Wicked

by Jill Barnett

  After a moment, Edward stood again and raised his cup. “May our cousin, Sofia,” the King nodded toward her and their eyes met for the briefest of moments, enough for them both to acknowledge that he had won this long-standing battle, “be fertile and give de Clare an army of sons!”

  A loud cheer went round the room; it seemed to swell on forever. Many men shouted comments about the joy of sons, so no one heard when Sofia swore under her breath, swore the most vicious word she knew. No one heard, that is, except God and Tobin de Clare.

  Chapter 9

  Tobin leaned back and out of the way as a royal servant placed a washbowl studded with sapphires in front of them on the high table. One of his twin squires, Thwack of Camrose, stood nearby, flanking his chair and waiting with a soft towel. From the corner of his eye he could see the lad shifting from one foot to another and could occasionally hear him muttering something to himself; he had yet to learn much about patience.

  Another of the King’s servants dressed in royal scarlet and gold stepped between Sofia and him, then raised a bronze aquamanile in the shape of a fire-breathing dragon and poured water over her pale hands. He almost laughed at how symbolic the shape of that particular vessel was. When Edward wished them many sons, her resolve slipped and she looked angry enough to spit flames. Instead she had spit a flaming curse.

  Tobin had been watching her since then. Once the crowd had quieted, she had quickly regained her control, then made a huge effort to look everywhere but at him. So it did not surprise him when she washed her hands thoroughly, taking her own sweet time with each finger and nail, rubbing the rose petals from the water over her wrists and palms, and never once looking up, acting as if washing her hands were the most important thing in the world. And she well knew he was watching her the whole time.

  He leaned closer. She did nothing. He leaned closer still and saw his breath ruffle the small locks of damp black hair near her temple. To her credit she acted numb, which could not have been easy with his mouth a few warm inches from her ear.

  So he leaned an inch closer and blew into her ear.

  She whipped her head around and faced him, scowling, but not before he caught the sudden shiver that went through her.

  Now that he had her undivided attention, he said, “I have to wonder where a lady of noble birth ever learned that particular word.”

  Her chin went even higher and her eyes grew narrowed and intent. “So you heard.”

  “My ears are still burning from it.”

  She shook her head in defiance, raking one hand through the heavy fall of dark hair at her neck. She reminded him of the horses raised and bred by his family, a proud and wild mare that was resisting the rope and the stallion destined to breed with her.

  She pretended she did not care, glanced about the room at large, and brushed back some hair that had fallen onto her brow.

  He leaned closer. “I asked you a question.”

  “What question was that?”

  “Where you learned such a word.”

  “Oh.” She turned and looked at him then.

  From the expression on her face he knew what kind of answer he would get.

  “You will be pleased to hear that I learned that word from my cousin, the King. Edward is quite inventive with his verbs. I have learnt all my very best curses from him.”

  “As king, Edward may say what he wishes.” Tobin lowered his voice. “However, had the Archbishop heard what you said you’d be forever damned to hell. He is already not overly fond of females.”

  “Is any man of the Church?”

  He laughed, for she did not know the truth of it. “Some men of God are too fond of women.”

  She frowned, then started to say something, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand. “That does not matter, here and now. What does matter is that I do not want my betrothed damned to hell.”

  She sighed with more drama than one of the royal minstrels, then rested her stubborn chin on her fist and stared ahead. “Let me see . . . forever damned to hell or betrothed to you,” she paused, tapping a finger against her pursed lips. “What an interesting comparison. I wonder why hell sounds so much more appealing.”

  He just laughed at her, because if nothing else, he enjoyed the quick bite of her sharp tongue and the overdone gestures that made her anything but meek. She was no sweet maid. No woman to whom love would be a weak and fleeting thing. If Sofia fell in love she would do so with all of her being, for that was how she did everything.

  “I would hope you would not teach such words to my sons.”

