She caught Severin’s gaze in a silent plea. She saw an answering flash in his, of dismay and warning.
“Raise her another bucketful,” Ruda ordered him, oblivious. “She’s got that much hair she’ll be drying it all night, and she’ll catch her death of chill if you don’t crack on.”
There was no way of protesting, not without looking very suspicious. They were pretending to be married, and that was that. Eloise did not even dare exchange another look with Severin as he hauled water for her and poured it into buckets. He tried to make himself scarce after that, but Ruda patted the bench by the door and insisted that he sit down with her and tell her all about where they came from. She wanted to know everything about their families. Eloise understood that the old woman was getting a lot of pleasure out of her guests. She liked the hawkish, scrupulously polite merchant and his pretty new wife, and her imagination was being fired by the passion she read into their relationship. It was a harmless thrill for the old woman—or it would be harmless, if it were true. As it was, she was pushing them up shameful paths. Eloise could feel her skin prickling and her heart racing.
The last sunlight of the evening lay warm over the yard as she knelt to scrub all the salt out of her hair with the crushed soapwort. And she was genuinely grateful for the chance to get clean, despite the chill of the water that made her scalp tingle and her nipples jut out against her shift in shock, despite the fact that Severin was sitting with Ruda by the back door, his elbows on his knees, making up some fantasy about their home and family in Boscia and trying not to look in her direction without making his discomfort obvious. She couldn’t help her smile as she wrung out her rinsed hair.
Then very carefully, trying her best to appear casual even though she burned with unease, Eloise turned her back and lifted her shift and skirt to wash her bruised and dusty legs down. She could imagine his eyes upon her and a flush of hot shame pulsed under her skin, crimsoning her cheeks. It filled her veins and flooded her sex, and when she reached between them she found it oozing out, slippery down the insides of her thighs. She was shocked by how wet she was. Thrusting the cold cloth between her straddled legs, she scrubbed at her sex and found no less shame but a sense of relief in the pressure.
The back of the skirt preserved her modesty in that at least, but there was no way to retain it while she changed clothes. Taking a deep breath, she tugged open all the lacing of her shift and let it fall to her hips, baring her breasts to the golden light. Her fingers felt stiff and clumsy now. Her sex was tingling from its cold bath and she could feel her swollen clit. Was he watching?
She’d woken briefly in the middle of the night, while it was still dark, when he’d rolled over and slipped an arm about her from behind. Too heavy with exhaustion to anticipate any danger, she hadn’t even been shocked. She’d simply welcomed the warmth and tumbled back down into sleep again—until he’d disturbed her at dawn by leaving and she’d seen what she should not. The memories, kept quietly pegged away at the back of her mind all day, woke again now, charged with a new urgency.
Was he watching?
Her skin looked the color of old cream in this light, her nipples pink and swollen like spring buds. Was it Severin’s gaze that was tracing that shiver up her back? She felt lightheaded now.
Ruda’s rasping giggle sounded across the yard. “She’s a rare pretty bit, your lass, isn’t she?”
Eloise froze, but if Severin replied it was not audible.
“But she needs a bit of flesh on her bones. You should get her plowed and planted soon, my lad. A spring baby grows best and strongest, I always say.”
“Better to see her safe home first,” Severin answered.
It stirred Eloise from her near-trance. She washed at herself with the wadded cloth, wiping away the sweat and salt crystals and flecks of bark. The gelid well water woke her skin and made her nipples pucker and harden even more; they snagged almost painfully on the new blouse she dragged over her head. The linen clung to her damp and sensitized flesh, but it was a relief to be able to stand in clean clothes. She loosened the ties of her skirt and pulled her shift off beneath it, before arranging her attire so that she was respectable once more. Wringing out the dripping ends of her hair, she risked a glance over her shoulder toward the two gossipers. Ruda was talking away happily, but Severin—she’d caught him mid-glance, his face set in a faint frown, his eyes fixed on her. The moment he saw her looking he dropped his gaze to the ground.
