The Snow White Bride (17 page)

She knew that if he granted her the slightest chance to make that dream become a reality, she would do whatsoever he demanded of her to make it so.

And that was a fearsome prospect, indeed. How had this
man gained so much power over her in so short a time that she would readily surrender her all to pacify him?

Eleanor did not know. She was uncertain whether to be more afraid of Alexander or her own desire to please him. They crossed the threshold of his chamber as one; then Alexander flicked the portal closed with his fingertips.

“
It is time, my lady, for a measure of truth to fall from your lips,” he said with force. Eleanor watched him, not daring to imagine how he would encourage her to confess that truth.

Then she nodded agreement, as meek as she could manage to be.

* * * * *

A
lexander had noted the
change in Eleanor’s manner as soon as she had turned to face him in the kitchens. She now stood straight and tall, her emotions hidden, her body taut. It was as if they began anew, as strangers once more. He was reminded of her flight from the solar the day before, of her desperation to claim the key in that same incident, of the terror that had lit her eyes when he had incidentally held her hands over her head.

If he had not known better, he might have guessed that she was afraid, but he could not imagine his formidable wife being fearful of him.

“Are you certain of Anthony’s recovery? Or is there some detail you did not wish to add before the others?”

She shook her head, then wrapped her arms around herself. There were shadows beneath her eyes, making her look both tired and hunted. “I think he will recover, but it will take time.”

“What of the aconite? Do you know who added it to the wine?”

She shook her head, though she did not meet his
regard.

“Could its addition not have been an accident?” he asked, hoping to encourage her confidence.

Her expression said it all. “No. Someone meant harm, to be sure. Had Anthony not vomited, and done so as quickly as he had, he would have died in painful haste.”

Alexander pursed his
li
ps and frowned. “Do you believe the tainted wine was destined for me?”

She tilted her head to regard him, her eyes narrowed. “Why do you not simply ask my intent?”

“Because you did not add the poison to the wine, of course.” Alexander smiled, for Eleanor seemed so astonished by his conviction. “I know you were well pleased yesterday, Eleanor, and though you are not anxious to surrender your heart to any man, I do not believe that you wish me such ill as that. You did, after all, ensure that our nuptials could not be annulled.” Her lips parted in astonishment and he found his smile broadening. “At least I am not the only one surprised to find myself defended,” he teased.

She swallowed and he saw a shimmer of tears on her lashes before she blinked them away. What had he done, or not done, to make her appear so grateful?

“You have found a champion in Anthony as well, and that before this sorry incident. He was much impressed with your command of my meager resources and I am intrigued by the notion of a fair.” He watched the way she glanced up and could not name the reason for her caution. He thought to encourage her with conversation. “Where did you learn to administer a household? I thought that Ewen’s sister ruled in his hall.”

“And so she does,” Eleanor said tightly. She crossed the chamber, keeping her back to him.

“So you must have administered the hall of your first husband.”

Eleanor shook her head with resolve. “Millard desired but one deed of me as his wife and it had nothing to do with administration.” She turned to face him, her composure so complete that she might have been wrought of stone. “His mother reigned in his hall.”

“And you?”

“Awaited him abed: supine, silent, and spread wide.”

Alexander granted her a wry glance. “That is rather more than I would have preferred to know.”

Eleanor smiled slightly. “It was more than I wished to know of the marital debt, you can be certain.”

“Isabella said that you told of being wedded young.”

She folded her arms across her chest and held his gaze, as if defying him to believe her. “I was twelve summers of age on the day of my first marriage, while Millard had seen two and sixty summers.”

“Where did you meet such a man?”

“At the altar. My father said that Millard wed me on the rumor of my beauty, no more and no less.” Eleanor shrugged, “He must have been pleased, for he came to me daily until his demise.”

Alexander paused, knowing that he had to ask. On this morning, his thoughts were full of Alan’s accusations and the lady’s manner did little to dispel those harsh words. “How did Millard die?”

Eleanor held his gaze unflinchingly. “He ceased to live.”

“Meaning?”

“That he ceased to breathe, and thus he died.” She
seemed to be daring him to accuse her of some foul deed and that alone made Alexander reluctant to do so.

All the same, he wished for a better answer.

“There was no other contributing factor, then, save his age?”

“He retired hale, but did not awaken from that night’s slumber.”

“Eleanor, I would wager that you know more of this than you admit. Tell me of it.”

Eleanor averted her gaze. Alexander waited, hearing the sea roll upon the shore, watching her fight some inner demon.

Finally she swallowed and spoke, her words strained. “It was rumored, of course, that his passing had not been a natural one, and this is the rumor to which Alan Douglas would allude.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“Because Millard’s young bride was unhappy, and known to be so by all. She was not clever enough to hide her true feelings from those who might use such detail ag
ainst her.” Eleanor licked her li
ps, awkward as Alexander had never seen her.

He found it intriguing that she spoke of her own past as if it had occurred to someone else. If it was easier for her thus, then some horrific deed must have occurred in Millard’s hall. “And as you know something of poisons, the blame fell upon you,” he guessed, wanting to aid her in telling her tale.

“It was not so simple as that.” She turned to the window, arms yet wrapped tightly around herself. Alexander waited, granting her all the time she needed—though, in truth, he feared what she might say.

What she did say surprised him.

“It is true that I learned of plants, including the toxic ones, but not because I had any particular interest in it. It was simply due to circumstance in my father’s household.”

Her words were tight, as if she had to fight to loose them, and he appreciated that it was difficult for her to surrender such information about herself. He was honored that she chose to confide in him, though he could not fathom why she did so.

