Winter's Heat

by Denise Domning

  Not that she hadn't done enough of that last night on an uncomfortable cot in a drafty corner of the women's quarters. Dawn's light had found her still blaming herself for so stupidly falling into such an obvious and waiting snare. Despite Temric's insistence that there was yet hope, she could see no escape from this morass.

  "Well, good morrow, Rowena, dear," called Maeve from the balcony fronting the second floor. She wore a sleek silk undergown of pale peach with an overgown of darker orange embroidered in gold, and her hair had been carefully plaited with bright ribbons. Rowena's eyes narrowed. No doubt it had been these vain primpings that were the source of their delay.

  "Perhaps you should say afternoon, love," John corrected. "We have slept most of the day away."

  Her husband was a marked contrast to his wife, for he wore his stained and rumpled wedding attire and looked as though he'd barely run a comb through his hair.

  His new bride leaned close to him and blushed prettily as she agreed with the throaty comment, "So we have."

  Lady Graistan schooled her features into calm, and stepped forward to greet them as they descended the stairs and entered the hall. "I hope you found all to your liking in your chamber."

  "I did," murmured John to his wife, "did you?"

  His bride returned his look with a quick smile, "What do you think, my love?" Then she turned toward her lady and cried, "Oh, but you look as though you haven't slept a wink all night, you poor dear." The barest hint of gloating suggested she knew full well what havoc she'd wrought.

  "It was all the excitement," Rowena said as she shrugged away the comment, then girded herself to accept without reaction all the subtle, nasty barbs that would surely follow. To her surprise, the fair woman did not pursue the matter.

  "My, what a stunning gown. I don't believe I've ever seen it before. That shade of blue is just the color of your eyes, and those black and silver brilliants on the trim!"

  Only at great cost did the Lady Graistan stay still while the woman fingered the tiny, shining stones and beads. How she wished she could strike out and hurt as she had been hurt. But what purpose would it serve? It would not change what had happened nor would it endear Graistan to Lord John.

  She could not even give Maeve all the blame when it had been her own, stupid jealousy that had placed her so securely in the trap. Imagine, jealousy over a man who wanted naught to do with her. Her heart lurched again.

  Lady Ashby turned to her husband with a husky sigh. "Oh, John, do you think I might one day have such a gown?" Then she seemed to catch herself. "Oh, what am I saying. I'm sure it was horribly expensive, and I most certainly do not need another gown."

  "If it pleases you love, you may have three and damn the cost," John replied, his own eyes alight with pleasure.

  "Oh, sweetheart, you are so good to me," she breathed, and leaned full against him to touch her lips to his cheek.

  His sun-darkened skin reddened in pleasure. He pulled her into the curve of his arm as he spoke to Rowena. "Have you seen Nicola this morn, my lady?"

  "Aye, she was up early and is now in town with my people. Will you come to the table so we may begin serving?" She indicated the two chairs at the high table set there especially for her guests before she continued speaking. "She said there were some items she needed to purchase for your stores. I expect her back within the hour."

  "Ah, yes, she'd mentioned she would do so." He led his wife around the corner of the table as he asked, "Is Lord Graistan about? With all these carts going in and out, you'd think he was preparing for a siege."

  "Nay, nothing like that." She didn't wait for them to reach their seats before she signaled that the servants from the kitchen were to set their trays on the table at the same time that the butler filled cups and the water bearer brought around his basin and towels. Usually, these events occurred in solemn and careful order to give the meal its proper formality.

  John pulled the heavy chair out for his wife. Lady Maeve managed to make the act of sitting down a single, sinuous movement, then turned star-bright eyes up to her husband. "Thank you, my lord," she breathed.

  "My pleasure, wife." He grinned again, as though he was no more than a score instead of two score and ten. Then, he turned to his lady. "So, what's afoot here?"

  Rowena sat beside him on a bench. "Late last evening, my lord received word that the Bishop of Hereford is coming here to decide upon my inheritance. My husband has gone to escort his party to Graistan."

