Lavender Vows (Medieval Herb Garden #1)

Lavender Vows (Medieval Herb Garden #1) Page 3

II.

Until she’d raised her arms to assist the bride in removing her chemise, the Lady Joanna had entranced Bernard with her shy beauty and graceful movements. He knew of her soft heart just from their moments in the stable. The manner in which she’d treated him when she thought him less than a lord and the care for which she’d shown a mother cat told Bernard all that he needed to know.

In the bridal chamber, he’d stood to the side, sipping, not gulping, the bitter ale that must have come from the dregs of the barrel, watching her, suddenly wanting her…knowing that he must have and protect her. He saw the way candlelight glinted off her rich, honey-gold hair, wanted to touch the creaminess of her half-shadowed skin, and felt the desire to feel her small hands cover his broad chest.

It was a miracle that after so long, and so many women, after so much nagging from his father, that he should find the woman he had to marry this suddenly. And he knew, clearly, that it would be she.

And then, Lady Joanna had raised her arms to help Lady Ava off with her chemise. And Bernard found his attention fixed not on the newly-bare body of the bride, but on the slender, upraised, bruised arms of her sister, Joanna.

Black and purple marks patterned the upper portion of her arms, both of them, leaving no doubt as to their origin. Bernard felt the loud, crowded chamber slide away, leaving him cold and stunned that someone—for it had to be someone; ’twas no accident, those markings—could have inflicted such pain upon a small, fragile woman.

He’d hoped to talk with her, to find a moment where he could ask her what or who….but ’twas not to be. As soon as Joanna moved to leave the bedside of her frightened sister, she was accosted. Nay, claimed.

Ralf. The whoreson.

Bernard could barely control his rage at the realization that this low-bellied snake not only had some claim to Lady Joanna, but that he doubtless had inflicted such bruises upon her person—or if he did not, then he knew who had.

It was all Bernard could do to allow the couple to pass by him at the chamber door, and remain passive. He looked closely at Joanna, catching her eyes—soft blue ones glazed with anxiety—as she passed, trying to send the message that he would stop them if she wished.

The way her gaze flickered away instantly bespoke of her fear, and Bernard forced himself to remain still, tightening his hands into painful fists, knowing that any action on his part would bear more ill toward Joanna.

They left, and Bernard had no choice but to follow the remaining men from the chamber. A heavy sickening settled in his belly as he stomped along the hallway with the other men.

It took only one question to ascertain what he’d inherently known: Lady Joanna was wed to Ralf, Lord of Swerthmoor.

The next morn, Bernard woke with a head fuzzy from little sleep and too much ale. The last person he wished to see, however, was waiting as he stumbled from his pallet. Bernard was not the last of the men to rise, but near enough to it that his father must call attention to that fact.

“Good morrow, dear son,” spoke Lord Harold Derkland, looking up at Bernard, but somehow managing to appear the taller. “And how fares your head this morn? ’Twould be what I’d expect from Dirick—such overindulgence—but not that I’d see from you.”

“Leave me be,” growled Bernard, brushing past his father on a mission to splash his face with water in hopes of washing the fog away.

His father chuckled, but followed along. They picked their way among the pallets scattered over the rush-strewn floor in an antechamber of the Great Hall, taking care not to tread upon any outstretched hand or foot of the snoring men. “I’ve found a wife for you, Bernard.”

By the time his father spoke the unwelcome words, Bernard’s face was inside a barrel filled with water so that he did not have the breath to bellow his discord. But when he pulled up, whipping his head back so that water sprayed even from his short curls, he turned to level a glare at Harold.

“Aye? I’ll find my own bride, I’ve told you.” He swiped the arm of his tunic over his beard, then passed his hand over the top of his head. More water rained down over his face, and he wiped it again.

“So say you, and you haven’t even looked at one yet,” Harold griped. “But the one I’ve found is all that you’d ask: well-landed, no history of ill-fated husbands, and quite easy on the eyes.”

“Father—”

“Maris of Langumont, she is. And her father is a good man. She’d make you a fine bride, son.”

Bernard drew in a breath and tamped back his annoyance. Father meant only for his good welfare…and he could not know that Bernard had already found the woman he wanted to marry. ’Twas not the fault of his father that she was already wed.

“Father, I beg you. Please leave off—at the least for today.” He had to find Lady Joanna…he had to speak with her, if for no other reason than to see that she truly was the woman he believed.

