Harlequin Historical January 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: Some Like to Shock\Captive of the Border Lord\The Caged Countess by Carole Mortimer

Author:Carole Mortimer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2012-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

After, she woke smiling every morning.

She was learning his body and her own. One step at a time and even she had reached the hilltop.

She knew there would be an end. Some day. They might be wed in truth, but Carwell did not want a wife. Not for ever. She had no doubt that even now, he was thinking of a way to break the betrothal after the danger had passed.

But now, today, she was at the court of the King, where a host of servants would conjure feasts and dancing to celebrate the season, married in truth to a man she loved against all reason.

And for these few days, she realised, surprised, that she did not miss home.

Treaty signed, the King had put aside any thought of governing, politics and war. It was Yuletide. He would make merry.

The night celebrations began in earnest. Bessie stood beside Thomas as the music started. He turned, performing the most formal reverence, and held out his hand. ‘Will you?’

Music, colour and laughter surrounded her, along with delicious smells from a meal prepared by other hands. And there, palm up, he tempted her to step into the midst of it all. To be a different person. A woman who laughed and danced gracefully and even carelessly. A woman who was nothing like Bessie Brunson.

But a woman who might be Elizabeth, wife of Laird Thomas Carwell.

A woman named Elizabeth might dance lightly all night without tripping or treading on a toe. A woman named Elizabeth might draw envious glances from the men and women on the edges of the room.

She put her hand in Carwell’s and stepped onto the floor as if her name were Elizabeth.

His palm was warm and sure, his smile genuine, as he led her into the circle. The room swirled around her while, with her hand in his, she stayed steady and sure. She let go of the logical, argumentative grip of a mind that counted steps and anticipated beats. Instead, she let the music speak directly to her feet. They moved of their own volition, moved in perfect time, paralleling his, as if his body and hers were somehow connected through music, each able to mirror the other.

Something floated up from the back of her brain, but, drowned by wine, it sank, leaving her bobbing gracefully on the swell of a wave of ever-changing music.

Somehow she was able to change with it.

The dancers flowed; it was time to change partners. Did Carwell’s fingers linger on hers? No time to ponder, for the next hand that grasped hers was the King’s.

She gasped. A catch of breath stopping the flow of the music through her for a moment, but she inhaled again. It was a dream. She was still Elizabeth, still floating across the floor. In her dream, long ago, she had been dancing before the King. Now, she was dancing with him.

Tonight, he had a wicked, happy grin, yet for those few moments that he partnered her, she thought she saw murderous frowns from both Long Mary and Carwell.

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