Tallie's Knight

by Anna Gracie

  Long dark lashes fanned her cheeks, which were flushed from the heat of

  the fire. Or maybe not, he thought wryly, as he bent down and removed

  the pewter mug which dangled precariously from one hand.

  He put a hand on her shoulder.

  "Thalia," he said, then, "Thalia," more loudly. She didn't stir. He

  decided to let her sleep until dinner arrived.

  He poured himself a mug of mulled wine and drained it quickly,

  shuddering pleasurably as the warm spicy liquid flowed down his throat.

  He poured himself another, then set it down pensively, his eyes on the

  sleeping girl. She looked exhausted. Magnus watched the gentle rise

  and fall of her chest and regretted the rough haste of the journey. He

  should not have inflicted such a long trip on his gently bred bride,

  especially on her wedding day. Not that little Thalia Robins- no,

  Thalia St. Clair she was now--was particularly gently bred.

  He shook his head, recalling the way the little hoyden had hung out the

  window of the coach, pert little nose in the air, her hair whipping

  around her face, her eyes huge and dark in the pallor of her face. Her

  skin had been damp with rain, glowing softly in the moonlight as she

  had shrieked some nonsense about how much she was enjoying the journey.

  Monstrous exciting, indeed! His lips twitched.

  She'd looked frightened half out of her wits.

  Magnus sipped the mulled wine and watched his bride sleep. He noticed

  the faint sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her tip-tilted

  nose. Freckles were generally held to be a flaw, but hers were oddly

  appealing. It was almost impossible to believe that he'd married this

  little scrap of humanity. He didn't feel married. And he had so

  little in common with her. His wife. His new Countess. His impulsive

  choice of her was most unlike him.

  He would have to train her, he supposed, train her until she resembled

  the wives. He frowned, considering the way he'd become acquainted with

  most of those wives. No, he didn't want her to be a typical society

  wife at all. He'd be damned if he'd let her cuckold him. This Lady

  d'Arenville would not stray from her marital bed; he'd make sure of

  that!

  He took another sip of wine and pulled a face. It was almost cold. He

  leant over towards the fireplace and pushed the blackened poker into

  the coals. Thalia, he pondered, watching the flames flicker and

  dance.

  Peculiar name. It didn't suit her at all. He wouldn't saddle a child

  of his with a name like that. a child of his. With any luck she could

  conceive this very night. The poker soon began to glow red-hot, and he

  pulled it out, shook the ash from it, then plunged it into the jug of

  spiced wine. It sizzled briefly, and aromatic steam filled the air. He

  tossed the poker back onto the hearth, poured the heated mixture back

  into his mug and drank deeply.

  The innkeeper, Farrow, entered with a tray of steaming dishes. Magnus

  silently indicated his sleeping wife. Farrow and several creeping

  minions set out cutlery, glasses and dishes with muted clatters and

  clinks. Farrow issuing instructions in a hoarse whisper that could

  probably be heard in the next room. The new Lady d'Arenville slept on,

  serenely oblivious.

  When the innkeeper had left, Magnus touched her shoulder.

  "Thalia, our dinner has arrived." She didn't move. He shook her

  gently and she stirred, but did not awaken. He stood for a moment,

  oddly unsure of himself. She probably was hungry--there had been no

  proper wedding breakfast after all-she had eaten nothing for hours. But

  women seemed to eat almost nothing anyway, and she did seem to be very

  tired. Perhaps it would be better to let her sleep through dinner and

  then wake her when it was time to go up to bed.

  Yes, that was the better plan. He would wake her then, for he had

  every intention of consummating his marriage tonight. The sooner he

  got her with child the sooner she would forget about this Grand Tour

  nonsense.

  Magnus twirled a glass of port in his hand, admiring the flickering

  flames of the fire through its ruby glow and berating himself for his

  uncharacteristic state of indecision. After a hearty dinner and

  several glasses of good claret he was now perfectly ready to undertake

  his duties as a bridegroom. But she was still asleep. Frowning, he

  set his glass down and walked towards his wife. He shook her shoulder

  again. She did not move, did not so much as flicker an eyelid. He

  bent over, slid his hands under her and lifted. She stirred, muttered,

  and snuggled her cheek against his chest. Her arms and legs dangled

  bonelessly. Curse the girl--she slept like the dead.

  Grunting slightly, he managed to open the door. He carried her up the

  narrow steps, taking care not to bump her against the walls--although

  why he should bother he did not know. Very likely a stampede of

  elephants would not wake her. He had bespoken only one private

  bedchamber--it was a small inn, after all. The bedclothes were turned

  back, and with a sigh of relief he laid her on the bed and regarded her

  with a jaundiced eye.