The thought that he might have seen something he shouldn’t filled her core with heat. Her nipples pushed against the rough cloth, aching. She looked away quickly, her mind churning. She wasn’t completely naive. She recognized the pleasure at the kernel of her guilt. But it was childish, she told herself, and vain. And very wicked.
Dropping the soapwort into a bucket, she walked slowly over to the farmhouse. Her feet dragged on the cobbles as if she was toiling through soft sand. What should she say, she asked herself? What would a woman say to her husband? How could she cover for the blood burning in her cheeks?
“That’s better, isn’t it?” Ruda said, beaming.
“Oh yes. That water’s bitterly cold though,” she added.
“Good,” he growled, lurching to his feet and striding away to the well.
Thankfully even Ruda didn’t have the brass to insist on watching Severin getting washed—though when she took Eloise into the farmhouse and set her to chopping vegetables, the younger woman had to stifle an unasked-for pang of her disappointed curiosity.
“Your man Sev,” Ruda mused, stirring the pot.
Eloise braced herself. “Yes?”
“He’s a dark one, isn’t he? Inside, I mean.”
You have no idea, she thought, but nodded shyly.
“You need to look after a man like that. He’ll haul the moon out of the sky for you, but he’s no friend to himself. That sort turns to drink if you hurt them.”
The thought of looking after Severin de Meynard—or indeed, of hurting him—made her shake her head, it was so incomprehensible.
* * * * *
Mithras and all his saints, he swore to himself. The girl…the girl in the evening sun, washing herself by the well. He had not needed that. He did not need the way that the inadvertent glimpses he’d caught were painted in his memory in the bright colors of an illuminated prayer book—her bare back, the motion of a hand, the wriggle of her hips, the water cascading from the curls of her long hair.
It should not have happened.
He should have kept better control of himself.
Luckily the old woman had noticed nothing. Wrapped up in her own version of events, she saw only a doting husband and a devoted wife. There must be sap in the old stick still, he told himself, judging by the juicy enjoyment she found in her fairy tale. After three days she let them sleep in the farmhouse, in her daughters’ old bedchamber. That was certainly a step up from the hay pile and the company of the cows. There was still only a single straw pallet, though, for them to share, and he did not doubt that the old woman lay awake every night with an eager ear cocked, hoping—in vain—to catch the creaks and gasps of marital congress through the rubble wall.
Their sleeping arrangements were strictly chaste though. Almost.
He found it discomforting that he woke every morning with his arms around the King’s betrothed. It wasn’t anything he did consciously—in fact back at Court in Kingsholme he had a distinct preference for sleeping alone. Those women whom he took to bed were sent away before he rolled over for sleep. And when he did forget and let them linger, he always woke on the edge of the mattress with his back turned.
The difference was, he supposed, that back home he had already got what he wanted from those women. That was far from the case with Eloise. Not, he reminded himself, that there was any chance of swiving anyone until he was back in Ystria, so he had better grin and bear the situation.
He was glad for the hard work. It helped take his mind off his body’s demands. When Eloise’s feet
were healed and they took leave of Ruda and set off on the road, he was equally grateful for the long miles.
The traveling was not as bad as Severin had feared. The girl didn’t complain, no matter how far they walked in a day or how little they had to eat. She threw herself with determination into the work they did to earn their keep at farmsteads, whether it was mucking out pigs or wringing laundry. She was admirably stoic, he thought, surprised. He kept expecting her pride to rankle at his command, or her courage to fail at what was demanded of her. She was an earl’s daughter, after all, and he was only a baron. She should by rights throw some sort of temper tantrum at some point.
But she didn’t. It wasn’t for lack of spirit; he sometimes saw the exhaustion or frustration or fear burning in her eyes. But always she bit down on it grimly and kept going. He rather admired that. It took courage.
