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bother to hide her mirth; her laughter echoed through the dingy hall.
    Tilda stepped over, patted the weeping girl’s back. “Come, come, little Margaret. Let’s us go see if’n Cook has another treat for ye.” She separated the child from Ortha’s gown, gathered her up in a firm hold, and started to turn. Her gaze caught Emelin’s.
    “She’ll be all right, don’t y’see, milady. Just a mite scared she is of that thing on yer head. Don’t fear. She’ll warm right up to ye.” With that daunting reassurance, Tilda sauntered across the hall.
    Over the servant’s shoulder, the now-silent child stared at Emelin with giant, drenched eyes. In the moment before the maid disappeared into the kitchen corridor, Margaret wrinkled her nose and thrust out her tongue.
    Emelin laughed. The sprite had spirit, the one thing Lord Osbert abhorred. The poor man must be appalled. For once, Dulsie and Cleo stared at her, speechless.
    Lady Cleo sniffed. “I find nothing amusing at a child’s display of insolence.”
    “Oh, no,” Emelin assured her. “She’s frightened, unsure of herself among new people. We will adapt famously, the three of us.” She smiled at the others, and for the first time since her arrival, she began to relax. God worked in mysterious ways, just as Mother Gertrude insisted.
    He’d sent a child to lavish with affection, to fill Emelin’s days until her own children came. Emelin needed Margaret as much as the child needed a mother’s love.
    With Tilda gone, Ortha showed Emelin to her chamber. Inside, she slipped the old wooden bar through the anchors at each side of the door and gazed around. A real bed hugged one wall. With a whispered moan, she lay down and closed her eyes.
    For a moment, her mind remained blissfully blank. Then the image of a blonde-haired imp nudged in. Fear flooded the wide eyes, uncertainty hunched the fragile shoulders as the little one had stared at the strangers. Emelin could identify with every sentiment reflected in the child’s mobile face, even the spark of defiance in her parting gesture.
    She knew just how to reach the girl, for she had experienced similar emotions. They would get along fine. Ortha, as well.
    She sighed. She would have a daughter to raise, as soon as the wedding vows were exchanged. Lightness filled her, and she laughed into the dimness hovering above the bed. Just what she longed for. Children, a husband, her own home to manage. Perhaps they would be a family like Stephen’s, who cared for each other, not like her own, who cared only for themselves.
    Tenderness welled at the thought of playing with little Margaret, of helping her grow, instructing her. She would be a good mother. With patience, Lord Osbert would come to appreciate his precious daughter.
    Emelin’s smile faded as she thought of him. He was a respected lord; would he be a considerate husband? She caught the side of her lower lip between her teeth as she recalled his behavior. Perhaps his bluntness hid tenderness, rather than cruelty. All through the trip from the convent, she had wondered about the man to whom Garley had bartered her.
    If he were the man she dreamed of during long, cold nights on her narrow bed, he would be… The image of a square chin and dark hair flashed in her mind. Shivers coursed her skin at the memory of strong, sword-roughened fingers that clasped her hand and cupped her head, soft lips that brushed hers. Her breath hitched.
    I must not remember.
    With a sharp shake of her head, she banished thoughts of the injured warrior who personified her dreams. She would forget the handsome, silver-eyed stranger. Langley was her future. No matter how dishonorably her brother acted to secure it, she would be content. And if doubts about her betrothed occasionally threatened, a moment of prayer and reflection would calm her.
    That and a sound tree branch applied to Garley’s skull.
    There. Now she felt better.

Chapter Four
    Giles rode well away from Langley before he