Roger's Bride

by Sarah Hegger

  Suddenly her anger did not feel so just or so right. She had wounded him, and her chest ached with it. “Where are you going?”

  He stopped, turning only his head. “You are quite correct, my lady. We struck a bargain. You have adequately performed your part. It remains to me to fulfill mine.”

  “What will you do?” Kathryn trailed him toward the staircase. This Roger she had glimpsed along the journey, but aimed at others and never her. Cold, ruthless and intent, he resembled his father. A man who never let a slight go unpunished. A knight who waged war with the ferocity of the northmen she admired so much.

  “I will do what I must.” He took the stairs at a fast jog.

  “Roger.” She snatched up her skirts and ran after him. She wanted to undo the last five minutes and take them back. Her words had been uttered in haste. “I did not mean it.”

  “Which part?” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. His manner so forbidding, she stopped partway down. “The part where I did not keep my vow?”

  “Nay, but—”

  “Quite so.” He tilted his head at her. “Do you mean the part where you married me to ensure the safety of your mother and sister?”

  “Nay, I did marry—”

  “I thought not.” He stared at her, locking them in a breathless bubble of fast running emotion. “You spoke the truth, my lady. The only person who misconstrued appears to be me. I thank you for setting me to rights.”

  His heels rang on the flags as he strode away. She wanted to call out to him, run after him, make him stay, and while she stood there in warring indecision he left. Kathryn sunk onto the step. It hurt, this being at odds with your husband. It nagged worse than the pain in her ribs, but deeper inside near her chest.

  She brought her knees up to her chest, and hugged them tight. Dropping her face onto her knees, she wished she could jump back to the secret place and be that Roger and that Kathryn.

  “Kathryn?” Soft footfalls sounded on the stair treads. Lady Mary sat beside her in a waft of rosewater and lemon. “I would ask if you were all right, but as Roger stormed out mere moments ago, and you are hunched on the stairs, I think the question unnecessary.”

  “We had a fight,” Kathryn said to her knees.

  “Ah, well.” Gentle hands soothed her back. “And, no doubt you will have many more in the years to come.”

  “Not like this.”

  “Nay.” Lady Mary chuckled. “Some will be small, and others will be so large you will wonder how you will ever find your way back together again. And even others, you will not care to.”

  “He took my mother.” Tears threatened and she pressed her eyes into her knees.

  “I know, sweeting.” The soothing strokes really did help. “We did everything we could to stop him, but we failed. We will make it right.” Lady Rose’s arm slid all the way about her shoulders. “My Arthur will do anything for one of his girls.”

  “I am not—”

  “You most certainly are one of his girls.” Lady Mary hugged her close. “Anglesea is your family now, Kathryn. You are as much ours to love, honor and cherish as you are Roger’s.”

  Blast! Why did Lady Mary have to say that, because tears threatened in earnest now? Lady Mary would not profess such sweet things if she knew how Kathryn had treated her beloved son. “I told Roger he had broken his vow to me.”

  “Ah.” Lady Mary sighed. “With a man such as Roger, that would cut deep. His honor is the foundation on which he is built.”

  “And I said some other nasty things.”

  Lady Mary laughed. Laughed? Kathryn raised her head and gaped at her.

  “What?” She raised her brow at Kathryn. A look so like her son, it made Kathryn’s chest ache all over again. “Do you think you are the only woman to fling barbed words at her man? Come.” She rose and held out her hand to Kathryn. “Let me set your heart at rest. You are not the first woman to flay her husband with her tongue, and neither will you be the last. Also, and as much as you are not going to want to hear this, neither will this be the last time you will do so.”

  Kathryn took her hand and stood.

  “You are married now,” Lady Mary said as they climbed. “You may not have wanted to be a wife, but I do not think you are all that unhappy with your choice of husband.”

  “I am worried for my mother.”

  “Aye.” Lady Mary squeezed her hand. “And I believe you have just cause to be. Allow me to speak as a mother for a moment.”

  Kathryn nodded.

