Page 64 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
God help her—did Roswyn know her secret?
Harald stepped towards Jeffrey and held the tip of the sword against Jeffrey’s chest. The man lifted his head to face him, knowing as the lamb before slaughter, that his time had come.
“It must be done,” Harald said.
The memory of the deer flashed in Eloise’s mind. Once again, her husband stood before a helpless creature, showing no mercy. Unable to avert her gaze, she watched in morbid fascination as Harald thrust the sword through Jeffrey’s chest. Jeffrey gave one final gasp and collapsed forward.
“You did well, Harald.” Beauvisage nudged Jeffrey’s body with the tip of his boot.
“Aye,” Roswyn said, her voice laced with triumph.
Eloise began to convulse as nausea rippled through her. She turned to run, ignoring her husband’s voice.
“Wife—I order you to remain here!”
She fled from the hall, not heeding whether she were followed, until she reached her chamber where she slammed the door shut.
She bent over her washbowl and retched, her body spasming. Her stomach heaved and expelled its contents as if to purge the evils she had seen.
Heaven help her! If Harald could kill his right hand man so easily, would she be next?
Or, perhaps Violette?
Violette—always her thoughts turned to the child at moments of distress.
She reached into the chest beside her bed and fumbled under the linen where she found the hidden pouch. She pulled out its contents and took the little lock of hair in her hands and kissed it.
“My love,” she whispered.
A rough hand gripped her arm.
Harald had followed her.
“So, youdohave a lover,” he said, “or should I say,anotherlover.”
“No…”
“Don’t lie to me! To whom does that lock of hair belong?”
“It’s not a lover,” she pleaded, “you must believe me.”
“Then who? Tell me!”
He gripped her deformed arm and the bones grated against each other.
“Please!” she cried. “I’ll tell the truth, but please stop!”
He released her, then stared at his hand—the hand which had gripped her arm. A flicker of guilt glowered in his eyes.
“The hair belongs to a child,” she said, “Mychild.”
His expression darkened. “A bastard child—where is it?”
“She died,” she said, praying for forgiveness for her deception, but she had to protect Violette. “This lock of hair is all I have left of her.”
“Where is the father?” he demanded. “While you deceived me with whispers of love in the dark, were you rutting him?”
She shook her head.
