Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  “I pray he does not mislike me,” he muttered low.

  “Nay, he will not,” she reassured him. But even as she said the words, she knew he did not believe them. Her hand dropped to his shoulder, drawing him close to her skirt. “I have hopes he will be kind to both of us.”

  “Nay.” He shook his head.

  Her heart went out to him, for in all of his six years there had been few kindnesses for him. And when her father was present, not even Ena dared to smile on him. She could not blame him for fearing William.

  “He will like you, for you are my son,” she said bracingly.

  “He has not seen me, Mama.” He ducked beneath her hand and pulled himself into the slit. “Wee Tom still says he is a giant. Wee Tom says he will grind my bones and eat me with his porridge,” he added uneasily. “Wee Tom—”

  “Wee Tom speaks nonsense,” Arabella retorted shortly. “He does but say such things to vex you.”

  “He says Lord William will know ‘tis the Devil as made me, Mama. And if Lord William is a Godfearing giant, he’ll kill me,” he went on.

  “Jesu, but you will take a fever,” she muttered, pulling him back. “And Lord William is not a giant, Jamie. He is—” She looked again to where her betrothed rode beside his brother, seeing the huge destrier beneath him. “He is overtall, ‘tis true, but he is not misshapen. There are those who might even call him pleasing.”

  “I know not who,” Ena muttered under her breath behind Arabella. “ ’Twill be a wonder and ye can breathe beneath him. If he isna a giant, I am a dwarf.”

  Her anger evident in her face, Arabella spun around to face her woman. Nodding briefly to the serving boy who brought mulled wine, she ordered him, “Wilken, take Jamie below to the kitchens, and ask Daft Bess for a sweet bun for him.”

  “The lord willna like it, and he knows,” the serving boy complained sullenly. “He says we are nae to coddle—” There was a brief hesitation, then he finished with “him,” saying the word as though he’d wanted to call Jamie something else. “Nay, but I—”

  “You’ll not tell him,” Arabella declared flatly. “Go on—ere I have you beaten for your insolence.”

  “But Mama,” Jamie protested, “I’d see the Bastard when he comes! I’d see what he is—I … I would!”

  “Nay.” She ruffled his hair affectionately, then lifted him onto the reluctant Wilkin’s shoulders. “You’ll meet him on the morrow,” she promised. And as she spoke the words, she added yet another silent prayer that William would not be filled with loathing when he saw her son. “Now be off with you. I’d have no more speech of giants.”

  It was not until she could no longer hear them on the stairs that she turned again to Ena. “What good does it serve to frighten me or my son?” she asked coldly. “Whether William of Dunashie is bastard, giant, or devil even, he will be my lord husband.”

  “I dinna mean—”

  “Aye, you did, and I’d not listen. ’Tis a better service to say that he is good and kind. Jamie has come to expect the worst of everyone already, and well you know it.”

  “The Bastard willna want him,” Ena declared defensively.

  “I have to hope Lord William will come to value us, Ena, else I cannot survive.” Arabella walked back to the slit and banged the shutter closed over it. Sucking in her breath, she let it out slowly before facing her woman again. “Now—if you would aid me, you will plait my hair ere he sees me. Aye, and I’d have my blue gown brushed also.”

  But even as she spoke, she smoothed damp palms over her woolen skirt. And inside her, her heart thudded with fear for her young son. Her new husband had to accept Jamie—he had to. ’Twas the only reason she’d agreed to this marriage.

  William leaned back in the tub and closed his eyes. Despite the warmth of the fire and the water, he was still so cold and bone-weary from the long ride that he doubted he’d ever again be warm or rested. A body servant moved silently about the small room, gathering his and Giles’ mail for cleaning ere it rusted. Just then, Will did not care if he ever wore it again.

  “Since you would not have her tend you, would you that Wat washed you?” Giles asked him.

  “Nay. I’d soak the cold from my bones.”

  “I spoke to Nigel, and ’tis agreed you wed her on the morrow.” When William merely grunted, his brother moved closer. “There is still time to delay, if you’d not take his daughter.”

  “I’d nae speak of it—I said I’d wed her.”

