Читать книгу Hidden Honor - Anne Stuart - Страница 10

It took Elizabeth longer to dress in the unfamiliar clothes than she had ever taken in her entire life, something she attributed to lack of sleep and physical exhaustion. She’d spent the previous day bouncing around on a horse, the previous night wrestling for Lady Margery’s life, and she was facing another day of grueling travel. It was no wonder she stood and stared at herself in the wavering reflection of the looking glass, too dazed to decide what to do about Dame Joanna’s dress.

It was made of rich green cloth, and brought the green out in her eyes. Her flame-red hair looked blessedly dark when wet, and she’d plaited it in two tight braids, then had to loosen them as the pain in her head increased. The second time she simply twined the damp hair into one thick braid and tossed it over her shoulder. It hung past her waist—in the convent they would cut it off, wouldn’t they? She’d always hated it—it would be a blessing to be shorn.

But even with the demon hair darkened by water and tamed behind her back, there was still the problem of Dame Joanna’s dress. It was a bit too snug in the chest, a fact that Elizabeth found deeply disturbing, since Dame Joanna’s bountiful breasts were far too noticeable. If Elizabeth were even more generously endowed, it could garner the wrong sort of attention.

The fine cloth swirled around her long legs. The soft linen undergarments caressed her skin, and for a brief moment she stared at her reflection and imagined what it would be like to be a beauty. To spend her nights in the bed of a man who worshipped her.

She shook her head, her long plait whipping around, and common sense returned. All the fine clothes in the world wouldn’t make her anything but what she was. A plain young woman unsuited for the world. Too smart, too outspoken, too impatient, too tall for the likes of men.

The dress exposed far too much of her chest, but her lack of hips made it hang down enough to cover her long legs. That was another failing, of course, as her father had often told her. Women needed broad hips for childbearing. But Elizabeth would be bearing no children, and after a night spent listening to Margery’s full-throated screams she could only bless that fact. No matter that the arrival of Thomas’s red-faced, squalling heir had brought her to unexpected tears. The arrival of a child always affected her that way—a bittersweet joy that was more powerful than anything else she’d ever experienced.

That was one reason she’d become proficient in serving at childbed, learning from the midwives at Bredon Castle. If she couldn’t have children herself, and she was illogically fond of them no matter how annoying they could be, then she could at least assist in their delivery. Besides, she had little interest in easing the suffering of mankind—most of their ills were well deserved. But women needed all the help they could get.

After all, the child had come from an act that only men enjoyed. And while the mother would find joy and pleasure in the love of her children, in the meantime she had to put up with some huge, sweaty man invading her body, then months of discomfort as she grew larger and larger, followed by excruciating pain and more often than not, a bloody death. All for the sake of a man’s pleasure.

There were ways to avoid conception, of course. She’d learned that from the midwives as well, secrets passed among women. If the church knew of such things it would be to court eternal damnation.

But the church was run by men. And if the good sisters at Saint Anne’s were ignorant of such precautions then it made no difference.

Perhaps she’d still find ways to put her healing talents to work once she joined the holy sisters. Most orders divided their time in meditation and good works, and Saint Anne’s was bound to include healers. With luck Elizabeth could continue on as before, bringing children into the world, without having to answer to her father or any overbearing man. And no man would ever have the right to force himself upon her in the name of marriage or any other excuse.

Bedding Thomas of Wakebryght wouldn’t have been so horrible. He was handsome, kind and gentle, and so lacking in imagination that the act would be over quickly. And in the end there’d be children.

But that was no longer her lot in life, and if she had any sense she’d rejoice in the release from such carnal duty, rather than bemoan the loss of home and children.

Though if Thomas saw her in this green dress he might start to regret his rash decision. Lady Margery was none too pretty at the moment, with her swollen eyes and pale face. And Thomas had always had a weakness for pretty women.

She turned away from her troubling reflection. There was no question that she looked the best she ever had, despite lack of sleep. Perhaps if her father had seen fit to clothe her decently she might have found a husband. Be married to some coarse baron who spent his passion on her body and then left her in peace.

No, that wasn’t what she wanted. She was happy with her future, and even the rest of the journey seemed less daunting with Dame Joanna for company. No one would look twice at her with the sublime Joanna at her side. Not even the dark prince with his deep, brooding eyes.

She glanced around the room for her cloak, but she’d left it in Lady Margery’s bower. She would go fetch it herself, rather than send a servant. It would set her mind at ease to check on Lady Margery one last time, and to ensure the babe was thriving. And if she ran into Thomas at the same time, and he looked at her in her inappropriate, beautiful dress and found himself regretting his rash decision three years ago, then so much the better.

She glanced out the window before she left the room. The men gathered in the courtyard were her recent companions—she could see the angelic Brother Matthew among them, sitting on his fine horse a few paces away from everyone else. His head was down, and she couldn’t see his expression, but she could well imagine it. The sweetness of his smile, at odds with Prince William’s faint mockery. The gentleness in his soft hands as he held the reins.

Elizabeth gave herself a little shake as she turned away. Leaving her father’s house had surely addled her wits. She was a woman who knew what she wanted in life to make her happy, and to be distracted by memories of Thomas and new thoughts of saintly Brother Matthew was not part of her plan.

Though both were preferable to the memory of Prince William’s mouth brushing against hers.

He’d kissed her twice in as many days. The first on her brow, the second on her lips. If things continued as they had been, she’d be horrified to see where his next kiss landed. Or whether it would be nearly as chaste as the first two.

And she was making a fuss over nothing. Prince William was a devil—he’d only kissed her to disturb her, and he’d succeeded full well in doing so. In the future, though, he’d doubtless find distraction with Dame Joanna far more appealing, even if he truly planned to spend the journey in celibate penitence. After this morning, he would barely notice Elizabeth of Bredon, and she could breathe a sigh of relief. Surely she could.

She had to ask for directions back to Lady Margery—when Joanna had first brought her away she’d been too tired to pay attention to her path. The door was closed to keep in the heat, and she pushed it open without knocking, secure in the knowledge that Lady Margery had no secrets from her erstwhile midwife.

She stopped just inside the room, in shock. Thomas of Wakebryght lay curled up beside Lady Margery, holding her hand, looking at her pale, bloated face with such unquestioning adoration that it was painful to see. The wet nurse sat in the corner with the young heir, coaxing him into feeding, but Thomas had no eyes for anyone but his decidedly unpretty wife, and all Elizabeth could do was stare in astonishment.

He must have felt her eyes on them, for he looked up, and a beatific smile swept across his handsome face, a face she’d once thought she’d die for. Now she realized that his chin was a bit weak, his nose too pretty, and his brow without resolution. She would have led him a merry dance if he hadn’t abandoned her for his wife.

He jumped off the bed and rushed over to her, and she braced herself, not sure what she was expecting. Certainly not his powerful embrace.