Page 11 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
“But, my love…”
“Begone!” He pushed her away and she returned to her place beside Jeffrey, sashaying along the hall and smiling provocatively at the men she passed. Harald followed her with his eyes until his gaze rested on his brother. Edwin’s face looked grim, his eyes full of disgust. He shook his head at Harald and looked away.
Harald’s conscience already pricked him at his treatment of his wife—and now, he suffered the disappointment of the one man whose opinion he valued above all others—his beloved brother.
* * *
For the next few days,Harald woke each morning to find a flagon of his wife’s herbal brew had been sent to his chamber. During the day, he watched her settle into her duties as chatelaine, instructing the servants and seeking their counsel. Unlike Roswyn, she never raised her voice nor uttered a single angry word. She curtseyed politely whenever she met Harald she never sought him out; neither did she plague him with demands. Occasionally he heard her melodic voice talking to his servants in the Saxon tongue, or to her maidservant in her native language.
Though he wished to find fault to justify his determination to hate her, she seemed flawless. Edwin’s words echoed in his mind—a delicate, priceless jewel such as she, was wasted on an embittered man haunted by nightmares and plagued by the smell of blood in his nostrils.
The only time he spent more than a minute in her company was during the evening meals in the hall. Quiet and observant, she anticipated his needs, summoning a servant to refill his winecup, and motioning for another platter when he needed more food. Other than occasional enquiries after his health, she rarely spoke to him. The one time Harald brushed his hand against hers, she stiffened and he fancied he saw fear in her eyes. Other than that, she wore a veneer of calm. Did these Normans have no feelings at all?
The first outward sign of emotion he saw in his wife was on the day her father left, and he stumbled across them at the stables. Unaware she was being observed, Eloise clung to her father, her voice choked with sorrow.
“Dearest Papa, when will I see you again? How I’ll miss you!”
“I know, little lamb, but you’re safe here. Your husband will protect you better than I ever could.”
“You protected me well enough,” she said.
“I should have done so much more! What you suffered—my biggest regret is that I didn’t prevent it. But brutish as this Harald appears, he has William’s trust. I’m convinced he has a good heart. You’ll be better treated here than you would have been had you married…”
“Hush Papa, don’t say it. I wish only to forget.”
Alain pulled her into a tight embrace. “I can never forget. My poor little lamb—I regret I did nothing to ensure justice was served.”
“No good comes of revisiting the past, Papa,” she said. “I would have you at peace.”
“And I you, dearest daughter.”
Ashamed to be eavesdropping, Harald ducked behind one of the buildings. But he was too late. Eloise stumbled into him on her way back to the hall. Her eyes were wet with tears but on seeing him she wiped her face and dropped a curtsey.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“Aye.”
She tried to walk past him but he grasped her arm. She tried to pull away but he tightened his grip. She cried out in pain as he squeezed her upper arm, his fingers probing, feeling unnatural shapes where her arm should be. He drew her to him to take a better look.
“No!” she cried.
“Be still, woman,” he growled.
She froze, and he pulled her sleeve up. Her arm was twisted at an unnatural angle. The skin seemed taut, as if stretched over the bones beneath. Thick scars ran above her elbow, halfway to her shoulder, their silvery gray color in sharp contrast to the purple flesh surrounding them. Fascinated, he touched a scar with his finger and she bit her lip, drawing blood. He released her and stepped back. She let her arm fall to her side, but made no attempt to cover it.
He let out a gasp and for the first time, his timid little wife looked up and met his gaze. Bravely and unflinchingly, her eyes challenged him to show fear at the sight of an injury she had endured—an injury far worse than any he had suffered on the battlefield.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“’Tis my deformity,” she said. “May I take my leave?”
He nodded, and she pulled her sleeve back down and walked away.
* * *
The following morning,Alain de Morigeaux departed. Harald averted his eyes as his wife said her last farewell to her father. He bowed to Morigeaux before handing him a finely spun woolen cloak—a gift from Wildstorm. Alain held out his hand and as Harald clasped it, the older man leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.
“Farewell, Harald of Wildstorm. In handing you my daughter I have given you my finest treasure. She’ll take the greatest care of you, and your people. I pray you will pay her the same courtesy.”