  John intently watched the butler fill his cup as he listened to her speak. With a motion to the man, he indicated the servant should linger while he drank deeply, then refill the cup before moving on. "Ah," he breathed in enjoyment. "Graistan serves a fine wine, my lady. Poor Rannulf. To host a bishop is an expensive proposition. Such esteemed guests are quite beyond Ashby's means and, thanks be to God, we will never have to bear that burden."

  "Oh, my," Maeve breathed as if awed, "a bishop, here. Well, I am surely glad this responsibility did not fall upon my shoulders. You are so competent, while whatever I try seems to fall half done from my fingers."

  John gently patted his wife's hand. "Now, now, love, you must not berate yourself so. And you need never worry over such details if it does not please you. What are servants for if not to care for you?"

  "I do not know," she said, as if the thought had never occurred to her before this day.

  Rowena turned gratefully away to hold her hands above the washbasin as a servant poured water over them. Her movement hid her disgust. After she'd used the towel, she bid the man to move on to John. It would have been better for all concerned if the woman had been confined to the convent for her life. She would twist the poor man into knots, only to toss him away when he no longer served her purposes.

  "Here, love, will you have some of this dish? It looks like fowl with"—he stuck his finger into the sauce, then into his mouth—"with a sweet onion sauce," he announced to his wife. "Very good, too, my lady."

  "My lord," Maeve reprimanded sweetly, "you must wash your hands first. See, here is the man with the water for you right behind us."

  "Oh, so he is. I'm afraid we've forgotten to maintain such courtly formality at Ashby. With just my daughter and I and so few visitors, well, we have let it slide. Mayhap, you will retrain us country oafs, love." He laughed as he washed his hands. After that, he filled their trenchers from the trays in front of him. With his spoon, still held high and oozing sauce, he turned toward his lady. "You realize that such a judgment could take weeks, especially if the hunting stays good. To have a house full so long, well—would it be better for Rannulf if we were to leave?"

  "Have a care," Maeve said, with just a shade of hardness to her voice, "the spoon is dripping."

  "Pardon, love," he said absently, and thrust his utensil into the foodstuff. He wiped his fingers on his robe front as Rowena answered.

  "My lord left no word regarding the length of the visit, but he did say that you were to continue here as long as you like and join the hunting if it pleases you."

  "John," his wife cried out, a shade too quickly, "we couldn't." When they both turned to look at her, she hurried on. "There will be so many people here and so little privacy." Her voice was husky with intimation as she curved herself against her husband's shoulder.

  Once again, Ashby's face flamed. "I think you are right, my love. We would just be in the way here, what with all the dignitaries. But, we must stay until Rannulf returns to give him our thanks and bid him farewell."

  "Of course. To do otherwise would be rude," Maeve replied, then smiled brightly at him. "I suppose if it is only one night that we must spend apart, it is not so bad. Here, love." She had his cup refilled for him. "There will be a lifetime of nights for us."

  "Aye, a lifetime," he said, with a sigh, then dedicated himself to eating. As with the night before, he doted on his wife until she exclaimed she was sated and could eat no more.

  Rowena grew increasingly more heartsick as she watched. It was so wrong. Maeve di
d not deserve a man as kind as this one. There was no pretense in his affection for his wife. His every look and touch spoke volumes. She turned away to hide her own despair. Oh, to be cared for in that way, to be treated as something prized and of unreckoned value.

  "Sister, is it not a glorious day," Maeve said, bringing Rowena's attention back to them. "It is such a relief to see the sun after so much rain.

  Traveling yesterday was horrid. You should have seen the mess it made of my cloak."

  Her husband smiled in commiseration. "It was miserable. It was fortunate for us that Ashby lies so nearby, or we'd have drowned before we arrived. I hope the weather holds through tomorrow for our journey home."

  "Do you think it will not?" his wife asked so quickly, the question was almost sharp. She stuttered in her attempt to soften it with her following words. "I—I only mean that the convent—where I have resided these last months—is but a few minutes ride from Graistantown. My new home is so much farther. If it were to rain"—she paused here and caught her breath as in sudden thought—"but, no, pay me no heed. If I must, I will. We must wait here for Rannulf's return. But I know I could not tolerate to spend two nights away from the privacy of our own bed, so we will have to leave on the morrow, rain or no." She clasped his hand in hers.

