by Jillian Hart
“Then why do you sound exhausted?”
“Weary, not exhausted.” He gazed out at the spreading hills and vales, the fresh green fields and thriving forests. “I believe Edward was right. I was not aware how I needed a home until I first gazed out this window.”
“’Tis a beautiful sight.” She spread a thick glob of healing salve on Malcolm’s wound. A small amount of warmth gathered in her heart.
Although the injury looked raw and terrible, he didn’t wince at her ministrations. “I have not looked upon beauty in so long it hurts my eyes.”
“There are beautiful women at court. I’ve no doubt you took what appealed to you.”
“There are many types of beauty.”
She felt the muscles of his back work beneath her fingers. He twisted to look at her, his eyes speculative. “Elin, I’ve taken only what has been offered me.”
“You are like all men. You can take what you want and do not have to wait for an offer.”
“Nay, I am not like all other men.” Was he laughing at her? She could not tell by the sparkles in his eyes, for his mouth was downturned. “I am not Caradoc.”
“’Tis true.” A great sentimental tenderness ached in her heart. “Some men are more brutish than others.”
“I suppose I am brutish.” He chuckled and faced the window. “Do you worry about sharing my bed this night?”
“What?” Heat stained her face. “I have no worries.”
“Truly?” He quirked one dark brow.
“Truly.” She firmed her chin. What would he think of her if he knew she was terrified?
“Good. Then you’ll not mind if I chain you to the bed.”
“Sweet Mary! You’re not so different than Caradoc!”
“I only tease, dove. Next time I ask a question, tell me the truth.” He chuckled, and the warmth of his skin and the ripple of muscle grazed the whole of her hand.
She felt the wondrous heat of his textured male skin. ’Twas as if her flesh had caught fire from this simple touch. His shoulders towered over her, spanning the width of the window. He was steel hard and hot male everywhere, of that she had little doubt.
He both terrified her and captivated her. Her fingers ached to explore more of him, and to know the beautiful side of this man. It was the memory of her father taking the serving maids at his pleasure and laughing at their tears of pain that kept her from rubbing the heel of her hand up the corded marvel of his spine.
“Tonight I’ve ordered a celebration.” His voice rumbled beneath her fingertips as she wound the clean bandage around his ribs. “The men fought hard for this victory, and they deserve a night of merriment.”
“It seems hardly fitting, seeing the ruin of the village.” She gave the bandage a hard tug.
“’Tis why the freemen and the villeins will celebrate in the bailey. Pleasure will be had by all.”
“Not by all.” How grim she sounded, how full of censure.
Mayhap she was worrying about the marriage bed. “You do not enjoy celebrations?”
“When there is aught to celebrate.”
He twisted to see her face, half shielded by the fall of golden curls. Flaxen light sheened like precious metal, brushing the curve of her cheek and jaw, and drawing his gaze to her mouth. He wondered what her kiss would taste like. Not sweet, he would wager, but bright and smoky like a new candle’s flame.
He took her small hand within his. “You led the knights into the keep. You terrified the mercenaries with your crossbow while the men stormed the castle. You helped assure our victory.”
“I merely showed you the gate in the wall.” She shrugged, a lithe movement of one slim shoulder, and withdrew her hand. “And I learned there are men so powerful and strong I could never defeat them.”
“’Tis a warrior’s truth and not just a woman’s.” He gritted his teeth when she began to wind a second strip of cloth over his wound. ’Twas not the pain that troubled him, but the silken glide of her hand over his skin. She felt like morning sunlight, gentle and warm. An answering warmth thrummed in his groin.
“There is no man greater in strength and courage than you.” Her hands stilled, resting innocently on the curve of his ribs with a taunting bliss. “You are invincible.”
“I’ve taken my losses, dove.” Fie, but he was hard as stone with the way her fingers brushed, light and shy, upon his body, which hadn’t known a woman’s caress in far too long. He screwed his eyes shut. Need gathered, and he vowed not to act upon it—not to draw fragile Elin into his arms and bury his aching shaft into her sweet body.
