by Speer, Flora
The door in the solar wall opened without a sound. As he stepped into the lord's chamber Arden took note of the well-oiled hinges on the door, and of the cleanliness around him. No taint of dust or mildew or dampness greeted him, only the clean fragrance of lavender and of some other, more complex scent that he could not at first identify. The room was warm.
Arden wondered whether he ought to praise Sir Wace for insisting that the private rooms be kept in good order while the master was away, or criticize him for allowing the servants to burn charcoal in the brazier of an unoccupied chamber. Still, after his long, cold ride, he was glad of the unexpected heat.
He stood just inside the door for a moment, letting his eyes grow used to the darkness, which he quickly discovered was not entirely devoid of light. The charcoal in the round brazier gave off a slight glow and, though it was well after midnight, the window embrasures admitted streaks of pale light around the edges of the shutters, the pearly-white reflection from the snow that lay thick upon the ground and that blew through the air on gusts of howling wind.
Soon Arden could see well enough to make out the large form of the curtained bed to the right of the door. A low shape near the brazier appeared to be a bench and there was a table next to the bed with an object on it that showed a faint gleam in the dimness. A metal candlestick, perhaps.
Arden decided he did not need a candle. His eyes were adjusting enough to show him where he could leave his clothes. He had guessed correctly about the presence of a bench. He went to it, to drop upon it his belt and sword. The point of the scabbard scraped along the floor when he let it go. He thought he heard another sound from somewhere in the room, but the wind blasted at the shutters just then, rattling them hard. Arden shivered at the sound. He hated the wind.
He listened for a moment, then decided the wind was all he had heard. He knew he was letting down his guard, a mistake that could have cost him his life elsewhere, but he was in his own manor, the sentry at the gate had assured him that everyone was long abed and asleep, and he was simply too weary to investigate.
Lowering himself to the bench he pulled off his padded gambeson, his linen undershirt, and his hose, leaving the garments where they fell. He wished he could have a hot bath to ease the muscle aches that were the result of riding for too many days without enough rest, but a bath would involve waking the servants and making explanations for his unexpected presence. Arden did not want to talk to anyone. His bath could wait until the morrow.
Naked as the day he was born, Arden hastened to the curtained bed. From the evidence of careful housekeeping he had observed so far, he assumed he would find a quilt there to keep him warm after the charcoal in the brazier had grown cold.
He found more than a quilt. The bed was made up with linen sheets. He could feel their smoothness under his callused fingers. The sheets were covered by a well-aired, sweet-smelling quilt that was plentifully stuffed with feathers. And the sheets were warm. Not questioning what he found, Arden slid into the big bed with a sigh and stretched out his long legs. He stretched again, luxuriating in unaccustomed comfort.
His foot touched another bare foot.
He went perfectly still, awaiting a response. A sleepy murmur and a soft rustling came from the other side of the bed. Silence followed. No threat, no blade at his throat or plunging into his heart.
But Arden did not expect a threat. He knew – had known from the first instant when his toe made contact with the slender, delicate length of that foot – the other occupant of his bed was female. She was also deeply asleep, for after her first disturbed sounds she evinced no further sign of wakening.
Arden's immediate reaction was curiosity. His next reaction, following close upon the first, was surprise that he should be curious. It had been a long time since he experienced anything more than a vague, mild interest in the everyday life that went on around him. Women, in all their various manifestations, he treated with polite indifference. So it had been for five cold and empty years, and so it would continue to be for the rest of his life.
Still, he did wonder who was occupying his bed. Within the shadowed recesses of the bed, with its curtains drawn close except upon the side nearest to the brazier, Arden could see little but varying shades of gray and black. Ah, but he could touch, and beneath the sheet he reached out a hand toward the unknown woman. He made contact with what was undeniably a gently rounded, feminine hip.
