Untamed (22 page)

Dominic smoothed back a wisp of fire-bright hair that had fallen across Meg's cheek.

“But it didn't happen that way,” she said sadly. “Both lost.”

“Both?”

“Glendruid and John.”

“What did the Glendruids lose?” Dominic asked.

“The Glendruid Wolf. Old Gwyn believed that my mother would bear a son.”

“Instead, she bore a daughter.”

“A disappointment,” agreed Meg.

“Not to me. Without you I would have died,” Dominic said simply. “To me you are a delight.”

“You didn't sound delighted earlier, when you discovered I had left my room.”

Wisely, Dominic said nothing.

For a time there was no sound but the soft whisper of fire and the even softer whisper of Dominic's hand smoothing over Meg's hair as he remembered her passionate words.

I obey everyone, answering the needs of even the lowliest of Blackthorne's people. Not once
—never—
has anyone asked me what my own desire was
.

“What did you want, Meg?” Dominic asked finally. “Why did you agree to marry me? Why didn't you cast your lot with Duncan of Maxwell, for whom you feel ‘affection'?”

Dominic sensed the change in Meg's body, a still
ness that went all the way to the marrow of her bones.

“I wanted no more war,” she said flatly. “I hate the endless cruelty, the violence, the lives cut off before they are ripe. I knew if a strong man with many knights held Blackthorne Keep, the landless thanes would look elsewhere to feed their ambitions. And I heard that no stronger knight than Dominic le Sabre lived between here and Jerusalem.”

She took a swift, deep breath and continued before Dominic could speak.

“And now I find myself caught in whispers of adultery when I have touched no man save my husband. I find my husband poisoned and myself suspected of the vile act. I find knights in chain mail prowling the keep, seeing enemies in every familiar face.”

“I don't suspect you,” Dominic said.

Meg kept speaking as though she hadn't heard.

“I am a healer. I want to heal this land's hatred, for it is a greater sickness than any I've ever known. Hatred is the bitter soul of war. I want to bring peace to the land!”

Dominic's breath caught. He had never thought to hear his own dreams so clearly stated. Slowly he turned Meg's face up to his.

“I share your desire,” he said in a low voice. “Work with me, wife. Help me to bring peace to the land.”

“How?”

“Blend Norman and Glendruid blood. Give me sons.”

Sudden tears fell from Meg's eyelashes. The heat of the drops was scalding.

“That is beyond my control,” she whispered. “You are a warrior who can be wise, who can be restrained, who can look after the welfare of your vassals, who
can do much for your people…
but you cannot love
.”

Dominic didn't deny it. The sultan's hell had burned out much of Dominic's soul, and he knew it. As much as he wanted sons, he could no more magically transform himself into a man who was capable of love than he could fly as a falcon flew.

He could only do what a falcon master did—get a small falcon to fly for him.

“Aye,” Dominic agreed. “I am a warrior who cannot love. You are a healer who cannot hate. Don't you see the way out of the trap?”

Meg shook her head slowly.

“Old Gwyn told me that Glendruid women are cursed by seeing into the souls of men,” Dominic said, “and only God could love a man so clearly seen.”

“Yes,” Meg whispered.

Tears welled as she looked into the eyes of the warrior who could not love.

“I don't believe that all Glendruid women are so cold,” Dominic said. “I believe that a Glendruid
healer
would look differently at a man who could bring peace to a land torn by war. I believe she would see past the imperfections of his soul. I believe she could love him.

“Look at me and see peace for Blackthorne Keep,” Dominic said. “Love me, Meg. Then heal the land with my sons.”

“You ask too much,” she whispered, appalled by his logic. “
I see you too clearly
.”

“I ask what I must. It is the only way out of the trap. For both of us.”

F
ROWNING AND TUGGING AT
cloth, Marie worked over the last adjustments on Meg's new dress while church bells rang out, telling the people in the fields that it was time for their mid-morning food. Voices fell silent in the bailey as servants halted their tasks long enough to enjoy the melodious song of the bells.