Lord Harold allowed his son to take his leave, but only after wringing a vow that Bernard would sup with himself and Lord Merle of Langumont that evening.

“Aye,” growled Bernard. “Anything to remove the leech that is my father from my neck.” He stalked off, ignoring the grating chuckle that echoed behind him.

Out side of the keep, the sun shone hot and bright—enough to make Bernard wince and his head throb all that bit more. His feet took him toward the stable, and that was as good a destination as any. If luck was with him, Bernard would find Lady Joanna tending to her cat. If not, then he would visit with Rock and hope that Leonard would have some information for him.

Just as he was about to step into the welcome dimness of the stable, however, Bernard happened to glance toward the small herb garden that grew plentifully behind the structure. God must have caused him to do so, he thought, shifting his direction so that he was now walking toward the honey-gold head that bent over some small bush in the garden.

And God was indeed with him, for ’twas Lady Joanna who hovered over a growth of lavender.

She started and sat back quickly on her heels when his shadow cast over her task, and when she looked up and saw that it was he, she stumbled over her skirts, trying frantically to get to her feet.

“My lady,” he said gently, proffering a hand to steady her. “I mislike that I have only to step near you and you are falling about yourself to get away from me. ’Tis not the reaction I desire.” He spoke without jest, seeing the apprehension in her face. “Why is that so?”

“My lor—Sir, I—’tis only that—”

He stepped forward to grasp her small hand—which she had not extended toward his offered one, closing his fingers around her smooth skin. “You may call me ‘my lord,’ Lady Joanna. I am Bernard Derkland…and I am most delighted to know you.” And then, without giving a thought to her reaction, he slid his hand up her arm, pushing up the sleeve of her gown nearly to her shoulder. Rage surged through him anew at the sight of the bluish-green, black and purple mottles on her creamy skin.

“I would kill he who would do this to a woman,” he breathed through teeth clenched so hard that his head hurt. “Joanna, who?”

She had already jerked away, stepping on the fragrant lavender. Her determined actions and expression showed him that she was not the simple, cowering woman she appeared. “Leave your hands from me, and your interests thither, Si—Lord Bernard. Please. There is naught that you—or anyone—can do. And do not call me Joanna!”

“My lady, I—”

“Nay!” Her voice rose even as she pressed her hand against his chest. This movement stilled him, this first time she reached to touch him—though the message of the touch was naught but a rebuff. “Nay, my lord, your interference would serve only to incense him further…and make it all the more difficult for me.”

Then, as though realizing where they were, she whirled to look toward the stable and the bailey as if afraid they might have been seen. Fortunately, during the course of their conversation, they’d moved behind a cluster of raspberry bushes and were out of sight of anyone walking toward the stables. The scent of the crushed lavender hung in the air, along with the faint perfume of roses. “Please, Lord Bernard, if he were to find us…”

“Is it Ralf? Is he your husband? Is it he who lays his hand upon you thus?” Bernard reached, gently closing his fingers around her cleft chin, reveling in the warmth of her sun-drenched skin. He looked into her eyes, past the gray-blue color of her irises and into their depths. He saw fear and anxiety, but he did not see repulsion or anger. He breathed a mental sigh of relief. She was not afraid of him.

“Aye.” Her voice was but a breath, but it was all he needed.

“Then I will rid you of him. And you shall be free to wed with me.” His words were soft, steely, and deadly serious.

“You—but Lord Bernard, you cannot! Wed with you?” Her shock at the first part of his threat seemed to disintegrate as she fixated on the latter promise. “Wed with you?” Shock lined her beautiful, heart-shaped face as she looked up at him, hands raised in front of her as if to thrust him away. “Are you mad? I am wed, and—and you know naught of me to say that you will marry me.”

Bernard laughed in spite of the unhappy situation. She was so incredibly lovely. And she had a spine, she did, under the weight of the fear from her own husband.

If Bernard could indeed remove that fear from her eyes, she would make a fine wife…and a fine chatelaine for Derkland Castle.

“Lady Joanna, I know as much as I need know that you are the woman I have waited to marry. My father has groused at me for over the last fortnight and now that I have found you, I will find a way to please him and marry you at the nonce.”

She sank to the ground, not as if in obeisance, but as though her legs could no longer hold her up under the weight of this conversation. Bernard knelt next to her, taking care not to tread upon her skirts, but arranging himself closely enough that he could smell the femininity of her scent.