You will not.’ Sir Francis turned her hands within his own, aware of the soft skin and slender fingers. Such small hands to be burdened with such responsibility. He snapped his concentration back to the immediate. ‘Is there a fire in the solar?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then come. You have been on your feet all morning and should rest a little. And some wine will be acceptable, I think.’

‘But Sir Joshua—’

‘Sir Joshua can fend for himself admirably. Have you eaten today?’

‘It is not important …’

‘I suppose that means no. No wonder you look so pale and tired.’ Mansell took her arm, in a gentle grasp, but one which brooked no more argument and allowed her no room for rebellion. He led her to the stair. The wolfhound shook herself and pattered after them, her blunt claws clicking on the stone treads.

Soon Lady Mansell found herself ensconced in a cushioned settle before the smouldering, banked fire in the solar.

‘Stay there,’ he ordered, frowning down at her. ‘I shall return shortly.’

It was easiest, Honoria decided, to do just that, although she did not want the inevitable conversation with the new owner of Brampton Percy. He returned with wine and a platter of bread and cheese, which he placed at her elbow and then kicked the logs into a blaze. When he took a seat on the settle facing her, Morrighan stretched before the warmth with a heavy sigh, but kept her pale eyes on the intruder. Honoria sat quietly, waiting, ignoring the food and wine.

‘I cannot force you to eat, of course,’ he commented in a clipped tone, disapproval evident in his stern face.

‘I am not hungry.’ The slightest of shrugs.

Suppressing the urge to take issue with her on this point, he decided that it would serve no purpose and that he should go with impulse to discover what he could about the lady. ‘Will you tell me about your marriage?’ he asked abruptly. ‘I will understand if you choose not to but … Do I presume correctly that it was not a love match.’

‘No. It was not.’

‘I see.’ What should he say next?

‘You should not forget, my lord, that I was an heiress,’ the lady obliged him by explaining the situation, ‘and my parents were dead. The Court of Wards placed me and my estates under the authority of Sir Robert Denham as my guardian, until such time as a suitable marriage could be arranged.’

‘Of course. And so Lord Edward bought your wardship from Sir Robert.’

‘Indeed, my lord. Lord Edward informed me that he had managed to scrape together enough money from the estate for the purchase in the hope of a good return on his investments. Not least an heir. It cost him the noble sum of £2,000 to acquire my hand and my lands. He begrudged every penny of it and the effort it took to raise it from his unwilling tenants. He lost no opportunity to inform me of it.’

The statement of events was delivered in such a soft, flat tone, but his ear was quick to pick up an underlying thread of—what? Hurt? Humiliation? His heart was again touched, the merest brush of compassion, by her calm acceptance of her experiences.

‘That could not have been pleasant for you.’

‘It is the lot of heiresses, I believe. I cannot complain.’

‘Forgive me for touching on a personal subject, but surely your guardian could have found you a more suitable husband?’ Mansell resorted to the direct. ‘Lord Edward must have been nearer sixty than twenty. And, with respect, I would have expected you to have been married before now.’

‘Before my advanced age?’ Her hazel eyes met and held his. ‘I am twenty-three, my lord.’

A slight flush touched his lean cheeks and a spark of anger, of guilt, glinted in his eye: he might have broached the subject head on, but he had not expected her to be so outspoken. ‘It was not my intention to be so insensitive, my lady. It is simply that, in general, heiresses have no lack of suitors. There must have been others more … appealing, shall we say, than my cousin Edward.’

‘You read the situation correctly, my lord. I am not offended. There was no lack of suitors.’ She was cold now, as if reciting the contents of a recipe. ‘When I was very young I was betrothed to George Manners, the heir to the Stafford estates. I only met him once. He was very young—still a child, in fact, even younger than I was—and very sweet. I remember that he wanted to climb the trees in the park … he died from a contagious fever within a year of our betrothal.’

‘I am sorry.’

She lifted her shoulders again dispassionately, turning her face to the fire. ‘And then I was betrothed to Sir Henry Blackmore, cousin to the Earl of Sunderland. He had very powerful connections and had his eye to my estates. We met on a number of occasions. We would seem to have been compatible. He died from a bullet in the head last year at Edgehill.’

‘I see. And then there was Edward.’

‘And then there was Edward.’ A mere whisper.

He could think of nothing to say about the sad little catalogue of events.

‘So you see,’ she continued, her voice stronger now, ‘as long as Lord Edward was willing to pay the price, my guardian was more than pleased to accept his offer.’

‘Were they kind to you?’

‘Sir Robert? Of course. I was given every attention and consideration by Sir Robert and his wife. It was his duty to do so and he took his obligations very seriously. As a Baron of the Exchequer, he could afford to live in considerable style and I was brought up with his daughters as one of the family. I lacked for nothing. My education was exemplary. I have all the skills deemed necessary for an eligible bride. But a guardianship cannot go on for ever. I believe that the outbreak of the war spurred my guardian to push for the marriage. And I believe that he wanted the money to donate to the Royal cause.’

But they did not care for you, did not love you, did they? Did she realise that she had spoken only of duty and obligation?

Mansell felt a sudden inclination to ask if Lord Edward had also been kind and considerate to her but knew that he must not. It was too private a matter. And after Croft’s comments, the answer was in doubt. Whatever the truth of the matter, she was now free of her obligation and might achieve a happier future.

‘What will you do now, my lady? I presume that you will not wish to return to the household of your guardian.’

‘No. I have no further claim on them. The legal obligation is complete. But I have made plans. You need not fear that I shall be a burden on you, my lord. As an heiress I have an excellent jointure. It will all be clarified at the reading of the will, but I am aware of the terms of the settlement that was negotiated with Sir Robert on my marriage. I know that Lord Edward made a new will on our return here and my jointure is secure. I need nothing from you.’

‘That was not what I meant.’ He tried to quell the sudden leap of annoyance at her resistance. ‘Where will you go?’ he pursued. ‘You can hardly live alone and unprotected. Not with the prospect of armed gangs, not to mention legitimate troops who are prepared to take possession of any property that might further their cause.’

‘I shall not be unprotected.’ She noted but ignored the impatience in his voice and in the determined clenching of his jaw. ‘Sir William Croft offered me an armed guard if I wish to travel any distance. And certainly I can live alone within my own household. As a widow of advanced years I hardly need a chaperon. And as a woman I believe that I will be in less danger of attack than you, my lord. No man willingly wages war against an unprotected woman. It is not considered chivalrous.’ Her lips twitched in the merest of smiles. ‘Sir William’s warning and advice to you would seem to have been most apt, my lord. It is perhaps necessary for you to look to your own possessions, rather than be concerned with mine.’

‘I see that you are well informed!’ And how did she know about that? Annoyance deepened. ‘I suppose that I must learn that nothing remains secret for long in this house.’

‘Very true. Besides,’ she continued, ‘I have had my fill of protection, of betrothals and marriage.’ She breathed in steadily as her wayward emotions once more threatened to slip beyond her grasp. ‘Primarily I shall go to Leintwardine Manor. It is part of my jointure and only a short distance from here. I shall be comfortable there. It is a place of … great charm.’

‘I still do not think you should do anything precipitate,’ Mansell insisted. ‘Take time to decide what is best for you.’

‘I shall remove myself from this place as soon as may be. By Friday, if that can be arranged.’ He noted the faintest of shudders once again run through her slight frame and did not believe that it was from cold.

‘You sound as if you hate it here.’

‘I never said that.’ For one moment her eyes blazed, glinting gold and green in their depths, only to be veiled by a swift downsweep of sable lashes.

‘You do not appear to appreciate the very real dangers,’ he pursued the point, but knew he was losing the battle. ‘I feel a sense of duty to see to your comfort—and safety.’

‘How so?’ Her gaze was direct, an unmistakable challenge. ‘You have no duty towards me. You need not concern yourself over my future, my lord Mansell. After all, until yesterday, you were not even aware that I existed as a member of your extended family. After tomorrow, I shall take my leave.’

Abruptly she stood to put an end to the discussion and walked from the room without a backward glance, leaving food and wine untouched, her black silk skirts brushing softly against the oak floor. The wolfhound shadowed her once more, leaving Mansell alone in the solar to curse women who were obstinately blind to where their best interests might lie.

‘And the problem is,’ he confided to Sir Joshua when he walked with him to the stables an hour later, ‘I find that however much I might wish to accept her decision, to let her make her own arrangements, I simply cannot do so. God save me from difficult, opinionated women!’

Chapter Three

‘A sad occasion, my lord.’ Mr Gregory Wellings shuffled the papers before him with all the professional and pompous efficiency of a successful lawyer.

Thursday morning.

They had chosen to meet in a room that might have been transformed into a library or study, or even an estate office, if any of the previous Brampton lords had shown the least inclination towards either books or business. Since they had not, it was a little-used chamber, of more recent construction than the original fortress, but neglected in spite of the splendid carving on the wooden panelling and the wide window seats, which might tempt someone at leisure to sit and take in the sweep of the distant hills. Although it was rarely used, there was clear evidence of some recent attempt at cleaning, presumably for this very event. Where else would it be possible to invite Lord Edward’s legal man to read the will to those who might expect some recognition? The floors had been swept, the heavy hangings beaten to remove the worst of the dust and cobwebs. A fire burned and crackled fiercely to offset the dank air. The mullioned windows, larger than many in the castle, had been cleaned and, although still smeared with engrained grime, allowed faint rays of spring sunshine to percolate the gloom. A scarred, well-used oak table served as a desk for Mr Wellings to preside over the legal affairs of the dead, the surface littered with documents and letters, frayed ribbon and cracked seals. The two documents before him, upon which his thin hands now rested, were both new, the paper still in uncreased and unstained condition.

Honoria had taken a seat on an upright chair beside the fire. Lord Mansell stood behind her, leaning an arm against the high carved mantel. The lady was as impassive as ever, but Mansell’s concern for her well-being increased as the days passed. If she had slept at all the previous night it would have been a surprise to him. Her hair and skin and her eyes were dull as if they had lost all vitality and he knew with certainty that she was not eating enough. If only she had some colour in her cheeks and not the stark shadows from exhaustion and strain. Whatever was troubling her was putting her under severe stress, but she clearly had no intention of unburdening her anxieties to him. Whenever possible she absented herself from his company. When they met they exchanged words about nothing but the merest commonplace. Why are you so unhappy? he asked her silently, glancing down at her averted face. Surely your freedom from Sir Edward with a substantial income in your own name should be a source of happiness and contentment, not despair? But he found no answer to his concerns. Perhaps she was indeed merely dull, with no qualities to attract.

