growl, he threw down the torch, shoved the tomb closed, and slid down the side of it to crumple in a heap on the floor.
Grateful sobs bubbled from his chest, and he caught the faint, metallic odor of dirt and blood on his hands as he leaned his forehead into them. When the emotions passed, leaving him empty and dry, Heldred dragged his sleeve across his eyes. A smile wrinkled his wet cheeks. He’d been right, by God. She was alive. That bastard Eduard had done evil in the most terrible way. He’d killed his ownsister, and she, not their beloved mistress, lay here in the tomb. The poor Elise hadn’t even been granted her own identity in death.
A rusty laugh escaped Heldred’s throat, mixing with a joy and hope he hadn’t felt since that awful day. But it wouldn’t be awful in his memory any more. Never again.
Because his lady was alive, by the saints. And he, Heldred the weaver, was going to find her.
Chapter 3
C atherine shifted in sleep, catching herself with an aching jolt an instant before she would have toppled off the edge of Grayson de Camville’s enormous bed. Stiffening as she came to full awareness, she pushed herself up on one shoulder and squinted at her surroundings. ’Twas nearly dawn, by the lead-gray light that seeped in the shutters.
She’d survived her wedding night.
Twisting to look behind herself, she saw that she’d moved little from where she’d finally curled in exhaustion hours after Gray had left her last night. The blood-stained linen still lay across the bed where she’d thrown it before she slept, fearful lest someone enter the chamber while it was on the floor and realize the ruse for what it was.
Now she looked at the sheet with distaste.Though she was thankful for the reprieve it had granted her, the soiled linen represented the lie that had become her life in an undeniable, tangible way.
Forcing herself to stand, Catherine limped to the wash basin. Her limbs protested against the ache that had worsened over the course of the night. How long had she slept? ’Twas difficult to tell. Still, she needed to perform her toilette before a maidservant arrived who might see her bruises and talk of them to the others at the castle.
She’d just slipped on a mulberry linen kirtle when the door creaked open. Catherine glimpsed an older woman’s face a moment before it disappeared again behind the portal.
“Pardon, milady,” her voice came gruff from the hall. “’Tis Mariah. I’ve been sent to attend to you as lady’s maid, if you’ll allow it.”
“Aye. Come in.” Catherine adjusted the fitted wrist of her smock so that it peeked from beneath the kirtle’s long, pointed sleeve. “I’ve dressed already, but I’d welcome help with my crispinette.”
Catherine watched Mariah enter the chamber, noticing the sharp expression that creased the small but able-looking woman’s face. She looked to be nearly two score and ten years, with black, silver-streaked curls that framed her face and set off eyes the color of steel. Though obviously roughened from hard work, her hands were gentle as she gathered up Catherine’s hair and arranged the delicate netting of the crispinette over it.
“Thank you, Mariah. ’Tis a welcome boon to haveyour assistance. At home I always had to tend my hair myself.”
Mariah pursed her lips, tucking the last curl in place. “I’ve served in noble households my whole life, and in all that time I never met a lady who fixed her own hair.” She scowled and added, “I’d not have thought Lord Montford the kind of man to allow it.”
“And yet I’ve spoken true,” Catherine said, startled to find the woman so querulous.
“Pardon, my lady,” Mariah said stiffly, though her expression remained sharp. “I meant no offense.”
Catherine nodded her acceptance of the apology, meeting Mariah’s gaze with as much calm as she could muster. ’Twas unexpected, this obstinate regard from a servant. Prickles of warning inched up her back. Could
Grateful sobs bubbled from his chest, and he caught the faint, metallic odor of dirt and blood on his hands as he leaned his forehead into them. When the emotions passed, leaving him empty and dry, Heldred dragged his sleeve across his eyes. A smile wrinkled his wet cheeks. He’d been right, by God. She was alive. That bastard Eduard had done evil in the most terrible way. He’d killed his ownsister, and she, not their beloved mistress, lay here in the tomb. The poor Elise hadn’t even been granted her own identity in death.
A rusty laugh escaped Heldred’s throat, mixing with a joy and hope he hadn’t felt since that awful day. But it wouldn’t be awful in his memory any more. Never again.
Because his lady was alive, by the saints. And he, Heldred the weaver, was going to find her.
Chapter 3
C atherine shifted in sleep, catching herself with an aching jolt an instant before she would have toppled off the edge of Grayson de Camville’s enormous bed. Stiffening as she came to full awareness, she pushed herself up on one shoulder and squinted at her surroundings. ’Twas nearly dawn, by the lead-gray light that seeped in the shutters.
She’d survived her wedding night.
Twisting to look behind herself, she saw that she’d moved little from where she’d finally curled in exhaustion hours after Gray had left her last night. The blood-stained linen still lay across the bed where she’d thrown it before she slept, fearful lest someone enter the chamber while it was on the floor and realize the ruse for what it was.
Now she looked at the sheet with distaste.Though she was thankful for the reprieve it had granted her, the soiled linen represented the lie that had become her life in an undeniable, tangible way.
Forcing herself to stand, Catherine limped to the wash basin. Her limbs protested against the ache that had worsened over the course of the night. How long had she slept? ’Twas difficult to tell. Still, she needed to perform her toilette before a maidservant arrived who might see her bruises and talk of them to the others at the castle.
She’d just slipped on a mulberry linen kirtle when the door creaked open. Catherine glimpsed an older woman’s face a moment before it disappeared again behind the portal.
“Pardon, milady,” her voice came gruff from the hall. “’Tis Mariah. I’ve been sent to attend to you as lady’s maid, if you’ll allow it.”
“Aye. Come in.” Catherine adjusted the fitted wrist of her smock so that it peeked from beneath the kirtle’s long, pointed sleeve. “I’ve dressed already, but I’d welcome help with my crispinette.”
Catherine watched Mariah enter the chamber, noticing the sharp expression that creased the small but able-looking woman’s face. She looked to be nearly two score and ten years, with black, silver-streaked curls that framed her face and set off eyes the color of steel. Though obviously roughened from hard work, her hands were gentle as she gathered up Catherine’s hair and arranged the delicate netting of the crispinette over it.
“Thank you, Mariah. ’Tis a welcome boon to haveyour assistance. At home I always had to tend my hair myself.”
Mariah pursed her lips, tucking the last curl in place. “I’ve served in noble households my whole life, and in all that time I never met a lady who fixed her own hair.” She scowled and added, “I’d not have thought Lord Montford the kind of man to allow it.”
“And yet I’ve spoken true,” Catherine said, startled to find the woman so querulous.
“Pardon, my lady,” Mariah said stiffly, though her expression remained sharp. “I meant no offense.”
Catherine nodded her acceptance of the apology, meeting Mariah’s gaze with as much calm as she could muster. ’Twas unexpected, this obstinate regard from a servant. Prickles of warning inched up her back. Could
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