Alexandra (26 page)

THE SUN WAS
sinking in the sky by the time Tristan returned, special license in hand, to learn that Griffin was at the vineyard. A change of horses and a brisk gallop got him there just before dark. Griffin’s crew was completing the pipeline, lighting lanterns to provide illumination while they finished. As Tristan rode up, one of the men approached him, holding two of the lamps.

“I was just taking these to Lord Cainewood, my lord.” He nodded in the direction of the newly dug pit.

“I’ll take them for you,” Tristan offered, sliding off his mount. He tethered the horse and headed toward the pit, both lanterns in one hand. Slipping his other hand into his pocket, he toyed with the ring he’d detoured to Hawkridge to pick up. A simple gold band, wide but worn thin from centuries of use. A family heirloom for traditional Alexandra. Though it was plain, he hoped she would like it.

Curses were coming from the square pit. Colorful ones. Still holding the lanterns in one hand, he started down the ladder, his eyes widening as he saw what was going on inside. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” he said as he reached the bottom.

“Installing your accursed pump.” Griffin’s wrench slipped, eliciting another burst of strong language.

Tristan set the lanterns in a corner on the dirt floor. “I would have done it if you’d waited.”

“When? In the middle of my sister’s wedding night?” Griffin mopped his brow with the back of a grimy hand. “I think she’d have my head. Besides, it’s time I learned how to do this myself. Given the way my luck has been running, I’m likely to need another pump or a dozen soon.”

“Let me give you a hand.” Tristan took the wrench.

“One of the hands you couldn’t keep off my sister?” Griffin snatched it back. “No thanks.”

Heedless of the dirt, Tristan leaned against the wall, crossing his feet at the ankles and his arms across his chest. The pit exuded the pungent scent of recently turned earth. As fresh and sharp as his friend’s mood. “You’re angry with me.”

“Give the man a prize.”

“I didn’t compromise your sister on purpose.”

“No, you were sleeping. Just waltzed in there unaware. Or so you said—”

“Hey—”

“All right, I believe you.” Griffin banged the wrench against a pipe, wincing at the sharp
clang
. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He whacked the pipe again.

“You want to hit me?”

He looked all too intrigued by that idea. “No.”

“Go on. Hit me. It’ll make you feel better.”

“It’ll make
you
feel worse.”

Tristan just shrugged. “You cannot but admit I deserve it.”

Tapping the wrench against his palm, Griffin stared at Tristan for a few long, tense moments. Then he dropped the tool to the dirt, drew back a fist, and rammed it into his friend’s shoulder.

Though pain exploded, Tristan didn’t flinch. “You can do better than that.”

“You’re right.” Griffin hauled off and punched him in the mouth.

Tristan saw stars. His friend looked wavery through his watering eyes. Tasting blood, he flexed his jaw. “Feel better?”

“Not yet.” Gritting his teeth, Griffin took half a step forward and drove his fist full force into Tristan’s gut.

The wind rushed out of him as he doubled over in pain and surprise. When he came up, gasping for air, he returned the favor with a blow to Griffin’s face that sent him careening into the wall.

“Hey!” Griffin said.

“That’s enough.”

“I think not,” he ground out, coming back swinging. “You compromised my sister. It will never be enough.”

Tristan took two punches but ducked the third, straightening to throw a left-handed jab that landed solidly in his friend’s midsection. Griffin retaliated with a right-handed hit that was even harder. From there, Tristan lost track. The blows flew fast and furious until finally they both stood there, panting and exhausted, neither of them possessing the energy to continue.

Griffin dropped to sit on the dirt floor, his legs sprawled out before him, his face cradled in both hands. “I think you broke my nose.”

“No, I didn’t. You’re such a widgeon.” Leaning against the wall above him, Tristan spit out blood. “I think you loosened my teeth.”

“I hope so.” Griffin grinned up at him, then winced. “You feel worse now, don’t you? Just as I predicted.”

Tristan slid down to sit beside him, groaning at new assorted aches. “Nothing you do could make me feel worse. Believe it or not, I’m more upset at this turn of events than you are.”

“I don’t believe it. You didn’t just ruin two of your sisters’ lives.”

“No, I ruined three of
your
sisters’ lives instead.”

“Three? Alexandra was dying to marry you.”

But the way Tristan saw it, she could die
because
she married him. Who knew what he might do the next time he sleepwalked? He was scared stiff.

“Besides,” Griffin added, “she’s going to clear your name, and then no one’s lives will be ruined.”

“She’s going to
what
?”

“She’s determined to find your uncle’s killer.”

“My uncle didn’t have a killer. He died in his sleep.”

Griffin began to shake his head, then apparently thought better of it. “I told her you’d say that.”

CORIANDER BISCUITS

Take eight eggs, a little Rose water, some Madeira, and a pound of fine Sugar; beat them together for an Hour; then put in a Pound of Flour and half an Ounce of Coriander seeds; then beat them well together, butter your Pans and put in your batter, and set it into the Oven for half an Hour; then turn them, brush them over the Top with a little of the Eggs and Sugar that you must leave out at first for the Purpose, and set them in again for a quarter of an Hour.

These biscuits are perfect to take visiting. My mother always brings some when we're to meet someone new.
—Lady Elspeth Caldwell, 1691

“WHAT ARE YOU
doing up so late? It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“Is it?” Startled, Alexandra turned to see her brother standing in the shadowed entrance to the kitchen. “I’m making coriander biscuits to bring along to Hawkridge.” She beat Madeira into a bowl of eggs, sugar, and rose water. “I cannot arrive there with nothing.”

