Swallowing, Guy turned away. He would put that from his mind. He had to. “I’ll tell them we’re staying,” he said gruffly and left the room.
The meal was an awkward affair. Guy sat at the head of the table and Mathide next to Robin on his right. Temur sat on his left. Prudence, served a tasty meal of game pie and winter vegetables. Robin and Temur set about consuming their food with a single-minded purpose that did not allow for conversation. Feeling the weight of Mathilde’s expectant gaze on him, Guy cudgeled his brain for some safe topic of discussion. The only thing he could think of was horses.
“You’ll still need to keep that mare from my stables,” he said, clearing his throat. “That horse of yours — I mean, Destrian,” he amended coloring slightly and avoiding Temur’s eye. “He isn’t really fit for anything but retirement.”
“Oh, but I shall still ride him for short journeys,” Mathide replied quickly. “He’s a very excellent horse and most keen to be in my keeping.”
Guy regarded her doubtfully. She had far too good a seat to have a broken down dray-horse for a mount. Still, he didn’t want to upset her further with brutal truths right now. “Anything further than a short ride, you must take the bay.” His tone was mild, but brooked no argument.
“I would be very pleased to keep the bay mare,” Mathilde agreed. “She’s a lovely horse. It’s only…” Her expression grew wistful. “One does grow so very fond of one’s own horse. And Destrian has such a beautiful nature.”
“I’m sure,” Guy said briskly, disliking the way Temur was now taking interest in their conversation.
“Yes, and after all he chose me,” Mathilde carried on.
“He chose you?” Guy repeated, without much interest. Temur was definitely hanging on their words now, curse him!
“Yes. There I was, waiting for Robin outside the alehouse, when Destrian just placed his head here,” she patted her shoulder. “He had such a gentle expression, and I knew at once that we were kindred spirits. He had a fresh scar down the side of his dear face, but he let me stroke him and made that sort of whickering noise that horses make. You know the one?” Guy nodded. “We were getting along quite famously when that brute came shambling out and set about him with his stick.” Her face darkened. “That was when he made that comment about my buying the horse, if I did not like to see the way he treated him. Naturally, I reached into my purse at once. You will scarcely credit what that villain did next,” she said indignantly.
“Pocketed the coin and tried to take the horse as well?”
“Yes!” agreed Mathilde, her eye kindling at the memory. “Naturally I protested.”
“How did you protest?” burst out Temur, who looked like he couldn’t hold back his curiosity any longer. Guy sent him a quelling look, but Temur was enjoying the tale far too much to pay him any heed.
“Well, I seized upon his arm, and bade him take his hands off my horse,” said Mathilde reasonably. “When he refused, I was forced to take more direct action.”
“The direct action you should have taken,” said Guy darkly, “was to call for assistance. Loudly.”
“Oh, Rob came running out as soon as he saw us scuffling,” Mathilde assured them. “And hurled himself into the fray.”
“I’m sure,” said Guy dryly, as Robin nodded his agreement, his mouth too full of stewed leeks to verbally concur. Guy turned back to Mathilde. “And was that the point when you bit him?” he asked coolly. Temur gasped, staring at Mathilde.
“Oh, you heard about that, did you?” she asked looking a little disconcerted. She fidgeted a moment in her seat. “I do understand that was not quite proper conduct for a fight, but you see, he was quite four times my size, and I did not bite him until I found myself knocked to the ground.”
“Knocked to the ground?” repeated Guy carefully. He placed down his knife.
“She bit his ankle,” said Robin, swallowing down his mouthful. “And didn’t he roar?” He grinned.
“I sank my teeth in as far as they would go,” said Mathilde, nodding with quiet pride. “I spat out a mouthful of blood after. Mind you,” she conceded. “Some of it might have been mine, for he kicked me off so violently, my teeth rattled in my head!” They both laughed, and Temur joined in, but Guy pushed his plate away, his appetite suddenly gone.
“Would you recognize him, if you saw him again?” he asked grimly.
“Oh certainly,” agreed Mathilde, dabbing her mouth delicately with a napkin. “So would Destrian. He’s a vastly intelligent horse.”
