Shadow of the Swan

by Judith Sterling

  “My hope is for you to trust me. We’re little more than strangers, and I don’t like it.”

  She crossed her arms. “It suits me well enough.”

  “Well, it doesn’t suit me. You’re not holding up your end of the bargain.”

  “Meaning?”

  He took a step closer. “A spiritual marriage is still a marriage. Two people bound together, creating a life they can share. We agreed on our wedding day to be friends. A fortnight later, you fake sleep and shrink from my very presence. Why?”

  “I do not fake—”

  “You do! Let’s at least be truthful about it.”

  She avoided his gaze, and guilt tugged at her heart. Then she pushed back her shoulders and regarded him again. “You’re right. I have been feigning sleep. I just…”

  “What?”

  “I cannot trust…”

  “Me?”

  With a sigh, she dropped her arms to her sides. “Any man.”

  “That’s what I thought. And that’s why we’re going to bathe together. You’ll see me naked, and I’ll see you. And when I don’t pounce on your flesh, you’ll believe in me.”

  She eyed the door, intending to flee, until his words penetrated the fog of fear that shrouded her. She turned back to him. “Is my belief in you so important?”

  His gray gaze held her where she stood. “’Tis everything.”

  He meant it. She could tell by his manner. His reverent expression. The tremble in his voice.

  She wanted to trust him. He’d given her a home. Protection. A safe marriage from which most men would shy away. She owed him the chance to prove his word.

  “Very well,” she said with a nod. “You first.”

  His smile was so genuine, he looked like a little boy. Until he disrobed. His muscles flexed as he removed his tunic. The swath of dark chest hair narrowed as it trailed down his torso and disappeared beneath his breeches. With the pull of a string, the breeches dropped, revealing his flaccid manhood and the thatch of dark hair that surrounded it.

  Speechless, she stared. He was beautiful, in clothes and out of them.

  “The beast is unleashed.” Humor touched his voice. “And lo! All is well.”

  She tore her attention from his crotch and met his gaze. His smile was infectious. “I suppose so.” Her gaze dropped again. “A beast, you say? ’Tis more like a limp fish.”

  He guffawed, and his hand flew to his chest. “You cut me to the core, my sweet.”

  Her heart fluttered. “Yet still you call me sweet.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “No.” I rather like it.

  “Come now, doff your clothes. Our bathwater grows cold.”

  She nodded. “You have a point.”

  Grinning, he glanced downward. “Not yet I don’t.” Then his dimples disappeared. “Did I say that out loud?”

  She gave him a meaningful look. “You did, and I think you know it.”

  He held up his hands. “Just trying to help you relax. List, you could’ve removed ten ladies’ garments by now. On with it.”

  By all the saints! She turned her back. With quick fingers, she removed her headdress, then her shoes and stockings. Next came her blue overtunic, followed by the lighter blue inner tunic. All that remained was her chemise. She swallowed hard and stared at the stone wall.

  “Go on.” He had a lovely voice. Deep, steady, and reassuring.

  She sighed inside. Just doff it! Hastily, she pulled the chemise over her head and threw it on the floor.

  Her backside had never felt barer. He must be gawking. Mayhap he approaches. I have to know!

  She whirled to face him, but he hadn’t moved at all. His gaze, however, traveled the length of her body, lavishing attention on her breasts and her sex.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, then dropped one hand to shield her most vulnerable part. The heat of shame flooded her from head to toe.

  “Don’t,” he croaked.

  “Why?”

  “You are a miracle of beauty.”

  Her arms dropped to her sides. No one had ever spoken so. Not to her, nor of her. Jocelyn was the one who commanded men’s awareness. Even at the first flower of womanhood.

  She frowned. “You sound sincere, but…”

  Wide with wonder, his eyes sought hers. “Trust me when I tell you, you are desirable. ’Tis time you accepted it.”

  His manhood demanded attention and drew her gaze. Long and engorged, it pointed upward. She gasped and took a step back.

