Impostress

  Wynnifrydd shuddered at the thought of the fat woman combing her hair or helping her into her dresses. She’d almost rather do the job herself.

  As they made their way to the chapel through a thick mist, she noticed a few of the workers leering at her. Hideous idiots with ogling eyes, they seemed to undress her as she passed. Two men pretended to be thatching the roof of one of the dingy huts; another peered at her as he honed an ax against his whetstone. From beneath an overhanging brow and an uneven fringe of reddish hair, his eyes followed her, his thick lips curving evilly. She hastened her step along the stone path that curved toward the chapel.

  Even the House of God appeared worn and eroded, the stone walls rough and covered in years of dust and dirt, the door hanging at an angle from its jamb. Nearby, pigs were rooting and grunting and a boy with a stick chased after a snarling speckled bitch and four scrawny, yipping whelps.

  Baron Nevyll didn’t seem to notice that the dogs nearly ran her over. He too was a useless, tired man. It was no wonder his servants were unfit; they had a pathetic example in Nevyll of Oak Crest. She wondered how this man could possibly have sired a strong, strapping son such as Brock. ’Twas like night to day. She could only think that Brock’s mother was a strong woman, one with fire, one with passion, for she couldn’t imagine Lord Nevyll having ever been a warrior or a leader.

  Unlike his son. A tall, well-muscled man with snapping green eyes and a fierce, uncompromising countenance. A man who once he had touched her had branded her as forever his.

  “Come along,” Baron Nevyll whispered in his creaky, irritating voice. “Let us speak to the priest about the upcoming wedding.”

  “Yes, let’s,” she said with a smooth, comforting smile as she sidestepped a puddle. The old goat. Nevyll of Oak Crest had agreed to the wedding only because of the dowry attached to her. And even Brock had been swayed by the wealth of Fenn, though Wynnifrydd preferred to think that her bridegroom was marrying her because he loved her.

  But there was Elyn to consider. Brock had always had an eye for that one.’Twas lucky that Elyn had been pledged to Kelan of Penbrooke.

  As she entered the chapel Wynnifrydd glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the stable, where a young boy was whittling and another dozed beneath the overhang of the building. Lazy, lazy curs. Wynnifrydd pondered how she would take care of them and all the other disgusting, useless creatures as soon as she was married.

  Surely Brock would return today, as it had been a couple days since Elyn’s wedding, if that was where he had been. That particular thought lodged painfully in her mind. His “hunting excursion” seemed like a weak excuse for something darker. Something nefarious. Perhaps he had tried to stop Elyn from marrying Penbrooke ... but if so, he’d failed, for already Wynnifrydd’s spies had returned to Oak Crest, a mere day from Lawenydd, with the news that Elyn was married and on her way to Penbrooke.

  Good.

  The priest, a fat, shuffling man with a sickly smile stitched to his lips, was hurrying toward her, past the pews, the few candles flickering as he passed. He extended his fleshy hands, making her skin crawl.

  “Welcome,” he said, and she noticed the thin web of veins running from his bulbous nose to his cheeks. No doubt he drank more of the castle wine than he should have. Well, that would change, of course. He took her hand in both of his and she forced herself not to withdraw from him.

  “Father Duncan,” she whispered. “Please, tell us of the service for the wedding.”

  The priest glanced from her to the baron.

  “Should we not wait for Sir Brock to return? Where is he?”

  Good question, she thought, though she wouldn’t voice her concerns. She couldn’t help the suspicion that crept through her brain, the suspicion that he was, even at this moment, with another woman.

  Kelan drove his men hard, and Kiera felt that she was going to die of exhaustion as she clung to the saddle pommel and guided her mount. The group bound for Penbrooke had not been able to leave Lawenydd until nigh midnight, though Kiera’s father had pleaded with Kelan to await morning. But Kelan and Tadd would not hear of delaying their journey with their mother so perilously close to death’s door.

  They had not stopped until the following evening, when Kiera almost collapsed from fatigue.

