Always (11 page)

Laughing suddenly, she pulled gently on the reins, inordinately pleased when Marigold, having run off the worst of her fear and nervousness immediately began to
slow. She was still laughing as the men reigned in their own mounts around her. “I did it!” she cried. “I was really riding her! It was fantastic,” she continued enthusiastically. The anxiety immediately began to fade from her pursuers' faces, slowly replaced by smiles.

 

Aric closed his eyes and sighed. He had spotted his wife's flame-colored hair amid the men circling her. The last few minutes had been hell for him; he had envisioned her broken body lying on the ground, and any injury to her would have been his fault. He had been positive that she would be hurt in this mad run, so the sight of her sitting calmly amid his men was a relief. But then he heard her chattering happily away and laughing, and his own men chuckling in response. She looked and sounded far too comfortable and happy surrounded by his warriors. Worse yet, every single one of them wore an enchanted grin as they listened to whatever she was expounding on.

Riding, he realized as he drew near enough to catch her words. It appeared that while the rest of them had been terrified for her safety, she had been exhilarated. She now considered herself an excellent rider.
Women,
he thought with disgust. They were the most inconstant of creatures and the most nonsensical. Only a woman would—after a moment before being the worst rider Aric had ever seen—survive one wild ride and consider herself an expert.

“Husband,” she cried suddenly, spotting him. “Did you see? Was it not grand? We were nearly flying. I vow Marigold is the fastest horse here. And I rode
with
her. Did you see?”

“Aye,” he said quietly, urging his horse through the other mounts to reach her side. Pausing there, he took her reins from her and turned back the way he had come, drawing her horse behind him.

“Husband?” she murmured uncertainly as her husband's men fell into line behind them. “You are not
angry, are you? I mean, think of it. With that little run, we probably made up scads of the time that we wasted on my lessons. Is that not true?”

“It would be…if we were headed back to Shambley. However, we are
not
headed back to Shambley, so all that this little jaunt managed to do was slow us down some more and tire out the horses.”

“Oh,” Rosamunde sighed unhappily, her shoulders slumping. Marigold had run the wrong way, taking them back the way they had come. If she had realized that, she would have turned the beast in the right direction, or in the very least have stopped sooner. Instead, she had let the mare have her head and again delayed their arrival home. It seemed she could do nothing right.

Rosamunde dismounted on her own, pride the only thing keeping her from bursting into tears as she did. She could not believe the pain she was in. While it had been uncomfortable riding in front of her husband, it was agony after a day of riding on her own. Her muscles ached in places she had not even realized that she had them. It was horrible agony. But she was damned if she was going to admit it. Curse her husband; she suspected it would please the insufferable man to know the pain she was in. He had not spoken a word to her since informing her that she had added time to their trip.

They had ridden nonstop since then, not even pausing for a midday meal, and for most of that time Rosamunde had been in pain. She was too proud to admit it and beg for mercy, though. She would not be coddled. If the men could handle it, so could she. Her muscles would grow used to the saddle, and she would win their respect. She was determined. And determination was the only thing
that kept her from accepting one of the men's kind offers to see to her horse for the night.

Glimpsing the sympathy in the man's eyes, Rosamunde shook her head, thanking him kindly for the offer, but refused firmly. She set about the task herself. She listened to her husband give the same orders he had the day before; then he disappeared into the woods.

Sighing, she finished with her horse, murmured a good-night in the animal's ear, then moved determinedly to the pile of wood already being stacked in the center of the clearing. But when she attempted to offer her assistance, she once again found herself gently brushed aside and directed to a fallen log upon which to seat herself. As she had the night before, she then tried to assist in cleaning and cooking the wild game the men brought back, but she once again found her efforts and offers brushed aside. Sit and rest, they said, sit and rest.

Rosamunde sighed impatiently and glared around. Weary as she was after her first day in the saddle, the last thing on earth she desired was to sit on her poor, abused behind. Why would the men not let her help? Had she not earned at least a modicum of respect today? Why did they treat her like a helpless creature who needed coddling? She did not understand it. In the abbey, where there were only women, the sisters had performed all the necessary tasks. Here they would not allow her to do a thing.

Then she suddenly had a thought. What if it was because her husband had not given her orders ere leaving?
Of course!
He had bawled out orders to the rest of them, but he had left without instructing her. Mayhap they believed that meant Aric did not wish her to do anything. Of course, they could not know that for the three-day journey from Godstow Abbey to Shambley, her husband had not had to shout orders. She had known what to do and done it without direction.

Aric just happened to return as that thought occurred to her. Rosamunde hurried forward, presenting herself
before him with a pleased smile, thinking she was about to resolve the confusion. “Hello, my lord,” she greeted with forced good cheer, glancing surreptitiously about to see if anyone was listening. No one appeared to be, but there were several men close enough to hear. That was good.

