As he had promised, Warrick took Rosamund away from Kingsmere at dawn. His men, Bennett and Godfrey, kept a slight distance, riding behind them. Although there was no sign of Owen’s men, there was still the chance of pursuit.
Warrick kept his mount alongside hers but found it difficult to look at his wife. Rosamund’s revelation that they had conceived a child three years ago had shaken him to the core. It haunted him to imagine her pregnant and frightened, wedded to another man. And worst of all, a child of his blood had died.
It struck him harder than he’d imagined. Though he had never known of the babe, there was a part of him buried in the church graveyard. He imagined a laughing young girl with Rosamund’s eyes, running towards him. He would have swept her up in his arms, tossing her into the air until she giggled.
But that child was gone. A heaviness weighed down upon his heart, though he tried to push it away. How could Rosamund have kept such a secret over these years? An invisible wall seemed to rise between them, though he held his silence.
‘Do you still intend to take me to my father’s house?’ Rosamund asked him.
‘I do.’ Harold was the only man who dwelled close enough to protect Rosamund while he faced Owen. Warrick saw no other choice.
But Rosamund slowed the pace of her horse. ‘I would rather not see him again. He was the one who forced me to marry Alan. I blame my father for what happened to us.’ She drew her horse to a stop and regarded him. ‘You plan to leave me behind, don’t you?’
He inclined his head. After last night, some distance would be good. It bothered him that she was afraid of bearing another child and did not believe him capable of taking care of them. She had already given up on the idea of Pevensham, and he possessed no lands and no estate.
He was exactly the sort of man her father despised. And he knew that Harold de Beaufort would grant sanctuary to his daughter...but not to him.
Warrick drew his horse to a stop and met her gaze. ‘I will leave you in your father’s care until I have settled the matter of Pevensham. I must go to the king.’ He motioned for his men to stay back, to give them privacy to speak freely.
‘Why would you leave me behind?’ she demanded. ‘Especially now?’
‘Your father will guard you.’
She gave him an incredulous look. ‘I have hated my father since the day he gave me to Alan. He tried to kill you, or have you forgotten?’
‘It was my own father who gave the order for me to be struck down. And no, I have not forgotten.’ The scars of the whip remained upon his back, and he would never forgive his father for them.
She paled and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I thought it would be different this time, Warrick. I thought you would fight for us.’
‘That is precisely what I’m doing,’ he said coolly. He drew his horse alongside hers and said, ‘I have nowhere to give you shelter, don’t you understand? I cannot take you to my father’s lands, and if I travel to Scotland to my brother’s estate, Owen’s men will seize you.’
‘He cares nothing for me.’ Her green eyes swelled with tears, and it bothered him to see this.
‘He cares a great deal for any child you might bear. And I will not put you at risk.’ A darkness slid through his veins at the thought of the daughter he had never held.
‘Do you think so little of yourself that we cannot remain together?’ Rosamund demanded. ‘Why would you turn from me again?’
‘I have only two men!’ he shot back. ‘Owen has an army. And if you think I would dare to risk your life and the life of an unborn child, you are mistaken.’ He knew too well the dangers they faced. He wanted Rosamund safely guarded behind stone walls, with dozens of men to defend her.
She paled and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘This isn’t only about protecting me, is it? It’s about our daughter. You’re angry with me after what I told you.’
It did fester inside him, and he would not deny it. ‘You should never have kept such a secret from me.’ He could not hide the cold anger from his tone and made no effort to do so.
She brought the mare closer to him, forcing him to stop riding. ‘Warrick, I cannot change the mistakes I made. All I can do is try to make amends for the past.’
He saw the pain in her expression and the sadness. There was no question that she regretted what she had done, but he needed time.
‘Stay with your father until I return for you,’ he said softly.
Rosamund reached out to his hand, tracing the edge of his thumb. Her touch seared him, and then she threaded her fingers with his. ‘I am your wife, Warrick. And whatever happens, we will make a life together—one we should have had three years ago.’
He was weary from a night of no sleep, but he gave a nod of acknowledgement. ‘We should reach your father’s holdings by nightfall.’
* * *
Rosamund didn’t know how to lift her husband’s mood. The closer they rode towards her father’s lands, the more tension rose between them. He ordered her to remain with his men while he rode ahead. She obeyed but didn’t like the idea.
‘For a man newly wedded, he seems on edge,’ Bennett remarked. The soldier eyed her and added, ‘I suppose he’s been too long without a woman. Last night wasn’t nearly enough.’ His teasing smile made her blush.
