Word of Honor (Knights of Valor Book 1) (11 page)

She wanted
to go to him. To smooth his hair. Kiss his cheek. Let him know how happy she
was that he’d returned. She had dreamt of this very day for an eternity. Now
that reality faced her, she found herself confused. They had barely begun a
life together before it was snatched away from them.

And now
they had both grown older—and the man in this room was no longer her friend and
lover. A stranger had taken his place, one like a feral cat now curled before
the fire.

One that
she could not touch—much less nurture—for fear of frightening him off.

Instead,
she went to her bed. Slipped off her shoes. Crawled into the bed without
removing her clothes.

Merryn lay
silently for a long time, not sleeping.

Merryn
watched Geoffrey’s chest rise and fall as he slept. She’d only gotten a few
hours of rest herself. Thoughts jumbled in her mind, causing it to race, and
kept her from sleep.

That—and
Geoffrey’s anguished moans.

He’d made
them throughout the night. Some of the sounds that came from him deepened into
groans, low and harsh. In them, she heard buried pain and sorrow. At one point,
the noise he made reminded her of an animal caught in a trap.

One that
hurt beyond understanding. One that wanted to give up on life, knowing that by
being trapped, its life had already ended.

Wherever he
had been—whatever had happened to him—she realized it had damaged him to the
depths of his soul.

And it was
up to her to see that he healed.

Merryn rose
from the bed and slipped from yesterday’s layers of clothing. She replaced them
with a fresh smock and kirtle before topping them with a light blue cote-hardie.
Geoffrey had always liked her in blue. She drew on fresh hose and shoes and
fastened his sapphire brooch to her breast. She decided to let her husband
continue his slumber.

She crept
to the door and opened it, closing it noiselessly behind her.

As she turned,
she gasped. Raynor loomed in the hallway.

“How is
he?”

Merryn saw
the concern etched into his face. She motioned him to walk with her. Raynor
slipped her hand through the crook of his arm and fell into step with her.

“I left him
sleeping. On the floor.”

His brows
shot up. “The floor? Why?”

She
shrugged. “I know not. He claimed his filth would dirty the bedclothes. He
gathered his cloak about him and curled up next to the hearth.”

“He’s right
about that. I’ve never seen such grime on a man. Even after battle. ‘Tis almost
as if he were buried alive and then rose from six feet under from the dead.”

“And that’s
not our only problem.”

They
reached the stairs and began their descent to the main floor.

“You mean
him wanting to hide away. To not let anyone know he has returned.”

“Much
worse,” she said.

“Good
morn,” a voice called out.

Merryn
stopped in her tracks. She placed a placid smile upon her lips. “A good morn to
you, Sir Symond.” She sensed Raynor stiffen next to her. She pulled him down
the remaining steps and paused in front of their visitor.

“Raynor Le
Roux, I would like to introduce you to Sir Symond Benedict. He is a member of
the king’s guard. Raynor is a cousin to those at Kinwick.”

The men
greeted one another.

“I hoped to
escort you to mass and then break my fast with you, Lady Merryn,” the soldier
told her.

“Yes. ‘Tis
exactly what I had in mind.” She pulled her hand from Raynor’s arm and took
Symond’s. She allowed the knight to lead her to Kinwick’s small chapel. Raynor
followed them inside.

Merryn’s
mind raced during the mass. She needed to keep Symond occupied today. She hoped
Raynor would help her in this endeavor.

Mass ended,
and they made their way into the Great Hall, bustling with activity.

“I should
like to see some of the grounds today if ‘tis possible,” Symond informed her.

“I would be
happy to show them to you,” Raynor interjected. “I know how busy Merryn is on a
Wednesday with the candles.”

“Yes,” she
said, glad Raynor had thought so quickly of an excuse. “We make candles on this
day.” She laughed. “You would be surprised how many candles are needed to keep
the chambers and hallways of Kinwick lit each week. ‘Tis a cumbersome, lengthy
task.”

