A Warrior's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  “I don’t know. Sir George said he would speak to you about it. He also intends to talk to Rafe about the mill rate.”

  “Why?” Richard demanded, sitting forward. “Does he doubt the need to raise it?”

  “He didn’t tell me.”

  Richard slumped back, disgusted. “And you didn’t ask.”

  “Some of us are not so forward as others. Some of us know our places. Some of us—”

  “Are cowards, content to have others do our talking and thinking for us,” Richard concluded sarcastically. “And that includes Rafe, who might have considered that a man who had to pay for a wedding feast might be very concerned about his money.”

  “You said there was plenty enough that he wouldn’t notice.”

  Richard scowled. “Of course there’s plenty. But the additional expenses for a feast might make an intelligent man worry about any decrease in income—even a lax fool like Sir George.” His expression grew less angry. “Still, there is no cause for concern just yet, I think, as long as everyone keeps their head. A newly married lord is liable to be too busy with nuptial matters to trouble about the business of his estate.

  “So let us toast Sir George and his bride—and may they be too filled with lust for each other to examine the accounts closely!”

  The two men raised their goblets and drank deeply.

  George took his time going up the stairs toward the bedchamber. Aileas had retired soon after the fruit and cheese appeared; he had lingered, gaming with some of his men, for he was determined to regain some semblance of calm normality before he encountered his wife again. Her behavior toward Herbert had been confusing and rather upsetting.

  Unfortunately, he was finding it extremely difficult to concentrate on anything other than having Aileas in his arms when he was with her.

  George opened the door to the bedchamber—and nearly fell over, for Aileas was already in bed, and quite obviously naked, the coverlet around her waist. She made no move to cover herself, but regarded him with the merest hint of a smile on her face.

  How was he to deal with such a woman?

  He closed the door and tried to think, then cleared his throat and commanded himself to control his passion. It was important that Aileas understand what he expected of her at once. “I was not pleased by your conduct toward Herbert Jolliet today,” he began in a reasonable tone.

  Her brow furrowed slightly. “I explained that I was tired,” she replied calmly. “You agreed the accounts could wait.”

  God’s wounds, he wished she would cover herself, for the sight of her was making it very difficult for him to concentrate, let alone reprimand her. “That you would not be demurely polite, I rather expected, but I did not think you would be discourteous outright.”

  Her lips turned down in another pout, and the sight, coupled with her state of undress, was incredibly arousing—so arousing, he walked toward the window and looked out at the dark, moonless sky, for he was determined to settle the matter of her impolite conduct at once. “I expected better of you, Aileas.”

  “I apologize for being rude to Herbert,” she said.

  He came toward the bed and sat beside her, leaning toward her and taking a lock of her hair and rubbing it between his fingers.

  She wasn’t looking at him. Her brow slightly creased, she was looking at her intertwined fingers laid in her lap, those same incredible fingers that had worked such magic last night. “I want you to be happy here, Aileas,” he said softly.

  She looked at him boldly. “I don’t trust either one of your stewards.”

  “What?” The candid nature of her words, as well as their import, shocked him.

  She flushed, but her expression remained defiant. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that, but it is what I think.”

  “You’ve only just met them,” he observed with a scoffing laugh. “I concur that Herbert doesn’t immediately give a good impression, but he was my father’s steward, too, and never gave a single cause for any mistrust.”

  “I know that I have no reason to distrust them,” she continued defensively, “and so I have said to myself, yet I cannot help feeling uneasy about them.”

  “I assure you, Aileas, they are completely trustworthy. When you know them better, you will agree with me.”

  “I hope so,” she answered truthfully, telling herself that George must be right and her own misgivings foolish. After all, her father had said nothing against the stewards, and he was an excellent judge of men. If he had thought them dishonest or untrustworthy, he would have warned her. Convinced that she was worried for nothing, and far more interested in George than either of them, she smiled and said, “Forgive my hasty words.” She brushed her fingers lightly over his. “I would rather know you better, husband.”

  “Soon, Aileas, you will know me as no one else ever has.”

  He stood and quickly tossed his tunic aside and pulled his shirt over his head. He went to blow out the candle and realized many were missing. “Where are the candles?”

  “I had Elma take some away. So many were too wasteful.”

  “Oh.” He put aside any annoyance her words caused and hurried to remove his boots and breeches, then chuckled softly as he slid beneath the coverlet. “Then I shall simply have to feel my way.”

  “Let me guide you—”

  He took hold of her wandering hand and rolled on top of her, taking his weight on his elbows. “Not tonight, Aileas. Tonight I am in command.”

  Aileas drew in her breath sharply. “But I—”

  “No!” he ordered, staring down at her with intense seriousness. “Tonight, I will lead the way.”

  Aileas stiffened for an instant—but only an instant, , for George’s featherlight caresses and increasingly passionate kisses soon created tension of that other, wondrous kind before she could dwell on his unexpected words.

  Then she forgot them, too caught up in the burning desire that coursed through her heated flesh to think of anything at all.