  “Fine. I shall teach vile curses only to our worthless daughters.” Her sarcasm was not lost on him, but she would not look at him either.

  He reached over and gently turned her face toward his. “I would find no daughters of ours worthless, Sofia.”

  She did not blink. Did not speak, but he could see her thinking and he wondered whether she believed him.

  The royal servant stood at his shoulder ready for him to wash. He pulled his hand back and held them both over the jeweled lavabo as the servant poured warm, scented wash water over his hands.

  He washed his hands slowly, but unlike Sofia, he never looked away. She could look where she wished, but she would know that now his eyes were for her alone. He wanted her to feel his stare. He wanted her to feel something.

  What he truly wanted was for her to feel what he felt whenever she was near. He took in her profile, soaked it up the way one did with a moment made for memory, the small nose she liked to stick up in the air, the firm, square chin and jaw, her large eyes with lashes as long and thick as sable fur, and that mouth, the one that made all the men he knew take one look at her and dream of tasting it, and more. Even he was not immune to that mouth of hers, any more than he was immune to her saucy spirit. “You know what I think?”

  “Heaven only knows,” she said without a blink.

  “I think we should use this water to wash out your mouth.”

  “Why bother? Your tongue won’t be in it again.”

  God, but she could make him laugh and laugh he did, loudly and genuinely, because he hadn’t expected that from her. “Another challenge from you, Sweet Sofia? You still have not paid your last debt. Seems to me it would be foolhardy to acquire new ones.”

  She faced him then, her eyes a deep and dark purple, and very angry. “Shall I pay that debt here? Now?”

  He shrugged.

  She leaned over, her mouth just a breath away from his. “Tell me, Tobin de Clare. Tell me. Do you want it now?”

  Oh, he wanted it. But she would never know that. He said nothing, just waited to see what she would do, how she would wiggle her way out of this.

  But she did no wiggling. Instead, right there in the Great Hall, before all and sundry, she slid her hands behind his head and pulled his mouth down to hers for a kiss that almost cooked him.

  She licked his lips and entered his mouth with her moist tongue, stroked his teeth and played with his tongue, but when he tried to taste her, to take control of the kiss, she pressed her mouth closed as if to prove he could not do anything to her if she did not wish it.

  Another challenge.

  But he had trained well and knew two could play at any game. He leaned his weight into her, pressed her back against the chair, their mouths still locked together.

  “A de Clare!” came the war cry of the de Clare men, cheering him on, and suddenly all around them were the sounds of laughter and bawdy whistles. People were banging on the tabletops and he could hear the King laughing the loudest.

  He had her pinned against her chair with his upper body. Her lips were pressed so tightly together that her mouth was hard as stone. He had little choice; he reached between them, hiding his action from the crowd, and slid his hand inside her bodice, then cupped her bare breast.

  She gasped and he slid his tongue inside.

  He was thinking how sweet victory was, reveling in his success, in the way he could play her the same way the musicians pl
ayed the lute. She was a cheeky thing, he knew, so quick to battle him at every turn, which made this victory even sweeter because it was harder won. But he knew her well enough to expect her to do something, to retaliate. He expected her to bite him or to pull away.

  What he didn’t expect was for her to grab him between the legs and squeeze so damned hard that he was the one who winced and pulled back from the kiss, only to find her looking up at him, with deep purple eyes, and victory all over her smug face.

  Jesu! She almost squeezed those sons right out of his future. Their future.

  He reached under the table and clamped his hand down over her wrist, then jerked it away from him. He did not let go of it, but fixed her with a dark look, then tightened his grip on her wrist and slowly drew her toward him as he leaned down close to her ear and said, “Since you are so eager, perhaps we should consummate things between us this night. We will be betrothed in a matter of moments.”

  The blood seemed to drain from her face.

  “I see no need to wait for a wedding ceremony. You needn’t wait any longer. Then, what you just grasped so freely you will find in more places than just your hand.”

  She glared up at him, mute. There was a small spark of uncertainty in her expression. Or fear.

