“Gracious, no! It’s not seemly for the lady of the house to be in the kitchen.” The woman made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go on with you, now, have a seat in the dining hall. I did not expect you down so early this morning. I shall bring your breakfast immediately.”
“Thank you . . . I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”
“But of course you don’t, love. I am Mrs. Grainger. Run along now.” She turned to scowl at the scullery maids who were standing behind her, staring wide-eyed at Kristine. “Yvette, set the table quickly. Nan, take the muffins from the oven. I can almost smell them burning.”
Kristine slipped out of the kitchen and peered down the long hallway, wondering behind which door she might find the dining hall.
The china clock on the carved sideboard chimed merrily as Kristine stared down at more food than she had ever seen at one time. Muffins and biscuits and tarts, bowls of fresh fruit and thick cream, a cup of hot cocoa, fat sausages, and eggs swimming in butter. She looked at the food and could not help wondering how Mrs. Grainger stayed so thin in the midst of such abundance.
She sampled everything and found it all delicious.
“Is it to your liking, Lady Trevayne?”
She looked up to find Mrs. Grainger standing beside her chair. “Oh, yes, it’s wonderful. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
The cook beamed with pleasure. “Can I be bringing you anything else?”
“Oh, no, thank you.”
The woman smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just you wait until you see what I have planned for your supper.”
“Has my . . . my husband already eaten?”
A shadow flickered in Mrs. Grainger’s pale blue eyes. “Lord Trevayne takes his meals in his room.”
“Oh. I . . . I didn’t know.”
Mrs. Grainger glanced around the opulent dining room, then sighed with regret. “No one ever eats in here.”
“No one?” Kristine frowned. “I thought . . . doesn’t his lordship’s mother live here?”
“Not for the last year or so, my lady. Her departure was quite abrupt. Nan said she heard Lord Trevayne and his mother quarreling one night, though what they were arguing about remains a mystery.” Mrs. Grainger clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes widening. “I’m sorry, my lady. I should not be telling you this. ’Tis only kitchen gossip, after all.”
“And you have no idea why she left?”
Mrs. Grainger tucked her hands into the pockets of her apron. “I think Lord Trevayne ordered her out of the house.”
“He ordered his own mother out of the house!” Kristine exclaimed, shocked at the very idea. “Why would he do such a thing?”
Mrs. Grainger shook her head. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say.” The words I’ve said too much already hung unspoken in the air between them.
“Where does his mother live now?”
“At the convent at St. Clair.”
“A convent! Whatever for?”
“It was her choice. She could have gone to live at one of Lord Trevayne’s other holdings, but she said she preferred to live with the good sisters. I think she just wanted to stay close by.” Mrs. Grainger cleared her throat. “Are you sure I can’t be getting you anything else, my lady? More tea, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.” Rising, Kristine folded her napkin in half and placed it on the table.
“It will be all right, my lady,” the cook said kindly.
Kristine nodded, disconcerted by the look of sympathy in the older woman’s eyes.
Leaving the dining room, she wandered through the castle. It was large, immaculately clean, furnished in the height of fashion. Imported carpets covered the floors, expensive paintings and tapestries hung on the walls. One door was locked. She thought it curious, when all the others were open.
Going into the kitchen, she queried Mrs. Grainger.
“It’s the ballroom,” Mrs. Grainger said.
“Why is it locked?”
“That’s something you’ll have to ask his lordship,” the housekeeper replied.
With a nod, Kristine left the kitchen and continued her exploration of the castle. Ask his lordship, indeed.
So many rooms, she thought as she toured the upstairs. All empty of life.
Finally, she settled on an overstuffed chair in the library, her feet curled beneath her as she tried to read. But she couldn’t concentrate on the words, couldn’t think of anything but the man who had come to her in the dark hours of the night. Her husband. Would he come to her again tonight?
She sat there for hours, watching the sun sink lower in the sky, watching the horizon blaze with color as the setting sun splashed the heavens with streaks of crimson and gold, her nerves growing taut as night cast her cloak over the land.
She had no appetite for supper. Mrs. Grainger hovered over her, encouraging her to eat, but the food tasted like ashes in Kristine’s mouth. She couldn’t enjoy the meal, couldn’t do anything but wonder if he would come to her bed again.
The maids, Leyla and Lilia, were waiting in Kristine’s bedchamber when she entered. Though their facial features were almost identical, Leyla was a few inches taller than her sister. Both were clad in long gray dresses and white aprons; both wore their dark brown hair in tight coils atop their heads.
As they had the night before, they brushed out her hair, dusted her with fragrant powder, and then helped her into a gown. It was a different gown from the one she had worn the night before. Made of fine black silk, it slid sensuously over her body, making her feel a trifle wicked somehow.
Leyla smiled at her reassuringly. Lilia touched her shoulder, and then, bowing, they left the room.
And there was nothing for Kristine to do but wait.
He came to her that night and every night during the following week, rarely speaking, never letting her touch him, hardly touching her. And yet, when he did touch her, she burned as bright as the sun, always wanting more, always reaching for some intangible gift that remained just out of reach, leaving her aching and yearning for something she did not understand. She wondered if he took any pleasure in her bed. He never stayed longer than was necessary; indeed, he always seemed anxious to be gone.
And the more he came to her, the more often he touched her, the more curious she became about the strange man who was her husband.
Now she stared at the door, her body still damp with perspiration, her heart pounding. He had come to her again, like a thief in the night, taking that which he desired, then disappearing into the darkness. What would he do if she refused him? Would he beat her or accept her rejection with cold indifference? Yet even as she considered it, she knew she would never turn him away. She owed him her very life, a debt she could never repay, but more than that, she sensed, deep in her heart, that he needed her in ways he would never admit.