The bells rang again, reminding Meg of a time five days past, when she and Dominic had walked from the keep to the church and stood in a chill mist while John of Cumbriland was buried. The ceremony was brief.

There will be no time of mourning
, Dominic had decreed calmly.
John of Cumbriland was not your father
.

With that Dominic had turned from the freshly filled grave while the bells were still tolling the end of John's life. He led Meg away with him through the thick mist of a day that would neither rain nor allow the sun to shine.

Meg hadn't objected to the lack of ceremony. She felt only relief at John's burial. Part of her hoped it would mark the end of the old time of savage strife and the beginning of a newer, more peaceful day.

She hoped, but she also feared. It was now a week since Dominic had thrown off the effects of the poison, and still she dreamed. Then she awoke crying and cold with dread.

There was no one to hold her now. Since Dominic had fully recovered from the poison, he did not sleep in her bed. Nor would he, for she had not yet bled. He had freed her from the intimate mews, with the result that she rarely saw him.

Dominic hadn't raised the subject of love, peace, and sons again, except for the time when he had handed Meg a bolt of silk cloth. The fabric was as green as her eyes, richly shining, cool and smooth to her fingertips. It was as beautiful as the cloth of the ritual Glendruid garment she had worn for her wedding, a dress Old Gwyn had removed while Meg slept.

But Gwyn wouldn't come and take the green silk from Meg. The silk was Dominic's gift to her, which made it doubly precious, as though a swath of spring had been spun and woven into cloth just for her.

Dominic had seen her pleasure in the fabric and smiled. Yet his eyes were cool, intent, unsmiling, and his voice was harsh with restraint when he spoke to her.

Think of what we talked about. Think of loving me, Meg. With your love, anything is possible
.

Even peace
.

He had said nothing of his hope for sons, but it was there in his searching eyes, in the hunger of his voice, in the tension that hummed throughout his powerful body.

Sons.

Love me, Meg
.

Yet Dominic didn't love her. Meg knew it as surely as she knew her eyes were green. She doubted that
he would ever love. He who loved, risked. The ruthless practicality of Dominic's nature would not allow it. His love of his knights had nearly cost him his life in Jerusalem; it had certainly cost him whatever softness lay in his soul. No matter how gentle his apparent seduction, it was the result of calculation rather than of any true tenderness in his feelings for her.

Meg could not blame Dominic for that any more than she could blame an eagle with a broken wing for not flying. She could only wish that he had not come to her with a hurt that was beyond her ability to heal.

Closing her eyes on a wave of sadness, Meg smoothed her hand down the marvelous green silk cloth. The movement made the golden bells at her wrist shiver with hushed music.

“The cloth is so fine,” Meg said after a time.

“Your skin is finer,” Marie said without glancing up from her tiny stitches.

Meg looked down at the small, quick woman who was sitting cross-legged on the floor while she worked over the hem of the dress she had sewn. The Norman woman was an enigma to Meg. Marie's combination of blunt sexuality and quick, rather cynical intelligence intrigued Meg—so long as Dominic was nowhere in the vicinity. Marie's lush body and exotic perfumes had the knights of the keep sitting up and howling like dogs after a bitch in heat.

Only Dominic and Simon seemed immune. But then, if they wanted Marie, all they had to do was crook a finger and she would be at their side. She knew who was the master of the keep and who was the master's right hand.

“You need not flatter me,” Meg said.

“I don't,” Marie said casually. “Your skin is as fine as a sultan's most prized pearl. No flattery,
lady. Simple truth. Turn to your left, please.”

Meg obeyed. Bells shifted and murmured musically.

“'Tis a pity your lord is so possessive of your beauty,” Marie continued.

“Pardon?”

Marie looked up from her fussing over the straightness of the hem long enough to catch the surprise on Meg's face. The Norman woman smiled rather wryly at this further proof of the Glendruid witch's innocence of carnal matters.

“Dominic directed me most carefully to be certain that your shoulders, wrists, breasts, and ankles were covered by the silk,” Marie explained.