“You don’t have to bribe Tristan’s people to accept you. You’ll be their marchioness.”

She added flour to the mixture, dumping half of it onto her shaky hands in the process. “Chase ladies always bring sweets.”

“Tomorrow will be a big day for you. Go to bed, for goodness sake. If you truly feel a need to bring something, you can ask François to make it in the morning.”

Sound advice, except she was too excited—and nervous—to sleep. “We missed you at dinner,” she said, changing the subject. “And afterwards.” As he walked closer, she blinked and set down the bowl. “What on earth happened to your face?”

He touched it gingerly. “Your soon-to-be-husband happened to it,” he informed her dryly.

“Tris? Whyever would he hit you?”

“Perhaps because I hit him first?” He looked around the cavernous kitchen. “Is there anything to eat in here besides raw biscuit dough? We just finished installing the pump. It works beautifully, but I’m about to expire from starvation.”

“And Tris?”

“Said he’s not hungry. Went straight to bed.”

“I meant, does he look like you?”

“Not much.” He crossed to where François had left out some bowls covered with cloths. “His hair is lighter, and his eyes—”

“Griffin!” Walking over, she playfully punched him on the shoulder with a flour-coated fist.

“Ouch!” He waved at the white powder flying in the air. “I hurt everywhere, so keep your hands off.”

“How much did you hurt
him
? Will I have to keep my hands off my husband as well?”

Her brother’s face flushed red beneath the bruises. “I’d prefer to avoid the topic of you touching…that man. Or any man.” He rooted in a bowl of fruit and came out with an apple. “You know,” he added, polishing it on his grimy shirt, “there is one advantage to your being ruined. Saves me from having to explain about the wedding night.”

Now it was Alexandra’s turn to blush. ”I wasn’t ruined, Griffin.”

“I beg your pardon?” He bit into the apple with a juicy crunch. “Of course you were! Why else would I marry you to someone wholly unsuitable?”

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth.” She moved toward the pantry. “In society’s eyes, yes, I was ruined. But not in truth.”

He swallowed this time before responding. “What do you mean?”

She busied herself rifling through a drawer. ”Nothing really happened last night. With Tris, I mean. We…we kissed is all. Then he woke up and we just talked. And then we fell asleep.” She located the cloth she’d been seeking.

“You just talked,” he said. “In your bed.”

Mortification sparked her temper. “Yes, we just talked!” She flung the cloth in her brother’s face. “Wipe your chin.” Turning away, she started putting dollops of batter on one of the two pans she’d prepared.

After a long silence, she said in a small voice, “You believe me, don’t you?”

“I suppose. Though it does boggle the mind.” She heard the crunch of another bite. “I cannot imagine just
talking
to a girl in bed!”

“I’m so glad to hear you say that,” she said to the biscuits.

“Hear me say what?”

“That you’ve done more than talk to a girl in bed.”

He made a strangled sound. “Whyever would you—”

”Because, being unmarried as you are, I wasn’t precisely sure you had knowledge of…of matters pertaining to the bedroom. But I’m glad that you do, because that means you’ll be able to explain everything to me.” Hearing a great deal of coughing, she turned to him. “Are you all right?”

He nodded wildly. Between the coughing, the bruising, and the embarrassment, he’d turned red as a beet. She waited patiently while he regained his breath.

“You
will
explain, won’t you?” Part of her wished Tris had finished what he’d started last night. At least then she’d know.

He pounded on his chest with a fist. ”Can I have some of that Madeira first?” He gestured toward the open bottle.

She handed it to him, looking around for a glass.

“Don’t bother,” he said and drank directly from the bottle.

She watched him take several gulps. “Madeira should be sipped.”

“Oh?” He chugged another swallow and wiped his mouth with the cloth. Studying the floor, he took a deep breath and opened his mouth. Then closed it again. He took another deep breath. “You see, there are birds, and then there are bees, and—”

She giggled. “You don’t have to start there. Mama told me all of that. Didn’t she explain it to you?”

“Father did.” He raised the bottle again, taking a more normal sip this time. “And if Mother told you all of that, what on earth do you need from me?”

“I want to know what will happen on my wedding night.
How
it will happen.”

He hesitated. “Do I have to spell out everything?”

She nodded. “I shall bake all night if you don’t. Please, Griffin.”

Sighing, her brother held the bottle up to a candle. Only a swallow or two remained. He drained it. “We’re going to need another bottle,” he said dryly.

TRISTAN COULD
scarcely believe he was married.

The wedding had been a simple affair, held in the old family chapel, witnessed not only by Alexandra’s siblings and three female cousins, but the effigies of her ancestors dating back to the fourteenth century. When the minister asked if anyone present could show just cause why he and Alexandra should not be lawfully joined together, Tristan had half expected a five-hundred-year-old marble statue to pop up, sword in hand, and take exception.

After all, it took a lot of nerve for a disgraced man to wed a lovely, proper Chase daughter.

He’d practically held his breath until the ceremony was over, until they’d shared a kiss that was decorous and chaste but sweet nonetheless. And then he
still
didn’t quite believe she was his wife.

He couldn’t have a
wife!

The wedding breakfast—which was actually a luncheon—had been a haze of delicious food mixed with feminine chatter and laughter. Alexandra, he’d been unable to help noticing, had spent a lot of time looking at him and very little time eating her meal. The latter wasn’t all that surprising. His own stomach felt a bit out of sorts from shock paired with exhaustion.