Chosen for the Marriage Bed. Anne O'Brien

found herself under siege as she rubbed Jane’s salves and potions into her hands, as well as drinking, under protest, a bitter decoction of white willow bark to clear and brighten her skin. But it was entirely possible, she decided finally, with a little spurt of pleasure, that the bridal ring would slide easily past her knuckle rather than stick fast.

      But it would take a miracle to improve the disaster of her hair. In her worst moments of depression Elizabeth remembered it as it had been. Long and thick and straight. Black with the shining iridescence of a magpie’s feathers. As black as Richard’s. She imagined, unable to resist a smile, his being able to run his fingers through the length of it, before she shook herself back to reality. It still hugged her head in an unlovely manner, a short fur covering. She washed it in the heady liquid of dried lavender flowers steeped in wine that Mistress Bringsty swore by as a tried-and-trusted remedy, but her hair’s growth would be a matter of time that she did not have before her wedding day. It would, she thought, be a matter of devising suitable veiling to cover the worst of the damage. She could not—would not—be wed in a nun-like veil and wimple.

      The bridal gown was duly measured, cut and snipped and sewn, the luxurious velvet a deep red, the colour of the best Bordeaux wine, guaranteed to flatter and draw colour into her pale cheeks, a gown to disguise distressingly sharp collar bones and an unfortunately flat chest. And what a miracle, Elizabeth considered cynically, that Richard Malinder should have been thoughtful enough to provide it for her.

      ‘What a lovely gown this will be,’ Anne Malinder announced. ‘And what a shame you do not have the bosom to carry so fashionable a bodice. I could do so, of course. My own gown for this occasion is fashioned on one of Queen Margaret’s herself. Now her figure is magnificently proportioned.’ Anne allowed her gaze to rest knowingly on Elizabeth, before continuing. ‘I believe it is customary to use the bride’s hair in sewing the wedding gown, for good fortune,’ she informed her as she set her stitches with exemplary skill, the needle no sharper than her tongue, her eyes on her stitches, a smile on her lips. ‘I doubt that will be possible, dear Elizabeth. We could, of course, sew in one of mine. It would be perfect.’

      Elizabeth might curb her instincts, watch her words through necessity, but Mistress Bringsty sprang to her defence. ‘We’ve no need of such ruses, which smack of nothing less than witchcraft, Mistress Anne. I can think of better charms from nature’s own goodness to bless this union.’

      So into the hem was sewn leaves of periwinkle and a handful of the flat translucent honesty seeds, to promote a lucky and happy marriage. Elizabeth eyed them ruefully. She feared she would need far more than a handful of seeds to bless this marriage. Particularly if, even now as she waited for his return, her bridegroom was enjoying a heated liaison with Mistress Joanna.

      Richard’s business in Hereford took longer to complete than he had expected as he had a particular commission of his own, so unavoidably he returned to Ledenshall less than twenty-four hours before the ceremony, which, if he had thought about it, should have warned him of possible consequences. He found Ledenshall in festive and lively uproar, every available space housing some degree of relative or family dependant. He also discovered a bride waiting for him in the courtyard, a bride who had little time for him, spine strikingly rigid, face set, hardly willing to grant him, or her brother David, more than a few words in passing. Certainly not a smile as might be expected between a lady and her betrothed. Much as on his departure, he received nothing but a flat stare.

      ‘Welcome home.’ Her tone said it all.

      Richard dismounted. ‘Elizabeth. We were delayed.’

      ‘I am aware.’

      ‘You are well?’

      ‘Yes. As you see.’

      He frowned, displeased with her short reply, her brusque manner. So he would push the issue of their relationship a little more. Stern-faced, his eyes never leaving hers, he held out his hand, palm up in a tacit demand that she respond to him. Instead, his gentle bride thrust her hands behind her back.

      Richard held firm, conscious of every eye on the pair of them. Pride stiffened his jaw. He would not be defied in this manner in his own castle by a girl who was not yet his wife. He waited. Until Elizabeth flushed, and, with obvious reluctance, touched her hand briefly to his. With instinctive reactions, he pounced, closed his hand on her sleeve when she would have pulled away. Then raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers with slow deliberation.

      ‘Elizabeth. I have not abandoned you, as you see.’

      ‘No, my lord.’ But the tension from her fingers did not ease.

      Is that what she had feared? That his absence meant rejection? Surely not. He could hardly refuse to wed her now that she was ensconced in his home as his accepted bride. He swung round at a request from Master Kilpin, to give orders for the disposition of the pack animals and their burden. To discover when he turned back again that the only view he had was of the lady’s retreating figure, shoulders still formidably straight as she marched towards the door.

      ‘Well…’ He pushed a hand through his disordered hair, admitting to a brush of anger, until he caught David’s grin and raised brows. ‘What did I say?’

      ‘Nothing.’ David chuckled. ‘And not for some days. That’s the problem.’

      ‘So what should I have done?’

      ‘Got back here before the eleventh hour. Elizabeth has a temper.’

      ‘As I know.’ He cuffed the lad gently on the shoulder. ‘Should I fear her retaliation, do you suppose?’

      At which David guffawed inelegantly. ‘I am not afraid of Elizabeth.’

      Richard’s lips twitched at the implication. What had he expected from his betrothed? Well, more than he had received. She had scowled at him when he left and scowled when he returned. His tardiness was not entirely his fault, but Elizabeth de Lacy had not bothered to discover the reason before putting him in the wrong. His temper began to simmer again, and Richard Malinder was aware of a level of disappointment that the understanding they seemed to have achieved in their battlement discussion had vanished in his absence.

      Since it was not in his nature to leave it like this between them, Richard followed her into his home, catching up with her in the Great Hall. ‘Madam!’ His commanding voice, brooking no refusal, stopped her as she placed her foot on the first stair. Elizabeth turned.

      ‘My lord.’

      With long strides he caught up with her. ‘When I return to my home, I expect to find a gracious and welcoming wife waiting for me, not a sharp-voiced shrew. I will not have my people entertained and intrigued by your lack of propriety and good breeding. My lateness was not of my doing, nor should you as my wife question it.’ He found his irritation in full flow and did not consider the force or direction of his words. ‘I had hoped the tales in the March of your wilfulness and lack of courtesy were mere gossip and exaggeration.’

      He saw her hands clench, her lips whiten with pressure, her face grow pale, and watched curiously as she took a breath under the onslaught of his words. Her eyes, suddenly dark with unknown anxieties, held his and he could not fault her courage. Unnerved by the grief, even pain in her face, still he was driven to make his point or what respect would there be in this marriage? ‘There is no excuse for rank bad manners in my household, lady.’

      Her eyes fell. ‘No, my lord. There is no excuse.’

      ‘I expect you to receive me and my guests graciously.’

      ‘Yes, my lord. Forgive me. I was at fault.’

      ‘Then we have an understanding.’

      ‘Yes, my lord. I will not be guilty of…of graceless ill manners again.’

      He waited to see if she would say more, surprised by her acquiescence. When she merely stood, head bent, because he could think of nothing more to say and was now perhaps regretting his choice of words, Richard left her.

      Through her lashes