His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (8 page)

The following morning, Gwenyth looked about the untidy cottage as Aric attempted to set it to rights. Most of the mess had been her doing. Her shoes lay discarded in the middle of the floor. The bit of her evening meal she had not finished sat upon the little table near the hearth, gathering flies. The bed remained unmade, and the linens needed airing besides.

Surprised that Aric had not demanded her assistance, she joined his efforts to restore the little place, somehow confused and grateful at once for his hush.

Without a word, he handed her the straw broom that occupied one corner. As she grabbed the handle, Gwenyth raised her eyes to meet his. His very closeness made her feel flushed all over. Did he still work on the carving he had of her? Or did he merely stare at it and wonder how correctly he had guessed?

She stared back. Then, unusually timid, she looked away to tend the floor. She swept the twigs and the last of winter’s brown leaves that littered the floor into a corner, aware all the while of her silent husband tidying the hearth.

Did he watch her? Gwenyth could near feel his stare upon her back, caressing the curve of her waist, the arch of her backside. Purposely dropping the broom, Gwenyth bent to retrieve it and glanced over her shoulder. Aric did indeed watch her, and with an intense, soundless appraisal that made her tingle of a sudden. She whirled about and began fidgeting nervously with the broom.

Had he been watching her thus all day? Why did he seem to want her so? And why did the realization he did make her unwisely pleased?

“You cannot sweep the very dirt off the floors, Gwenyth,” he said suddenly, mere inches behind her.

Gwenyth felt his warm breath against her neck, could almost feel his chest pressing against her back. Would he touch her now, as he had been since telling her the tale of Dog and his hare? That woodsy, musky scent of his she smelled each night on the bed linens rushed up to taunt her as she waited, holding her breath.

Aric looked the kind of man every woman wanted in her bed. Suddenly, she feared she was no exception. An odd disappointment filled her when he stepped back.

She swallowed against the erratic racing of her heart. “Aye, I think ’tis done.”

With a gentle clasp of his fingers over hers upon the handle, he removed the broom from her grip. She started at his touch and felt her breathing go shallow from its effect as he raked the leaves onto an old cloth and tossed them outside.

God’s nightgown, she must cease this foolish behavior. Why did he sway her senses so fiercely? She must remember Sir Penley and her future.

She must have rain, and if Aric could make it, he must—quickly. Somehow, she had to gently goad him to action or lose her chance at a secure future. ’Twould not do to delay the rain further by annoying the man.

“We’ve been long months now without rain,” she said to his back as he left the cottage with the refuse.

“So I hear.” He grunted as he tossed more leaves outside.

“Such will make for a warm summer, do you not agree?”

He shrugged as he reentered the cottage. “As I hail from the north, this southern clime always seems warm to me.”

“Do you not miss the rain, though? That gentle patter of water upon the earth, letting trees and flowers and crops grow, always cheers me. I fear the land turned quite brown well before autumn last year. Such a shame, for I care not for brown grass and hillsides. Do you?”

Placing his massive fists on his lean hips, Aric scowled. “I do not think overmuch about the rain. Neither should you.”

’Twas clear he saw through her ruse. Knowing she must drop the matter for now, Gwenyth smiled at him. “Nay, I am but making conversation. Since we live here alone, we must talk.”

“Not always.” He stepped closer and whispered, “At the moment, the bed linens need our attention.”

Though he certainly meant they needed airing, the suggestion in his voice hinted at something warm and new, something she felt herself reaching for, despite her better judgment. Gwenyth shivered and prayed Aric had not noticed.

He left her to walk to one side of the bed. Feeling somehow aware and dazed at once, she moved to the other side and began removing the linens with his help.

At one corner, their fingers met. She started, her gaze flying to the masculine splendor of Aric’s face. A smile crept over his mouth, something rich with promise, something that made her melt when he laced his fingers with hers and squeezed.

No one had ever touched her so. She felt as if her heart might jump out of her chest.

Gwenyth drew in one deep breath, then another. Her sanity seemed to return, although her senses remained clouded by his evocative scent, his low voice.

“Are you well?” he asked, his tone concerned.