  He looked down. “Aye. A limp fish no more. ’Tis a natural reaction to your beauty, and it cannot lie. It proves my sincerity.”

  “I trow it does.”

  “Now come hither.”

  Her chest tightened. “What?”

  “Walk toward me.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “I would prove another thing.”

  She hesitated, then forced her legs to move. The closer she went, the larger his erection appeared. Just shy of their toes touching, she stopped.

  Heat, palpable and potent, emanated from him. “Thank you, Constance. How easy ’twould be to take you in my arms and have my way with you. Yet I refrain. Why?”

  She blinked. “Because you’re a man of your word.”

  “Indeed. Please remember that. Now, into the tub with you.”

  A mixture of relief and trust flowed through her, even as she turned away. But there was another feeling—faint but fighting to be heard—as she approached the tub: disappointment.

  Ludicrous! He proved his honor, and now I can rest easy. She stepped into the left side of the tub. “’Tis still warm.” The soothing water swallowed her as she sat down.

  Robert claimed the opposite side, and the water swooshed as he lowered himself to sit. “Ah. Nothing like a warm bath. Shall we wash our hair first?”

  She nodded. “Oh! My braid.” She pulled the long plait over her shoulder and unraveled it.

  “You have beautiful hair.”

  She met his gaze. “Another compliment?”

  “Another fact.”

  “Thank you. And you…are handsomely built.”

  He flashed a smile. “I’m pleased you approve.”

  Averting her gaze, she slid down into the water to wet her hair. He did the same, and one of his hairy legs brushed the length of hers. ’Twas an odd sensation. Intimate, yet strangely agreeable.

  With her hair drenched, she sat up. Robert was already upright and staring at her chest. The instant she noticed, he looked away. She reached for the bowl on the board between them, scooped a portion of soft soap, and worked it into her hair. The scent of roses filled her nostrils.

  She glanced at her husband. His gaze was riveted on the fire, and a muscle worked in his jaw.

  “Robert?”

  He turned to her. “Aye?”

  “The soap is yours.”

  “Right.” He plunged his fingers into the bowl, then lathered his wet hair.

  After a minute, she sank back down to rinse her long locks. When she sat up again, her gaze fell on Robert. Still as a statue, with arms upraised and hands on his head, he watched her.

  Heat filled her cheeks. “The soap is running toward your eye. You should rinse.”

  He blinked. “Aye. I should.”

  As he slid down into the water, his foot grazed her calf. A part of her welcomed the contact.

  She shook her head. What is wrong with me?

  When again he rose, his shiny, wet chest claimed her focus. But only for a moment. She lowered her gaze and grabbed a washrag. He followed suit, and they bathed in silence.

  At last, she finished and dared to look his way. “Why are you so quiet?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why are you?”

  “’Tis the first time I’ve bathed with a man. What’s your excuse?”

  “’Tis my first bath with a wife.”

  She frowned. “But you have bathed with a woman?”

  “Why do you ask? Are you jealous?�
�

  No. Mayhap. “I’m merely curious.” She stood and seized a drying cloth in one quick motion. Too aware of his eyes on her, she stepped from the tub. In her rush to cover herself, the cloth dropped to the floor.

  He was out of the tub in an instant. Simultaneously, they bent to retrieve the cloth and bumped heads.

  “Oh!”

  “Pardon me!”

  Their eyes met, and they burst out laughing. He picked up the cloth and handed it to her as they straightened. Wrapping it around her torso, she crossed to the table, where she traded the cloth for a clean chemise. Her head popped through the top of the garment, just in time to see Robert’s gaze shoot from her thighs to her face.

  The linen settled over her frame and dropped to her ankles. “You’re dripping wet. Aren’t you going to—”

  “Of course.” He snatched another cloth from the bath board and dried himself.

  I should look away. But she couldn’t. “I see the ‘beast’ is back.”

  He gave her a rueful grin. “It never quite left. But perhaps there’s a kinder word to describe it.” He looked thoughtful. “You could think of it as the horn of a unicorn.”

