Page 7 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
Harald could not be reasoned with when angry or drunk—and tonight he was both.
“Out of respect to your wife,” Edwin said, “at least keep that whore at a distance.”
“Roswyn? I care naught for her.”
“You have a wife to meet your needs now, brother. Send that loathsome creature back to Jeffrey and be done with her.”
“Have you seen my wife?” Harald asked.
“She awaits you in your chamber,” Edwin said.
“Then duty calls.”
Harald banged his goblet on the table and a servant hurried forward to fill it. He drained it then stood, knocking his chair to the ground. Edwin signaled two servants who rushed forward and caught Harald just before he collapsed.
“Take him to his bride.”
Chapter 2
The door to the bridal chamber burst open and Eloise’s husband staggered in, supported by two servants. She motioned to the bed and they dragged him toward it and let him fall face down, the bedropes creaking under his weight.
“Ahh...” He sighed and rolled onto his back, letting out a gentle snore.
Eloise began to undress him, unlacing his boots and placing them beside the bed. She removed his breeches and tunic which were covered in wine stains, folding everything carefully. She struggled with such a huge man but eventually he lay sleeping under the fur.
She studied his face. He had a high forehead and his eyes were wide set. His nose was large and mostly straight, a slight kink evidence of an injury. His jaw was firm and she caressed it, surprised at how soft his beard was. The only other time she’d touched a beard had been as a child when she’d pulled at Papa’s. Smiling at the memory of happier times, she traced her fingertips along Harald’s jaw, to the full, red lips. He opened his mouth and sighed. Warm breath on her fingers tightened her skin, and his lips curled into a smile.
Perhaps he might think kindly of her for being the means by which he kept his home. In time he might grow to care for her, perhaps even love her. Maman and Papa had loved each other, though they’d not met until their wedding day. She had hope.
Her husband stirred.
“Ahh, Marlin, what you do to me.”
Eloise pulled her hand away, cursing the naivety of her hope. She slipped into the bed beside him, turned onto her side and tried to sleep, haunted by his ragged breathing and other women’s names on his lips.
The next morning she woke to the sound of pain. The sunlight peeked through the oilskin at the window, throwing its rays across the man lying beside her. His brow was deeply furrowed, eyes clamped shut and he shuddered and groaned.
Today was the first day of her marriage. Her duty was to him now, and however little he valued her, she had some worth with her knowledge of restorative herbs. Unwilling to summon a servant, she slipped on a plain tunic from her trunk, and left the chamber in search of the gardens. She would find her gowns and headdress another time.
The hall was quiet. The guests must be sleeping off their wine. A few servants bowed as she walked past, and she was relieved to see her old nursemaid approach her.
“Mademoiselle Eloise!” the woman cried in French.
“It’s Madame now, Jeanette,” she said. “Come, I need to find the herb garden, if there is one.”
Eloise spotted one of the Wildstorm kitchenmaids outside and called to her in English.
“What is your name?”
The woman dropped a curtsey. “Mona,” she said, her voice sulky.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mona,” Eloise said. “Forgive my poor English. I’ve had little occasion to use it having studied from books, but I trust you understand me?”
Mona’s eyes curtseyed again, her expression less hostile. “You speak our language well, my Lady.”
“You’re too kind.” Eloise replied. “I hope to be happy here and look after you all.”
Mona’s face broke into a smile, showing yellowing teeth.