  Her husband gazed down at her for a long moment, then turned to face his hostess. "Do you think Lord Rannulf would be insulted if we were to depart this day?"

  "Nay, love," she protested sweetly, "we have decided that we must stay. Do not risk damaging your overlord's love for you by acceding to my silly whims."

  "Dear heart, the more I think on it, the more I see the sense in taking advantage of a fine day for our traveling. Truly, we will just be in the way here, and Rannulf has more important matters with which to concern himself." He looked back to Rowena. "We will abide by your verdict, my lady. Should we go or stay?"

  Lady Graistan glanced to the fair woman at his side. That Maeve wanted to leave as soon as possible was obvious. Why she wanted to go was beyond guessing. Could it be she had some spurned lover with the bishop's party that she did not wish to meet again? But it was for selfish reasons alone that Rowena finally spoke.

  "I know my husband will regret not having bid you farewell himself, but he will understand your need to have the privacy of your own home. Depart, if you wish."

  "Do you want to go?" John tucked his wife's hand beneath his arm and gazed down at her.

  "I want only to be with you." She smiled gratefully up at him. "Take me home, husband."

  "With pleasure, wife." He stood and helped her to her feet. "Please excuse us, my lady, but we must prepare to depart. Will you send to town for my daughter?"

  "As you wish, Lord John," she said as they walked away. They had disappeared up the stairs before Ilsa left her seat at the servant's table to join her lady.

  "Now, why do you think she wants to be gone so quickly?"

  "Do not question the gift, Ilsa," Rowena replied. "Still, it is strange." She stood and started toward the butlery. "Well, if we are to ponder over it, it must be later rather than sooner. I hope they hurry and leave. The sooner they are gone, the sooner I can get out of this gown and into my workaday gown. Have you finished the upper chambers?"

  "Aye. We have only to prepare your room once the happy couple have departed. Shall I leave the bed where it stands or do you want yours returned to its place?"

  "Nay, leave all as it is." It was still her bed, and she'd keep it stored as long as she desired. "Allen," she called across the room, "have these tables cleared and put away, but make certain our best service is ready should the bishop wish to dine this evening."

  "Aye, my lady."

  But, she did not hear him, for she had already exited through the back of the hall and into the butler's domain to see how he progressed.

  With so little to pack and Maeve's cart still loaded from the previous day, it took less than an hour for Ashby's party to prepare. Nicola had no more walked into the gate when her father called to his men to mount up. As he assisted his bride into the saddle of her palfrey, Sir John said, "I hope you'll not change your mind and find yourself distressed at missing the chance to bid your lord farewell. We could yet stay another day to make a proper goodbye."

  "A woman must forsake her family and cleave unto her husband," his wife said, "and, besides, I have so much to learn. Just think, there is grain to be winnowed, butter to be churned, and bread to be baked. I shall be busy every moment of the day. Perhaps I shall be so overworked, I will have nothing left at the end of the day for you, you poor dear thing."

  "Never," he retorted with a besotted smile. "Nicola will see to it that you are never overburdened. You are so frail and delicate, you must have a care you do not become ill."

  His daughter sent her lady a brief and telling glance, but said nothing as the sentry's call rang out over their words.

  "But, who is this coming," the new Lady Ashby said, with a swift glance at the gate. Something akin to panic appeared ever so briefly in those pale eyes. Once again Rowena wondered what she could possibly fear from the bishop's arrival.

  But it was Gilliam who rode through the gate. Lady Maeve seemed to relax in relief, but her words were filled with disappointment. "And, I had hoped it was Rannulf so we might bid him farewell after all."

  The young man glanced around the group gathered in the courtyard as he drew his mount to a halt and slid from the saddle. He turned rudely away from any contact with them and strode directly toward the hall door. "My lady, I will speak to you inside after they have gone," he called back over his shoulder.

