“Do you believe my eyes are as ordinary as the rest of me?”
“Do not test my temper. I have told you that you are less ordinary than many ladies, particularly heiresses. Nay, your eyes are a nice green, at least when you are smiling. When you are mocking me, they turn quite dark and ugly.”
Could that possibly be true?
“Your eyes, Severin, they become darker than the inside of one of MacDear’s cooking pots, as dark as a moonless night, regardless of your temper or mood.”
“That is enough, Hastings. My eyes are a simple blue, not a Moorish black. I wish a good meal to sustain me. Then I will see to my duty.”
A duty. She was naught but a duty. It was disheartening. She had watched him stride from the great hall, drawing on his gauntlets as he walked. Trist was nowhere to be seen.
Well, he would get an excellent meal. Hastings rose and wiped the dirt off her hands. She went to the kitchen to see MacDear. It was a large chamber attached to the keep. It was always hot, what with the fireplace and the three ovens billowing out their heat into the room. Allen, one of MacDear’s helpers, was taking fruit pies out of the oven. Nan was chopping herbs from the garden to make sauces for the beef and pheasant. A joint of beef was on a spit, turned by Hugh to cook evenly. MacDear was bellowing and sweating, as always, no matter the season, no matter how hot or cold it was outside.
She heard MacDear suddenly laugh his big, booming laugh and saw that Eloise was smiling. Excellent.
“Is this saffron I taste, MacDear?”
She lifted a spoon again to taste the stock from a roasted capon. It was thickening nicely.
“You think it is, Hastings?”
“Aye. I know, next you will say that mayhap I am right. You vex me, MacDear. Ah, Eloise, you are learning to separate the egg yolks and whites. You are doing it well.”
“Allen, you miserable whelp, you nearly dropped that peach pie. By Saint Thomas’s nose, I’ll clout you, boy!”
Eloise turned as colorless as the egg whites she had separated into a wooden bowl. Allen just tossed MacDear a cocky grin, but he was watching more closely now. He was shoveling ashes out of the open oven so he could put in more pies.
“Ah, little one,” MacDear said before Hastings could open her mouth, “don’t fear that I’ll clout you. It is just the spittle cock boys who need threats and roaring, never lovely little peahens like you.”
“Aye,” Hastings said, coming to stand beside Eloise. “MacDear never even yelled at me when I was young. He waited until I gained my adult years. Don’t fear him, ever. I see you are making barley bread. I spent hours mixing the dough, Eloise. MacDear is a stern taskmaster. I will leave you now. The smells make me so hungry I would eat my dinner now were I to remain.”
She met Severin when she went into the great hall. It was already filled with men-at-arms, squires, servants, children, and four wolfhounds, Edgar, the leader of the four, chasing a stick a little boy threw for him. The noise was deafening. Everything was normal. She smiled. It was difficult to believe her father had died but a week ago.
She tried to mourn him, she truly did, and she did say prayers for him, but in her heart there was little regret, for in his life he’d never paid her any heed, never showed her any particular fondness, clouted her when the mood struck him or, more likely, when the ale wasn’t to his liking.
She said to Severin even as she grabbed up her skirts when Edgar the wolfhound bolted toward her intent on the stick that had landed just beside her, “Eloise is with MacDear in the kitchen. He is showing her how to make barley bread. Are you hungry, my lord?”
He looked down at her. “Aye, mayhap I am. You have not yet attended me in my bath. Will you do so?”
She’d seen him naked for the past three nights. “Aye, if that is your wish.”
“Go to our bedchamber and await me.” He turned away from her then to speak to Gwent. Hastings went to her bedchamber. No, now it was their bedchamber. She called Alice to fetch her bathwater. She waited, and waited more. She turned to the bed and saw a lump beneath the covers near Severin’s pillow. She lifted the covers and pulled out the jar of cream he’d used that first night. He’d remembered. He had thought about it and decided not to take any chances that he would hurt her again. Perhaps, she thought, as she replaced the cream, he did care, a bit. Mayhap it would be nice, this mating.
