Free Rosehaven by Catherine Coulter

sword handle before he allowed him to be buried. Northbert told me he’d heard it said that de Luci poisoned his wife but that she didn’t die speedily enough, thus he was late getting to Oxborough before your wedding to Hastings. It was also said that de Luci would have gladly assisted his wife to a quicker end but the priest stood by her bedside throughout her ordeal.”
    “He should be dispatched to hell, Graelam. When I am back to my full strength, I will do it. Do you know thatHastings made Trist an egg that was boiled just until it was congealed on the inside?”
    “How do you know that?”
    “He brought it to show me. She had cracked the top of the egg so he could easily shuck it aside. He ate it on my chest. He even let it cool a bit so it wouldn’t burn me.”
    Graelam was still laughing when Hastings came into the bedchamber, carrying a tray on her arms. Severin saw her smile at Graelam, a full, easy smile, a lovely smile that showed straight white teeth. Then she looked at him. Her smile fell away as she neared the bed. He didn’t care if she ever smiled at him, damn her. She would fulfill her role—the one he would assign her as soon as he was on his feet again—and that was all he wanted from her.
    She said nothing, merely set the tray down on the bed beside him, then leaned down and gently laid her palm on his forehead. He brought up his hand and wrapped his fingers around her wrist.
    “I am not fevered.”
    “No,” she said, withdrawing from him even though she did not move a finger, “I can see that you are not.”
    “Damn you, do not treat me like a puking old man who has not the wit to gainsay you.”
    She straightened. He released her hand. “I have brought you food. MacDear is the Oxborough cook. He is excellent. He has prepared you barley broth. You will eat the broth, if it pleases you to do so. If you do not wish to eat it, why then, throw it into the rushes. My lord Graelam, Northbert wishes to speak to you.”
    Graelam stared at the two of them. Hastings, that confiding girl he’d known for years, warm and laughing, always humming and singing, rarely showing fear because her father usually ignored her. He’d struck her only in moments he lacked control. Perhaps it would have been better had Fawke thrashed her more often, even threatened to beat her as he had his wife. Then she would treat Severin with more deference. She would tread more warily around him. Now she was dignified as a matron and stiff as Severin’s onyx-handled sword. She didn’t look like she’d even bendin a strong wind, much less bend to a man’s will, much less a husband’s will.
    But no, Graelam thought, he didn’t want her to be any different. He prayed that Severin would not hurt her. Perhaps he would mention it to him, tell him privately that to strike his wife just might kill her and then who would see to his comfort and to his meals? Who then would bear his children?
    Graelam wondered, as he met Northbert, his master-at-arms, in the inner bailey below, what Severin had done to her the previous evening. The tension coming from her was like the swirling cold winter winds coming off the North Sea. Yet she had not hesitated to save Severin’s life when de Luci’s man had tried to stab him in the back, nor had she hesitated to attend him, not leaving him until he slept.
    He doubted he would ever understand the workings of a woman’s mind. Not that it mattered, not since his own wife adored him, not minding his bad habits, not berating him when he was testy or sore from bruises he’d gained on the practice field. Ah, but she would leap upon a stool so she could yell in his face when he was an oaf. He realized he was grinning fatuously, seeing her as she kissed his mouth whilst he held their babe, stroking the soft black hair—his black hair—whilst Kassia cooed at both of them.
    He listened, at first unable to believe what Northbert told him. He rubbed his hands together. He thought of Severin, then shook