His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms)

by Shayla Black

  Still, he found her conduct disturbing for reasons he could not fathom.

  Quickly, her plan became more clear: Goad him into sharing her bed, satisfy him until he felt near brainless, then seize the power she desired. Simple but clever. And nearly effective.

  Rolling away, he set her aside and turned his back to her.

  Why did he want to believe in her goodness, her caring so badly? Normally, he was no woman’s fool. With Gwenyth, he seemed unable to see through her ploys until she broadsided him with demands. How had she so afflicted his mind? Mayhap he should accuse her of sorcery.

  “Aric, I would be a good chatelaine,” she said into his silence.

  He told himself he did not care, but fury and mistrust railed at him. And something else within refused to believe her mercenary and urged him to give her what she sought.

  What, and be her fool? Never. Caring too much for a woman who did naught but secure her position as his lady was unacceptable.

  With short, economical motions, he rose and dressed, avoiding her hopeful, scheming face by watching Dog snore beside the hearth.

  “Aric?”

  “Nay.” He risked a glance at her.

  Her smiling face fell. “Your people seem to like and respect me. I enjoy tending to your home and helping you. Truly, I would do a fine job.”

  With her tenacity, he was certain of it. But he was not going to reward Gwenyth’s whoring of her body with the very position she desired. He was not going to prove himself her personal jester, dimwitted and drugged by the feel of her.

  “Rowena fills that role well enough. Leave it alone.”

  Gwenyth rose to her knees on the mattress, yanking the white sheet against her for covering. He tried not to notice her saucy dark curls brushing the white tips of her shoulders, nipping at the narrow curve of her waist.

  Too late.

  Aric turned away, only to have Gwenyth grab the back of his tunic and prevent his departure. Against his will, he sensed her light dewy-grassed scent. Something inside him stirred with a pain he wanted to deny. He glared over his shoulder at her.

  “Rowena is not your wife, you buffoon. I am. I live with you, I share your bed, I bear your name. I am your wife in every respect but this one. Why? Do you think so lowly of me, or so highly of her?”

  “Gwenyth,” he growled in warning, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve no time to talk of this now. The castle is not suffering from her leadership.”

  “It is! She misuses resources and browbeats servants until they fear her.”

  He shot her a pointed glare. Her accusations were serious, but he had never heard the like from another. “You have made your displeasure with Rowena’s presence here well known. And I—”

  “And you, my lord, have made your appreciation of her presence quite known!”

  With that, she wrapped the sheet around her and stumbled for the door.

  He stopped her flight with a booted foot on the sheet. She cursed, maintaining her tentative hold on the white drape.

  “What mean you by that?”

  Gwenyth rolled her eyes. “As if you haven’t a clue? Must I write you a poem? ‘Ode to the Whore’s Skinny Thighs.’ How does that sound?”

  “Bitter. You will not badger me into changing my mind. Leave it alone.”

  “Leave it alone? Nay, I shall leave you alone! Do not attempt to touch, kiss me, cajole me, smile at me, talk to me, share a room—or a bed—with me. If you choose Rowena as your chatelaine, you can choose her for those other things as well.”

  To Aric’s shock, Gwenyth spat a vile oath at him and dropped the sheet shielding her nudity. He caught only a glimpse of her swinging hips and pale buttocks before she sauntered out of the room.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A fortnight passed before Gwenyth spoke a word to him. Aric minded not for the first day or two. His anger over her attempts to control him with his own lust kept his ire bubbling and his resolve bolstered.

  Within a few days, Rowena realized he and Gwenyth not only shared no bed but no words, either. The woman’s attempts to seduce him, often in the middle of the night, resulted in little more than sleepless irritation and a growl from Dog. Why did Rowena refuse to understand he did not desire her, particularly after he had consistently spurned her for more than a sennight?

  Squinting into the bright sunlight glowing over the bailey, Aric grunted in disgust and sheathed his sword as the other knights did. The motley collection of men all took a step back and eyed him with caution. Had he been that short of temper recently?

