Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  Unused, as they were to such meals, Nigel’s household fell upon the food, washing it down with large quantities of sour wine, mead, and ale. And long ere the tables had been cleared there were drunken fights, which spilled outside the hall and into the cold courtyard. That they disputed over nothing was unimportant—they were borderers, after all, and therefore inclined to brawl. But if ’twas unseemly behavior, neither William nor his brother seemed to note it, prompting Arabella to wonder further if Dunashie and Blackleith were even rougher than Byrum.

  Throughout the lengthy meal Giles conversed with his host politely, while William sat back, toying with his food and watching Arabella silently. Disconcerted, she tried to keep her eyes on the trencher they shared. Sweet Mary, but did he have to look at her constantly? Did he not know she was half out of her wits with fright as it was?

  The firelight from the pitch torch above them played upon the shimmering sheerness of the baudekin veil whenever she moved. Will drained the mead from their cup and leaned back, savoring the almost ethereal loveliness of his bride, forgetting for the moment what she’d been to Aidan of Ayrie. She was his. Those three words reverberated with the rhythm of the jongleurs’ castanets. She was his.

  The lazy movement of his gaze belied the eagerness he felt as he drank in the pale gold hair, the fine profile of her face, the slender, graceful neck. Nay, but the bards who still sang of Saxon Harold’s Edith had not seen Arabella of Byrum. The woman beside him must surely be the Helen of Scotland. His eyes moved lower, over her shoulders to where the golden chain dipped between her breasts, and his mouth was again dry with desire. The rose fragrance that floated about her was almost as intoxicating as the wine.

  Absently he lifted his refilled cup, his thoughts on later. Jesu, but he’d not sit listening to a jongleur’s song, not when he had the right to lie with Arabella of Byrum. Not when he had a comely wife to slake his desire and to warm his bones.

  She looked up almost furtively, and unwilling to have her see his naked thoughts, he dropped his gaze to the cup, swirling the sweet liquid within. “Would you drink?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “ ’Tis little enough you have eaten.”

  “I am unused to so much.”

  Nonetheless she took the cup with unsteady hands, and for a moment she simply held it. Then, reddening as he watched expectantly, she turned it to where his lips had been and sipped.

  His hand brushed over the silk veil, drawing it off, exposing the pale gold braids that fell forward over her shoulders. “ ’Tis lovely hair you have,” he said low.

  His hand slid downward, and his fingertips traced the shoulder seam of her gown lightly, sending a shudder through her. Turning to set the cup before him, she was acutely aware of how big he was. His velvet covered shoulder was more than a handbreadth higher than hers, and the hand that rested on the table was strong, powerful enough to snap her bones. He leaned closer, so close that his warm breath rushed against her ear when he spoke. “And they dance, I’d not stay,” he whispered.

  “ ’Tis the custom to lead the round,” she reminded him. “And you do not mind it I’d not flaunt tradition, for I’d have good fortune.” She hoped he could not hear the fear in her voice.

  He was a warrior, not a courtier, and he’d not have her see him for the clumsy fool he was. His fingers moved from the stiff silk to the softness of her hair, stroking it. “I’d nae hae ye laugh at me, Arabella,” he murmured, lapsing into the familiar speech.

  It was as though the sand were running from the glass, and she was desperate to delay. “I swear I will not laugh, my lord, and you honor me with the round.”

  Nigel heard her and rose to clap, signaling the beginning of the dance music. Those who’d not drunk themselves into a stupor joined in, while sturdy boys hastened to move the tables out of the way. The jongleurs regrouped, forming a line, and wended their way around the hall as they played their flutes, viols, and castanets to the accompaniment of a portable organ. Inebriated household knights fell into line behind them, gathering the maids as they passed, until a circle had been formed in the center of the room.

  “And you do not take your bride out, Will, the task will fall to me,” Giles chided, grinning.

  There was no help for it, then. Despite the love he had for his brother, William felt at an acute disadvantage now: ’Twas Giles who was handsome, Giles who was rich and powerful, Giles who had won Rivaux’s daughter. “Nay,” he growled. “And any leads her, I’d do it myself.” He rose, feeling more awkward than he ever remembered. Bowing to Arabella, he tried to sound gallant.

