Why, then, was theirs not a real marriage?
A crow cawed overhead. With a jolt, Cissy came back to the present, to this ruined tower of the castle, where she stood, where the wind blew sharply. No, she did not understand her husband. After Christmas he had never again taken a meal with her. It did not help that Mrs. Chisholm had left for Baden-Baden before the New Year and that Cissy was again all alone. By now she had not seen her husband for weeks. Sometimes, though, when she looked out the window in the evenings, she saw a flickering light dancing along the ramparts. Surely this must be him—for who else in this castle would sulk along the ramparts in the darkest hours of the night?
All that was left to her was fleeing into the reassuring world of stories, to lose herself in the lives of fictitious people.
She sighed.
The wind blew so cold: it was time to go back inside.
Chapter 14
Cissy wandered along the hallways, deeply engrossed in her book, a collection of modern fairy tales she had found on the shelves of the Wolfenbach library. She had started to read it in her room, yet the chair there wasn’t comfortable enough to curl up in and spend an afternoon reading. So she had decided to move back to the library instead.
“Waldeinsamkeit,
Die mich erfreut,
So morgen wie heut
In ew’ger Zeit,
O wie mich freut
Waldeinsamkeit.”
Woodsolitude,
Brings joy to me
Now and tomorrow,
Forevermore,
What joy to me,
Woodsolitude.
Cissy sighed happily. Oh yes, she could well envision the little hut among the birch trees, the small dog running toward the wanderer in greeting, and the magical, beautiful bird which sang of woodsolitude all day and night.
Woodsolitude,
Brings joy to me…
And to me. A bright smile lit up Cissy’s face.
Indeed, she had come to love the hum of the trees at night, the dark, mysterious forests of her new home country, where old castles held old secrets and told of strange stories.
What joy to me,
Woodsolitude.
Eagerly, she read on about how Bertha came to live with the old woman in the forest and how she cared for the little dog and wonderful bird. Cissy almost walked past the door to the library. Without taking her eyes from the letters in the book, she fumbled for the door handle and pushed it open—and held her breath. For now Bertha discovered the secret of the bird: it laid eggs which—
“Ouch!”
The door had clicked shut with one of Cissy’s fingers still in between.
Her book fell to the floor. Cissy yelped and cursed and finally managed to free her finger. “Oh drat! Oh drat! Oh drat!” Flames of pain licked up her arm and made her breath catch in her throat. Whimpering, she cradled her hurt hand and bit her lip to keep from crying.
“Celia?”
Breathing heavily, she turned. Her husband stood in front of her, a frown on his face. His features swam in and out of focus as tears obscured her vision. How vexing to see him again like this, just when pain was making her feel queasy.
His gaze dropped to her hand, then rose back to her face. “Have you hurt yourself?”
“I…” Cissy’s lips trembled. “The door…” She raised her elbow and pointed, yet suddenly a wave of dizziness assaulted her. Her stomach lurched, and as she sagged to her knees a deep humming filled her ears.
She gasped.
A strong arm snaked around her waist and hauled her up—up against her husband’s tall body. Her cheek came to rest against his hard chest. Sandalwood-scented warmth rose to engulf her, and the strong, steady beat of his heart mingled with the whistling in her ears.
“Don’t faint on me, sweetheart,” he said.
It was strange, she thought dizzily, to hear his voice rumbling in his chest and to have the resonance of those deep tones tickle her ear. Then her world lurched again as he hoisted her in his arms and carried her over to the settee.
“Just close your eyes,” he murmured with strange gentleness.
Everything was whirling around her, and the humming in her ears grew louder and louder, but had he really just brushed his lips over her temple?
Carefully, he placed her down on the settee. He reclined beside her, and the next thing she knew was that her head rested on his thigh, while he held up her legs with her ankles—and, thankfully, the hem of her dress gripped in one of his hands.