  Surviving on little food and with only a few hours’ rest, Kiera’s entire body ached. It had now been three days since she took her sister’s place at the altar, and their journey was far from over.

  The beasts were muddy and tired, the handful of men grumbling, especially the big, oafish Orvis, whom she sometimes caught staring at her—not leering, just looking at her as if she were some kind of puzzling creature. Throughout most of the journey the rain had been incessant, a steady cold drizzle that spat from a leaden sky.

  Kiera was miserable. And weary. She’d had only one short night of sleep with Kelan. In their hastily pitched tent they had made love, sleeping only after they were both sated, and rising a scant three or four hours later to ride again. ’Twas but a few days since she’d donned Elyn’s wedding dress and knelt at the altar to become Kelan’s wife, but in that time she’d slept little.

  Nor had she told him the truth. Each time she’d tried to explain about the vials, she had been interrupted. Kelan, preoccupied with his mother’s health and the ride, had not mentioned them again. He’d become distant. Whenever he looked upon her there was a dark mistrust in his eyes. Worse yet, she thought as she rode her once-spirited mare, lying had become second nature to her. She’d deceived her father, insisting that she had to go with Elyn to help her “settle into” her new role as the Lady of Penbrooke. And she’d taken advantage of him by slipping away and then, astride her horse at Kelan’s side, waving as if she were Elyn, knowing that with his feeble eyesight, in the darkness and the confusion of horses and men, he would not realize what she was doing. If he had any questions, Hildy would have explained that she could see Kiera on one horse and Elyn on another.

  There was no doubt that her soul would burn in hell for all her deceptions. Someday, she would have to right her wrongs.

  Then find your sister and tell the truth.

  Bone tired, her hood pulled high enough to hide her eyes from the soldiers riding to her left and right, Kiera clucked encouragement to her weary gray palfrey and watched the drops of frigid rain drip from her nose. She’d spent the past two hours contemplating telling Kelan the truth as soon as they reached Penbrooke. Or should she wait until she’d found Elyn and avoid the confession? Would it be better to blurt out what had happened and beg his forgiveness, or should she bide her time until she was certain she knew what had happened to the woman he’d supposedly married?

  A wagon creaked behind her, and the opinionated priest who had married them insisted upon trying to make conversation.

  “You’ll love Penbrooke,” Father Barton said for what seemed the dozenth time that afternoon. “ ’Tis a lovely keep. Larger than Lawenydd by twice, nay, thrice, and busy ... oh my, teeming with trade, it being on the main road and all. And the lord’s chambers ...“He clucked his tongue at the magnificence of the baron’s quarters. ” ’Tis five rooms, all connected on the highest floor of the great hall. Tapestries and rush mats specially woven, the like of which ye’ve never seen, I’ll wager.” He waited as if expecting a response, as the horses slogged on through the mud.

  She sensed him staring at her, wondering about this odd woman who was Kelan’s bride. She continued to look straight ahead, hoping that only her nose, red from the cold and dripping rainwater, was visible.

  “And it’s not just the great hall,” he added when she held her tongue. “The chapel, ah, ’tis a pleasure to hold mass there. A finely carved altar and gold vessels and ... well, you’ll see soon enough, as we’re near now ...”

  He droned on and on about the grandeur of Penbrooke. The stables were larger than he’d ever seen, with a training ring attached; the kitchens were vast, requiring dozens of workers; the tailor was an artist of the
highest order; the hounds were cunning and the best hunters in all of Wales; and the steeds were of some private, incredible lineage that ensured they were the swiftest and strongest in all the land.

  Not to mention Kelan’s family. His sisters were the most beautiful, well-mannered, and kindhearted in the surrounding baronies. Oh, and they knew their place. Kelan’s brother, Tadd, though a bit of a ladies’ man, was a fierce, clever warrior, an incredible strategist. Then there was Baron Kelan himself. The old priest practically genuflected at the mention of his name. Without a doubt Kelan was the shrewdest businessman, the fairest judge, the most caring, responsible baron in all of Wales and certainly England as well, considering how brutish the English were.

