by Lynsay Sands
"Come," he said quietly, taking her arm and urging her to her feet as soon as he reached her side. He quickly hustled her out into the surrounding woods, pausing only when he found a spot for her to use without being seen by any of the men. "Here you are."
Rosamunde stared rather blankly at his back when he turned it to her, then down and around at her surroundings. His soldier's suggestion about personal needs still fresh on her mind, it did not take her long to realize what Aric expected her to do. Still, while Rosamunde supposed she really could benefit from relieving herself, she was a bit confused by her husband's abrupt manner.
Sighing, she shrugged, then tended to her needs. She found herself embarrassed despite the fact that his back was turned, since she knew he could hear her every move. Deciding once again that camping out really was not for her, Rosamunde finished with her business, and approached him with a sigh.
"You must teach me to ride, my lord."
Aric whirled around, obviously surprised by her demand. But Rosamunde hardly noticed. Her mind was caught up in her own thoughts. She had determined that the reason Aric's men would not allow her to help was because they thought her helpless. And since they did not know her, the only reason she could think of for their mistaken assumption was because she could not ride and had to be taken up before their lord on his horse like a child. Oh, she had realized by now that it was not truly Marigold's fault that she bounced about so. Robert had ridden her well enough after he'd had to put his own mount down, and that had proven that the problem had been Rosamunde's own. She had ridden against the horse rather than with it. Now she thought that if only her husband would teach her to ride, she would show these men that she was not helpless; then they would allow her to do her share.
"I must, must I?"
"Oh, aye. 'Tis a valuable skill, my lord, and surely it would be easier on your horse to carry only you?"
Aric nodded solemnly at that, then turned and led the way silently back to the camp. It was not until they reached the fire that he answered. "I shall teach you tomorrow at first light."
"Nay! Not like that! Oh, damn!" Pulling on the reins he had yet to let go of, Aric drew Marigold to a halt, then leaned his head wearily on the horse's side, trying to regain his temper. When he had agreed to this asinine idea of teaching his wife to ride, he had thought it would take only a few minutes. Half an hour at the most. Unfortunately, his wife was turning out to be a turnip. She certainly rode a horse about as well as one, bouncing around in an ungainly fashion on the beast's back, no matter how many times he tried to instruct her differently. They had now been at their lessons for most of the morning and his men were looking on with dubious expressions that stated quite clearly what they thought of their new lady's ability.
"My lord," Rosamunde got out through gritted teeth. "Mayhap if you did not yell so much--"
Some of the men began to nod their heads slightly at her words, but Aric bellowed, "I am not yelling!" That brought a doubtful look to all of their faces. The soldiers watched with interest as their new lady narrowed her eyes. She was looking at their lord as if he were a bug that had just crawled up her skirt, and they were not at all surprised when she said in a hiss, "Very well. If you would stop 'not yelling,' then mayhap--"
"Do not even say it!" Aric exploded, interrupting her and sending her horse had skittering a nervous step to the side. Rosamunde looked over at his men, most of whom had dry looks on their faces, as if they had just sucked a lemon. It was obvious to them as well that their lord was just making both his wife and the horse nervous and jittery with his impatience. But then, this had been a folly from the beginning, and every man knew it. It seemed a proven fact as their usually patient lord roared, "If you are about to suggest that your lack of skill is my fault--"
"Nay, of course not. But every time you yell, you make Marigold more nervous, and then I get more nervous, and our performance worsens." The men were all nodding again, and that bolstered her resolve. "If you would stop yelling, perhaps we could--"
"You are saying it is my fault!" he roared, incensed, and the men all sighed and shook their heads. Marigold skittered another step away, growing even more tense. Aric seemed too infuriated to notice. "Well, to hell with that! Teach yourself how to ride, then!" Tossing the reins up into her face impatiently, he turned and started to stomp away.