But, he decided, quite unequivocally, she should not wear black.

Lady Mansell’s spine stiffened noticeably as Mr Wellings cleared his throat, preparing to read the final wishes of the recently deceased Lord Mansell. The present lord, on impulse, leaned down to place a hand, the lightest of touches, on her shoulder in a gesture of support. She flinched a little in surprise at his touch, glancing briefly up at him, before relaxing again under the light pressure. After the first instant of panic, he recognised the flash of gratitude in her eyes before she looked away. So, not impassive or unmoved by the situation, after all!

Also present in the chamber, as requested by Mr Wellings, was the Steward, Master Foxton, on this occasion accompanied by Mistress Brierly and Mistress Morgan, Lord Edward’s cook and housekeeper of many years. They stood together, just inside the doorway, nervous and uncomfortable in their formal black with white collars and aprons, to learn if they were to be rewarded for their long and faithful service. Uneasily, their eyes flickered from Mansell to the lawyer, and back again. The brief sour twist to Foxton’s lips as he entered the room suggested that they had little in the way of expectations from their dead master.

Mr Wellings cleared his throat again and swept his eyes round the assembled company. He knew them all from past dealings at Brampton Percy, except for the new lord, of course. He would be more than interested to see Lord Mansell’s reaction to Lord Edward’s will. He straightened his narrow shoulders and lifted the two relevant documents to catch the light. ‘My lord, my lady, this is the content of Edward Brampton’s will.’

He turned his narrowed eyes in the direction of the servants and inclined his head towards them. A brief smile, which might have been of sympathy, touched his lips. ‘Lord Edward left a bequest to Master Foxton, Mistress Brierly and Mistress Morgan in recognition of their service at Brampton Percy. They shall each receive a bolt of black woollen cloth, a length of muslin and a length of linen, all of suitable quality and sufficient for new clothing. They shall also be assured of their keep and a roof over their head until the day of their death.’

Mr Wellings paused.

‘Is that the sum of the bequest, sir?’ enquired Mansell in a quiet voice at odds with the grooves of disgust that bracketed his mouth.

‘It is, my lord.’

‘It is interesting, is it not, Mr Wellings, that the final part of the bequest will fall on my shoulders, not on those of my late departed cousin?’

‘Indeed, my lord.’ Wellings’s sharp eyes held a glint of humour at the obvious strategy of his late employer.

‘It is quite insufficient, but much as I expected.’ Mansell dug into the deep pocket of his coat and produced a leather pouch. How fortunate, he thought sardonically, that he had come prepared. As the pouch moved in his hand, the faint metallic chink of coins was clear in the quiet room. He approached Foxton and handed over the pouch.

‘I have noticed that every member of this household is in need of new clothing, Master Foxton. If you would be so good as to arrange it, this should cover the expense and more. I expect that those in my employ should be comfortably and appropriately clothed, as would any lord.’

‘My lord …’ Foxton stammered, holding the pouch tightly. ‘This is most generous …’

‘No. It is your right and I believe it has been neglected.’

‘Thank you, my lord. I shall see to it.’ Mistress Brierly and Mistress Morgan, less successful that the Steward in hiding broad smiles of delight, exchanged glances and dropped hasty curtsies, their cheeks flushed with pleasure.

‘If you will come to me this afternoon, Master Foxton, I will discuss with you suitable remuneration for all three of you as is fitting and as I am sure Lord Edward would have wished.’

‘I will, my lord.’ Lord Francis himself opened the door to allow Foxton to usher out the two women.

‘That was well done, my lord.’ Wellings’s tone was gruff as he nodded in acknowledgement of the gesture.

‘It was necessary. I take no credit for it, Mr Wellings.’ Mansell’s tone was sharp, his brows drawn in a heavy line. ‘Efficient servants are essential to the smooth running of this household and should be suitably rewarded. It is to Lord Edward’s detriment that he failed to do so. It is something I must look to.’

‘Your concern will be welcomed at Brampton Percy, my lord. It is not something of which your dependants have recent experience.’

‘Probably not. So, Mr Wellings, let us continue and finish this business.’ He returned to his stance by the fire, casting a critical glance at Honoria. She had remained silent, uninvolved, throughout the whole interchange. The sudden warmth that touched her chilled blood would have surprised him, her instinctive admiration for his sensitive handling of Edward’s mean bequests. He did not see her quick glance through concealing lashes. She would have thanked him, but feared to draw attention to herself. Perhaps later, when all this was over and she could breathe easily again.

‘Very well, my lord.’ Wellings picked up where he had left off. ‘To my wife Honoria …

‘As by the terms of the jointure agreed between Sir Robert Denham and myself on the occasion of our betrothal in February 1643, she will enjoy to her sole use and her gift after her death the property of Leintwardine Manor in the county of Herefordshire, which was in her own inheritance. Also the property Ingram House in London. The coach and six horses in which she travelled on the occasion of her marriage from the home of Sir Robert Denham. And the handsome sum of £4,000 per annum.

‘This will be deemed sufficient to allow her to live comfortably and is in recognition of the extent of the inheritance that she brought to the Brampton family with her marriage. It is a substantial settlement—as is your right, my lady.’

‘Is that as you anticipated, my lady?’ Mansell queried when the lady made no comment.

‘Yes. It is as was agreed between my lord and Sir Robert. Lord Edward made no changes here.’

‘Continue then, Mr Wellings.’

‘To my heir, Sir Francis Brampton, of the Suffolk line of Bramptons, there being no direct heirs of my body, it is my wish and my intention that he will inherit the whole of the property that comprises the Brampton estate. This is to include the estates of——and each area is itemised, my lord, as you will see—the castle and land of Brampton Percy, the manors of Wigmore, Buckton, Aylton and Eyton, the lease of crown land at Kingsland and Burrington. That, my lord, is the extent of the Brampton acres. Also itemised is livestock, timber and grain from the said estates and the flock of 1,000 sheep, which run on the common pastures at Clun. Finally there is a substantial town house in Corve Street in Ludlow. Apart from this bequest, there is the inheritance of the Laxton estates in Yorkshire and Laxton House in London, both from the inheritance that Honoria Ingram brought to the marriage.’

Wellings laid down the document in completion, then peered under his eyebrows at Lord Mansell with a speculative gleam in his eyes, his lips pursed.

‘You should know, my lord, that even though this will was made less than a month ago, on the occasion of his recent marriage, Lord Edward in fact added a codicil only two weeks later, a few days before his death. He visited me privately in Ludlow for that purpose.’

‘I see.’ Mansell’s brows rose in some surprise. ‘Or perhaps I don’t. Did you know of this, my lady?’ He moved from the fireplace to pull up one of the straight-backed chairs and sat beside her.

‘No.’ She shook her head, running her tongue along her bottom lip. ‘Does it pose a problem to the inheritance, Mr Wellings?’

‘A problem? Why, no, my lady. It is merely in the way of being somewhat … unusual, shall I say. But nothing of a serious nature, you understand.’

‘Then enlighten us, Mr Wellings. Just what did Lord Edward see a need to add to so recent a will that is not in itself serious?’

‘Lord Edward was aware of his impending death, my lord. He had been aware, I believe, for some months. It was a tumour for which there was no remedy. Recently it became clear to him that his days on this earth were numbered. The pain, I understand … I know that he did not wish to worry you, my lady, so I doubt he made any mention of his complaint …?’

‘No, Mr Wellings.’ There was no doubting the surprise in Honoria’s response. ‘He did not. All I knew was that he was drinking more than was his normal practice. But I did not know the reason. Why did he not tell me? And what difference would it make to his will?’

‘It was his choice not to inform you, my lady. And, if you will forgive me touching on so delicate a matter, my lady, he also realised that in the time left to him he was unlikely to achieve a direct heir of his own body to his estates.’ Wellings inclined his head sympathetically towards Honoria. A flush of colour touched her pale cheeks, but she made no response.

The lawyer glanced briefly at Mansell before continuing.

‘In the light of his very brief marriage to Mistress Ingram, a lady of tender years, and your own single state, my lord, Lord Edward recommends in the codicil that the lady should be taken into your keeping and protection. That is, to put it simply, that you, my lord, should take the lady in marriage. It will provide Lady Mansell with protection and continuity of her status here at Brampton Percy, as well as keeping the considerable property and value of her jointure within the Brampton estate.’

Wellings leaned across the table and handed the relevant document to Lord Francis for his perusal. He took it, rose to his feet and strode to the window where he cast his eyes rapidly down the formal writing. It was all very clear and concise and precisely as Wellings had intimated. He looked back at Honoria.

Their eyes touched and held, hers wide with surprise and shock, his contemplative with a touch of wry amusement at Edward’s devious methods to keep the estate intact. And negate the need to raise the vast sum of £4,000 every year for the comfort of his grieving widow!

‘No!’

‘No, what, my lady?’ He could almost feel the waves of fear issuing from her tense body and knew a sudden desire to allay them. He allowed his lips to curl into a smile of reassurance, gentling the harsh lines of his face, and the gleam in his eyes was soft. It appeared to have no calming effect whatsoever on the lady.

‘You do not wish to marry me, my lord.’

‘How do you know, my lady? I have not yet asked you.’

Honoria could think of no immediate reply. Panic rose into her throat, threatening to choke her, her heart beating so loudly that she felt it must be audible to everyone in the room. She could not possibly marry Francis Brampton, of course she could not. She must not allow this situation to continue. She could not take any more humiliation. With an urgent need to escape she pushed herself to her feet—but then simply stood, transfixed by the power in Mansell’s eyes that held hers, trapped hers. She might have laughed if she could find the breath. She now knew exactly how a rabbit would react when confronted by a hungry fox.

‘There is no need to fear me, my lady.’

‘I do not,’ she whispered, hands clenched by her sides. But she did. And she feared even more her own reaction to him.

