Always (15 page)

Nay, he would not lose her. But neither would their relationship continue as it had. He would try now to make her happy, and he would start by being there to offer her comfort when she awoke. He eased the door closed before moving toward the bed, removing his sword belt as he walked.

The furry ball was a kitten, he saw as he paused beside the bed and carefully hung his scabbard from the bedpost. And both the cat and his wife were smack-dab in the middle of the bed. He considered shifting her over to the side a bit to make more room for himself, but decided not to disturb her. He deserved the discomfort of sleeping at the edge of the bed. He had not proven himself a very considerate husband; this day's events had pointed that out quite painfully. He had been so caught up in his own worries and fears that he not taken the time to consider how she must be feeling. She had, after all, been all set to take the veil.

A nun.

He could not see this vibrant creature who had frolicked on the riverbank as a woman of the church. He could not imagine those lovely, fiery tresses of hers shorn from her head, a stiff habit its only covering. He could not fathom her perfect body hidden beneath loose, shapeless clothes. The enthusiasm and passion he had spied in her on the way here could never have been subdued by strictures and rules. Nay, she would have felt stifled as a nun, he felt sure.

On the other hand, what the hell did he know? After all, she had spent her life in a convent. She knew better than anyone what taking the veil meant, and yet had been prepared to make the vows. It made him wonder how she saw him. Did she resent his presence in her life? Did she
fear the power he now wielded over her? Hate him because he stood between her and her God?

He did not know. Her behavior since leaving the convent really gave him no clue. She had been quiet around him, following his orders with little more than a nod. Shrewsbury's comments in the stables were the only clues he had as to how she truly felt about this situation. And his words did not bode well.

Sighing, Aric began to undo his surcoat. It would be quite the trick to crawl into bed without awaking her, but he would try, he decided. Shrugging the garment off, he hung it from the bedpost as well, then quickly tugged his tunic off over his head.

Dropping the shirt to the floor, he left his brais on, gently lifted a corner of the top bed linen, and eased onto the edge of the mattress. With her in the center, there was very little room left around the edges. He was going to be hanging out of it. He deserved that, he again supposed, carefully lifting one leg, then most of the other under the linen before reclining on his back.

She hadn't stirred at all, he saw as he tried to settle comfortably on the slice of bed she had unintentionally left him. The kitten had roused, however, and was sitting up slightly in the curve of her arm, glaring at him in a rather offended fashion. It was only then that Aric noticed the bandage fastened over the animal's ear, brought down around his head, and tied off under his neck. It took away somewhat from the haughty attitude the cat was attempting, and Aric grinned slightly.

Apparently further peeved by such misplaced amusement, the kitten twitched its tail, stood, turned its back to him, and settled down once more, nestling against Rosamunde's cotton-covered breasts.

“You win,” Aric muttered to himself wryly. When the cat cast a disdainful glance over its shoulder at him, he arched his eyebrows slightly. A smile that did not reach his eyes tugged his lips wide, briefly baring his teeth.
“Enjoy it while you can, puss. It will be me nestled there after this night. You can count on that.”

The kitten's eyes seemed to narrow in unpleasant understanding at that. Then it turned its head away again and merely nestled closer to Rosamunde.

Sighing, Aric forced himself to relax. He might have a long wait ahead of him until his wife awoke and needed him, but he was determined to be there for her when she did.

It was a spitting hiss and several tiny claws digging into his behind that awoke Aric some little time later. Jolted awake, he shifted swiftly and glared at the culprit. It seemed that he had turned onto his side as he drifted off, probably in an effort to fit better upon the bed, then started to roll onto his back, and on top of the tiny cat between him and his wife. The creature was all puffed up now, its back arched, the hair on its back and tail standing on end as it glared at him with its back pressed firmly against his wife's chest. A chest that shifted now as Rosamunde stirred slowly to wakefulness.