He gritted his teeth, forcing his thoughts to the evening to come. “Grant me a boon and dress well for the occasion. You’ve redeemed yourself in the eyes of my men, and they wish to pay you their respect.”
She stepped away, her work complete, and stared down at her tunic, men’s clothing she still wore from the night of battle. Pink flared across her cheekbones. “I hadn’t thought. Of course, I look ugly.”
“Nay, just like a warrior.”
“I suppose you think as my father did, that not even a gown could transform me, that I am naught but an embarrassment.” Her throat worked and her chin came up aggressively.
But the sadness in her eyes threatened to undo him. He’d been harsh without meaning to. What was a trained knight to do? He wasn’t suited to this. But Edward needed him to manage this woman and the holding that bore her name, and he would do his best.
“Not so.” He took her hand gently, although he felt awkward. “’Twill not kill me to sit beside you at the feast. As long as you leave your herb basket in your chamber.”
“Aye, but I may bring the oakwood berries just for you.” She smiled, a gentle curve of those enchanting lips, but the sadness in her eyes remained.
He called for her maid and issued orders. He watched Elin sweep down the corridor to the chamber at the end, farthest from his. The torch flickered as she went, brushing her with the beauty of flame. She shimmered with a brightness that both lured him and made him afraid.
His harshness had driven every woman from his side. But he would try harder, for Elin.
Color and light surrounded him. Festive costumes, bright candles and music like heaven’s smile transformed the great hall into a merry place. Yet he didn’t feel a part of it. The light did not touch him; the music did not move him.
“Have some of the king’s finest wine.” Ian pressed a golden chalice into Malcolm’s hand. “He sent it as a gift, and that shows how much you’ve pleased him.”
“I’m best suited for work behind a sword, not a baron’s title.” Malcolm studied the bloodred wine and inhaled its richness. His mouth watered but his stomach turned, and he could not drink.
“The kitchen wenches are said to be in a frenzy preparing a feast fine enough to celebrate this victory and the great knight’s health.”
“Stop teasing, Ian. I’ve little to celebrate.”
“You live, and that is a great cause to celebrate.” Ian’s brashness faded to that of a concerned friend. “Giles is still distressed. I have tried to reassure him, but he blames his own weakness for the wound in your back.”
“I was charged by five men and he was no less engaged.”
“Aye, but he will not forgive himself. He is even now in the chapel, and in such anguish the poor priest has given him penance in hopes it might ease his misplaced guilt.”
“I shall speak with him.” Malcolm set aside the goblet. A murmur rose through the crowded room and drew his attention toward the wide doorway. A woman in a gown of sunlight and flame emerged.
Malcolm hardly recognized the warrior dove. A bath had transformed her and erased the exhaustion and smudges of dirt from her cheeks. Without her loose tunic and usual defiance, she looked like the maiden she was, young and vulnerable.
The gown she wore emphasized her delicate build. The neckline was cut low to show the ridges of her collarbones and the satin of her creamy skin. A braided gold girdle hugged her lean hips. She was like the very sun, s
o bright she shadowed the great hall and, from what Malcolm could see, all the world.
“Lady Elinore.” Ian reached her first, bowing to show his respect. “Let me be the first to pledge my honor to you, the wife of our great le Farouche. You led us into the keep to ensure a victory over Rees the Great. And you tended our lord with care through his deadly injury.”
A cheer rose through the hall, a roar so great it echoed like thunder and brought a blush to Elin’s face. She looked to Malcolm for help. She did not lap up the attention like a cat placed before a saucer; she did not preen like any number of women he’d known.
He reached for her hand. When she placed her cool fingers in his, a heat sparked between them. The cheers and applause increased, so there was no point in talking. She couldn’t hear him if he tried. ’Twas a good thing. In truth, he simply lost his voice looking upon her. He had never gazed on such beauty.