  His bride was dead to the world. Magnus glared at her, aggrieved. He

  had not particularly looked forward to his wedding night--he'd never

  taken a virgin before, had restricted his carnal dealings to

  experienced women of the world, and the thought of causing pain instead

  of giving pleasure had caused him to view the coming night with a

  certain amount of trepidation. But now, having steeled himself to do

  the deed, his bride was proving most uncooperative.

  Furthermore, having departed on his honeymoon in a state of pique, he

  had failed to provide her with a maidservant. He probably ought to

  call for the landlord's wife to undress her. And so he would--damn

  it--if he wanted all and sundry to know how he'd passed his wedding

  night. No, he had the choice--leave her to sleep in her clothes and

  emerge as an even more bedraggled bride in the morning, or prepare her

  for bed himself.

  Swearing under his breath, Magnus undid the buttons of her shabby

  pelisse. He slipped it off and hung it on a hook. He had to grope for

  the fastenings of her dress, and called down a silent curse on

  dressmakers when he finally discovered them under her arms.

  He slipped the dress off her shoulders and tugged it down over her

  hips, then hung it on the same hook.

  Feeling cross and impatient, Magnus turned back to his bride and froze,

  staring. She lay on his bed, soft and sweet and vulnerable. Her hair

  was tumbled in an unruly mass, spread out against the white sheets,

  glinting gold and brown and cinnamon, like strands of honey.

  Her skin glowed golden- rose in the flickering candlelight.

  Magnus's mouth dried as he gazed at her sleeping form. This was his

  wife, he told himself . but he felt like a thief in the night,

  standing over her, gazing like this, with her all innocent and

  unknowing.

  But he could not stop himself staring. at the rosy arms flung out high

  on the pillows, at her long, smooth legs, gently parted
and

  disappearing beneath her petticoat, her breasts rising creamy and

  rounded from the neck of her chemise. He reached for the tapes which

  fastened her petticoat and noticed wryly that his hands were shaking.

  He wrestled for a moment with the knots, then, losing patience, took

  out his knife. He cut the remaining tapes and, holding his breath,

  gently eased the petticoat from her body.

  Bloody hell, he thought, staring at her legs, at her thighs hidden

  beneath the uneven hem of her chemise. His heart was pounding. The

  chemise was a simple affair, sleeveless, with an adjustable drawstring

  neckline. It strained across her chest and hips, as if made for a

  smaller person. Idly his fingers reached out and pulled lightly at one

  of the ends of the small bow which fastened the drawstring. The bow

  fell apart and the neckline loosened under his gaze.

  By all that was decent he ought to leave her to sleep in her chemise at

  least. She was a virgin, modest and maidenly. A gentleman should show

  proper respect for his wife, only raising the hem of her nightgown

  during their conjugal meetings. It was what he'd expected, planned to

  do, after all. And she was asleep. Only a cad would bare her naked to

  his eyes like this on her wedding night. Without her knowledge or

  consent. Yes, in all decency he should allow her to sleep in her

  chemise, not stand here staring at his wife as if she were a twopenny

  peepshow. She stirred, rolling her face to one side, and flung an arm

  over her head. Her movement sent the drawstring neckline gaping even

  wider.

  Magnus held his breath. Was she about to waken? Candlelight danced

  over the creamy expanse of skin.

  Without further thought Magnus cut through the tapes fastening her

  chemise and with hated breath tugged the garment down. Her breasts

  spilled out, creamy and lush, and under his fascinated stare two rosy

  nipples lifted and hardened in the cold night air. He tugged it

  further, over her hips and down her legs. Dry-mouthed and aching with

  desire, he examined the rest of her, her slender waist, her appealingly

  curved little belly, the flaring hips and the gold-brown triangle of

  curls at the apex of her rounded, satiny thighs.

  Bloody hell, thought Magnus again, dazedly. She was beautiful. Under

  all those appalling garments she wore, she was beautiful. Soft, lovely

  and utterly desirable. And she was his wife.

  And, the devil confound it, she was absolutely sound asleep, and there

  was no way in the world that he could avail himself of her beautiful

  body. He groaned, feeling the painful intensity of his arousal,

  knowing he would have to wait.

  He bent over her, inhaling the scent of her body, and closed his eyes

  for a moment, savouring it. She smelled unique, in his experience.

  Most women he knew drowned themselves in strong perfumes. Not his

  bride. She smelled of soap and nothing else--just herself. Of

  innocence. She was his lawful wife, wedded to him in the eyes of God

  and society, he told himself.

  Magnus took a deep breath.

  "Thalia," he said urgently, in a loud voice. She did not stir. He

  cupped her shoulders in moist palms and shook her. The creamy breasts

  bounced and quivered. Magnus moaned as he watched. But she did not

  awaken. Instead, she wriggled a little--causing his tongue to cleave

  to the roof of his mouth--then turned on her side, cuddling into the

  pillows, curling up her legs and presenting him with a view of a

  delectable peachy backside. His arousal was rock-hard, and aching like

  the very devil.