Aric watched, entranced, as she blinked sleepily, first at the upset kitten, then at Aric himself. All signs of tears were now gone from her face. Her eyes were sleep-shadowed in the dim light of the dying afternoon. “What is about?” she murmured in confusion; then as the sleep cleared from her mind, she realized who she was looking at. “Oh. My lord.”

Wiping the last of the sleep from her eyes with one small hand, she sat up slowly and peered about the darkening room, at him reclining in bed, then down at herself, taking in the fact that she was still dressed. The kitten hissed at Aric again as he, too, started to sit up, drawing her attention to its position, hunched against her with raised hackles, and she soothed it automatically with gentle strokes and soft words. “Hush, little one. 'Tis all right.”

“I must have rolled on him,” Aric explained, finding his voice at last. When Rosamunde immediately bent a concerned gaze to the animal, he added, “I do not think he was harmed.”

“No, I am sure he is fine,” she agreed, then raised uncertain eyes to him again. She was silent for a moment, obviously still half-asleep and confused by the fact that she was abed in the middle of the day. Then recollection struck her. Her eyes widened slightly, and tears filled them. Pain swept over her face, blanching all color from her and twisting her expression.

“Wife?” he murmured uncertainly.

“He is dead.” The words were flat, expressionless. Disturbed by her silent grief, Aric shifted closer, careful to avoid getting too near the kitten and its tiny, razor-sharp claws; then he slid an arm around her shoulders and tugged her gently against his chest. After the briefest hint of resistance, she collapsed against him, her silent tears becoming loud, wrenching sobs.

Feeling helpless in the face of her pain, Aric closed his eyes and began to smooth a hand gently over her hair. “Shhh. 'Twill be all right. Let it out,” he whispered.

“Nay, my lord. 'Twill not be all right.” She sobbed, shuddering with the effort to speak past her grief. “Now I have no one.”

Aric stiffened at the words, then silently cursed himself for the cold way he had treated her. Truly, he was now all she had. He realized it with a sort of shock. Her
mother had died when she was but a child. Her father was dead. She had been ripped from the bosom of the abbey where she had grown up. She had no one but him. Oddly enough, he found himself a little frightened by that thought. Still, he murmured the words, “You have me.”

Her short, bitter laugh made him stiffen briefly; then she said, “You do not want me, my lord. There is no need to pretend that you do. My father forced you to marry me as surely as he forced this situation on me.”

Aric hesitated over that, unsure what to say, then cleared his throat. “Well, mayhap neither of us wished this marriage, but surely we can make the best of it. Can we not?”

“The best of what?” she asked bitterly. “We have been here two weeks now and all I have learned is how useless I am. I know not how to run an estate. How to direct servants. How to do figures or needlepoint. I am not even any good for bedding.”

Aric grimaced. Truly their first time together had been a debacle, but that was hardly her fault. Well, for the most part anyway. While she had been given a poor education indeed in the nuances of the marriage bed, on the bright side, it was better than the vast experience and knowledge Delia apparently had. Besides, everything would have ended differently had he had the time necessary to prepare her properly. The brief and brutal in-and-out he had been forced to perpetrate had been unpleasant for both of them.

“The first time is always unpleasant and awkward,” he assured her with quiet authority. “The next time will be different. You shall see.”

“Truly?” She pulled away slightly, just enough to take in his features, and he nodded solemnly.

“Truly.”

“Then you are not disgusted with the very thought of having to bed me?”

He gave a short, sharp bark of laughter as his gaze
swept over her. Disgusted at the thought of having to bed her? Was she truly so ignorant of her beauty? he wondered faintly, raising a hand to caress the side of her face. Nay, he was not disgusted by the thought of her warm and naked beneath him, her flesh glowing pink with desire. He felt himself stir with desire at the picture that formed in his head. He had been married for over three weeks and still had yet to see his bride completely nude. She had insisted on wearing her gown the day they were married, and while he had seen her nude while she was bathing, all he had glimpsed was her naked back. But he could imagine. He
had
imagined it nearly every single time he had looked at her.