“Must you
spend your time so?” She heard the disappointment in their guest’s voice.

“I am
afraid that even in domestic duties, my leadership is required,” she replied.
“I am very particular about my candles. They represent Kinwick. How they are
made is a reflection on me.”

Raynor
added, “Merryn is quite a taskmaster in many areas. She expects no less than
perfection. I would enjoy showing you a bit of the castle and the surrounding
area. Though I am a visitor myself, I have partaken of hospitality at Kinwick
many times over the years. I feel more than adequate to serve as your guide.”
He thought a moment. “And we could ask Diggory, Kinwick’s steward, to join us.”

Merryn
stood. “Then I shall leave you two men to decide how to manage your day. I
shall see you at the evening meal, for I have much to accomplish today.”

She gave a
quick curtsy and hurried away, grabbing hold of Tilda as she passed her.

“I need hot
water brought to my chamber at once. At least triple what is normally sent. The
buckets are to be left outside my door.” She thought a moment. “And food. I
find myself hungry. Ravenously hungry.”

The servant
eyed her cautiously. “Does this have anything to do with the king’s man? ‘Twill
he be the one you must wed?”

“Please do
as I ask, Tilda. ‘Tis all I need from you now. And if anyone asks, tell them I
am busy all day. Making candles.”

Tilda’s
eyes widened in surprise, but she nodded. “Yes, my lady.”

Merryn
returned to her chamber and entered it, drawing the bar across the door. She
turned and leaned against it to supporting her shaking legs.

And saw
that Geoffrey had awakened.

He stood,
fingering one of the pewter cups, his face full of longing. Without looking at
her, he said softly, “’Tis the cup from our wedding night.”

“Aye.” She
crossed the room to stand next to him. She lifted the other cup and smiled
wistfully as she stroked the etchings along the side.

“They have
been a part of this room since that night,” she told him. “I kept everything
the same.” Her eyes met his. “’Twas the only way I felt close to you.”

Merryn sat
her cup down and then removed the cup from his hand and placed it on the table.

“I did not
even change the bedclothes for a long time, for they carried your scent. And
the scent of our lovemaking.” She reached out and took his hand, entwining her
fingers around his. She kept her focus on their hands as she spoke, afraid of
what she might see in his eyes.

“I left
your clothing in the chest. I heard your voice and saw your face each time I
closed my eyes. I wore your brooch as a reminder of the love you had for me.”
She paused. “Sometimes, I pretended you’d gone away again. To war. And that you
might return at any moment.”

She raised
her eyes to meet his. “I never forgot you, Geoffrey. Though eventually we
referred to you as dead instead of gone, that was for the children’s sake.”

Merryn stopped,
swallowing the emotions so close to the surface. “Our twins are the best thing
in my life. They have been the only thing that kept me going during years of
doubt and loneliness.

“And now
that you have returned, I long for them to get to know you. For us to be a
family. United in every way.”

She placed
a hand on his shoulder and pulled him to her. Their lips met briefly. His beard
felt so foreign.

Then he
jerked away. Picked up the wine and poured it into the cup. Drained it and
poured a second cup and then drained that one, as well.

Merryn
wanted to fight through the protective layers that surrounded him. But she
didn’t know how. She knew she had to give him time to adjust to her. To being
back at Kinwick again.

To remember
the love they shared.

A knock sounded
at the door. “Hot water, me lady. And plenty of food. Anything else ye be
wantin’ for now?”

She walked
to the doorway and spoke through the thick oak. “Thank you. ‘Twill be all I
require.” She waited as she heard many sets of footsteps retreating before she
unlocked and opened the door. No one remained outside nor in the hallway.

Merryn
lifted a bucket by its handle and turned. Geoffrey stood before her.

“I shall
take that. And bathe myself. You may go once the buckets are in.”

She glared
at him. “I would help you with your bath. I would do so for any guest. Of
course, I intend to do this for my own husband dear.”