With a squeak, she opened her eyes. “Fenris…”
“Shhh.” His free hand cupped the side of her face. “Close your eyes and relax. You’ll soon feel better.” His thumb stroked in soothing circles over her temple and sent delicious shivers through her whole body, despite the throbbing pain in her finger. Indeed, she almost forgot all about her finger as she relaxed against him. With a small sigh, she sank into a sea of new sensations: the hardness of his thigh against her head, the feeling of his hands holding her. They were so large and strong! She could easily feel their strength, a curious contrast to the tenderness of his touch.
His body emanated cozy warmth, and if it hadn’t been for the dull pain, she could have lain like that forever. So comfortable, and yet exciting.
Her heart did a curious little jump. Her breath caught. She moved her head restlessly against his thigh.
“Shhh.” His fingertips lightly stroked her brow, her cheek, while his breathing grew a little ragged. As if in answer, her breasts started to tingle.
“Ohh.” She sighed and subtly arched her back.
The caress of his hand stopped. Fenris cleared his throat. “Are you…feeling any better?” he asked.
“Marvelous.” She blinked and smiled up at him. Oh, he was terribly handsome, this husband of hers—in a dark, deliciously rugged way. A hint of color accentuated his cheekbones. His gaze skittered away.
“Well, then…” He helped her sit up. “What exactly happened, anyway?”
“I crushed my finger in the door.” She raised one shoulder and rubbed her chin against it. “I was reading and didn’t pay any attention.” Smiling wryly, she looked up at him, willing him to share the small joke. He gazed fixedly at her hand.
“Does it hurt a lot?”
“Oh, well…” She held up her hand to inspect her finger. What she saw made her grimace. “Eww.” Half of her nail was crushed, and a little blood had welled up.
“Let me see.” He cradled her hand in both of his. “Och, your poor finger,” he murmured, his voice gruff. And then he bent his head and, very, very carefully, kissed it.
The world rumbled to an abrupt halt. The moment lengthened until it seemed to stretch into eternity.
In utter astonishment, Cissy looked down at his bowed head. She could see where his hair lay in black curls against his nape. His lips were soft on her skin. They opened, and his warm breath whispered over her knuckles. He made a small sound deep in his throat, and then he turned her hand around and pressed a lingering, moist kiss into the center of her palm.
Cissy’s heart jumped. The world resumed its normal pace, quickened even, and the blood still whirled in her ears.
Fenris’s lips wandered to her wrist, found the thin, delicate skin over blue veins. The nip of his teeth made her breath catch in her throat.
“Fenris.” A whisper of sound. Her whole body tingled, and she yearned for…she knew not what. “Fenris…”
But then, he stopped.
He kept his head bent over her hand. Cissy looked down on his tousled black hair, watched how his shoulders moved with his ragged breaths. For a moment this was the only sound to break the silence.
Finally, he exhaled a long sigh. He pressed another, but fleeting, kiss on her palm and raised her hand to hold it against his cheek. Her fingers curled a little. Their tips rasped over his stubbly skin.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
And with that, he stood and hurried out of the room.
~*~
/>
Stumbling, Fenris rushed up the stairs, away from his wife, away from temptation. God, he had done it again. He had again lost control and kissed her, touched her. Gasping, he halted in front of his study and leaned his face against the cold wall, the coolness of the stone soothing his hot skin. He closed his eyes. Lust drummed a wild beat inside his temple.
The delicious weight of his wife’s head on his lap, her silky soft hair spilling over his thighs. The vulnerable arch of her throat, creamy white skin, so very fragile. And—oh!—the gentle swell of her breasts.
How he had wanted to close his hand around one smooth globe, to free it from the restraint of her stays, to test the weight of it in his palm. What color would the nipple be? Would it be large and pale, or small and dark like a cherry? Sweet like a cherry…? Fenris softly groaned.