  Kiera’s head was spinning with all of the blessings attributed to Elyn’s new family. She wanted to tell the old man to be silent, but didn’t. He was, after all, a priest, so she didn’t respond. The less anyone knew her, the more likely Elyn, wherever she was, could step into her place, though as each day passed Kiera knew that the chances of her sister’s return were shrinking to almost nothing. And there would be little chance of a switch now—she had accepted that; she and Elyn would have to explain why she’d pretended to be Kelan’s bride and suffer the consequences.

  She let out a weary sigh.

  “What is it, my child?” the priest asked from astride his mud-spattered mount, a once-white, even-tempered mare. “You seem troubled.”

  “ ’Tis nothing.”

  “Ah, well, if you can’t talk to me, then who? I know ‘tis difficult to leave a family. Aye, I had a hard time of it myself when I joined the priesthood. Yes, and I know that marriage ... well, can be a trying change. But the baron, he’s a good man. Oh, he had his problems in the past, but that rebellion, ’tis long behind him now.”

  She wondered about Kelan’s “problems” and “that rebellion” but didn’t ask, and the priest, as if he realized he’d said too much, didn’t elaborate. They rode onward but he wasn’t one to keep his silence.

  “Should you need any comfort, m’lady, please seek me out, and I will pray with you, or for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, hoping to end the conversation. It had carried on for longer than she thought, Kiera realized as she saw that daylight, through the wet gloom, was fast fading. Staring straight ahead, she watched Kelan ride. Astride a bloodred destrier, he sat arrow straight, his wide shoulders unbowed as he rocked with the steed’s steady gait. She couldn’t see his face from this angle but knew it was probably etched with the same worry it had been since Tadd had given him the grave news of their mother’s impending death. From the moment of learning of Lady Lenore’s plight, Kelan had driven man and beast mercilessly in an effort to return to Penbrooke before she passed on. Kiera only hoped that they would make it in time.

  “Can we not but rest a while?” Orvis asked, pulling his fatigued destrier sidelong to Kelan. ” ’Tis weary the men be and we’ve ridden so hard we are now but a day’s ride from Penbrooke.”

  Kelan looked at the darkening sky, then at Orvis.

  “And think of the lady. She’s got grit, I’ll give her that—she’s not complained—but she needs to rest a bit.”

  Kelan frowned darkly. He was driven. Wanted to keep riding. But he felt the fatigue in his own mount and had cast more than one glance over his shoulder to see Elyn riding silently on. Half the time she was listening to the old priest prattle on, the rest, as Orvis had mentioned, without complaint.

  He knew he’d ignored his new bride, mayhap even punishing her for her deception. But then there were the cursed vials he’d found in the bedchamber and Elyn’s own reticence about explaining them. Aye, he thought, his fingers twisting in the reins, let her suffer.

  “We ride on,” he growled, feeling like an ogre. What was he attempting to do? Kill his horse? Turn the men against him? All for what? Yes, he had to get to his ailing mother’s bedside, but there was more to it. He was trying to prove to his wayward wife that he wouldn’t put up with her lies. For all he knew she may have tried to poison him, murder him as he slept.

  If so, it didn’t work, now did it?

  And if she hated you so much, would risk an attempt on your life, why then had she come so eagerly to your bed?

  Images of their lovemaking burned through his mind. He remembered the taste of her, the feel of her skin, the thrill of her tongue running upon his shoulders and back. Had not her fingers lovingly explored him, had not she fired his blood as no other woman had? By all that was holy, what was he to do with her?

  “Lord Kelan.” The priest had ridden closer. ” ’Tis dark and time to rest. Even God set aside a day of rest.”

  “Aye,” Kelan ground out. He was anxious to return to Penbrooke, but not at the expense of his men. “We’ll camp at the river for the night.”

  “Praise God,” Father Barton muttered, and Kelan felt a tiny jab of guilt when the riders pulled up at the river and he saw Elyn nearly collapse off her horse. No woman, even one who lied to her husband, deserved to be put through such a grueling ride. His soldiers had complained mightily in the last two days of riding at a breakneck pace, but his new wife had never so much as uttered one word against him.