  But later, as George slumbered beside her, Aileas did remember his words, and the way he had loved her—with astonishing skill, but also in a slow, measured, practiced way, as if she were someone else, until near the end. Then he had once again become the impassioned lover she had known on her wedding night.

  He had wanted to be in command, he said. He would lead the way.

  Because she hadn’t done things right? Because she had been too hasty or too clumsy? Because she was ignorant of how to please him in their marriage bed?

  Had she failed at that, too?

  She couldn’t dance. She couldn’t sing. She couldn’t sew. Her manners were appalling. And now, she knew, she couldn’t even make love properly.

  What would George say when he found out she couldn’t read or write, either? That that was the true reason she didn’t want to talk to the household steward?

  She could guess what he would think, even if he proved too polite to say it. Soon enough, he would begin to lose patience with her. He would grow annoyed, then angry. Eventually he might even hate her. He would be certain he had married the worst wife in all of England. He would be sorry he had ever laid eyes on her. He might even send her back to her father in disgrace.

  How could she bear that? How could she bear to be away from him, now that she knew how kind and delightful a man like George could be?

  A man like George? Surely there was no one else like him.

  Aileas felt the hot tears sting her eyes and ground her fists into them as if she could push the tears back from whence they came.

  She wouldn’t cry, she told herself. Tears were for fools. Tears were a weakness she wouldn’t indulge.

  Tears were for women.

  Aileas’s hands slowly uncurled until her whole face was covered, as if she would hide herself and her shame from prying eyes.

  Tomorrow, she would be strong again. No one would know the pain she felt. No one would discover that she was a complete disgrace to her sex. She would hide the fact that she couldn’t rea
d or write as best she could, for as long as she could. She was Sir Thomas Dugall’s daughter, and she had her pride.

  But her tears seeped out between her fingers and her shoulders shook with silent sobs.

  Chapter Twelve

  “George, it’s time to get up,” Aileas commanded loudly. “You should not stay in bed all morning.”

  He opened his tired eyes to find her face inches from his. He reached out and pulled her to him for a long, slow kiss. She was as rigid and unyielding as a plank, as she had been in the beginning last night. It had taken a little more time to arouse her than on their wedding night, but surely that was nothing to be concerned about. Once kindled, her passion had been as fiery and exciting as any man could wish.

  It could be that their many activities during the day had tired her before they got to bed.

  “George!” she protested, pulling away with an annoyed expression. “It is time to get up.”

  “But the sun has barely risen.”

  “How can you tell from there?” she demanded, shoving wide the bed curtains so that light streamed in, making him close his eyes against the sudden brightness. “It is surely well past prime. The mass might even be over.”

  “The windows face east,” he said by way of explanation for what appeared to be the lateness of the hour. “I heard no bells.”

  “You slept through them.”

  “But you did not. How creditable,” he said with approval. “But is it any wonder I am tired? I am not Hercules, my love. Or Eros.”

  “No, you are not,” she agreed in a tone that he didn’t quite like.

  He rose on one elbow and saw her put an ancient leather belt over an equally ancient, male tunic, frayed at the bottom, and cinch it tight. He bit back a curse, for she was already attired in her usual combination of breeches, short skirt, men’s tunic and belt. He had hoped to suggest she don something more appropriate for a lord’s wife before she got dressed.

  “I told you, it’s late,” she said. “You should get up.”

  He would get those clothes off any way he could, he decided, and later, he would find a diplomatic way to get her into a proper gown. “Come back to bed with me, Aileas,” he cajoled, giving her his most seductive, persuasive smile.

  For a moment, he thought she was about to comply, but then she primly said, “We should go to mass. It’s our duty.”

  “I know what my duty is,” he answered, trying not to sound as frustrated as he felt. Clearly, she was in no humor to indulge him. Indeed, she seemed as peevish as a mare with an irritation under her saddle this morning.

  So he got out of bed. The moment his bare feet touched the cold stone floor, he shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. “God’s wounds, light the brazier!”

  “Oh, it’s not that cold!” Aileas chided. “You just have to get dressed.”

  He remained silent as he went to the chamber pot. When he was finished, he turned around to find her sitting on the bed, holding out his oldest, most worn breeches, apparently intending that he put them on. “I meant to get rid of those,” he muttered, heading for one of his clothing chests.

  “There is nothing wrong with these,” she charged.

  “Those?” he said. “I haven’t given them away because I didn’t think they were even fit for one of the village beggars.”

  “They’ve only been mended twice!” Aileas protested.

  He threw back the lid of the chest and pulled out a clean white shirt. “And how many times do you have to be told that I have plenty of money?”

  “We won’t if you continue to be so wasteful,” she countered.

  “I will not dress like a pauper.”

  “Then I’ll wear them.”

  He slowly turned to face her, still completely naked. “No, you won’t.”

  She frowned darkly. “I—”

  “You will not,” he ordered before putting on the shirt, whose hem fell to his thighs. “As a matter of fact, you shouldn’t be wearing breeches at all, as you should know.”

  “I’ve always dressed this way.”