The lawyer looked from one to the other, struck by the intensity of emotion that had so suddenly linked them. ‘There is no compulsion here, my lord, my lady,’ he suggested calmly after a short pause in which neither of them had seemed able to break the silence. ‘There is no financial penalty if you choose to go your own separate ways. It is merely Lord Edward’s personal recommendation with the best interests of the lady and of the estate at heart.’

‘I feel free to doubt that Lord Edward ever had anyone’s best interests at heart but his own.’ Mansell’s words and tone were critical and condemning, but his eyes remained fixed on Honoria, and they were kind.

‘I have to say, my lord,’ Wellings continued, ‘that on this occasion I find room for agreement with Lord Edward. In the light of present events and the uncertainty of war it would be most unwise to leave a lady without protection. Leintwardine Manor would be almost impossible to fortify, an easy target for anyone wishing to take control if its security was not looked to. And a lady on her own …’ He looked anxiously at Lady Mansell. ‘As for raising the annual sum from the property, run-down as it is …’ He shook his head. ‘I advise you to think carefully, my lady, before severing your ties with the Bramptons. Unless, my lord, you yourself are bound into an alliance with a young lady?’

‘No.’

Mansell walked across the room and handed the document to Honoria so that she might read of her proposed fate for herself. She took the paper in fingers that were not quite steady and dropped her gaze from his at last.

‘If you decide to take the advice of Lord Edward, I might suggest that you do so promptly,’ Wellings continued. ‘To bring the properties back into the estate will give you, my lord, every legal right to look to the preservation of Leintwardine Manor and Ingram House.’

‘Thank you, sir, for your time and your timely advice. I believe there is much value in what you say.’ He kept his attention on Honoria’s bent head as she read.

‘It is my pleasure. I hope to be of use to you in the future. To both of you.’ The business completed to his satisfaction, Wellings rose to his feet and bowed.

‘Lady Mansell and I need a few private words in respect of the codicil, Mr Wellings. If you wish to gather up your papers, I will send Foxton with some refreshment. I will see you before you leave, of course.’

He took Honoria’s unresisting hand, removed the document from her fingers and then drew her hand through his arm, making the decision for them both.

‘My lady, I suggest we repair to the solar to consider this new situation.’

The solar was warm and inviting if either of them had been in the frame of mind to give it more than a cursory glance. The only appreciative presence was Morrighan, banished from the legal discussions earlier in the day, but now together again with her mistress. She curled her long limbs before the fire, in pleasure at being reunited with such comfort.

The solar was well placed, deliberately so by the Norman-French de Bramptons, who had constructed the castle principally for their safety rather than their comfort, to benefit from whatever sunshine there might be in winter. Pale gold beams spilled through the windows to gild the panelling and the sparse furnishings. The room had been given a woman’s touch. Of all the rooms in the castle that Mansell had investigated, with increasing disfavour since his arrival, this was the only one to bear signs of personal occupancy and attention. It smelled faintly of herbs—lavender, he presumed. The furniture—a chest, a table, carved armchairs—was carefully chosen from what little the castle could offer and had been recently polished. A bright rug covered the smoothly worn floorboards before the fireplace, its colour warming the austere grey stone. Hand-worked cushions helped to soften a window seat that had a view out over an inner courtyard. A bunch of brave snowdrops gleamed white and green in a small pottery vessel on the table. It was clear to him that Honoria had made the room her own and enjoyed its privacy.

But now they stood facing each other across the void of the oak table, Lord Edward’s final document lying between them, the black ink stark in the sun.

‘Please sit, my lady.’ Mansell indicated the carved chair next to her. He poured small beer for them both, pushed the pewter tankard towards her and lowered himself thoughtfully on the seat opposite, hands resting on the table top. He knew that he must tread carefully. Did he really want this aloof, enigmatic lady as his bride? He was not at all certain that he wanted this responsibility along with all the other complications of his now far-flung estates, but did he have a choice? He could hardly throw her to the wolves of local politics and warfare. And there was something about her that tugged at his senses, at some chivalric instinct to protect. Perhaps her vulnerability, her isolation within the community of Brampton Percy. But marriage! He took a deep breath and a mouthful of Lord Edward’s ale, wincing in disgust as he contemplated his next words.

Honoria found herself contemplating not her future, but the hands spread masterfully on the table top. They were wide-palmed, long-fingered and elegant, but with considerable strength. She noted the calluses along the edge of his thumbs from frequent friction with sword and reins. They were hands that would take and hold fast. Was she willing to put her future into those hands? She longed for it, she admitted to herself in a blaze of honesty, but at the same time shrank from the prospect. She pushed the tankard aside and waited.

‘We need to talk, my lady—without polite pretence or dissimulation.’ Mansell’s tone was flat and matter of fact, as if embarking on a business transaction where time was of the essence, but his eyes were compelling. ‘But remember Wellings’s advice. There is no compulsion here. There is no need to feel that you are under any obligation but to your own wishes in the matter. I believe that you will value that—your freedom of choice—more than anything. Am I correct?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. His approach and understanding put her at her ease again, she found herself able to quell the sense of panic which had begun to tighten its hold, and concentrate on the practicalities.

‘Firstly, then, it is necessary for you to tell me—is it possible that you carry Lord Edward’s child? If that is so, then the whole of the will as far as my inheritance could be invalid and we must refer again to Wellings.’

Lady Mansell’s eyes flew to his, all her composure in tatters once more, before she hid her consternation with a sweep of lashes. She looks astonished, he thought. As if she had never even considered the prospect.

‘No.’ He could not identify the emotion in her voice.

‘Are you quite certain?’ He kept his voice gentle.

‘I am certain, my lord. I am not breeding.’

‘Very well. Then tell me what you wish for. Your jointure is secure in all details. You have the manor and the London property, with sufficient income to allow you to live independently. I presume the estate is capable of raising it, if it is taken in hand. Sir William Croft seemed to think so.’

‘Yes. It is what I hoped for. And I have thought about it carefully. If I live at Leintwardine, I do not believe that I would be in any danger. My neighbours, apart from yourself, would all be Royalist and most of them connected by family to the Bramptons. And since I have no intention whatsoever of dabbling in local politics, I think that no one would threaten my peace or my safety. Leintwardine Manor is small and insignificant—hardly a key property in county affairs.’ She clasped her hands on the table, fingers tightly linked, as if her determination would make it so. ‘If there was a threat, I should know about it. Eleanor Croft, Sir William’s wife, would ensure that I be warned.’

‘You seem very sure.’ His brows rose.

‘Yes.’ Honoria chose not to explain her certainty.

‘You may be right.’ But why? He tucked the thought away, to be perused at a later date. ‘But you should consider, my lady, the alternative possibilities. What if the Royalists do not prosper? What if Parliament is able to put considerable forces into the field in the west and can overcome His Majesty? A superior Parliamentarian force might be victorious and see Leintwardine as a jewel for its collection. The garrison at Gloucester is not so far away, after all, and if Sir William Waller should bring his forces to strengthen it, well …’ He shrugged, rose to his feet and moved restlessly around the room, his tall frame dominating the space. ‘And I am not convinced that your sex or your family connections would automatically safeguard you from attack.’

‘But that is all supposition, my lord.’ She frowned at him as he purposely undermined all her comfortable planning.

‘I know. And I remember your previous words to me: that you had had enough of betrothals and marriages to last a lifetime. But consider.’ He sat again and leaned forward on his elbows, spread his hands palm up. ‘I believe that national events are likely to overtake us before we know it and we will all be caught up in the maelstrom of war and violence whether we wish it or no. If you agreed to the marriage I would give you the protection of my name, my resources and my body. Your jointure would remain as it is now, to give you financial security in case of my death. For the present, Brampton Percy would remain your home and I would do all in my power to secure your jointure estates from attack.’

It was a very persuasive argument. But I hate this place! The hatred burned in her throat, hammered in her head. But she did not, could not choose to say it aloud in the face of such a generous gesture. But did he mean it? Could he truly contemplate marriage with her rather than allow her to go her own way and so rid him of the responsibility?

‘I would not pressure you,’ Mansell persisted, ‘but there is much to recommend the scheme.’

She looked at him at last, a clear and level gaze, keeping her voice light. ‘Perhaps you have not considered, my lord. My upbringing was under the influence of Sir Robert Denham, as you are well aware. As a Baron of the Exchequer, he was unswervingly loyal to the King. And so my own inclination has been formed. Could you really believe that the marriage of a Parliamentary radical, as I understand the matter, to a Royalist sympathiser would be suitable?’ She caught the quick flash of surprise on his face. ‘Did you think to keep your political leanings secret in this house? You spoke about them to Sir William after Lord Edward’s burial. You were overheard—so it is now the talk of the servants’ hall.’ She smiled a little at his momentary discomfort.

‘I see. Then I must learn discretion and to guard my tongue. But I am no radical.’ His eyes glittered with a touch of humour. ‘But, yes … of course it would be foolish to deny that it is divisive. But is it insurmountable?’

‘Would it be possible to differ on politics, when blood is being shed in the name of King and Parliament, but yet preserve domestic harmony?’ There was more than a hint of doubt in her voice.

‘I have no idea.’ Frustration engraved a deep line between his brows. ‘I agree that it is an issue, but I find your safety to be a more pressing one. Perhaps we could beg to differ on the powers invested in the monarch, but not be reduced to shooting each other over the breakfast table.’

‘I suppose so.’ The doubt was still very evident. ‘But I would not care for you to suspect my loyalties. As you say, we have no idea of what might develop to split families asunder.’

‘Very true. Yet I still believe that the advantages far outweigh any difficulties that may not even happen.’ Mansell hesitated a moment, hearing his own words, amazed that he appeared to be talking himself into an alliance when he was by no means certain that he desired it, whatever Lord Edward’s wishes might have been. Why not simply let the matter rest and let the lady sever all ties with the Bramptons, if that was her choice? And then a thought struck him. One he did not care for. ‘Unless, of course, you would find me objectionable as a husband.’

She glanced up, her eyes wide, her hands suddenly curled into fists, hidden in the folds of her black skirts. Objectionable? Oh, no. How could any woman find an alliance with this virile, formidable man anything but acceptable? Those magnificent eyes, which gleamed silver in the light. The strong wave of his dark hair. The strength and power of his lean body. How could she resist such an offer? And yet she was afraid. Lord Edward had taught her well that … And how could she possibly tell Francis Brampton of her fears?

