Anselm shrugged and took her embroidery from her unresisting hands. “He desired the company of some other lady, I assume. The king only ever stables one mistress at a time.”
“How considerate of him!” But her sarcasm fell on deaf ears.
Anselm raised her needlework in order to examine it better. “What is this meant to represent, sweeting?” He frowned. “Is it... a boat of some kind?”
“Actually, it’s a tree.”
“Is it?” Squinting slightly, he brought the embroidery closer to his nose. “I swear, I cannot make it out.”
With a huff of annoyance, Martha snatched the needlework from his hands and turned it the right way up, displaying it properly. “There! See?”
“Oh.” Anselm’s lips twitched. He was trying not to laugh, she could tell. “That is... a vast improvement.” He closed one eye. “Yes, I think I can see it now.”
“Arse!” Giving him a fierce glare, Martha tossed the embroidery to the other side of the window seat. “What would you know?”
He snorted with laughter. “Forgive me, my dear. I should not mock you, but even you must admit you have little skill with a needle.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said coldly. “I was going to give it to you, as a present.”
“Really?” His eyes bugged with the effort of containing his amusement. “And stained with your own precious blood too. How delightful!”
Unable to help herself, Martha grinned. She wasn’t really offended. Her needlecraft was spectacularly crappy, there was no denying it. “Anyway, you were telling me about the king. Will I get to meet him?”
“It is not likely, sweeting. I fear my master will never really like you.”
“Good,” Martha replied. “I don’t care for him either. Him or his royal cousin.” She tilted her head to one side. “Do you like him? The king, I mean?”
He shrugged. “What does it matter if I like him or not? Erik is the most powerful man in the Norlands. Only a fool would cross him.”
“Well, I’m relieved I won’t be meeting him. He makes my flesh crawl.”
Anselm smiled and touched her hand. “Attractive though you are, sweeting, you are hardly likely to catch King Erik’s eye.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“King Erik prefers... younger flesh.”
Okay, Martha was fast-approaching her thirtieth birthday, but Beatrice barely looked out of her teens, for goodness sake. Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.
“How young?” Damn it!
Anselm shuffled on his seat, suddenly absorbed with a loose piece of thread on his tunic. “Old enough to have had her first bleed.”
“Good God!” She leapt to her feet and began pacing the room, battling the urge to throw something. “That great fecking pervert. Ugh! The thought of him, sweating and rutting all over some poor innocent child—”
Anselm hurried over, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Hush! Calm yourself, my dear.” He forced her to stand still. “Lower your voice,” he hissed urgently. “Someone might hear you.”
“So?” She glared up at him, breathing hard. “I don’t fecking care if they—”
Anselm’s mouth came down hard, effectively silencing her with his kiss. Before Martha could react, he’d wrapped his arms about, drawing her to the heat of his muscular body.
Oh hell! Martha froze, shocked into submission for several beats. Then, she began to fight. Using all her strength, she pushed against him, struggling to get free. She managed to move her head to one side, partially breaking Anselm’s determined lip-lock. “Get off me, you bast—”
Speaking was a huge mistake. As she opened her mouth to curse him, Anselm’s tongue slipped inside. He cupped the back of her head, tasting her more deeply.
Martha almost gagged. She pushed against at the hard wall of his chest, but he held her too firmly. There was no escape. The taste of sweet ale on his exploring tongue made her want to puke.
Anselm groaned from deep in his throat, stroking up and down her back with his free hand while his lips played upon hers, coaxing her to respond.
And Martha responded.
She bit down hard, narrowly missing his tongue, but his lower lip wasn’t so lucky. The hot metallic tang of blood flooded her mouth.
Anselm hissed and drew back. “Vixen!” Although his hold on her lessened, he didn’t let her go.
“Bastard!” She stamped down hard on his stockinged foot. Anselm emitted a pained yelp, and suddenly she was free.
