Impostress by Lisa Jackson Page A

forever worn around her neck. "I have not had a happy marriage, as you know. 'Twas a union that my father conceived, but ..." Sadness had touched the corner of her pale lips. " 'Twas good enough. Mayhap there is no thing as true happiness. Mayhap it is impractical, a romantic notion." She'd blinked and swallowed over the pain. "Just see that the girls are married to men who will be kind to them, who will treat them well ..."
    "I have no say in who they will wed," Hildy had protested.
    In a moment of clarity, Lady Twyla's eyes had sharpened, focused as hard as a hawk's upon her maid. "You have the baron's ear. He trusts you."
    Hildy's heart had nearly stopped. Her mouth had gaped.
    "Aye. I have known for a long time," Twyla whispered, and. one gaunt hand wrapped surprisingly strong fingers over Hildy's wrist. "I blame you not. I know of my husband's ... needs. I know also of his beliefs in your silly omens and predictions. He is not always a Christian man. He thinks you are gifted, that you have the sight, that you ... that you are a damned charm. A good luck piece." Her lips had twisted painfully at the thought. "Mayhap he thought that some of that luck might rub off on him."
    "Nay, m'lady, nay, I—"
    " 'Tis true!" She'd snapped at Hildy, nearly ten years her elder. Sighing, she'd shaken her head and brushed a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes. "Since he trusts you, you must advise him about my daughters. Promise me that you will do everything you can to see that they are wed to good men with true hearts."
    "I will m'lady but—"
    The talonlike fingers tightened with the same desperation mirrored in the lady's eyes. "Promise me," she'd insisted and, with her free hand, had found the cross half buried in the slit of her chemise. She'd held it out, then wrapped Hildy's unwilling fingers around the bejeweled piece. "Promise me. With God looking on. Now." When Hildy had hesitated, Lady Twyla had insisted. "Now!"
    "I—I promise," Hildy had choked out as the lady had collapsed onto her pillows. Satisfied and drained.
    But Hildy had lied. She'd known it then. And with chilling certainty, she knew it now.
    Hildy had lost her influence over Llwyd of Lawenydd with his wife's death. Mayhap it was guilt over his wife's passing, or perhaps he had simply tired of her. The only relationship Hildy had maintained with the baron was through his children.
    No matter the cause for her loss of Llwyd's favor, the result was the same. She had known her attempts to direct Lady Elyn's fate would be ignored by Llwyd. She had foreseen danger in the union with Kelan, Baron of Penbrooke. But nothing prepared her for the future she now saw for the baron's daughters.
    As she stared once again at the damning stones, she knew that because of this sham of a marriage, tragedy and death were about to descend on Lawenydd.
    * * * * *
    'Twas time to teach his wife a lesson, Kelan thought angrily. He'd tried to hold his rage in check, attempted not to let his irritation and his embarrassment show, but as each second passed, his anger had mounted. He'd suffered through enough of the festivities and the curious glances, lifted eyebrows, smug smiles, and twitching lips. He'd been married less than four hours and already the wench had the upper hand. Fortunately Tadd, sniffing at the skirts of the comely and willing serving maid, had disappeared. Orvis had consumed enough ale that he was certain to fall asleep at the table, his thick fingers curled over the stem of his mazer.
    Kelan, more than a little drunk, scooted his chair back, excused himself, and, feeling the effects of too much wine, made his way out of the smoky great hall to the staircase. His legs were unsteady, which surprised him, for he was a man who could usually drink without too much effect.
    Lord Llwyd's wine was potent.
    More carefully than was his custom, he strode up the curved stone staircase to the third floor, which, he'd learned from his conversation with his new father-in-law, housed the