She is actually thinking about it? His smile had a sardonic edge as he waited. Finally he gave up.

‘If I lacked for self-confidence, my lady, you would just have destroyed it utterly. Would you reject me as being unsuitable? Do you dislike me so much that you could not consider matrimony with me?’

She shook her head, flushing vividly. ‘No, my lord. Never that. But I cannot imagine why you would show such concern for my future. There is really no need.’

As she spoke, the answer came to her with all the clarity of a lightning strike. Think, you fool. Don’t be lulled by a masterful face and imperious eyes. Think of how he would assess the value of Ingram House and Leintwardine Manor. Of course he would not turn his back on such a gain, offered to him on a silver platter, at so little cost to himself. Of course marriage would be acceptable to him! Even marriage to me! Perhaps he is no different from Edward after all and simply sees me as far too valuable an asset to be allowed to go free.

‘It is my thought that I could do no better for a bride. I would be honoured if you would accept my offer.’ He tried for a persuasive tone.

‘Perhaps you have not considered, my lord. Perhaps you would not choose to marry again so soon after your sad bereavement.’ There, she had said it. Poor lost Katherine. She awaited his reply, her breath shallow, barely stirring the bodice of her gown.

Mansell considered his reply for a long moment. ‘It is now more than a year since Katherine’s death. I have grieved for her. And the son I never knew.’ The lines around his mouth were deeply engraved as he frowned down at the tankard in his hands, but his words were gentle enough. ‘But you must not think of her as an impediment to our marriage, a shade who will tread upon your heels at every step. She does not govern my future decisions, as Lord Edward must not influence yours. Is that what you wish to hear?’

‘I think so.’

‘Then will you accept my offer? Will you give yourself into my keeping, Honoria? Together we will hold the estates of Brampton and Laxton secure, against all comers?’

At least he had not made empty protestations of love. She knew exactly where she stood. A desirable mate to bring power and wealth to the union of two important families. As an heiress she had expected no more and no less. And yet it was very tempting. Could she really take the risk? Her eyes searched the flat planes and firm lines of his features as the warnings of her mind struggled against the desires of her heart.

He stood with impatience, driven by her silence so that he strode around the table, taking her hand in his and drawing her abruptly to her feet before him. He was instantly aware of Morrighan lifting her head, the low growl in her throat.

He chose to ignore it. ‘Well, Honoria? Shall we make the bargain?’

Honoria looked at him for a moment, head angled to one side, expression unreadable. Then, ‘Very well. On one condition, my lord.’

‘Of course. If it is within my power.’

‘Will you give me free rein to improve this … this house?’ This terrible monstrosity!

His brows rose at her unexpected request and his quick smile released the tension between them.

‘Lord Edward refused to consider any changes,’ Honoria explained, ‘even those that would bring comfort. Apart from this room, which he gave me for my own.’

‘I see. I have no objection if you wish to take on such a Herculean task. I admire your fortitude.’ Mansell grimaced at his surroundings. ‘The solar shall remain yours, of course. And, as long as you do not beggar me with French fashions and Italian works of art, I will give you the free rein you desire. God knows, the place needs some improvements. So, yes—I will give you free rein, with my blessing. But in return I too have a request, my lady. No, not a request, but a demand.’

‘Which is?’ The instant suspicion on her face almost made him laugh, if the flash of fear in her eyes had not shocked him with its immediacy.

‘If you agree to marry me, my lady, I will accept on no condition that you wear black!’

‘But I am in mourning!’ She smoothed her damp palms over her silk skirts. Why should it matter to him how she looked, what she wore? He was not marrying her for her beauty!

‘You have mourned Lord Edward long enough, I think. If you marry me, you are a bride again. I will not have a bride who looks like a crow. And an unhappy one at that!’

Honoria’s shoulders stiffened at this slight to her vanity, however well deserved it might be. No one, after all, was more aware than she that she did not look her best. But that did not mean that she must accept criticism from this arrogant man who had just turned her world upside down. ‘As my betrothed I expect that it is your right to express an opinion!’ She raised her chin in challenge to such a right. ‘I suppose that I must accept your less-than-flattering observation.’

‘But will you obey it?’ His lips twitched at the flash of spirit in her eyes, the challenge in her voice. There was more to this lady than his first impression.

‘I …’ She dearly wanted to refuse him. But … ‘I will agree with you on this occasion, my lord. I will not wear black.’

‘So. Will you wed me?’

‘Very well, my lord.’ She took a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm her erratically beating heart. ‘I will.’

He looked at her for a long moment, pale skin, gold-flecked eyes, recalling the emotion that had stretched taut between them not an hour ago. It had touched him, moved him, disconcerted him with its intensity. Then he raised her hand to his lips, pressing his mouth against her soft fingers, holding her hand tightly when she would have pulled away. He would not allow her to withdraw physically now, whatever thoughts, whatever doubts, were in her head. They were committed to this unexpected union. And he was still unsure of his motives—unless it was simply to support and protect a lady who appeared to be beset by a multitude of faceless but vicious personal demons.

Finally he released her and with a formal little bow turned towards the door. He pulled it open and then halted to turn back towards her still figure. ‘We shall make it work, Honoria.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Francis.’

‘You are very determined, my lord.’

‘I believe it is in my nature to be so. Does it disturb you?’

‘Perhaps. I do not know you well enough.’ She raised her chin a little. ‘I will consider it.’

He smiled at her solemn pronouncement. ‘Then whilst you consider such a momentous matter, I must inform Lawyer Wellings of our decision before he leaves. And I think that I shall invite Josh Hopton for the occasion. He can give me some much-needed support in this den of Royalism! It should be soon. Would next week be acceptable to you, if I arrange for a special licence from the Bishop of Hereford? More expedient than calling the banns in this instance, I think.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Honoria felt as if she were being swept along by an irresistible force, against which she was helpless.

‘And I will suggest that Josh bring his youngest sister with him. Perhaps you might value some female companionship. Mary is close to your own age, I would think. Would it please you?’

‘Why, yes. I think it would. I … I am very grateful.’ She failed to hide her surprised pleasure at his thoughtfulness.

‘Then I will arrange it.’ He was intrigued at her low opinion of him—or perhaps it was of men in particular. It would be interesting to learn.

‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘It is my pleasure. I believe I have one more request of you. Notice my choice of words!’ He grinned, a sudden flash of pure charm that lit his stern features and forced Honoria to take another deep breath. ‘I would be grateful if you could persuade that animal, which guards your every step, that I am not the enemy. I sometimes feel that it would enjoy me for breakfast, particularly when I touch you. She is well named as the fiercest of battle goddesses. I hope that both you and the dog would come to an understanding that I intend you no harm.’

As he left the room, he actually heard her laugh, a soft, pretty sound that lifted his heart. He had been wrong. The widow could indeed laugh. So there was one victory.

What have I done? Honoria pressed her hands to her mouth, excitement warring with anxiety, anticipation with fear, causing her stomach to churn and her pulse to race. Will I regret it?

She pressed her lips against her fingers, to the exact place where his mouth had burned against her skin. She could find no answer.

Francis Brampton, in his new authority as Lord Mansell, rode hard and fast over the following days. Sometimes alone, more often accompanied by the estate’s agent, Jonathan Leysters, underemployed by Lord Edward, now much in demand and grateful for it. The new lord learned little that was not already obvious to his keen eye and inquisitive mind. The land that he had inherited provided good pasture, fertile soil for grain and a wealth of timber. It should bring in a high yield and high rents, but the neglect was shameful. The land was underused, weeds rife, wooded areas overgrown and neglected, hedges and roads allowed to decay; tenants lived with leaking roofs, crumbling walls and voices raised in complaint against a landlord who demanded much and gave nothing in return. Nothing good was to be heard about the old lord.

The weather was chill and changeable, but Mansell was not to be deterred from his self-imposed task. Sometimes he spent a night away from Brampton Percy. More often than not he returned wet, muddied and more than a little depressed to refuel, catch a night’s sleep and set off again next morning. He would see the extent of his new possessions, their strengths and weaknesses, and make himself known as a landlord who would be involved in the well-being of his estate.

The manor of Leintwardine was much as he expected and had been warned, a pretty timbered manor house with gardens and substantial outbuildings. No wonder Honoria remembered it with pleasure, he mused, enjoying a sweep of snowdrops beneath the bare beech trees. But there was no hope of protecting it against serious hostile intent. Buckton, Aylton and Eyton were even worse, lacking defences and investment. In the event of an attack from his neighbours, Mansell knew that he must leave them to take their chance, removing the servants to Brampton Percy at the first sign of danger; in effect, handing the property over to the Royalists. It was not a decision that sat well with him, but what choice did he have without an army at his back?

Leysters made no excuses for the neglect, pointing out the worst of it with blunt honesty, but neither did he shoulder any blame. Lord Edward had been content to collect the rents, albeit sporadically, but he refused to listen to pleas for assistance or sink any money into the estate. At least the servants who tried to hold the scattered, dilapidated manors were pleased to see agent and lord working together. Perhaps the news of Mansell’s largesse at Brampton Percy had spread, and presumably lost nothing in the telling.

A rapid ride through the crown land at Kingsland proved that it could be used to better purpose than its present fallow state. Then a long journey up to Clun. The sheep from the vast flocks were spread over the common land, but the elderly shepherd, who assessed Mansell with a critical eye and all the confidence of seven decades, assured him that they were in good heart and would have a fine stock of lambs to sell to the local markets in late spring, if they were all still alive to enjoy the profits. Mansell agreed, promising to do his best to ensure that they were, then turned wearily for Ludlow to spend a night at the Brampton town house.

Here there was much to raise his spirits. He discovered it to be an extensive property set in an excellent position in Corve Street, its panelled rooms and plastered ceilings warm and pleasing to the eye. He immediately had a vision of Honoria putting it to rights and making it a home again. She would enjoy it, he thought. If she were willing to expend her energies on the castle, how much more rewarding it would be to take this more manageable property in hand. He must convey her to his estates in Suffolk, he decided, as he walked through the sparsely furnished rooms. And to see his mother in London, of course. A twinge of guilt assailed him as he realised that he had failed to communicate his intentions to his family. And then shrugged. It could wait. There was simply so much to do.

