Impostress (23 page)

Love?
That thought struck him hard. He wasn't a romantic, didn't believe in love. And yet this woman with her clever tongue, laughing eyes, and spirited lovemaking had found a way into his heart. He was lucky. Most marriages were for convenience only; the husband and wife only tolerated each other.

But ... she'd deceived him. The vials were proof enough of her deception. His jaw grew so hard it ached. Why? Why had she lied to him? He could ask her again. Demand answers.

And what will that accomplish? A rift between the two of you? You are married. You agreed to this arrangement and you must make the best of it. Elyn is your wife and will be the mother of your children. Doubting her now is of no use.

'Twas time to start anew. To embrace this marriage. To trust the woman who had vowed to be his wife. He tossed the vials into the fire. The full one broke, liquid oozing out and sizzling, smelling foul.

Kelan hoped it wasn't an omen of things yet to come.

* * * * *

"What do you mean you can't marry me?" Wynnifrydd demanded as she rolled off Brock's bed. He had arrived this morning, on their wedding day, and now this? She threw on her tunic and glowered down at him. "The wedding is in less than twelve hours. The guests have already begun arriving. My father has signed an agreement with yours, and we have a baby coming into this world! 'Tis far too late to change your mind." She was beautiful in her rage, standing above him, shivering with fury, pointing an uncompromising finger at his naked form. "If this is a joke, Brock of Oak Crest, 'tis a bad one. A very bad one."

He levered himself on an elbow and shook his head. " 'Tis no joke, but I can't marry you and keep the secret any longer."

"The secret? You mean that Elyn of Lawenydd was a ninny and ended up drowning?" she asked. "Is that the secret you're worried about? Because, Brock, I know you have many. Some more dark than even that one." Hitching her chin indignantly toward the ceiling, she folded her arms around her middle and her fingers drummed an agitated beat against her ribs. Oh, she was angry ... but he could not appreciate the flare of her nostrils or the stormy clouds in her eyes. Not now.

"She died, Wynnifrydd," he said again. "Because of me."

"You
didn't kill her. 'Twas an accident. So how does that affect the wedding?"

"She died running away from me when I told her I couldn't marry her."

"Then she was foolish!" Wynnifrydd said, exasperated. She walked to the fire and warmed her hands. "And what makes you so certain she died? I've heard through a traveling merchant that she married Penbrooke just as planned."

"Impossible. I was with her after the wedding," Brock admitted. Never in his life had he experienced the onus he felt now. Guilt was a new emotion, an unwanted burden.

"Then why does Penbrooke have a wife?"

"I think he married the wrong sister. 'Twas Elyn's plan that Kiera take the vows in her stead."

"Then
Kiera
is married to Penbrooke, but the baron thinks she is Elyn?"

"Yes, at least that's what Elyn's plan was," he said, rolling onto his back and staring at the crossbeams overhead. "Though legally Elyn would have been his wife. Oh, 'tis a mess and now ... now she's dead." A heavy stone had settled in his heart for the first time in his life. 'Twas a weight that grew heavier with each passing day.

Wynnifrydd was unmoved, and he was beginning to think she had no soul. "Hear me out, Brock. Accidents are commonplace. They can happen to anyone. Anytime. And remember, we are in this together. Remember what I know of you. Things that your father would hardly dare believe and, should he find out, certainly banish you for. Do not ever try to cross me," Wynnifrydd warned. "If you do, I'll make sure you regret it for the rest of your life. We've planned this for a long time and now I'm carrying your child. I don't know why you're so concerned about Elyn. I should be angry with you for abandoning me to run off with that woman for a few days," she added bitterly.

"I had to explain to her that I was truly marrying you."

"Did you tell her that you loved me?"

"I told her the truth."

"Ah, ah, ah." Her voice rose an octave with each syllable. Wagging a finger back and forth, she walked closer to the bed. "Do you love me, Brock? Really love me?" she asked, leaning over him, her breasts visible above the neckline of her tunic and so near his face. Inviting him despite her wrath.

This was a trap; he knew it. Felt it in every one of his bones. And there was only one way out of it. Though he wasn't in the mood, he grabbed one of her wrists, pulled her atop him, and kissed her hard. "What do you think?" he asked.

