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Authors: Jennifer Horsman
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the shocking news to Morgan.
Linness had never been in a baron's hall before, though she had imagined it a hundred times. The room was half the size of a cathedral, its ceiling elevated two stories, maybe more. This grand ceiling had a light-filled center made of stained glass. A bronze candelabra hung from this dome, tiny candles floating in a circle of scented oil. An enormous stone hearth rose on one side of the room, blazing with a fire. A smaller hearth stood opposite it. Wooden squares inlaid with white marble covered the floor, banners of gold and green silk decorated the wall. A handsome wooden screen with doors that must lead to the kitchen and buttery covered the far wall. A hand-carved wooden table sat on the slightly elevated dais, and there three men sat.
The man must be as rich as the king of England,
Her knees shook like reeds in the wind, her hands went clammy again. For the three noblemen had risen and stood staring at her across the distance. Then the man who would change her life was coming toward her. She knew at once it was Lord Morgan Gaillard Chamberlain, the lord of the manor. She saw that he stood tall and might even be handsome, if it weren't for the bruises and swelling of his face, and dear Lord, she wondered, who would have had the strength and fortitude to strike such a man?
The loose tassels of his gold and black doublet swayed and his metal spurs clanged noisily as he came toward her, making her more scared than a cornered rabbit. His facial disfiguration looked worse the closer he came. He stopped in front of her, staring down with astonishment and something else, something she saw as disbelief.
There was something familiar about him, unnervingly so.
With a gasp, she realized he looked like Paxton.
Morgan watched the lady's lovely, confused eyes search his face. She looked more comely than the miniature he had stared at for two years; it had not, he saw, done the lady's beauty justice, and it was odd how that thought pressed foremost on his mind, and inexplicably overwhelmed the more arresting fact that she was alive. She was alive.
Morgan's amber eyes traveled from the rich dark hair tumbling down her back, to the large gray eyes, straight, narrow nose, and sensuous lips, slightly parted. Her neck was long and slim, like the rest of her. Save for the rapid rise and fall of her full breasts, spilling from a mercilessly tight gown, where his bold gaze lingered.
No, hers was not the delicate fairness that every man hoped for in his wife. Her beauty was something very different. 'Twas the kind that tempted and teased and put in mind thoughts that did not often rest on the mother of your children. 'Twas the kind that made a man's pulse race and his blood heat.
"Lady Belinda?"
She nodded as her face drained of color. It felt like a cruel trick, how he looked like Paxton! Paxton with darker hair and brown eyes and a beard. She didn't understand how it had happened; as if to torment her and make her pay for the charmed life she had stepped into, Mary had made Lord Morgan look like her Paxton. "And you, sir, must be Lord Morgan Gaillard Chamberlain?"
"Aye." For a long, anguished moment as they stood there staring with surprise and shock at the revelation of each other's appearance, she felt so queer, as if cold steel had pierced her tender heart. A warning chill raced up and down her spine, trying to warn her, but of what, she knew not.
Mary, help me…
The moment stretched. The men stared, shifting booted feet restlessly across the marble tiles as they waited for an explanation.
'Twas only nerves, she told herself. She was so frightened! Her gray eyes dropped uncertainly and she swallowed, nervously clasping her hands in the blue velvet folds of her cloak.
Morgan abruptly demanded, "My God, what befell you, milady? Every blessed man I have is out searching for you! We were certain you were dead—"
She drew slightly back at the thunder in his voice. A delicate hand, trembling,, lifted
Linness had never been in a baron's hall before, though she had imagined it a hundred times. The room was half the size of a cathedral, its ceiling elevated two stories, maybe more. This grand ceiling had a light-filled center made of stained glass. A bronze candelabra hung from this dome, tiny candles floating in a circle of scented oil. An enormous stone hearth rose on one side of the room, blazing with a fire. A smaller hearth stood opposite it. Wooden squares inlaid with white marble covered the floor, banners of gold and green silk decorated the wall. A handsome wooden screen with doors that must lead to the kitchen and buttery covered the far wall. A hand-carved wooden table sat on the slightly elevated dais, and there three men sat.
The man must be as rich as the king of England,
Her knees shook like reeds in the wind, her hands went clammy again. For the three noblemen had risen and stood staring at her across the distance. Then the man who would change her life was coming toward her. She knew at once it was Lord Morgan Gaillard Chamberlain, the lord of the manor. She saw that he stood tall and might even be handsome, if it weren't for the bruises and swelling of his face, and dear Lord, she wondered, who would have had the strength and fortitude to strike such a man?
The loose tassels of his gold and black doublet swayed and his metal spurs clanged noisily as he came toward her, making her more scared than a cornered rabbit. His facial disfiguration looked worse the closer he came. He stopped in front of her, staring down with astonishment and something else, something she saw as disbelief.
There was something familiar about him, unnervingly so.
With a gasp, she realized he looked like Paxton.
Morgan watched the lady's lovely, confused eyes search his face. She looked more comely than the miniature he had stared at for two years; it had not, he saw, done the lady's beauty justice, and it was odd how that thought pressed foremost on his mind, and inexplicably overwhelmed the more arresting fact that she was alive. She was alive.
Morgan's amber eyes traveled from the rich dark hair tumbling down her back, to the large gray eyes, straight, narrow nose, and sensuous lips, slightly parted. Her neck was long and slim, like the rest of her. Save for the rapid rise and fall of her full breasts, spilling from a mercilessly tight gown, where his bold gaze lingered.
No, hers was not the delicate fairness that every man hoped for in his wife. Her beauty was something very different. 'Twas the kind that tempted and teased and put in mind thoughts that did not often rest on the mother of your children. 'Twas the kind that made a man's pulse race and his blood heat.
"Lady Belinda?"
She nodded as her face drained of color. It felt like a cruel trick, how he looked like Paxton! Paxton with darker hair and brown eyes and a beard. She didn't understand how it had happened; as if to torment her and make her pay for the charmed life she had stepped into, Mary had made Lord Morgan look like her Paxton. "And you, sir, must be Lord Morgan Gaillard Chamberlain?"
"Aye." For a long, anguished moment as they stood there staring with surprise and shock at the revelation of each other's appearance, she felt so queer, as if cold steel had pierced her tender heart. A warning chill raced up and down her spine, trying to warn her, but of what, she knew not.
Mary, help me…
The moment stretched. The men stared, shifting booted feet restlessly across the marble tiles as they waited for an explanation.
'Twas only nerves, she told herself. She was so frightened! Her gray eyes dropped uncertainly and she swallowed, nervously clasping her hands in the blue velvet folds of her cloak.
Morgan abruptly demanded, "My God, what befell you, milady? Every blessed man I have is out searching for you! We were certain you were dead—"
She drew slightly back at the thunder in his voice. A delicate hand, trembling,, lifted
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