The sleeper did not respond. Compelled by an increasing curiosity, Arden let his hand stray down over a silken thigh and a firm calf to a neatly turned ankle and then, finally, to the slender foot that had been his initial discovery. He skimmed his hand quickly upward again, barely touching her hip and the sweet indentation of her waist, to settle upon a high, small breast.
He knew he ought to remove his hand from her. Even if she proved to be the manor prostitute – and he could think of no reason why such a creature would be alone in the lord's bed and not out in the barracks plying her trade among the men-at-arms – were she the most willing female inside the manor palisade, still, Arden had nothing to give her. He had kept himself from women for years, and he would leave this woman untouched. He would take his hand from her breast. He would do it now, at once. Yet he could not seem to lift his fingers from the rounded, yielding softness. Almost against his will, as if an impulse from another, earlier life was driving him, he pressed gently upon the smooth, warm flesh.
The woman stirred, murmuring something Arden could not decipher, turning toward him. As she turned, a wash of hair streamed over Arden's hand and arm. It was as smooth as silk, thick and straight by the feel of it, and it smelled fresh and clean. The scent rising from the warm, unconscious body beside him was a mixture of roses and gillyflowers, of lilies and of other blossoms Arden could not immediately distinguish. All he knew was that his bed partner smelled like an English summer day.
His weariness forgotten, his body beginning to rouse toward vigorous masculine life, Arden wound his fingers through the woman's silky tresses and drew her closer to him, even as he moved nearer to her. He knew how wrong it was to give way to a desire he had not experienced for far too long, and with an unknown female at that, but he was so amazed to feel the blood coursing hot and thick through his veins and to discover that his thoughts were plunged into a delicious turmoil, that he could not bring himself to fight against what was happening to him. Later, he could regret what he was about to do; for the present, he wanted only to hold her.
She came to him unresisting at first, to rest her head upon his shoulder. Arden breathed in deeply, inhaling the complex fragrance of many flowers and the warmth of her. She murmured again and placed her hands on his chest, her fingers working their way through his body hair to touch the flesh beneath. Arden shivered at the intimate contact. And then she spoke in a drowsy, pleading voice.
“No, my lord,” she whispered. “Please, not tonight.”
Her accent was that of a well-bred noblewoman, not a common wench at all. Arden told himself he should have guessed as much by her cleanliness and sweet scent. From the way she spoke as if he was familiar to her, he realized the unknown woman in his arms was still more than half asleep and unaware of who was holding her. From out of his past a fragment of youthful humor woke and seized control of his tongue, banishing his usual taciturn bitterness.
“I have never taken a woman who did not want me, too,” he said, keeping his voice soft so as not to startle her. “However, since I found you in my bed, I did assume you were willing.”
Unable to resist the impulse while knowing it was wrong and wicked, he let his lips linger on her cheek, upon skin smooth and soft as any rose petal. In another moment he was likely to tell her so, to whisper the compliment into her ear.
Before he could speak again he felt her stiffen and knew she was coming out of sleep into awareness. Her hand pushed against his chest as if to separate them.
He recognized the exact instant when she came fully awake....
Chapter 7
> Margaret wakened only slowly. Perhaps influenced by her unease of earlier in the day and by her possession of unwelcome knowledge, she was locked in a dream – not a pleasant dream, either – and her dreamlike state persisted in a paralyzing way that made it impossible for her to protest what was happening. A foot touched hers and a hairy limb stretched itself against her smoother leg. Margaret knew from her marital relations with Lord Pendance exactly how a bare, hairy male leg felt when pressed against her own leg.
She also knew this was just part of the dream, for in it she was back in Pendance Castle, on one of the nights of her ten-year-long marriage, when her elderly husband had come to her bed and rubbed his sinewy leg against hers, while his talon-like hands groped at her breasts and her belly. She remembered a bony knee being thrust between her thighs, to force them apart so he could push his cold fingers into her most private feminine places, to be quickly followed by the only part of his body that was not cold, but was always damp and clammy, nonetheless. Margaret experienced a sudden, chilling memory of herself lying rigid in bed in the dark, while Lord Pendance huffed and panted between her thighs before he fell across her, wheezing into her ear.