  Aye, he supposed he had. The thought annoyed him more.

  Sweat ran in rivulets down the cords of his neck, down his bare back and chest. He grimaced, knowing he needed a bath something fierce and that Rowena, not his wife, would volunteer to assist him.

  He raked a hand through the damp, overlong strands of his hair. Damn Gwenyth. Why could she not accept the duties he had given her? Why had the wench never learned obedience? Hell’s fury, why had she never tried?

  And why did he want to see a smile replace that tight-mouthed frown she now wore?

  Could only be because he was a dimwit, longing for a woman who wanted only his wealth and title, a woman destined to question, challenge, and infuriate him at every turn.

  Rowena’s milder manner suited him more. So why could he muster no interest in his once-betrothed despite her numerous blatant invitations?

  Handing the rest of his battle gear to his waiting squire, Aric marched into the castle, ordered an ale and a bath, then charged up the stairs to his chamber.

  Inside the door stood something of a miracle—Gwenyth clothed in naught but her chemise. Aric smiled suddenly as his stare grazed the narrow plane of her thinly clad back.

  With a toss of his head, he dismissed the wench who had been serving as Gwenyth’s lady’s maid of late. When the girl departed without a word, Gwenyth turned, wearing that constant bothersome frown. She stiffened when she saw him, then dived for the bed—and the clean dress awaiting her.

  Aric wrested the dress from the bed before she could reach it. He tossed it into a corner behind him. “I need a bath.”

  She gave him a contemptuous once-over. “So take one.”

  Ah, words from his stubborn wife. Progress at last. “I will need assistance.”

  Gwenyth’s expression iced over. “I shall find Rowena for you.”

  ’Twas clear she toyed with him. That fact lit a fire of anger within him. “Can you put Rowena from your mind?”

  The dark arch of her brow rose sharply. “Can you put her from yours?”

  Had the woman been paying attention at all of late? Aric’s patience gave way. “You are my wife.”

  “A fact that clearly holds no meaning here.”

  Aric took the jab in stride. “Beginning tonight, it does. A wife assists her husband with his bath.”

  “A wife is usually the castle’s chatelaine, as well—so you see, nothing ordinary happens here at Northwell.”

  Aric clenched his fist to quell his urge to touch her, to soothe her suddenly vulnerable expression. Aye, a man’s wife usually was his chatelaine. Of course, most lords knew their wives married and bedded them for their wealth and did not mind such. ’Twas common practice. Morosely, he wondered why he could not accept the same from Gwenyth.

  And why did his refusal to make her chatelaine seem to make her sad and furious in equal measures?

  Before he could form a reply, the tub and ale arrived, along with a fleet of kitchen maids holding kettles of boiling water. Gwenyth used the opportunity to try to escape through the chamber’s open door. Aric clamped his hand about her wrist and held tight. She shot him a venomous glare but said naught.

  A tense silence ensued while the maids finished pouring the water. Aric felt her pale softness beneath his fingers, smelled her spring-like skin, sensed her pulse beating too quickly at her wrist.

  Suddenly they were alone, shut off from the rest of the castle by the muted scraping of th
e wooden door against its stone portal.

  He wanted to be near her, inside her, so badly. A barbed ache bit into his gut.

  “Bathe me.”

  “Release me.” Her voice shook.

  “Gwenyth…” His voice softened. “We must talk.”

  “Of what? You have made your preferences clear.”

  Her flippant tone did not fool him, and her assumption that he desired Rowena incensed him. Did she not realize that what they shared in their marriage bed had been like naught he had ever known?

  “Nay, but I plan to make them perfectly clear tonight.”

  Something wary entered Gwenyth’s blue eyes before she cast him a false smile and looked to the door. “By all means, go. I think you will find Rowena in the great hall.”

  “By the saints, woman! Do you ever listen?”

  “I always listen,” she tossed back, indignant.

  “What with, your feet? I want you to bathe me, wife. We will discuss this no more.”

  “Bathe yourself.”

