Nothing Else Matters (9 page)

The sight of her things, sitting in such a commonplace way in what had been a private chamber made her forget any sense of wonder or dread at having

to share the room with Stian of Harelby. Since this was now her home, she decided, she might as wel unpack.

“Come here,” Stian repeated as she picked up an inlaid box.

Annoyance tightened in her as she looked around for a flat surface that would do. “We’l have al our lives to couple,” she told her husband. She decided the smal ivory and ebony set would not take up too much room on the little table by the head of the bed.

Stian sat up as she put the box down. “What is that thing? This is my room. What are you doing, mouse?”

She might have answered him politely if he had not cal ed her mouse. The word pricked her painful y so she ignored him and continued. She careful y

unwrapped the layers of oiled cloth and soft kidskin from her three precious books. These were her treasure, one she thought a far better dowry than the lands her father had presented to the lord of Harelby. This was a marriage gift she could both have and share, though she doubted her surly husband had any interest in reading.

He wanted to go hunting with his friend or, once that pleasant diversion was canceled, to bed her to pass the time. “I wish you’d gone hunting,” she said as she passed where he sat to reach the shelf.

He was standing by the time she’d careful y placed her books beside the one already there. He put his hands on her shoulders as she turned. “My father ordered me to give him grandsons,” he told her.

She confronted his hard hands and annoyed expression with an effort to be reasonable. “You are a dutiful son, my lord, but I would—”

“I’d rather take you on the bed. Up against the wal wil do if you won’t lie down.” He pushed her backward as he spoke until her shoulders were pressed against the thick tapestry.

Eleanor shoved against his chest. It was no more effective than trying to move a mountain. “You crude…vile…”

“I’m a dutiful son.” His gaze never left hers as he suggested, “We could use the floor.”

The cold indifference of his tone should have frightened her. It sent hot anger through her instead.

“Or the table in the hal ? Or a cave?” she asked as he pressed her against the wal . “Have you no decency?”

“None. I can take you where and when I wil . You are my wife,” he reminded her.

“Aye,” she agreed hastily. “But is once a day not enough to satisfy your lust?”

“Not when I’ve nothing better to do.”

“That’s al I am to you then, husband? A way to pass the time?”

Stian didn’t know why he was bothering to argue with the mouse. Or why her words disturbed him. Women were to be enjoyed. That was what his father

was doing with his wife right now, so why should he not do the same? Though when his mother had been alive, there had been more to do than hunt and

bed the castle women.

In truth, he felt no particular urge to take the mouse just now, on the bed or the floor or against the wal . It was just…something to do. And a way to stop her from rearranging his room, invading his one private place in the castle. He knew that he could be roused and have her beneath him quickly enough, which would pass no more than an hour. Then after they coupled, she’d probably just go back to unpacking.

“Wel ?” she asked.

He didn’t know how long they’d been standing with their gazes and wil s locked. He did take a step back but snagged his arm around her waist when she

would have moved past him. “Hold,” he ordered, drawing her against him. “Are you a mouse or a terrier?”

“Neither, my lord,” was her cold reply.

“Are you obedient or scolding then?”

“Meek as milk, my lord,” she answered, lowering her gaze from his. Then she looked up at him from beneath thick, dark lashes. “About half the hours of the day, that is.”

It was true. Her moods seemed as changeable as the weather on the moors. He tried not to smile at her words. He tried to sound as stern as a husband

ought to. “I prefer you obedient.”

“What man does not prefer women so? I wil do al I can to please you,” she added.

“About half the hours in the day?” He couldn’t hide his smile this time.

Eleanor didn’t know why she found the brute appealing al of a sudden, al he was doing was smiling. She should be surprised that he even knew how to

smile. He had been nothing but il -tempered and surly since she’d met him the day before. Had it only been the day before? How could the world have

changed so in such a short time? She found herself wanting to trace the outline of his lips, to explore the wonder of Stian of Harelby smiling.

But the smile disappeared before she gave in to the impulse. He loosed his hold on her as wel . As he stepped away from her, he said, “I’l have al your obedience, wife.”

