He saw her blink rapidly and lower her head. Kassia quickly turned away from him, not wanting him to see her tears. Her anger at him was gone, and she had hoped that he would smile at her again and dismiss the entire incident. But he looked all the more grim.
Graelam cursed, and grabbed her arm. “I did not give you permission to go,” he said harshly. He closed his hand more tightly about her arm, feeling her delicate and fragile bones that would snap like a twig under his strength. “Why do you not eat the pastries? By all the saints, you are so slight that a breeze could sweep you away.”
Kassia did not understand him. He sounded furious, yet his hand had eased on her arm, and his fingers were gently massaging where he had clasped her so harshly.
“Truly, my lord,” she said at last, “I did not mean to anger you. I did not think—”
“No, ’tis obvious,” he interrupted her, hating the pleading in her voice. He dropped her arm and turned slightly away from her. “You gave orders to have the outbuildings whitewashed.”
“Aye,” she admitted in a small voice, cursing herself at the same time for her cowardice. Were she at Belleterre, she wanted to shout at him, not only would she have given orders to whitewash the sheds, but she would have also overseen, with her father, the drawing of the charter with the merchant Drieux. Would he give her authority to act as mistress of Wolffeton one minute, and withdraw it the next?
Silence stretched between them. “Have I your permission to go now, my lord?”
“Why, my lady?” he asked, turning to face her again. “Do you not find my company to your liking?”
“I must tell the servants not to whitewash the outbuildings.”
“I want it done. Leave be.”
Her eyes flew to his face. He smiled at the spark of anger he saw there. But it immediately recalled another matter to mind. “What did you do to Blanche in my absence? She was very upset.”
She cocked her head to one side, clearly puzzled. “I . . . I do not understand.”
“She was crying earlier.” Indeed, she had wet his tunic through. “You are not to give her orders, Kassia, or make her life unpleasant. She is a gentle lady, and deserving of kind treatment.”
Surely, Kassia thought, he could not be talking about his sister-in-law, Blanche! Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Which Blanche do you mean, my lord? One of the serving maids?”
“Perhaps,” he said coldly, “Blanche could teach you submissiveness and the proper respect for your husband.”
She felt such a surge of anger that she feared what she would say if she remained with him. She gasped her rage, turned on her heel, and ran as fast as she could back along the narrow walkway.
“Kassia! Come back here!”
She tripped on her long gown at his furious voice, and swayed for an instant, the cobblestones of the inner bailey rising upward toward her.
“Hellfire, you stupid wench!” Graelam roared, his gut wrenching at the sight of her weaving toward the edge of the rampart. He lurched forward, grabbed her arm, and jerked her back. “Have you no sense?” he yelled at her, shaking her so hard her neck snapped back.
She cried out, a soft, broken sound that froze him. He stared down at her white face, cursed savagely, and pulled her against him. He enveloped her in his arms, unconsciously rocking her. She leaned pliantly against him, her cheek pressed against his chest. He could feel her small breasts heaving against him as she tried to stop her gasping breaths. He felt a bolt of lust so powerful that he was momentarily stunned. He realized vaguely that it was born of fear for her, and anger, but it did not matter. She was his wife, dammit, and he had not possessed her for six days!
In one swift motion he lifted her over his shoulder and strode toward the steep wooden stairs that led down to the inner bailey. He paid no attention to the scores of gaping servants or to his men who watched his progress. He was breathing hard when he finally reached their bedchamber, but not from exertion. He kicked the door closed behind him and strode to the bed. He eased her off his shoulder and laid her on her back. He pulled his trousers open, his hands shaking, then turned back to her. He jerked off her leather slippers, pulled up her clothes, baring her to her waist, and flung himself down over her.
“Damn you,” he growled harshly, and kissed her brutally.
