Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  “If any did, Papa did not tell me.” She looked up briefly, meeting his gaze, then dropped her eyes to stare at the water spots on the floor. “ ’Twas to his comfort to keep me here, I think,” she lied.

  “And now?”

  “And now he would ally himself with one who rises in King David’s favor. He has hopes the Bu—that Lord Giles—will bring him to Scotland’s notice.”

  “ ’Tis not Giles he gives you to, mistress,” he reminded her. Then, for want of anything else to say to her, he blurted out, “Does my bastardy weigh with you? Does it touch your pride? Is that why you do not speak overmuch to me?” Moving closer to stand above her, he willed her to look at him. “For all your words before your father, you do not appear eager for the morrow, Arabella of Byrum.” Ere she could answer he added, “I’d have naught but truth between us.”

  “I have accepted Papa’s will in this, my lord.” Her chin came up, and once more she met his eyes. “He did not give me the choice.” Then, realizing again that she risked angering him, she hastened to add, “And the morrow is but sudden to me, for I do not know you.”

  “Then why said you ‘twas your will to wed with me? Again I’d ask ye: Does my bastardy weigh with you?” he repeated. “I’d have you answer both, and you do not mind it. How is it that you pledged to me?”

  She wanted to cry out that she’d done it to save her son, but there was no use saying it now, not now that they were irrevocably tied by the betrothal vows. Instead she sought to placate him. “Because Papa willed it—and your bastardy matters not to me,” she answered simply. Sucking in her breath she held it for a moment, then exhaled fully. “I’d have your kindness, my lord. And you give me that, I will try to be a good wife to you.”

  She spoke low, but there was an appeal in the grey eyes that was more eloquent than her words. “Art afraid of me, mistress?” he dared to ask. “I’d nae harm ye.”

  She started to deny her fear, then looked again to the floor. “Aye.”

  He shifted his weight uneasily, groping for the words to reassure her, trying to bridge the awkwardness between them. “For all that I look otherwise, if I am not overgentle I am not an overharsh man either, Arabella,” he said quietly. “I have hope there will be love between us.”

  She sat very still. “As have I, my lord.”

  He felt unbearably clumsy before her, and yet he wanted very much to touch her. His hand reached out to brush against one of her plaints. “Art bonny,” he murmured, “aye—comelier than I expected.”

  “Papa says I am overtall and far too thin.”

  “Mayhap ’tis because he is short and heavy. Nay, I’d find no fault with your size or your countenance, mistress.” Even as he said it it sounded foolish to his ears, and he wished he were as Lang Gib. “You please me well.”

  His voice was soft, easing her apprehension a little. Her hands relaxed slightly, and she forced a smile. “ ’Tis kind of you to say, my lord.”

  “Arabella …” Again he felt a great ox, and yet he wanted more than a weak smile from her. “And I swear I’ll nae touch you wrongly, would ye give me a kiss fer the betrothal?” he asked, lapsing once again into more familiar speech.

  She had not the right to refuse him. Yet she sat there, every fiber of her being crying nay. “Aye—if ‘tis your will,” she managed finally. Then, realizing that he probably could not bend that low, she stood, letting the remaining towel slip from her arm unheeded to the floor. Wiping suddenly damp palms against the skirt of her gown, she tried not to flinch as he moved still closer. When his hands clasped her shoulders, then slid lightly down her arms, she closed her eyes and swallowed.

  She held herself as stiff as one of the wooden quintains used in battle practice. And as his hands skimmed over her arms, she shuddered.

  “ ’Tis trembling ye are, mistress,” he murmured. Nonetheless, after the first tentative touch, he was emboldened to embrace her with the awkwardness of an untried youth. He bent his head to hers, seeking her lips. They were cold and unresponsive beneath his. She felt like stone.

  “ ’Twas your kiss I asked—nae mine. But one fer the morrow,” he coaxed, tightening his arms about her. “I’d nae hurt ye, I swear it.”

  Despite his nearly overwhelming size, his breath against her face was soft, almost caressing. And there was no violence in his embrace. Very slowly, she stretched to hold him also, smelling the strong fragrance of the lye soap he’d used. Obediently she pressed her lips against his, tasting the lingering sweetness of her father’s mead. Halfhearted or no, it was all the encouragement he needed.

