Eleanor nodded at the next well-wishers to come forward, trying to ignore her husband’s irritating touch, just as she’d been trying to ignore almost everything he’d done for the last three days and nights. Just now, it wasn’t working. Finally, she jerked her hand away, pretending an itch on the opposite arm that needed thorough scratching. Richard merely glanced over and turned his hand palm up, waiting for her to be done and come back to him. She scratched as long as she could, then found some reason to fuss with her veil, but eventually she had to give in. This time, though, she laced her fingers with his. At least he couldn’t tickle her that way. Richard smiled, pleased at what he apparently assumed was her affection or interest. “Patience, wife. Only a little longer, and we can retire.” She nodded. He had no idea how ill that thought made her, just as he had no idea that the archers her father lent him were there not for his convenience but to keep her prisoner, or that the smear of blood on his sheets two nights ago had come not from his earnest assault on her maidenhead but from a scrap of raw chicken liver she’d had Lucy filch from the kitchen.