She let him take the lead. When she did question him—and she did, often—it was to understand his intentions better, with the presumption that she had something to learn from him. She had cast herself instantly in the role of eager pupil to his teacher, and that was something he liked too. He was a man who throve upon responsibility. He had to laugh at himself then, realizing that a naïve girl had instinctively managed to undermine all his bitter defenses.
They were crossing a marshy patch in a river-valley when he discovered just how crumbled his fortifications were. From behind a patch of willow two swans flew low overhead, white wings beating, with a noise like the thrumming of a windmill’s sails. Eloise turned to him then with a smile so guileless and joyful that without thinking he responded with one of his own. He clamped down on it in a moment, but he was too late. Through that chink in his armor her smile flew to burst warmly in his heart.
Severin stopped in his tracks then, unable to walk for a moment. His stomach lurched. Eloise walked on ahead, unaware of the effect she’d had.
Oh no no no! he told himself, horrified but utterly in vain. Not now, after all these years. Not now, and not her. Not the King’s betrothed!
Chapter Three
Another farmstead, another night after a long day’s work. They were bedded down in the common hall with the other servants, on straw pallets laid behind the benches, and that night Eloise found it impossible to sleep despite her exhaustion. Maybe it was the aching in her feet and shoulders, or maybe the intrusive sounds of those others nearby. Someone was snoring. One couple was taking advantage of the dark to get some swiving in—she could hear a muted rustling, a rhythmic grunting coming from farther down the room. It made her feel strangely restless and lonely.
She had Severin there at her back, of course. He never left her on her own after the candles were blown out, for fear of what some bored and horny laborer might attempt on her. He was lying silently, his back to hers, a warm hard wall of protection. She wondered if he was still awake. His breathing was inaudible. She wondered if he could hear those soft giggles and gasps of desire and—if he could—what he thought of them.
Her body roiled inwardly. A familiar itch licked between her legs. Her eyes burned in her head, but she couldn’t sleep.
She knew what she needed, of course. At home in her old room all she would have to do was finger herself to a solitary climax and then slide down the afterwash into sleep. But she couldn’t do that here. Severin would notice.
Wouldn’t he?
Her hips twitched as she pressed her thighs tighter together. A pulse ticked in her groin. This was unbearable. The last climactic gasps of the rutting couple seemed to echo in her skull. Blood of the Bull, she cursed to herself. He wouldn’t know. She could do it quietly. She didn’t have to make any sound or thrash about or anything.
Very carefully she pulled her skirt up from where it was bunched at her knees, gathering it a finger’s-length at a time. She made sure not to make any noise. To slip her hand between her thighs she did have to shift her position slightly, but she disguised that with a sleepy wriggle. There—her fingers were tucked up against her pubic mound now. Delicately she reached in to the crease tucked behind, finding the moist groove of her sex and then her swollen clit. A shiver of grateful pleasure ran through her whole body as she lubricated that sensitive bud of flesh, and the restless ache was mollified at once. That was all she needed, that gently circling fingertip and time for it to do its work. She could be quiet.
But normally when she fingered herself her mind was almost blank, aware of the sensations only. She had few mental pictures to draw upon, after all—perhaps the memory of some handsome huntsman’s smile and bow as he rode by, or the thighs of some courtier in particularly tight hose. Or that footman rooting the scullery maid up against the wall—yes, that was a common theme. This time it was different. This time, unbidden, the picture of Severin working off his frustration that first morning in Ruda’s barn flashed into her inner eye. Eloise shivered inwardly, her heartbeat picking up. She had to force her breathing to stay steady as she recalled the firm grasp of his hand about his stiff member, the tilt of his chin, the thrust of his hips.
The burning glance he’d cast her way, not seeing her. But suppose that he had…
She knew she should stop, but it was too delicious.