She waited some more, but still he didn’t come. She shrugged and climbed into the wooden tub herself. She was lathering herself with sweet lavender when he strode into the room. She stopped in mid-lather and stared at him.
He walked to stand over her. “When you are finished, I will bathe. You will wash my back.”
“I waited for you but you did not come.”
“Do you wish me to wash you?”
“Oh no, I can manage it well enough.”
“What is that smell? It is nice.”
“Lavender. The Romans brought lavender with them when they invaded Britain many hundred years ago. I believe it comes from the Latin lavare that means to wash.”
“Where did you learn that?”
“I am not ignorant, Severin. It is from Leech Book of Bald, written some two hundred years ago. I have also read The Physicians of Myddfai. If you will leave me now, I will finish and then fetch you.”
He just shook his head, walked to the bed, and sat down. He began unwrapping his cross garters. She washed her hair and rinsed herself as best she could. The drying cloths were on a stool three feet from the tub. She looked at him, now pulling his tunic over his head, at the cloths, and quickly climbed out of the tub. She had just wrapped the cloth around her when she heard a low laugh.
“You move quickly, Hastings. I like your legs. They are long and smooth. They will go nicely around my flanks.”
“Why would you want my legs there?”
“You will see. I—”
There was a knock on the door.
“Enter.”
He frowned at her for speaking so quickly, but said nothing. It was Alice carrying a bucket of hot water, two lads behind her carrying more buckets. Hastings gripped her bedrobe and held it in front of her. The lads, however, just hefted the tub and carried it out to empty it.
“Thank you, Alice,” Hastings said, then saw that Alice was looking at Severin, a very soft smile on her face. A smile? Then she remembered. He’d said he would take Alice if Hastings continued to vex him with her monthly flux. She just stood there, watching Alice, a girl but three years older than she, sweet-natured, a good worker, a girl who loved to laugh and jest, a girl who’d explained to Hastings why she was bleeding that first time when Hastings was thirteen years old. Had Alice been with Severin, her husband?
“Alice, come here and help me with my boots. My squire is still on the archery field. I doubt your mistress could make a good job of it.”
Hastings didn’t say a word, merely watched as Alice walked quickly to Severin, bent over, and grabbed his boot, laughing, even as she backed closer toward Severin, who was looking at her bottom. He reached out his hand, then frowned down at that hand and pulled it back.
But Alice didn’t have any reticence. She wiggled, actually wiggled her bottom in his face. She saw Severin staring intently at Alice’s bottom. Would he take her right here in front of his wife? His wife whom he was going to bed this very evening? He had never looked at her so intently. He appeared utterly absorbed, the knave.
“You lecherous bastard,” she yelled at him. Hastings didn’t think, she grabbed up a bucket of hot water and threw it on him. He yelped. Alice jumped away, one of Severin’s boots in her hands.
“Hastings, I did not know you were still here. I thought you had gone behind the screen to dress. Why, I—”
“Get out, Alice. I thought you were my friend, yet here you are, wiggling your bottom in Severin’s face. He is my husband, Alice. I will not allow that.”
Alice looked perplexed. “Aye, Hastings, I know that he is your husband, but he is just a man. What does that have to
say to our friendship?”
Severin had his tunic over his head and was wiping himself off with it. His hair was plastered to his head, the bed cover was wet, and there was Trist, his beautiful coat sticking up in wet clumps.
There was murder in Severin’s eyes. He rose, tossing his tunic to the floor. He was quite naked.
“Leave us, Alice.”
Alice frowned from one to the other. “My lord,” she said very softly, her voice gentle as summer raindrops, “my lady does not understand the ways of men. She is possessive. She does not realize that play is nothing more than that—just play. I’ve seen you smiling at me, looking at me the way a man looks at a woman he wishes to bed. Your man Gwent told me you found me comely and wished to dally. As for my mistress, she—”
“None of that matters. Get out, Alice, else I’ll thrash her in front of you.”