  In the days since they’d last discussed Arabella of Byrum, William had avoided any further mention of his betrothed, focusing instead on his duties as the new lord to Blackleith. Worried that his brother would have no happiness with Arabella of Byrum now, Giles tried one last time. “Will …”

  “Nay.” The hazel eyes opened to regard him defensively. “And I had the choice, I’d hae a virtuous woman,” he admitted, “but there’s nae one as would want a bastard like me. At least the Lady Arabella hasna the choice in the matter.”

  “If you cannot accept what she has done, you’d best not take her.”

  “She’ll nae put horns on me, if ’tis what you are fearing,” Will retorted. “I’ll nae stand for it. Had I been Elias of Woolford, Aidan of Ayrie’d be naught but a crow-picked skull on a pike.”

  “And Arabella?” Giles asked. “What would you have done to her?”

  It was a question William had asked himself more than once since Milo had told him, and he had no answer for it. It would, he supposed, depend on whether she had borne babes to him. A man could not kill the mother of his children. Shaking his head, he answered in little more than a growl, “Nay, ’twill nae come to that.”

  Giles sighed heavily. For whatever reason, Will would take Arabella of Byrum, and there was naught more to be said. He could only hope that somehow they could discover a passion for each other. “Art a grim bridegroom,” he chided finally. “I’d not part from you like this.”

  Suddenly the bigger man grinned. “Ye know what ails ye, Giles? ’Tis that ye’ll nae have me with ye after the morrow. Ye’ll nae know how to go on without me.”

  In a way, he spoke the truth. It would be the first time since Giles’ birth that they’d been separated for more than a few weeks. When the younger man made no answer, Will sobered. “Ye don’t regret giving Blackleith to me, do ye?”

  “ ’Tis like parting from a mother to let you go,” Giles admitted. For a moment his black eyes grew distant with memory, seeing again the small, frightened boy sent to King Henry’s hostile court, remembering the brother who’d held him when the loneliness had been overwhelming, who’d fought those who taunted him. The brother who’d aided him in regaining his patrimony from Hamon of Blackleith. The brother who’d served him with no thought of self. Forcing a wry smile, he came back to the present. “Nay, Will— ’tis something I should have done long ago. I could never have taken Hamon without you.” He leaned over to clasp a wet, muscular shoulder, gripping it briefly. “Until Elizabeth, ’twas your love as sustained me.”

  Arabella forgotten momentarily, William blinked back the sudden mist of tears. “Nay, be off with ye, else I am like to go back to Dunashie to plague ye,” he muttered gruffly. “Ye’ve got Rivaux’s proud daughter—aye, and a son of your own a-coming. Ye’ll do well without me.”

  “I’d have you stand godfather to the babe.”

  The tears spilled over onto the bigger man’s cheeks. “Nay, ’tis not meet…. Elizabeth canna wish…. Well, it ought to be Count Guy as guides your son.” He choked, unable to go on.

  “Elizabeth agrees with me.” Giles stepped back, his own eyes strangely wet. “I’d stand for your son also, Will.”

  William wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. “God’s bones, Giles! Ye’ve got the both of us maundering! One would think we meant to part forever.”

  “Aye. And if you do not finish your bath, we’ll be late to sup.” Moving to the slit that served for window, Giles listened to the steady be
at of rain against parchment. “ ’Tis the weather that lowers both our spirits,” he observed finally. Swinging around, he added, “And you do not mind being left alone, I’d seek Nigel to tell him I do not stay overlong. I’d return to Elizabeth as soon as the festivities are done.”

  “And the feast is no better than the suppers, I am for Blackleith also. A week here and I’d be naught but bones.” Will frowned. “I’d leave on the morrow and I could, but Nigel tells me we hunt boar on the day after, and I canna miss that.”

  “Any other time I’d welcome it, but not now.”

  Will waved a wet hand toward Wat. “Ye’d best get the rust out today, for we stay but three days and nae more. And while ye are about it I’d hae ye see if there is any spiced wine to be had here, or if there’s naught but new ale.”