  “ ’Tis ye as honors me.”

  As the clapping intensified, Arabella took his hand and followed him into the center of the circle. There was an expectant pause, then the jongleurs began anew, this time playing the dance of the chaplet. Will glanced helplessly at his bride, hoping that he would not disgrace himself before her. There was no sound now but the music.

  “Bend low,” she whispered as she dropped a deep curtsy before him.

  “Aye,” he muttered, doing as she said. “I’d rather slay dragons for ye than this.”

  Lifting his hand, he raised her, then stepped back. Coming forward again, he linked arms with her and circled first one way, then the other. Turning aside, they exchanged arms and repeated the measure. The circle around them broke up into half a dozen smaller ones, with the pairs copying what they had done.

  He felt stiff and wooden, his face frozen into a grimace, but he managed to keep time to the music, all the while following her lead. He had been, he was to reflect later, much like a bear trying to dance with a cat. Mercifully the song was not a long one, and as the flutes and viols held their last notes William clasped her waist, pulled her forward, lifted her, and kissed her full on the mouth. Her eyes widened as shouts of approval spread through the crowd.

  “Ye dinna think I’d take toll?” he murmured wickedly when at last he’d released her.

  Once again she was intensely aware of his size. She was not a small woman, and yet he’d lifted her as effortlessly as if she were a babe. He smiled crookedly at her, his hazel eyes watching hers.

  “Ye did not disgrace either of us,” she managed through suddenly parched lips. “Sweet Mary, but I ….”

  To him, it was as though there were no others there. But the musicians, heeding the call for more, began anew, this time playing a vigorous round, so called for the continuous twirling of pairs in a moving circle. It was a matter of dance, or be felled by those who did. Still afraid of the warmth in her new husband’s gaze, Arabella caught at his hand, tugging him into the group. “Come on—they play for us,” she dared to urge him.

  A melee could scarce have been wilder than the whirling madness about him as William gave over. Grasping both her hands, he stomped out the beat until he felt it, then he twirled her round and round, keeping up with the music. The veil, which had been at her shoulders, fell to the floor beneath their feet. Her braids swung outward like swinging ropes of gold, and her grey eyes sparkled with the abandon of the moment. He forgot his fear of playing the fool as he watched her obvious pleasure in the dance. The circle moved faster and faster, until she could scarce catch her breath, and still she kept the pace, her smile urging him on. The beat reverberated in his head as his body sought to match it. He had no sense of anything but the music and the woman.

  The orange-gold flames of the torches could be seen in the ever-moving iridescence of her magnificent gown. She was some faery creature from another world, too beautiful almost to touch, and yet it was his hands that held hers. Even the faint sheen of perspiration that damped her brow beguiled him. Finally the castanets ceased, the flutes held the last high notes, and it was over.

  They stood there, catching their breath for a moment, as the circle dissolved around them. “Nae more,” he gasped.

  “Aye.”

  She was panting. Freeing one hand, she pushed at escaping strands of hair. Gone was the faery creature, replaced by a flesh-and-
blood woman. His eyes dropped to her still heaving bosom.

  “I’d retire ere the music starts again.” Then, realizing how eager he must sound, he added, “I’d nae be overtired for the hunt in the morning.”

  Her eyes widened and her breath caught. Despite the heat, she suddenly felt cold. “I—I’d go up first, my lord,” she managed. “I’d move Jamie ere you come. He usually sleeps with me, for he has ill dreams.”

  “And would ye unplait your hair?” His big hand reached to touch it lightly, stroking it back from her temple. “Aye. I’d feel the silk of it, Arabella.” Even as he spoke he leaned closer, drawing in the scent of the golden plaits. “I’d smell the roses.”

  Despite the fact that it would tangle later, ’twould give her more time. “Aye.”

  It was as though he knew her thoughts, for he nodded. “I’d nae give ye long.”