“You deserve no less, my lord.”

Stian heard no mockery in her words, nor did he see any in her expression, though he searched it careful y. “Stian,” he told her at length. “Stian wil do in private.” He gave permission for this intimacy in hopes she would tel him her name. He was too proud to embarrass himself by asking. But of course, she thought he knew what she was cal ed. He should have known. Only a drunken fool would not know his wife’s name.

Eleanor told herself it was ridiculous for her to take such delight in this informality from Stian. In Poitiers she had cal ed many a young man by their given name. Custom lay lightly upon the ladies of the court at Poitiers. Here in the wilds of Britain, she feared custom could be a heavy burden for a mere

woman. Stian had lightened it a bit for her with the gift of his name.

“Stian,” she said. “It is a fine name.”

He blushed as red as his hair at her compliment and looked away, but she thought he was pleased. She did not think it would be wise to flatter this rough-mannered man overmuch. So she sidled by him and continued her unpacking.

No one had ever praised him for something so simple as his name. Stian told himself it was a foolish thing to be pleased with but the pleasure stayed with him as he watched her move purposeful y about the room. He wanted to complain at her for making herself so at home. He wanted to, but didn’t. Instead

he found himself sitting on the edge of the bed, aghast at the notion that he was never to be alone again. He supposed he should be grateful she hadn’t brought in a half dozen serving women to help her with the task of unpacking.

Eventual y she dragged the chair under the window. She sat down and took a piece of embroidery work out of a bag. Without another glance for him, she

began stitching away on a piece of blue fabric. Stian told himself he should be glad she was ignoring him, that here was his chance to occupy his time as he chose without some interfering woman harping at him.

The only diversion that came to mind was prayer or taking a nap. Neither held any interest. Perhaps he should have bedded the woman after al .

“What’s that?” he asked after he had watched her nimble fingers plying the needle for a while. He wondered how nimble those fingers would be

unfastening his clothes. Wel , his father had sent them here to work on making a grandchild. Before she could answer his question, he said, “Never mind.

Come here.”

She left the work without a word of protest. “How may I serve you, my lo—Stian?”

The eagerness of her question kil ed his annoyance. He leaned back on the bed and leered up at her. “Entertain me,” he ordered.

With a wide smile she turned and snatched up the inlaid box. “Do you know the game of chess, my lo—Stian?”

“No,” he lied, trusting she would set the board aside and think of some more pleasant amusement. He held his hand out to her, to draw her down beside

him on the bed.

“Then I wil teach you,” she declared, ignoring his gesture. “’Tis played on the same board as draughts but the pieces move differently.”

She wanted to play games did she?
he thought as he sat back up.
What sort of games?
he wondered mistrustful y. He watched her set up the board on the bed between them from under lowered brows. She was proud and headstrong, he decided. The thought of humbling her pride a bit brought a wolfish

smile to his lips.

“Teach me this game then,” he said. “Once I’ve learned the rules, we’l wager on it.”

* * * * *

“Why not?” Stian asked.

“’Tis most unseemly.”

Stian glanced over his wife’s smal form. She was indeed wearing no more than her thin linen chemise. While the drawstring that held it closed over her shoulders was stil tied, his next move should take care of untying the knot.

As for himself, the lass was a fine enough chess player to have relieved him of his surcote and tunic, but his father had taught him this game brought back to Christendom by crusaders very wel . He did not hear her complaining that he was bare-chested, though he did catch her studying more than the board

upon occasion.

He reached out to move his knight but her hand grasped his wrist before he could pick up the piece. As their eyes met over the chessboard set between

them, she said, “Would you take every stitch of clothes from me?”

He grinned.

Her grip tightened as her eyes grew wide. “A true, kindly, gentle knight would not treat a lady so. The knights of Poitiers strive only to please ladies.”

He had every intention of pleasing her once he had her naked. “I know not the customs of foreign knights,” he told her. He shook off her grasping fingers and moved his chess piece. The maneuver took her pawn, endangering her king. “Strip.”