  She was slender in his arms, and when she reached to place her hands around his neck, her breasts enticed his body through the linen of his undertunic, sending a rush of fire through him. His hands moved over her back and upward to her shoulders, holding her as his mouth teased hers the way Berta had liked, urging her response.

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then her lips parted, yielding, and he took possession, sliding his tongue between her teeth. His arms crushed her to him, blotting from his mind all but the feel of her body against his.

  He was as warm as she was cold, and despite her fear of him she was drawn to that warmth. Her hands clasped his neck, holding him, feeling the muscle and sinew there, marveling at the strength and power of the man.

  Her response this time chased his promise from his mind. Telling himself that this was no unknowing virgin, that the betrothal made her his to take, he gave over to his rising desire. His pulse pounded and the blood raced, coursing through him, flooding his body with liquid fire.

  She was drowning, overwhelmed by the force and suddenness of his desire. It was as though her whole being had been enveloped by the big man who held her, until she felt his hands slide possessively over her hips. His fingers gathered the soft material of her gown, lifting her skirt, baring the backs of her legs. Frantic to escape before he lost his senses completely, she struggled, pushing at his arms, twisting her body away from the heat, tearing her mouth from his. “Mother Mary, I beg of you—nay!” she gasped. “You said you would not touch me wrongly!”

  Disappointed, he released her and stepped back. “Nay, mistress, I’d nae meant to give ye a fright of me.” Yet even as he spoke his breathing was ragged, his eyes darkened with his desire. “I can wait fer the morrow. ’Twill be enough that ye come to me then.”

  Drawing a deep breath, he turned away to pick up the discarded towels, taking the time to master himself. Swinging back around, he could see she still regarded him like a hare ready to run, and he felt shame. “Ye behold before ye but a flesh-and-blood man, Arabella of Byrum, and I’d give ye nae cause to fear me. And ye keep my household in order and give me fine sons, ye’ll nae find me a hard husband.” He held out the towels, but she made no move. “I did but mean to show ye I was pleased with ye,” he added quietly.

  He could see her swallow again as he took a step toward her, and his own words, Ye think me nae but an uncouth lout, don’t ye? echoed in his ears. And again it was important that he have standing in her eyes. He breathed deeply. And when he spoke, he tried once more to speak as he’d learned to at King Henry’s court. He lifted his hand so that the new signet ring that marked him for Blackleith’s lord flashed in the yellow light.

  “ ’Twas too sudden, and I beg pardon for my eagerness,” he told her as he laid the towels across her arm. “I’d but meant to learn of you. I’d know where I wed, and I’d have you know of me.” She backed away, nearly stumbling over the bench. “Is there aught you would ask of me?”

  The wooden bench turned over heavily, unnerving her further. “Nay,” he managed, stepping around it. From the safety of distance she faced him, saying quickly, “And you’d eat, I’d best go, my lord. There is much to be done ere we sup.”

  He reached toward her, not so much to touch her but rather in a helpless gesture of contrition, and then he let his hand fall. He’d bungled the matter badly already, and he knew it.

  �
�Aye. Until we sup, mistress.”

  Clutching the towels to her, she started toward the door. “Until we sup, my lord.”

  Still, he’d not have her leave like that. He’d not have her still afraid of him. His eyes caught the soap on the floor where she’d dropped it, and he stopped to pick it up. “Wait.”

  She stopped, acutely aware that he moved behind her. Even the flesh on her neck prickled as he again came closer. For a moment, she considered fleeing headlong down the stairs. Instead, she waited warily.

  “You forgot this,” he said, reaching around her to press the chunk into her hand.

  “My thanks,” she murmured, eager to be gone from him.

  He could think of naught more to say to her, and yet he felt the need to show her he was more than the rutting boar she’d seen. He had to touch her again. “How old are you, Arabella?” he blurted out, for want of anything better to ask.

  “Four and twenty—’twill be five and twenty come April, my lord. And—”

  Before she knew what he meant to do, he turned her around. And this time his lips brushed hers lightly, scarce touching her ere she could duck away. Then he dropped his hands. “Be off with you now, else I’ll not want to wait for the morrow.”

