How to Marry Your Wife

by Stella Marie Alden

  She pulled her hand away, but he held her fast. She kicked him once in the shin, then he captured her legs between his and snickered.

  “Why couldn’t we stay safely tucked away with Ann at The Meadows? Do you care so little for my safety?” She pushed and squirmed, but it did no good. His rock hard body would not give way.

  The hands caressing her shoulders twitched and his voice grew tight. “I care too much.”

  “As always, you’ve an odd way of showing your favor. I wish I’d never been blessed with it.” She rolled away, but he tugged her back into him. Dear Lord, he smelled like heaven and the folds between her legs screamed for attention when his swollen pintle nudged her behind.

  “If we’re not going to join, then go to sleep. Already the night songs have ceased, and the male cardinal begins his wooing. We’ll talk more about this in the morning.”

  Sleep? With that male thing nudging at her arse? And what good was a tent if a wolf should venture by and chomp an arm off? Best to stay awake than live the rest of her life with only one hand.

  The early dawn brought no cheer, no light, and only more rain. The ground was soaked under her and strange noises outside had her jumping out of her skin more than once. She released the grip on her knife and rubbed the stiffness from her hand.

  Not having Tom’s bright shining face to greet her in the morning only made her mood more bitter, if that was possible. Lying beside her, Thomas stirred, so she closed her eyes and feigned sleep. She’d never, ever, speak to him again. How dare he separate her from her home and drag her off like one of the camp whores. Those women certainly kept busy. Yet again, thumping and grunting sounded from a nearby tent as her husband stood and donned his inner shirt.

  “I know you’re awake. Come and eat, then we leave.”

  She moaned and raised her head off the furs. A headache pounded at the back of her neck and linen pinched her thighs, where he’d bound her too tight. “Why’re you doing this to me?”

  He squatted down beside her and lifted her to her knees. “You’ll warm my bed at night, and my heart by day until we heal what time has broken.”

  “How can we mend that which lies in pieces, like pottery smashed onto a stone?” She wouldn’t look into those eyes. Like iron to a lodestone, she’d be drawn in, and unable to ever let go. Instead, she busied herself dressing in her still-damp clothes and shivered. Would that she could just go back to sleep, cover up in furs, and be left for dead.

  Tears dripped from the corners of her eyes and she squeezed them shut. Damn him. She’d give a king’s ransom just to be dry again. Or to go home. Or to see her son’s bright smiling face.

  He knelt next to her and solid arms brought her into his bare chest. Feathery wisps of hair tickled her nose. “Merry, Merry. I’ve loved you always.”

  And I you. “Then why did you leave?” She breathed in his musky aroma and let herself be comforted, if only for a moment.

  He kissed her forehead and helped her up. “’Tis a long tale, but we’ve a long ride ahead. Go out and piss. After you’ve finished, there’s a small barrel filled with rainwater. Drink, then wash with what’s left. I’ll pack up here. We’ll eat while riding.”

  He put his cloak over her, which was so long that she needed to hold it up to keep it from dragging in the mud. The lamb’s skin of the inside layer was miraculously dry. He gave her a firm shove out the tent and into the drenching rain.

  What a bossy man and never with enough instruction. Just where did one take a piss in this vast open land? Finally, she squatted wide next to the tent when no one was looking and let loose. She made sure not to urinate on anything of import. Obviously, women were not intended to travel, otherwise they’d have a spout like men.

  She found the water, drank, filled the cup again, and washed. She brought the cup into the tent for him. He smiled at her thoughtfulness and nodded. Their bedding was already rolled and stuffed into a pack. She reluctantly untied the string under his cloak so as to return it.

  He squeezed water from her cloak in front of her nose, tied it into a tight roll, and stored it with the rest of their belongings. “You keep that. From now on, you’ll need to inform me if you don’t have the correct attire.”

  “And how was I to know that wool does not suffice in a day’s downpour, having never been tortured so?”

  He turned with one eyebrow lifted, then shut his open mouth. After a moment, he said, “Before I remove the oilskins on the ground, lie down and lift your tunic. We must re-bind your thighs before we go.”

