From This Moment On

by Lynn Kurland

  “Tonight will proceed as it will. Like as not, he’ll prefer to pass the time sharpening his sword.”

  He looked at her for several moments in silence, then sighed heavily. “Perhaps you have it aright. He does look at you with great affection. I daresay he won’t use you ill. At least he’d best not.” He looked at her with an expression of fierceness that almost rivaled Colin’s. “He’ll answer to me otherwise.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  He rose. “I’ve something for you. Don’t let him carry you off until I’ve returned with it.”

  Ali leaned back in her chair and wondered if waiting was to become her lot in life now. First for her husband—and ’twas passing strange to call Colin that—then next for her father. The saints pity her when she had a houseful of children.

  But apparently her father didn’t intend that she wait long. He returned with something in a small box. He sat next to her and presented it with what she could only call reverence.

  “Here,” he said. “My treasure.”

  Well, it didn’t look like bags of gold. Sir Etienne would have been sorely disappointed. Ali looked at her sire. “Shouldn’t Colin have this?”

  “’Tis yours by right. I only intended to give it to your spouse that he might give it to you. Open it, if you like.”

  Ali lifted the lid carefully and set it aside. And there, on a very worn bit of cloth, sat a small round bit of stiff cloth with a tiny portrait on it.

  Of her mother.

  Ali looked up at her father, tears in her eyes. He smiled, tears in his own eyes.

  “Not a day has passed since that I haven’t grieved for her loss. I thought you should have it, for your own comfort. And I thought your husband should see it, that he might know how much he should treasure you.”

  She set the box aside and put her arms around her father. And then she wept. She wept first for the mother she’d lost, then for the years she wouldn’t have with her, and finally for the children of hers her mother would never see. And then she wept a bit for her father, that he’d lost something very precious to him.

  And then she realized that more than just her tears were dampening her. She pulled back, but her father’s weeping was confined to his face alone. Then she looked up and found that Colin was standing over her, his hair dripping down onto her and whatever else was in its path.

  So he had bathed.

  ’Twas no wonder he looked so miserable.

  “What ails you?” she asked, dragging her sleeve across her eyes.

  “You regret wedding me,” he said grimly. “I can see it.”

  “Well, of course I don’t.”

  “Then what has wrenched these tears from your eyes?”

  She handed the box to him. “Look inside, but don’t drip on it.”

  He held it far out of harm’s way, then peered closely at the portrait. Then he looked at her.

  “Your dam?”

  “Aye.”

  Colin stared at it for a moment or two longer, then looked at her father. “You loved her.”

  “As you should love her daughter, or you’ll answer to me.”

  Colin seemed to take that seriously enough. He nodded, then handed the box back to Ali.

  Ali took her treasure, put it away, then waited. She realized quite quickly that a growing, and very uncomfortable, silence was beginning to fill the space between the three of them. She looked up at Colin.

  “Did you bathe?” she asked, surprised.

  He turned a very fiery shade of red. “And what if I did?”

  “Very brave.”

  “Very brave is the soul who follows me into that water,” he said with a shiver. “And I vow the soap took off much of my skin.” He looked at Denis with a scowl. “Bathing in your house is perilous, my lord.”

  “I’ll have it seen to. Now,” Denis said, taking a deep breath, “you may take my chamber, if you like. It has been prepared for your use.”

  “Use?” Colin squeaked.

  Ali smiled to herself, then rose. “We aren’t heading into a pitched battle. We’re merely going to retire.”

  “Retire,” he repeated. “Um, aye, retire. Indeed, we should likely do so.”

  “You can regale me with tales of danger before we sleep.” She leaned over and kissed her father’s cheek. “Good night, my lord. Rest well.”

  “You too,” he managed, looking a bit green.

  Colin looked green as well. By the saints, when had the men about her acquired such weak stomachs? Apparently she was doomed to take the lead in this. Ah, well, to each his own strengths, she supposed.

  “Come, my lord,” she said, gathering up her box, then taking Colin by the hand. “We’ll retire now and recover from your day’s labors. I know they were heavy ones.”

  Colin only grunted and followed her. Ali led the way up the steps and down the passageway, then up more steps and down another passageway to her father’s bedchamber. She supposed she should have felt a bit queasy about being there with a husband, but there was almost a little satisfaction in being able to sleep in comfort whilst Marie slept in the dungeon with the vermin and slime.

  Ali opened the door and entered, then let Colin pass by her. He set a candle down on a trunk, then looked about him with about as much enthusiasm as he might have at an inescapable prison.

  Ali smiled to herself, lit another pair of candles, set her mother’s portrait on the table, and sat down before the brazier to warm her toes. She patted a place on the wide bench next to her.

  “Comfortable,” she said encouragingly.

  Colin shut the door, bolted it, and then leaned back against the door. “So’s the door,” he said.

  She laughed. “You wouldn’t think a man of your reputation would be nervous of anything.”

  “Nervous?” he said, puffing out his chest. “I am not nervous. I’m merely trying to ... um ... spare you any nervousness.”

  “Kind of you.”

  “Aye, I thought so.”