“But of course.”

Marie shook her head. “Nay, lady. Not ‘of course.' The sultan's women knew how to dress to catch a man's eye.”

“How was that?”

“They wore cloth many times lighter than this, as frail as a breath, and nearly as transparent, too. Layer upon layer, so that when a woman walked, her breasts and thatch and the curve of her buttocks were revealed and then concealed before a man could be certain of what he had seen.”

“Do you jest?” Meg asked, startled.

“No, lady. Look straight ahead, please, else the hem will be crooked.”

“You could see through the cloth? Truly?”

Marie's smile flashed. “Truly.”

“Astonishing.”

“To the English, perhaps. To the Turks, it was accepted. And,” Marie added slyly, “much appreciated by the men.”

“Have you worn such clothes?”

“But of course. Your husband found them particularly attractive.”

Meg jerked.

With a muttered phrase in Turkish, Marie went back to fussing over the hem.

“You Saxons,” Marie said after a moment, shaking her head. “A man's desire to possess a wife, that I can understand. He wants to be certain he will raise only his own children. But a possessive wife…”

Marie shrugged, checked the length of thread on the needle, and resumed stitching.

“Once married, there is no divorce for a Christian,” Marie continued, “therefore no need for jealousy. You have Dominic's protection, title, and wealth for the rest of your life. What else of worth remains of him to possess?”

“His affection. His respect. His…love.”

“Gold and jewels last longer,” Marie said. “They can be sold for food and clothing when war or famine comes. Affection is amusing for a time, but it is as fickle as the wind. As for love, it is a fancy of the mind, nothing more.”

Marie knotted the thread and severed it with a quick flash of her teeth.

“There,” she said, satisfied. “It hangs as it should now.”

She stood with the grace of a woman accustomed to sitting on pillows scattered across the floor rather than on chairs. Deft fingers flew as she began unlacing the closely fitted dress.

“Marie.”

“Yes, lady?”

“Save your sexual wiles for the garrison,” Meg said bluntly. “Don't use them on my husband. Whether you succeed or fail, you shall rue the attempt.”

There was a moment of surprised silence before Marie laughed out loud.

“I can see why he calls you his small falcon,” she said. “Step out of the dress, lady.”

Meg did so and then waited, watching with eyes that were frankly predatory while Marie carefully put the dress into a wardrobe.

“Marie?”

“As you wish,” she said calmly, turning back to Meg. “But you must know that what you wish holds true only so long as your master wishes it, too.”

“What do you mean?”

For the space of a breath, Marie looked at Meg with something close to compassion.

“How you could have reached nineteen and be so innocent…” Marie sighed heavily and explained. “Dominic is wooing you most carefully. While he does, he looks not at me. When that changes—and it will, for he is but a man—then I will go to his bed for as long as he wants me. He is master in this keep, not I. Nor are you, my lady. No woman is.”

Marie picked up the small sewing basket. “Is there anything else you wish?”

“No.”

After a slight nod of her head, Marie walked from the room. With each step her hips swayed like a candle flame in a draft.

Meg let out a pent-up breath and a few words that would have drawn a horrified look from the good father. The worst part of it was that Marie was correct. If Dominic chose to favor his leman over his wife, there was little Meg could do about it.

She can't give him legitimate heirs. Only I can do that
.

Yet Meg wasn't certain she could. When all was said and done, it seemed that few Glendruid women were fertile.

Frowning, Meg threw a mantle about her shoulders and headed for the bathing room. The oddly pointed cloth slippers Dominic had given her whispered over the floor and gleamed metallically in the
illumination from lamps. The fragrant oil in the lamps offset the damp, cold smell of the keep's stone walls. Since Dominic's arrival, the keep had begun to shine like a butterfly recently released from its chrysalis.

“There you are,” Eadith said. “I thought you had displeased your lord and been confined to your rooms again.”

Meg smiled rather grimly. “I've been confined to green silk while Marie fusses over the hem.”

