the woman roll her shoulder, then saw it flex in an unconscious movement and her closing her eyes, breathing in and out in her slow, labored way. She was quite beautiful that day, he noticed almost shamefully. The long sleeves hid the scratch-marks and her hair tumbled free and open. There was always that haunted quality to her face but it seemed more at home the way she looked that day.
“I thought not,” she finally answered and raised her chin a fraction of an inch in proud defiance of his power over her. She raised a brow. “Are you meaning to drag me to her side right now?” Moira asked, with a dry cock of her brow and then nodded back into the room, where Lady Cecile was sitting next to her husband, seemingly content to smile politely while the men were exchanging pleasantries.
“Your chambers, milady. Your maid is waiting for you there.”
Without showing whether or not she intended to follow in the end, Moira kept on watching the proceedings in the Great Hall; the stony faces of the guard, her father’s detached smile and the gregarious gestures of Degean Fairester’s arms and fingers.
“They would have me marry him … ” she said quietly and then bit her bottom lip. She could only see the back of him now, where the gestures and the posturing looked almost funny without hearing the words. But she didn’t have the heart to laugh.
“And you would not?” Owain asked.
Moira shrugged and finally made herself turn around again. She inclined her head at the Blaidyn for a moment in an almost mocking gesture of gratitude before she walked past him down the corridor, and up the next staircase that would lead her back to her chambers.
• • •
“He is a good man, Moira. He’s from a good family … and, between you and me, he is far more handsome than his older brother.” It was a string of comments, launched toward Moira’s general direction. She couldn’t move her head while the maid was braiding and coiling and pinning up her hair but she could feel her stepmother sitting there, watching her intensely enough to make her squirm.
“I’m sorry, milady, did I hurt you?” the maid asked immediately, hands leaving her red hair and Moira stopped herself from shaking her head and ruining the work in progress.
“No, I’m fine, Bess.”
Lady Cecile eyed them both, brows knotted with a sigh caught in her throat. Moira was truly quite beautiful when she tried. They would find a way to redden those sallow cheeks and to make her smile and there was no reason why she wouldn’t look absolutely marriageable. She wasn’t as slim as she could have been, but that brought with it a certain vigor and the promise of children between her wide hips and to nurse at her ample bosom. Moira, of course, had neither vigor, nor did she seem like a woman who would conceive easily, Lady Cecile thought, but there was nothing wrong with attributes, which gave that impression in any case.
“You should feel flattered that he came back; he obviously liked you when he visited last.”
Moira finally cast her eyes over at her stepmother, she still didn’t move any other muscle but she could see her there, drumming her fingers almost noiselessly on the polished wood table. She did not feel flattered and she knew better than to think he’d come back because of her. He’d come back because he had been told that she was his one chance at ruling over his own fief after his father would die and leave the house and the land and the riches to his older brother. If he married the young Lady Moira, however, he would rule over the Bramble Keep, the village of Rochmond and leagues of farms, fields and mountains. He would take the title, the name and the fief — the wife was just another possession.
Moira was more than aware of this, no matter that the frequency with which Lady Cecile repeated these facts seemed to suggest otherwise. She knew. She even tried to convince herself that this, inevitably, was her life; that she had no
“I thought not,” she finally answered and raised her chin a fraction of an inch in proud defiance of his power over her. She raised a brow. “Are you meaning to drag me to her side right now?” Moira asked, with a dry cock of her brow and then nodded back into the room, where Lady Cecile was sitting next to her husband, seemingly content to smile politely while the men were exchanging pleasantries.
“Your chambers, milady. Your maid is waiting for you there.”
Without showing whether or not she intended to follow in the end, Moira kept on watching the proceedings in the Great Hall; the stony faces of the guard, her father’s detached smile and the gregarious gestures of Degean Fairester’s arms and fingers.
“They would have me marry him … ” she said quietly and then bit her bottom lip. She could only see the back of him now, where the gestures and the posturing looked almost funny without hearing the words. But she didn’t have the heart to laugh.
“And you would not?” Owain asked.
Moira shrugged and finally made herself turn around again. She inclined her head at the Blaidyn for a moment in an almost mocking gesture of gratitude before she walked past him down the corridor, and up the next staircase that would lead her back to her chambers.
• • •
“He is a good man, Moira. He’s from a good family … and, between you and me, he is far more handsome than his older brother.” It was a string of comments, launched toward Moira’s general direction. She couldn’t move her head while the maid was braiding and coiling and pinning up her hair but she could feel her stepmother sitting there, watching her intensely enough to make her squirm.
“I’m sorry, milady, did I hurt you?” the maid asked immediately, hands leaving her red hair and Moira stopped herself from shaking her head and ruining the work in progress.
“No, I’m fine, Bess.”
Lady Cecile eyed them both, brows knotted with a sigh caught in her throat. Moira was truly quite beautiful when she tried. They would find a way to redden those sallow cheeks and to make her smile and there was no reason why she wouldn’t look absolutely marriageable. She wasn’t as slim as she could have been, but that brought with it a certain vigor and the promise of children between her wide hips and to nurse at her ample bosom. Moira, of course, had neither vigor, nor did she seem like a woman who would conceive easily, Lady Cecile thought, but there was nothing wrong with attributes, which gave that impression in any case.
“You should feel flattered that he came back; he obviously liked you when he visited last.”
Moira finally cast her eyes over at her stepmother, she still didn’t move any other muscle but she could see her there, drumming her fingers almost noiselessly on the polished wood table. She did not feel flattered and she knew better than to think he’d come back because of her. He’d come back because he had been told that she was his one chance at ruling over his own fief after his father would die and leave the house and the land and the riches to his older brother. If he married the young Lady Moira, however, he would rule over the Bramble Keep, the village of Rochmond and leagues of farms, fields and mountains. He would take the title, the name and the fief — the wife was just another possession.
Moira was more than aware of this, no matter that the frequency with which Lady Cecile repeated these facts seemed to suggest otherwise. She knew. She even tried to convince herself that this, inevitably, was her life; that she had no
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