by Shayla Black
Aric stopped chuckling long enough to say, “The man hardly knows what to do with the sword in his hand, much less the one between his legs.”
The latest in court gossip slipped out before Aric remembered that Gwenyth was unstudied in the ways of sensuality. Yet he was sure his passionate, exquisite wife would have been wasted on such an oaf.
“That is unbearably crude. What do you know of Sir Penley? Nothing, I am sure, you pig-bottomed dolt!”
Aric pictured the fop’s appalled reaction to Gwenyth’s inventive oaths and kept laughing.
Gwenyth’s cheeks turned red. “And in case you did not know, women are interested in a man’s heart and affections, not his…sword.”
Wearing an indignant frown, Gwenyth crossed her arms over her chest. Aric laughed even harder.
“Sweeting, sooner or later a woman is always interested. You are just too innocent to know such.”
“I am not a child! I am a woman grown, and I tell you I’ve no interest whatsoever in your sword.”
Smiling, he touched a hand to her soft pink cheek. “God willing, you will.”
* * * *
“Do you plan ever to fix this infernal table leg?” Gwenyth shouted out the window to Aric the following afternoon. “’Tis clear it has been broken for some time.”
When he did not respond, she poked her head out the window to glare at her temporary husband. He sat under the cottage’s shady eaves, whittling again on the damnable block of wood in his hands. Whatever he carved, it enthralled him far more than conversation, she thought irritably.
“I am speaking to you,” she called again.
As if startled, he whipped his gaze to her, then slid the wood onto the ground and covered it with a cloth. “What say you?”
She heaved an irritated sigh. “The leg to this table. ’Tis broken, and I have tripped upon it twice.”
With a shrug, he eased out of the chair beneath the eaves. “Step carefully.”
Gwenyth stomped to the door. ’Twas a simple enough task she asked, and he clearly had some talent with wood. Why should he tease her so?
She yanked the door open. “I want you—”
Aric stood directly on the threshold, his body inches from her own. The words on the tip of her tongue died. Of a sudden, her heart began beating so quickly ’twas like the thunder of racing horses in her ears.
He seemed as one with the out of doors, for his scent always reflected something of night’s mist, fertile soil, some unnamable wood, and always that subtle hint of something that was Aric’s alone. Something that made her stomach dance.
“You want me?” His smile beguiled Gwenyth.
Her palms began to sweat.
“’Tis a wondrous change from yesterday, my lady.”
Frowning, Gwenyth wondered what she had wanted of Aric, besides his mouth on hers again. Nay! She wanted Sir Penley, stately keeps, and castlefolk who valued her. She wanted her rightful place in the world.
So why could she not forget the hermit’s kiss?
He inched past her to enter the cottage, smiling as if he could read her mind. God’s nightgown, she prayed not. Such thoughts about a husband she had no wish to keep did not make sense. He was a recluse, perhaps even a sorcerer.
Yet he had been kind in the face of her tears, opened his home to her when her own family had thrown her out, married her to save her life. Not the sort of evil she might have imagined from the man the village children oft called the Wizard of the Woods.
In fact, nothing about him was as she expected.
She turned, watching as he bent to the table leg and examined it. Gwenyth found her gaze fastened upon the powerful width of his shoulders and the capability of his large hands, browned by the sun. Without explanation, she shivered.
Aric stood and faced her. “I will fix this, so you need not glare at my back anymore, little dragon.”
Dragon? “And are you so pleasant that crowds gather round you?
“Nay, but you will recall that, until you, I lived here alone. By design.”
Gwenyth’s mouth gaped open as fury overtook her. “Think you I want to be here?”
A smile crept its way up his lean, brown face. “You have made your preferences for Sir Penley clear.”
She snorted. “At least he would not speak to me of…swords.”
“Nay. As I said, he knows not how to use one.”
Her hands on her hips, she cast him a contemptuous glare. “You, I assume, are an expert?”
Aric lifted a wide shoulder, that challenging grin dominating his full mouth and glinting in his gray eyes. “My lady, I should be happy indeed to let you determine that.”