He led her to the table, captivated by the way candlelight burnished her locks and wove her tresses with gold. She caught him watching her and bowed her chin self-consciously, the way sunlight hid its brilliance behind clouds.
He held up a goblet of Edward’s wine. The cheering faded as his men did the same, awaiting his toast. “My lady and I owe you, my loyal knights, great thanks. If not for your courage, we would be sleeping upon the hard ground and making a meal from what we could catch in the forest.”
Chuckles rumbled through the room.
“I am grateful for your help in seizing this castle, in the past days working to guard it and in aiding the vassals of this holding. Many of us have been driven wherever duty has dictated, but now we have a place to defend and call home. We will no longer be fighting for our living, but for our own peace and prosperity.”
More cheers erupted, and Elin did not need to wonder why Malcolm instilled such loyalty in his men. Her heart ached with a strange feeling, and she could no longer say she hated him. He gleamed like a dark knight of legend. She could not force her gaze away. Then he laid his hand on her wrist and ordered the page to serve his wife first—an astonishing show of respect.
“Your gown is becoming.” He leaned close to speak only to her, and his breath skidded along the back of her neck like blazing heat.
Her heart twisted. “I do not embarrass you, then?”
“Nay.” His broad shoulder brushed hers, kindling sparks of flame. “There are many kinds of beauty. Yours is one of them.”
He had to be jesting, but his sincerity touched her like a long-yearned-for comfort. Tears prickled behind her eyes, and she held them back. By the rood, she would not develop a weakness for this man of might and majesty. She would not.
Sex with him would but hurt. This is what she told herself when the meal was followed with a minstrel’s performance. The merriment did not touch her as she worried over what was to come. Malcolm was such a big man, fearsome in size and strength. And tonight, as he remained at her side, she had no doubt what he expected from her.
He had been jesting over chaining her to the bed, but she’d learned from her mother that there was no amusement for a wife surrendering to her husband.
She remembered her mother’s tears, the horrible sounds of pain whenever Father visited Mother’s chamber. Her sorrow had sifted through the thick stone walls and, even now, a dozen years later, Elin could still hear the sound in memory.
Would Malcolm make her cry? In truth, he did not look so harsh now, with his hard features relaxed and the candlelight gentle upon his rugged face. He looked younger when he laughed, and the harsh lines carved around his eyes and mouth faded. His lips might not be punishing.
’Twas a small hope, but she clung to it. Mayhap mating with him would be brief. Her mother’s cries had not lasted long. The physical pain would end, and then afterward he might hold her in those rock-hewn arms. He might gaze at her as he did now, with a look that made her feel worthy.
And yet, wouldn’t the humiliation linger?
“You look weary.” Malcolm’s hand covered hers in a grip both gentle and binding. “We can leave the men to their merriment. Come, let me take you to your chamber.”
She stood on wobbly knees. Fear beat in her chest and she struggled not to weaken. She took the stairs slowly, heart beating, unshed tears gathering in her throat. Just how much would it hurt?
Malcolm pushed open a chamber door. Her chamber, not the solar where their marriage bed awaited. The air wedged in her chest. She watched her husband bend to light a candle. Flame reached into the corners of the room and illuminated naked lust for her in his eyes.
Her stomach fluttered. She took one step away from the bed.
“You have naught to fear from me. I left my chains in the dungeon.” His fingers cupped her chin and tipped her head back, drawing her gaze to his.
When he brought his mouth to hers, she was powerless to move away. His was not a wet, slimy kiss as the one Caradoc had imposed upon her once, before she’d unsheathed her blade and ended it. Malcolm’s kiss did not make her stomach clench and sicken.
Nay, her husband’s lips were satin strength upon hers. His kiss was not bruising, but spiced like mulled wine. The caress of his mouth on hers was dry like a touch, not sloppy with saliva. In all, it was a kiss she could tolerate over and over again.
He broke away, his eyes glazed, his breath short. His gaze fastened upon her bed. His throat worked, and she could see the tendons in his neck cord and strain. Then he released her.