“Aye. ’Tis the heat, I am certain,” she lied.

Aric nodded and scooped the bed linens up in his arms. “Take these outside. The air there may help you.”

“A good idea.”

Slowly, Aric stepped around the bed toward her. The heels of his soft boots reminded her he moved closer, ever closer. His grin returned, stirring her stomach into a new frenzy.

He stopped inches away. Barely a breath separated them as he placed the sheets into her arms. As he released the bed linens, he stroked the length of her arms and fingers with his palms before stepping away. Gwenyth balled her fists, fighting the insane urge to drop the rumpled linens and demand Aric kiss her again.

Both stood still, Aric watching her, Gwenyth drowning in the mysterious depths of his hot gray eyes. ’Twas clear he wanted her. Why did he do nothing more about it?

Why did she want him to so badly?

Gwenyth cleared her throat. “I shall go outside with these.”

His smile broadened as he gestured to her to lead the path to the door. Forcing her gaze away from him, she marched outside.

The crisp morning air was beginning to give way to the promise of the afternoon’s warmth. Birds sang amid the leaves covering the tree branches, and a squirrel scurried into a fragrant bunch of wild hyacinths, sending their sweet scent into the air.

Gwenyth inhaled deeply. Certainly such pleasant smells were found nowhere near Penhurst. Animal droppings and unwashed bodies filled the air there. And ’twas so quiet here, she thought, as she hung the bed linens on a low tree branch. She could almost hear time pass, almost feel the whisper of God’s hand moving in the swaying trees.

If Aric had chosen to remain here for the peace of this place, he had indeed found a wondrous spot.

Thwack!
The noise rent the peace of the day. Gwenyth turned to the sound, only to hear another
thwack
coming from the side of the house.

That man! The first moment of peace she had known since their disastrous marriage, and he seemed bent on ruining it. The odd clamor came again. The mangy mongrel. Gritting her teeth, Gwenyth lifted her skirts and hurried to the source.

As she rounded the corner, a tongue-lashing ready to spring from her mouth, she stopped short. There Aric stood, an ax in one enormous hand, eyeing a fallen log before him.

He was completely naked from the waist up.

Gwenyth drew in a shaky breath at the sight. Whatever she had been about to say fled, forgotten at the sight of his male body. Taut golden skin stretched over a chest seemingly fashioned of steel. Hard ridges covered his belly as he drew a deep breath. Curves formed beneath his flat brown nipples as he grabbed the ax and lifted it. Swells of sinew protruded from his shoulders and arms as he swung it down to split the log. If she had half as much talent with a knife and wood as Aric, she would be tempted to carve a likeness of his form for herself.

Dear Lord, her mouth went dry just looking at him.

“Bring that basket to me,” he said suddenly between swings of his heavy blade.

Gwenyth only half heard him. “Basket?”

His taut cheeks looked as though he repressed a smile. “Aye, the basket under the eaves, beside the door.”

Nodding, she reluctantly looked away from her husband and drew in a calming breath. Why did her heart race merely from looking at the man? ’Twas not a good sign, she felt sure.

She retrieved the large basket, noting its woodsy smell and the wood chips lingering in the bottom. He was beginning to store wood for the next winter, giving it ample time to cure. Such made sense, and he certainly seemed fit to do so. Still, watching him—in his state of near undress—complete the mundane chore was not wise. She must deliver the basket and go inside until he finished.

But when Gwenyth reached Aric again, her eyes simply would not heed good sense. They led her gaze up the firm length of his calves and the muscle-hardened span of his thighs as she stood before him. His brown hose conformed to the heavy bulge of his man’s staff.

Swallowing hard against a rising tide of tingling heat, Gwenyth let her gaze wander up to his unyielding stomach and hard chest. He watched her in silence, his eyes veiling his thoughts. Did this magnificent man truly think her as beautiful as the carving suggested? Warmth surrounded her, whether from the sun or Aric’s proximity, she could not say.

“Set the basket down, Gwenyth.”

Nodding, she did as he bid, then found her gaze attached to him again. He released the ax and stepped near her.