  She swallowed visibly. “Aye.” Unable to meet the desire in his gaze, she turned to look for Ena. Motioning for the woman to go with her, she started back to the high table. “Papa, with your leave I’d retire,” she said simply.

  Nigel, more than a little flushed from drink, waved her out. At his side, Giles of Moray rose and lifted a cup of mead to her. “And I do not see you ere I go, Lady Arabella, I’d wish you health and happiness now. May God smile on you and my brother.”

  “Amen,” she wished fervently.

  “ ’Tis a good man you have taken for husband,” he added.

  “And ye canna say he doesna pant fer ye!” her father brayed at her. “Ye’ll nae need a fire this night!” As William took the bench beside him again, Nigel clapped him hard on the shoulder. “Aye, ’tis a fine stallion my silver buys for the mare!”

  Ribald shouts followed her as she hurried from the hall, with one of her father’s retainers wondering loudly if the groom’s nether parts matched the rest of him. Others joined in, proposing to strip the Bastard ere they sent him up to her. She glanced back nervously to see William of Dunashie lift an overflowing cup to his lips. Mayhap he would be too drunk to bed her.

  But as Ena went ahead, lighting the darkened stairway with a sputtering torch, Arabella climbed silently, knowing that it did not matter. If not this night, then on the morrow, and on as many morrows after as he would choose.

  Jamie was asleep within the feather mattress, an unheard of treat for the boy denied so much. Parting the heavy curtains, Arabella leaned over to lift him from the warmth. He whimpered slightly as she shifted him into the tiring woman’s arms. For a long moment Arabella looked into his face, then she bent to brush a kiss against his brow.

  “I’ll take him ter my pallet, mistress,” Ena offered.

  “Aye.” It would not do for him to hear William of Dunashie bed her. “Aye,” Arabella repeated. With nearly numb fingers, she fumbled at the lacings beneath her arms. “Go on—I can tend to the rest. I’d be abed ere he comes.”

  “Yer hair …”

  “ ’Twill be no hard task to undo it. Please—I’d have Jamie gone ere he comes.”

  “God aid ye, mistress,” Ena murmured. “May the Bastard prove a better husband than the last.”

  The woman had scarce left ere there were loud shouts on the stairs. Panicked, Arabella pulled the threads from her braids and combed the ripples with her fingers. For a moment she considered whether to scramble between the sheets or to await her new lord as she was, unlaced but still clothed. The door burst open, taking the choice from her, and half a dozen men thrust her husband into the room. Gone were his shoes, his velvet tunic, and his fine linen undershert, all apparently pulled off by others. The ties of his chausses were hanging half-undone, as though he’d put up more of a fight over them.

  “God’s bones, but ye’ll have ter school her!” someone shouted from behind him. “She isna abed!”

  William turned on them, growling, “I’d nae hae ye see her—off with ye.” When a Byrum man reached around him to tug at the chausses, he pushed him toward the door. “I’d nae want to crack heads tonight, but afore God, I will,” he warned the rest of them. “Off, I said—there’s still ale aplenty below.”

  Amid much grumbling they backed down, and as soon as the last one was on the stairs William threw the heavy bar over the latch. Turning back to her, he could see she was as pale as her hair. And he did not blame her for it.

  For all his eagerness, he was unsure now. She was not Berta, ready to lie beneath him for King David’s pennies. She was Arabella of Byrum, the wife who’d bear the sons of his body, a gentle-born woman. And by the looks of it he’d have no easy task, for she wore again the expression of a cornered animal. Afraid his perceived roughness would frighten her more, he willed himself to speak again like the gentle-born.

  “ ’Tis cold,” he observed finally. “You ought to be abed ere you take a chill.”

  “There was no time,” she answered simply.

  “Your woman …”

  “I sent her with Jamie.”

  Jamie. The bastard she’d borne Aidan of Ayrie. He’d not wanted to think of that, not now when she came to him. But she’d spoken the words, and he could not help it. When she lay with him, would her thoughts be of Duncan’s son? Would she remember another, mayhap better lover? He had to delay, to put that from his mind.

  “While you ready yourself, I will build up the fire,” he decided. “I’d not have you sicken.”

