I would never be your mistress, she wanted to yell at him, but her body was still shuddering from her brief moment of pleasure. She felt tears of disappointment and despair streak down her cheeks.
Graelam pulled the flimsy shift over her head, for in truth, his body was reacting to hers and he had no intention of shaming either himself or her. “Come,” he said softly, “you must return to your chamber. We will both forget this, Blanche.”
She wanted to scream, to bring Joanna or her ferret-faced mother running, but she knew she could not. He would strangle her if she did, particularly since he was full-witted again. It wasn’t fair, none of it. What would become of her now? What would become of her poor son? At least show a bit of pride, she scolded herself. She squared her shoulders.
Graelam watched her silently slip from his chamber. He walked back to his bed and threw himself down on his back, his arms pillowing his head. Jesus, he thought, women! But that wasn’t fair. Blanche was so sweet and shy. He mustn’t blame her overly for her actions. She only thought she loved him. He would find her a husband, and quickly. He remembered the feel of her body against him, the touch of her fingers caressing him. Her body was full and round, the way he liked his women. He realized with a start that if he had indeed taken her, the consequences could have been enough to make the bravest man shrivel. He thought idly that perhaps it would have been just as well, if he could have survived the pandemonium that would doubtless result. He would, he decided, prefer Blanche to wive, rather than Joanna. He flipped over onto his stomach and willed himself back to sleep. It was over and done with and his fate was decided.
Kassia felt dazed from weariness, but she forced herself to sit straight on Bluebell and gaze ahead at Wolffeton. It was a huge fortress, as solid and lasting as the rugged countryside surrounding it. When their vessel had arrived four days before on the southern coast of Cornwall, she had eyed the odd foliage and trees—palm trees, she had been told—and the calm, warm countryside, so different from Brittany. The closer they had drawn to Wolffeton, the more at home she had felt. It was unforgiving, demanding country, and if she were not so dreadfully weary, she would have delighted in every coarse-haired sheep and fat-bellied cow they had seen. They were riding close to the rocky cliffs and she could hear the battering rush of the waves against the rocks. Wolffeton, the home of Graelam de Moreton, her husband . . . now her home. She felt a surge of fear so strong she wavered in the saddle. She was in a foreign country, going to a man she had never seen before. It was lunacy, sheer lunacy. Her courage had left her slowly, seeping away just as her strength over the past week and a half. Now all she wanted to do was turn tail and hide.
“My lady!”
“Nay, nay,” she managed, getting hold on herself. “I am fine, Stephen.” She smiled at one of her father’s oldest and most trusted retainers. “Just tired, that is all. It has been a long journey.”
Too long for his slight mistress, Stephen thought, gazing at her with worried eyes. And what would her reception be like? His jaw hardened. No one would insult his young mistress, no one! His gloved hand dropped unconsciously to his sword.
He saw the uncertainty in her wide eyes, and the fear. She was only a young girl, he thought. How could Lord Maurice have allowed her to journey here without him? But of course, Stephen knew the answer to that. That whoreson Geoffrey!
“Rest a moment, my lady,” he said to Kassia. “I will see that the men look fit to greet Lord Graelam.”
Kassia nodded, nearly beyond words now. She gazed back toward the small litter and wondered what Etta was thinking now. She watched Stephen ride among their twenty-odd men, doubtless cursing some, praising others. Their journey had been thankfully uneventful. No brigands would dare to attack such a large force. But she was so tired; she wanted to do naught but fall from her saddle and sleep. But she could not. She could not shame her father or her men. Kassia forced her back to stiffen. She felt dirty and travel-worn. She was afraid to ask Stephen how she looked.
She waited patiently for Stephen to join her at the head of their troop. She lightly tapped her heels into Bluebell’s fat sides and her mare broke into a rocking canter.
They rode through the small fishing village of St. Agnes, so like the villages along the coast of Brittany that Kassia felt no ill-ease at the dour glances of the villagers. The only difference, Kassia thought, smiling to herself, was that at home the villagers would pull their forelocks at her presence. The rutted road continued eastward from the village, up a winding incline toward Wolffeton. Kassia became more impressed and awed the closer they drew to the thick, massive outer walls. No one, she thought, could take this castle. She felt a moment of pride, then laughed at herself. This great keep was not hers. She felt her blood curdle at the thought that had not been far from the surface during her journey. What if Lord Graelam de Moreton had already married?
Stephen raised his arm for the men to halt. Kassia watched him ride toward the man who was leaning from one of the great towers. She did not hear their conversation. The man disappeared and Stephen rode back to her.
“The fellow thinks me mad,” Stephen said, a half-grin splitting his wide mouth. “I told him that his master’s bride was below.”
Kassia gave him a dry smile. “Mad indeed,” she said. She turned back at the sound of the thick oak drawbridge being lowered. It came down over the dry ditch with a heavy thud. She urged Bluebell forward, but Stephen’s hand came out to clutch at the reins.
“No, my lady, not yet.”
They watched in silence as the iron portcullis was slowly winched upward.
Stephen eyed her for a minute. “Remove your cloak from your head, my lady. No man would attack when a woman was present.”
Kassia obligingly lowered the rabbit-lined hood from her dusty curls.
Stephen nodded slowly, but motioned her to ride behind him. They rode over the drawbridge, the horses’ hooves pounding with a deafening roar on the thick wood planks. It was a warrior’s keep, Kassia realized vaguely as they slowed their horses to a walk. The outer courtyard was not precisely filthy with its dry mud ground, it was simply that there was no sign of care. They continued through another, narrower arch into the inner bailey. There were at least fifty men, women, and children staring at them silently. Loudly squawking chickens strutted about and several cows mooed impatiently, doubtless wanting to be led to the grassy field outside the castle walls. A dog barked loudly at a black cat. There were several old outbuildings, for cooking, laundry, and storage, Kassia thought, and a new barracks sat next to a low thatched-roof stable. She became aware of the soldiers, standing stiffly all around them, eyeing them as possible enemies.
Kassia had no more opportunity to examine her surroundings. Her eyes went to a tall blond man, quite handsome, who stood on the lower steps of the keep, waiting for them to come to him. She felt a tired smile come to her lips. Her father had told her that Lord Graelam was comely. He was indeed. And he looked gentle and kind.
He came down the steps when they halted and she had a moment to admire his graceful carriage. He was younger than she had expected. He walked directly to her and raised his arms to help her down from Bluebell.
He stared at her for a long moment, as if trying to remember her, Kassia thought.
“Lady Kassia,” he said, more a question than a statement.
“Aye, my lord.” She saw he had deep blue eyes, kind eyes that laughed, she thought, and relaxed even further.
“You are something of a . . . surprise, my lady. We had believed you—”
“Dead? Nay, my lord, I survived.” Kassia looked down at the chipped cobblestones beneath her feet. “I am pleased that you are not angry, my lord. But I could not allow you to wed, not when you had a wife who still lived.”
“You mistake the matter, my lady.”
Kassia raised huge eyes to his face.