‘He is concerned about Pevensham,’ she admitted. ‘I think he intends to leave me here.’ And despite his insistence that it would keep her safe, she didn’t want to be abandoned.
‘You could sweeten his mood,’ Godfrey added. ‘A man is easily led by his pr—’
‘Quiet,’ Bennett interrupted. ‘She’s a lady, not a serving wench.’
Godfrey shrugged in mock innocence. ‘Be that as it may, there’s no doubting that the man could use a good romp or two.’
Rosamund clamped her hands over her ears. ‘Enough of this.’ Though she supposed the men were trying to be helpful, it was not a subject she wanted to discuss.
But she understood their meaning. Warrick was angry with her, and his mood was still simmering, despite his shielded expression. This was not finished yet, and she needed to confront him.
The men guarded her as they followed where Warrick had gone. Rosamund studied her surroundings, recognising many of the people as she entered her childhood home. She had once loved this estate, especially the climbing roses her mother had planted in the garden.
She wondered if her parents would accept Warrick as her new husband, especially after all that had happened. Though she wanted to see her mother, she didn’t care if she ever set eyes on her father. The hatred she’d kept in her heart still burned brightly. She could never forgive him for manipulating her and harming the man she loved.
But Harold de Beaufort stood at the top of the stairs, his expression neutral. He wore a burgundy silk tunic, trimmed with squirrel fur. There were no words of welcome to her, nor did he smile. She kept her own face calm, betraying none of her thoughts.
Bennett held her horse and helped her to dismount. She went to stand beside her husband and didn’t miss the distaste on her father’s face.
‘I heard that Alan de Courcy is dead,’ Harold said to her. ‘And now I learn that you married this man hardly more than a day later.’
‘I wedded Rosamund at Alan’s command,’ Warrick responded. ‘He feared for her safety and demanded it of me, upon his death.’
‘So you say.’ His gaze flickered over them. ‘What do you want of me?’
‘Rosamund is carrying Alan’s heir, and if she bears a son, he will inherit Pevensham. But we have reason to believe that Owen ordered his brother’s death. Rosamund could not remain at Pevensham, or he would threaten her unborn child.’
The lies flowed easily from him, but Rosamund could not deny the possibility of another pregnancy. It had happened once before with Warrick. Alan had done all that he could to protect her, but she understood that it might not be enough.
Her father’s expression remained cold. ‘Now that you have married her, others will believe that any child she bears is yours.’ His unspoken message was that he believed it, too.
‘Alan had already spoken of it to other witnesses. Even his own brother and the family priest knew,’ Warrick responded. ‘For now, Rosamund needs a safe place to stay until her child is born.’
‘And what of your own property? Have you no place to provide for a wife?’
Her father’s remark was a deliberate weapon aimed at Warrick’s pride. She saw the flicker of unrest in her husband’s eyes before he answered, ‘My father’s lands are farther away, and I intend to confront Owen over his brother’s death. I need someone to protect Rosamund while I am gone. Your lands were closer.’
Though she had known he intended to leave, a sudden icy portent of sadness washed over her. She had the terrible fear that something would happen to Warrick, leaving her a widow once more. And she did not want him to go—not until she had soothed his anger and he had forgiven her.
‘May we come inside, Father?’ she asked.
Harold moved sideways, gesturing for them to join him. She could not tell what he thought of their circumstances, for he hid his thoughts, as always.
When she drew nearer, she saw that his hair was rimmed with silver, his beard tinged with grey. His eyes held wariness, which was not surprising. She had brought danger among them, for she had no doubt Owen would try to pursue them.
He led them both inside and gave orders for bread and ale. ‘You have not eaten, I suppose?’
‘No. Only travelling food, earlier this morning,’ Rosamund answered. ‘I would be grateful for a hot meal.’
She walked through the Great Hall, searching for a glimpse of her mother, but there was no sign of Agnes. Instead, she spied her sister standing near the far end. Cecilia’s eyes widened, but she stepped forward to greet them with her hands outstretched. ‘Rosamund. I never thought to see you here again.’
‘I didn’t expect to be here myself.’
Her sister’s gaze drifted to Warrick with a questioning look. Rosamund introduced him as her new husband. Though Cecilia greeted him with politeness, there was a strained tone in her voice.
When there was still no sign of Agnes, Rosamund asked, ‘Where is Mother?’ She had not seen her in such a long time. Although she was prepared to receive a lecture on the hasty wedding, she had missed her overbearing presence. Beneath her mother’s criticism lay a woman who truly did care about her.