  At least he was not going to throw himself on her forthwith. “I could warm some wine for you,” she offered. “Papa keeps a honey pot and spices here that he would not share, but surely this night …” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

  He’d had enough already, but it would give him time to gain her acceptance. “Nay,” he demurred, “but I’d not stop you, and you wanted some for yourself.”

  She opened the small cabinet and drew out the precious spices Nigel reserved for himself. Taking out a cup, she dared to pour into it her father’s best wine, that which had come from faraway Aquitaine. After liberally sprinkling powdered cloves, ginger, and shaved cinnamon over the dark liquid, she stirred a spoon of honey into the mixture. Dipping her finger into it, she tasted for sweetness, then added a little more, taking care not to get any of the waxy comb. She carried her cup to where he readjusted the burning logs.

  “Is it hot?” she asked, waiting for him to hand her the poker.

  “Aye. Be careful that you do not mark yourself.”

  She blew the ashes from the metal rod, then thrust the end into the wine. The liquid hissed, and the aroma of the spices floated into the air. “Art certain you’d have none?” she asked.

  “Nay. I’d not be a sot for you this night.”

  She sipped, then moved away gracefully, her gown swishing stiffly. It, the sizzling poker, and the popping fire were the only sounds in the room. “To your health, my lord,” she said quietly, lifting her cup.

  “And yours also,” he answered soberly.

  For William, the minutes seemed to be measured by the beat of his heart. She was his—he had the right to take her. He waited for her to drain the cup, then his hands shook as he reached to take it from her. “ ’Tis time we were abed,” he decided finally.

  “I’ll warrant ’tis,” she agreed, looking away. Sweet Jesu, she thought desperately, I’d not do this. But it mattered not now, for she had not the right to refuse him.

  He felt like an awkward boy who faced the spinning quintains for the first time, not knowing whether he would hit them or make a fool of himself. Nonetheless, he set the empty vessel down and moved behind her. His fingertips traced the line of her shoulder where her hair fell away. “Would you that I aided you?”

  She stood very still, feeling as though she would break if she moved. The big man behind her was a stranger. And now he would bed her. Her whole body went cold.

  “Nay.”

  He was aware she feared him, and yet he knew not how to ease her. He tried with words. “Arabella, I know I am not what you would have, but ’tis done,” he
said. “And as we are bound by the oaths we have given, ’tis our task to give each other whatever happiness there is.”

  “Aye,” she whispered.

  Very gently, he turned her around. She stared into the dark red hair that curled against his bared chest. “You were wounded,” she murmured foolishly, grasping at anything to say, daring to touch the puckered scar. “I’d meant to ask … but I …”

  Her hands were like ice against him. “It has nearly healed. ’Twas my folly—I had it when Reyner of Eury captured Wycklow last summer.”

  She forced herself to look up. He was watching her, his hazel eyes warm, his mouth curved into a crooked smile. His auburn hair was tousled from where they’d pulled his clothes over his head. Despite his thirty-two years, he looked more the overgrown boy than the man, she told herself.

  “And your face? How had you that, my lord?”

  He felt the thin scar, rubbing at it. “I cannot remember taking this one—I did not note it until after the battle was done. For all the skirmishes I’ve fought, I’ve not taken many marks.”

  “Oh.”

  There was an awkward silence between them, until he could stand it no longer. “Arabella,” he said softly, “I am no ogre, I swear to you. I’d have your kiss again now.”

  The sand was running from the glass, and she knew it. This time, no matter what he did to her, ’twas his right. Telling herself she had to please him for Jamie, she stepped closer. Obediently, she reached for his neck, pulling his head to meet hers. His skin was hot and alive beneath her fingers. His arms went around her, holding her close, as she tentatively pressed her lips against his.

  It was all the encouragement he needed. His mouth sought hers hungrily, taking what she offered and more. His tongue tested, then plundered, possessing her mouth with an eagerness that overwhelmed. And despite the sendal gown, despite the linen undershift beneath, she could feel the rising of his body against hers. Panic rose in her breast, stifling her breath, and yet she dared not push him away.