  “When you are here to perform your wifely role? Nay.”

  Before she could protest further, Aric took her wrist in his hand and dragged her to the tub. He felt resistance in her body. The fair face he knew too well held rebellion.

  “When I get in this tub, I expect you to remain by my side until the bath is complete. If you do not, I will put you in the tub with me.”

  Gwenyth’s mouth tightened in displeasure.

  “Tell me you listened with something besides yon toes.”

  “I heard you, you mewling, pig-mouthed—”

  Aric shed his hose and stood before her, his hands on hips, completely naked. Her eyes widened.

  She might find him mewling and pig-mouthed, he reflected, but Gwenyth was not immune to the sight of him. A definite factor in his favor.

  Smiling, he eased into the hot water and handed her the soap and a cloth one of the maids had left on the trestle table.

  That wariness was back in her eyes as she took the proffered items.

  “Go on. Bathe me.”

  Still, Gwenyth moved not. He could see her mind racing as she frantically sought to avoid this task. He frowned. Why would she do such a thing? Given the opportunity to incite his lust and possibly forward her position in the castle because of it, why did she not try?

  Finally, she loosed a piqued sigh and dipped the cloth in the water, beside his hip. Aric felt her knuckles graze his skin. She jerked her hand out of the water, pulling it up to her chest. Her gaze flew to his.

  For long moments, Gwenyth did not move. Aric met her wide-eyed stare, hoping his lust for her did not show in his eyes.

  “This bath will take very long indeed if you do not start,” he teased.

  Gwenyth nodded, then appeared to collect her wits. She thrust the cloth back into the water, not flinching when she grazed his thigh. Within moments, she had soaped the cloth and applied it to his back.

  He bent forward to aid her cleansing. Her rhythmic strokes across his skin were thorough and relaxing—until he realized she was taking great pains to keep the cloth between her and his skin.

  So his little dragon was uneasy. He smiled, anticipating the feel of her in his arms again this night.

  “Gwenyth.” He put a complaining note in his voice and shrugged away from her ministrations. “That cloth. ’Tis rough.”

  He tossed a scowl over his shoulder for effect. She looked down at the suspect scrap of worn linen and frowned.

  “Nay, it is soft.”

  “Not to my back,” he protested. “Set it aside.”

  “But—”

  “Does my request distress you? If it does, I can bear the discomfort.”

  Gwenyth looked torn between keeping her distance and admitting he affected her.

  “Nay,” she said finally.

  With a last lingering look, she set the cloth aside.

  She took the soap between her hands and lathered them. Aric eased back into position and let her palms and fingers curl their way around his neck, soothe his shoulders, meander down his back. He tensed, anticipating her touch elsewhere.

  With the delicacy of a sprite, she trickled water from her hands and down his skin, rinsing it in warm refreshment.

  Sighing, he leaned back against the tub and awaited her next move. It came quickly. Her bathing became brisk, almost impersonal. She stared at nothing more than the far wall as she washed the dirt and sweat from his chest.

  “Ouch!” He grimaced for effect. When she shot him a questioning glare, he answered, “The men and I trained particularly hard today and I am sore. Slowly, please.”

  Gritting her teeth, she placed her palms on his chest once more and glided them across his torso in sweeping circles.

  Aric fought for control of his breath as his heart picked up speed. To have Gwenyth touch him again after long weeks without her… She flattened her palm over his tense abdomen, then flicked a fingertip upward, over his male nipples. He hissed in a sharp breath. By the saints, he could think of naught else but holding the fire in her body and soul within his arms and possessing her completely.

  He sent a covert glance from beneath his lashes to Gwenyth’s face. She had flushed a pretty pink, and he doubted the cooling water had much to do with it.

  Holding back a grin, he decided to throw a little kindling onto the growing fire. He propped his leg on the edge of the tub. His knee nudged her breast. Water seeped from his skin to her smock, and soon he could see her taut nipple through the garment. He smothered a moan and reached for Gwenyth.

  She jerked out of his grasp and tossed the soap into the water with a plunk.