“I wouldn’t,” admitted Robin regretfully. “Though both his eyes are likely still blacked.” He inspected the knuckles on his right hand.
“Good lad!” said Temur, pushing the ale jug toward the boy.
“And when the carter started shouting ‘Stop thief!’ at the top of his voice,” Mathilde continued, “Destrian kicked him into the street, which only goes to show how clever he is. If only the beadles had noted who he took for his true owner, then we need never have been put in a jail cell at all.”
“A jail cell?” spluttered Temur, plunking down his cup. Between them, Robin and Mathilde explained their unjust arrest. Temur’s mouth was practically hanging open by the end of it.
“I often say beasts are more intelligent than people,” Temur said at the conclusion, stroking his short blond beard. He started telling a long rambling tale about a mule his grandfather once owned. Mathilde and Robin were vastly entertained by it, but Guy lapsed into a seething silence. He found it hard to recover so quickly from the account of her assault and detention. It had happened practically on his own land! If he had known the full extent of what had happened, he would have had every man in that jail hauled over the coals, irrespective of station. The officials had been almost as culpable as the carter himself. If it had not been for that merchant’s son performing his civic duty, then the story could have taken a very different turn that night. What if she had been flogged? His blood ran cold at the idea.
“Guy?” He looked up to find Temur regarding him with some concern.
Unclenching his fists, Guy reached for his ale cup. He would stay another half hour and then leave. Being around her was dangerous. He was feeling all kinds of unaccustomed things. She was churning him up inside. “Is there anything stronger in the house?” he asked, holding up his empty cup.
Prudence had just set down a dish of fried battered apples and a dish of cheese.
“There is a fine large bottle of mead, my lord which was brought over to be used for a hot winter punch,” she admitted with a frown. Clearly she had meant to make it last for quite some time, thought Guy, seeing her reluctance to fetch it out.
“Bring it, and I don’t want it mulled,” he said, seeing she was quite capable of watering it down with fruit and spices. “I’ll drink it as it comes.”
Prudence ducked her head, he suspected so that he should not see her vexed expression. He did not know what Waldon could have been thinking to suggest such a displeasing wench. The bottle was a large one, and once uncorked he realized of a very good vintage. He drank deeply of the first cup and offered it around. Everyone else declared themselves well pleased with ale.
As Guy refilled his cup to the brim, he heard Temur describing his wife Lettys’s fondness for wine made of the wild plum. As the others chimed in, in relaxed conversation, Guy drank deeply. He needed to be easy, not coiled tightly as he was, and ready to spring. Another cupful would do it. Another cup and he would be able to relax his face from its tight, grim expression. To loosen his rigid, hard body from the grip of this terrible tension that had overtaken him. Another cup. Another cup would do it.
XIV
Mathilde gazed admiringly at the broad, muscular back in front of her. She had been a little shocked at first, when Temur had stripped her husband right down before pulling the blankets over him the previous night. But perhaps, after all, that was how husbands slept in their beds? Temur was a husband, so he should know. Instead of gaping at the spectacle, she had busied her
self tidying away Guy’s boots and clothes as Temur had thrown them over his shoulder. She had to try very hard not to ogle the astonishing body that was revealed to her in tantalizing glimpses. After that, Temur had bid her a hurried goodnight and taken off into the night, explaining that Lettys would be expecting him at home. Robin and Prudence had gone to their own beds. Mathilde had noticed Rob had the cat cradled in his arms as he disappeared down the passageway. Mathilde had slowly washed and undressed down to her shift. Then she had hesitated. Did wives sleep in their shifts as unmarried women did? She had no clue. At first, she had blown out the candle and climbed under the covers with her shift on. But as she lay on her back, her hands folded over her stomach, the darkness seemed to reproach her for a faint heart.
