Chosen for the Marriage Bed by Anne O'Brien Page A

their violet depths, a leaping connection that made him want to soothe and reassure her as he would a newly broken mare.
    For a long moment they simply stared at each other.
    The she pulled her hands free and the moment was broken.
    ‘Let us go down. The wind has too much of an edge here.’ He made to lead her down the steps, placing himself unobtrusively between the lady and the increasing gusts. ‘Food, I think. And you need to be introduced to those of the household whom you have not already met.’
    On level ground again within the court yard, sheltered from the worst, he pulled her hand through his arm to walk back to the living quarters, in no manner dissatisfied with the turn of events. Out spoken to a fault she might be, she would never be easy to live with—too much obstinacy, too wilful, he had decided—but there was at least a measure of agreement between them.
    Whilst Elizabeth de Lacy fought a difficult battle to repress the little spurt of hope that warmed her heart. Take care! she warned herself. It would be too easy to allow this man to break down the barriers so effectively constructed over the years to protect her heart from further hurt. But Richard Malinder was kind. He had shown her a level of under standing that she had not expected, and his arm was strong beneath her hand.
    ‘What is it?’
    Glancing across at her as they reached the court yard, he seemed to catch her line of thought, and smiled at her as he made his enquiry. But Elizabeth, after a little hesitation, merely shook her head and veiled her eyes with dark lashes. How could she tell this man who was concerned for her happiness and the state of her hands that he was so very beautiful? That his dark hair, ruffled to a tangle by the wind, and the stunning lines, the flat planes of his face, brought an uncomfortable flutter to her heart.
    A sudden gust of wind blew her cloak, rippled her veil. She raised her hands to hold it secure, conscious of her unsatisfactory pinning of the folds. Aware of nothing but the sheer magnetism of this dark figure who stood so close and to whom she would soon be bound. Aware of nothing but the throb of her blood beneath his touch. The imprint of his mouth on her palm still burned like a brand. She closed her fingers tightly over it.
    Before they parted company at the main door, their paths crossed that of Robert, who had unashamedly been watching their approach. Smiling, he bowed to the de parting Elizabeth, then cast a wry look towards at his cousin.
    ‘A pity that she…’
    Robert lurched to a stop as he read the cool expression, most definitely a warning that dared him to say more. ‘No matter. I was always tactless.’ And then, irrepressible to the last, ‘But she’s not a cosy armful, and you can’t argue that she is!’
    Richard merely stared at his cousin, searching for a suitable reply, only to find himself thinking of Gwladys. Beautiful, desirable in face and figure, any man’s dream to own and hold. He remembered as a young man falling hopelessly in love with her undeniable beauty, his physical response to her, his desire to kiss her and caress her into mindless delight. He recalled his pride in her as his wife and his hopes for that marriage. How his breath had caught, his loins stirred whenever he set eyes on her. Now Elizabeth… A complicated woman who roused in him—what? He wasn’t sure.
    ‘No, she’s not a cosy armful. But at least Elizabeth is honest. I think she might be incapable of dissembling,’ he replied, unaware of the snap in his voice until he saw Robert’s reaction. ‘Unlike Gwladys, who…’ Richard shifted, impatient with himself, conscious of Robert’s arched stare, his piqued interest at what had been a carelessly thoughtless comment on his part. He should not have made it. But at least he knew Robert would not ask.
    And Richard found his thoughts leaping from beautiful Gwladys to Elizabeth de Lacy. It was not as uncomfortable a leap as he might have suspected.