My Lady Imposter by Sara Bennett - My Lady Imposter

trembling anger, and managed, “Sit down, I will dress your wound.”
    His eyebrows had risen up. “As my lady pleases.”
    Scorn twisted her lips, but she turned to the serving girl and gave her a clipped order. The woman bustled off, and soon returned with water and medicines. Kathryn began to wash the wound with gentle fingers, trying not to think of him as the hateful Richard Tremaine. The fact that his flesh was cool and smelt of leather meant nothing. She rubbed salve onto the already mending wound, frowning as she noted the way his eyes slid down her soft, white throat, where the gown gaped a little over her bosom.
    “It will heal without poisoning now,” she said, and stepped back abruptly with her bowl and towel.
    “Tis not often so great a lady would soil her hands with a common soldier,” he murmured.
    “Spare me your wit!” she burst out, angry and embarrassed by his smile.
    He laughed, and rising suddenly strode towards her so quickly she was unable to retreat. He took the bowl from her hand and placed it on the table at her side. “Where did you learn your skills?”
    She watched him, unable to hide the uneasiness in her gaze. “From my mother, before she died. Not only great ladies know of hurts.” Bitterness there. She bit her lip in dismay at having revealed it to him.
    He put his hand out, his fingers curling into the tendrils of her hair at her shoulder. She felt herself drawn closer, and, bemused, came up against his hard chest. He stooped, setting his lips against the soft flesh of her cheek, in the shadows near her jaw. “Thank you,” he breathed, stirring her hair with his breath, and drew back. The blue eyes still mocked, but there was something else in them, something which made her being ache in the region of her heart. The meeting of their eyes lasted fully ten seconds, while his blue gaze tangled with her black.
    And then she had backed away, mumbling something incomprehensible, and fled from the room and up the winding stairs. She threw herself onto the bed, and lay with her face buried in her arms for a long time, wondering why she felt so elated, and yet so miserable, all at the same time.
     

     
    Sir Piers sent for his priest that afternoon, and the papers were duly drawn and signed. He seemed, Kathryn thought, much weaker than before. As if now his mind was settled over his land, he had no longer anything to hold him on the earth. Kathryn sat with him for a short time after it was done, but he did not speak to her and she was almost glad to leave. She had seen death often in her young life, and it was not something she liked to dwell on.
    He lingered on for two more days, and then, on the third day when she came down for the meal, Lord Ralf came and knelt before her, and Wenna came to curtsey. For a moment she stood, straight and stiff, not understanding. And then Ralf said, “Sir Piers has died, Kathryn. You are the Lady de Brusac now.”
    The golden eyes gleamed with triumph. He had won his gamble. He led her out into the castle yard with all due pomp and ceremony. She kept her chin high as she spoke. She didn’t know where the words came from. It seemed to her, at the time, that she was but an instrument for them. She faced the upturned faces of the people of de Brusac, and told them how she would make the castle’s heyday come again, how she would dispense justice with fairness and with firmness. She spoke for a moment with the fervor of a true de Brusac, and when she had done, weariness hit her like a stone in a well. She gazed about her with waking eyes, seeing for the first time the effect of her words.
    The servants were listening, most of them were weeping. Lord Ralf’s face, beside her, was aglow with pleasure, Wenna’s was cold with disdain and dislike. Richard was staring at his feet, his fingers playing with the hilt of his sword. Kathryn put her hand to her brow, swaying, and a woman rushed to her with a goblet of wine, muttering words of sadness and hope and