it more than a
cursory glance. The only appreciative presence was Morrighan, banished from
the legal discussions earlier in the day, but now together again with her
mistress. She curled her long limbs before the fire, in pleasure at being
reunited with such comfort.
The solar was well placed,
deliberately so by the Norman-French de Bramptons, who had constructed the
castle principally for their safety rather than their comfort, to benefit from
whatever sunshine there might be in winter. Pale gold beams spilled through the
windows to gild the panelling and the sparse furnishings. The room had been
given a woman's touch. Of all the rooms in the castle that Mansell had
investigated, with increasing disfavour since his arrival, this was the only
one to bear signs of personal occupancy and attention. It smelled faintly of
herbs—lavender, he presumed. The furniture—a chest, a table, carved
armchairs—was carefully chosen from what little the castle could offer and had
been recently polished. A bright rug covered the smoothly worn floorboards
before the fireplace, its colour warming the austere grey stone. Hand-worked
cushions helped to soften a window seat that had a view out over an inner
courtyard. A bunch of brave snowdrops gleamed white and green in a small
pottery vessel on the table. It was clear to him that Honoria had made the room
her own and enjoyed its privacy.
But now they stood facing
each other across the void of the oak table, Lord Edward's final document lying
between them, the black ink stark in the sun.
'Please sit, my lady.'
Mansell indicated the carved chair next to her. He poured small beer for them
both, pushed the pewter tankard towards her and lowered himself thoughtfully on
the seat opposite, hands resting on the table top. He knew that he must tread
carefully. Did he really want this aloof, enigmatic lady as his bride? He was
not at all certain that he wanted this responsibility along with all the other
complications of his now far-flung estates, but did he have a choice? He could
hardly throw her to the wolves of local politics and warfare. And there was
something about her that tugged at his senses, at some chivalric instinct to
protect. Perhaps her vulnerability, her isolation within the community of
Brampton Percy. But marriage! He took a deep breath and a mouthful of Lord
Edward's ale, wincing in disgust as he contemplated his next words.
Honoria found herself
contemplating not her future, but the hands spread masterfully on the table
top. They were wide-palmed, long- fingered and elegant, but with considerable
strength. She noted the calluses along the edge of his thumbs from frequent
friction with sword and reins. They were hands that would take and hold fast.
Was she willing to put her future into those hands? She longed for it, she
admitted to herself in a blaze of honesty, but at the same time shrank from the
prospect. She pushed the tankard aside and waited.
'We need to talk, my
lady—without polite pretence or dissimulation.' Mansell's tone was flat and
matter of fact, as if embarking on a business transaction where time was of the
essence, but his eyes were compelling. 'But remember Wellings's advice. There is no compulsion here. There is no need to feel that you are
under any obligation but to your own wishes in the matter. I believe that you
will value that—your freedom of choice—more than anything. Am I correct?'
'Yes.' She nodded. His
approach and understanding put her at her ease again, she found herself able to
quell the sense of panic which had begun to tighten its hold, and concentrate
on the practicalities.
'Firstly, then, it is
necessary for you to tell me—is it possible that you carry Lord Edward's child?
If that is so, then the whole of the will as far as my inheritance could be
invalid and we must refer again to Wellings.'
Lady Mansell's eyes flew to
his, all her composure in tatters once more, before she hid her consternation
with a sweep of lashes. She looks
cursory glance. The only appreciative presence was Morrighan, banished from
the legal discussions earlier in the day, but now together again with her
mistress. She curled her long limbs before the fire, in pleasure at being
reunited with such comfort.
The solar was well placed,
deliberately so by the Norman-French de Bramptons, who had constructed the
castle principally for their safety rather than their comfort, to benefit from
whatever sunshine there might be in winter. Pale gold beams spilled through the
windows to gild the panelling and the sparse furnishings. The room had been
given a woman's touch. Of all the rooms in the castle that Mansell had
investigated, with increasing disfavour since his arrival, this was the only
one to bear signs of personal occupancy and attention. It smelled faintly of
herbs—lavender, he presumed. The furniture—a chest, a table, carved
armchairs—was carefully chosen from what little the castle could offer and had
been recently polished. A bright rug covered the smoothly worn floorboards
before the fireplace, its colour warming the austere grey stone. Hand-worked
cushions helped to soften a window seat that had a view out over an inner
courtyard. A bunch of brave snowdrops gleamed white and green in a small
pottery vessel on the table. It was clear to him that Honoria had made the room
her own and enjoyed its privacy.
But now they stood facing
each other across the void of the oak table, Lord Edward's final document lying
between them, the black ink stark in the sun.
'Please sit, my lady.'
Mansell indicated the carved chair next to her. He poured small beer for them
both, pushed the pewter tankard towards her and lowered himself thoughtfully on
the seat opposite, hands resting on the table top. He knew that he must tread
carefully. Did he really want this aloof, enigmatic lady as his bride? He was
not at all certain that he wanted this responsibility along with all the other
complications of his now far-flung estates, but did he have a choice? He could
hardly throw her to the wolves of local politics and warfare. And there was
something about her that tugged at his senses, at some chivalric instinct to
protect. Perhaps her vulnerability, her isolation within the community of
Brampton Percy. But marriage! He took a deep breath and a mouthful of Lord
Edward's ale, wincing in disgust as he contemplated his next words.
Honoria found herself
contemplating not her future, but the hands spread masterfully on the table
top. They were wide-palmed, long- fingered and elegant, but with considerable
strength. She noted the calluses along the edge of his thumbs from frequent
friction with sword and reins. They were hands that would take and hold fast.
Was she willing to put her future into those hands? She longed for it, she
admitted to herself in a blaze of honesty, but at the same time shrank from the
prospect. She pushed the tankard aside and waited.
'We need to talk, my
lady—without polite pretence or dissimulation.' Mansell's tone was flat and
matter of fact, as if embarking on a business transaction where time was of the
essence, but his eyes were compelling. 'But remember Wellings's advice. There is no compulsion here. There is no need to feel that you are
under any obligation but to your own wishes in the matter. I believe that you
will value that—your freedom of choice—more than anything. Am I correct?'
'Yes.' She nodded. His
approach and understanding put her at her ease again, she found herself able to
quell the sense of panic which had begun to tighten its hold, and concentrate
on the practicalities.
'Firstly, then, it is
necessary for you to tell me—is it possible that you carry Lord Edward's child?
If that is so, then the whole of the will as far as my inheritance could be
invalid and we must refer again to Wellings.'
Lady Mansell's eyes flew to
his, all her composure in tatters once more, before she hid her consternation
with a sweep of lashes. She looks
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