angularity of her jaw line.
Christiana removed the pearl-studded snood and set it upon a trunk. Heavy hair unfurled to Blanche Pikhorn's waist. Christiana picked up the brush and began to draw it through the flame-colored strands.
“Look mother, her hair is nearly as white as your own.” Blanche tilted her head to get a better view of Christiana in the silver platter. “And those eyes. They take up half her face. What an odd, elfish creature.”
Her mother clicked her tongue. “'Tis all your future husband can provide us with, one wan, frail maid. How is she to support my weight when my leg stiffens up?”
Blanche leaned forward and squinted at herself in the makeshift looking glass. She seemed entranced by her reflection. Christiana carefully worked the brush through a snarl.
“Clumsy,” the woman said as the brush caught. She swung around and struck Christiana flat-handed across the face.
For the first time that evening, Lady Pikhorn smiled.
“Dareford is planning on hunting tomorrow, and he hasn't even asked your father to join him.” Lady Pikhorn showed her irritation with a sharp inhalation that pinched her nostrils.
“Father is a weak and useless man. He hasn't risen from his bed since we arrived. You cannot truly expect Dareford to drag an old man who requires a nurse on a hunting trip?”
“Nonetheless, an invitation should have been made. Clearly, your man will require training. Wealthy he may be, but his manners are deplorable.”
Christiana could not contain a smile. The thought of any woman, especially these two peevish, uncivil women, attempting to train Lord Dareford, the Blacksmith, was too much to bear.
Blanche scowled. “Why are you smiling, you impertinent changeling? Get back to brushing my hair, or I shall smack you again, and I will not be so gentle this time.”
Beckett was to be saddled with this wretched woman for the rest of his life. The big bastard deserved it, she thought. No fear of laughing now; her throat was tightening with tears.
Lady Pikhorn plopped her sampler on the window seat and, using a cane for support, walked around inspecting the room. “Honestly, my dear, this room is not fit for a Dareford bride. You must insist that the earl provide the funds to have it furnished properly. In the meantime, we will have to make do with what is at hand. There was a tapestry in his solar that might add some color and the gilded chair at his desk. I believe I could make myself quite comfortable on that.”
Perhaps remaining as one of Beckett's servants would have its merits after all, Christiana mused. This marriage was going to prove to be most entertaining.
* * * *
The next morning, Christiana rose at dawn despite the long night she'd spent attending to the Pikhorn women's every desire. Lady Pikhorn, her colorless hair spread over the pillows, snored loudly. Her daughter slept soundlessly beside her. The plaster meant to lighten her freckles had darkened to an unappealing mustard shade.
Christiana slipped into the hallway. She gently touched her cheek. The hot handprint that Blanche Pikhorn had given her still stung. Even the notion of watching Beckett squirm as he tried to placate his future wife and mother-in-law was not enough to keep her in the castle. Outlawry suddenly seemed a kinder alternative, and if de Saxby did hunt her down, she'd simply beg for a quick end. Didn't he owe her that much after what they had once shared?
Once in the courtyard, Christiana felt the eyes of the retainers on her. It was not her imagination. They were watching her with hawk-like vigilance from the parapets and like hulking shadows from the gateway portal. Other people milled around, free of their predatory gazes.
Fear made her mouth grow dry. Perhaps she was not quite so ready to challenge Beckett's authority. Assuming a nonchalant demeanor, she strolled toward the garden pretending it had been her destination all along. At the entrance, she nearly tripped on a stack of uprooted
Christiana removed the pearl-studded snood and set it upon a trunk. Heavy hair unfurled to Blanche Pikhorn's waist. Christiana picked up the brush and began to draw it through the flame-colored strands.
“Look mother, her hair is nearly as white as your own.” Blanche tilted her head to get a better view of Christiana in the silver platter. “And those eyes. They take up half her face. What an odd, elfish creature.”
Her mother clicked her tongue. “'Tis all your future husband can provide us with, one wan, frail maid. How is she to support my weight when my leg stiffens up?”
Blanche leaned forward and squinted at herself in the makeshift looking glass. She seemed entranced by her reflection. Christiana carefully worked the brush through a snarl.
“Clumsy,” the woman said as the brush caught. She swung around and struck Christiana flat-handed across the face.
For the first time that evening, Lady Pikhorn smiled.
“Dareford is planning on hunting tomorrow, and he hasn't even asked your father to join him.” Lady Pikhorn showed her irritation with a sharp inhalation that pinched her nostrils.
“Father is a weak and useless man. He hasn't risen from his bed since we arrived. You cannot truly expect Dareford to drag an old man who requires a nurse on a hunting trip?”
“Nonetheless, an invitation should have been made. Clearly, your man will require training. Wealthy he may be, but his manners are deplorable.”
Christiana could not contain a smile. The thought of any woman, especially these two peevish, uncivil women, attempting to train Lord Dareford, the Blacksmith, was too much to bear.
Blanche scowled. “Why are you smiling, you impertinent changeling? Get back to brushing my hair, or I shall smack you again, and I will not be so gentle this time.”
Beckett was to be saddled with this wretched woman for the rest of his life. The big bastard deserved it, she thought. No fear of laughing now; her throat was tightening with tears.
Lady Pikhorn plopped her sampler on the window seat and, using a cane for support, walked around inspecting the room. “Honestly, my dear, this room is not fit for a Dareford bride. You must insist that the earl provide the funds to have it furnished properly. In the meantime, we will have to make do with what is at hand. There was a tapestry in his solar that might add some color and the gilded chair at his desk. I believe I could make myself quite comfortable on that.”
Perhaps remaining as one of Beckett's servants would have its merits after all, Christiana mused. This marriage was going to prove to be most entertaining.
* * * *
The next morning, Christiana rose at dawn despite the long night she'd spent attending to the Pikhorn women's every desire. Lady Pikhorn, her colorless hair spread over the pillows, snored loudly. Her daughter slept soundlessly beside her. The plaster meant to lighten her freckles had darkened to an unappealing mustard shade.
Christiana slipped into the hallway. She gently touched her cheek. The hot handprint that Blanche Pikhorn had given her still stung. Even the notion of watching Beckett squirm as he tried to placate his future wife and mother-in-law was not enough to keep her in the castle. Outlawry suddenly seemed a kinder alternative, and if de Saxby did hunt her down, she'd simply beg for a quick end. Didn't he owe her that much after what they had once shared?
Once in the courtyard, Christiana felt the eyes of the retainers on her. It was not her imagination. They were watching her with hawk-like vigilance from the parapets and like hulking shadows from the gateway portal. Other people milled around, free of their predatory gazes.
Fear made her mouth grow dry. Perhaps she was not quite so ready to challenge Beckett's authority. Assuming a nonchalant demeanor, she strolled toward the garden pretending it had been her destination all along. At the entrance, she nearly tripped on a stack of uprooted
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