The leg that was pressing against hers drove those unhappy memories out of her sleep-dulled mind and her half-dream, half-waking experience began to take on a new texture. Hard muscle shaped both calf and thigh of the leg, and the hair, though dense, was soft when the man rubbed against Margaret's skin. Furthermore, the fingers stroking along her side were gentle. When they reached her breast and paused there, to cover her tender flesh and knead it, the touch caused no discomfort.
Unless the unexpected flare of heat deep inside her could be called discomfort. Never having felt anything like it before, Margaret did not know what to call the heat. The man's fingers brushed across her nipple several times, in a way that seemed to her to be quite deliberate. She felt her nipples harden while the warmth inside her increased with his careful, yet determined motion.
Only several hours later, when she was alone and thinking more clearly, did it occur to Margaret that any woman truly bent upon spending her life in a convent should have protested what was happening with all the outraged courage of a nun whose virtue was threatened. At the time when it occurred, she did not know what to do in response to the intimate caresses being lavished upon her. These were not the cold, grasping claws she remembered, but a young man's hands, calloused, yet strong and warm, and pleasantly firm where they touched her.
Margaret was not used to being handled so gently or so sweetly, and the man's touch did seem to be a part of her dream which, in the peculiar way of dreams, had shifted with startling abruptness from resigned acceptance of an unpleasant duty to surprising sensual delight.
Then, to her relief – or was it to her regret? she was not sure which – the man's hand left her breast to wind through her hair. She put out her own hand to his chest, finding it broad and well muscled when she stroked it in sleepy pleasure. He drew her closer and for a moment she did not resist. Something in her longed to be held tightly against his hard, masculine strength. In her heart she was certain, nonsensical though the notion was, that the unknown man who shared her bed would never hurt her.
In the next instant dreams both pleasant and unpleasant vanished as Margaret came wide awake and fully aware of what was happening. Unable to move, with her breath choked in her throat so she could not cry out, she desperately tried to determine who the man was. She knew at once it could not be Sir Wace. The honest seneschal of Bowen would never commit such an assault upon her person. Nor was it one of the men-at-arms, who seldom bathed. The intruder in bed with her smelled of leather and horse and a certain manly aroma, but he did not reek of months of old, stale sweat, nor of ale and the onions and cabbage consumed at the midday meal, as men-at-arms were wont to smell.
Who was it, then? What man would dare to climb into bed with a woman he did not know? A man who thought he could pay for his pleasure, of course, but men desiring that sort of entertainment looked to the kitchen wenches or the prostitutes who lingered about many noble households. Though Margaret had not noticed any obvious prostitutes during her single day at Bowen, still, it was a simple fact of life that wherever there were men-at-arms, there were women willing to sell their favors. But not in the lord's bed, in the lord’s absence. Not in a quiet, well-managed establishment such as Bowen Manor. Only the lord of the manor, or a favored guest, would dare to sleep in the bed Margaret was presently occupying.
The lord. Had Royce, the baron of Wortham, decided to ignore the winter weather in order to make one of his regular inspections of his son's manor house? If the man was Royce, would he understand why Margaret had defied her father's wishes and fled Sutton Castle for Bowen Manor? Would he forgive Catherine and Aldis for helping her? Would the baron of Wortham then agree to conduct Margaret to a safe convent, or would he return her to the father who held her in low regard and who would surely wreck severe punishment upon her for spoiling his latest scheme to gain more land and power? Most important of all, would he believe what Margaret was obligated to tell him about her father's disloyal plotting?
Whatever the reactions of Royce of Wortham might be, no matter what he decided to do about her presence at Bowen or about the secret she must reveal to him, Margaret knew she could not remain in the same bed with him. Not for another instant.