  “I’m not a child. I can do it myself.” She dared him with a glare to say more. Where was that joking jester from just two days past? This man was gruff, and bossy, and arrghgh, just too much male. Her head pounded with an ache that would no doubt be the death of her.

  He frowned, tossed her a roll of linen, and watched with his arms crossed over his chest. “Go ahead.”

  “Are you going to watch?” She unrolled the linens and cut them with her teeth.

  He glared back. “Would you have me wait outside in the rain?”

  “Fine. Turn around.”

  “Listen, Merry …” He approached with palms open.

  “No, you listen. You’ve forced a marriage upon me and are dragging me off to Scotland. Och’aye ask only that you divert your eyes, laddie. Canna you do just that much?” Her aunt’s dialect in her own voice surprised her to the core. Thomas had driven her to the edge of madness.

  He bowed with one corner of his mouth raised and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “As you wish, lassie.”

  Cursing the wretchedness of her life, she unwrapped the linens around her thighs. The skin was red and raw, like a piece of mutton, but nothing festered. Her liar of a husband squatted beside her and handed her the devil’s spawn salve from the day before.

  “Should I do it or you?” He held the odorous pot to her nose.

  She swatted at it. “Neither, I don’t need it. ’Tis better without.”

  Without a word, nor asking permission, he clutched her upper thigh and administered the hellish greasy ointment. She kicked at his iron-like body. “Christ’s Blood. I said no. I want to go home. Can’t you see? This won’t work. I don’t love you anymore. I don’t even like you.”

  He glared with daggers in his dark eyes and turned from her in silence. Within minutes, the oilskin floor was wrapped into a small roll and the tent came down. He was soaked by the time they were both seated upon Demon. It wasn’t right he’d given her his cloak and a niggling guilt hit her. Only a little, because it was his own damned fault.

  She wondered if Marcus had made sure Tom and Marc were safe and dry. No doubt the boys were tucked inside a wagon, happy as larks, playing at dragon slaying.

  As water poured off from Thomas’ nose, her heart loosened a mite. She tugged at the rough hemp tie under her chin, and pulled the cape off. It took a bit of maneuvering, but she was able to place the hood over his head and make sure they were both covered from the rain. She had to snuggle close, but if she were honest, his warm body soothed her broken soul as well as heated her chilled body. Tears welled in her eyes. She could never, ever, let him know how much she still cared for him.

  He said nothing, but tucked her closer into his chest with one arm as they rode forward into the never-ending fog. Who was this silent man? Where was the ever-jester? She cleared her throat, wishing for his interest, but his eyes remained focused on the road and his mouth grim. Every so often, he whistled under his breath, the charger’s ears twitched, and the silent command was obeyed.

  Finally, the stillness became deafening. “What is it that you want from me?”

  “Nothing that I can have, obviously.” Thomas clucked a soothing sound and patted the black charger’s neck when he nickered.

  Even the horse got more sympathy than she. “What did you expect, leaving me like you did?”

  With her ear to his chest, the small growl no doubt sounded louder than he intended. “I expected to find my woman w
illing to wed me. We hand-fasted, did we not? As for my departure? I had no choice. The king commanded we leave immediately, as did Marcus, my liege lord and yours.”

  “All those years. Never a word?” She struggled to move such that she could straddle the horse, or at least squirm out of his grasp, but he held her firm.

  “Didn’t Marcus tell you of my mission? How far it would take me?” Taking one hand off the reins, he pinched her chin and lifted it, such that she had to meet his gaze.

  “Yes, but …” She diverted her eyes to the dizzying view of the ground that still passed quickly under Demon’s gait.

  “But what? Damnation. Look at me.” His dark eyes pierced and he pulled the truth right out of her.

  Tears formed in the corners of her eyes and she brushed them away. She’d promised herself long ago that she’d never cry for him again and already she’d turned into a weeping well. She wiped her face on his Templar tunic, leaving a muddy mark. “He never mentioned your intentions toward me.”