“When I was a child, there was a woman in my father’s abode who knew much of mixing potions. She was like your Jeannie, an old crone filled with secrets, to whom few spoke unless they had need of her talents. She taught her skills to me.”

“Your father arranged for such a tutor for you?” His shock made Eleanor smile thinly.

“Hardly that!” She glanced over her shoulder at him and their gazes snared for a long moment.

He could see her uncertainty and knew that she had never confided in another soul before. He lifted his hand to encourage her, but Eleanor turned her back abruptly upon him. Alexander wondered whether she sought to hide something from him, or whether she avoided the distraction of the desire between them. He was well aware of her lithe curves, well aware of the way the winter sunlight made her look both icy and fragile. Her vulnerability touched him as resoundingly as her rare passion did.

He laid his hand upon her shoulder and was startled to feel her tremble.

Perhaps she was cold. Th
e wind was chill this mom and th
e shutters were drawn back from the window. He
lifted her own cloak, so richly trimmed, and tucked it over her shoulders. She clutched it, her fingers bloodless.

“My father would have been shocked, had he known, and surely would have put an end to those discussions. She was merely a woman of the woods, bedraggled and passing strange, but she talked to me.” She shrugged and her breath caught before she continued. “I heeded her lessons so that she would not leave me alone again.”

Eleanor had been a lonely child. Alexander heard the confession she did not explicitly make. “And you kept the truth of it from your father, the better that he would not interfere.”

“It was not difficult. He was gone to war most of the time.”

Alexander slid his fingertip across her shoulders, nudging the silk of her hair to one side, and spoke softly. “And your mother?”

“Died in the bearing of me. We were two only, for my father never wed again.”

Alexander understood a little more of the root of his lady’s cool manner. She had been alone as a child, and he felt a sympathy for her. No wonder she had no regard for love in a marriage: her father must have felt none for her mother,
and her husbands had shown littl
e to Eleanor. What did she know of love? Where could she have learned of it?

Alexander was aware then of the abundance with which he had been blessed at Kinfairlie. He felt humbled that he had possessed so many gifts for so long and never appreciated their value. He had no right to complain, now that his
blessings were less bountiful. “
Tell me of your father,” he urged, letting his fingertips trail across the bare flesh at the lady’s nape.

She stared resolutely out the window at Kinfairlie village. “There is little to tell. He was a lord, like yourself, and one who took his duties most seriously.”

“Even the duties of a father?”

“He saw me fed and clothed,” Eleanor said tightly. “He rode to war, and saw our borders secured.”

“That is a meager measure, Eleanor.”

She straightened. “One takes what one is offered and makes the most of it.”

“One can always wish for more.”

She looked down at her hands and he felt her shoulders shake anew. “I always hoped,” she said quietly, “that each time he rode out, it would be the last time he did as much, but in truth, I think he did not wish to linger at our abode. He was always restless, always anxious to be gone.”

“Because of you?”

“Clearly.” Eleanor turned to confront him and he ached at the loneliness in her eyes. “My mother died in the bearing of me, and I suspect that my father could not look at me without recalling his loss. He certainly did not look long or often.”

Alexander frowned as several details came together in his thoughts. “Wait. Do not tell me that you administered your father’s household in your mother’s stead, though you were but a child?”

Eleanor shrugged. “It was some deed I could do, some way in which I could be useful to him.”

“But you were wed at twelve!”

“Daughters are seldom useful to fathers as sons can be. I strove to show that there was some merit in my presence.”

Alexander guessed the true root lay elsewhere. “You
did as much to gain his favor
,
” he suggested, and she averted her gaze. “Is that why you undertook such responsibility in my hall last night? Did you mean to win my favor with your talents?”

She took a quick breath and squared her shoulders. “I have learned that men prefer to have a clean and organized hall, and to have their meals served in timely fashion, and to not be obliged to adjudicate over quibbles in
the kitchen.”

“And you have learned that men desire that and only one other feat from their wives, is that not so?”

She met his gaze, daring him to tell her otherwise. “What else would a man expect from a wife?”

“Companionship,” Alexander said with force. “Friendship and the sharing of counsel.” Eleanor looked so skeptical that he elaborated. “My father relied upon my mother’s ability to understand people, for she had insight into the nature of others that far exceeded his own. Thus they ruled Kinfairlie more justly together than either could have done alone.”

Eleanor said nothing. She did not move. He might not have spoken for all the reaction she showed, but Alexander sensed that Eleanor gave his words consideration. He watched her and waited, wondering what he might do to convince her to surrender more of her truth, wondering how he might persuade her of his intent, wondering if he truly could heal her wounds without knowing the malady.

“You were afraid when we left the kitchens,” he said quietly.
“
Tell me why. Tell me what you thought I would do.”

She straightened then, his warrior queen, and met his gaze with resolve. His heart thundered with pride at her
valor. He did not doubt that she had endured much, but she had a fierce spirit, one that was not readily daunted. “No more and no less than other men do.”

“I have done what I was taught that men should do. I have asked your counsel,” he said. “What else would you expect of me?”

Eleanor stepped out from beneath the weight of his hand and crossed the chamber with hurried steps.

“There can be no match between us without honesty,” Alexander reminded her. “Though you have clearly learned to be cautious with your trust, you must confide in me, Eleanor. You must do so, or we, in truth, can never make a match.”

“You are vexed with me.”

“I am vexed in my attempts to make a good marriage of a poor beginning. Your reticence alone is the obstacle between us.”

She watched him closely. “Not rumor?”

“I
give no credence to rumor, nor to accusations made by a man like Alan Douglas. Confide in me, Eleanor.”

She took a deep breath, as if steadying herself. “Then let me tell you this. Rumor was fed in the matter of Millard’s death by his young widow’s refusal to weep at his funeral.”