by Speer, Flora
“I will take my hand away, if you promise not to scream again,” Arden said.
Margaret nodded and he removed his hand. But his cheek was pressed against hers so he could speak softly and when he moved his head, the stubble of his beard scratched her skin.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Please,” Margaret said, “I cannot breathe when you hold me so tightly. And this is most unseemly, for us to lie here like this.”
“Unseemly, perhaps,” he said, moving against her, “but remarkably invigorating. How surprising.”
“No! Don't do this,” Margaret cried in sudden panic, aware even as she spoke that what she feared most was not Arden, but her own wayward emotions.
“I have done many wicked deeds in my life,” Arden said, “and some of them unforgivable, but I have never yet forced an unwilling woman.”
Abruptly, his weight was removed from her and she could hear him rising from the bed. She sat up when she heard him fumbling around at some distance from her. Then a flame flickered and caught and she saw that he had pulled on his thigh-length linen undershirt and had found and lit the bedside candle. He held it high so he could see her better. Somewhat belatedly, Margaret drew the sheet up to her shoulders.
“Have we met before?” Arden asked, staring at her with a slight frown. “If so, I do not recall your name, though you seem to know me.”
“I am Margaret of Sutton,” she said, telling herself not to be hurt that he did not remember her. Why should he? She had been a skinny, pale-faced girl of thirteen and he a handsome squire over whom all the women swooned, ladies and servants alike, when they were not fluttering about him like eager butterflies. She could see by his deepening frown that her name meant nothing to him and so she said, “I, too, was fostered at Cliffmore Castle. Catherine and I have been friends since that time.”
“Which explains why you and she are here together,” Arden said. “Tell me, Lady Margaret, are there no women to attend you? Have you no maidservants, that you sleep all alone?”
“Your cousin, Aldis, came with us,” Margaret said.
“Aldis? Here?” Arden's voice held a sudden, sharp edge that Margaret did not understand. She heard him swallow hard before he spoke again in a slightly calmer tone. “Dear God! Three young women alone among several dozen men-at-arms?”
“I am serving as chaperone. I am a respectable widow,” Margaret told him. Realizing that, after the last half hour, her statement was open to debate and believing it was a good idea to change the subject, she added, “My lord, if you will turn your back, I will dress and leave. Then you may have the room to yourself. It is so late that you must be tired.”
“Tired,” he repeated, and stared at her so long and so hard that Margaret began to wonder what he was thinking.
She stared back at him. She could not help herself, for he was greatly changed from the Arden she had once known. He was taller than she remembered, and leaner than most knights, though there was nothing lacking in the breadth of his shoulders and upper arms, or in the muscles of his long legs. She knew first hand how strong he was. Yet he looked as if he did not eat enough, and the skin of his face was drawn tight over sharp bones. There were hard lines at either side of his mouth, as if he held his lips firmly closed in a grim expression most of the time. Margaret noted Arden's high cheekbones, his long, straight nose, and the stubborn set of his jaw. Those attributes had not changed over the years, though there were streaks of silver in his dark hair and in the several days' growth of unshaven beard.
She noticed other changes, too. A long, narrow scar sliced down the left side of his face. Another scar ran across his left thigh and she winced, seeing it below the hem of his shirt, for she knew such a wound could have killed him or crippled him forever. He was fortunate to be alive, and even more fortunate that he could still stand up straight and walk. She was sure he bore other scars unseen beneath his shirt, but the most frightening change in Arden was in his eyes. When she had known him at Cliffmore Castle, Arden's light blue eyes were always laughing, always teasing. The icy orbs that regarded her above the candle flame held no warmth or laughter. A cold, emotionally remote man looked out at her. Margaret, meeting his intense gaze, could not guess what he might be thinking or feeling.
“My lord. Arden,” she prodded, seeking to end the hard and steady way in which he was regarding her and make him pay attention to what she was saying, “please, turn your back or leave the room while I dress.”
Without a word he set the candle down on the bedside table and turned his back. Margaret scrambled out of bed on the far side from him and grabbed her woolen gown from atop the chest at the foot of the bed. She pulled it over her head in haste, then gathered up the rest of her few belongings and her shoes, bundling them into her arms.
“I apologize for the inconvenience I have caused you,” she said, rather breathlessly. She began to ease past him as she continued speaking, not turning her back to him as if she feared he would attack, though he made no move to stop her progress toward the door. “Is there anything you need? Would you like some wine or a pitcher of water for washing? Perhaps more charcoal for the brazier?”
“Nothing,” Arden said, “nothing save to be left alone to sleep.”
“As you wish.” She was almost at the door, had almost made her escape.
“Lady Margaret,” he said.
“Yes, my lord.” She looked into his ice-blue eyes.
“Two men who came with me are sleeping in the hall. Tell the servants not to be alarmed by their presence, and to provide whatever they may need for their comfort.”