  She tilted her head and smiled at him. “Would you care to hear advice a wise man once gave me? He was referring to how one should deal with a woman.”

  He pursed his lips, but nodded just the same.

  “ ‘Bed them. Get them with child. But never, ever converse with them.’ ”

  Colin snorted. “Drivel.”

  “I daresay he didn’t think so.”

  “Shouldn’t listen to that kind of rot. Who said it, by the way? Artane’s youngest? Nay, he wouldn’t say something like that. He would speak on forever about lays and ballads and other wooing devices, if he didn’t just simply talk the poor wench to death. But tell me who it was, so I can instruct the man in proper comportment next time we meet.”

  “It was, actually, you,” she said. “In your defense, I think it was after Sybil had fainted one too many times to suit you.”

  He looked at her closely. “You don’t seem to be on the verge of fainting.”

  “Nay, I’m not.”

  “Strong-constitutioned, apparently.”

  She smiled modestly. “Perhaps.”

  He took a pace or two forward and leaned against the foot post of the bed. “Full of goodly courage.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  He was looking at the distance that separated him from the bench. It seemed as though he thought it to be quite large, for he looked as if he might take a step or two forward, and then he would relax and continue his leaning.

  Ali wondered if he might ever come any closer.

  “You could tell me how you came to know Christopher of Blackmour,” she offered. “That would be a very interesting tale.”

  He considered. The idea seemed to be appealing enough, for he put his shoulders back, looked as if he were gathering his courage in hand, and then strode across the chasm in two great steps and sat himself down on the bench.

  As far away from her as possible, of course, but at least he was sitting.

  “Colin,” she said with a sigh, “you needn’t feel shy.”


  “I do not feel shy. I am merely ... um ... trying to spare you ... er ... any discomfort or apprehension.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  He scowled at her. “Lady, you are deliberately seeking to provoke me.”

  She sighed, then moved herself closer to him. He looked panicked, but managed to stay seated. Ali reached for his hand and held it between her own.

  “We are wed,” she pointed out.

  He slipped his hand from between hers, then patted her quite thoroughly on the back. “I know. And I thank you for it.” Then he folded his hands quite securely together, and pinned them between his knees. “A tale, did you say? Aye, I can humor you thusly.”

  Well, perhaps a tale would rid him of his nervousness and then they could see to other things. Or perhaps it would take a goodly amount of time for him to muster up his courage, as it were, and see to his business with her. She supposed she should have been grateful for a bit of time to accustom herself to being wed to arguably the fiercest warrior in England—and most of France for that matter. Indeed, many women would have been terrified by the mere thought of sitting next to the man, much less anything else.

  Perhaps she had more courage than she thought she did.

  “Aliénore?”

  She looked at him, surprised that she was still surprised by the sound of her name coming from him.

  “My lord?” she asked.

  “You’re not attending me.”

  “Forgive me, my lord.”

  He frowned at her. “You can’t tell me that you aren’t riveted by this tale.”

  “Of course.” She was beginning to wonder, however, if perhaps she should be wearing something else. Hose, perhaps? It was possible the gown was throwing him into such a state.

  “Should I put on hose?” she asked suddenly.

  “What in the bloody hell does that have to do with my slicing a man’s moustache from him before I sent him to his grave?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Your powers of concentration have faded sadly,” he said, looking sorely disappointed.

  “I’m thinking on other things.”

  “Besides battle? By the saints, woman, what else is there?”

  Obviously she had a goodly work ahead of her.

  “Colin,” she asked patiently, “wouldn’t you at least like to kiss me?”

  He stared at her. And he continued to stare at her. Indeed, he stared at her so long and so intensely that she began to wonder if she shouldn’t have kept silent. This was the Colin of Berkhamshire she had come to know so thoroughly in the lists, a man of complete and utter focus, a man who was single-minded about whatever task he had set before himself, a man who could likely send any sensible man scampering with just a pointed look of retribution.

  And now she had that look turned on her.

  But she had the feeling it had nothing to do with retribution.

  Then he cleared his throat.

  “Did I,” he began, “but begin to kiss you, Aliénore of Solonge, I daresay I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

  Ali found that her hand was waving under her chin in a fanning motion. And given the fact that the chamber felt as if someone had thrown an entire barrel of coals on the brazier, she supposed her hand had things aright.

  “Oh,” she managed.

  “Aye, oh,” he agreed. “And know this that few have aroused such an, er, enthusiasm in me.”

  “In truth?”

  He paused and scowled at her. “Well, I’m not a bloody virgin, if that’s what you’re asking. But I’m a far sight less experienced than any of those Artane lads.”

  “Jason doesn’t seem all that preoccupied with wenching,” she pointed out.

  He scowled. “Must we continue this?”

  “You brought it up.”

  He looked supremely uncomfortable and she could scarce understand it. She’d expected him to want to be about that sacred business as quickly as possible. She studied him and watched as he studied anything but her in the chamber. There were a dozen questions she could have asked, but she supposed that prying into his preoccupations was perhaps impolite. And when she’d finally decided that perhaps she should dare, he spoke.