Alice looked at Hastings, saw her pallor, saw that she had only a drying cloth wrapped around her. Alice had meant no harm, she’d not lied about that. Had Severin asked her, she would have willingly run her hands over his body, enjoying his strength and hardness, probably sat on his lap, easing his sex up into her. Why, they would have laughed and groaned and had a fine time. But now, Hastings had displeased him. By Saint Peter’s knees, she’d thrown hot water on him. She had shown jealousy. Alice nearly shuddered. She couldn’t imagine such a thing.
Hastings jealous?
Alice knew her duty to her friend. She drew herself up. “I think I had best remain, my lord. If there is punishment to be meted out, then I should receive it, not my lady.”
Severin looked at the sweet-faced Alice, whom he’d planned to take during the past four days but had never seemed to find just the right moment, what with Hastings and Eloise and Trist in his bed with him and so much to be done during the days, what with new men-at-arms whose skills he had to measure. She had backed up to stand next to Hastings, her hands on her hips. “Aye, my lord, I cannot allow you to hurt my mistress.”
Hastings was staring at her naked husband. She’d seen him naked, but just parts of him, and for brief moments. But here he was, furious at her, standing there, his legs parted, not moving, his hands fisted at his sides. His sex was flaccid in the nest of thick dark hair at his groin. She wished at that moment that time could reverse itself. Just twenty minutes. Of course time remained moving as it always did.
She found her mouth was very dry, still she said, “Alice, you will not try to protect me. This is ridiculous. I did not realize that men and women took each other whenever either wished it. You are right. He is just a man and we have been friends for years. Please leave us now. If he wishes to strike me because I threw water on him, then he will, whether you are here or not. Go, Alice.”
Trist shook himself hard, then leapt gracefully off the bed and ran to Hastings. He grabbed the drying cloth and climbed up until he sat upon her bare shoulder. He rubbed his whiskers against her cheek.
“The little lordling will not allow the master to strike you, Hastings,” Alice said very quietly. “All know that the master would do anything for the marten.”
Severin was just standing there, ready to shake Hastings, aye, at least he could shake her, and Alice was trying to protect her, and now his damned marten was trying to protect her. Again. His damned marten whom he’d raised from a scraggly little lump when he’d found him freezing and nearly dead next to the stump of a tree some two years before. It wasn’t to be borne.
He strode to Hastings, grabbed her arms, and lifted her to eye level with him. He found himself looking into Trist’s eyes as well as Hastings’s.
He shook her. Her drying cloth fell off. She squeaked, trying to grab it, but failed.
He shook her again. “Get out of here, Alice. I think I’ll take your sweet mistress right here, right now.”
Alice didn’t move.
“Get out!”
Alice knew when a man was serious. The master was very serious. She looked at Hastings, at that marten, whose face was between the master’s and Hastings’s, and fled.
“Now, let me look at what I have purchased with my honor.”
“Honor? You purchased something? Not here at Oxborough. Your honor didn’t purchase you a single chicken. All you did was ride in with your men, marry me, and become the lord.”
“You have angered me beyond my limits, and my limits have stretched more and more with you with each passing day. I will take no more of this from you. No, I will not hurt you, but I will use you so that finally you will come to understand that it is I—not you—who allows you to be what you are. You have no say in anything. No, hold still.” He dropped her to her feet, then hauled her by the arm to the bed. Both Hastings and Trist went flying back onto their backs. Severin stood at the bedside staring at her. She was sprawled, her legs apart, and he knew immediately that he needed no sermons about his duty to mount her. She was white and very nicely shaped. Her skin glowed with health and youth. He wanted her badly, very badly. She’d thrown water on him. She didn’t deserve that he treat her other than as a disobedient wife.
“It is you who have pressed me, Severin.” She rolled to her side, bringing the covers over her. “Nay, I do not want you to touch me now. You are angry. You will hurt me.”
“Hurt you? Nay, Hastings, I won’t hurt you, though you well deserve it.” He leaned down and pulled the jar of cream from beneath the covers. “Now, turn on your back and show yourself to me.”