“Nay,” he said at last. “The thought of bedding you does not disgust me. Far from it. And I shall prove it to you,” he said firmly.

His wife's reaction to that was rather prompt. Confusion flashed across her face, followed by uncertainty, then resignation. Then, quick as lightning, she shifted onto her hands and knees on the bed, her derriere once again propped in his face. There was no mistaking it for eagerness. It seemed pretty obvious that while she had certainly not enjoyed the first time—and wasn't looking forward to this time—she simply wished to please him as a wife. And with her derriere in his face as a reminder of what he would have to overcome to claim her, Aric felt some—well, all right,
all
—of his desire slip away like dust in a breeze.

Sighing inwardly, he cleared his throat. “Tonight,” he murmured.

Rosamunde peered back over her shoulder at him uncertainly. “Tonight, my lord?”

“Aye, tonight. Now.” He sought about for a reason why now was not possible, then latched onto the obvious. “Is it not time for sup?”

Eyes widening slightly, Rosamunde glanced toward the window to see that the sun was on the last quarter of
its downward journey. It was indeed time for sup. She turned back to say as much to her husband, only to find him already out of bed. He was tugging his tunic on even as he strode toward the door.

“Come along. The food will be cold do we not hurry.” Slipping through the door, he left her to follow in her own time.

 

Rosamunde watched the door close behind him, then shook her head. She reached out absently to give the kitten a pet before shifting to get off the bed as well. It had almost seemed to her as if he had been eager to escape. She must have been mistaken, she thought uncertainly. After all, had he not said that the thought of bedding her did not disgust him?

On the other hand, not being disgusted at the idea and actually being eager to do something were not the same thing, some part of her mind pointed out. Rosamunde sighed as she brushed the worst of the wrinkles out of her gown. Well, she supposed it was not all that important. After all, she was not exactly eager to attend to the deed herself.

Sighing again, she moved toward the door, shaking her head over the fact that she now had that humiliating event to look forward to again tonight. She should have kept her mouth shut.

 

“Well, I am to bed.”

Aric gave a start at that announcement from Lord Spencer and peered at him with alarm. “What? So early? Why not have another drink with me first?”

Smiling wryly, the blind old man shook his head. “'Tis already well past the hour I usually retire. And I fear if I have one more drink, Joseph shall have to carry me to my chamber. I shall see you in the morning, my lord.”

Aric grunted his own good night, his eyes moving a bit desperately over the people left at the table. It had been
an unusually quiet meal. Lord Spencer had offered his condolences to Rosamunde as soon as she arrived to eat a mere few minutes behind Aric's own arrival. Tears had pooled in her eyes as she had accepted the kind words, but had not slipped down her cheeks. They returned to fill her eyes several times that night, and her mood had seemed representative of the other castle inhabitants. Henry had been loved here. Rosamunde had been quiet through most of the meal, and retired almost directly afterward.

Aric had remained behind to drink with the men, a vague sense of unease building in him as the table slowly emptied. Now he peered gloomily along the nearly empty trestle tables, wondering when everyone had turned into such early birds.

“I suppose I should retire as well.”

Those words from Bishop Shrewsbury drew Aric's alarmed gaze. The prelate was the last man at the head trestle table besides himself. “What? Did you not wish to take the opportunity to argue with me some more over returning Rosamunde to the abbey?”

Halfway to his feet, Shrewsbury paused to glance at him sharply. “Are you considering doing so?”

Aric frowned irritably and shifted in his seat. “Nay. But we could argue the fact.”

Shaking his head, the bishop continued to his feet. “I am too tired from my journey here to argue in vain. Mayhap tomorrow I can offer an argument you will listen to.”

“Mayhap,” Aric agreed dryly, thinking that if tonight went as he feared, he might very well concede to the wisdom of returning her.