  “I know a little,” he said slowly, “of bedding a wench. But I know nothing of bedding a wife.”

  Ah, so there was the crux of the matter. She shrugged. “I suppose, my lord, that there isn’t much difference.”

  He looked at her then and the seriousness of his expression surprised her. “Ah, but that is where you are wrong,” he said. “There is all the difference between the two.”

  She had nothing to say to that. She looked down at her hands clasped in her lap and had no idea what she was supposed to do now. And then she saw a large, scarred hand come into view. That hand reached over and closed over hers. It was a warm hand, and a gentle one. Ali looked up and met Colin’s eyes.

  “I am not afeared,” he said slowly, “of trying to learn.”

  She only nodded, mute.

  He lifted her hand and kissed it. Roughly and not very easily. Then he peered at her, as if he judged her reaction. She only smiled. The man turned swordplay into a fine, elegant dance. Perhaps that would apply to other areas of his life as well.

  In time.

  He lifted his arm, presumably to put it around her shoulders—

  And caught her fully in the nose.

  Blood began to flow.

  He leaped to his feet, cursing and wringing his hands. Ali put her hand over her nose, then found herself with a rag in her hands and her head tilted back thanks to Colin’s tender ministrations.

  His expression was very grim.

  “A disaster,” he said darkly. “As I assumed it would be.”

  She wheezed. “I wouldn’t go so far.”

  “By the saints, your sire will have my head for this. Is it broken, do you think?”

  “I’ve no way to tell.”

  He took a deep breath, then very gently took her nose between his finger and thumb.

  She found herself quite suddenly on the bed with no idea how she’d come to be there. Colin was kneeling next to her, looking very grim. She closed her eyes briefly.

  “How—”

  “You fainted. But not before you screamed as if the very gates of Hell had spewed forth a contingent to chase you across the whole of France. Your sire, I likely don’t need to add, has already come banging on the door.”

  She was suddenly quite grateful she was lying down. “My nose hurts.”

  “I’ve no doubt it does.”

  “I think perhaps I might have had enough—” .

  “Of course,” he said quickly. “By the saints, Aliénore, you should sleep. I’ll keep watch over you. You’re perfectly safe. Well, from all except me, apparently.”

  She reached up and touched his cheek. “It was an accident, my lord. Something amusing to tell our children.”

  “I fail to see the humor at the moment. Perhaps later, when you don’t look quite so bruised.” He heaved a great sigh. “You should sleep now. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  She nodded, and that mere movement sent her world spinning fair into oblivion.

  But with her last bit of awareness, she felt a hand very carefully and very gently brush the hair back from her face.

  “By the saints,” he whispered, “what have I ever done to deserve a one such as she? Beautiful, fearless, and with a stomach strong enough to wed with me.”

  Ali fought to remain still. It was difficult, especially since she was certain tears would begin to leak from her closed eyes soon.

  And then came more words from her apparently rather besotted husband, words she was just certain would fill her heart to overflowing and send the tears coursing in earnest.

  “Now, if I could just bed the wench properly without breaking her first ...”

  Well, some things were perhaps better left said when your spouse was asleep.

  Ali fell asleep smiling just the same.

  Chap
ter 36

  Colin woke and reached immediately for his sword. It was what he did every morning when he awoke. One never knew the dangers that might be lurking just above one’s head, and he was never one to meet a danger unarmed, unprepared. This morning however, when he took hold of his sword, it squeaked.

  He wondered, briefly, if he had just lost his mind.

  He sat up with a start, then realized he was grasping something far too soft to be his sword. It was, oddly enough, his lady wife’s leg.

  Memory flooded back and he looked at her in consternation.

  She was still wearing her gown. And aye, she was still wearing the signs of his tender ministrations the night before.

  What would her bloody family say when they saw the condition of her face?

  Well, he already knew what her father would say, for he’d had a goodly dose of that the night before whilst Ali was still out of her head with pain. Colin had apologized profusely, vowed that he’d damaged the wench unintentionally, demonstrated that she was still wearing all her clothing, and sent Denis of Solonge on his way a very unhappy and scowling father.

  Colin had supposed that any other start to his matrimonial life would have been quite unthinkable.

  “Colin?”

  He looked at Aliénore quickly, but the sight of her, even when viewed by the very faint light pushing through the shutters, rendered him quite speechless. Shorn hair and broken nose included, the woman was absolutely beautiful.

  To think she was his ...

  Well, almost. He had given thought to making her his in truth several times during the night, but the sight of her had given him pause. He’d but endeavored to embrace her and look what he’d done to her. What would happen should he try to love her?

  He shuddered to think.

  “You’re looking fierce this fine morn, my lord.”

  He tried to soften his expression, but found it impossible. By the saints, not only did he now have a wife, he had Aliénore of Solonge for a wife. He’d suspected from the first moment of his betrothal to her that she was not merely an ordinary woman. No woman could bear that name and not have something substantial to her.

  And now he had to spare a moment or two for regret that he’d thought her so cowardly. He suspected there were few wenches who would have ever dared what she had. He never would have found himself dressing in skirts for any reason.