"I—I think you would bed any woman to change the subject." Her voice was suddenly breathless, as he'd expected.

"Would I?" He smiled and cupped her rump. It did the trick. Feeling her tight ass, his manhood rose, stiffening in eager arousal.

"Y-yes. Oh, yes."

"But it is you I'm with," he said, and pulled her atop him, bunching her skirts and guiding her onto his ready shaft. She gasped and then, thankfully, didn't say another word. He shouldn't have told her that he wasn't going to marry her; nay, he should have just left her standing alone at the altar. It would have served her right.

As for the child, what proof did he have that it was his? Wynnifrydd hadn't come to him as a virgin and she could bloody well leave carrying her bastard. He cared not.

But he could not live having Elyn's death on his conscience, could not just forget her. Brock had committed more than his share of infidelities, told more lies than he could remember, and even stolen when he needed to. But never had he let a woman die. Never had he felt this overwhelming burden, this horrendous sense of guilt.

As Wynnifrydd cried out in lust and Brock spewed his seed deep within her, he held her tight, breathed hard, but could not dislodge thoughts of Elyn dying in that cold torrent of a river. Her death would forever be on his soul.

No matter what happened, he needed to tell the truth, to confess his part in Elyn's plan, to somehow balm his soul.

"Let me understand this," Kiera said to the tailor as they stood in the solar in the lord's tower. Two seamstresses were standing nearby, each with thimbles, scissors, and measuring sticks. Several pages were busy hauling rolls of fabric into the room. "My husband hired you to have a dozen dresses made for me?"

"That's right, m'lady. He asked me to bring you samples of my finest cloth. Oh! Not there, Gwayne!" the tailor called to a gangly page with bright red hair and a hooked nose. "Place the bolts here, on the table in the best light." Frowning, he jabbed a finger on the hard planks. He was a small, compact man with a finely cropped beard and a mouthful of ill-fitting teeth. In constant motion, he ordered the pages and seamstresses about while nervously rearranging the lace and pelts and ribbons by color on the table.

Never had Kiera seen such a display. Pale silks— some, the tailor assured her, brocaded in Italy—were set alongside bolts of rich velvet and damask, a heavy material brought from Damascus. Threads of silver and gold were woven into the plush fabric, and the tailor was already suggesting colors and trim for dresses that he envisioned.

"Sable is always in fashion," he confided as if it were a great secret, while placing a sleek dark pelt over a bolt of silvery gray damask. "And when summer comes, there is this lavender sandal—now, where is it? I had it just yesterday ... Gwayne ... oh ... here it is!" He showed off the bolt in question, a shimmery lilac over which he draped a fine white lace and a plum-colored ribbon. "Is this not exquisite? This gown will be fitted at the waist, with a square neckline trimmed in lace and a train that you'll carry over your forearm. We could have the skirt in layers, some of the darker fabric!" He practically glowed as he described dress after dress. Kiera couldn't remember which style he put with the different fabrics, but told herself it mattered not.

"Now, let's measure you," the tailor suggested as he snapped a finger at the seamstresses.

While being measured, Kiera studied the vibrant colors of cloth and told herself she could not go through with this. The elaborate gowns would cost a king's ransom and were intended for Kelan's wife.

She decided she would have to speak with him, while the tailor rambled on and on about sleeves, necklines, and hems as he envisioned not only dresses, but cloaks, mantles, headdresses, and shoes that Kiera would never wear. While listening with half an ear, Kiera imagined what her husband would say when she told him the truth.

He would be livid. Mortified. And ready to draw and quarter her. She would have to throw herself upon his mercy and ask for his help in finding his true bride.

Her stomach soured at the thought of the extent of Kelan's humiliation and shame and ensuing wrath. But she had to confess. She
had
to. This morning, when Kelan had gently awoken her with his caresses, she had wanted to explain everything, but words had failed her. After meeting his mother and earning her approval, Kiera had made passionate love to her husband again. But she could not continue to pretend to be Kelan's wife. No matter what punishment Kelan meted out, no matter what embarrassment they both would suffer, she could no longer live this lie.

She put up with the fidgety little tailor working around her only because Kelan was now too busy to talk to her. She'd have to wait until they were alone and in the meantime she could do nothing to alert the staff that anything was wrong. Kelan deserved the dignity of learning of her perfidy first.