Kassia felt suspended, as if time had stopped, and she was another, gazing down upon the furious man savaging a girl who was no longer she. She felt his hands upon her, roughly jerking her legs apart. When he reared over her, she realized starkly that he was going to force her. Still, her mind held her utterly still, like a stick puppet with no will of her own. She felt his fingers parting her, felt his rigid manhood thrust inward. A tearing pain seared her, plummeting her mind back into her body. She screamed, a high, thin wailing sound that melded with his harsh breathing, and her body fought the pain. She began to fight him, striking his shoulders and back with all her strength, but she was impaled, helpless.
Graelam felt himself tearing into her small, unwilling body. Thrusting his full length, he seated himself to his hilt. Her pounding fists made no impression on him as he sought to subdue her, to force her to utter submission. He flung himself onto her, grasped her face between his hands, and thrust his tongue into her mouth. At the taste of her salty tears, his mind balked, but his body, intent upon release, rammed into her until his senses blurred and his seed burst from his body, filling her. He was insensate for several moments. It was her helpless moan that jerked him to awareness. He raised himself over her and stared down at her face. Her eyes were pressed tightly closed, her thick lashes wet spikes against her cheeks. There was a spot of blood on her lower lip, bitten in pain.
He closed his own eyes for a moment, wishing he could close out the enormity of what he had done.
“Kassia.” Her name was a growl of pain on his lips. He withdrew from her, feeling her quiver, and drew her into his arms. She lay utterly still, unresponsive even as he smoothed the curls back from her forehead.
“Look at me, damn you! Kassia, open your eyes.” He clasped her jaw and shook her head until her lashes fluttered and she looked up at him.
What he saw chilled him. She was staring up at him, and he knew that the wide, unseeing look in her eyes reflected her thoughts.
“Stop it!” he shouted at her, shaking her shoulders. She did not respond. For the first time in his life, he felt himself to be despicable, a brute who had hurt someone who had not half his strength. He knew a churning fear that made him tremble. “Kassia,” he whispered, and buried his face in her hair.
“You hurt me.”
Her small, stricken voice made him jerk his head up. The blind look was gone from her eyes and she was regarding him like a child who does not understand why the parent has struck him.
“You promised you would never hurt me again. You lied to me.”
He wanted to beg her forgiveness, but the words stuck in his throat. Never in his life had he uttered such words to a woman. Images of his father telling him that a wife was her husband’s possession, to do with as he pleased, careened through his mind. A woman had no will; she existed only through her husband and through her children. He was struggling with himself when she spoke again, softly, her voice holding no anger, no reproach.
“You told me that being a wife was better than being a dog. You told me that there were benefits to being a wife.”
“Aye,” he said helplessly, “I told you that.”
“I think,” she said very clearly, “that I should prefer being a dog.”
“You have no choice in the matter!” he said sharply. “You are as God fashioned you.”
“Must I also blame God?” She moved away from him and he let her go. She pulled her clothing down and stood a moment by the bed. She looked remote, yet utterly calm. “Have I your permission to leave now, my lord? There is the meal to see to. I would not want you displeased.”
He stared at her, frustrated, sunk in his own guilt. “Go,” he said harshl
y. She turned away without another word. He saw her weave a moment, then stiffen and walk slowly toward the door.
Graelam closed his eyes a moment. He pictured the Earl of Drexel in his mind, the man whose page and squire he had been, the man who had knighted the very young Graelam for saving his life at the Battle of Evesham. He had attended him after the battle, as was his wont, and watched his blood lust become sexual lust. It did not surprise him, for he had seen his lord take both willing and unwilling women. But the peasant wench had screamed and fought. The earl had merely laughed, cuffing her senseless. “What else are women good for, lad, if not for a man’s pleasure? The stupid wench wasn’t even a virgin.” He had shaken his head, perplexed. The fat priest with them had said nothing. It was a point of debate among Church prelates whether or not women possessed a soul. Then why, Graelam thought, did he feel so despicable, like a mindless, rutting animal? Kassia was his possession. There would be no one to say him nay or even look at him askance if he beat her within an inch of her life, with or without just cause.