  “Aye,” she whispered. “Aye.” She fled then, leaving him alone. It was not until she’d reached the bottom of the dark, dank stairwell that she stopped to lean against the rough stone wall. She stood there, holding the chiseled stone for balance, shaking uncontrollably. Sweet Mary, but she would be at his mercy on the morrow.

  He listened to the quickness of her steps on the stairs until he could hear no more. Turning back to where his new, richly embroidered tunic hung from a peg, he considered whether he should finish dressing and join Giles below. Instead, he moved slowly to the rope-hung bed and lay down upon it. For a long time he stared upward into the canopy, seeing not the faded silk but rather a face framed in braids of gold so pale ’twas almost silver, smelling not the musty stone walls but rather the fragrance of roses. “Och,” he murmured aloud, “ye’ve but seen her and already you are besotted, fool that ye are. At two and thirty, ye ought to have more sense to ye.”

  Supper at Byrum was an early and sparse affair, owing to Nigel’s parsimony. He’d not burn the tallow late and waste it, he’d told Arabella again and again when she had complained. But this night his guests did not appear to note the lack of variety in the fare, despite the fact that the single stag was supplemented only by coney and salmon, both boiled, and the other dishes were pitifully few.

  Embarrassed by her father’s perceived poverty, Arabella watched silently as William of Dunashie carved a rabbit’s leg and laid it on her end of their shared trencher. Then, making no comment about the poorness of the meal, he spooned boiled barley over it. One of the two serving boys held out a bowl of stewed onions, and her betrothed added some of those also.

  “Would you have some of this?” he asked politely, his hand moving to the dish of oatmeal and prunes.

  “Nay.”

  He placed a dollop on his end of the trencher, then pushed both bowls aside. Unlike her father, who always fell upon his food with unseemly eagerness, William of Dunashie waited for her to pick up her spoon.

  “I dinna cut it verra fine,” he murmured apologetically, lapsing once again into the common tongue.

  “ ’Tis all right.” She forced herself to take a bite. “There is not overmuch to cut.”

  “Och, but I’ve ridden to war with far less in my stomach, mistress.” As he spoke, he deftly cut into his own hunk of the coney. Carrying it to his mouth, he once again forced himself to speak carefully: “There have been times when I did not even ask what we ate, for fear I’d not wish to know, so ’tis a feast you have laid before me.”

  “Papa fears to deplete his larder when there is plenty,” she responded dryly. “I doubt if King David, were he to come here, would fare any better.”

  “Well, I’ve hopes that there’s stores for the winter at Blackleith. I sent word I’d hae enow meat—” He paused to correct himself. “Enough meat put into the brine to feed twice the number as serve there.” Taking another bite, he washed it down with more of her father’s mead. For the first time in his life he found himself all too conscious of what he was, of the graces he lacked, of his rough speech. And he sought to make amends for what she was getting in a husband. “But if there’s aught else ye’ll be needin’—“ Once again he stopped himself and started anew in the tongue he hated. “If there be aught else you have need of, Lady Arabella, I will send to Dunashie. The Lady Elizabeth would be generous to you.”

  The Lady Elizabeth. The great Guy of Rivaux’s daughter. Even at Byrum, Giles of Moray’s marriage to the highborn widow had occasioned much comment and envy. For once, Arabella’s curiosity overcame her aversion to her betrothed. “ ’Tis true that she sits above him at his own table? That she carries herself as a royal princess?” she wanted to know.

  “She isna meek,” he admitted in understatement, “but the babe she carries has softened her a wee bit. Now she sits beside him in a chair wide enough for both of them.” His hazel eyes met hers, and she was surprised by the amusement in them. “Ye’d nae be a female and ye dinna ask of her, I suppose.” Cursing inwardly, he tried to remember to speak the Norman tongue.

  “Is she as beautiful as ’tis said?”

  “Aye. Aye, there’s none to dispute she is that. Her eyes are as green as pieces of glass in a chapel window, and her hair is as black as Giles’, but for all that she’s as fair to the eye as any I’ve seen”—his eyes warmed appreciatively—“save ye, mistress. ’Tis fortunate I count myself.”

  She had to look away. “Count Guy was not pleased.”