 

Aric peered at his wife suspiciously, knowing instinctively by the way her eyes darted around the clearing as she addressed him that she was up to something. “Hello, wife.”

When she merely raised an eyebrow inquiringly, he arched one of his own in return. Frowning slightly, she leaned forward a bit. “You have not given me my orders.”

Aric's other eyebrow rose as she whispered those words, then smiled at him encouragingly. “Orders?”

“Aye, my lord. The men will not allow me to help because you have not given me any orders. You must give me my orders—and loudly enough that they will hear and know what I am to do.”

“I see,” he murmured, though truly he did not. “Fine, then. Wife, sit you over there and rest,” he ordered loudly.

“Nay!” Rosamunde gasped in dismay.

Aric's eyes narrowed at her denial. “Nay?”

“Nay,” she repeated. “You are not supposed to order me to sit. You are supposed to order me to do something.”

“I
am
ordering you to do something. I am ordering you to sit and rest.”

Rosamunde glared at him rebelliously, then sighed as she recalled her vow to obey him. “Fine,” she snapped ungraciously. “I shall
sit.
”

Turning on her heel, she stomped over to a log by the fire and dropped to squat upon it, wincing as her tender behind connected with the makeshift bench.

Noting her wince, Aric hesitated, then sighed. He moved to her side at once. “Come.” His behavior seemed familiar, and Rosamunde sighed as she was dragged off into the bushes. As he had the night before, he led her to
a secluded spot for her to attend to her personal needs. But, rather than return her to the clearing afterward, he led her to a spot by the river. It appeared secluded and private.

“Go ahead. Bathe.”

Rosamunde peered from the water to her husband. Recalling his insistence that he would watch her bathe when he had taken her to the river on the way to Shambley, she sighed. “I do not wish to.”

“It will soothe your muscles. Bathe.”

His words were not unkind, but, “I—”

“'Tis an order.”

Rosamunde's mouth snapped closed and an expression of resignation covered her face. She could not deny a direct order, could she? He looked speculative.

Her mouth a grim line, Rosamunde fiddled with the clasp of the belt that hung loosely around her waist. Unclasping it, she started to set it on the ground.

“What is that?”

Pausing, she raised her eyebrows at her husband. Aric was peering at the small sheathe attached to her belt.

“Hand me your belt,” he ordered.

Rosamunde handed it over silently and shifted her feet as he slid her dagger out of its holder. He examined the intricately carved hilt with interest.

“It was a gift from Eustice,” she told him to break the silence. “It comes in very handy when working in the stables.”

“I imagine it does. It's beautiful.” He slid the dagger back into its sheath, then arched an eyebrow at her. “You are not undressing.”

Sighing, she raised a hand to toy with the lacings of her gown, her gaze moving around the clearing. They seemed to be alone. No one would see her. Except Aric. She eyed him unhappily. “Will you not at least turn your back?”

“How shall I know if you run into difficulty? I am uncertain of the strength of the current here. It may be
strong enough to drag you under. If I am not watching, how shall I know?” he asked simply.

Rosamunde frowned at that, then smiled brightly. “So that you know all is well, I shall talk continuously.”

“No doubt.”

Rosamunde stiffened. “What does
that
mean?”

He gave an amused shrug. “I have noticed that you like to talk.”

“And you seem not to like to talk at all! Mayhap if you spoke more, I would speak less.”

“I talk when I have something to say, not simply to hear my own voice.”

She glared at him briefly, then propped her hands on her hips. “Turn your back.”

“I do not have time for this. A dip in the river will ease your aches. Otherwise you will not be able to ride tomorrow. Take your clothes off and get in the water,” he said in a growl. She paled, then flushed bright red at the direct order. Reluctantly she raised her hands to begin tugging at her lacings.

She was slow as a turtle on shifting sand. By the time Rosamunde had her gown undone and began to shrug it off her shoulders, Aric was ready to burst. It was the most erotic thing he had ever seen in his life, as inch after inch of pale perfect flesh was revealed to him: the base of her neck, the curve of her shoulders, then her arms and the linen shift she wore beneath the dress as it dropped to her waist. Now, partially revealed to him, she quickly pushed the gown over her hips, stepped out of it, and whirled toward the water.

Aric was quicker. Catching her by the arm, he drew her to a halt before she had a chance to immerse herself. “Nay. You will remove your shift.”

Even he could hear the husky note of desire in his voice, and he frowned at it.

“The abbess said only loose women run about in the nude. Good women wear their shifts, for propriety's sake.
Especially in the bath, so that they do not catch a chill,” she murmured, her head down.

“Do you have another shift?”

After a hesitation, she shook her head.

“Then you will have to wear it when you again don your gown. If it is wet, it will give you a chill. Remove the shift.”