She was close enough now to see the light thatch of pale hair between his tight nipples and the myriad scars that covered him. A faded gash that began beneath his left nipple and ended near his waist had once been a wicked wound. Nicks and slices, old now, also dotted the sleek surface of his arms and shoulders.

He looked like a hardened battle warrior, no stranger to the lift of a lance and the thrust of a blade. Was it possible? What of his magical ways? He looked like no soft mystic who sat about all day turning children into chickens.

Without thought, she traced the long gash dividing his stomach with her fingers. He sucked in a breath but did not move. Gwenyth jerked her hand away from the warmth of his skin and glanced into his guarded expression.

“How did you come by that scar? And all the others?”

He lifted a tawny brow in question. “Do they bother you?”

Gwenyth frowned. He cared what she thought of his appearance? Or did he mock her?

“Nay,” she answered finally. “’Tis surprised I am, is all. I did not imagine that…”
a sorcerer would have such warlike scars
, she started to say. But his reply to that would tell her nothing.

“Whence came you?” she queried instead.

He hesitated. “Yorkshire.”

Recognition flashed through her. “Aye, ’tis in your voice, that northern slur. But what manner of man are you? A sorcerer, truly?”

“What do you believe?”

What indeed?
“I cannot credit a man of the black arts with a warrior’s wounds.”

Again, a pause that told her Aric was measuring his words carefully. “I have known battle.”

“More than once, ’twould appear. Yet you battle no more. Did you leave a baron’s service?”

“Nay.” He crossed his strong arms over the width of his chest.

“Were you trained for battle?”

Once more, a pause. “Aye.”

Gwenyth peered at her husband, her frustration rising. He answered her questions, yet managed to give her little information. “You were a mercenary, then? And left behind your means?”

“Nay.”

She balled her fists in frustration. “Might I have an answer of more than one word, you ruttish varlet?”

Suddenly, Aric turned away and retrieved the ax. “Gwenyth, it matters not about my past, for that is done. You and I are wed, and we will stay wed. I’ll not be accused of madness or impotence. The past is a place I can never return, and I prefer to live my life here.”

His answer gave her pause, not only because of the implacable tone, but the ease with which he had read her thoughts. Those words, coupled with his nightmares, told her something was unwell in his past. Had he run from someone? Something?

“Here, in a shanty? You have talent as a warrior, yet you choose to live like a pauper? Such makes no sense! Have you always lived thus?”

Aric locked his jaw, anger tightening his features. “Nay.”

His reply filled her with surprise and hope. “You have lived in a castle?”

“Aye.”

Renewed vexation swept her. “Are we back to a single word again, as if you have no more word-stock than a child? If you mean to stay married to me and can take me from this terrible place, can we not go? Half my days I have dreamed of my own castle and my own lands. Servants and villagers who need me, as does my husband, to oversee it all. You look strong enough for battle, and if you have been trained, I could help you—”

“Nay. Everything comes with a price, Gwenyth. Some are too high. Here we stay.”

With his harsh, disheartening words, he threw the ax to the ground and disappeared into the forest.

CHAPTER FIVE

For many long hours, Aric stayed away from their cottage, and Gwenyth could hardly contain her fury. How could the hugger-mugger announce his intent to keep her here, trapped in obscure poverty, then saunter away, only to return in the depths of night as she tossed and turned in his bed? Did he not realize he threatened her dreams of a future as a respected lady, dreams that included a loving husband and giggling children with plenty to eat?

Shortly after dawn, Gwenyth glared at her husband—the man she swore would not have a permanent place in her life—as he calmly ate a hunk of dark, dry bread, then sipped some wine. Did he mean to say nothing of his absence? His declaration?

Aric turned his attention to a small slab of cheese, seemingly impervious to her glare. That gorbellied gudgeon!

Marching to the hearth, Gwenyth resolved he would listen well and grant her an annulment. He would release her this very day!

“Hear me, you surly urchin-snouted scut. You may mean to remain here for the rest of your fruitless days, aspiring to naught, but do not think you will keep me here to sink into nothingness with you! I came into this world a baron’s daughter, and I will not waste my life on a man who strives to be no more than an outcast.”