  He went back to rooting in his chest. “While you lived under your father’s roof, it was his place to comment on your choice of clothing. Now you are under mine, and those clothes are not acceptable.”

  “I don’t own a gown suitable for wear during the day.”

  “Wear that green one. Elma can alter it so that it fits you better,” he said as he pulled out a long tunic of red wool.

  “It’s too fine.”

  He clenched his jaw as he tugged on the tunic. “No, it isn’t,” he muttered.

  “I shall consider your request,” she replied haughtily.

  He spun around on his heel and glared at her, to find her still holding the torn breeches expectantly. “Aileas, I can afford to throw those things out the window and I can afford to buy you as many dresses as you would like.”

  “You wouldn’t do anything so ridiculous, and I don’t like dresses,” she said sullenly.

  He marched toward her and snatched the offending garment from her hand. “I did not ask you whether you liked wearing dresses. You must wear them.” Then he took the breeches and threw them out the window.

  She jumped up from the bed and glared at him. “That was a silly thing to do!”

  “This is my castle and I shall do what I like!”

  Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned as she crossed her arms over her chest. “You sound like a child—or one of my brothers.”

  “I am not a child or your brother,” he said very slowly and deliberately. “I am your husband, and I do not take kindly to being addressed in that tone. As for how you spoke to your brothers, I can assume that it was not as a noble lady should.”

  “If by that you mean I did not dissemble and mince and simper and say they were always right, you are absolutely correct,” she retorted, flushing hotly. “Nor would I speak that way to you, as if I didn’t have a brain in my head! Is that the kind of woman you really prefer—someone like Lady Margot?”

  “I told you before, if I wanted Margot, I would have asked for her,” he said as he struggled to keep his temper. He strode toward his chest and pulled out his finest pair of breeches. In truth, they were too costly for everyday wear, but he yanked them on nonetheless.

  “Perhaps you should have. I’m sure she would have said yes. Now I am going to the chapel.”

  “Not in those clothes, you’re not,” he said, wheeling to face his recalcitrant bride.

  “Do you think you can stop me?” she demanded before coming straight toward him. As she made her way to the door, she shoved past him, deliberately pushing him with her shoulder.

  He raised his hand, then halted, motionless save for his heaving chest, as she slammed the door behind her.

  George took a deep breath and let it out slowly, fighting to regain control. He walked to the ewer and splashed cold water over his face, leaning over the basin as if he were about to be sick and gripping the side of the table until his knuckles were white with the effort.

  God’s wounds, he had almost hit her.

  He took another deep, shuddering breath. He must and would master his feelings, he commanded himself. He must and would dominate his rage.

  He had to conquer his emotions or else he knew, as surely as he stood in this room, that the result would be disaster, for him and for her.

  He closed his eyes, and once again, he saw the poor, dead creature in his arms.

  The memory returned with as much force as if it were yesterday, although he had been a boy of ten at the time. That horrible day played through his mind in excruciating detail, reminding him of the consequences of his uncontrolled emotions.

  Then, as always, the same tremendous sense of shame and loss filled George until it seemed his whole body burned with it.

  With a weary sigh, he opened his eyes and strode to the window, looking out unseeing at the blue sky dotted with clouds.

  For years, to protect those around him, he had forced away strong em
otions, becoming the man everyone thought they knew: the charming, the elegant, the jovial Sir George de Gramercie. A man apparently without temper. A man who kept the peace between others. A man tolerant and perhaps a little lazy, who did not upbraid his servants.

  Until he had met Aileas Dugall and married her, and discovered that those volatile emotions were still there, buried deep, to be sure, but more than capable of exploding. It was as if Aileas had lifted the lid of his own Pandora’s box, so that the evils he had dominated so long by sheer force of will had finally escaped.

  How naive he had been, to believe that he could govern himself completely, even when he had felt that first flush of anger at her impertinence and experienced the slight stab of jealousy when he saw Aileas with Rufus.

  He spotted Aileas marching across the courtyard toward the chapel. Well, he would not go to mass this morning, let her say what she would.

  What about her duties as his wife and chatelaine of Ravensloft?

  And why was she so different last night and this morning? What had changed to make her so irritable? What had he done? Or was the fault with her alone?

  George laid his cheek against the cool stone.

  The peculiar nature of their first meeting as adults should have been a warning to him to turn around and return to Ravensloft immediately. He should have realized that Aileas Dugall, with her wild hair and insolent manner, was the antithesis of the wife he should seek.

  Instead, his curiosity about the Aileas he had known in his childhood had led him onward. As for the reason he had married her...he could only describe it now as a perverse fascination aided by an overwhelming physical desire such as he had never felt before.

  A desire she seemed to share. She made love like no woman he had ever known, exciting him as no other ever had, with a passionate abandon and skill—

  And skill.

  She did things one might expect of the most experienced courtesan, not a maiden bride.

  Where had she learned...?

  He went to the bed and yanked back the coverlet to stare at the bottom sheet. The unstained sheet, bearing no sign of a broken maidenhead.