Eleanor fought to bring herself back to the present and answer Anne’s question. Had anyone noticed her brief reverie? Trying to keep her tone light, she answered, “I am sure he would not miss the occasion of a great feast given by the Count of Litchfield.”
“And many ladies to dally with, too, I trow,” Anne said, with a giggle.
Mary drew in her breath and Eleanor darted a warning look at Anne. The news of the possible betrothal of Mary and Hugh had been swirling about the castle for days.
“Oh, Milady, I do apologize!” Anne exclaimed to Mary. “I was unthinking.”
“Nay, don’t worry, Anne,” Eleanor reassured her, while Mary twisted her hands in her lap. “You are not speaking out of turn.” She shrugged. “We know ‘tis the way of the world that men will dally while women wait for them.”
“Some women find their own pleasures where they can,” Anne said, with a smile.
Eleanor swallowed hard, not wanting to meet Anne’s eyes. Had she cried out Hugh’s name in her sleep, unawares, and had anyone heard her and carried the tale gleefully hither and yon? Gossip so often seemed to seep through the castle walls and flow through the great rooms, and she was mortified at the thought that listening ears might have heard her call out for Hugh. If anyone would have heard any gossip, it would have been Anne.
She studied Anne’s face, but could read no hidden message there. In relief, she smiled back at Anne. “Some say so,” she agreed, “but ‘tis not meet for good wives to do so.” And so Hugh would agree, she thought. Indeed, his faithless wife had soured him on women and life in general—soured him more than he had been before he had married, if she was to believe what Anne and Agnes told her. What a hard man he was!
“Must I share a husband with assorted wenches, then?” Mary asked, her face perplexed.
Anne laughed, patting her on the shoulder. “Aye,” she said, “and if your husband be not the man you wish he were, you’ll be glad of it. The more time he spends away from your bed will give you a welcome respite!”
Mary blushed deeply, and Eleanor smiled a rueful smile. How truly Anne did speak. Edgar had left her alone after that first disastrous night and after that had bragged openly about tumbling any number of women and lasses, but Eleanor couldn’t believe him for a moment.
Anne looked at her quizzically. “Do you miss Edgar?” she asked, unbelievingly.
Eleanor laughed out loud. “As I miss a gnat, buzzing and biting me!” she said. “You know well what he was.”
“Aye,” Anne replied. “You must needs be a merry widow.”
Eleanor shrugged. “No, I have too much on my mind, methinks, to be merry.”
A hubbub arose at the edge of the dell, horns blowing, and men’s voices calling out.
Poachers? Eleanor wondered, and she snapped to attention. God’s bones, but they were brazen, if they were poachers!
“Who goes there?” called out Ulric, her knight.
“The party of Hugh of Wykeham, and who may you be?” a voice answered.
Eleanor shivered, despite her cloak over her shoulders. Which would she rather see—poachers or Hugh?
Mary gasped and pulled her cloak further over her head. “Must I speak with him?” she asked, plaintively.
Eleanor patted Mary’s hand. “Do not worry, little sister. I shall protect you.” She smiled. “He is not an ogre.” Almost an ogre, she wanted to say, but bit the words back.
“Lady Eleanor of Strathcombe and her men and household,” Ulric replied. Hugh and his retinue rode into the clearing. Eleanor’s mouth felt dry. From where she was seated on a small leather stool, Hugh looked even more imposing and handsome than before, his blue eyes clear and intense, a red cape flowing from his broad shoulders over his chainmail.
“Would you inquire of Lady Eleanor if we may camp with you this evening and ride together to Litchfield?” Hugh asked Ulric. He glanced around the clearing and spotted Eleanor with some of her attendants. Involuntarily, he tightened his grip on the reins. Next to Eleanor was Mary, but it was Eleanor’s face that riveted him, small upturned nose, emerald-green eyes, and the dark hair that fell across her forehead in a soft wave. Hugh shut his eyes for an instant.
Last night, he had dreamed that he had tangled his fingers in that hair, losing himself in her scent, moving his mouth across hers, up to her eyebrows, nuzzling her hair, then making a trail of kisses from her forehead to her closed eyes, again on her rosebud mouth, down her chin, brushing his lips softly on her jaw line, softly kissing her neck, and she reached her arms around him, kissing him back with those soft lips…
Then he had awoken himself in shock. There was no dark-haired, green-eyed Eleanor in his room—indeed, no one but him. A wench! He needed another wench! But these days, wenches were not enough. Why? he wondered. Pah! He spit into the underbrush. Truly, perhaps he did need to get married and have a proper wife, better sooner rather than later, and Mary would be the right choice, he told himself—young, virginal, untouched, malleable, and moldable. She would not romp with others while his back was turned, as Caroline had. He would