God, how long had it been since he had touched a woman? Nine years? Ten? Too long, certainly. Too long—
A sweet little melody cut into his reverie. He opened his eyes and slowly turned. In the middle compartment of the grandfather clock, the dwarves were merrily hacking away in their mine. Click-clack, click-clack. The melody stopped, and the dwarves halted their efforts. With a whirring sound, the eight on the face of the clock turned inward and revealed the King of Dwarves looking yearningly up at the sheep while the clock struck three. Long after the king had disappeared and the door of the middle compartment had closed, Fenris was still leaning against the wall and stared.
Ten years. It had been ten years since he had last touched a woman. And she had been a whore with disgust in her eyes. His body had repulsed her, and despite the money he had given her, she had not been able to hide it.
He gave a strangled laugh.
What had his brother said? What right did the King of Dwarves have to court the fairy princess? “He’s just an ugly old dwarf, after all. The likes of him shouldn’t go around courting fairy princesses.”
The likes of him.
Wearily, Fenris closed his eyes.
No, he had absolutely no right to bother a fairy princess. Not when all he could hope for from her was pity.
~*~
“All right, so first he pretends he wants to eat up my hand and then he mumbles an apology and races out of the room? Like he kisses me and then races out of the room and avoids me like the plague forevermore. Argh!” Cissy threw up her hands while she marched up and down in her room. “It doesn’t make sense! He doesn’t make sense!” With a sigh, she stopped. “Drat that foolish man!” Impatiently she rubbed at her finger, which—apart from a curious numbness in one spot—no longer displayed any unpleasant reminders of its encounter with the door a few days ago. Which was more than could be said for her peace of mind. That had been completely shattered by the event. Or rather, by what had happened afterward. Even more so than by the light, fleeting kiss he had given her under the Christmas tree.
Exasperated, Cissy blew an errant strand of hair out of her face. No, the incident of the settee had more than shattered her peace of mind; it had turned her into a goosecap! Into a hare-brained ninny!
She shot a guilty look at her wardrobe, the deepest depths of which hid the dress she had been wearing that day. The unwashed dress. The dress to which still clung—given, very faintly—the scent of sandalwood.
Groaning, Cissy buried her face in her hands. “A maggot-headed loony, that’s what you are!” she mumbled.
She had hidden the dress carefully, so Marie, the maid, wouldn’t find it and give it to the washing. She had hidden the dress, so she could scramble out of bed at night, tiptoe to her wardrobe, take the garment out and bury her nose in it to inhale that sweet, elusive scent.
“Ooooh!” She let herself fall back on her bed. “Henbrained pea-goose!” she told the canopy.
But oh, how he fascinated her, this husband of hers. She even liked the growling part, when he was bristling with anger and looking very much like a real demon wolf. Yet she had also caught glimpses of a gentler side. Her favorite memory was probably the Christmas tree hunt, when he had trudged patiently through the snow, an axe thrown over his shoulder, while Mrs. Chisholm had ordered him and his valet from tree to tree. They had all looked like snowmen themselves, bundled in thick layers of clothing, caps drawn down over their ears, and their cheeks bright red with the crisp wintry air. And despite his nondescript, rather shabby black coat and woolen cap, Fenris had looked so dashing.
Cissy heaved a sigh.
How he had strode through the forest, handling that axe as if it weighed no more than a feather! Tall and dark, he had walked like Thor himself.
She frowned.
Well, if Thor had been dark-haired and handling an axe instead of a hammer, that is.
“Hmm.” She wrinkled her nose. Earnestly regarding the canopy, she put her folded hands on her belly and pondered this particular problem. Tall, with raven-black hair like…
…like…
Her face lit up.
“Lancelot du Lac!” Triumphantly, she rose up to lean on her elbows.
A moment later her face fell.
Lancelot du Lac, who had betrayed his king with the queen.
She groaned and flopped back onto the pillows.
No, not Lancelot.
Merlin?
No, Merlin had ended up being caught under a hawthorn tree because he was so bedazzled he didn’t see through Nimuë’s treachery.
Cissy rolled her eyes. Perhaps men were totally jolter-headed beings in general.