  She chuckled. “An alicorn?”

  “Why not?”

  “Unicorns are pure. You, husband, are not.”

  He shrugged. “My intentions are pure. That should count for something.”

  “Something, I grant you.” Smiling, she grabbed her comb from the table and worked it through her hair. “I’d love to see a unicorn. I wonder if the lore is true.”

  “What part?”

  “They’re supposedly drawn to virgins.”

  He released a wistful sigh. “Aren’t we all?”

  “Robert!”

  His dimples had never looked so deep. “The legends are clear. A unicorn is happiest when he lays his head in a maiden’s lap.”

  Her stomach quivered, and she glanced at his manhood. “His head or his horn?”

  The drying cloth hit the floor, and he closed the gap between them. “The choice is yours.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. Mine?

  He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. His pupils expanded, encroached on the gray. “You’re lucky I’m a man of my word.”

  He stood so close. His masculinity was a force. A living, breathing promise of things to come. Strength to tap. Temptations to taste.

  “And what if you weren’t a man of your word? What would you do?” She licked her lips.

  ****

  Throughout the bath, Robert had summoned the discipline he learned in battle. No matter how she stirred him, he had to hold back. Now, the sight of her tongue was almost his undoing.

  His hands clenched into fists, but he forced them to relax. “If my word were false, I’d pull you close and taste you.”

  “My lips?”

  His manhood twitched. “For a start.”

  Her amber eyes widened. “What else would you taste?”

  “Every inch of your exquisite flesh.”

  Her cheeks turned pink. “Every inch? Even my…”

  “Aye, Constance. Even that.”

  Her blush deepened. “Is that common practice?”

  He shrugged. “I enjoy it. Others do too.”

  She cleared her throat. “Lovemaking as a whole must be enjoyable. Otherwise, people wouldn’t do it, and the human race would die out. I imagine men like it more, though.”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Whether or not the man sees to the woman’s pleasure.”

  Again, she licked her lips.

  You beautiful, wide-eyed maid. I would teach you the ways of love. This instant, if you’d but ask. He swallowed hard.

  Her eyelashes fluttered. “So…this pleasure you speak of…what is it like? How does it feel to make love?”

  “You truly wish to know?”

  She nodded.

  His heart beat faster. “I could show you.”

  “No. Tell me instead.”

  “Well…’tis an experience like none other. Heat. Urgency. Bodies entwined, moving together. Pleasure climbing higher and higher until it peaks in a burst of sensation so intense that nothing else matters.”

  She gaped at him. Her open mouth seemed an invitation, but he dared not accept it. He’d worked too hard to earn her trust. He took a deep breath, then slowly released it.

  She blinked. “You make it sound so…appealing. Irresistible, in fact.”

  “One can resist almost anything. But a lady as lovely as you makes the task infinitely more difficult. As I said before, you’re lucky I value my word.”

  “And as I told you the day we met, we’re not dealing with luck.”

  He stepped backward. “Ah. Divine providence, I believe you said.”

  “And you rejected it, as you reject the existence of God. Why?”

  Turning away, he fetched the clean breeches from the table and donned them with studious care.

  “Robert, answer me.”

  He looked up from his breeches. “I thought we were talking of love…the act of it, at least.”

  “Love runs deeper than the flesh. It engages the spirit, and I want to know about yours.”

  “What would you have me say?”

  Her hands found her hips. “The truth. The reason why you lost your faith.”

  He sighed with resignation. “I guess the subject was bound to rear its head.” He gestured toward a stool. “Will you sit?”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather lie in bed, if you don’t object. I’ve been running around since dawn.”

  “No objection here.”

  They climbed into the soft, welcoming bed and settled beneath the covers on their backs. All was quiet, apart from the snaps and sighs of the fire.

  After a long moment, she cleared her throat. “Well?”

  He scowled at the canopy’s shadows. “It happened in the Holy Land. Oh, the irony!”

