Page 12 of An Inconvenient Vow

“Are you decent?”

Sabina rolled her eyes. “Yes,” she answered.

The door opened and he stood in the doorway holding a bowl and steaming jug. Sabina looked at him; he looked at Sabina. It dawned on her that he was not going to stir another step, so with a sigh, she walked toward him to take the washing water from him. To her surprise, he took an almost alarmed step back.

“What is it?” she asked with surprise.

“You are undressing,” he said stiffly, hot color suffusing his face.

Sabina’s jaw almost dropped at such prudishness. “I have only removed my headdress,” she pointed out, and he bridled like some sort of maiden aunt, thrusting the ewer toward her so violently that a good deal of it sloshed out into the basin.

Sabina grabbed it and retreated into the room as he slammed the door shut. She shook her head. He really was the oddest man she had ever met in her life! Carrying it to the nearest armoire, she set it down and found a ball of soap flakes and a cloth in the basin. Undressing briskly down to her shift, she slung her gown over the nearest chest, had a good wash, and clambered into the truckle bed.

She was relieved about the separate sleeping arrangements, though not for one minute had she imagined he would fall on her with lust as soon as they were alone. He had made it clear he viewed her with cold contempt, and anyway, if he had been speaking true when he demanded her hand in marriage, then he simply was not inclined that way.

Incredible as it might seem, with such a body and handsome face, Sir Jeffree must have no taste for fornication. Sabina could only be thankful for that fact, even though she bore no faith whatsoever in Isemay’s words from earlier. There could be no way out of this union that did not involve her absolute ruin—consummation or no consummation.

She had barely managed to scrape through her estrangement from her first husband. Only his death had freed her from the stain of a reputation as an undutiful wife. Flinging a hand behind her head and rearranging herself on the small cot, Sabina considered the path before her in the failing light of the summer’s evening.

It had clearly not occurred to Sir Jeffree to provide her with a candle and the room was now growing dark. Her tired eyes drooped. Likely she could soon leave this wretched place. Sir Jeffree could stash her in his own home, wherever that might be. Some godsforsaken spot in a far-flung corner of Karadok. Doubtless, he neglected it shamefully while toadying up to his uncle.

With a bit of luck, she could be settled there independently while Sir Jeffree was off… doing whatever it was that Sir Jeffree did. That way, this disastrous marriage need not be quite so inconvenient after all! Maybe she could make it her home. Of course, she would never feel about it as she did Morecotte.

The thought of Morecotte filled her with the familiar feeling of loss, the home she had loved far more than Miles. Beautiful Morecotte. She had thought she would grow old there, surrounded by its orchards full of blossoming and fruitful trees. She would always regret Morecotte. Sabina’s eyes closed, and she fell into an uneasy and fitful sleep.

5

Jeffree snatched open the door and paced back inside. “Well?” he demanded of his manservant. Pulling the drying cloth from his hair and throwing it into the chair before the fire. “What did you find out?”

Osborn shut the door quietly behind him and dragged his hat off his head before clearing his throat noisily.

“Be quiet, can’t you man!” Jeffree snapped, motioning for the servant to join him at the fireplace. “She will hear you.”

When Osborn’s eyes tracked over to the empty bed, Jeffree let out an irritated huff. “She’s in my dressing room next door,” he said scathingly and then felt annoyed he’d had to explain himself to his own servant.

“Oh.” Osborn sniffed and wiped his cuff across his bulbous nose. “It’s on account of how parched I am, Master Jeffree,” Osborn explained soulfully. “My throat is awful dry.”

“Parched?” Jeffree repeated. “You have spent the whole evening in the local inn!”

“It was a mortal long way back,” Osborn sighed.

“Fool!” Jeffree scowled, but he gestured toward the remaining pitcher of wine anyway from which Osborn hastened to pour himself a goblet, filled to the brim. He walked slowly back over to the fireplace to join his master, careful not to spill as much as a drop.

Jeffree rolled his eyes and asked himself for the thousandth time why he put up with the scoundrel. Once Osborn had drained half the cup and smacked his lips, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and relaxed into his habitual slouch.

“Well?” Jeffree barked. “What do they say in the village about Mistress Sabina Hendry?”

“Plenty!” Osborn replied with a chuckle which made Jeffree’s blood freeze. “She’s only been widowed a twelvemonth, but before that she’d set tongues wagging in the county with her froward, headstrong ways! They do say as Hendry had his hands full with her and rued the day he took her to wife! Only lived with her a year he did, before he threw her out for a nagging scold and set her packing, back to her father’s house with a flea in her ear.”

Jeffree, who had frozen with his arm half raised to the mantle again, relaxed. “A scold?” he repeated coolly. It was certainly true she had a wayward tongue. A nagging scold. Well, he supposed, it could be worse. There were certainly graver vices for young handsome widows to indulge in.

He had not actually realized she was handsome until he had seen her with her long honey-colored braids hanging down to her waist just an hour ago. Why had he thought her hair would be dark beneath that wimple? Likely, he had thought she would resemble her sister in that respect. That and the fact her eyebrows were so dark and that small black mole just above and to the left of her mouth.

Realizing Osborn was watching him shrewdly, he pulled himself together. A shrewish wife was not such a daunting thing to him after all. She would be ill-advised to practice such tricks on him. “So, she’s thought a shrew locally, is she?” he asked.

“Aye Master Jeffree,” tutted Osborn, shaking his head. “There’s many a local lass has felt the brunt of her temper. Wouldn’t suffer a pretty face to serve her at table, she wouldn’t. A veritable termagant, she was by all accounts. Up she would fly and drive the poor maids from her door, if she thought her husband’s eye tarried too long on them. A nasty tongue and a suspicious nature, so they say.”

Jeffree blinked. So, Mistress Hendry was the jealous type, was she? His lip curled with disgust. He could not stand women who loved creating vulgar, petty scenes. A commonplace mind, he supposed must be the fault. “Anything else?”