  “From the day they put that babe to your breast, that child is yours. Yours to protect, love, nurture and comfort. I am sure your mother draws great comfort from knowing you are safe.”

  “My mother is not like you,” Kathryn said. “She is fragile and her health suffers.”

  “I understand,” Lady Mary said. “And you are born with a warrior’s spirit in a woman’s body. You have made it your labor to protect those who are weaker. In this, you and Roger are the same.”

  “There was nobody else.” No servant at Mandeville would dare gainsay their liege lord. Not another family member to stand for them.

  “You have borne a heavy burden for a long while now, Kathryn.” Lady Mary stopped walking and turned to her. “But you do not bear it alone anymore. It is not weakness to allow those who can to help you. Right now, you are upset, and sick with worry. You spoke harshly in your grief, and when he calms, Roger will realize that.” Warm hands cupped Kathryn’s face. “You are not fighting alone anymore, sweeting. Think on that.”

  * * * *

  Kathryn waited for Roger to join her after dinner. She had thought much on her conversation with Lady Mary, and come to the conclusion Lady Mary knew best. Her concern for her mother had caused her to speak harshly to Roger.

  The flash of hurt on his face rose to taunt her. Well, when a person did something wrong, she apologized. Fighting and flinging insults set a bad beginning to her married life.

  The watch called midnight and still she waited.

  Dinner was long since over, prayers said. What could be keeping him in the hall?

  A murmur rose in the passage outside their chamber. Kathryn cracked the door and peered through.

  Garrett and Beatrice walked arm-in-arm toward their chamber. Garrett spoke to Beatrice. Grave-faced, Beatrice pressed her head to her husband’s shoulder.

  Kathryn shut the door, sole witness to the turmoil on Garrett’s face. An expression so similar to the one Roger had worn.

  Newly wed and all alone. Kathryn paced to the casement. She blinked away her tears. Feeling sorry for yourself got you a short trip into nowhere.

  At times like these she wished she’d taken more interest in embroidery or some other womanly art. She unpacked her weapons from her clothes chest, and laid them beside the hearth. She checked her dagger for nicks on the blade. When she didn’t find any, she cleaned it and lay it beside her sword.

  Sir Royce laughed when she had asked him for a sword. So, this one she had rescued from the pile of scrap behind the blacksmith’s forge. Deemed not suitable, it had been tossed there to be melted down and remade.

  She had added layers of sacking to make the pommel fit her hand, and if you stared down the blade you could see the imperfection, but she loved it anyway. Her sword, like an extension of her arm, proof of her fighting spirit. Kathryn dug out her whetstone and spat on it. The dull scrape of metal on stone soothed her. From her casement came the gentle suck and hiss of the sea. After honing her sword, she checked her bow, and counted her arrows. All appeared as it should, and she put her weapons away.

  She gave in to the lure of the view and went back to the casement. Moonlight wavered across the swell and dip of the water beneath her. A clear, crisp night with a slight hint of chill hanging onto it.

  Footsteps tramped over the battlement and the watch called the hour.

  She knew Roger had not left Anglesea because he had sat beside her at dinner. More intereste
d in his wine than his meal, they had barely said a word to each other.

  Enough! Kathryn snatched up her bed robe and pulled it about her. She was not the sort of girl to sit about waiting and pining. Kathryn strode out of their chamber, and into the corridor beyond. Low tapers lit the way of any nocturnal wanderer.

  Down the stairs she went and into the hall.

  Roger sat before the great hearth, his feet stretched out before him, eyes shut.

  His eyes opened as she approached. Giving her a wobbly smile, he raised his goblet in a toast. “My lady.”

  “What are you doing?” She suspected the answer to her question lay in the overturned flagon by Roger’s feet. Her belly gave an uneasy turn. Men and strong drink made a nasty brew.

  “Thinking,” he said.

  “Thinking or drinking?” Good Lord, did that shrewish tone escape her?

  Roger chuckled and laid his head back. “I find the wine oils my thoughts.”

  Her father’s temper grew more unpredictable when he drank, and Kathryn kept a safe distance behind the empty chair that faced Roger.

