Silverhawk by Barbara Bettis

puckered. Wonderful. It only needed a weeping child.
    Emelin gusted a breath. “I will be in my chamber.” When Ortha stepped up, she added, “I would like to be alone. You can best help by looking after Margaret.”
    Mind numb, she made her way to her tiny room. She slammed the bar across the door, sank onto the bed, and pulled at the wimple. Strong, was she? Opinionated, they thought? Never had she felt so alone. Not in the early years at St. Ursula when she stood apart like a bandaged thumb. Not even as a child, in the first frightening days of travel to Stephen’s home. Self-reliance came gradually over the years, and if she nurtured an independent spirit? Well, it was hard-won.
    She must draw on those qualities now, show Lord Osbert she could fulfill his requirements, work to win over Margaret. She must repair the damage her unguarded temper just wrought. For Garley’s eyes blazed hatred when they landed on her and sent her spiraling back to a childhood fear.
    Against her will, the old uncertainty seared her new confidence. Would he force her to Compton if she didn’t satisfy Lord Osbert? Sell her to another rich lord? What would such a man be like? Lord Osbert, at least, was a known entity.
    And the child. Emelin couldn’t leave her alone. Who knew what mischief she would get up to, just to gain attention? Dear God. What if she caught Garley’s eye? He’d know at once to use her as a lever against Emelin.
    She propped her elbows on her knees and covered her face with her hands. Her chest hurt; she couldn’t swallow. One tear, then another, then more slipped between her fingers to roll down her forearms. She wept silently until her nose began to run. Grabbing the wimple, she blew into it and mopped her eyes with the other end.
    At least that solved the problem of the terrifying head wrap. A tiny smile tugged one side of her mouth. Perhaps Margaret wouldn’t weep at her now. She straightened and flexed her shoulders. Enough self-pity. But in spite of the brave attitude, a tiny, empty ache still lived between her breasts. She sucked in a deep breath and opened the door. Where to find Ortha?
    As it happened, Ortha sat alone at the top of the stairway, waiting. Across her lap was a soft gown, the shade of evergreens. She looked up.
    “Lady Dulsie sent this for you to wear at the evening meal.” Ortha must have glimpsed a residual rebellion in Emelin’s eyes because she rose quickly. “Please, my lady. To preserve the peace. You won’t want to anger your husband before you’re even wed.”
    “Too late for that,” came Emelin’s instinctive reply. She ran her hand over the fine, soft wool. When had she ever worn such a lovely gown?
    “Perhaps you’re right. I will try. Come and help me dress. Where is Margaret?”
    A rare smile lit the other woman’s face. “With Tilda, of course, plaguing Cook.”
    Ortha had just finished braiding Emelin’s hair when the door burst open. Sir Garley strode in, his bulk filling the space. He jerked his head, and Ortha slipped into the passageway. Emelin shot to her feet, chin raised. The long forgotten fear nibbled at her heart, but she refused to show it.
    He loomed closer, looked over the borrowed gown she wore, and picked up a braid. Lips curled in a snarl, he gave it a hard yank before he dropped it. “Too bad we can’t do something about that color.” Blood-shot eyes narrowed. He grabbed her chin between his forefinger and thumb and forced up her head. She tried to pull away from the stench of his breath, but he pinched harder.
    “Don’t do anything else to spoil this arrangement.” His voice grated like rusty steel. “I need the payment Langley made for you. I will not return it.”
    Garley gave her head a final shake. “Do not interfere in my plans,” he repeated.
    Emelin jerked back. Rebellion overpowered the hurt, and she spoke without thought. Again.
    “Or what? You’ll immure me in a convent? I believe we’ve done that already.”
    Garley’s slap