Cecilia spared a stricken look at their father and then admitted, ‘She died last winter.’
Rosamund’s heart sank at the news, followed by a rush of anger. ‘And no one thought to send word?’ Although Agnes had been a chiding mother who had always found fault with every little thing, Rosamund would have come to her funeral Mass. ‘You should have told me.’
‘Father forbade it,’ Cecilia answered. Then she squeezed her hand and leaned forward. ‘We will speak of this later.’
It seemed that her father had not changed at all. Rosamund realised that if she remained here, he would, no doubt, find a reason to imprison her in her rooms. Or prevent her from seeing Warrick again.
She didn’t know how to manage the tangle of emotions within her. But she knew better than to lash out at her father. He would only lash back at her. Better to be subtle and calm, using her own invisible weapons.
She joined her father at the high table with Warrick at her side. Harold barely acknowledged her husband, and Rosamund decided to confront him. ‘I wish you had told me of Mother’s death.’
‘Why would you care?’ he retorted. ‘You never bothered to visit since your marriage. In three years, we heard nothing from you.’
She met his gaze evenly, her voice quiet. ‘You know why.’ But she guessed it was his own petty vengeance for her silence.
Harold shrugged and lifted his cup of wine. ‘Agnes grew ill from a coughing sickness and did not recover.’
She tore off a piece of bread. ‘I would have come if you had sent word.’
‘But now you come seeking my help?’ Her father poured another cup of wine. A hard edge lined his face, as if he resented her very presence.
‘Do you truly wish to remain enemies?’ she asked softly. ‘After all this time?’
Harold drained the second cup of wine and said nothing. So be it. Rosamund finished her food and wine and then turned to Warrick. ‘I am going up to the solar with my sister. I will join you later.’ She leaned in and kissed his cheek, making it clear to her father that this marriage had been her choice. Warrick held her hand for a brief moment, and she squeezed it with a silent promise.
Cecilia stood from her place and guided her up the stairs. Rosamund walked into the solar and saw a basket near a stool. She recognised it as her mother’s embroidery and picked it up to examine the work. It was a simple pattern of pink roses, and Agnes had begun stitching the greenery. The sight of the linen made her eyes well up with tears. Although she had not been very close to her mother, both of them had loved to sit in the solar and sew. It was a piece of Agnes left behind, and it bruised her heart to see it.
Rosamund held the linen for a moment and asked her sister, ‘May I take this? So that I may finish her work?’
Cecilia nodded. ‘She would have wanted that.’ Her sister went to stand by the window. ‘Whether he admits it or not, Father did miss you. We all did. Mother tried to convince him to go and visit, but he said he would never ride to Pevensham until you invited him.’
Because he had known how deeply she had hated him. Her heart hardened at the invisible wall of bitterness that had kept them apart over the years. Turning the subject, Rosamund ventured, ‘I thought you would have been married by now with a household of your own.’
Her sister’s expression turned wry. ‘No one wanted to marry me.’
‘But that’s foolish. You are a beautiful woman, one any man would be proud to wed.’
Cecilia smiled, and she sighed. ‘They call me a shrew and sing songs about me because I refused to wed the man Father chose.’
Rosamund blinked at that, but her sister admitted, ‘He was a terrible suitor—a cruel man who starved his hounds and beat them. I would never want a man like that to sire children...especially with me.’ Cecilia shrugged. ‘Father swore that if I did not marry Gerard, I would have to stay at home and wed no one. Or perhaps I could join a convent.’ With a wry expression, she finished, ‘You can see what my choice was.’
‘Do you want to be married?’ Rosamund asked, sitting down and picking up a needle. She chose a lighter shade of green for the embroidery, wanting to add depth to her mother’s stitching.
‘I might. But only if he is a good man.’ Cecilia pulled up a stool and sat across from her. ‘I overheard them say you are expecting Alan’s child. When will you give birth?’
Rosamund lowered her gaze to the stitching. ‘In the winter.’ She was deliberately vague, not wanting to reveal anything.
Her sister nodded, resting her hands upon her lap. ‘I bid you good fortune with your child.’ She waited a moment and asked, ‘Is it so terrible to lie with a man? The very thought sounds awful.’
A slight motion caught her attention, and Rosamund saw Warrick standing just outside the doorway. He tilted his head, and there was amusement on his face, letting her know he had overheard her sister’s question.
