Chapter Two

      Sara fled to the door of her old sleeping chamber, but before her hand touched the door handle, she changed her mind. No, she would not seclude herself in there like a child rebuked. Her behavior toward her husband had been childish enough.

      Had she not expected Sir Richard’s anger once he awakened? It was not as though he would thank the angels for the privilege of marrying her. If she’d thought that possible, she would have waited until he knew what he was doing.

      The man had been tricked, by her and by his liege. Small wonder he cursed his fate and her, as well. But the marriage was done and he could not undo it, not without demanding annulment and questioning the honor of the King of England to his face. Though her husband’s angry reaction to wedding her had bruised Sara’s feelings, she vowed she would shed no tears over it.

      She had passed twenty-one summers and never wept for any man, none save her poor father when the dreadful Scots slew him six months ago.

      Simon, Baron of Fernstowe, had been a man to weep for. How she missed him. If only this knight of hers would come to care for her half as much as her beloved sire had done, she would cry tears of joy for it.

      Very little hope of that, she thought, scoffing at herself. Even had this fine knight come courting, cap in hand and contract readied, it would have been her lands that he sought, not herself. Ungainly tall as she was and with her face scarred to the bargain, no handsome warrior like Sir Richard Strode would stoop to win her favor. Foolish even to indulge in any fantasy such as that.

      She marched down to the kitchens to see to the making of candles and wiped the foolish wishes from her mind.

      All the while she issued orders to the maids performing the noisome work, Sara bent her mind to a practical solution. She would win her husband’s respect if nothing else.

      And when he bedded her, she meant to make him glad of her attentions. He would find no whimpering virgin twixt the sheets when they sealed their bargain. Untried she might be, but Sara had never whimpered in her life.

      She knew full well what to expect. Life in a castle did not lend itself to privacy and she had a curious mind. Though the act itself looked rather awkward, even frightening betimes, so was riding a horse when she thought about it. She had certainly mastered that feat quickly enough, and the rewards had been great. It got her where she wanted to go.

      Marriage would be rewarding, she would see to that. She would have protection from the Scots and the husband of her choice. Richard Strode would share Fernstowe and all its profits. And pleasure in the marriage bed, every delight that she could give him.

      Sara smoothed her hands over her middle in anticipation, paying little mind to the household task at hand. She watched her women add and stir the bayberry scent to the cauldron of melted wax.

      The smell of it always stirred memories of Yuletide seasons, of gifts and celebration and the happy laughter of the children of Fernstowe. She needed little ones of her own, and now would have them.

      The sons she would give her husband could be naught but sturdy and wise. She was that way herself and so was Sir Richard, if the king spoke true. Like always bore like. Her husband would be proud then, glad she was no dainty weakling with goose feathers for brains.

      She would not dwell upon the daughters she might produce, who would likely top their suitors in height, just as she usually had done.

      Her father had loved her despite her tallness and he never seemed to notice the scar after it had healed. Fathers tended to turn a blind eye to their daughters’ faults. So she hoped that held true, in the event she birthed a few girls for Richard.

      She would allow him some time to bemoan his lot and nurse hurt feelings toward her and his king. He had, after all, been wed against his will and without his knowledge. But very soon, Sara meant to turn his thoughts around for all and good.

      Together, applying his strength and her wisdom, they would vanquish her dreaded Scots neighbors and make Fernstowe the strongest estate in the north of England. Together, they would produce children to make King Edward himself turn green with envy.

      Sara knew she could make all of this happen if she persevered. Her father had always assured her that she could do anything she set out to do if she would keep her goals foremost in her thoughts and never doubt her abilities.

      Her looks were not that important, she told herself with a practical sniff. What was that old saying? All cats are gray in the dark. Men said that, meaning they cared little about a woman’s appearance in the bedchamber. Any female would please them there. She would do that right enough if she put her mind to it.

      Sara moved forward to take over the positioning of the candle wicks, making certain they were exactly centered within the long slender iron cups that would receive the scented wax.

      As in the creation of candles, every worthwhile endeavor required careful preparation of the ingredients, a series of steps accomplished one upon the other in precise order, so that the end results justified all the effort.

      Her immediate task concerning this marriage was to convince her husband to put aside his pride at being duped. She must point out the advantages for him in becoming the new Lord of Fernstowe. Later, when he was recovered enough, she would encourage him to look past her appearance and take joy in his good fortune.

      The next morning Richard rubbed his eyes and then rolled his head, stretching the stiff muscles of his neck. He had slept the sleep of the dead.

      Where was the woman, he wondered? He refused to ask about her. “You were here before, I recall,” Richard said to the man who had come in her stead.

      “Oh, aye, milord. I been seeing to yer, ah, needs. Milady woulda done, but she still be a maid. I didn’t think that fitting.”

      “I quite agree.” A humbling thought, indeed, having that woman tend to washing him and such. It was bad enough to suffer anyone doing so, but he could barely sit, let alone stand by himself. “So, who are you?”

      “Eustiss, milord. I be Lady Sara’s smithy, the only soul about the place strong enough to lift ye.”

      Richard jerked his arm out of the man’s grasp. “I can do for myself now.” He added belatedly, “But I thank you.”

      “’Tis well come ye are.”

      “You sound like a…Were you born here?” Richard asked.

      The red-whiskered fellow laughed, a booming sound that matched his girth. “Nay, I’m