Nevertheless, he found the time to pay a visit to the Hoptons, to make his request to Sir Joshua. Here he was made welcome with food and wine and pleasant conversation by the older Hopton generation and enjoyed the freedom of not having to defend his views against a critical audience. His private conversation with the son of the household was less comfortable, being met first with outright disbelief and then irrepressible humour.

‘So you have succeeded where Rudhall of Rudhall failed.’ Joshua did not try to hide his delight.

‘It seems so.’

‘He will be less than pleased. He had high hopes of a connection. All I can say is, Thank God! Do I congratulate you?’

‘You might.’

‘Are you going to tell me why?’

‘No.’

‘Hmm. Not very communicative, Francis. Do I detect a mystery?’

‘Definitely not. But will you come?’

‘Assuredly. I cannot wait to experience the delights of Brampton Percy once more. When?’

‘Next week.’

Josh’s brows rose. ‘I see.’

‘I doubt it.’ Mansell looked across the room towards the rest of the family, gathered round a table to play cards with loud enthusiasm, seeking out the lively younger sister with dark curls and an open, friendly manner. ‘Would Mary accompany you, do you think? Would your parents allow it?’

Josh laughed. ‘She would need no persuading. Women’s talk and weddings. And I don’t see why she should not travel with me. The roads seems quiet enough. But why?’

‘My lady needs someone to talk to.’

‘So she isn’t talking to you?’ Josh looked at his friend with interested speculation.

All he received was a flat stare. ‘Not yet.’ And with that he had to be content.

Satisfied with the outcome of the visit, Mansell set out for Wigmore. Any lingering pleasant thoughts were quickly driven out of his mind at Wigmore, a towering fortress on a rocky outcrop, guarding the route from Hereford to the north. Another medieval stronghold, able to withstand any attack, as the steward there was quick to inform him. No enemy could creep up undetected and they could easily be repulsed by the heavy walls and towers.

‘But we need manpower, my lord Mansell. How can we hold off even the smallest force with only a handful of elderly servants and the kitchen maids?’

Mansell did not know the answer. And Brampton Percy was in no better state, notwithstanding the strength of its manmade fortifications.

He turned his horse’s head wearily for home, deciding against a courtesy call at Croft Castle. He did not feel up to fielding questions from Sir William about his proposed marriage and his alienation from county sympathies. He would go home. And marry Honoria, for good or ill.

Meanwhile the lady of Brampton Percy had spent her time equally profitably, hiring in girls from the village to tackle the more immediate problems. If she regretted her newly affianced lord’s absences from the castle, she did not admit it. Not even to herself. Instead, since escape to Leintwardine had been deliberately put to one side, she poured her energies into the deficiencies of her personal nightmare. Changes gradually became evident at the castle, most dramatically when her lord returned from a wet and trying day spent in assessing the distant acres of the manor of Burrington. Foxton and Honoria were engaged in directing Robert, who was perched on a precarious ladder with a mop, in cleaning cobwebs from the ceiling in one of the darker passages leading from the Great Hall. Surrounded by dust and spiders, they were unaware of their lord’s return until disturbed by a distinctly male and angry outburst from somewhere in the upper regions of the house.

‘Perhaps I should …’ Foxton turned nobly to discover the problem.

‘No.’ Honoria sighed a little. ‘I will go. After all, I initiated the problem, whatever it is. I think I can guess.’

She trod the stairs, Morrighan at her heels, to find her betrothed at the head of the staircase, still clad in boots and cloak, dripping puddles on the floor from a sodden hat clenched in one fist, glowering at one of the new serving girls who was speechless in terror at being accosted by the master of the house in an uncertain temper. Mansell immediately rounded on his lady, eyes full of temper, his hands fisted on his hips in a gesture of true male arrogance.

‘Perhaps you could explain to me, my lady, why the bed and window hangings have apparently disappeared from my room!’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘The chests and the clothes press are empty and it is as cold as the very devil in there with no fire laid, much less lit. There seems to be no one available to bring ale and food … and yet I seem to be falling over housemaids at every step, silly girls who tremble as if I would beat them when I ask a civil question. What is happening around here?’ The wolfhound stiffened and growled at the implied threat in his lordship’s raised voice. ‘And I am beset by this animal. Quiet!’ Morrighan dropped to a crouch beside Honoria’s skirts, hackles still raised, the growl subsiding to a low rumble. She continued to watch Mansell with narrowed eyes.

Honoria waited for the tirade to end, struggling to hide a smile. Then, as he ran out of complaints, she risked a glance at his face. Amusement drained away. All she could see was the imprint of weariness and strain, the grey eyes dark and troubled. And she felt inadequate to help him.

‘The room you have been occupying was not suitable, my lord. Far too small and cramped. I have changed it. You should be more comfortable in the future.’ It was all she could offer to assuage his anger.

He was not to be mollified. ‘You have changed it. I see. You might at least have asked …’ He glared at Morrighan, but to no effect. Her lip lifted in a snarl. He huffed out a breath and gave up.

‘You gave me the freedom to do as I wished, and I have done what I thought right. I am sorry if it does not please you. If you would come with me.’ Honoria turned her back, thus shutting out his fierce glare, not sounding sorry at all. ‘I have put you in the lord’s room, as is fitting.’

‘I think I would rather stay where I was.’ Unpleasant memories of Lord Edward rose before him.

‘The rooms have been cleaned and put to rights,’ she assured him, understanding his reluctance. She pushed open a door on her left. ‘If you would but see. If you do not approve, I will make any changes you wish, of course.’ She stood back for him to enter and, taking pity, shut Morrighan out.

The room was a haven, warm and welcoming. Furniture polished. Hangings beaten and cleaned, glowing in their true colours of blue and gold. Bed made up with fresh linen and a coverlet to match the hangings. A fire in the grate, spreading its comforting warmth. Candles already lit, a flagon of ale on a court cupboard with pewter goblets. His possessions were no doubt put away in the chests and presses. She could not have done anything better to soothe her lord’s frustrations.

‘There is a dressing room through there,’ Honoria indicated. ‘And the door connects with my rooms. As you see, we were expecting you. One of the servants will bring you hot water immediately. And food-perhaps you would wish to eat here tonight as it late. I regret any inconvenience.’ She turned to hurry out before he could respond.

‘Honoria.’

She stopped but did not turn back. He felt the weariness and unwarranted anger drain away, to be replaced by an uncomfortable sense of shame that he should have allowed such a reaction to take control. And a reluctant ripple of humour as his mind replayed the ridiculous scene in the corridor.

‘Forgive me, lady. I have no excuse for such behaviour.’

‘You are wet and tired and your inheritance is a burden. It is understandable.’

He frowned at her rigid shoulders. He found her compliance disturbing. ‘If I can help in any way …’

‘Why, yes.’ She turned back now, head cocked, almost a mischievous smile on her lips.

‘I mistrust that look, lady.’

‘So you should. You should not have asked.’

‘So what is it?’

‘If you would arrange for the digging out of the drainage in the inner courtyard—it is blocked with leaves and debris after the winter rains. You must know that it is disgusting—ankle deep in stagnant water, and with the promise of warmer weather the smell will be wellnigh intolerable. It would also improve the atmosphere in the rooms that overlook the courtyard. They are prone to damp and mildew, as you must be aware.’

I definitely should not have asked. But nevertheless he was drawn into an answering smile at her resourcefulness in seizing the opportunity his casual comment offered.

‘Before or after our marriage?’

‘Whatever is convenient to you, my lord.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Oh, no. But the rest will keep.’ Honoria folded her hands before her, eyes downcast, lips curved in a demure smile, all complaisance again.

‘You are enjoying this, are you not?’

‘Why, yes. I suppose I am.’ He laughed aloud at the faint look of surprise on her face as she considered his observation.

‘It seems you have a talent for it. I expect I shall find more changes tomorrow.’

‘Undoubtedly.’

He grunted. ‘Before you go, I have a present for you.’

He hefted his saddle bags to the bed and searched through one of the pouches. ‘Mistress James from Eyton sent this for you with her best wishes. Made by her bees last year. I think it has not leaked—at least it does not feel sticky.’ He lifted it gingerly.

Honoria took the little pottery jar of honey, ran her fingers over its smooth surface. ‘How kind of her. I do not even know her. I have never been to Eyton.’

‘Oh, yes, and also this.’ Mansell searched in his pockets to finally extract a flat but uneven packet, well tied and sealed, which he handed over. ‘I know not its contents, but Mistress James suggested that you speak with Mistress Brierly, the cook, about it. Women’s matters, I presume.’

Honoria sniffed at the pleasantly spicy aroma that came with the package and fingered the bulky outlines beneath the paper. ‘I have no idea—perhaps some herbal remedies. I know nothing of such things, so I will follow Mistress James’s advice. But as for the honey … If you care for mulled ale, my lord, I will use it now.’

‘Thank you.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘Why do I get the feeling that I do not deserve your kindness?’ He took hold of her wrist, pulled her gently towards him, and searched her face closely. And why do I get the feeling that I am being managed, along with the rest of the house? It pleased him to see a hint of colour in her cheeks and less anxiety in her eyes. He also took note of the cobweb adhering to one of her ringlets and the dust that clung to her cuffs and the hem of her gown. It struck him that she was dressed more in keeping with his housekeeper than the Lady of Brampton Percy.

‘Don’t tire yourself,’ he advised lightly, unsure of her reaction. ‘It is a major task you have undertaken. Let Foxton and Mistress Morgan take the burden.’

‘But they do. Mistress Morgan is the most efficient of housekeepers and the servants are most willing.’ Honoria stood quietly, more than a little aware of the light clasp of his fingers. She swallowed carefully against the rapid beat of her pulse, trying to keep her voice even. ‘I think that they welcome a change of lord, although they would not say so to me.’

Mansell shrugged. ‘I would like to take you to my home in Suffolk. You would not have to work hard there.’

‘I should like that.’ She smiled shyly up at him, touched by his thoughtful concern for her well-being.