  “Gwenyth…” he groaned.

  She turned away for a moment, then whirled back. Before he knew what she was about, she had poured an entire bucket of cool water over his head.

  Sputtering, he cursed roundly and cleared the water from his eyes in time to see Gwenyth’s smirk.

  Then she stomped toward the door.

  Aric jumped up, water splashing all around, and sprinted from the tub. Uncaring that he wore not a stitch, he grabbed her arm and turned her to face him.

  “We are not done,” he gritted out, trying to control his fury.

  “If it’s a tumble you seek, I shall find Rowena for you.”

  He frowned. Her references to Rowena were becoming tiresome. “Are you blind? ’Tis not Rowena I desire.”

  His wife raised a skeptical black brow. “Have you tired of her already, my lord? Is that why you seek me now—at least until you are ready for her again? Or am I merely handy, being so close?”

  “What?” His mind spun. Did she still believe he would take to his bed a woman who had betrayed him with his own father and bedded his brother? Did Gwenyth still think he preferred Rowena’s pale personality over her?

  Gwenyth’s nose turned red and her eyes glossy with tears.

  “Do not dare pretend you know naught of what I say!”

  She swiped her palm across her cheek, then balled it into a fist at her side. “If ’twas Rowena you sought, why did you touch me? If you merely wanted a woman, why me? How could you make me believe you—”

  Tears ended her sentence. Aric gathered her against him. As his wet skin dampened her chemise, he felt the warmth of her flesh flow to him. She smelled like a spring garden, earthy and alive, and he ached to possess her as much as he yearned to soothe her.

  “I have not touched Rowena in two years, since before she wed my father. And I do not want to touch her now.”

  Suspicion clouded her blue eyes, now the shade of midnight. “But I found you together in the treasury with your head bent to her and her arm—”

  “We spoke of the accounts, of missing grain and stray chickens.”

  “But your face… It looked so tense.” Confusion colored her voice into a shadow of its usually robust pitch.

  He sighed and took her face between his palms. “Aye, because she had accused you of thieving. And she angered me. I cannot deny she has sough
t my bed since we came to Northwell, but I have refused her.”

  Gwenyth’s brow furrowed. Tears welled in her eyes, then spilled to her cheeks in fat drops that slid warmly beneath his fingers. Her pain made him ache. He felt despicable for inciting such sorrow, even if unintended.

  “I…” She shook her head and bit her lip, trying to hold more tears at bay. “Then why do you allow her to stay? If not to be your leman, then why?”

  Aric smoothed a soothing hand over Gwenyth’s glossy tresses, marveling at the black silk that slid through his fingers. “Rowena has nowhere else to call home. She is a distant cousin to Edward IV’s queen Elizabeth Woodvylle. When the queen’s oldest son, the boy who should have been king, disappeared, Elizabeth feared the worst.”

  She had been all too right, Aric thought mournfully. And he had played a hand in ensuring the death of her other son, young Richard. He closed his eyes in recrimination and let icy guilt slide through him.

  “I do not understand how the dowager queen’s troubles affect Rowena.”

  He nodded, returning to the present, to the feel of his distraught wife. “Rowena’s family was poor but well connected. To improve their position, her parents tried to aid the queen in an ill-fated plot to overthrow King Richard. Elizabeth remained safely in Westminster, where Richard knew he could not touch her without appearing a perfect villain. And he is already an unpopular king.”

  “Aye,” she said, but her frown clearly showed confusion.

  “So King Richard stripped Rowena’s family of their lands and executed her father for treason. We were betrothed by then, and I was responsible for her. I brought her to Northwell.”

  “Then she wed your father?”

  “For a time, aye. But my father was a practical man, above all else. He knew I hesitated in speaking vows with Rowena, who was growing impatient to be wed. My father, who had been without a wife for nigh on five years, liked the order of the household, the warm meals, the castle so well tended. And I’m sure he wanted a beauteous woman warming his bed. So he wed her.”

  “Why did you hesitate in wedding Rowena?”