  “I made them clear that night, as did you. I grasped your hand in mine, we wrapped the required six colored yarns around our forearms. I told you I would hold your life dear to me forever and you did the same. In my mind, we were married. Apparently, ’twas not the same in yours.”

  She pushed hard against his chest as the thumping in her heart increased. How dare he make it sound as if this mess was her fault? But it was, was it not? She moaned. “Hold that thought. Try, for once, to see circumstances from my point of view, oh brilliant lord and husband. Without a witness, our hand fasting wasn’t legal, especially when I began increasing. With two willing priests in the village who could perform the sacrament of marriage, hand-fasting was hard to defend. Even Marcus and Ann took some convincing. You’ve no idea what I’ve endured.’”

  He sighed and kissed her forehead. “For that, I truly am sorry. I fully expected to come back from the faire in London and wed you. Do you believe that much?”

  “But why didn’t you send word in six years, Thomas? Six years.” She gave him a sad smile. The rain let up and he let the hood drop away, but she stayed close and inhaled the scent of him; leather, horse, and something sinful.

  He cursed. “In all that time, did you not receive even one missive? One of my many gifts?”

  She thought hard and one precise memory presented itself. “A small mechanism came, just around the time of the second full moon after Tom was born, but it bore no note from whence it came. When one turned the crank, a tune was played. My name was carved onto the wood base, but that’s all. I always hoped it came from you.”

  Thomas groaned, cursed the swollen stream in front of them, and turned their entourage around. He spoke to the dark man, his first in command, and they doubled back. When they continued onto another larger road, with more riders upon it, he said, “Did you look inside?”

  She waved at a cart full of children and iron wares. “No. Why would I?”

  “I assumed you would show it to Marcus or Ann?”

  “No.”

  “Why in hell’s eternal heat did you not?” He shouted and his men’s heads turned.

  She equaled his tone and volume. “Christ’s wounds. It’s the only gift that I’d ever received and I needed to believe it was from you. I couldn’t bear to know if that wasn’t the truth.”

  His voice lowered and his hand stopped clenching at the reins. “Do you still have it?”

  “It’s with my few possessions in the caravan that follows. Why?”

  Rolling his eyes to the heavens, he continued. “My love. In it is what your heart desired to hear. I knew that the lady Ann and Marcus wouldn’t be able to resist looking inside to see the mechanism within. ’Twas there I hid gold for your keeping and a long parchment of my intent.”

  A dark cloud blew over and the rain began anew. She ducked under his vast cloak. “By then, even Marcus decided you must’ve died. That’s why he was planning for me to wed with his widowed brother. I was to be wife to an Earl.”

  He growled. “So, that’s it. Now you’re stuck with me when you could’ve been nobility?”

  “No. I’m trying to make you understand. I’m the mother of a bastard son.”

  His arm tightened around her waist and his voice lowered to a dangerous hiss. “Never say that. Never. We were hand-fasted. And by God, the boy is legal. Enough talk. I find you vexing and the road demands my attention.”

  She wondered at his vehemence, but would ask later. She shivered and hugged closer to his body. A large hand tucked her tighter to him and caressed her behind. His male scent, so close, brought a myriad of memories. The first night they’d sat at dinner. Marcus and Ann had retired early and Thomas had asked her to sit beside him. How dashing he was and how proud she’d been to stop serving, and instead be served to.

  Some of the other girls had sent her jealous daggers with their eyes, but Jolene and Martha, her best friends, gave little salutes.

  She hadn’t been dressed for sitting at high table, but he’d never noticed. She’d looked away from his stares, but a fingertip caught under her chin, forcing her eyes to his. The man who seconded the Beast of Thornhill wasn’t to be trifled with, so she dared not disobey.

  She had gasped when he’d cut a small piece of meat and made it linger in front of her mouth. If she took the bite, she’d be all but announcing their betrothal and she’d never even spoken to the man.

  Time stood still and the room grew quiet. All that gathered watched. Marcus was upstairs abed with his new bride. Beads of sweat rolled down from under her arms. Never had she taken such a risk before. She opened her mouth and let him feed her.

  His grin had grown wide and he kissed the back of her hand. “What’s your name?”