  As the boy disappeared with the heavy bag of mail, Giles threw his fur-lined cloak over his shoulder. “ ’Tis to be hoped Byrum’s hall is warmer than its bedchamber. Were I you, I’d not tarry overlong here.”

  “I am loath to leave the warmth of the water.”

  For a long time after Giles had left William soaked his cold body, staring soberly into the flickering flames of the fire. He ought to be feeling as though he had all of Christendom at his feet, but he did not. Aye, he was lord of Blackleith, but he had to leave Giles. He was wedding Arabella of Byrum, but he was getting an unchaste wife. It was as though each happiness were balanced with an opposing sadness.

  Despite a certain unwillingness to dwell on Arabella, his thoughts again turned to her. Could he forgive her for lying with Aidan of Ayrie those long years ago? If she’d betrayed Elias of Woolford, would she betray him? The questions nagged at his soul, for they had no answers.

  “My lord… ?”

  Startled by the sound of her voice, he straightened quickly in the tub and thrust the washing cloth over his lap to hide himself. When he glanced up, she was facing him uncertainly. In her hands she held a steaming cup.

  “Aye,” he growled.

  His aspect was so different from when last she’d seen him that she fought the urge to flee. “The boy said you wished some spiced wine. I … mulled it myself, as ’tis so cold outside.”

  When he did not answer, she turned to set the cup on the small table. “I did not know you were still at your bath,” she offered lamely. Her hands shook as she looked at him again. She had to please him—she had to. She had to conquer her fear of him. “Would you that I aided you?”

  As his gaze traveled upward, taking in the slenderness of her waist, the swell of still firm breasts, the fairness of her skin, the way her hair hung like two pale golden ropes over her soft woolen gown, he was unprepared for the effect she had on him. Despite all he now knew of her he could still appreciate her beauty, he could still feel the rise of desire when he looked on her.

  His mouth was almost too dry for speech. With an effort he tore his eyes away from her. “Nay. I’d not spoil your gown, mistress,” he muttered.

  She hesitated, knowing she ought to deny it. Dear God, but she had to broach the matter of Jamie before he saw him. Instead she found herself saying, “You’d best drink the wine ere it cools.”

  She was leaving, and for all his anger toward her he did not want her to go. “Wait.”

  She turned back, her face betraying a momentary wariness. “Aye?”

  She was wearing the chain he’d given her. It hung nearly to her breasts, reminding him of the last time he’d seen her, the last time before he knew. He looked down to where the gold thread still twined about his finger like a ring. For all that he’d cursed her, he’d not removed it. He cleared his throat. “I’d have your company still. Sit you down until I am done.” As he said it, he reached for the chunk of tallow soap and began to lather himself.

  She had to bridge the chasm between this stranger and herself. On the morrow, he would become master to her and to Jamie. On the morrow, she would be his to do with as he willed. Twisting her hands against the folds of her gown, she forced herself to offer again.

  “If you would have the service, I do not mind washing you.”

  “ ’Tis not meet,” he muttered, reddening.

  “There is little difference between now and the morning, my lord. After that, I shall be expected to attend you.” She smiled faintly. “As I am widowed, you are not the first man I have ever washed.”

  What had Giles said—that she had borne a babe and could not be too small? He looked at the cloth that floated above his lap. And he felt a certain reluctance. He’d never quite forgotten that he’d had to pay Berta more than her other customers did for the privilege of delving between the whore’s ample legs. Nor had he forgotten the crude jests he’d endured when the others had discovered what she’d charged him.

  When he raised his eyes again, he found himself staring into the swell of Arabella of Byrum’s breasts. Aye, he supposed there was little difference between now and the morrow.

  “And you get my head, I can do the rest,” he decided. “Then I will have naught but the need of a barber to shave me in the morning.”

  He handed her the soap, then ducked his head beneath the water. When he came up, he pushed his wet hair back and closed his eyes against the rivulets that coursed down his face. She leaned over him to pick up the cloth, but he held it tightly against his belly.

  As mistress of the house Arabella had bathed other men, but this was different. This man would be her husband. She stared at the broad, bare shoulders, the wide expanse of chest, the powerful arms. Sweet Mary, but he was bigger even than she’d remembered.