All of these thoughts ran through her mind in the space of a mere moment or two. She decided she must speak at once. Her practical nature told her all that was necessary for her to do was explain the situation to Lord Royce. Then she would ask him to avert his eyes while she got out of bed and dressed, after which she would find another room in which to sleep, for she had no intention of ousting the baron from his rightful place. Catherine had told her that he possessed a finely honed sense of humor. Margaret could only hope he would find some amusement in his present position.
She took a deep breath, preparing to begin her explanation. Unfortunately, taking a deep breath brought her breasts hard against his manly chest, which did nothing to ease the continuing warmth that flared within her body. Nevertheless, she understood what her duty was and she forged onward with what duty required.
“My lord,” Margaret said, “a mistake has been made. I should not be here.”
“No?” came a deep, yet hushed male voice from a place entirely too close to her ear. “However, mistakes do occasionally happen, especially when people arrive unexpectedly.” He did not sound at all distressed by the embarrassing situation. Margaret would have been relieved by this fact, if only he had not chosen that particular moment to tighten the arm that held her close to him.
“You are most gracious, my lord,” Margaret said, trying her best to overcome the nervous quaver in her voice. “Had I known you were coming to Bowen Manor, I would have chosen another bedchamber. Catherine insisted I sleep here, you see. She said it was only proper for an honored guest. We did not expect anyone else, not with the snowstorm.” She stopped talking when a sudden change occurred in the man lying next to her in the darkness and the change impressed itself upon her awareness. She could feel a new kind of tension emanating from the unseen figure.
“Catherine?” the man exclaimed. “What the devil is my sister doing at Bowen Manor? Why didn't the sentry who let me in tell me she is here? Or is that what he was shouting after me as I rode to the stable?”
“Catherine made all the household promise they would keep my presence a secret,” Margaret said. “I can explain why we are here, my lord. Only close your eyes while I dress and then we will talk. I have much to tell you.”
“Why should I close my eyes when the room is dark as Hades?” he asked.
“Did you just say Catherine is your sister?” Margaret exclaimed at the exact same moment when he spoke. The full import of his previous remarks was finally sinking into her mind, past layers of embarrassment and concern over what the baron of Wortham would think of her for remaining so long in the same bed with him. And both of t
hem unclothed, too.
Margaret's face began to burn. So did her shoulders and breasts. Dear saints in heaven, she was blushing right down to her toes! For, judging by what the scandalous creature who was still rubbing his long, muscular leg against hers had just revealed, it was obvious she had made a terrible error.
“If Catherine is your sister,” Margaret cried, fighting her own muddled wits, “then you cannot be the baron of Wortham, for Catherine is his daughter.”
“Good thinking,” said the naked man in a dry voice that completely lacked any indication of humor. “A bit slow, perhaps, but under the circumstances, it's not surprising. I did startle you, I know, and you were deep in sleep.”
“Then, who -?” Margaret broke off her question, gasping in recognition. Only one other man belonged in the lord's bed at Bowen Manor. “You are Catherine's brother!”
“The same,” he said. “And you are?” he asked politely.
“Arden!” Margaret screamed, frightened at last. No, not just frightened. Horrified. Decimated. Destroyed. Embarrassed, heart and soul. Ready to sink through the floor and into the storage cellars far below. She opened her mouth to scream again.
The cry never left her lips. It was smothered by a large hand that clapped itself over her mouth. Margaret fought but, even in the darkness, it was evident that Arden was much larger than she. And stronger. She didn't have a chance of getting away from him. When she tried, he simply pushed her down onto the linen sheet and rolled over on top of her.
Margaret went absolutely still with shock. The difference between what she had known in the past and the heat of a young, naked man resting along the length of her own body was impressed upon her mind with a force she would never forget. Arden was hard and firm everywhere. Everywhere. He was lying between her legs and her hands were on his shoulders as she tried to push him away. Each breath she took, every effort she made to get free of him, only brought her trembling femininity into closer contact with his masculine strength. To her horror, she discovered that what she really wanted to do was slide her arms around his shoulders and pull him closer.