"Very well, I will!" she snapped back, slapping the reins angrily. Marigold bolted, more than happy to get as far away from the bellowing man as possible, she charged off into the woods, carrying her mistress with her. The sudden furor that erupted behind them--as the men all began yelling and scrambling for their horses to give chase--seemed only to spur the animal on.
His back to his stubborn, incompetent wife, Aric was the last to realize what she was about. At first he was completely flummoxed when his men began yelling and suddenly clambered onto their horses, but when they went charging past him, he glanced over his shoulder to see the tail end of his wife's mount disappearing into the trees. With a curse, he headed for his own horse.
Plastering herself to the mare's neck, Rosamunde prayed and held on for dear life. As Marigold weaved and bobbed through the woods, branches scratched at Rosamunde's face, slapping at her legs and back. She was at first too intent on keeping her seat to recall any of her husband's instructions. But as several minutes passed, she realized that she was no longer bouncing about on the horse's back; she was finally riding with the beast. Elation made her relax and grin. She was riding! Well! That would show her blowhard husband.
Taking a deep breath as the woods thinned out somewhat and Marigold found a trail to follow, Rosamunde eased back into a sitting position. She let her breath out in a relieved sigh; she was still able to keep pace with the animal and did not suddenly start bouncing about again. She had learned to ride. And not at that sedate little trot Aric had been forced to maintain with the two of them on his horse. This was true riding. The wind was whipping through her hair. The trail was flashing by underfoot. They were nearly flying, they were going so fast. This was grand! She had never felt so alive before. Why had the abbess never taught her to ride?
A series of shouts from behind her finally drew her attention, and Rosamunde peered over her shoulder. The men giving chase were a sight to see. Their hair plastered to their heads by the wind, their bodies hunched over the horses, the men were truly giving it their all. But they were losing the race. Marigold was faster than their warhorses, Rosamunde realized with some surprise and no little bit of pride. Since she had raised the horse herself, she felt this ability somehow reflected on her.
Laughing suddenly, she pulled gently on the reins, inordinately pleased when Marigold, having run off the worst of her fear and nervousness immediately began to slow. She was still laughing as the men reigned in their own mounts around her. "I did it!" she cried. "I was really riding her! It was fantastic," she continued enthusiastically. The anxiety immediately began to fade from her pursuers' faces, slowly replaced by smiles.
Aric closed his eyes and sighed. He had spotted his wife's flame-colored hair amid the men circling her. The last few minutes had been hell for him; he had envisioned her broken body lying on the ground, and any injury to her would have been his fault. He had been positive that she would be hurt in this mad run, so the sight of her sitting calmly amid his men was a relief. But then he heard her chattering happily away and laughing, and his own men chuckling in response. She looked and sounded far too comfortable and happy surrounded by his warriors. Worse yet, every single one of them wore an enchanted grin as they listened to whatever she was expounding on.
Riding, he realized as he drew near enough to catch her words. It appeared that while the rest of them had been terrified for her safety, she had been exhilarated. She now considered herself an excellent rider. Women, he thought with disgust. They were the most inconstant of creatures and the most nonsensical. Only a woman would--after a moment before being the worst rider Aric had ever seen--survive one wild ride and consider hersel
f an expert.
"Husband," she cried suddenly, spotting him. "Did you see? Was it not grand? We were nearly flying. I vow Marigold is the fastest horse here. And I rode with her. Did you see?"
"Aye," he said quietly, urging his horse through the other mounts to reach her side. Pausing there, he took her reins from her and turned back the way he had come, drawing her horse behind him.
"Husband?" she murmured uncertainly as her husband's men fell into line behind them. "You are not angry, are you? I mean, think of it. With that little run, we probably made up scads of the time that we wasted on my lessons. Is that not true?"
"It would be...if we were headed back to Shambley. However, we are not headed back to Shambley, so all that this little jaunt managed to do was slow us down some more and tire out the horses."
"Oh," Rosamunde sighed unhappily, her shoulders slumping. Marigold had run the wrong way, taking them back the way they had come. If she had realized that, she would have turned the beast in the right direction, or in the very least have stopped sooner. Instead, she had let the mare have her head and again delayed their arrival home. It seemed she could do nothing right.
