The Redeeming by Tamara Leigh

deny her this. Should she prove barren, what was left to her over the long, tedious days while breath yet filled her lungs?
    “You would like me to also assist, Gaenor?” Beatrix asked, setting aside her gown.
    And once more suffer her sister’s talk of Christian Lavonne, her assurances and numbering of the man’s qualities? “Nay, you will only fuss over me, and I am in no mood for it. ‘Tis more important that your gown be ready for the morrow.”
    “You are c-certain?”
    “I am.” Gaenor turned from the concerned look Beatrix exchanged with Annyn and preceded her mother from the solar.
    The preparations for the meeting with Christian Lavonne took more time that they should have, and when Gaenor finally stood from the chair on which she had perched while her mother crowned her head in braids, she felt as if released from a trap.
    “Turn,” Lady Isobel instructed.
    Gaenor swept all the way around, then smoothed the silken material of her skirts. “Will I shame my family or not?”
    Her mother winced, and Gaenor felt a slap of remorse. “You are lovely, daughter. Any man would be pleased to take you to wife.”
    Gaenor did not know whether to laugh or snap at so ridiculous a claim.
    Neither, for either would cause pain. Thus, she bit her tongue against pointing out that those to whom she had previously been betrothed had not been pleased upon meeting her. Though most betrothals, once made, were kept regardless of the feelings of the two forced into a life together, hers had been broken.
    As if aware of her daughter’s thoughts, Lady Isobel looked away. “Let us go belowstairs.”
    Despite Gaenor’s resentment at being displayed, she nodded.
    As she and her mother stepped off the stairs into the hall, her brother, Garr, entered the great room. As the renowned warrior strode the rushes with long-reaching legs that reminded Gaenor of Sir Matthew, she ached anew.
    Not until Garr halted before them did Gaenor notice the parchment he carried. And knew what it was. “He is not coming,” she said.
    With a tight, remorseful smile, Garr inclined his head. “Baron Lavonne tells that he has been delayed and sends his regrets.”
    “When might we expect him?” Lady Isobel’s level voice did a fine job of covering her frustration.
    “Mayhap on the morrow, more likely the day after.”
    His mother’s mouth tightened. “The day after Beatrix’s wedding.”
    Garr offered his sister the parchment. “Be assured, Gaenor, the baron’s delay was unavoidable.”
    She unrolled the missive. The bold stroke of Christian Lavonne’s quill, had he wielded it himself, told no more than what her brother had told, though he did request a private audience with her upon his arrival. “He does not say the reason for the delay, though you seem to know it.”
    “’Tis naught you need worry over.”
    And that was all he would tell. Gaenor returned her gaze to the writing, paused over the name scrawled at the bottom, and let the missive roll back on itself. “It is as it is.”
    Garr laid a hand on her arm. “I am sorry. I had hoped you and the baron would have more time to become acquainted ere your own wedding.”
    As had she, but did it matter? Indeed, she ought to consider it a reprieve, perhaps the last she would have.
    She pushed a smile onto her lips. “In a lifetime, what does one day matter? Or two? They are just days.”
    A struggle rose on Garr’s face such as she had only seen when he had been forced to decide between fealty to the man who would be king and love of Annyn. And it gave Gaenor pause. Was his struggle the evidence she had sought since her return to Stern Castle? Evidence he did care for her? If so, there was solace in it, for it meant he would not wed her to a man who would treat her ill—that though he wanted peace, a sacrifice he would not make of her. Dare she believe Christian Lavonne was as Garr and the others told?
    Believe.
    It was hard, but she determined she would, and the weight upon her