Martha darted to the other side of the room and grabbed hold of a sturdy metal candlestick from the sideboard. “You fecking pig of a man!” She hurled it at him, her cheeks flaming with rage.
Anselm shielded his face just in time. The metal candlestick bounced off his forearm then hit the floor with a thud. “Ow! Stop, Martha.”
Stop? I’ve only just begun! She picked up a tankard and chucked that at him too.
Anselm ducked behind a chair as the tankard struck the backrest, showering him with dregs of sticky ale. “Enough, woman!” he roared. Ale ran down the golden strands of his hair like hot wax down the sides of a candle.
“Don’t you dare woman me!” Breathing hard, Martha snatched up another candlestick, then she waited for the opportune moment to launch it. “I’m a patient man? I can wait?” She mocked Anselm with his own words. “How dare you treat me like—”
“I wanted only to silence you.” Anselm peeped out from behind the chair. He didn’t look angry, only amused. “Or, do you have a particular yearning to spend more time in the dungeon?” He grinned, his hair hanging in soggy rats’ tails about his face. “It was only a kiss, sweeting. Your widowly virtue remains intact.”
Repulsive letch. As far as he knew, Vadim was dead. Even her recently widowed status was no protection from his disgusting advances.
“You have all the sensitivity of a brick.” With a trembling hand, she set the candlestick back down on the sideboard. “I’m still mourning my husband, in case you’ve forgotten it.”
The mere mention of Vadim was usually enough to wipe the smug smile from Anselm’s face, and it didn’t fail her now.
“A fact I am all too aware of, m’lady.” Abandoning the chair’s protection, Anselm stood up. He wiped the blood from his bleeding lip with the back of his hand. “Even in death, he remains to plague me,” he muttered. “If I could kill his ghost, I would gladly do so.”
Martha bit her lip, refusing to be provoked any further. She stood motionless while Anselm limped over to retrieve his boots from the hearth. The moment they were back on his feet, he headed for the door. Suddenly, he paused. He turned around, looking at her with eyes as cold as an arctic winter.
“Sometimes you push me too far,” he said softly. “Your precious husband is dead, Martha. Gone! You cannot hide behind your widow’s weeds forever.”
“I—”
“Be silent!” he roared, making her jump. He held up his index finger as if daring her to defy him. “It is time you learned the truth, m’lady.”
Her stomach liquified, and her knees shook. Scary Anselm was back.
“Whether you like it or not,” he continued in a low, measured voice, “you will marry again. The earl had selected several prospective husbands before I expressed an interest in owning you. Believe this: you would gladly welcome even King Erik between your legs over any of my master’s choices.”
Martha felt sick. Sweet baby Jesus. Just how awful were these other men if King Erik was the best option?
Out in the corridor, beyond the open door, a group of knights walked by, talking and laughing as they passed. Anselm acknowledged them with a nod and a tight-lipped smile, but when he turned back to Martha, his eyes were granite-hard.
“Your wild willfulness may have suited your husband,” he said, “but these are not qualities I desire my own wife to possess. Modesty and
obedience are but two of the things I require.”
Somehow, Martha managed to remain standing as the full impact of his words permeated her shocked brain. Marry...him?
“I will leave you with that thought, my sweet.” Anselm flashed her a brief, glacial smile. “Think on it until I return. If my terms are unacceptable to you, I will advise my master I am no longer interested in taking you for my wife. Do I make myself clear?”
What else could she do except nod? But that wasn’t enough for Anselm.
“Say it!”
“I understand,” she muttered.
“Good. The morning will suffice for your answer. Until then, I bid you a good night, m’lady.” He bowed his head then left, locking the door behind him.
The moment the key turned in the lock, Martha’s control shattered, fracturing into a thousand tiny shards. She raced for the sanctuary of her room and bolted the door behind her, hot tears of dread and rage streaming unchecked down her cheeks.
Oh, Vadim! Just hurry up and get here.