Brushing away the cobweb, he bent his head to press his lips to her wrist. She did not pull away this time. But he felt her pulse pick up its rhythm beneath the warmth of his mouth. He lifted his head. ‘Thank you, Honoria. I like the changes you have made. I apologise for my boorish humour.’

‘There is no need, my lord.’

He would have pulled her closer still, to transfer his kiss from her wrist to her soft lips, so close, so tempting … He had never even kissed her, he suddenly realised! Even when she had promised to be his bride. Struck uncomfortably by the omission, he would have lowered his mouth to hers. But she pulled back and escaped his loosened hold, colour deepening in her face.

‘I will have food brought when you are ready, my lord.’

His eyes followed her speculatively as she hurried from his room.

Chapter Four

Within the week the Reverend Gower was presiding over another service in St Barnabas’s Church at Brampton Percy. He had expressed his opinions over such a speedy remarriage of the Widow as forcefully as he dare. Most unseemly, of course, in the circumstances, Lord Edward being dead less than a month, even if the Bishop of Hereford saw fit to issue a special licence. What was the world coming to when the dictates of God and Crown were held in such disrespect what with the law and order in the countryside going to rack and ruin and no honest man able to travel except in fear of his life? And now the new lord treating the laws of God in such a cavalier fashion and Lady Mansell herself willing to be a party to his schemes … But as the incumbent of a church in Lord Mansell’s gift, even God’s servant must be aware that it would not pay him to voice his disfavour too strongly if he valued his living.

Thus he presided over the marriage of Francis Brampton, Lord Mansell, and Honoria Mansell, previously Honoria Ingram, ably supported by Sir Joshua Hopton and his lively sister Mary. Given the depth of cold in the church, all the participants were well shrouded in cloaks, but it could be noticed by anyone sufficiently interested in so trivial a matter that the bride, in spite of her recent bereavement, did not wear black. It was indeed noticed and approved with a wry twist of the lips.

The service was brief and stark, the ceremonial kiss a mere cold and formal meeting of lips. Honoria found it hard to cling to reality, even as she tried to concentrate on the Reverend Gower’s reluctant blessing. Only the firm clasp of Mansell’s hand on hers kept her anchored to the fact that she was once more a bride.

The bridal party returned to the Great Hall of the castle to some semblance of festivities. The servants and the tenants of the cottages of Brampton Percy had been invited and so were present in force to enjoy the food and wish their lord and lady well. Ale, far superior to Lord Edward’s dwindling casks and brought from Ludlow under Sir Joshua’s escort, flowed freely and some local musicians had been hired to lighten the atmosphere with shawms and drums.

Honoria too had been busy, with Master Foxton’s willing help. The Hall had been restored to glory: vast logs set for a fire that would do justice to the size and height of the room, furniture arranged and more screens unearthed from the cellars to do battle against the draughts. It was a more cheerful occasion than the burial the previous week and, although it was not graced by any of the county families, it was thought by all present to be most satisfactory. And not least by Lord Mansell. Under the influence of ale and music the natural reticence of the tenants soon wore off, giving their new lord a useful opportunity to further his acquaintance and put names to faces.

‘So you have indeed married the widow!’ Catching him in a quiet moment, Sir Joshua raised his tankard in a silent toast to his friend and host. ‘I will not ask you if you know what you are doing.’

‘Tactful at last, Josh?’

‘No. You must have had your reasons.’ He grinned disarmingly. ‘Does your lady realise that your views are diametrically opposed in relation to our esteemed monarch?’

‘She does, of course. She is no fool, nor is she ignorant of the state of the county. But we are hoping that it will not cause unnecessary dissension between us. Why should it, after all?’

‘I have heard rumour. Your neighbours are beginning to see you with suspicion and there is talk of removing those who might upset the close unity hereabouts.’ Josh’s cheerful face was marred by lines of concern. ‘It might just come to a matter of arms. There are any number of extremists willing to put the matter to the sword.’

‘I know it. I too have heard such murmurings.’ Sir Francis eyed his glass of wine thoughtfully as he voiced his present concern for the first time. ‘Although I married Honoria to give her protection, I am beginning to think that I might have inadvertently put her in more danger. She might have been safer not to be tied to me. Sir William Croft did me the honour of giving me a warning of what might occur.’ He tightened his lips pensively. ‘But it is done. And perhaps today is not such for talking war.’

‘Certainly.’ Josh smiled in understanding. ‘You have my congratulations, Francis. I wish you happy. The past months have not been kind. Your lady looks well.’

‘Hmm. She does.’

Honoria was in deep debate with Mistress Brierly at the far side of the room. He had no difficulty in picking her out of the crowd today. True to her word she had cast off her mourning and now stood in the glory of a full-skirted dress of deep sapphire satin, which glowed and shimmered as she moved in the candlelight. A tiny back train fell regally from her shoulders to brush the floor when she walked. The boned bodice and low neckline drew attention to the curve of her bosom and her slender waist. The deep collar and cuffs were edged with the finest lace.

She turned from her conversation and their eyes caught across the Hall. He raised his glass in a silent salute; she responded with the faintest of smiles and a flush of delicate colour which tinted her cheeks. She had a grace and a tasteful and polished refinement of which he had been unaware. She still looked tired, but there was a glow to her fair skin and her hair shone. The deep blue was flattering to her pale complexion where the black had merely deadened her pallor. Mary, quick to volunteer her skills as lady’s maid and expert gossip, had brushed and coaxed Honoria’s soft brown hair up and back to cascade in deep ringlets with wispy curls around her temples. Hazel eyes glinted gold and green as they caught the light. She is quite lovely, he thought as he drank. How could I not have been aware?

As he watched, Honoria turned her head and bent to accept a posy of the earliest primroses from one of the village children. She smiled and spoke to the little girl, who giggled and ran to her mother’s skirts. A pretty tableau that caused many to smile and nod, but one that had Mansell catch his breath and turn his face away. Memories were so easily triggered, however unwelcome, however inappropriate. Sometimes in the dead of night, when sleep evaded him, he could still feel Katherine’s softness against him. Still taste her on his lips. Perhaps the intense grief was less than it was—he no longer wallowed helplessly, without anchor, in a sea of despair—but it still had the power to attack and rend with sharp claws. They had known each other so intimately, their moods, their thought processes even. It had been so easy to communicate by a mere look or gesture—words were not always necessary. A few short months of heaven had been granted them, together as man and wife, and now, the child also lost, he was left with a lifetime of purgatory.

He tore his tortured mind away, chided himself for allowing such thoughts to surface. Honoria deserved better. Life must go on and he had need of an heir. It was, beyond doubt, a satisfactory settlement for both himself and the lady. And with a deliberate effort of will he closed his mind against the vivid pictures of a previous such occasion when good fortune and enduring love promised to cast their blessings on a tawny-haired, green-eyed bride.

* * *

When the ale and food had disappeared except for the final crumbs, and the tenants could find no more excuse for lingering, there was much whispering behind the screen that led from the kitchens. Master Foxton eventually emerged with due dignity and a silence fell as at a prearranged signal.

The Steward, solemn and seemly, made a short speech of congratulation, followed by a spatter of polite applause. And then, with a grave smile, he raised a hand. ‘We thought to give our new lord a gift on the occasion of his marriage,’ he announced.

Robert staggered out from behind the screen with a log basket, covered with a cloth. He placed it on the floor before Master Foxton’s feet, where it began to rock unsteadily.

‘It is clear to everyone that Lord Edward’s wolfhound has attached herself exclusively to Lady Mansell,’ he continued. He looked round the circle of faces, where smiles were already forming. ‘We though it would be fitting to give our lord one of his own. We are fortunate indeed that Mistress Brierly has a nephew who is employed at Croft Castle. Sir William was very willing to provide us with our needs.’

Foxton bowed to Lord Mansell and walked forward to take the cover from the basket, which immediately rocked on to its side and deposited a small grey creature on to the floor. It rolled and struggled to its feet with gangling energy, to lick the outstretched hand offered by Sir Francis. It was totally ungainly, uncoordinated and entirely charming, its grey pelt still soft with the fur of babyhood. There was no indication here, in the large head and spindly limbs, of the majesty of lithe strength and imposing stature that would one day have the ability to bring down and kill a full-grown wolf.

The puppy rolled on to its back to offer its belly for a rub.

Lord Francis obliged with a laugh. ‘Is this your doing, my lady?’ He glanced up at her, the gleam in his eye acknowledging the success of the gift.

He saw that her face was flushed and she smiled, a glimpse of neat white teeth. Her eyes held the slightest of sparkles as the puppy struggled to lick her lord’s hands again.

‘I claim no involvement—although Master Foxton did ask my opinion.’

‘He is a fine animal.’ Mansell rose to his feet and addressed the ranks of servants and tenants. ‘I shall value him, especially when he learns not to sit on my feet or make puddles on the floor.’ The puppy in its excitement had achieved both.

There was a general laugh and rustle of appreciation.

‘I suppose with Morrighan we should continue the theme of Irish heroes—he had better be Setanta. He will grow into the dignity of his name. And mine, I hope! I would thank you all for your good wishes this day for myself and for my lady, and for your kind thoughts.’

He has a light and easy touch, Honoria thought, her smile lingering. He is nothing like Lord Edward!

Everyone left, even Sir Joshua and Mary finding things to do elsewhere in the castle, finally giving the newly wedded pair a little space together in the vastness of the Hall. The puppy slept by the hearth in utter exhaustion. Morrighan kept her place beside Honoria, ignoring the newcomer as was fitting for something so lacking in gravitas.

It all had a dreamlike quality, Honoria thought. The ceremony, the festivities. They did not know each other. It was purely a business arrangement. And yet … she would hope for more. Surely he would not deal with her as Edward had? Her new lord had never treated her with anything but respect and sensitivity.

Her lord now stood beside her with no one to cushion their seclusion, resplendent in black satin breeches and jacket, collar and cuffs edged with lace. He wore none of the ribbons and decorations so loved by the court gallants, but the deep blue sash holding his doublet in place added an air of elegant celebration. His stark features were softened by the flattering candlelight—and perhaps by the occasion—his grey eyes darker and unfathomable. A frisson of anticipation ran through her veins, but whether pleasurable or edgy she was uncertain.

‘Well, my lady?’

She realised that she had been simply standing, lost in thought. ‘I, too, have a gift for you, my lord.’