  He did not choose to frighten her—that was her reaction, not his purpose. But there were limits to his patience and she had pushed him too far. She needed to learn that here and now. He liked her pride and spirit, but not when she tried to trample him with it.

  The King stood and the room grew still again. The servants had finished filling each and every cup and there were now huge wooden platters piled high with bread placed at every table. Edward took Eleanor’s hand and helped her rise to stand beside him.

  The music stopped. The minstrel quieted. For just an instant, the only sound in the room was that of the fire crackling.

  On Tobin’s left sat the Archbishop of Canterbury, who had been speaking with the King, but now he stood, too. The entire room rose on cue.

  It was time for the betrothal ceremony.

  Tobin cast a quick glance at his father, who was looking at a table below. Probably at some sweet-faced woman who had caught his roving eye again. But his father turned and faced him. He gave his father an unreadable look, one that revealed nothing about what he was thinking.

  He moved to his position near his father, still saying nothing, and stood there, shoulder to shoulder, waiting while the Archbishop and King and Queen took their places.

  Sofia was but a few feet away, standing with the King and Queen. She was stiff and still, her hands knotted in front of her, her lips tight and her chin up. Her eyes looked out over the room, unseeing, fixed on something on the north wall, but when he followed her gaze he saw nothing. A sconce flickering with oil light. Nothing more.

  Her black hair spilled down her back, and when she shifted her weight, it covered the arm and back of the chair she had sat in.

  Incredible hair, hair a man could wrap around him when he was inside of her, hair that would keep her where he wanted, on top of him or under him.

  All that heavy hair was pulled back from her brow by the thin, golden headpiece—the one he had bought for her and had sent to her room with the Queen’s ladies. Did she know it was a gift from him? He did not know, and did not care. All he cared for was that she was wearing it. The band was simple, hammered gold with small pointed teeth to grab even the thickest hair and hold it in place. When he had seen the band at a goldsmith’s shop in London, he had thought of Sofia and could think of little else until he had bought it for a pretty sum.

  It was enough, that golden band. No jewels threaded through her hair and braids like most ladies of the court. She did not need them. Her beauty was not in decoration. She could wear sackcloth and ashes and still men would want her.

  Her beauty was in contrasts. The black of her hair against the white creaminess of her skin. Her deep violet eyes, their color so vivid, as was the tone of her full, red mouth. Each color was so defined that it made the others appear more vibrant and unforgettable, the way black against white defined the positions on a chessboard.

  He wondered what was going through that active mind of hers at this moment. Within a few moments they would be betrothed, an agreement as binding as the wedding itself, if not more so because of the importance of the dower contracts between the King and his own father, one of the most powerful earls in the land.

  He would be glad to have this business out of the way; it had damned well been long enough in the making.

  He glanced then at the King, who had taken Sofia’s hand. Edward was a shrewd man and he knew how to work his vassals so that he gained the most. He wondered what she would think if she knew the truth—if she knew that he had been forced by the King to earn her hand.

  Knowing Sofia, she would not think about what he’d had to do for her hand, but instead she would be incensed that she was but a prize to be given to anyone who did the King’s bidding.

  Lord, but she would make his life miserable if she knew that. With no little cynicism, he revised that thought. She might make him miserable anyway.

  “I, Edward, King of England, Wales, Ireland and Scotland, give Lady Sofia Beatrice Rosalynde Anna Theresa Howard . . . ”

  Tobin choked, then raised his fist quickly to his mouth and coughed, twice, thrice. He could not bark out a laugh in the middle of this ceremony. All would think him daft. He cleared his throat, then signaled for them to continue, but not before he caught Sofia looking at him strangely. He tried to look serious, but he couldn’t help wondering if she knew her middle names spelled out “brat.” Sofia BRAT Howard. Someone was a prophet.