Her belly flipped over at his suggestion. Heat followed, warming her face, nearly melting her resolve.
Finally, when he rose and moved toward her, Gwenyth came to her senses. Her future with Sir Penley was at stake. She could not give the recluse her maidenhead, no matter how handsome his face or how kind his heart.
“The devil plague you,” she murmured, then darted out of the house, hearing his laughter behind her.
Aric should not have this effect upon her. He could help her with her dreams in no way except by leaving her untouched and allowing her to seek an annulment.
Unless he could be persuaded to make rain.
Aye, that might bring an end to her plight. If ’twould only rain, Uncle Bardrick might welcome her back to Penhurst. Sir Penley might still be waiting for her.
She dismissed the notion he knew not what to do with a woman. The hermit could know naught of such an esteemed man as Sir Penley.
But how to persuade Aric to end the drought? Gwenyth wondered if he could accomplish such a feat. Was he truly a wizard of black powers or simply an ordinary man?
She frowned and plopped into his chair under the eaves. Certainly if he had no powers, he would correct the castlefolk and defend his goodness. Aye, so he must have some magic.
How did he conjure up his powers?
Gwenyth had never heard him utter any incantations. In her two days at the tiny cottage, she had seen nothing that resembled a book of spells. He was possessed of no crystals and had not looked upon his reflection in the nearby river. Tapping her toe impatiently against the soft earth, Gwenyth vowed she would solve this mystery somehow.
Then her foot struck something solid.
She peered down and found a faded blue cloth covering Aric’s whittled block of wood. Was this the magic? ’Twould explain why it held him so enthralled.
Biting her lip, Gwenyth lifted the cloth and grabbed the wood. Raising it to her gaze, she peered at it, realizing ’twas not a mystical symbol or figure but a naked woman. The exquisite carving was long of leg, full of breast, curved at the waist and hip. The woman’s hair was long, and the impassioned face—
Was her own.
Gwenyth gasped. The carving’s square chin and round nose were like hers. The hair touched to the curve of her elbow, as her own did. The too-generous mouth could belong to no other.
He had spent nearly every moment of their few days together carving an image of her nakedness?
From inside, Gwenyth heard Aric curse. The sound startled her back to attention. Lest she be caught, she put the carving on the soft earth again and covered it with the cloth.
He had thought of her naked. Often, ’twould seem. Gwenyth rose from the chair, feeling a fine sheen of sweat cover her. Aric had pictured how she would look with one leg curled beneath her and an arm wrapped coyly about her waist whilst exposing the rest of her body in complete abandon.
At once, she felt flattered, uncertain, and utterly afraid to be alone with him for the seemingly endless days and weeks stretching out before them.
Merciful heaven, what should she do?
“’Tis fixed, I think,” Aric called from the doorway.
Dazed, Gwenyth stared at him. His black boots were made large to accommodate his size and extended to the knee. His gray hose made prominent the thick muscles running the length of his
thighs—and emphasized his generous manly endowments.
God’s nightgown, he thought that should fit inside her? Gwenyth jerked her gaze away to the faded wooden door beside him. Suddenly, being here alone with Aric seemed unwise. Though he was considered her husband, he was still a stranger.
“My lady?”
Gwenyth’s startled gaze flew to his. “Fixed?”
“Aye, the table you wanted repaired.” Scowling, he slid his stare from her face to the carving upon the ground, then back to her face once more. “Why do your cheeks turn red, Gwenyth?”
No reason, except that she saw now that he was powerfully built all over, and he apparently wanted her in his bed.
How had Aric known her dimensions and carved her so exactly? Since he had not seen her without clothes, she could only surmise he wanted her greatly to spend such energy in the carving of her likeness. Certainly she had not removed her gown whilst here, though she had yearned to do so long enough to wash the garment.