  The warmth faded, and he sat back abruptly. “Nay, but he would have her happy. Despite the difference in their birth, Lady Arabella, they are well matched in temper.”

  Perceiving that somehow she had angered him, she bowed her head and toyed with the meat on her end of the trencher. “Then she is greatly to be envied. My father,” she added bitterly, “cares only for his own protection.”

  “Mistress—”

  “Nay,” she cut in quickly, “ ’tis of no matter now, is it? Count Guy is not as mortal men, after all, and I did but wish to know of his daughter.” Taking a determined stab at a chunk of the hare, she changed the subject. “ ’Tis of Blackleith I’d hear.”

  He regarded her as she chewed, knowing she’d been forced to take him, wondering if she’d weep on the morrow, and yet he feared to know. In a rare moment of cowardice, he chose to follow where she led him instead. “I’ve not been there these two years past, but I know there is a pleasant herb garden for you to tend, and it please you. ’Tis a pretty place—Blackleith is, and I’ve hopes you will come to like it.”

  “As do I,” she murmured doubtfully. Her gaze dropped to the hand that held his knife, and once again she was struck by the size of him. A momentary wave of panic washed over her. “What is there?” she asked, turning her fear aside.

  He appeared to consider the matter, wondering what a woman would want to know of the keep. Finally, he mused aloud, “Well, there is a well-stocked stew where your boy can fish—’tis full of plaice and carp. And there is one square tower that stands above the mostly timber walls. But on one side, the curtain is of stone, crenelated as well as any. I’ve hopes to replace the rest of the defenses in stone,” he confided.

  Then, realizing that ‘twas not what she’d asked, he added, “Blackleith sits high, overlooking the joining of two burns, mistress, and when the mists roll in over the distant hills, ‘tis as a faery place. Aye, and when the sun shines and the weather warms, ye can smell the heather a-mingling with the flowers. Ye’ll have roses enough fer yer hair, I promise ye.” He paused, letting her digest his description, then said soberly, “ ’Tis a good place to rear sons and daughters, Arabella.” When she said nothing he felt the need to add also, “Your son will be as welcome as ours there.”

/>   The panic she felt intensified. He’d not seen Jamie, and when he did she dared not think what he would say. And he’d not heard the tale of Aidan of Ayrie either, she reminded herself. If he ever did she feared he would be like the others, that he’d not believe her. Would he beat her then—or worse yet, would he kill her ere she could protest her innocence to him? With Jamie there to remind others, there was always the chance someone would speak of it…. But she could not leave her son behind, not when she was the only one who loved him. Not when Nigel would be likely to starve him. She closed her eyes briefly to hide her fear.

  “I’d write to Woolford, and ye wished it,” William went on, “saying I’d foster the boy myself.” He waited, but she remained silent. “Would it please ye?” he asked finally. As he said it, he realized that his speech had lapsed yet again. Try as he would, he could not sound like the lord she’d wed before him.

  Opening her eyes, she sucked in her breath, then let it out. “Donald would not care—nor would the others,” she responded, betraying more bitterness.

  “He is born of the blood of Woolford, and ’tis their right to decide,” he reminded her. “They’ve a right to know what I would do for the boy.”

  “I’d keep my son with me. I’d not send a dog to Woolford, my lord.”

  “Aye. I did but wish to do what is right.”

  The straw mat beneath Arabella seemed to have grown new lumps, and her last night at Byrum passed in wakefulness. It was also the last night she’d sleep with Jamie for a while, and as the darkness crawled slowly toward the dawn she could not help thinking of that. And it worried her, for she’d always been there to comfort her son through the terror of his dreams.

  Aye, in a scant few hours she’d wed the border bastard, giving him the right to do with her as he willed. She sighed heavily, and tried to put that from her mind.

  Memories of Elias, long forgotten, crowded her mind, bringing forth images that she’d tried to bury with him. The feel of his body tearing at hers, the feel of his teeth in her flesh, the smell of his rancid breath in her face, and the pain—always the pain. It had mattered not whether she’d seemed willing or not—always he’d punished her. If she pretended ardor, she was wanton; if she lay still beneath him, she was cold to him. No matter what she did, he called her “witch” and “whore” as he took her.