She didn’t move.
He roared at her, “Pull off those covers.”
Instead, she flung the covers at him and rolled to the far side of the bed. He grabbed her ankle and pulled her back. Damn her, she deserved that he hurt her. But he couldn’t. He grabbed the jar, dipped his fingers into it, and came down beside her. “If you move, if you fight me now, you will regret it.” He shoved his finger into her. She quivered but didn’t make a sound. When he came out of her, he found that he had some control. He needed control with her. He looked up and down her body.
“Your breasts are adequate,” he said. She didn’t move. Neither did Trist. He just mewled loudly, staring at Severin. “Adequate, no more.”
Severin touched his hand to her breast. “You adequately fill my hand. You will adequately suckle our sons.”
She tried to pull away from him, but he held her down, his leg over her belly. “I do not like this. You do this to punish me. Let me up, Severin. I must go downstairs to see to your evening meal.”
“Shut up, Hastings. The cream is inside you. When I come into you, it won’t hurt.”
His hand moved to her other breast, cupping it, lifting it, squeezing gently. “Aye, adequate.” Then he looked down her body. He splayed his hand wide over her belly. “I can barely reach your pelvic bones. Aye, you’re made to bear children. At least you have some worth.” Without another word, he grabbed her arms, lifted her, and shoved her down onto her stomach. She reared up, but he just pressed his hand against her waist. “Don’t move.” She felt his hands stroking over her hips. She wasn’t afraid of him, hadn’t been afraid even when he’d lifted her up and shaken her. When he touched her breasts, she still didn’t fear him. His callused fingers scratched at her smooth flesh. It felt odd. But now, he was staring down at her bottom, feeling her. She realized that he was measuring her again to see if she would carry his children. It was too much.
Far too much.
10
SHE COULDN’T BEAR IT. SUDDENLY, HIS FINGERS EASED between her thighs. He touched her woman’s flesh. She reared up, sending Trist to scurry down her back and up Severin’s arm.
“Don’t fight me, Hastings.”
He pulled her onto her back again, bent her knees, and opened them. “Now,” he said, staring down at her. “Now.” Without another word he came into her fast and deep.
She felt the fullness of him, felt herself stretching, but the cream made her slick and it didn’t hurt. She felt him deep and hard inside her. She closed her eyes, seeing him. She wondered what he felt when he pushed
into her, when he moved inward, then pulled out again.
She said, “What are you feeling when you do this to me?”
Severin’s eyes opened. He stared down at her even as he moved, for he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t bear the thought of stopping. “It is beyond words,” he said, his voice hoarse and raw, deep in his throat.
Trist mewled loudly. But Severin didn’t stop. His eyes closed again. He felt her womb. He shuddered. But he rested there only for a moment. She wasn’t moving. He wished she would. He wished in those moments that she would wrap her legs around his flanks. But of course she wouldn’t. She was just lying there whilst he heaved and jerked over her. She didn’t care. She hated him. The only reason she wasn’t fighting him was because she knew she couldn’t win, not with him inside her holding her down.
He stiffened above her. He could feel her squeezing him, and he knew he couldn’t keep control much longer.
She froze, watching his face, watching his intent expression when he looked down at her, looked down at where his body joined hers. Then he threw back his head and yelled. He was jerking over her like a palsied man. She didn’t move.
She said very clearly when he finally stilled above her, “You are an animal. I hate you. If another assassin comes after you again, I will smile and invite him to come closer. If you become ill, I will leave you to yourself. Leave me, Severin. Surely I am not skilled enough, nor enthusiastic enough, nor beautiful enough for you to want to do this to me even one more time. Leave me. I pray you’ll leave Alice alone. She doesn’t deserve this. No woman deserves this.”
He came out of her quickly, coming to his feet beside the bed. He was still breathing hard. His marten was staring up at him, motionless beside Hastings’s shoulder. She was very pale, her eyes dilated. But her hands were fists. He turned from her at the knock on the door.