Why then did he feel as if he had destroyed something precious, as if he had wantonly crushed a rare flower underfoot before its petals had unfurled?
He rose slowly, like an old man, and straightened his clothes. He paused, seeing blood on his member. He cursed softly to the silent chamber.
Blanche smiled and said gaily to the stone-faced Sir Guy, “Such a shame, is it not, Sir Guy?”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” he said coldly, not looking at her.
She laughed. “Ah, such a pity! But I do not suppose you heard her screams? And look at her now. No longer the proud, preening little fool she was!”
Guy had been looking at Kassia. She looked dazed, her face so pale as to be waxen. He saw Graelam lean toward her, and felt himself stiffen as she jerked away. Everyone in the castle knew that Graelam had abused his wife. To Guy’s surprise, only a very few of the men had appeared untouched by his actions. Most of them had been tensely silent. Even Blount, Graelam’s crusty steward, had tightened his thin lips in anger. Of course Blanche was delighted. He turned to her, and felt his own anger near the boiling point at the smug smile on her lips. He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled and kiss her until she was breathless.
“To anger Graelam so quickly,” she said, shaking her head in mock sorrow. As to her own stirring performance, she firmly repressed her guilt, saying over and over in her mind that she must see to herself and her children, for there was no one else to. She didn’t understand why she acted such a witch in front of Guy. It is because he champions Kassia. It angered her that he did, but she refused to examine why this was so. After all, he was merely a landless knight. She saw him gazing toward Kassia, and the words flowed angrily from her mouth. “I heard that she had stolen some precious cloth from his trunk. Perhaps he will send her back to her home, where she belongs. Surely, Guy, you do not defend her?”
She supposed that she achieved what she wanted. Guy’s lips were drawn in a thin line and his fine eyes glittered at her. His calmly spoken words took her off guard. “Do you know, Blanche, I am tempted to marry you myself. Were you my wife, I would beat you senseless.”
“If the girl were not such a fool,” Blanche said finally, wishing his words did not dig so deeply, and hating the shuddering response they aroused in her, “Graelam would not have struck her. She thinks herself above all of us. My lord would not long tolerate such airs.”
Guy closed his eyes a moment against the temptation to haul Blanche over his shoulder that very instant and carry her from the hall. What he would do with her once he had done this, he didn’t know. He forced his attention back to Graelam. He could not understand the lord of Wolffeton. Until today, Graelam had been so gentle toward his lady. There was no doubt in Guy’s mind that he had missed Kassia during their absence from Wolffeton. His greeting of her upon their return was proof enough. What, he wondered, was in his lord’s mind?
Graelam speared a bit of tender fish on his knife, and thrust it into his mouth. He could feel the tension radiating from Kassia. The fish tasted of fear, her fear, of him.
Damn her! He didn’t want her to be afraid of him. He wanted to hear her laugh again, to see the dimples deepen in her cheeks.
I have no choice, Kassia was thinking. No choice at all. I do not understand him, yet I must bear whatever he metes out to me. The events of the day had effectively destroyed all the budding happiness she had known since she had come to Wolffeton as his wife. Why had he been so gentle with her at first, if it was his intention to become a ravening beast? She closed her eyes, knowing that soon she would have to share his bed. Would he force her again? She picked up her goblet of wine, but her hand was shaking so badly, she quickly lowered it back to the table. Where is your pride, you spineless wench? Will you spend the rest of your days cowering, wondering if he will turn on you again if you serve him a meal not to his liking or speak to Blanche in a voice that pleases him not?
Her chin went up, and she sat straight in her chair. Slowly she turned to face her husband.
“My lord,” she said quietly, drawing his attention from his baked heron.
He looked at her intently, and she had to call upon a strength she had not known she possessed not to cower. “Aye?” he asked, his expression impassive.
“I would like to . . . understand my role at Wolffeton.”
He saw the firmness in her eyes, and felt a moment of pleasure at her defiance. But she is but a woman, his mind told him. A woman, especially a wife, must never dictate to her husband. “Your role,” he said calmly, “is to see to my pleasure.”