‘Does it have teeth?’

She laughed, impulsively, for once. ‘Not as such, but it can bite.’

She walked from him to the fireplace from where she rescued a long slender package, wrapped in fine cloth. She handed it to him. ‘This belonged to my father. I never knew him, or my mother, but this was kept for me. Sir Robert gave it to me on the occasion of my first marriage.’

He took it, carefully unwrapped it, knowing what he would find. Here was a far more serious gift. Although unused and stored for so many years, the steel was bright and sharp, still honed to cut through flesh and bone. The blade was deeply incised down the centre, chased with an intricate leaf decoration, the hilt beautifully curved and weighted and fit easily to his hand. It was a magnificent weapon, worthy of any gentleman. With it was a scabbard of tooled leather with tassels and loops to attach to a belt. It spoke of foreign workmanship at the hands of a master craftsman.

Mansell lifted the sword and made a practice lunge, before examining the quality of the steel, the balance of hilt and blade. ‘It is splendid. I could not expect anything so fine.’ She watched as he ran his fingers, skilled and knowledgeable, over the engraving, the lethal edges.

‘Does it please you? It was always my intention to give it to my husband.’

‘Yet you did not give it to Lord Edward?’ His voice made it just a question rather than a statement.

‘No. I did not.’ She made no effort to excuse or explain but watched him, wary as a young deer.

‘Then I am doubly honoured. Without doubt it pleases me. It will be my pleasure to wear it, my lady.’ Silently he hoped that he would not be called upon to use it, in either hot or cold blood—that Josh’s previous words held no element of premonition.

In a formal gesture of chivalry he took her hand, bowed low over it, then raised her fingers with courtly grace to his lips. She tightened her hold in recognition of his acceptance of the gift and, as he glanced up, he saw her face relax into a smile. It gave her a fragile beauty that touched his heart, causing the faintest brush of desire across the surface of his skin.

‘Your gift is as handsome as your presence, lady.’

He drew her towards him then, his arm encircling her waist. Before she could resist or retreat, he sealed the new vows that they had made, his mouth on hers. He felt the nerves under her skin flutter, so kept it light and unthreatening, the merest promise of possession. But, unlike the salute in church her lips were now warm and softened under his caress. When he released her she remained standing within his arms, lips parted, an expression of surprised pleasure in her face. He brushed his fingers over her hair where it curled at her temple, satisfied with the outcome.

‘Go up,’ he said softly. ‘I will come to you.’

Later he opened the door that connected his bedchamber with hers, entered and closed it quietly behind him. She was sitting in bed against a bank of pillows, waiting for him. A fire still burned so the air was warm and fragrant with the distinctive scent of apple wood and a candle flickered at her elbow. She held a book, open, before her on the coverlet, yet he had the distinct impression that she had not been reading.

Her fine ringlets had been brushed out so that her hair curled against her neck and on to the white linen of her shift, gleaming more gold than brown in the candlelight. Her face was drained of colour again and she clutched the leather binding with rigid fingers. He drew in a breath. She looked anything but at ease, but then what did he expect? Things should improve between them as they came to know each other better. And he had sufficient confidence in his lovemaking to believe that he could indulge her with a degree of pleasure and contentment. He smiled a little. His expertise had never been questioned in the past. If only she did not watch him with such frightened eyes, as a terrified mouse would wait for the descent of a circling falcon.

Making no move further into the room, he remained with his back to the door, trying for lightness to diffuse the nerve-searing tension. ‘Where is she?’

‘My lord?’ The voice from the bed was a whisper of nerves.

‘Morrighan! If she is under the bed, you spend the night without me. I value my life.’

‘She … she is in the kitchens. Master Foxton took her. And the puppy.’ Honoria’s lips felt stiff and bloodless. She could not have smiled, no matter what the enticement.

Mansell saw this with a touch of unease. Because there was nothing to be gained in prolonging the agony for her, he strode to the bed, and in a succession of swift movements doused the candle, shrugged out of his robe and turned back the bed covers.

He is nothing like his cousin, she told herself, reassured herself, as the firelight played over the planes and angles of his body. Such broad shoulders, firm flesh, smoothly muscled. She closed her eyes briefly in an anguish of anticipation. Do not think of Edward now! Surely it will not be the same. Don’t think of his cruel words. His unwashed, greasy hands, grasping and demanding. His soft, grey flesh. Don’t think of …

She felt the bed give with Mansell’s weight and then the warm proximity of his body as he stretched beside her, steeling herself to remain still, to resist flinching at his touch.

‘Honoria?’

‘Yes.’

‘It will not be so bad, you know.’ He felt the hideous tension surround them in a thick cloud, suffocating with her fear. She trembled with the force of it as his naked arm, hard and corded with sinew, made contact with hers in the slightest of movements.

‘I know,’ she managed to croak. But she didn’t!

He immediately took the initiative and smoothed his fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her temples. With gentle fingers he touched her face, a fleeting caress of the skin, then following their path from temple to jaw with his lips. Her mouth was soft when he kissed her, the lightest of brushes, mouth against mouth. But then he felt her pulse begin to beat in her throat when he kissed his way along the line from jaw to delicate shoulder, when he paused to press his lips to the very spot where her blood pounded. She lay beneath his touch as if, apart from that one pulse, turned to stone.

She was not a virgin, he thought. She had shared a marriage bed. So why was she so tense? He had hardly touched her.

He persisted as slowly and carefully as he could. It was merely a matter of familiarity. He let his hands smooth down over her body to push away her linen chemise to expose her shoulders to his touch. When his palm closed over a firm breast, lightly moulding so as not to startle her, he felt her gasp and hold her breath.

He continued, gently, stroking, touching, caressing, exploring the curve of her breast to the delicacy of her ribcage and the flowing indentation of her waist. She was lovely. Her skin was as pleasurable to the touch as the most costly satin. He felt his blood begin to heat with arousal and his body hardened in anticipation. It might be true that he did not know her, but he had no difficulty in responding to her pure femininity. But he must go slowly. He gritted his teeth. When he allowed his fingers to trail across the soft skin of her belly and smooth over the roundness of her hip, he felt her catch her breath again, almost on a sob.

His mouth returned to hers, this time with possessive demand, encouraging her lips to part to allow his tongue to slide over the soft inner flesh of her lips, as soft and smooth as silk. She stiffened, every muscle in her body tensed, silently resisting, as he teased a nipple between his fingers.

And he realised that her flesh had chilled, her skin had become clammy as her blood drained, her responses withdrawn from what she saw as a violation. He could no longer pretend that she saw it in any other way. But why? He had deliberately gentled and slowed his desire to take her. By no stretch of the imagination had he attempted to ravish her or treat her with less than utmost consideration for a new bride.

On a deep breath, he stopped, lifted his hands and raised his head to look down at her face below him in the shadows. He could not be other than stunned at what he saw, at the stark fear momentarily in her wide eyes. She was not fighting him, not physically resisting, but she feared him and her whole body was rigid, totally unresponsive to his attempts to arouse and seduce.

He rolled away from her to sit up in concern and some exasperation. He kept his voice low, but she could not mistake the edge in it. ‘I have never, to my knowledge, been guilty of forcing a woman against her will. I do not relish the prospect of starting with my wife!’

This time there was definitely a sob in response to his words.

‘And I thought I had some skill in bringing pleasure to a woman.’

At that she covered her face with her hands. Panic choked her, filled her lungs like smoke. Her breathing became shallow and difficult. To her horror, against all her hopes, she had to accept the truth of it, that Lord Edward had been right after all. She was incapable of attracting a man and an abject failure at bringing pleasure to him as a wife should. It was all her fault. And her new lord was about to reject her as assuredly as Edward had done. He would not be as cruel as Edward, could not be, but he certainly showed no inclination to pursue the consummation of their marriage in the face of her own frozen despair.

Mansell cast aside the covers and stood beside the bed, hands on hips, to survey her with a frown. Whatever the problem, she was clearly terrified. Acting on instinct, he seized the coverlet and stripped it away. ‘Honoria …’

A whimper issued from the bed. If it was not all so distressing, he would have laughed at this extreme reaction to his lovemaking. But there was nothing amusing here; he could neither force her nor ignore her distress and walk away.

He leaned over the bed, picked her up in his strong arms as if she weighed nothing, wrapped her in the coverlet with deft movements as if she were a child, and carried her to the settle by the fire. She was too surprised to protest other than a squeak of shock. He placed her there while he stirred the flames and recovered his own robe. Then he returned and sat beside her, sensing the tiniest of movements as she would have pulled away from him. She was watching him, aware of his every movement, every gesture, eyes dry and strained. He knew that if she had been able, she would have fled the room.

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, a gesture that she had come to recognise. She flinched again. ‘This is no good!’

Without warning he scooped her up again and settled her on his lap, imprisoning her within the circle of his arms as, with gentle fingers, he pushed her head down to rest upon his shoulder.

‘There.’ He stroked her hair a little. ‘There is nothing to concern you now. I shall not do anything you do not wish.’

Silence settled, except for the crackle of the fire, as he continued to smooth his hand over her hair. He was aware of her fingers clutching at the satin collar of his robe in a vice-like grip, but he made no comment. Simply sat and held and waited. Gradually her breathing calmed and she relaxed, sufficient for her to release her grasp and rest against him.

‘Now.’ He kept his voice low. ‘Talk to me, Honoria. Will you tell me why you are so distressed? Do you trust me enough to tell me?’

She said nothing, but he felt the merest nod of her head against his throat.

‘Did my cousin … did Edward rape you?’

‘No.’ The answer was immediate. It came as a wail of anguish.

‘Then what happened? Things can never be so bad that they cannot be put right. Talk to me, Honoria.’

Without thought he turned his face against her hair in an unconscious caress and pressed his lips to her temple in the softest of kisses. Yet it was her undoing. All the tears, all the anxieties and self-doubt, the horror, the sleepless nights, dammed up over the past weeks, overflowed and washed through her in response to that one innocent gesture of kindness. Her breath caught again and again and she could do nothing to prevent the harsh sobs that shook her frame, tears streaming down her face. In the end she gave up trying to control them and simply wept.