Startled by his own thoughts, Aric frowned and lifted his ale to his lips, trying not to think too hard. But it was impossible not to. Half of the truth had already leaked out, and the other half was eager to join it. He was sitting here at the table, drinking ale after ale, trying to get up the courage to go to bed.

Good Lord, he was afraid to go above stairs because he knew he had to bed his wife when he got there. He had told her he would. And he wanted to; truly he did! It was not lack of desire that held him back. He wanted her so much that he could taste it; it was sharp and dry, with the promise of sweetness. The week-long journey first to Shambley, then on to Goodhall had been sweet torture for him. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel and smell her in his arms as she had ridden before him on his horse. Her hair had been soft and silky against his cheek. The sweet scent of roses had assailed him when he dipped his head forward to hear her words. Her back had been against his chest, her bottom unintentionally nudging him where she sat between his thighs. The bottoms of her breasts had continuously grazed the tops of his hands as he had sat, arms around her, holding his mount's reins. It had been sweet torture to hold her so. As had been lying next to her each night since arriving at Goodhall.

If feeling and smelling were not enough to spark his desire, he could actually see her as well: her wet body glistening in the moonlight as she stood naked, the river swirling around her as she washed the day's travels from her perfect body.

At least it had appeared perfect to him. Long, coltish legs, slender waist, the curve of one small, firm breast. Just how he liked a woman: with enough curves to be feminine, but not swollen by them.

Feeling himself tremble with desire under this imagined assault to his senses, he took a shallow breath and forced her from his mind.

Desire isn't the problem,
he thought as lust eased its hold on him.
So why do I hesitate to bed my wife?

The answer came quickly. Fear. He had known this night would come since that debacle on their wedding day. Had anticipated it with equal parts anticipation and anxiety. Part of him was sure this second time would be different. There would be no rush, no need for him to
gloss over her education of proper marital relations. Another part of him, however, was still wincing at that consummation of their wedding day and afraid this would end the same. This was his wife. Not some maid or camp follower with whom he could spend a careless night and never worry about. He could not rise afterwards, give her a cheerful farewell, and be about his business. She would be there in the morning—and at night. Every morning and every night. If he muffed this
again
, he would be faced with it every morning for the rest of his life.

Recognizing the reason that held him back was helpful in a way. As Henry had always said, it was always good to know one's enemy. Smiling wryly at his own dramatic thoughts, he decided enough was enough. He was going above stairs to bed his wife, not to slay a dragon. Still, he straightened his shoulders determinedly and took a deep breath ere rising from the table. He managed to take two steps away before pausing to swing back, snatch up his ale, and down the rest of it in one long gulp.

Slamming the mug on the table, he swung away and crossed the great hall to the stairs with determined steps. That determined stride carried him up the stairs and down the hall to his bedchamber before he lost it. Pausing at the door, he hesitated, grimaced to himself, then leaned his forehead against the door's rough wooden slats. He sighed. This was ridiculous, really. He was acting like a weak-kneed virgin. Aric was far from being a virgin. So far from it that he did not think he could recall what it had really felt like. He had had his first woman before the age of twelve. She'd been a camp follower, one of the many prostitutes who followed warriors from battle to battle, plying their trade between skirmishes to whoever had the coin for it. He had been a squire at the time. It had been his first time out and he had been eager to earn his spurs.

He had earned his spurs all right, he thought now, recalling his enthusiasm that first time. In the end, he had
not even had to pay for the experience. She—he could not recall her name anymore—had called it her good deed, “breaking in the boy.” At the time he had puffed up like a bantam rooster, completely misunderstanding her words. Only later, after more experience, had he realized that she had most likely given him the free tumble out of pity. There had been no need for foreplay; he had been as hard as a dead chicken before he even opened his brais. He had managed to kiss her once, lift her skirts, and even insert himself inside her, but that had been as far as his excited young body had gotten before releasing itself. Thinking back, he would be surprised if it had taken a full minute.