“Yes, my lord.” Unable to tear her gaze from him, she stared into his eyes for a moment or two longer, wondering where the Arden she had once known had gone. Then, with a murmured, “Good night,” she slipped through the door and closed it behind her.
The wooden floor of the solar was cold under her bare feet. Still holding her belongings in her arms, Margaret went to the steps, to look down into the hall. Arden's men appeared to be sleeping soundly before the fire. Obviously, they would not require food or wine or water before morning.
She crossed the solar to the short corridor that led to the guest rooms. There she chose for herself the chamber opposite Catherine's room. She knew the bed linens she would need were in the chest that was pushed against the wall beneath the single, narrow window. Not bothering to light a candle, for she could recall where everything was after helping Catherine to clean the chamber, Margaret pulled sheets from the linen chest and quickly made up the bed, topping it with a quilt from the chest and adding the heavy coverlet she had found on the bed.
For the second time that night she undressed and got into bed. By now she was thoroughly chilled and the guestroom was not heated. She curled into a ball for warmth and, reaching down, she rubbed her icy feet to bring the blood back into them. She feared she was not going to fall asleep as easily this time as she had done earlier. The sensation of Arden's body weighing down her own, of his naked flesh against hers, tormented her. She could still feel his caresses, still smell him and hear his low voice in her ear, and she alternately burned with shame and shook with cold.
Clearly, she had not behaved the way a would-be nun ought to behave. In fact, her enjoyment of the carnal advances made upon her body was nothing short of reprehensible. How was she going to face Arden on the morrow, how look him in the eye without blushing until everyone at Bowen Manor knew, or guessed, that something highly improper had happened between them?
Had something happened, or was it only in her own fevered thoughts? Arden was so changed, so cold and distant, as if human emotion could never touch him again. Except at first, in the dark, when he did not yet know who she was, when he had whispered to her and held her close and caressed her with gentle hands....
* * * * *
Arden craved sleep and the release from guilt that only sleep could bring. But if he slept the chances were good that he would dream, and the oft-
repeated nightmare would waken him and keep him awake until dawn. He rolled over, closing his eyes and pulling the quilt up to his ears as if to shut out all evidence of the world outside his bed. He, who had no right to ask anything of heaven, prayed that on this night he would not dream at all.
While he waited for sleep to come he tried not to think about the woman he had found in his bed, tried to keep the vision of her out of his mind. He was unsuccessful to a frightening degree. Margaret of Sutton's huge silver eyes in her perfect, pale oval face swam before him as if she had returned to his room to torture him. His hands itched to feel again the thick, silky length of her smooth black hair sliding between his fingers. His body burned with the imprint of Margaret's slender shape against his. Her breasts were exquisite, high and small, with rosy tips. He had felt them first, and then had seen them when he turned to her holding the candle, before she had so hastily drawn the sheet over her beautiful nakedness.
Arden had banished passion from his life along with all other joys, yet Margaret stirred his senses as if he were a youthful squire again. He regretted that he could not remember her from his years at Cliffmore Castle, though if she was near to his sister in age she would have been too young for him to notice her then. Yet now he could not stop thinking of her.
The sheets were permeated with Margaret's scent. When he buried his face in them at the place where he had first discovered her sleeping, the fragrance of an early summer day once again filled his nostrils. It was more than a dozen years since he had enjoyed the sights and sounds and sweet smells of an English June, since he had stood in a flower-filled meadow while a sudden shower cooled him, and then had watched the clouds roll away and the sky turn blue again. It was twelve years since he had last seen a rainbow, but for just a few moments Arden felt as if he were in a field strewn with wildflowers, with bees and butterflies going about their work and birds singing for the sheer joy of living, while above him the glorious colors of a rainbow arced across a clearing English sky.
A tightly sealed door in his heart opened a tiny crack as he breathed in Margaret's perfume. His eyes burned with unshed tears and his throat ached. He fought to regain full control of himself. Even alone in bed, where no one else could see him, he dared not give way to any emotion. It took him a while, especially the fight against the unwanted and unexpected heat in his loins, but he won the battle and regained his tight self-control, as he always did.
When at last he slept, with his long legs tangled in the sweetly perfumed sheets, there were no terrifying dreams.
Chapter 8
Margaret arose and dressed well before daylight. She arrived in the kitchen shortly after the cook and her assistant began to build up the fire in preparation for baking the day's bread.
“You will want to make a few extra loaves,” Margaret told the cook. “Your master has come home with his squire and a man-at-arms. All three will need to be fed.” Amazed at how steady her voice was, she then went on to explain about Arden's unexpected presence at Bowen. She finished with the cook and was just returning to the great hall to see if Arden's men were awake yet, when Sir Wace appeared.