  “Go on.”

  “A powerful enemy captured and tortured Lord Ravenwood. I tried to pay his ransom…over and over again…but Hattin the Horrid took more pleasure in pain than in gold. You cannot imagine how it felt. To know every moment of every day that my brother suffered, and I could do nothing for him. At first, I prayed for guidance. For help. For any sign from that supposed God of yours that He cared what befell us.”

  “He does care. He must.”

  Robert’s heart was a knot in his chest. “Must He?” He slammed his fist onto the mattress. “Then why didn’t He help us? Why make my brother suffer untold agonies, unless it pleased Him as much as it did Hattin? How could I believe in such a sadistic being? I couldn’t. And I knew with startling clarity that my prayers were wasted. Empty and meaningless, like William’s cries in that foul dungeon.”

  Turning on her side to face him, Constance rested her cool hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. For you and Lord Ravenwood. How did he escape?”

  “We besieged the fortress and carried him to safety.”

  “You must’ve been so relieved.”

  “And revolted by Hattin’s handiwork.”

  She pulled her hand away. “And you never regained your faith.”

  “No. But you could never understand.”

  “I do understand.”

  He turned to her. “Do you?”

  “More than you know.”

  “How?”

  She turned away, flipping onto her other side. “Simple compassion. Nothing more.”

  He frowned at her back. But there is more. I know it!

  “Constance?”

  “Good night, Robert.”

  He rolled onto his back. Shut out! Again!

  With a huff, he turned his back to her. “What’s good about it?”

  He waited for her reply. Silence plagued his ears.

  Chapter Nine

  Constance woke that night with the distinct impression of being watched. Not by Robert, if his snores were to be believed. By whom then?

 
She eased into a sitting position. The dying firelight bathed the chamber, but naught seemed out of place, until…

  A dark-haired woman in gray stood before the tapestry with her back turned. Preternaturally still, she stared up at the hanging.

  Constance moved toward the edge of the bed. “Who goes there?”

  No response. No movement whatsoever.

  The hair on Constance’s arms and neck stood at attention. “I say again, who are you?”

  Without turning, the woman walked through the table and disappeared into the wall.

  Constance’s jaw dropped. The ghost! She’d looked as solid as anything else in the room, but the living couldn’t pass through wood and stone.

  Who was she? The tapestry held her spellbound. Had she created it? She might well be Lady Ravenwood’s grandmother.

  Robert mumbled something in his sleep. Only God knew what. Of course, he didn’t believe in God. Would he believe her if she told him what happened?

  Probably not.

  A great yawn overcame her, causing her eyes to tear. She had to sleep. The help-ale was all-important, and dawn drew nigh. Questions and contemplation could wait. She sank back onto her pillow and closed her eyes.

  Hours later, dressed in green, she stood with Meg in the crowded bailey. Robert had risen before she had, but he hadn’t bothered to wake her. Was he angry? Disappointed? Or merely preoccupied?

  All she knew was he looked devilishly handsome in green. Odd that he’d chosen to wear the same color as she, when neither had planned beforehand. His black hair glistened in the sunlight as he guided two squires who plunged and parried in swordplay. With all the lively chatter around, he was too distant to hear, but his dimples showed he taught with benevolence.

  Visitors streamed in through the gatehouse, and their eager eyes scanned the festivities. There were minstrels, dancers, acrobats, and a gifted bard. Outdoor games including wrestling and bowling. Mouthwatering smells flowed from the kitchens, whose offerings would tempt any palate: spit-roasted beef, mutton, and rabbit; spiced quail; chicken and almond pasties; mushroom pasties; leek and onion pies; raisin custard pies; saffron bread; honey-drizzled rolls; pine nut sweetmeats; and a variety of fruit tarts. And of course, an abundance of ale to keep the donations flowing.

  Meg nodded toward Robert. “He has a way with the lads. They fairly worship him.”

  Constance smiled. “Aye. His easy manner works wonders.”