The expression she raised to him was agonized. It was clear his bride was painfully shy. He was beginning to get the impression that no one had ever seen her nude. Except for him, of course—but that had been only her bare behind and the backs of her legs. Feeling like an ogre, he glanced away, then sighed and turned his back. “Talk.”

Sighing in relief, Rosamunde hesitated only briefly, then shrugged out of her shift. The abbess would understand, certainly. This was not a nice cozy bath indoors, where she could rest by the fire to dry her hair and don fresh clothes. When camping out-of-doors, some proprieties had to be sacrificed.

“You are not talking.”

“I am not in the water yet,” Rosamunde explained as she dropped her shift and moved the last couple of steps to the water. “Oh, 'tis cold.” She gasped as the liquid lapped over the foot she set carefully into it.

“'Twill feel warmer quickly.”

“Will it?” she asked curiously, then admitted, “I have never bathed in a river before. Actually, I have never bathed anywhere but the abbey's old wooden tub. And the water then was always warm and sweet. Well, not
always
,” she added reluctantly.

Made curious by her tone of voice, Aric murmured, “When was it not warm and sweet?”

He could actually hear the embarrassed grimace in her voice as she admitted, “Once or twice when I was a child…”

“Why?”

She hesitated, and when she finally spoke, her answer was obviously reluctant. “If I was naughty, I was sometimes made to bathe in cool or cold water.”

“They made you take cold baths if you were bad?” he asked incredulously. He'd never heard of such a practice.

“And eat cold meals…Or badtasting ones,” she added wryly.

“Badtasting?” he repeated with amusement.

“Burnt to a cinder, or with so much spice it was disgusting, or no spice at all so that 'twas bland.”

“It sounds more like torture than a reprimand,” he muttered, frowning.

“It was.” She sighed dramatically, then added, “And that was not even the worst of it. Once I was old enough, punishment became scrubbing the abbey floors on my hands and knees, or whitewashing the walls, or cleaning the fireplace.”

Aric tried to picture her scrubbing the floors, or covered with soot as she washed out the fireplace. He shook his head. “I did not notice any children scrubbing floors or fireplaces while we were there. Did the abbess hide them because the king was there?”

“Oh, nay. No one else ever got such punishments.”

“What?” He actually glanced over his shoulder at that. She was as yet only knee-deep in the water, giving him his second view of her lovely derriere, this time covered in goose bumps. She had a nice bum. Each cheek looked perfect and round and still not much more than a handful. Swallowing as that thought struck him, Aric turned away again.

“No one else had to perform such punishments.”

Aric frowned at her words, confused for a moment. What was she was talking about? Oh, aye, he thought, clearing his throat. Naughtiness and punishment. The kind the abbess had meted out, apparently only to her. That made no sense to him. Why had she not been punished like the other children? Why, if he had been the
abbess, he would have taken her across his lap, pulled her skirt up over her behind, and applied the palm of his hand to her sweet, pink-cheeked buttocks. He imagined it now. Well, maybe it would have been a problem. Even now, in his mind's eye, when he should have been spanking her, his hand was running over her curves in a most unpunishing way.

Shaking his head, he forced himself back to the conversation. “Why were you punished differently from the other children?”

Rosamunde glanced curiously over her shoulder at his gruff voice, but could tell nothing about what had caused it. His back was stiff, and firmly turned to her as it had been when she had taken off her shift. “The other children got the switch as punishment. The abbess was not allowed to touch me.”

“Ah,” Aric murmured with sudden understanding. “Your father.”

“Aye,” she answered, then gasped as she finally moved deeper into the water.

Aric waited until she had stopped muttering about the temperature of the water, then asked curiously, “Were you often naughty?”

“Only every chance I got.”

Aric grinned at the pert answer, but asked, “What is there to do to be naughty in an abbey?”

“Oh, hundreds of things,” she said airily. “I was the naughtiest child there. Always in trouble. I was a chatterbug, forever forgetting and talking during mealtimes, which were supposed to be silent. That got me the horrid meals. A sister or the abbess would take my plate away and return with something thoroughly unpleasant—to help me remember.”

“And the cold baths?”

“When I would not sit still during mass. Adela claimed I was too excited and needed cooling down.”

“Thus the cold bath,” he muttered wryly.

“Aye. Also if I muddied my gown. That meant extra work for Hester, so to make up for that and ease her burden, the abbess told her not to bother with heating water for my bath. Instead, she made me cart cold water for myself.”

“Ah,” Aric murmured, but he was thinking that her naughtiness seemed hardly naughty, but simply excessive energy. Something she had inherited from her father, no doubt. That man never sat still for a moment. Just like Rosamunde. She was even shifting restlessly about as he drifted off to sleep each night. In fact, the only time he had seen her actually sleep was the first day of their travels, when she had fallen asleep in his arms. And that had been after she'd been up through the night with the mare. He suspected that seeing her sleep or even sit still for any length of time would be a rare occurrence.