Flinging herself face down upon the bed, she sobbed into the pillows. Suddenly, she longed for Rodmar and his army, for the war to begin. Surely, anything was better than this life of fear and uncertainty.
Although the threat of being married off to Anselm was bad enough, she had a new reason for terror, something she’d refused to acknowledge until this moment.
Her period was overdue.
At first, she’d blamed it on the upset, on the change of food and company. But a small inner voice kept on whispering the truth, no matter how many times she tried to ignore it.
The frequent waves of nausea made sense now. She could no longer blame them on Anselm’s company. Well, not all of them, anyway. Not only that, but her breasts were heavier. They looked much fuller in her close-fitting gowns. She’d blamed their fevered aching on an approaching period, a period that never arrived.
Pregnant. With Vadim’s baby.
If she and Anselm ever made it to the altar, that’d be a heck of a wedding gift for him, his new wife already bearing the child of his mortal enemy.
No. She stopped crying and sat up. That’ll never happen.
She dried her face on her skirt and took several hiccupping breaths. Although she’d never considered herself particularly maternal, a new fierceness overwhelmed her. She placed a hand upon her stomach.
Don’t you worry, little fella. Daddy’s on his way. No matter what happens, I’ll make sure we get out of this.
All she had to do was keep her cool for a few more days. And if Anselm thought he’d broken her, so much the better.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was almost noon the next day when Anselm finally staggered through the door. Martha sat in her usual place by the window, schooling her face into a neutral mask. Let the games begin.
“Good morning, sweeting.” Anselm was all smiles, as though the events of the previous day had never happened. “Did you miss me?”
“Of course.” Like I’d miss an STD! At least she managed to summon a genuine smile.
He closed the door and locked it behind himself, though it took him several attempts to locate the keyhole. His golden hair was mussed and frizzy, and his clothes were rumpled. His tunic hung open, his half-fastened shirt exposing the muscles of his hairless chest.
Martha sniffed then wished she hadn’t. He reeked of sweat and booze and sex.
“Pardon me.” Anselm patted the chair he’d stumbled against, almost knocking it over. “My fault entirely.”
God, he’s still absolutely bladdered. “I take it you had a good night, then?”
“Not at all.” He grinned and fell sprawling onto the window seat beside her. “It was all terribly dull… matters of state and such. I should have much preferred to remain here with you.” He leaned back, sitting with his legs so wide his knee brushed against hers.
“How sweet.” Martha attempted another smile, adjusting her position slightly so her leg no longer touched his.
“So? Have you considered my offer, hmm?” He leaned toward her, fixing her with bleary, bloodshot eyes.
Damn. She’d hoped he’d forgotten about last night’s proposal.
“I have.” Martha scratched her nose in a vain attempt to shield herself from the blast of his toxic morning breath.
“And?”
“I accept your terms.”
“Martha!” He beamed at her. “You have made me the happiest of men.”
Afraid he might try and hug her, she leapt to her feet. “I would like to know why you want to marry me, though.”
Anselm sat back and rubbed his face, his hands rasping over his stubbled cheeks. “I am hardly fit to be looked upon. Might my declaration of love keep until after I bathe, my dear?”
Declaration of love, indeed. “There’s no need for anything like that. I was just curious about something, that’s all.” She went to throw another log on the fire, any excuse to put some distance between them. The smell of him was making her stomach roll.
“Oh? What might that be?”
Martha turned to look at him. “You said the king gave Beatrice’s husband some land as a sweetener... to encourage him to marry her, I mean.”
“So?” Anselm stretched out his arms and yawned. “How does their arrangement concern us?”
“You could marry a proper lady, Anselm, someone with a big fat dowry. Isn’t that how it works amongst the nobility? I have nothing to bring to our… marriage. Even my clothes,” she said, sweeping her hands down the skirt of her blue gown, “were paid for with gold from your pocket. And so my question stands; why do you want to marry me?”
Anselm chuckled. “What would you prefer to hear, sweeting? The truth, or something more palatable?”