  It was no good, he thought frustratedly, Thalia Robinson could sleep

  through an earthquake. He lifted the bedclothes over her and watched

  sourly as she snuggled into their warmth. Thalia--God how he disliked

  that name. It hadn't suited the ill-clad little urchin he'd married

  and it certainly didn't suit the siren he'd discovered under the

  dreadful clothes. Perhaps he'd call her by her second name--what was

  it? Lucy? Louise? He grimaced. No, that didn't suit her either.

  Forcing himself to turn away from the temptation in his bed, Magnus

  bent to pick up the undergarments he'd dropped. He started to hang

  them on the hook behind the door, then paused, truly noticing them for

  the first time. Holding them in a clenched fist, he moved closer to

  the branch of candles burning near the bedside. A surge of anger

  rippled through him.

  The stockings were darned in several places. Both chemise and

  petticoat contained numerous patches and inserts of different material.

  Though spotlessly clean, and soft with many washings, they were made of

  coarse linen, old and well-worn. Not a scrap of lace or a frill

  enlivened either garment. And these were the delicate ladies

  unmentionables that Lord d'Arenville's bride had worn on her wedding

  day! Could Lae- tit ia not even have seen to that? He bunched the

  offending garments in his fist and hurled them at the far wall.

  He stormed towards the door, then paused. He glanced back at the

  underclothes in the corner. He'd rendered them unusable, cutting

  through the tapes like that. What would she think when she awoke?

  Cursing under his breath, he scooped them off the floor and stuffed

  them into his pocket.

  He left the room, slamming the door behind him, and stomped downstairs,

  his high boots echoing on the wooden steps. Rousing the innkeeper, he

  called for a bottle of the best brandy and retired to the private

  parlour to brood on his inexplicable marriage and the debacle of his

  wedding night.

  "Oh, I am utterly ravenous this morning," exclaimed Tallie, reaching

  for a slice of fresh crusty bread and buttering it lavishly. She took

  a mouthful of coffee and closed her eyes, savouring it, then bit into

  the bread with evident relish.

  Magnus watched her sourly. His head ached from the brandy. The fire

  in the small parlour had smoked, and the landlord's excuses about the

  unreliability of chimneys when the wind blew from the northwest had not

  impressed him a bit.

  "Can I not tempt you to a slice of this excellent bread and butter, my

  lord?" said Tallie. She glanced at the tankard by his elbow

  doubtfully.

  "I cannot think it healthful for you to break your fast with nothing

  but ale."

  Magnus snorted and raised the tankard to his lips.

  Tallie glanced guiltily at the empty platter on her left.

  "I am sure Mrs. Farrow would be delighted to cook more bacon and

  eggs--I did not mean to consume it all--it was just that I found myself

  so extremely hungry when I awoke."

  Magnus closed his eyes for a moment, unable to endure even the thought

  of greasy eggs and bacon.

  Tallie reached for the pot of honey. She dipped in a spoon and wound

  it deftly, then drizzled honey all over her bread and butter. The

  sight recalled to Magnus the look of her hair on the pillow, gleaming

  in the candlelight. He glowered silently.

  "Mrs. Farrow says there is cold pork, fowl, or some mutton pie still

  remaining from last night's dinner, if you sho
uld prefer that--I know

  many gentlemen prefer meat at breakfast," persisted Tallie.

  Magnus rolled his eyes and took another mouthful of dark, bitter ale.

  "I must say," she continued, 'dinner last night sounded quite

  delicious. Why did you not awaken me? I was extremely hungry, you

  know. It was most unkind of you to forget me! " she finished

  indignantly, licking honey off her fingers.

  Forget her? Magnus stared at her in stupefaction. He opened his mouth

  to respond, but she hadn't finished.

  "I would very much have preferred to be woken. So in the future, if

  you please, remember to do so, should I happen to take a little nap

  before dinner." Tallie smiled to soften the impact of her demand,

  resolving to be more tactful with him, especially in the morning. He

  seemed to be one of those people whose tempers did not appreciate

  conversation in the morning.

  It occurred to her that he might not have slept very well last night.

  "Did you not sleep well, my lord?" She smiled sympathetically at

  him.

  "Some people do not sleep soundly, I believe, if they are in a strange

  bed. I do not myself. I remember when I first came to my cousin's

  house it was days before I could accustom myself to the new bed. Was

  your bed not sufficiently comfortable, my lord?"

  Magnus could barely speak. Indignation and outrage choked him. He

  searched his mind for something sufficiently pithy and cutting to

  say.

  A drop of honey quivered on the corner of her mouth and the sight of it

  distracted him considerably.

  She continued.