Gwenyth rose cautiously. ’Twould seem he wanted to bed her more than any man had. Even Sir Penley, who had sought her as a wife, had never once hinted he wanted her betwixt his sheets. If the speed with which he had carved her image was any indication, Aric had seemingly thought of little else since they had wed. The realization aroused and frightened her at once. Certainly she could not deny he had been kinder than her remaining family.
Tumult and confusion wound through her. Ruthlessly, Gwenyth suppressed it. She could not lie with Aric and yield her body, no matter that her stomach jumped at the thought. Her future would be sacrificed if she gave in to him. She would be here forever in this shanty, more than like wondering whence the funds for taxes and clothing would come. Her circumstances would become more desperate than they ever had under Uncle Bardrick and Aunt Welsa’s care. She would be an outcast forever as a sorcerer’s wife.
Yet was she not an outcast already?
Aye, but she wanted it changed, everything changed. She wanted the life Sir Penley could give her.
Yet she could not cease wondering if Aric could make ardent magic in his bed—if he could, as her husband, make her feel this wanted always. If so, would the passion be worth the price?
CHAPTER FOUR
Gwenyth was staring at him—and had been since last eve—with a mixture of hesitancy and curiosity. Aric met her gaze, and she slammed her eyes shut, feigning sleep.
As night had fallen, he had noticed the speculation in her entrancing blue eyes. By God’s teeth, he had even once seen her gaze fixed on his manhood. Now, as then, he hardened at the thought of having her. Lest the front of his hose expand noticeably again, he looked away from her supine form as she lay tossing upon his bed in search of sleep.
Between the linens, Gwenyth would be no passive wench. This wife of his would loose her passion and make him a very contented man—with the right encouragement. Since they were bound by law, Aric saw no reason not to give her every encouragement and bind them in flesh—and quickly.
He considered her attachment to that milksop, Sir Penley, and frowned. Such an excuse for a man would never touch Aric’s wife. No man would. In fact, the very thought of it disturbed him, oddly enough. Aye, a seduction was indeed in order.
He looked forward to the event with great anticipation.
Yet since the moon’s last rising, she had become noticeably silent. Aric thought he would find the quiet welcome, but he knew that with it came Gwenyth’s uneasiness, perhaps even her fear. Somehow, he missed her pointed remarks. Aye, even her insults. ’Twas as if she no longer cared that he occupied the same home at all.
It would not do, he decided. He had charmed a wench or two in his twenty-six years. He could do so again.
“Gwenyth?” he whispered.
She did not open her eyes. “Aye?”
“Have you seen Dog?”
“Dog?” She frowned, eyes still closed against him and the light of the single candle.
“Aye, Dog. When I found him, I knew not if he had a name, so I simply called him Dog.”
“Ah.”
“Have you seen him?” he asked again.
“Nay.”
Her response did not give him cause to hope. But he knew enough of Gwenyth to realize she liked to talk. He changed tactics.
He touched her shoulder, lightly wrapping his fingers about her arm. Aye, there. Now she opened her eyes. Warily, of course, but he had her attention.
“Today, I found Dog in the forest doing something so uncommon I could not cease my laughter.”
“Did you?” Gwenyth sat up, breaking their contact.
Resolved, Aric tried again and brushed his fingers across her knee, pulling away before she could protest. Her cheeks flushed a fetching rosy pink.
“I did,” he said. “Dog had found a rabbit, you see. He stood over the creature barking so loud he no doubt rose the dead for nigh on twenty leagues.”
“I see.”
“But what I saw next was even more unusual.” He smoothed a stray lock of her glossy black hair away from her shoulder, retreating when she fixed a narrow-eyed gaze upon him.
“Now, Dog is something of a manly dog,” he went on. “I have seen he is fierce in the hunt and in his pride. Yet he stood before this hare, so much smaller than himself, barked his terror, and emptied his bladder like the veriest of infants.” Aric clapped a firm hand around her back when she smiled. “Is that not odd?”
“I cannot picture Dog so.” She smiled skeptically.
“’Tis true, I vow. I laughed heartily.”
Gwenyth nodded, her full mouth upturned. Her skin shone so radiant in the candle’s glow, her hair so lustrous. Aric’s urge to touch her grew. He gave in to it, reaching for her hand.