And now other pictures bloomed, knit of memories and imagination. She saw herself sitting astride his lap, facing him, her skirt rucked up to her hips and her bare thighs spread upon his—his legs would be darkly hairy, wouldn’t they? She imagined her lips against his, his fingers plucking at the laces of her neckline, his hands caressing and cupping her breasts as he bared them. She felt the pucker and swell of her nipples as he teased them, the hot lap of his tongue on her throat. She felt him twine his fingers in her hair and use it to tug her head back—she’d always found a secret enjoyment in having her hair pulled—so that her back arched and he could bury his face in her breasts. Kissing. Sucking. Biting. She knew he’d be forceful and perhaps even a little bit harsh, and though she didn’t quite understand why, that thought made her blossom wetly. He’d slip his big thick cock between her open legs and deep inside her, thrusting as he mouthed her breasts, bouncing her in his lap, until he spent his seed in a white gush—
She fell then, breathless and silent, every muscle locked immobile, the thunderclap of her orgasm inaudible to everyone but her, but leaving her ringing like a lightning-struck bell.
A moment later and she was back in the real world, prickling with anxiety. Had she made any noise? Had Severin noticed anything? The man in her fantasy and the man lying behind her seemed impossible to reconcile. Eloise felt a rush of blood to her face that wasn’t just post-coital heat but genuine embarrassment at her shameless recklessness.
The pulse hammered in her ears and she could hear nothing beyond it. No movement from Severin. No snorts of derision from farther afield. Fiber by fiber she let her muscles relax, feeling the pulsed afterglow of her orgasm warm her from head to toe, and letting those waves wash her out into the great dark sea of sleep.
* * * * *
They stopped to eat and sat looking down on a rocky valley, so bright in the sunlight that it made their eyes water to look at it.
“You know,” said Eloise, between bites of bread, “there is a part of me that doesn’t want to get back to Court. That wants this to go on.”
Severin was sitting a little behind her and she couldn’t see his face. Nor did he make any reply, though she was aware that he’d stopped rooting through their pack and gone still.
“I know it’s hard, but this is beautiful,” she mused. “And I like the walking and…and everything. Even the work. Well, some of it.” She came back to herself, suddenly aware of how unguarded had been her words. “I know, it’s childish of me.”
“No, I understand,” said Severin very carefully, and to her relief. “Our goals are so simple; find food, find shelter, move on, stay alive. There’s a clarity to this that you won’t find back home.”
“People have been good to us.”
“We’ve been lucky.”
“Maybe t
he Mendeans are not as bad as everyone says.” Like you, she might have added. You are not as terrible as you are painted.
“Believe me, if they knew who you really were, they wouldn’t hesitate to sell us to the authorities.”
“Maybe you’re too cynical.”
“No. I just know more than you do.”
She swiveled to look at him, mildly irked. But she couldn’t afford to annoy him, and she found another outlet for her desire to argue. “You should tell me about the Court, you know.”
“Should I?” Now that his trimmed beard had grown out to rough stubble he looked a lot less like a courtier and very much more like a man one would avoid in a tavern. There was always a calculating glint to his dark eyes. And yet he’d treated her with more fairness and courtesy than she had expected, given the stories about him. And he didn’t mind answering her questions. She’d discovered that much.
“If I’m going to live there I need to know who is who. Whom I should trust. That sort of thing.”
Severin smiled grimly. “Whom you should trust? Well then, all right. Let me tell you about the Royal Court. There are two types of people there, mice and snakes—and some of the mice aspire to be snakes. You avoid the snakes as much as possible, and you don’t trust anyone. At all. Not your most intimate of friends, not the handsome young knight who turns your head with compliments, not the most respectable of clergymen. Because if they are not using you, then they are being used by someone else.”
She wasn’t capable of hiding her dismay. He overrode her faint protesting noise.
“You asked me to forewarn you. So remember this—no one at Court will treat you without ulterior motive, except for the King. You’re young, and you’re vulnerable to the wayward passions of young women, so if you want to survive you must hold on to one thought. No one there will love you for yourself, except Arnauld. No one. He is your only hope.”
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