The Mistress Of Normandy Read Free

drive you to the altar at sword point. Think you he’ll approve of your Lazare?”
    Lianna swallowed. “My uncle of Burgundy will send his spurs spinning into oblivion when he learns what I’ve done.”
    “Aye, I’ve always thought he wanted better for you.”
    Privately Lianna agreed. She’d often wondered why Uncle Jean had never pressed her to wed, but was too content in her spinsterhood to question him. Now King Henry had forced her out of that comfortable state.
    A burst of noise from the hall drifted in through the window, along with a breeze tinged by the smell of the river and the lingering acrid odor of Chiang’s fireworks. Bonne put away the mirror. “I’d best leave you to your husband. My lady...you must be biddable and patient with him....”
    Flushing, Lianna raised a hand to forestall her maid. “Don’t worry, Bonne.” Women’s talk made her ill at ease; she had no interest in secrets whispered behind a damsel’s hand. She propelled Bonne toward the door. “I daresay I’ll survive my wedding night. Go and find your Roland.”
    The girl swayed down the narrow spiral of stairs.
    Lianna returned to her solar to ponder that mysterious, much-lauded act that would solidify her marriage to Lazare Mondragon. With a stab of loss, she thought of her mother, long dead of drowning. Dame Irène might have guided her this night, might have prepared her to receive her husband.
    Glancing at the gesso mural, Lianna watched the firelight flicker over a detail of a young woman reading to a child from a psalter. Again Lianna searched her memory for her mother but found only a whisper of rose-sweet fragrance, the ghost of a cool hand against her brow, the soft tones of a female voice. She might have told stories to me, Lianna mused.
    Shaking her head, she tossed aside the useless sentiment. She had no place in her life for pretty stories and games. Fate had left her to learn on her own, to approach every task with calculated logic.
    She faced marriage in the same dispassionate manner. When the English king’s envoy had arrived three weeks earlier ordering her to marry a baron who styled himself Enguerrand of Longwood, she’d begun a swift, methodical search for an eligible Frenchman who didn’t fear her powerful uncle. In Lazare Mondragon, she’d found him. Sufficiently needy to be dazzled by her dowry, and sufficiently greedy to flout the duke, Lazare had proved instantly agreeable. The castle chaplain—aging, senile—hadn’t insisted on a lengthy reading of banns.
    The door swung open. With stiff movements Lianna inclined her shining head. “Mon sire.”
    Lazare Mondragon stepped inside. He was resplendent in his wedding costume, from the velvet capuchon on his graying head to his narrow pointed shoes. The shimmering cresset flame lit his handsome features—a strong nose, angular chin, and dark, deep-set eyes. Taking Lianna’s hand, he brushed it with dry lips.
    The brief contact ignited a flicker of trepidation in her. She snuffed it quickly and said, “Is all well in the hall?”
    “My son Gervais and his wife have won the hearts of the castle folk, Gervais with his bold tales and Macée with her pretty singing.” Lazare’s voice rang with fatherly pride.
    She studied his lined face. The shadowy eyes looked world-weary, the eyes of a stranger she’d met only six days before. He lacked the eagerness of a new bridegroom. She pushed aside the notion. Of course he wouldn’t look eager. Lazare was a widower, her senior by twenty-five years. But he was French, and that was enough for Lianna.
    She poured wine into a mazer and handed it to him.
    “Thank you, Belliane,” he said absently.
    “Please, Lazare, I do go by my familiar name.”
    “Of course. Lianna.”
    Smiling, she filled another cup and lifted it. “A toast, to the deliverance of Bois-Long from English hands.”
    A frown corrupted the smoothness of Lazare’s brow. “That’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it, Lianna?”
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