  “ . . . daughter of my cousin, Baron Rufus Howard, and a ward of the Crown, in betrothal to Sir Tobin de Clare, son of Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester.” The King placed her small and cold hand in Tobin’s.

  His father spoke next, placing his hand on top of theirs. “I, Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, give my eldest son, Tobin Gilbert William de Clare, to the King’s ward, Lady Sofia Howard, with the understanding that he is to maintain her with the strength of the oak and guard her with the vigilance of the angels.”

  “In turn,” Edward said, “Sofia Howard will abide by him with the virtue of a lady. She will cling to him with the constancy of ivy . . . ”

  Tobin felt her cringe at that line and glanced down at her. Aye, he thought, Sofia Howard would not cling like ivy to any man.

  “She will share fruitfulness with him and stay by his side until death.”

  The Archbishop blessed them, took the single golden wine goblet, the de Clare betrothal cup, raised it before the room, and blessed it. Next he raised the bread they must share, blessing it in front of all, too, then breaking it into two pieces and handing both to Tobin.

  He fed her the piece of torn bread and she almost bit his fingertips. He had to snatch them back quickly. He narrowed his gaze at her as he handed her the other piece of bread, symbolizing that he would be the one to provide for her and their family.

  She took the other piece of bread quickly, raising it to his mouth, her eyes daring him to try to nip at her fingers as she had. He could tell she expected to get exactly what she gave. She held the bread there, with a just-try-it look, and he paused, long enough to fluster her. Even though she acted calm he could see the tension in the stiff way she held her shoulders and the slight thinning of her mouth.

  He grasped her wrist, holding her hand near his mouth. But he didn’t bring the bread to his mouth. He brought the back of her hand to his lips, then, as she blinked at him, he licked her.

  If her eyes had been swords, he’d be a skewered dead man.

  He couldn’t stop his grin and tore into the bread with his teeth, never taking his eyes from her. When he looked at her like this, he wondered how many of these battles the future held. He wondered what the rest of his life would be, with this woman at his side.

  The Archbishop handed him the goblet, which To
bin raised to her mouth, his eyes locked on hers as he tilted it so she could drink the wine. He should have drowned her in it, but he would not play her game. Not here. Not now. Even though there was defiance in her eyes as she drank, pure unadulterated defiance, directed at him.

  He took the goblet from her mouth, then slowly, deliberately, turned it until he could see the imprint of her mouth on the rim. He raised that part of the cup to his mouth so she could see him drinking from the spot where her lips had been. He took a sip, then licked the rim, watching her eyes narrow at him, then he raised the cup high and drank deeply over and over, until he finished the wine.

  His men cheered and yelled as he held the goblet high with a straight arm, like the champion of a tourney holding the winner’s pennant. He did not look at Sofia. He did not have to. Instead he turned and faced the room, where all standing raised their cups and drank to them, the betrothed. He had won again.

  After the cheers died down, he turned toward Sofia. She looked as if she wanted to hit him with something, so he put the large goblet out of her reach, slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his side, just to annoy her more. With his free hand he refilled the cup from a ewer on the table, then he raised it high again. “To all!” He scanned the room, then shouted, “Drink all to the beauty of my lady, Sofia!” He squeezed her shoulder and felt her elbow dig into his ribs. He ignored that small, bony elbow and raised the cup to his lips. She could jab all she wanted but he would drink heartily this day, for he had much to celebrate.

  A second later he felt her small heel grind into the top of his foot.

  Sofia . . . Sofia . . .

  Tobin knew then that he did not need to wonder what the future held, because one thing was certain, his life from this moment forward would never be boring.

  Sofia slammed the door to her chamber, then slid the iron bolt. She pressed her back against the door and tried to catch the breath she’d lost from running so swiftly up the steep stone stairs of the tower. It took her a moment, and she closed her eyes and inhaled slow, deep breaths, waiting for her heart to stop pounding. It took a minute to calm down, then she opened her eyes and muttered to herself, “Lud, but I did not think I would ever get away.”