It stood to reason that if husbands were naked, then wives should be too. Biting her lip, she reminded herself that she was no longer the weak and pitied little mouse about court that she had been. She was a woman now, and brave as a tigress. Sitting up in bed, she had pulled the shift up and over her head and discarded it over the edge of the bed. Then she had settled back down, her heart thudding in her chest. Turning her head, she made out his bulk in the darkness beside her and listened to his breathing. In truth, the bed was so large, there was no reason why their nude bodies should collide at all over the course of the evening. However, she found herself considering the possibility. The thought of it made her quake with both anticipation and fear. He was so big. She was so little. Would she not be squashed like a flea by that large golden body?
Her cheeks burned as she thought of the well-turned muscular limbs and the strange smattering of hair she had seen, which covered him in unfamiliar places. She traced the smooth skin under her own belly button. He had seemed to have a trail of hair leading down from his. Her breath quickened. If only, she could have had a better look! It had been fascinating. Daringly, she recalled the fleeting glimpse she had caught of his actual manhood, and caught her breath. If she was not terrified of waking him, she would have liked to turn the sheet down and take another look at it. Doubtless Temur had thought her well-acquainted with it already, she thought wistfully. She should be of course, as his wife of four years!
She had dozed fitfully all night, keenly aware of his presence in her bed. A handful of times, she had woken to find she had inched forward or rolled right into him. Whenever this happened, she lay breathlessly a moment or two, thrilled by his nearness, and savoring the amount of warmth his big, hard body threw out. She was acutely aware of the fact his bare skin was in direct contact with her own. Where they touched, she tingled. Could he really not feel it?
But Lord Martindale had not woken once, alas. Indeed, he had seemed entirely oblivious to her company. Perhaps that was the mead. It must have been strong, for it had felled him entirely. Then again, he had scarcely eaten a thing for his supper. Such a big man should have a matching appetite, she would have thought, listening to his deep, steady breathing. Reluctantly, each time, she had retreated from him to her side of the bed. He did not reach for her once, and did not change his position all night. She felt a slight pang at that, but the important thing was that he was here, and that finally she was in the marriage bed!
She sighed, and looked around the large bedchamber with satisfaction. This is how it felt to be a wife, waking up next to your spouse. She wondered if she could edge closer to him without disturbing his sleep. Feeling greatly daring, she drifted closer to him under the covers. She could feel his heat even from this distance, and she shivered, though not with cold. What would he do if she plastered herself up against his back? Would he wake? Would he — turn to her? Her pulse raced. She ached to touch him. Would that be wrong?
Tentatively, she reached out a hand to trace his shoulder blade. His breathing hitched a moment, and Mathilde froze. Then the steady breathing started back up again, and she relaxed. She would not touch him. She would simply lie huddled close by, feeling his body heat. He was so wonderfully warm, even from this distance. He groaned and muttered something she could not catch, shifting against the mattress. Mathilde held her breath.
Then, suddenly he rolled over and she found herself engulfed in a big bear hug and pressed between a hard body and a firm mattress. Lord Martindale’s face was pressed into the space between her neck and her shoulder. There was not an inch of her that wasn’t draped in muscular male. For a moment, she did not even breathe, as her senses went crazy. She could feel him everywhere! Pressed up against her in all sorts of places. She fancied she could even feel that, his — his manroot, heavy and strange against her thigh. If it wasn’t that, then she wasn’t sure what else it could be. She lay there stunned, and blinking, hardly daring to draw breath. How he could still sleep was a mystery to her. She wriggled, and found to her relief that she could still draw breath.
Doubtless, she thought with trepidation, he would wake before long. Something stirred against her, and Mathilde stifled a gasp. What was that? Her brain raced. It was definitely in the same area as his manroot. She forced herself to exhale. Everywhere else he was still as a statue. Was that — was that his body reacting to her? Her education in such matters was vague to say the least, but she had some hazy notions how everything worked. If it was his body recognizing that hers lay beneath him, was that not a good and positive thing? Strangely, Old Helga’s words about pulsing sap flashed into her brain and she flushed. But maybe, by lying with him like this, she was watering his seed somehow. If his sleeping body could recognize her as his wife, did it not make sense that his waking mind would soon follow suit? She felt quite giddy at the notion.
