Page 42 of Her Baseborn Bridegroom

“Linnet will give me sons,” said Mason, leaning back in his seat. “She’ll give me a passel of sons before I’m through.”

His father looked taken aback by his confidence. “That freckled little female? I highly doubt it!”

“She has resolve,” said Mason. “And spirit. And moreover,” he said, picking up his cup, “she has promised me a son.”

“Has she, by all that’s holy?” His father looked grudgingly impressed.

“She has. A son who will be Duke of Cadwallader, no less.”

His father slammed his cup down, wiping droplets of ale from his moustache. “What?”

“She holds her father’s title in abeyance. Did Jevons not tell you that?” Mason smirked.

His father’s jaw dropped. “Nay he did not, the sneaky, lying snake!”

Mason’s lips quirked. “Well, you were hoodwinked by a lying, smooth-faced knave. He had no intention of giving up Linnet’s lands. He thought to keep the reins by having her marry Roland in name only.”

His father growled. “What?”

“’Tis unlikely Roland would have come to Cadwallader Castle more than twice a year,” Mason pointed out. “Her aunt would have been kept close, keeping them apart, spinning her web of lies.”

“Whereas Mason threw them both out,” put in Oswald. “He has forged his own way here. Roland never would have. He prefers it at court.”

Their father’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Roland is young,” pointed out Mason. “He likes things easy.”

“Whereas you were never afraid to wage war,” growled Lord Vawdrey. “Hardheaded to a fault.”

Mason shrugged.

“My grandson, a duke,” muttered Lord Vawdrey, clearly liking the sound of it. Oswald refilled his cup with ale. “Roland would never have gotten a son on her,” he acknowledged grudgingly. He eyed Mason speculatively. “You really think she’s up to it?”

“I do. There’s naught amiss with her. She just needs to build up her strength.”

“Humph!” grumbled his father, tugging at his beard, thoughtfully this time.

Mason shut the door quietly behind him and turned, half-expecting to find Linnet fast asleep. To his surprise she sat hunched over a candle in her shift, clasping a small bowl of water and what looked like a necklace.

“What are you doing?” Even in his slightly inebriated state, he knew it was something out of the ordinary.

She looked up distractedly. “Making my amethyst sweat,” she told him, holding up a pendant to show him the purplish stone.

He made his way over to the washing stand. “Why?” he asked, because in spite of himself he was curious.

“It’s a remedy,” she answered. Glancing over, he found her rubbing the stone along her throat.

He blinked. Strange. “Remedy for what?”

“Freckles,” she admitted grudgingly. She flicked a pained look at him. “You must have noticed I’m beset with them. You’re just too considerate to say so.”

Mason washed his face while he mulled this over. It was safe to say that no one had ever accused him of being too considerate before. Once he had shaken the water out of his eyes, he looked back over and found her holding the stone above the shallow bowl of heated water. As he dried his hands he watched her run the stone along her collarbone. Making his way thoughtfully to the bed, he commented with a frown, “Don’t get rid of all of them.”

She turned to face him. “I don’t expect it will get rid of any of them,” she admitted ruefully. “This is about the hundredth remedy I’ve tried. I vow Mother Ames will run out of ideas before they fade.”

He climbed into the bed. “Do you want me to do your back?” he asked, reclining on the mattress.

She eyed him anxiously, twisting on the bedsheets. “Have I many there too?” she asked in dismay. “Usually it’s only where the sun has touched me.” She’d braided her hair again for bed, and she flipped it forward over her shoulder to give him an unimpeded view of her narrow back.