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He pulled at the fabric in her fingertips. She let it go and pushed back her shoulders. “Lord Rardove, I deal in wool. That is what we discussed in our correspondence.”
“Indeed. Just so.”
“Just so, then. I am here to strike a bargain that will be lucrative for us both. Perhaps if I show you some of the accounts I brought with me, you will see the benefits. Or,” she added, not liking the way he was looking at her and not the ledgers, “perhaps you would prefer to simply reconsider the arrangement, and I can hie myself back to the ship.”
“Or perhaps we ought to take care of this other little matter straight away.” Rardove gestured toward the shadows.
Pentony emerged from within them somewhere—He is a wraith, Senna decided—with a scroll of parchment in hand. Her response spoke to her shattered emotional state though, for upon sight of the steward’s cadaverous figure, Senna smiled. He looked at her somberly, without a hint of recognition. She might be a table cover. Or a blot of wax on one. A mess.
She looked back to Rardove. “Other matter, my lord?”
He gestured impatiently to Pentony, who scanned the document in his hands, then began reading parts of it aloud.
“Senna de Valery, merchant of wool…Lambert, lord of Rardove, on the Irish marches…union in wedlock…banns posted…”
Senna’s mouth dropped open and she almost fell to her knees.
Chapter 5
“That is not possible!”
He looked at her with something approaching mild curiosity. “No? And yet”—he pointed to the parchment—“here is the document, and”—he moved his fingertip her direction—“there are…you.”
“Oh, no, this is not possible.”
“So you say.”
Her mind spun away from coherent thought. This was madness. And yet…And yet, forced betrothals happened all the time. Simply not to her.
She’d spent the last ten years ensuring no one could do anything to her ever again. She’d built a business, created a world, where she would never be beholden again. Never need again. Where she was in complete control.
It was crumbling to the ground.
She could feel her heart beating, hard in her ears. Thud, thud, thud.
“I will not sign,” she said dumbly.
He blew out a small breath, an impatient sound. “Certainly you will.” He drew close enough for her to smell the leather of his hauberk. It creaked with newness.
“But why?” she asked, almost in a whisper. “Why marriage?”
“To ensure you stay. Or rather,” he added in a fit of clarification, “to ensure my rights in retrieving you, were you to decide to leave.” He took a step closer. His gaze slid slowly down her skirts. “And you must know, Senna, you are very beautiful.”
“I—I cannot. Make dyes.” It was fully a whisper now.
“Have faith.” His body was almost touching hers. “You can do anything I tell you to do.”
She smelled sweat and drink, ale perhaps. He lifted a hand to brush by her cheek. She jerked away. He stilled, then very deliberately rested one knuckle against her jaw. She stood rock still, but a strand of hair by her cheek trembled.
He smiled, very faintly. The moment stretched on. Sweat began to dribble down her chest. She had to actually will her gaze to stay on his, the muscles in her eyes straining to break free. She started to feel dizzy.
But something about the whole strange, silent encounter seemed to improve Rardove’s humor, because he smiled. Taking her by the hand, he pressed his lips to her skin.
Senna stared at the back of his head, bent over her hand, stunned and reeling. She was saved the need for a response by a soldier approaching the dais.
“My l—lord?”
The baron paused, mouth still over her hand. “What is it?”