She shrugged. “The truth usually works for me.”
“Very well.” Anselm seemed to sober up. “But first, pour me some ale, would you? My mouth tastes like a cesspool.”
Martha did as he asked. She had no intention of making him angry—not now the end was surely so close.
“Thank you.” He took the tankard from her outstretched hand and chugged it down in one go. Then, with a contented sigh, he wiped his mouth on his grimy sleeve. “Sit down, Martha,” he said, patting the seat beside him. “I want to look at you.”
Oh God! Must I? But she obeyed, perching on the edge of the seat with her hands clasped tightly on her lap. The feel of his eyes on her face made her skin crawl.
“You are uncommonly pretty, my dear. I have always found you so. Little wonder your feral husband abandoned his solitary ways and took you for his own.” A tiny smile curved his lips. “In death, he bequeathed unto me his life’s greatest treasure. ’Tis quite fitting, do you not agree, your life entrusted to his only brother?”
“Foster brother.” The words were out before she could stop them, though she attempted to soften them with a smile. If Anselm wasn’t drunk, he was far more delusional than she’d suspected. Whatever he was, arguing with him wasn’t going to help.
“I admit, I have grown rather fond of you over these past weeks, m’lady. In time, I am convinced that our fledgling feelings will develop into… something more permanent.”
Her eyes widened. She couldn’t help it. Anselm must have interpreted their silent message.
“Yes they will, my sweet, if only you will allow it to happen.” He reached across and patted her tightly knotted fingers. “When we are joined, the broken fragments of your heart will finally heal—”
“So why do you want to marry me?” She hadn’t meant to interrupt, but she couldn’t stomach much more of his purple prose, nor his closeness. She felt ill enough already.
Anselm’s gray eyes hardened. He slowly withdrew his hand and made no further attempt to touch her. “Some things are more valuable than gold. Despise him as I do, I cannot deny that in life your husband was a leader of
men. By claiming his wife, I send a message to the world.”
That you’re a complete arsehole? She sucked in her lower lip, trying not to smile as he continued to speak.
“With you at my side, new doors will open before me. I may finally be able to shake Edgeway’s dirt from my boots.”
“Ah!” So it was all about street credibility. Of course. By that reckoning, this would make her the medieval equivalent of his dangerous dog on a leash. The flashy bling around his neck. “I see.”
Anselm smiled. “How would you enjoy life at Court, m’lady? I believe the king is warming to me.”
“What about His Evilness?” she asked. “You’d leave him?”
“Certainly. Ambition is its own master.”
Martha got up. “Do you want more ale?” She had to move away. In the heat of the room, Anselm’s sweaty stench was fast becoming unbearable.
“Wait.” Before she could escape, his hand encircled her wrist. “Do not flinch away from me, Martha. I will not take your body, not until you are properly mine.” He drew her closer. “Tell me one thing. When will I be able to call you wife, my sweet? Just name the day.”
She stood rigid between his open thighs, taking little sips of air through her mouth. How long could she put him off? How long before Rodmar won the castle? How long is a piece of string? “Springtime?”
“Why not this winter?” he asked with a wicked leer, placing his hands on her hips. “Something to warm those long, cold nights?”
“Yeah, right.” Martha rolled her eyes at him. She’d rather freeze to death. But how could she put him off? Maybe it was time she morphed into Bridezilla? “And what about my gown, the guest list, and the hundred-and-one other arrangements?”
His smile faltered. “I thought you might prefer a simple ceremony.”
Ha! You wish.
“Then you thought wrong.” Martha patted one of his stubbly cheeks then stepped away. “I want a proper wedding this time. No expense spared.”
“Martha—”
“Don’t give me that face, m’lord,” she said, frowning at him with mock severity. “I thought you were ambitious. Who’s going take you seriously with a hole-in-the-wall wedding? Certainly not King Erik.” She smiled. He was falling for it just as she hoped he would. “If I’m your prize, what better time to show me off than on our wedding day?”
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