‘Rosamund?’ Cecilia prompted. ‘Well, is it? I would like to be forewarned.’
She smiled serenely. ‘No, it’s not awful at all. When you are wedded to a man you love, it’s wonderful.’
Her sister studied her and her expression held doubt. ‘But...doesn’t it hurt?’
She caught her husband’s gaze behind Cecilia and met it evenly. ‘There is nowhere else I would rather be than in Warrick’s arms.’
He studied her a moment before he disappeared from her view. She could only hope that he understood and would forgive her for the secret she had kept.
* * *
Warrick waited for Rosamund after she emerged from the solar. His wife’s cheeks were bright, but she behaved as if he had not overheard them speaking. He followed her to the chamber they would share, but as they walked through the castle, he felt his own restlessness intensifying. It bothered him that he’d been forced to bring her here, to face her father once more. They needed a home of their own, a place where he could command his own soldiers and his own estate.
He had told Rosamund that he intended to speak with the king, to fight for Pevensham. And he would, for the sake of the people. None wished to be governed by Owen de Courcy. But he knew that Rosamund’s claim to the land was feeble, at best. If there was no child, then they were powerless to help.
Even if they could not regain Pevensham, he intended to appeal to the king, offering everything he could give, in return for a parcel of land. Gaining land of his own was a means of fighting against the ghosts of his past, proving his worth.
His wife interrupted his thoughts by taking him by the hand and leading him towards their bed. ‘We need to talk, Warrick.’
Truthfully, there was nothing to say. But he sat down and she stood between his legs before she reached out for his other hand. Her palms were warm, and her eyes fixed upon him. ‘I do not want you to appeal to the king. Owen can take Pevensham, and we need never see him again. We can go to Ireland, as you said. I believe Owen would keep his word and give us an estate there.’
It was clear that she wanted to take the safest path, surrendering everything. But he didn’t believe for a moment that Owen would surrender land.
‘Owen will give us nothing,’ he said. ‘He will likely sell off whatever he can to repay his debts.’
She rested her hands upon his shoulders, distracting him with her nearness. ‘Or we can live with your brother Rhys in Scotland. All that matters is that we are safe.’
‘And what if you are with child?’ he ventured.
‘We both know who the father is. And our son would have no true right to govern Pevensham.’ Rosamund lowered her forehead to touch his. ‘I would rather be wedded to you and raise our children knowing their father’s name.’
Warrick had no desire to behave like a coward, knowing what Owen would do to the estate. He stood from the bed, his height towering over Rosamund. ‘So you would abandon the people of Pevensham and let Owen take command? Was that what Alan wanted?’
She faltered at that. ‘The people were loyal to the de Courcy name, not to me or Alan.’
‘Or perhaps they were afraid of Owen?’ he ventured.
Rosamund gave no answer, but slid her hands beneath his tunic to touch his bare chest. He understood that this was a distraction, a means of avoiding the truth. But the scent of her skin allured him, and he could not resist threading his hands in her dark hair.
‘All of us were afraid of Owen,’ she admitted at last. She moved her hands upon his heart. ‘It’s why I want to leave. I never want to see him again.’
‘You need not be afraid of any man,’ he said.
Rosamund straightened and took a breath. ‘But Owen will not rest if there is the threat of a child.’ She rested her cheek against his chest, and her fear was palpable. ‘If you leave, he will come after me.’
Now he understood the true reason for her fear. ‘Your father will guard you,’ he assured her. ‘He has a stronghold here and dozens of men. Owen cannot reach you, so long as you stay behind these walls.’
‘I trust him not. Nor my father.’ Her voice held melancholy, and he wanted to comfort her. ‘And you are still leaving me behind.’
He pulled back from the embrace, meeting her gaze. ‘Owen must be brought to justice for what he did.’
But he could see upon her face that she did not believe him. ‘It’s more than that, isn’t it?’
He could not speak reassuring lies to her, no matter what she might wish. Instead, he took a step back from her. ‘I know you are tired. Rest now.’
But Rosamund reached for the laces of her gown and began to loosen them. The blue gown she wore was fitted to her arms, and she struggled to loosen it. ‘Will you help me, Warrick?’ Her voice was soft and inviting. Desire roared through him, though his mind warned him not to touch her.
Yet, she could not unfasten the gown without help, and she had no maidservant this night. For a moment, he rested his hands upon her gown, sliding it down to her shoulders, revealing her shift. The thin linen revealed the silhouette of her full breasts, and he wanted nothing more than to lower it to her waist, cupping her until her nipples rose beneath his hands.