  The horse stumbled, Thomas cursed, and she was forced back to the present. Another angry river flowed in front of the stone base of what probably used to be a bridge. He whistled shrilly twice, doubled back, and met with his ten mounted men.

  “We’ll need to take the Roman bridge about three miles north. Harold? You report back to Marcus. Tell him the road is blocked just south of New Market.”

  Before he could ride off, Merry shouted. “And bring me back the mechanism from my wooden trunk. It’s wrapped in blue wool.”

  When they were on their way, he grew even more quiet—his body stiff and his mouth a thin grim line. His grip, instead of comforting, was more suited for holding a prisoner.

  She unclasped his fingers from her outer thigh, where he kept her tight to him. “O, for the love of all the angels in heaven, what angers you now?”

  “What if the letters are long gone, will you doubt my word still? I’m a patient man and generally one of good humor. You seem to relieve me of both. Maybe you’re right and we’re no longer suited.”

  She gasped. She’d only wanted to read gentle words from him, not doubt his honor. No matter what came out of her mouth, it was wrong. Mayhap best to say nothing at all.

  Chapter 8

  The Huntingdon Inn’s sign, a keg and a pig on a pallet, swung on a frayed rope beside the front door. As a Templar, Thomas could’ve asked for an overnight at the nearby priory, but such places had pigeons and he wanted none of that. Best to be known as a ne’er-do-well merchant and eat with the peasants, rather than end up a target for thieves.

  Merry slept soundly, tucked close to his body. With the tension gone from her angelic features, she could be the girl of six and ten summers he’d left behind. His gut wrenched as if hit by the blunt edge of a sword. Since he’d spoken crossly to her earlier in the afternoon, she’d not said a word.

  What was a man of honor to do? Since arriving home in England, his integrity had been questioned at every turn and it chafed. He’d spent the last six years honorably in the service of his masters. He’d brought home enough wealth for three generations and he’d done it all for her. What did a bastard son have to offer a woman of good birth? If he’d not taken the opportunity when presented, it would’ve been given to someone else
. No doubt someone less able, as well. Damn the woman. She understood nothing.

  She moaned, her hazel eyes stared up at him like they had long ago, and she licked her lips. Her chest heaved and fingertips dug around his frog-belt way too close to his rising interest. The drum in his chest thumped. Victory was close at hand, but not by battle. Oh no, by stealth and cunning. In her sleep-ridden state, she’d let go a major secret that would turn the tides of this war. She still wanted him; she just didn’t know it.

  Not willing to let an opportunity slide by, he lifted her head and placed his lips to hers. Sweet holy mother of God. She tasted of figs and spring, of life and longing, and he wanted more. Much more. He resisted the urge to drag her into the forest and pump his swollen pintle into her until she cried out for more. Instead, he brushed his lips over hers again and again until her arse, still cupped in one arm, tilted forward.

  The working men, dirty from tilling the land, laughed, muttered a few coarse phrases, stood, and stared.

  “Haven’t you ever seen a merchant kiss his beautiful bride? Alas. Mayhap not. Those with ugly wives, I’ll buy a round of ale to nurse your misfortune. Meet me inside.”

  He turned to his men, who’d already dismounted with wide grins they didn’t have the decency to hide. “That goes for you, too. That is, except for Jacob.”

  She gasped as her eyes opened, blinked twice, and her face reddened to the shade of the posies that grew in the Sultan’s gardens. Struggling, she tried to sit up and slip out of his grasp.

  His man jumped to attention and held up his arms. “Pass her down.”

  His pintle throbbed in pain as she squirmed upon it. How long could a man stay hard without it breaking, he wondered as he dismounted. Jacob took the reins and walked with his squire to the stables, directly under the inn.

  “My whole lower half is numb.” She attempted a step and stumbled.

  Thomas grabbed her small waist and righted her. In the past, he’d cure the ache below his belt with a quick round with one of the camp women that traveled with them or perhaps a willing tavern wench. But the thought of anyone else under his body turned his stomach. He wanted his wife. His Merry. None other would do.