“Sleep well, dove.” He pressed a kiss to her brow. To her amazement he left and closed the door behind him.
Mayhap he hated her kiss. Mayhap when his lips met hers, he felt the same repulsion she’d experienced with Caradoc.
Good. She hauled the gown over her head and sat in her shift, tears of confusion hovering. She was glad he didn’t want to touch her. Her nights would not be spent crying like her mother had, trapped on a mattress beneath a man’s strength.
And yet Malcolm’s kiss had been tender. Tender, not hurtful. She sat at the window much of the night and watched the waning moon move against the spinning wheel of stars and sky.
Chapter Ten
Malcolm took the back way through the keep, avoiding the great hall, which rang with the sounds of drunkenness and ribaldry as the men still celebrated their victory. He kept to the shadows. The corridors were dark and silent.
“Giles?”
“Malcolm.” A shadow moved among the carved wooden pews. The slivered moon cast faint light through the hues of the stained glass, but ’twas not enough to illuminate the knight climbing from his knees. “My lord, you should be in bed regaining your strength.”
“I am well enough. You were not at the celebration.”
Giles hung his head. “I’ve much to answer for.”
“Stop blaming yourself. We were under attack and outnumbered.”
“You protected my back, but I did not do the same for you.” Sorrow knelled in those words. “I almost got you killed.”
“’Twas not your fault, Giles. Cast aside this misplaced guilt. Now, before you scare off the priest.”
“I failed you.” Giles ambled forward, a strong man weighed down by his imagined shortcomings.
“We fought fifty men, and forty-nine you kept from my back. There is no shame in that. If you had received the wound, would you blame me for it?”
“Nay, there were so many….” Giles paused. “I see where you lead.”
“Good. There is still some of the roast pig left. Quit this fasting and go celebrate with your men. I command it.”
The knight’s throat worked; he opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it again and left. The sound of his boots faded with every step.
Malcolm turned to leave, but the peace of the sanctuary drew him back. The empty chapel felt alive with light, even in the overwhelming darkness. Mayhap it was the shift of soft moonlight upon the gleaming red and yellow glass that drew him toward a pew. He’d not been to church since his capture in the Outremer.
’Twas a place o
f light. Even at night, the darkness seemed different, less bleak.
He retreated back into the shadows in the corridor. His wound hurt, and he paused to catch his breath. He was still restless when he spotted the light glowing beneath Elin’s closed door.
Aye, how he wanted her. The brush of her lips had been tentative beneath his, unschooled and surprised. He’d not expected to feel such a surge of desire for her. She was all he would not choose in a woman—willful and stubborn and disobedient.
And yet the sight of her thickened his blood and teased at a lust deep within. At a lust that grew and raged as he remembered how she’d looked this night in her dress of sun and flame. Her breasts were ripe and full, and how gracefully her hips had teased that gown!
Fie, but he grew hard thinking of it.
She was his to possess. All he had to do was walk through that door. It was his right. Blood thrummed through his groin and ached in his straining shaft.
She was but a maiden, and he a man of the night. ’Twas a combination he’d known far too often. He thought of another woman, also delicate and gently raised, and how his heartlessness had wounded her.
Even the bravest candle burned itself out giving light to the darkness.
A call from down below spun him around, and he took the winding stairs as fast as his wound would allow. He burst into the great hall, seeing at once the disheveled knights heading for the towers. “What is amiss?”
“My lord! I was on my way to warn you.” Ian skidded to a halt on the rush-strewn floor, breathless and grim. “Just now we’ve learned a party approaches the castle under the cloak of night. An army of several hundred men—”
“What men?” Fury drove Malcolm toward the stairs. He’d had enough challenges for this castle. Who else in this land did not want to see him a baron? For none was more loyal to Edward than he.
Ian dashed after him, concern sharp in his voice. “My lord, you cannot fight with that injury.”
“Is the drawbridge up?” He would make sure his castle was well defended, wound or nay.
“Those were my orders to the men on duty.”