  The past two days Kelan had ridden so fast and hard as to cut half a day from their journey.

  Still, he hoped they were not too late, that his mother was still alive, and though long ago he’d given up his faith in God, he sent up a prayer for Lenore of Penbrooke’s life.

  He ordered the men to their tasks. Within the hour a campfire was roaring beneath the carcasses of three unlucky hares and a small pig sizzling upon two spits. Fat drizzled and steamed in the moist night and a jug of wine was passed among the men. Elyn sat on a flat rock, still within the circle of firelight, a bit distant, apart from the soldiers, not yet accepted. Only Father Barton made an effort to speak to her, but even he, at last, gave up.

  “Trouble in the marriage already?” Tadd asked, sipping from the jug and eyeing his new sister-in-law.

  “No trouble.” Kelan pried one of the hares off its spit with his knife.

  “If she were my wife I would have already taken her to my tent and pallet and—”

  “She’s not your wife,” Kelan reminded him gruffly and, despite his anger with his bride, carried part of the meat to her. “You must be hungry,” he said. “And tired.”

  “We all are.”

  Her gaze met his in the firelight and his groin tightened. As weary as she was, there was still a spark in her eyes, a bit of rebellion that he found fascinating. “Mayhap you would rather eat in the tent.”

  “If that would suit you,” she mocked, and lifted a precocious eyebrow. “For that is what this has all been about, has it not? The long hours in the saddle, the punishing gait. ’Tis to keep me in my place. And so, as you request ...” She gathered herself and, head held regally, made her way to his tent.

  A few men had heard the exchange and didn’t bother to hide their smirks. Orvis cleared his throat. Tadd grinned. Kelan was left holding the damned meat—his peace offering—and grinding his teeth. As his men watched, he followed her into the tent.

  She was seated on the pallet, her cloak pulled tight around her.

  “It would be wise,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, “for you to be respectful.”

  “Would it?”

  “I will not accept any insubordination from you.”

  “Is that so?”

  He crossed the short distance between them and loomed over her, still holding the damned piece of burned meat. “Aye. I’ll suffer no disrespect from you, wife.”

  “As I have from you?” she shot back. “You have treated me more as a servant than a wife.”

  “Mayhap that is because I expect to trust a wife.” He placed the meat upon the pallet and walked out of the tent before his temper was lost to him completely. The tent was too close, too intimate, with the firelight playing through the thin walls. ’Twould be better to leave her be for the night, for even now, angr
y as he was with her, he felt his member begin to rise. Just being close to her stirred far too many emotions, too many feelings at war with each other. The men were trying and failing not to look in his direction. He grabbed the jug of wine and took a long pull. Once the men had dispersed to their tents and were snoring off the long ride, then he would deal with his headstrong wife.

  She shouldn’t have baited him. Kiera knew she’d pushed him too far, ridiculing him in front of his men, but she was tired, hungry, and furious at the way he’d treated her.

  What do you care? He’s not your husband.

  That thought only made things worse. She finished eating alone in the tent, wiped her fingers as best she could, then wrapped her cloak around her and pulled the fur blanket tight to her neck. The pallet was lumpy, but at last she was warm, and though she intended to stay awake, to wait for Kelan’s return, to at least try to find some grounds for a truce between them, her eyelids were heavy. Exhaustion had taken its toll and she soon fell asleep.

  She didn’t hear him return, didn’t know that he’d slipped onto the small mattress with her, only became aware of him when she felt a cold hand upon her breast.

  She sucked in her breath, but as soon as he kissed the back of her neck, his lips as warm as his hands were cold, her blood began to heat. She was too tired to resist, and though she knew things were far from settled between them, that she was weak where he was concerned, she turned in his arms and kissed him full upon the lips.

  After all, what did one more night of lovemaking matter?

  They’d ridden for hours, when the soldiers’ horses’ ears perked forward and their gaits seemed more lively.

  Kiera, too, felt the excitement. She closed her mind to the night before, to the passion she’d been unable to allay. She couldn’t dwell on the mistake, not now.