But once her gown lay pooled at her feet, he stepped away. His body urged him to claim her, to join with her until her flesh merged with his.
Yet, he gathered command of himself, pushing back the physical needs. She turned to face him, and her expression held sorrow. ‘You have not forgiven me, have you?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘It will take more time, Rosamund.’ His voice came out harsher than he’d intended, and he tried to soften his tone. ‘I am leaving on the morrow with my men,’ he told her. ‘Owen may follow us, but he will not find you.’
‘And what if he finds you?’ Her expression held uneasiness. ‘You only have two men.’
‘We can defend ourselves, if need be.’
She moved closer to him, drawing him into her arms. ‘Do not go with anger between us.’ Once again, she moved her hands beneath his tunic. Rosamund slid her fingers over his spine, over the scarred flesh. ‘I wish I could turn back the years, Warrick.’ For a moment, her thoughts remained veiled, though he could see the worry in her eyes.
Then her expression transformed when her hand passed over a different scar on his lower back. He tensed the moment she touched it. Then he guided her hand away, holding her palms in his.
‘That scar isn’t from the whipping, is it?’ she murmured. ‘It’s a burn mark.’
‘It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter.’ He squeezed her hands, fully intending to leave her to sleep alone.
But Rosamund would not be deterred. ‘If it didn’t matter to you, you would tell me. But this bothers you, doesn’t it?’
She wasn’t going to relent on this, and well he knew it. And yet, he didn’t want to open up the nightmares of the past.
She traced the outline of the mark, and said quietly, ‘Someone burned you with a hot poker. Did your father do this to you?’
He went rigid, not wanting to speak of it. ‘Let the past remain buried, Rosamund.’
But she touched his face gently and pleaded, ‘Tell me what happened, Warrick.’
* * *
Warrick didn’t want to relive that part of his life, especially now. But he realised that he could voice a demand of his own in return. He rested his hands upon her waist. ‘If I tell you of this, then you must tell me about our daughter,’ he said quietly. ‘And what happened to you when you learned you were pregnant with her.’
His wife hesitated, studying him with indecision. ‘And if I do, will you forgive me for my silence?’
It was difficult to make a promise like this, when he knew not if he could. All he could say was, ‘I don’t know, Rosamund.’
While he waited for her to speak, she took a seat upon the bed. She took a quiet breath and began, ‘I told my father that I would wed Alan, and he promised to release you. After that, he took me home where the betrothal agreement was finished and signed. It felt as if I were living another woman’s life for the first month. I did as I was told and was obedient to my father. But every night, I wept for you.’
She traced the outline of his shoulder. ‘Then I started getting sick. It wasn’t like most women who are with child and are only sick in the mornings. I was violently ill for most of the day. My father caught me one night, and he knew what was happening.’ Her voice softened. ‘When he accused me of being with child, I was filled with such joy, because that meant Alan could never wed me. I believed that my father would send word to you, and we would be married, as I had dreamed. Instead, he forced me to wed Alan within a sennight.’
‘I came to your wedding,’ he reminded her. ‘And you never spoke to me. You obeyed your father’s orders without even trying to leave.’
She closed her eyes as if pushing back the memory. ‘He invited you to the wedding so he could use you to command me. He swore he would kill you where you stood if I refused to speak my vows.’
‘He would not have done such a thing,’ Warrick contradicted. Such would be considered murder in the eyes of the king and would demand justice.
Rosamund let out a breath of air. ‘He had enough coins to hire any number of mercenaries to wield a blade. And I do not doubt he would have kept his word. My father wanted to control me, to bend me to his will. And so he did.’
The enigmatic look returned to her face, as if she were still haunted by it. But there was also a thread of steel, her invisible determination not to be Harold’s pawn again.
She reached down to touch the scarred mark upon his backside. ‘Now tell me who did this to you and why. Then I will tell you of our daughter.’
Her light touch was soft, but he had never forgotten the searing pain of the red-hot poker. ‘I witnessed something I was not meant to see,’ he said. He rolled to his back and stared up at the ceiling. ‘My father remarried after the death of my mother, and his new wife, Analise, promised him another son. Edward never cared about a child, since he already had Rhys, Joan, and me. I was six years old, but I remember when Analise gave birth to a daughter.’ A chill iced through him as he remembered the fragile infant with reddened skin and dark blue eyes that stared at him. She had reminded him of a baby wren, newly emerged from a shell.