Forcing herself to steady her shallow breathing, she noticed with consternation, the alarming degree that her sensitive nipples had hardened against his chest. His chest hair almost seemed to be stimulating them. They must be poking right into him! Her stomach fluttered strangely too. And lower. She gulped as the trembling in her body seemed to extend out from those areas. Was this her own body reacting to his proximity? Truly, the human body was a wonderful thing! Biting her lip, she forced her eyes to close and her breathing to continue with its steady rise and fall, content to glory in the feel of his embrace.
It must have been about a half hour later that Lord Martindale’s head lifted from the crook of her neck and he gazed blearily down at her.
“Good morning, my lord,” she murmured, blushing rosily.
The expression in his eyes went from blank to shocked in an instant. He levered himself up and off her, rolling to the side. Mathilde turned her head to watch with interest as he sat on the edge of the bed. How was his skin so tanned, she wondered, when the north was so bitterly cold? As if he could feel her eyes on him, he turned to look at her over his shoulder. Mathilde gave him an encouraging smile. He cleared his throat and looked hastily away. Why did he look like that? she wondered, as her heart sank. He looked, quite frankly, appalled.
“Is anything wrong, my lord?” She faltered, with sudden misgiving, and sat up, clutching the blankets to her to preserve her modesty. It seemed waking in the marriage bed was a vastly different experience for Lord Martindale than it had been for her. He had a black scowl on his face now as he turned to look at her.
“I don’t remember,” he said grimly. “I was sotted.”
“Aye, you were,” she agreed, wondering at his accusatory tone. After all, no one else had encouraged him to empty the bottle.
He raised a hand to his brow and stared distractedly at the door and then back at her again. “This was not what I planned,” he said. “I would never have slept here in my right mind.”
Mathilde flinched as though stung. “Where else would you sleep?” she asked with an edge to her voice that it surprised her to hear. She had been so happy when she woke this morning, yet he was churlish and rude. “We are husband and wife, are we not?” He gave a harsh crack of laughter at her words, and shook his head. Mathilde gripped the sheets tighter. “I did not force you into my bed, if that’s what you mean, any more than I forced you to guzzle a whole bottl
e of mead!”
He turned and gave her a hard stare. “Tell me the truth for once,” he said in a hard voice. “If you’re capable of it.”
“What do you mean?” Mathilde’s voice rose with indignation. Was he calling her a liar now? She saw him glance down at his lap and then back at her speculatively.
“Nay,” he said, shaking his head again. “I’ll not believe it.” He stood up from the bed, naked and glorious, walking across to the nearby chair where his clothes were folded. He stooped and pulled on his braies. Mathilde realized she was staring wide-eyed at him, and forced herself to look away and give him some privacy. “If I’d forced ye last night,” he said in a low rumble. “You’d not be able to walk.”
For a moment, she was so shocked by his crude words, she could not even speak. Then her brain scrambled to her defense. Suddenly it was imperative that she wiped that look of skeptical arrogance off his handsome face. Oh, he thinks me a pathetic little thing, unfit for purpose, does he? She blinked rapidly to dispel the bitter tears. He was like everyone else. Judging her and finding her wanting. She took a deep breath.
“Oh, you didn’t force me,” she said brightly. “And you seem to forget you are my third husband. I’m an old hand at beddings.” She sat very still as he absorbed her words.
“You—” He breathed, taking an involuntary step toward the bed.
Mathilde sat up straighter. “Yes, why don’t you come back to bed, husband?” she said in the same sweet tone and patted the spot next to her. “You’d be most welcome.” How she wished she truly was a woman of the world, she thought quaking inwardly at the dangerous glitter in his eye. One who no man would resist. Instead of a foolish, thrice-married virgin!
He seemed to struggle a moment for speech, and watching him Mathilde felt a sort of wild elation to have turned the tables on him. However, she didn’t want to push things too far. Instead she concentrated on relaxing her hold on the bedclothes, which she was gripping so tightly her fingers were white. She had no idea how she was going to get from the bed to her clothes, without exposing her nudity. She felt stupid and vulnerable sitting here naked, while he flung about looking like a thundercloud. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up blubbering again like she had yesterday, though then her tears had been happy ones.
Wed By Proxy (Brides of Karadok Book 1) Page 11