“You know,” he began, “you have not insulted me for the whole of the day. Does that mean I have succeeded in not rising your ire, little dragon, or have you run out of spirited slurs?”
At his suggestion, Gwenyth raised the dark arches of her brows and yanked her hand from his. “I shall always have a slur for you, you reeky ratsbane.”
“I should be surprised if you did not. I suspect your dolt of an uncle knew not how to handle that unruly tongue.”
For a heartbeat, Gwenyth said and did nothing. Aric wondered if ’twas a mistake to bring up the family who had shown her such grievous disregard. For all that he and his own father had rarely spoken of more than matters of war and politics, Aric had never suffered anything close to contempt from his father. Then Gwenyth smiled, that mischievous little grin that brightened her face and made his blood run hot.
“Aye, Uncle Bardrick and I have quarreled a time or two over my words.”
Aric reached out to nudge her side. As his fingers closed about the soft curve of her waist, he felt his desire rise again. The thought of her bare skin gleaming beneath his hands, her passionate whisper in her ear confirming her desire…such made a man eager indeed.
“Give over. What did you say?” he asked, turning his attention back to the moment at hand.
Gwenyth’s smile became a sparkling laugh. “Once, about two years past, my uncle decided he needed to raise an army and join the Yorkists in their fight for the throne. Those were hard times at Penhurst, for the winter before had been very long, and our foodstuffs were nearly gone. Uncle Bardrick invited some important lords to Penhurst for a feast. I don’t recall who. I do recall, though, my great anger that he would take food from the very mouths of babes to further his ambition.
“When the guests arrived, he ordered me to serve them mulled wine, which I did—along with an herbal sleeping draught. When all of his guests began snoring at his table, Bardrick roared at me. Everyone in the castle watched. Before I could stop myself, I called him a beslubbering boil-brained dimwit. I spent two days in the pantry for the misdeed, but ’twas worth it to hear the laughter of the others. Even better, uncle Bardrick’s guests left for fear he’d tried to poison them, so the feast he had planned never took place.”
Aric laughed. That sp
ectacle he would have enjoyed immensely. But he expected such spirit from Gwenyth. Though she had known the half-witted baron would punish her, Gwenyth had fought her battle in the only way she could and had won. She was clever, his wife.
She was also weary, he thought, watching her yawn.
“Sleepy, are you?” he asked
“Aye. The nights are still cool. I did not rest well last eve.”
Aric who had been awake half the night fighting his bloody nightmares, doubted she had suffered much, but he would not quibble with her. Instead, he cast a glance at the meager blanket on his bed and realized she might indeed have been chilled. He held in a grimace.
From years of battle, he was accustomed to sleeping in the out of doors, oft without any cover at all. Gwenyth was unused to such. For all her durable façade, his wife was tender in years and experience and so required certain comforts.
He rose to retrieve his robe from the chest in the corner. When he returned to her side, he curled his hands about her shoulders and urged her to lie back upon the fragrant mattress. Gwenyth obeyed his silent command, though she remained stiff, her eyes guarded.
When she lay upon her back, Aric draped the fur-trimmed robe over her prone form and tucked it, along with his blanket, beneath her chin.
Their faces lay mere inches apart. Aric saw her mouth quiver below his, and he ached to taste her once more, to remind himself of her honeyed flavor. Still, he had made progress this night, and shattering this cozy mood by demanding more than she wished to give would gain him naught.
Sighing, he brushed her cheek with a slow stroke of his thumb. “Try to rest well tonight. Tomorrow we will set the bed to rights.”
Her eyes wide, Gwenyth nodded. Aric turned away with a smile. Aye, he had her attention now.
* * * *
When Aric had promised her the night before they would set the bed to rights this day, then caressed her face with that warm, tender touch that could melt metal, she had no notion he meant to take her into the village.
As they stood on the outskirts of the little town, Gwenyth held back. How would people receive her now that she was wed to Aric?