“No.” He
stared at her, a hardness in his eyes. “I would do it myself. I . . . I would
not have you see me this way.” His eyes fell to stare upon the ground.

Merryn
shoved the bucket at him, water sloshing as she did so. “You were always
stubborn, Geoffrey de Montfort. But I have learned to be more so,” she warned.
“So shed your clothing and get yourself into that bathing tub at once. I refuse
to take no for an answer.”

She
narrowed her gaze, her voice at its most stern. This was the tone she took when
the twins proved naughty or when she rendered a difficult decision on Judgment
Day. She never backed down in those circumstances. She was not about to give
into him over something as simple as a bath.

Especially
when her hands longed to stroke his body.

Without a
word, he marched the bucket to the tub and tossed the water into it. He dropped
the pail on the floor. He turned his back and began fiddling with his clothing.

Merryn
chalked up the small victory. She took a vial and poured it into the water
before bringing the remaining buckets inside the room. She also gathered the
tray of food and took it to the table before bolting the door again as a precaution.

By the time
she finished her tasks, Geoffrey sat in the tub. She added another steaming
bucket into the water, pouring it over his head, wetting his hair and beard in
the process. She then gathered soap and cloths to wash him with after she had
scrubbed him with the strongest of brushes.

He took the
brush and soap from her and attacked his skin with vigor, scouring it until it
became raw and red. Merryn stood behind him and watched. In the light, she saw
the angry scars surrounding his wrists and also his ankles as he lifted a leg
and propped it upon the edge of the tub. Again, instinct told her he’d been
caged as an animal. Shackled far away from humanity. Bound by chains from which
he’d tried over and over again to escape.

She
supposed his mind protected him from whatever agonizing experience he’d
suffered through by wiping his memory of the event of several years.

She would
deal with that. And she would tend to him when those memories came crashing
back—for she knew they would. Whether today or in a sennight or even a year
from now, he would be forced to live with—and understand—what had happened to
him.

Any anger
she’d felt had dissipated. Her heart filled with hope—and determination—to make
all right between them.

Merryn
allowed him to cut through as much of the filth as he could, occasionally
rinsing him with clean water. She also took empty buckets and captured that
dirty water, replacing it with clean. She poured scented oil across his skin
and then tenderly used the cloths to bathe him.

Lovingly,
she glided the cloth along his back in long strokes. Held his limbs and moved
the cloth along them. Ran it against his chest, dragging it slowly and
sensually. She sensed him holding his breath. Her own heart quickened at their
very nearness. But she did not want to rush him into anything.

Least of
all love play.

Last, she
washed his hair, her fingers massaging his scalp with longing, hoping they told
the story of her deep affection toward him. Her pulse sped up as she did so.
She found herself longing to kiss every inch of him.

“I should
like to shave you while the water has softened your beard,” she said, trying to
gain a grasp on her emotions.

He frowned.
“I can do that myself.”

Merryn
tapped her foot impatiently. “Geoffrey, your beard is quite thick and dense. I
can see much better than you can in our small hand mirror. I shall do this task.”
She wrinkled her nose. “And trim your hair. No, cut it. ‘Tis grown much too
long to please me.”

He silenced
his protests. Merryn brought the stool closer to the tub and gathered his
razor. She had sharpened it once a week, hope beating in her breast each time
she did so that one day her husband would come home and use it.

She
lathered the beard up, covering every inch of the thick growth that hid his handsome
features. As she held his chin steady with one hand, she dragged the razor
across, over and over. Geoffrey kept his eyes closed the entire time. She was
glad. Having him watch her would have brought about a bout of nerves. This way,
he remained free of cuts from a slip of her nervous hand.

Merryn
finished and rinsed his face with the last of the clean water. She gently
blotted it with a towel. He almost looked like the man she had married, only an
older version of him.

“Now let me
loose upon that hair,” she declared. A quarter-hour later, she had cut it to
the length he always wore it. She ran a brush through the thick, dark waves.

Geoffrey
finally opened his hazel eyes.