She glared, blushed and bal ed her fists in her lap instead of obeying. Stian didn’t mind modesty nor did he mind helping her undress.

“I think you have lied to me,” she said as he undid the drawstring. “I think you have played this game before.”

“Not like this,” he said, and pushed the chemise down to reveal her breasts.

“A true knight does not lie.”

He knew not what she meant by a “true knight”. Had he not knelt in the chapel through a vigil night? Had he not been dubbed with the sword? Been given his spurs and warhorse by his father? Had he not fought the Scots to protect his liege’s lands?

“Every man lies,” he answered her. “That is why we have confessors.”

She shook her head. Then she noticed that she was naked to the waist and raised her hands to cover herself. It was Stian’s turn to grab her wrists.

“Don’t.”

Warmth rushed through her at his word, even though the room was cold and her skin was bare. It was as if his voice alone, commanding and possessive,

roused the heat from inside her. Embarrassment fled and Eleanor wondered what Lady Constance would do in such a situation, alone and unclothed with

a man. On a bed. It took only a moment to realize how ridiculous her question was.

“I’m going to catch a chil this way,” she said as her skin began to prickle with sensation.

Stian stil held her by the wrists. His face was lit with amusement, eagerness burned in his eyes. He drew her toward him, ignoring the chessboard.

As the ivory and ebony pieces scattered he said, “I’l warm you.”

There was no mockery in his amusement. His grip was tight but not painful. He was large and alien with his fiery northman’s hair and pale skin, but he did not seem ugly to her as he had the day before.

“Aye,” she told him as the tips of her breasts came in contact with his chest. “You are warm indeed, my lord.”

“Stian,” he reminded her as he released her hands. His arms slid around her.

The embrace made her feel smal as his broad palms splayed across her back and waist. She put her hands on his shoulders as he bore her backward

on the bed. The mattress was thick, covered with soft furs. It would have been deliciously comfortable but for the chess pieces on which she landed.

“Ow!”

“What?” Stian demanded as the girl began to squirm. When she tried to push him away he pressed her down on her back as his quick temper flared. He

loomed above her. “I’l not take no from you again.”

She pushed on his shoulders, nails biting into his skin. “Move,” she said as he held her down with one hand and began working her chemise off her hips with the other. “I’m not tel ing you no. It hurts.”

Stian rol ed away to kneel beside her. “What?” he roared.

The girl flinched away at his shout. As she scrambled to the other side of the bed, he saw black and white chessmen, jagged as stones, scattered where her back had rested. The room was growing dark as daylight faded but there was enough light for him to see the look of fear on his wife’s face. Chagrin at his too-quick temper drove words from him. He didn’t mean to frighten her. He hadn’t meant to hurt her.

Grown dumb and clumsy with his own stupidity he did reach for her, expecting her to run. She did not run but she trembled at his touch.

Before he could think of a thing to do to gentle her fears the door banged open and torchlight spil ed across where they knelt on the disordered furs.

“Ah, good. I see you’re going about the business,” his father cal ed cheerful y from the doorway.

A new wave of embarrassment flooded through Stian, hot as iron in a forge. He whirled to face Roger of Harelby, but not before tossing a piece of his

wife’s discarded clothing to her so she could cover her nakedness.

“What do you want?” Stian asked his father as he got off the bed.

He had to fight hard to keep from grabbing up the sword that lay within reach of his hand. While it was Lord Roger’s right to enter any room in his castle, Stian was angry enough to dispute that right. It took al his control to keep stil and look the grinning older man in the face instead of erupting into violence.

“I’ve come to wish you wel ,” his father said. He stil had most of his teeth and they glinted out of his bearded face in a bright smile. “How goes the project?”

“How am I to sire you grandsons if you don’t leave me in peace?”

Roger laughed. Stian envied his father his easy, laughing way. Roger pointed toward the window. “You’ve had near al day, lad. It’s time you ate, to keep up your strength. Get you dressed and bring Lady Eleanor down to supper.”