Which would account for the fact that she hadn’t had a wedding night yet and that her marriage was not a real marriage. Since it was the only one she was ever likely to have, however, she wanted to make it work. Yes, this was not a love match, but surely some sort of companionship was not too much to ask for. Yet she would get neither wedding night nor companionable marriage if all she did was lie around and think up ridiculous similes. Inappropriate, ridiculous similes on top of that!
Cissy sat up.
No, she would not languish like one of those insipid storybook heroines waiting for a large bell to fall on her head. Or for the wicked uncle to come chasing her with a wickedly sharp knife. No, she would take a large frying pan and bang it over the wicked uncle’s head—in a manner of speaking. She would take action.
Determined, she scrambled down from the bed and shook out her skirts. If she wanted to get her wedding night, it stood to reason she needed to find out what generally happened on wedding nights. Not that she didn’t have a vague idea. After all, she had lived in the country for most of her life—she hoped, though, that intercourse between people did not too much resemble the mating of sheep. Having somebody jump about on your back must be terribly uncomfortable, and as far as she could tell, the female sheep had always looked utterly bored by it all. As if they couldn’t get back to grazing soon enough. Poor sheep.
Cissy took a deep breath. Yes, she had a general idea of what happened on weddings nights. But she was more interested in the details, the…trappings, which it seemed that she couldn’t count on her husband to take care of either. Of course, her forwardness might be considered terribly improper. In cases such as hers, however, impropriety seemed to be a much better option than, say, a bell on the head. Indeed, one might even go so far as to say it was her wifely duty!
“So…” She rubbed her hands. She knew where she would start looking: the library. For each library—as everybody knew quite well—stocked certain books which usually remained hidden from curious eyes. Several years ago, she had found one such book under her brother’s bed. It had been in French, which had had her wondering because her brother’s French was not fluent, to say the least. But then she had seen the illustrations and had realized her brother didn’t hide this book under his bed for its literary merit. Unfortunately, somebody coming up the stairs had seen her shove the book back under the bed before she’d had time to study the pictures properly. The next time she’d looked, the book had vanished and she had never found it again.
In a library as big as W
olfenbach’s there should be something to make up for it.
Cissy marched to the library.
~*~
For two days, she searched the shelves. She found a treatise on the diseases of sheep; a copy of Kristian Franz Paulini’s Heylsame Dreck-Apotheke—who would have thought that the stuff apothecaries sold as ‘White Gentian’ was in truth dried doggie poop?—a book called Helle Barden—was this about bards, or about weapons and the author orthographically challenged?—and, wrapped in a bit of sackcloth, a late medieval tome totally covered in mold. But there were no hidden compartments, no interesting French books with even more interesting illustrations.
On the third day, Cissy finally admitted defeat. Wherever the men of the House of Wolfenbach hid their secret books, it was not in the library. Thoughtful, Cissy tapped her finger against her cheek.
No doubt, she needed help. And there was only one person whom she could ask.
She hurried back to her room and got out quill, ink and paper. Dearest friend, she wrote. She tickled the end of the feather over her nose. The wording needed careful consideration, for who knew who else might read these lines! After all, she didn’t want to provide amusement for any fool at some German censor’s office. She sighed, and eventually continued, I hope this letter finds you well. I have abided by your advice, yet the circumstances of my life here are no different from what they used to be before your departure. I am impatient for change, however, and eagerly await your further advice on the matter. Yours, &c.
Carefully, she sanded and sealed the letter, before she wrote the address in sweeping lines on the back. “Voilà!”
Softly humming under her breath, she went in search of Rambach and gave him the precious letter to put into the mail.
~*~
A week later, a package arrived from Baden-Baden. Gleefully, Cissy brought it upstairs to open it in the privacy of her room. Even though it would have been rather difficult to find many prying eyes at Wolfenbach. Still, better to be safe than sorry. She recalled the tale of the farmer knight who took only half the dragon’s hoard, so he wouldn’t get a curse laid upon it. Of course, with dragons’ hoards it was probably safer to keep far away anyway. After all, the theft of a single golden cup might cause the downfall of a whole nation.
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