Chapter Six
Rosamunde dismounted on her own, pride the only thing keeping her from bursting into tears as she did. She could not believe the pain she was in. While it had been uncomfortable riding in front of her husband, it was agony after a day of riding on her own. Her muscles ached in places she had not even realized that she had them. It was horrible agony. But she was damned if she was going to admit it. Curse her husband; she suspected it would please the insufferable man to know the pain she was in. He had not spoken a word to her since informing her that she had added time to their trip.
They had ridden nonstop since then, not even pausing for a midday meal, and for most of that time Rosamunde had been in pain. She was too proud to admit it and beg for mercy, though. She would not be coddled. If the men could handle it, so could she. Her muscles would grow used to the saddle, and she would win their respect. She was determined. And determination was the only thing that kept her from accepting one of the men's kind offers to see to her horse for the night.
Glimpsing the sympathy in the man's eyes, Rosamunde shook her head, thanking him kindly for the offer, but refused firmly. She set about the task herself. She listened to her husband give the same orders he had the day before; then he disappeared into the woods.
Sighing, she finished with her horse, murmured a good-night in the animal's ear, then moved determinedly to the pile of wood already being stacked in the center of the clearing. But when she attempted to offer her assistance, she once again found herself gently brushed aside and directed to a fallen log upon which to seat herself. As she had the night before, she then tried to assist in cleaning and cooking the wild game the men brought back, but she once again found her efforts and offers brushed aside. Sit and rest, they said, sit and rest.
Rosamunde sighed impatiently and glared around. Weary as she was after her first day in the saddle, the last thing on earth she desired was to sit on her poor, abused behind. Why would the men not let her help? Had she not earned at least a modicum of respect today? Why did they treat her like a helpless creature who needed coddling? She did not understand it. In the abbey, where there were only women, the sisters had performed all the necessary tasks. Here they would not allow her to do a thing.
Then she suddenly had a thought. What if it was because her husband had not given her orders ere leaving? Of course! He had bawled out orders to the rest of them, but he had left without instructing her. Mayhap they believed that meant Aric did not wish her to do anything. Of course, they could not know that for the three-day journey from Godstow Abbey to Shambley, her husband had not had to shout orders. She had known what to do and done it without direction.
Aric just happened to return as that thought occurred to her. Rosamunde hurried forward, presenting herself before him with a pleased smile, thinking she was about to resolve the confusion. "Hello, my lord," she greeted with forced good cheer, glancing surreptitiously about to see if anyone was listening. No one appeared to be, but there were several men close enough to hear. That was good.
Aric peered at his wife suspiciously, knowing instinctively by the way her eyes darted around the clearing as she addressed him that she was up to something. "Hello, wife."
When she merely raised an eyebrow inquiringly, he arched one of his own in return. Frowning slightly, she leaned forward a bit. "You have not given me my orders."
Aric's other eyebrow rose as she whispered those words, then smiled at him encouragingly. "Orders?"
"Aye, my lord. The men will not allow me to help because you have not given me any orders. You must give me my orders--and loudly enough that they will hear and know what I am to do."
"I see," he murmured, though truly he did not. "Fine, then. Wife, sit you over there and rest," he ordered loudly.
"Nay!" Rosamunde gasped in dismay.
Aric's eyes narrowed at her denial. "Nay?"
"Nay," she repeated. "You are not supposed to order me to sit. You are supposed to order me to do something."
"I am ordering you to do something. I am ordering you to sit and rest."
Rosamunde glared at him rebelliously, then sighed as she recalled her vow to obey him. "Fine," she snapped ungraciously. "I shall sit."
Turning on her heel, she stomped over to a log by the fire and dropped to squat upon it, wincing as her tender behind connected with the makeshift bench.