  “Have a seat.” Roger waved at the chair. His eyes glittered and his cheeks were flushed. If he had been drinking since dinner, then he was well gone.

  “I think I will return to our chamber.” She would wait until morning to apologize.

  Roger pointed, his voice hard. “Sit.”

  She had speed and could make it up the stairs and into their chamber if this was her father. Younger and lighter on his feet, Roger might prove abler. Experience taught her never to assume drunk meant sluggish. Kathryn touched her finger to a small scar beneath her chin. When a man tackled a running girl, the floor met her chin in a mighty knock. She took a slow step back, gauging his reaction.

  “Where are you going?” Roger frowned, looking more confused than angry. “Did you not come down for a drink?”

  “Nay.” Kathryn edged a little further back. “When you did not come to bed, I came to look for you.”

  Roger chuckled. “Ah, the dutiful wife. Well, here I am.” He held his arms wide. Wine spilled out of his goblet onto the floor. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Thank you but nay,” Kathryn said. “I will bid you good night and see you in the morning.”

  “Are you running from me, Kathryn?” His voice stopped her as she strode for the stairs. A goblet clattered on the floor.

  “Nay.” She increased her pace. Once in her chamber, she might bar the door. “I am merely seeking my bed.”

  Her foot hit the bottom step when a hand about her arm stopped her. “Stop.”

  Blast! He was so much quicker than Sir Royce. Kathryn braced herself, carefully hiding any traces of fear.

  Roger cupped her face. Warm, wine soaked breath hit her. “My beautiful Kathryn.” His words held the careful enunciation of a drunken man. “I have a confession to make.”

  Ready for rough treatment, Kathryn struggled to find her feet on this new ground. “Indeed.”

  Roger nodded slowly. “I have been drinking.”

  “Aye.”

  His gaze lingered on her lips. “I fear I am quite drunk.”

  “Are you?”

  He chuckled, stroking her bottom lip. “I have been sitting here, drinking, and pretending that I am not too afeared to enter my bedchamber.”

  Roger, afeared? The notion drew a snort from her.

  “I did not know my welcome in your chamber.” With a lurch, he rested his forehead against hers. His wine breath made her wince, but the simple gesture kept her there.

  “I was waiting for you,” she said.

  “To stab me?”

  Kathryn laughed. “Nay, I thought I might beg your pardon.”

  “Eh?” He reared back, went too far and lost his balance.

  Kathryn grabbed his tunic and righted him. “I was sorry for my cross words today and wanted to beg your pardon.”

  “Hmph?” He pursed his lips and studied her. “Go on then.”

  “What?”

  “Beg my pardon.” His grin was sloppy. “Only make it good because my feathers are truly ruffled.”

  “You are drunk.” Kathryn’s last vestiges of fear slithered away. This was no Sir Royce she dealt with.

  “I am,” he said.

  “Shall I help you to bed?”

  He leered at her. “Aye.”

  “Come along then.” Kathryn placed his arm about her waist.

  He walked reasonably straight for a drunk man. Only leaning the veriest bit on her for support. She got him up the stairs and into their chamber.

  With a groan, he dropped onto his back on the bed. “Now you have me where you wanted me, my lady. Do your worst.”

  Kathryn dodged his hands as she tugged off his boots. His tunic involved a lot more wrestling.

  Roger used her proximity to cup her breasts and stroke her ass. Apparently, her husband was an amorous drunk. Kathryn removed his chausses. The tenting in his braies offered further proof of his eagerness.

  Cupping his rod, he grinned at her. “I am ready.”

  Truth be told, so was she. Her body responded to his drunken fumbling in a mortifying manner. A sot should not appeal to her, yet he did.

  Roger lay back, his broad, sculpted chest displayed for her pleasure, and Kathryn looked her fill.

  Roger snored.

  Stupid man! Here she stood prepared to apologize and he slept. Kathryn tugged the linens from beneath him and covered him.

  She dropped her bed robe and crawled in beside him.