“Ah, the leman. Dominic promised her silk of her own if she made you a dress that pleases him.”

The enjoyment Meg had taken in the green silk faded. Turning away from her handmaiden, Meg removed the mantle, set it aside, and began untying the ribbons on the silk undergarments Dominic had given to her along with the slippers embroidered in gold thread.

Eadith tested the heat of the water in the tub, found it satisfactory, and turned to help Meg.

“Such delicate cloth,” Eadith said as she removed the top. “And such pretty designs, like the priest's Bible.”

Meg said nothing. The thought of Dominic giving gifts to Marie made Meg both uneasy and angry.

…
I will go to his bed for as long as he wants me. He is master in this keep, not I. Nor are you, my lady. No woman is
.

With a sideways glance at her unhappy mistress, Eadith went about laying out the soap and perfume, unguents and creams that were part of Meg's Glendruid ritual. Privately Eadith thought it all a great waste of time. On the other hand, Dominic's knights had shown a pronounced preference for the Saracen-raised woman, and she bathed almost as often as Meg. Perhaps there was more to the matter than Glendruid fetish and heathen Saracen ways.

Golden bells sang sweetly as Eadith twisted Meg's braids into a crown on top of her head and secured the hair with combs of emerald and gold—more of Dominic's presents.

“Such lovely combs,” Eadith said.

“Yes,” Meg said, but there was little pleasure in her voice.

“They look pretty against your hair.”

“Thank you.”

“Thomas gave me some silver combs. He said they suited my hair.”

“Do you care for Thomas?” Meg asked. “You talk of him often the past week.”

Eadith shrugged. “He is kind enough for all his size.”

“Should I ask Dominic to offer a marriage?”

“Nay,” Eadith said. “Thomas hasn't enough wealth to keep two squires, much less a wife. Unless Dominic is going to give his knights estates…?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, I doubt it,” Eadith said, sliding in another glittering comb. “Even when his other knights arrive, he'll have few enough men to defend the keep and manors as it is. If the knights are off defending their own land they won't be able to defend his.”

“True enough.”

Eadith slid in a final comb. “Do you know when the knights will be coming? The steward is in a knot over the amount the men eat as it is.”

Meg grimaced. The steward complained of the quickly vanishing stores to her every time he saw her.

“Gwyn said there was much talk in the south of the sea's wildness,” Meg said. “Perhaps the knights are still in Normandy awaiting passage across.”

“At least a fortnight, then.” Eadith stepped back. “Into the bath with you.”

Meg took off the golden slippers, handed them to Eadith, and got into the steaming, herb-scented water. With a sigh of pleasure, she immersed herself up to her chin, stilling the musical cries of the bells except for those remaining in her hair.

“'Tis a wonder Glendruids don't have scales and fins,” Eadith said, watching Meg give herself to the water.

Laughing, Meg moved her hands to make the water swirl.

“Do you need aught else?” Eadith asked.

“No.”

“I'll leave you to your chanting, then.”

Meg's mouth curved with amusement at Eadith's stolid disapproval of Glendruid ways.

“If I'm not back when you need me,” Eadith said, “raise a cry. Your two-legged hound is just down the hall. He'll fetch me.”

The reminder that Dominic's squire was always a short distance away made Meg's mouth flatten. The “small falcon” had been released from the mews, but was hardly free. When Dominic wasn't with her, Jameson was always within calling distance.

Does my husband really distrust me so much?

The answer was as immediate as it was inevitable.

Aye. Why else hasn't he made me his wife in truth as well as in name? His body certainly is capable. But until my monthly flux passes, he won't trust that whatever grows in my womb is his
.

Only love would have that kind of trust, and he loves me not
.

Slowly Meg's unhappy thoughts dissolved in the soothing heat and fragrance of the water. She closed her eyes, inhaled the complex, scented herbal steam rising from the water, and began softly chanting the ancient ritual of purification and rebirth. With graceful, rhythmic strokes she washed the old mistakes
and regrets from her body, and then smoothed on the scented soap of possibility and renewal.