Noting her wince, Aric hesitated, then sighed. He moved to her side at once. "Come." His behavior seemed familiar, and Rosamunde sighed as she was dragged off into the bushes. As he had the night before, he led her to a secluded spot for her to attend to her personal needs. But, rather than return her to the clearing afterward, he led her to a spot by the river. It appeared secluded and private.
"Go ahead. Bathe."
Rosamunde peered from the water to her husband. Recalling his insistence that he would watch her bathe when he had taken her to the river on the way to Shambley, she sighed. "I do not wish to."
"It will soothe your muscles. Bathe."
His words were not unkind, but, "I--"
"'Tis an order."
Rosamunde's mouth snapped closed and an expression of resignation covered her face. She could not deny a direct order, could she? He looked speculative.
Her mouth a grim line, Rosamunde fiddled with the clasp of the belt that hung loosely around her waist. Unclasping it, she started to set it on the ground.
"What is that?"
Pausing, she raised her eyebrows at her husband. Aric was peering at the small sheathe attached to her belt.
"Hand me your belt," he ordered.
Rosamunde handed it over silently and shifted her feet as he slid her dagger out of its holder. He examined the intricately carved hilt with interest.
"It was a gift from Eustice," she told him to break the silence. "It comes in very handy when working in the stables."
"I imagine it does. It's beautiful." He slid the dagger back into its sheath, then arched an eyebrow at her. "You are not undressing."
Sighing, she raised a hand to toy with the lacings of her gown, her gaze moving around the clearing. They seemed to be alone. No one would see her. Except Aric. She eyed him unhappily. "Will you not at least turn your back?"
"How shall I know if you run into difficulty? I am uncertain of the strength of the current here. It may be strong enough to drag you under. If I am not watching, how shall I know?" he asked simply.
Rosamunde frowned at that, then smiled brightly. "So that you know all is well, I shall talk continuously."
"No doubt."
Rosamunde stiffened. "What does that mean?"
He gave an amused shrug. "I have noticed that you like to talk."
"And you seem not to like to talk at all! Mayhap if you spoke more, I would speak less."
"I talk when I have something to say, not simply to hear my own voice."
She glared at him briefly, then propped her hands on her hips. "Turn your back."
"I do not have time for this. A dip in the river will ease your aches. Otherwise you will not be able to ride tomorrow. Take your clothes off and get in the water," he said in a growl. She paled, then flushed bright red at the direct order. Reluctantly she raised her hands to begin tugging at her lacings.
She was slow as a turtle on shifting sand. By the time Rosamunde had her gown undone and began to shrug it off her shoulders, Aric was ready to burst. It was the most erotic thing he had ever seen in his life, as inch after inch of pale perfect flesh was revealed to him: the base of her neck, the curve of her shoulders, then her arms and the linen shift she wore beneath the dress as it dropped to her waist. Now, partially revealed to him, she quickly pushed the gown over her hips, stepped out of it, and whirled toward the water.
Aric was quicker. Catching her by the arm, he drew her to a halt before she had a chance to immerse herself. "Nay. You will remove your shift."
Even he could hear the husky note of desire in his voice, and he frowned at it.
"The abbess said only loose women run about in the nude. Good women wear their shifts, for propriety's sake. Especially in the bath, so that they do not catch a chill," she murmured, her head down.
"Do you have another shift?"
After a hesitation, she shook her head.
"Then you will have to wear it when you again don your gown. If it is wet, it will give you a chill. Remove the shift."
The expression she raised to him was agonized. It was clear his bride was painfully shy. He was beginning to get the impression that no one had ever seen her nude. Except for him, of course--but that had been only her bare behind and the backs of her legs. Feeling like an ogre, he glanced away, then sighed and turned his back. "Talk."
Sighing in relief, Rosamunde hesitated only briefly, then shrugged out of her shift. The abbess would understand, certainly. This was not a nice cozy bath indoors, where she could rest by the fire to dry her hair and don fresh clothes. When camping out-of-doors, some proprieties had to be sacrificed.