‘I was so proud to be a big brother, to have someone smaller than me. Mary cried a lot, and it seemed that she was always hungry. Analise did not have a wet nurse for her, and she told my father she would feed the babe herself. But I never saw her do so, and I thought she was starving the child.’
Which now, he believed was quite likely. Analise had never wanted a daughter and it was easiest to claim that the child was sickly.
‘I heard her screaming in her cradle one night, and I slipped into Analise’s bedchamber. She was not there, and I believed it was my task to protect my sister. I picked Mary up and held her, but she would not stop crying.’ He spoke the words, wishing he could blot out the memory of the wailing infant.
‘That night, I had brought her some warm goat’s milk. I dipped my finger in it, and put it to her lips. She drank it from my fingers, and only then did she stop crying.’ The coldness in his chest deepened, spreading throughout his body. ‘Analise caught me feeding my sister, and she was furious. She struck me and took the babe from my arms. Then she threw Mary to the floor and killed her.’ The raw memory haunted him still, and even Rosamund’s words of comfort would not diminish the grief.
‘I know now that she was trying to starve her daughter. Analise wanted only sons.’ He let out a sigh. ‘She told my father that I dropped the babe and killed my own sister.’
‘Dear God...’ Rosamund breathed. ‘And your father believed her?’
‘He did. I was punished for it when they branded me with the hot poker and sent me away. But before I left our lands, Analise warned me that if I ever dared to tell anyone about what I had seen, she would hurt Rhys. I stopped talking for a number of years, because I was afraid of her.’
Those years had been a blur of nightmares, and he had found it easy to obey her command. There was nothing at all to say—not when his own father refused to accept the truth. Warrick finished by saying, ‘My father believed Analise when she told him I was simple-minded and unworthy of being his son.’
‘I cannot believe he could not see her for what she truly was—a liar and a murderess.’ Rosamund held him tightly, and her embrace soothed the ache.
‘She died from a fall on horseback and broke her neck. Thank God, or else she might have found a way to hurt any other daughter she might have birthed.’
It was strange, but telling Rosamund what had happened had lightened the burden of the past. He drew his hand over her shift, down to her flat stomach. ‘It seems cruel to lose a second infant girl, one of my blood.’
She covered his hand with her own, letting it rest upon her womb. ‘I waited for a time to tell my husband about the babe, but he admitted last week that he knew I was with child when we wed. My father had told him, and Alan agreed to wed me, in spite of it. Or perhaps because of it.’ She laced her fingers with his. ‘I was surprised at how pleased Alan was, but I later understood it was because he believed he could not sire children. He told everyone of my pregnancy and was so very proud.’
Rosamund told him more, of the changes in her body and the time she first felt movement. ‘I was lying down in bed and I felt the barest touch, as if a tiny hand reached up to me.’ She smiled, but he heard the slight hitch of emotion in her voice. ‘It was so very precious, a part of you that remained within me. And as the months passed, Alan brought me gifts for the baby. A wooden rattle and silk for her clothing.’ She tightened her grip on his hand. ‘We became friends, and I could not be angry with him.
‘But a few weeks after Owen visited us, I lost the baby. I went into labour and delivered her stillborn. She was small enough to fit into my hand.’ Rosamund rested her face against his chest, and he could feel the hot tears spilling on to his skin. She wept for the loss of their daughter, and his own grief welled up inside him.
‘I am sorry,’ he said. But the words were useless in the face of such a tragedy. It would not bring the child back.
She grew quiet, tracing the outline of his face. ‘I have not ever conceived a child since I lost her. And never a day goes by that I do not think of her.’ Tears spilled over her face, and she murmured, ‘I named her Anne.’
His eyes burned, and he could not bring himself to mourn. A part of him ached with jealousy, that at least she had been able to look upon the face of their child. She had held their daughter before Annehad been buried and had even given her a name. Whereas he had never been given that chance.
With the greatest effort, Warrick pulled back the ragged emotions and steeled himself. He brushed away Rosamund’s tears and bade her, ‘Rest now, and I will bid you farewell in the morning.’
She gripped his hand in hers and drew it to her waist. ‘Will you not lie with me and share the hours we have left?’
He couldn’t. Not now, not with the weight of grief shadowing him. Better that he should leave his wife in peace and spend the last few hours in his own solitude. He brushed his mouth against hers in a light kiss before he left.
Just as he started to close the door to their chamber, he saw her curled up on her side, her shoulders racked with sobs. And her anguish echoed within his own heart, though he would never let her see it.