  “You’ll have to lean back, else you’ll have soap in your eyes.”

  “Aye,” he murmured obediently.

  His dark red hair was thick and luxuriant beneath her fingers as she lathered it. Knowing how it must’ve sweated beneath the leather cap and heavy helmet, she rubbed his scalp with her thumbs, rotating them in circles from the front to the back, then over the ears. She could feel him relax beneath her hands.

  All of his life he’d been second, third, or further down into the bathwater, and more often than not he’d chosen to wash himself rather than endure the rough scrubbings meted out by the boys who stood ready to douse him with the buckets after. Thus the gentle, soothing lathering Arabella now gave him was a luxurious experience for him. He closed his eyes and gave himself over to enjoying the feeling of her hands in his hair.

  When she looked down again, his face bore a sleepy expression. She’d told Jamie that William’s countenance was not unpleasant, she recalled. Nay, she’d done him an injustice, for ’twas more than that. His features were well chiseled: a good, straight nose, well-defined cheekbones, strong chin, almost sensuous lips. His eyes, still closed beneath faintly purpling lids, were fringed by lashes so dark they were almost black against his skin. If there was a flaw, it was the fine scar that crossed his cheek where neither his nasal nor his helm had been able to protect him. And even that was not unhandsome, for it made him look strong. She looked lower, seeing the scar that puckered at his shoulder, and she would have asked of it, but he was so still she thought he drowsed. It was not until she reached for the ewer of rinse water that he spoke.

  “I’d nae have ye stop, mistress,” he said softly.

  Even the burred accent, which she’d thought distinctly uncouth before, sounded warm and inviting. Without thinking, she lapsed into the language of her old nurse. “Ye canna sit aboot all the day, else ye’ll nae eat,” she murmured.

  He thought she mocked him. Opening his eyes, he stared into hers. “I can speak as well as any Norman, and you’d hear it.”

  “Nay, but I—”

  “But I’ve little liking for the tongue. ’Twas the Normans at Moray as hanged my sire, and ’twas the Normans as kept my brother and me in exile at Henry’s court.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “For what? For considering me the bastard lout that I am?” he gibed.

  “Nay, ’twas sorry I am for you.
”

  It was the wrong thing to say. His hand caught her wrist and held it, pulling her down until she was but inches from him. “ ’Tis not pity I’d have from you, Arabella of Byrum.” He watched her eyes widen in fright, and his anger faded. He released her hand and ducked his head once again. The soapsuds scummed the surface of the cooling water. When he came up, he pressed his dripping hair against his head.

  Baffled by the sudden change in his manner, Arabella tried to make amends for whatever it was that she’d done. “My lord, you mistake me…. I—” Her eyes caught the soap scum that still clung like wet ashes to his hair. “Nay. You’ll not get it clean like that.”

  Before he knew what she meant to do, she dashed the ewer of scented water over him. He sputtered and grasped for her skirt, using it to blot his eyes. “And you do not try that again, I’d count us even, mistress. Turn your back that I may get out.”

  At least his anger was gone. She knew she was supposed to offer to dry him, but she did not. Disconcerted, she turned to stare across the room at the only bed at Byrum. That her father had given it over to his guests bespoke the importance he attached to this marriage. On the morrow, she would sleep there with William of Dunashie. Her hands went cold at the thought. She wanted to run, but dared not. Not until she’d spoken of Jamie.

  The bathwater showered the floor, then there was the hasty rustling of clothes as he dressed, the scraping of the bench when he sat to garter his chausses. And the soft sound of his feet as he came up behind her. Startled, she spun around, and the room was suddenly far too small.

  “Art still afraid of me, Arabella of Byrum?”

  The hazel eyes seemed to bore into hers. She swallowed visibly, then nodded. “Aye,” she answered low.

  “Give me no cause for anger, and you’ve naught to fear of me, mistress.” When she would have looked away, he lifted her chin with his knuckle. “Nay. For good or ill, we’ve taken each other, Arabella, and I’d abide by the bargain between us.”