  He grabbed her about the waist and hauled her into the cradle of his body. Wine laden breath stirred the hair at her nape, but she did not mind so very much.

  Roger was not the same as her father when drunk. He was not the same as her father in many, many ways, and each day seemed to bring a new discovery.

  * * * *

  Roger slid out of bed, and worked his parched tongue off the roof of his mouth. God in heaven! His mouth tasted as if he’d been licking a dog’s ass.

  Kathryn lay on her stomach, face buried by the pillows, arms flung out. She brought him to his knees, and she had no idea.

  He swilled water to clean his mouth, and then chewed a mint leaf left beside the basin and ewer.

  Last night he’d drowned his lacerated feelings at the bottom of a flagon, and the sour belly and pounding head served him right. He could go about his day, and let her sleep. Or he could slide back beside his delicious bride and sample the tempting creamy shoulder that poked above the bed furs.

  As if it were really a decision.

  Roger slipped back into bed.

  She’d come to find him last night. Forgoing a sulk, Kathryn had come to the hall with a sweet apology.

  He slid his arms about her and shifted her into the cradle of his thighs. She smelled of sleepy woman, and something light and flowery that seemed embedded in her skin. The bruises on her trunk had faded to an interesting mottling of green and yellow.

  Next time Sir Royce crossed his path, Roger would not grant him the courtesy of age. The cur had used their absence to slip away with Lady Rose. A fist raised in challenge, Roger would definitely accept. But he needed to think on his answering sally. King Henry’s England in no way resembled King John’s. Bit by bit, the boy king brought order to his barons, law to the lawless.

  Kathryn stirred, burrowing her head further into the pillow. Not one to wake bright and cheery, but more of a bed wallower.

  The tender arch of her nape beckoned and Roger pressed his mouth to that sweet, vulnerable spot. Her hair clung to his morning growth and enveloped him in a sweet cloud of silk.

  “Roger?” she murmured. Her eyelids flickered open.

  “Aye.” He traced the line of her shoulder with his lips. Such soft skin begged a man to taste. “You were expecting someone else?”

  Her deep raspy chuckle vibrated through his ribs, and he smiled. He loved that he could make her laugh. There had not b
een enough laughter in Kathryn’s life.

  “How is your head?” She tilted her head to give him better access.

  Roger gave her wicked shoulder a light bite. “As sore as I deserve.”

  “You were very drunk.”

  “Stop nagging, wench.” He sucked her ear lobe. “You are in danger of becoming a shrew.”

  “Hmph!” Her outrage ended on a gasp. “Then we shall be a shrew and a sot.”

  “Or.” Roger rose over her, keeping his weight on his elbows and off her sore ribs. “We could make up in the best way possible.”

  Brown eyes, so deep a man could lose himself, gazed at him. “Are you still wroth with me?”

  “I was never wroth with you, sweeting.” Roger held her still. It was important she understood this. “I was wroth with myself. I made you a vow and I broke it.”

  “It was an impossible vow to keep.”

  “Perhaps.” Roger tossed away his resistance and nibbled her plump bottom lip. “I beg your pardon for yesterday. I will find a way to right this.”

  She wrapped her arms about his neck and kept him close. “Is this part of how you make things right?”

  The sly wench pressed her hips against his rod, bringing him fully and achingly hard. “Partly.” His wits retreated further with each voluptuous undulation she made. There was more to last night that he needed to tell her. “I want you to know, Kathryn, that there is never enough wine to cause you to fear me.”

  “I do not fear you.” Out went her stubborn chin, eyes flashing defiance at him.

  “Aye, you did.” He stroked her hair back. “When you thought I was drunk, you became afeared and tried to run from me.”

  She snorted. “You imagine things.”

  “Nay.” He kissed her forehead. “I am guessing your father became violent when he drank. But I want you to know that I would never hurt you. Not in anger, not in battle rage, and not in wine.”

  She softened for an instant, and glared another challenge at him. “I would break your head if you tried.”

  “And I would deserve it.” He had made his point and he lowered himself between her thighs. “I also have a vague memory of an apology from you.”