  "Why, I was wondering where you were hiding," Lady Ashby called out, her tone perfectly reasonable. "Will you not come congratulate me on my marriage?"

  He stopped in his tracks, then slowly turned toward her, ripping his gloves from his hands. "You have my heartfelt congratulations," he said coldly.

  "Oh, what a sweet child you are," she cried in seeming innocence of his hostility. "But it is customary to kiss the bride, is it not?"

  "Not for me," he retorted, his deep voice reverberating off the thick walls.

  Rowena saw Sir John's brows draw down as he recognized the insult to his wife. He started forward, toward the center of the courtyard, his stance aggressive and tense.

  She hurried to Gilliam. "Bite your tongue," she whispered. "Go and wish them both well. It will not kill you to do so." In a much louder voice she continued, "Has your visit to Sir Jocelynn gone so ill that you come home all frowns and bad temper?"

  He looked down at her, sighed, and took the hint. "Aye, it was not at all what I expected." To her, he whispered a swift aside, "It was short by an hour." Then he strode across the yard to meet Ashby. "I apologize for my rudeness, Lord John. It's only fortunate for me that my journey home did not go just a little longer or I would have missed the opportunity to wish you well. And your—lovely lady, too." He stumbled over the compliment, his teeth gritted in a smile.

  "Why, Gilliam," John said, with a hearty laugh. "I hardly knew you, though I should have realized who you were. Not many a man looks down on me save you and your brother. I swear you're taller now than when last I saw you before you left for the Holy Lands. My bailiff tells me you are your brother's steward and came to call at Ashby while I was at Nottingham with Lord Graistan."

  "Aye, Lord John, so I did at my lady's request. She was seeking to familiarize herself with Graistan's holdings and dues. That's a beautiful corner of the world you have there." His voice revealed a wistful longing and she remembered how sure he'd seemed that his brother would never grant him his own keep.

  "Ah, so it is," John graciously agreed, now completely mollified.

  "Did you realize you've got a soft corner on your south wall? I noticed it, but did not recognize what I saw until after I'd left that day."

  "Nay," Ashby said in surprise and interest. "Well, we've had trouble there before. Moisture from the river seeps into the walls and rots the mortar. Once noted, easily r
epaired. Do you remember my daughter, Nicola?" He pointed to the tall girl who still stood beside her mount. "Oh, how foolish of me. Of course you must have spoken with her when you were at our hall."

  "But, I did not. She was out when I arrived, and I could not stay the night. The bailiff said she was with a woman in the village who was giving birth." He studied Nicola for a long moment, then smiled a little more naturally. "But, I vaguely remember something—dear God, I think I was twelve and she seven when last we met. If I remember rightly, I was royally perturbed because she followed me everywhere for the duration of our visit. Grown a little since then, girl," he said to her. "Lord, you could almost look me in the eye. I am much more amenable to being followed these days," he teased with a friendly glint in his bright blue eyes.

  Nicola graced him with a narrow-eyed smile, but said nothing as she mounted her horse without the aid of a groom. Then, she leaned down, meaning to left her basket, but Gilliam grabbed it up before she could reach it.

  "What are you doing," she demanded. "It is mine, give it to me."

  "Glad to be able to serve," he said with a laugh and set it into its net at the back of her saddle.

  "Did I look as if I needed your assistance?" she snapped back. "If I had wanted help, I would have asked."

  "My lady, your courtly manner will make me swoon," he replied, his grin now wicked with amusement. He turned to her father. "My, she is a pretty thing, but is she always so outspoken?"

  "Always," Ashby sighed. "Now, hold your tongue, daughter, before you insult Lord Graistan's brother as deeply as you have insulted Lord Graistan."

  "Nicola, have a care" came Maeve's warning, "he'll play the part of gallant, for he is quite a swain. There's more than one girl here who's borne a fair-haired babe by him." She smiled at them both, deftly maneuvering herself back into the center of attention. "Oh, John, I think we must hurry along. I see clouds building."