Her eyes remained steady on his face. “You told me that you had allowed me to play at being mistress at Wolffeton. I know that I am young, my lord, but I managed Belleterre since my mother’s death, a holding just as vast as this keep. Is it your pleasure that I indeed be the mistress of Wolffeton?”
She saw his eyes go briefly toward Blanche, and felt a surge of fury wash through her. She spoke without thought. “Why did you not wed her, my lord? Why did you not allow our marriage to be annulled?”
It was odd, Graelam thought, but he did not have an answer to her question. Indeed, his thinking continued, how dare she even question him?
“You are the mistress of Wolffeton,” he said coldly. “But you will not harm those less fortunate than you. Do you understand me?”
Again she blurted out her thoughts, sarcasm thick in her voice. “I, fortunate, my lord?”
“Enough, Kassia!” His voice, a low hiss, washed over her. He clutched her arm, and her courage, illusory at best, faltered. She knew she could not try to jerk away from him, not in front of fifty people! Not in front of Blanche or the serving wench, Nan.
“As you wish, my lord,” she said, bowing her head. “As mistress of Wolffeton, I will need funds to see to improvements within the keep.”
“There are none,” he said shortly.
“Soon you will sign the charter with the merchant Drieux. In my experience, the charter will bring you immediate access to goods.”
He stared at her a moment. “In your experience? A woman should not understand those things,” he said slowly. He saw the mounting frustration in her eyes, and shrugged. “Very well, you have my permission to speak with Blount. But, my lady, you will not instruct him.”
“Aye, I understand,” she said, her head still bowed. “He is a man, and thus far superior to me. I am not to annoy him with my silly questions and demands.”
“You understand well,” he said sharply. “See that that sarcastic tongue of yours stays quiet in your mouth.”
Her hand balled into a fist in her lap.
“Aye,” he added softly, “and watch Blanche. I find her . . . attitude and demeanor much to my liking.”
“As you wish, my lord. It will be just as you say, my lord. May I now be excused now, my lord? I wish to retire.”
Even though her words reeked with meekness, Graelam knew that she was mocking him. Her subm
issiveness was feigned. It both pleased him and angered him. She was unlike any woman in his experience. She was gently bred, and yet he had treated her cruelly. He sighed. “You may go.”
Kassia endured Etta’s worried frowns and clucking advice all during her bath.
“Please, leave off, Etta,” she said finally, wrapping her bedrobe securely about her.
“But, my baby, you cannot continue to challenge your lord!”
“I did not say that I had,” Kassia said sharply.
Etta shook her head sadly. “There is no need. I know you.”
“Would you prefer that I lie down upon the floor and let him tread over me like a rug?”
“He is not your father, my baby. He is a man who is used to command, a man who—”
“Odd,” Kassia said in a low voice, cutting Etta off, “until this day I had begun to believe him as kind and gentle as my father. I was a fool.”
“He owns you!”
“Aye, what a joy to be owned by a man who hates me!”
Graelam paused a moment, her words searing through his mind, then pushed the bedchamber door open. “Go,” he said to Etta, his eyes upon Kassia.
Etta cast her mistress a pleading look, and took herself off.
Kassia could not look at him. She felt utterly vulnerable, clothed only in the flimsy bedrobe, and alone with him. He took a step toward her, and she flinched, stepping back.
“Get into bed,” he said, standing motionless before her. “And take off that robe. You will wear nothing unless it is your monthly flux.”
She did not move. She saw herself as she had been today, lying helplessly beneath him. She winced anew at the memory of the pain.
“Is that order so difficult for you to understand?”
Even as the words flew from her mouth, she knew that she was a fool to try to bargain with him. “Only if you swear to me that you will not force me again.”
“Damn!” he swore. “I will take you whenever it pleases me to do so!”
“No!”
The small defiant word held him frozen for an instant. He took another step toward her, only to halt again when he saw tears swimming in her eyes.