"Ah ... here's something special," the tailor announced, showing off a roll of deep blue velvet and accenting it with the long white fur of a rabbit. "Yes ... with your eyes and hair, 'twould be elegant, nay, regal, m'lady. Pointed sleeves, I think, a high bodice, and a deep enough neckline to be daring. Yes?" He rubbed beringed fingers in his excitement.

"Thank you, but I'm not sure that I need so many clothes," she said as the energetic man kept up with his task, draping linens, silks, and velvets over her shoulders, only to step back and stroke his pointed beard as he imagined the fabric sewn into his creation.

"Your husband was very insistent. A dozen dresses. No less. With matching shoes, headdresses, and cloaks." A twinkle lighted his dark eyes. "He must love you very much."

Kiera felt all the more miserable. Though she didn't believe Kelan was in love with her, she knew that he'd become fond of her and she ... oh, blast, she was beginning to fall in love with him despite the fact that he was Elyn's husband.

"Come, lady, smile. 'Tis not every day that a lord orders an entire wardrobe for his wife."

She managed a thin pretense of a grin, for there was no explaining that the dresses would never be sewn, that by tonight Kelan would rescind his order for the clothes and probably strip Kiera of the ones she was wearing before casting her into the dungeon.

But there was nothing she could do about it.

She had to tell him the truth and somehow find Elyn, if her sister was alive. Then, assuming she could be found, Elyn could deal with her new husband.

Oh, what wretched, wretched torture. For as much as she wanted to locate her sister, she could not think of being separated forever from Kelan. To think of him with another woman, her sister—oh, nay. Her stomach threatened to lurch at the cursed image. So lost in thought was she, she didn't hear the door to the chamber open.

"Lady Elyn?"

Kiera turned.

Morwenna, the sister who knew Elyn and so obviously doubted Kiera, breezed into the room. With her raven-dark hair and intense blue eyes, she cast a quick smile at the tailor and said, "Lady Elyn, when you're finished here, my mother would like to speak to you."

Kiera's heart dropped.
Now what?
"But I already met with her."

"Aye. And now she wants a word with you alone."

"We are nearly done, m'lady," the tailor said as he snipped off a length of saffron burnet.

"Please, see to her as soon as you can." There was a deep sadness in Morwenna's eyes, underscored by distrust, and as quickly as she had entered the room, she left.

Why would Kelan's mother want to see her alone? Had she known by sight that something was amiss? Had she, like Morwenna, met Elyn years before? Yet Lenore had uttered not a word when Kiera and Kelan had visited with her. Though frail and ill, her body not recovering from her fall, Lady Lenore had smiled and her gaze had seemed friendly and warm. Kelan's mother had even grabbed Kiera's hand in surprisingly strong fingers and whispered a firm, seemingly heartfelt "Welcome to Penbrooke."

Kiera's throat had clogged and tears had burned behind her eyelids at the strength of the woman.

So why the urgent need to see Kiera again? Unless Morwenna had voiced her doubts about Kelan's wife to his mother.

When the tailor had finished, Kiera hurried out of the solar and up a half flight to Lady Lenore's chamber. She started to make one wrong turn, then corrected herself. Earlier, Nell had shown Kiera a trick of remembering passageways by pictures or furniture landmarks. She'd met two dozen servants, all of whom had tried to make her feel welcome. At home. Oh, God, she could not let this go on a second longer.

At Lady Lenore's door, Kiera paused, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt, then rapped on the panels.

Within seconds the door was answered by a nurse.

"I'm here to see Lady Lenore." Kiera peeked into the darkened interior where Kelan's mother lay, propped upon her bed.

"Yes, she's been expectin' ya. Askin' about ya she has been," the woman said. "Come in, come in."

"Is it Elyn?" Lenore called softly from the bed.

"Sure'n it is, m'lady."

"Good. Let her inside and please, give us a few minutes alone."

"But the baron, he instructed me ta stay with ya no matter what."

"Then wait on the other side of the door. If I need you, I'll call for you," Lenore commanded, displaying what Kiera supposed was her old fire.

"But Lord Kelan, if he catches me, will—"