All he could do was hold her. She was beyond any comforting words—and he did not know what to say to ease such emotion. So he held her. He murmured foolish words for their sound rather than their content and continued to stroke her hair, her arms, her back, whilst the emotion tore her in two. His heart ached for her. Who would have believed that her outward composure could hide such pain and anguish?

Minutes ticked by. Gradually her sobs lessened. A hiccup, a sniffle. She lay exhausted and drained against his chest and he was content to allow it to be so for a little while. When he was finally sure that her tears were gone, he used the corner of the coverlet to wipe her eyes. She resisted at first, turning her face against his shoulder, intent on hiding the worst of the ravages from his scrutiny. What would he think of her? But he would not allow it and, with a hand under her chin, lifted her face to the light.

‘Talk to me, Honoria.’

But she did not know where to begin.

‘Then I will ask the questions and you try to answer. Let us see how far we can get.’ He had no intention of allowing her to hide from him. ‘You said that Edward did not force you.’ A flash of warning, of illumination, struck him here. ‘Did Edward … was he able to consummate the marriage?’

She shook her head, hiding her face.

‘Are you still virgin?’

She heard the amazement in his voice and was ashamed. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Did he not try? Was it his ill health that prevented him?’

‘He tried!’ The words now poured out, as had the tears. ‘Every night.’ She shuddered with disgust and fear as the memories rushed back. ‘Again and again.’

‘My poor child,’ he murmured.

‘I am not a child!’ Anger and despair mingled in a deadly mix. ‘He wanted an heir, he said. Before he died. That was the only reason for our marriage … for his spending so much money. He tried so often but he was unable … I could not bear it. I know that marriage means obedience to one’s husband … but I could not bear it. He was so …’ She could not find the words.

‘I understand.’

‘Do you? How could you?’ Now she found that she could not stop, even when she would have pressed her fingers against her mouth to hold back the expression of her worst memories. ‘He was so gross, so fat and unwashed. His body was covered with thick hair. And … his hands were damp and … slimy, with blackened fingernails. And he touched me …’ She pressed her hand to her stomach to ward off the wave of nausea. ‘He prodded and groped, squeezing and pinching. I hated it. How could I be expected to find any wifely pleasure in that? How could I ever accept such indignities?’

‘No.’ He pressed his lips together, fighting to contain the anger that built within him as he visualised the picture which Honoria so clearly, so vividly painted, even though he suspected that she had kept the worst from him. ‘I don’t suppose you could.’

‘And he was unable. He blamed me. He said that I was cold and unfeeling—a frigid wife—and I was. He said that it was all my fault—that I had robbed him of his manhood and deserved to be punished.’ She shivered against him, but there was no longer the threat of tears.

‘Did he ever harm you?’ He deliberately kept his voice calm.

‘No. He never struck me. But with words, with the lash of those, he could destroy me. He said that he had been tricked into the marriage—and that I was not woman enough to entice him or pleasure him. I was a failure. I could not fulfil my part of the marriage settlement.’ She was quiet for a moment. Then, ‘I must disgust you.’

‘Honoria …’ What on earth were the right words to say to her? In the end he went for simplicity. ‘My dear girl, you could never disgust me. You were not a failure.’ Now he understood the whole tragic tale. A gross old man, intent on getting an heir on his new wife in the short time left to him. Without sensitivity or finesse, rendered impotent by illness and old age. He had put all the blame for his failure on to her slight shoulders and she lacked the experience to determine the truth of it. ‘It was not your fault. And you have to realise that it does not have to be like that between a man and a woman. There can be delight and warmth … and trust.’

‘Trust? I find it impossible to believe that. And as for delight …’ She shuddered against him.

His lordship sighed. Now was not the time to convince her otherwise. The emotional upheaval had taken its toll and she leaned against him, her earlier fears forgotten, but yet drained and exhausted.

‘I am afraid of failing again.’ And afraid that you will measure me unfavourably against Katherine.

Those few words that she dared to utter spoke volumes. He held her close to rub his cheek against her hair.

‘You will not fail again. I will show you,’ he reassured her softly. ‘But not now, not tonight. You need to rest.’

Mansell stood and lifted her, without protest, and carried her back to the high bed. There he settled her under the covers and, before she could speak, stretched beside her, pulling her firmly into his arms.

‘Don’t fight me again,’ he murmured as he felt her muscles tense once more.

‘Would it not be better to … to finish it quickly? I am sure that you are not unable.’ He heard the depth of bitter humiliation in her voice. His reassurance had apparently not found its mark.

‘No.’ The ghost of a laugh shook him. ‘I am not unable. But it would definitely not be better to finish it quickly! When I do take you, when I make you truly my wife and you bear my weight, you will not be exhausted and terrified and as responsive as a January icicle.’

‘And if I cannot?’ He detected the breath of hysteria once more. ‘What if Edward was right? What if I did cause his failure?’

His response was to take her face in his two hands and force her to look at him ‘Look at me, Honoria. And listen well. You did not cause Edward’s inability to complete the marriage. How could you? You are lovely. He must have been sick indeed not to respond to you. You are very feminine. A man would dream of holding and … and loving a woman like you. You did not exactly encourage me, did you, but I would have had no difficulty in taking you, in spite of it.’ No difficulty at all, he thought, still aware of his hard arousal. It promised to be a long night! ‘Indeed, the difficulty was in leaving you. Do you understand?’

She looked at him for a long moment, considering his words carefully, and then nodded.

‘Well, then.’ He tucked her against his side, taking one of her hands in his, arranging the pillows and covers for their comfort. ‘Are you comfortable?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then go to sleep. You are quite safe. And Edward, may he rot in Hell, cannot touch you ever again.’

Her body gradually relaxed, minute by minute, against his as the warmth and release from fear slowly spread through her veins, her breathing softening, her muscles loosening. Her hand finally rested on his chest, fingers curled and open. He felt her slide into sleep.

What a terrible burden she had carried with no one to help her. He rested his chin against her hair. Only a crisis had forced her into confiding in him. Otherwise, he knew with a certainty, she would have remained silent, disguising her fears behind a wall of competency and self-possession. He wondered fleetingly if she had spoken to Mary about it—and decided not. She would find it difficult to open her thoughts to anyone on such a short acquaintance. He hoped indeed that Edward would suffer the torments of the abyss for his cruel, thoughtless treatment of her. He moved his arm slightly and cushioned her head more securely on his shoulder. She did not stir.

It would take considerable care and patience on his part to build a relationship with her, to repair the damage so wilfully caused. He turned his face against the soft curls. So soft, so vibrant now that it was no longer confined. He would care for her. With tenderness and sympathetic handling they would find a way together. It surprised him how much he wanted to soothe and comfort. After all, he had little experience of either with an unwilling woman.

He stayed awake a long time, watching the flickering shadows as the fire finally died, assailed by doubts over the momentous step he had taken that day and the responsibilities that it thrust at him. And yet, whatever the future might hold, he could not be sorry that he had taken her as his wife.

It was still very early when he woke. The dull grey of March daylight was hardly touching the sky or chasing the shadows in the room. The fire had died to ash long since so the air was chill.

Mansell had not intended to remain in her bed through the night, but only until Honoria had fallen deeply asleep. Then he would return to his own bedchamber. But he had fallen asleep himself, holding her within the protection of his arms, hopefully reassuring her that his proximity was not to be the horror she feared. And when he had stirred in the night he had been far too comfortable to disturb himself or his sleeping wife. He had shared more than one bed over the years, before and even after his marriage to Katherine, when the demands of his body and the hideous desolation of loss had driven him to find comfort in soft and willing arms. But it was the first time, he mused, that he had ever spent such a night so chastely. He grinned wryly in the dark. His reputation would indeed suffer if it were known that his wife remained a virgin still. But, after all, the circumstances had been exceptional.

The bed was warm and comfortable, the pillows soft, keeping the cool air at bay. He found that he had no desire to leave it. He turned on his side towards Honoria. She too was more than enticing. In sleep she had curled against him, stripped of the anxieties and sharp fear that had reduced her to such a storm of emotions on the previous night. Her skin was now warm under his fingertips, cheeks and lips flushed with pink, her breathing easy, her face in sleep relaxed and calm, her hair tumbled on the pillow.

He looked at her in the pearling light. Such soft lips, curving gently at the corners as if her dreams were full of delight. What was she dreaming? He would like those lips to curve in just that manner for him, he decided, as a breath of jealous possession brushed his skin, jolting him in its intensity. He leaned over to brush those tempting lips with his own. It was impossible to resist.

She sighed a little, between dreaming and waking, curling her fingers against his chest.

What better time? Her defences were down, easy to breach, her muscles lax and her skin warm and pliant. What better opportunity to show her a range of pleasures at the hands of an experienced lover and undo the terrible damage of Edward’s actions and words? It would please him to allay her fears for good. He was already urgently hard, surprised by the sudden desire to bury himself in her. Or perhaps not surprised at all. She was so very appealing.

Honoria surfaced from the depths of sleep to an overwhelming sensation of well-being. She had slept through the night, waking to a quiet contentment, for the first time since the day of her disastrous marriage to Lord Edward. And then there was that exquisitely gentle touch on her face, her lips, her hair. Light as the fluttering of a moth seeking a flame. She sighed, frowned a little at the unexpected sensation. And instantly remembered.

Mansell.

Everything flooded back. Her eyes opened, wide in consternation. Her body would have tensed as her tortured mind again took control, her hands raised to push against him, to resist, but yet she felt so warm and relaxed. She listened to the words being whispered against her ear and found herself accepting them.

‘Lie still. You are in no danger.’

It was true.

‘Let me kiss you. Touch you.’

She found her lips opening of their own accord under the pressure of his. And when his hands smoothed along her shoulders and down to cup her breasts she shivered, but not with fear.

She sighed against him. Responding shyly, hesitantly at first, when his tongue traced the outline of her lips before pushing between them. Nerve endings tingled as she allowed him entry, eyes flickering open again in astonished pleasure. Skin warming, she stretched her body under his hands, unaware of the overt invitation to him, gasping with the shock of arousal when her nipples tightened under the light caress of his fingers. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. When he raised his head to look at her in the growing light she lifted her arms to wind them around his neck and twist her fingers into the weight of his hair. She smiled at him, a delightful curve of her lips as welcoming as any he could have wished for.

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