“Have you spoken with Lord Arden?” the seneschal asked her. “The sentry who was on duty last night has reported his arrival to me. I am eager to see him again after so many years.”
“As soon as I learned he was here I gave up the lord's chamber to him. He insisted that he wanted only to sleep,” Margaret said, hoping she would not blush as she continued to talk about Arden. She did not think Sir Wace was going to press her to describe the exact details of her initial meeting with his master. All the same, she forced herself to thrust the recollection of Arden's seductive touch out of her mind so she could converse sensibly with the seneschal. “Sir Wace, he seemed to me to be dreadfully weary, and he is quite thin. Perhaps he has been ill. I have not seen him since late last night and I think we ought not to disturb him.”
“There's a clever woman, who knows enough to let a tired man rest,” said Arden's man-at-arms who had been curled up asleep before the fire until the sound of voices wakened him. He got to his feet and introduced himself as Guy. By the time he was finished speaking, Michael the squire was also awake. At Sir Wace's invitation the two men joined him, Margaret, and Bowen's men-at-arms for a morning meal of bread, cheese and ale.
“After you have eaten,” said Sir Wace to the newcomers, “you are welcome to visit the bathhouse and the barber, and to leave your clothes at the laundry, if you like. We can provide clean garments for you to wear until your own are washed. Then we'll find you a more suitable place than the hall to sleep. Since Lord Arden has come home at last, you will want permanent quarters.”
“My lady,” Michael said to Margaret, “it's not really my place to tell you, but in case Arden should sleep all day – and well he might – then you ought to be forewarned.”
“Warned of what?” Sir Wace asked, before Margaret could swallow the bite of hard cheese she was chewing. “Speak up, squire, and don't worry whether you are overstepping your place or not. Is there some danger we should know about?”
“No danger at all, Sir Wace,” Michael hastened to assure him. “It's only that more guests will be coming, and I thought Lady Margaret would want to tell the cook, and to order rooms prepared for them. It's what my mother used to do, you see, whenever we had guests,” he ended with a shy smile for Margaret.
“Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Michael. How many guests?” Margaret asked, returning his smile.
“About twenty or thirty people altogether,” Michael answered her. “Tristan of Cliffmore and his lady and her maidservant, a dozen men-at-arms, a few squires. Then there will be the carts Sir Tristan was to hire in Portsmouth, and their drivers and animals. They've brought a lot of baggage back from the Holy Land and Aquitaine, though not all of it is to stay here at Bowen. Some will go on to Cliffmore with Sir Tristan when he leaves.” Michael lapsed into silence again, looking a bit uncomfortable after having said so much.
Margaret's smile slowly faded during Michael's listing of who was soon to appear at Bowen Manor, as she began to comprehend some of the problems that were likely to arise. Sir Wace, in the universal way of men who were concerned with defense first and who seldom troubled themselves with the minor details of housekeeping, saw no difficulty at all in housing or feeding so many people. Nor had Sir Wace any inkling of the emotional complications suggested by the information Michael so innocently offered, though in his bluff soldier's way the seneschal did try to be helpful.
“The men-at-arms and the squires we can easily accommodate in the barracks,” Sir Wace said to Margaret. “The servants and the carters can sleep in the stable, or in the kitchen if the stable proves to be too cold for them. There's no lack of space here at Bowen, as we are not overstaffed, and I know we have enough food laid away in the storerooms. But this Sir Tristan and his womenfolk will require guestrooms and, most likely, more delicate dishes than we ordinarily eat,” he concluded in a way that plainly turned those particular details over to the women to resolve.
“How fortunate that Catherine and I supervised a thorough housecleaning yesterday,” Margaret said, her thoughts still spinning at all the implications of Michael's news. “If you will excuse me, Sir Wace, I think I ought to consult with the cook. She will want to know how many people she will be expected to feed.” It was Catherine's place to plan the meals but Margaret had a feeling that once Catherine learned what was about to occur she would not be in any state to think of food.
“You needn't hurry,” Sir Wace said. “Our new guests won't come today, and probably not tomorrow, either. It's still snowing hard. No one can travel in this weather.”
“So you said last night,” Margaret reminded him, “but Lord Arden got through, along with his two men.”
“Aye,” said Sir Wace. “Three men got through the drifts. A party with women among them won't travel in such foul weather.”
“Especially not Sir Tristan,” Michael put in. “He's always
careful of his lady's welfare. He won't let her take a step without offering his arm for her to lean upon, till she teases him about his concern.”
“This lady,” Margaret said, feeling the need for precise clarification, “is she Sir Tristan's wife?”
“She is,” Michael answered, “and they'll require but a single guest room, if that's what concerns you, Lady Margaret. They never sleep apart.”
“I see.” Margaret spoke in a weak voice, her thoughts on Catherine. But Margaret was used to accepting news she did not want to hear, and to hiding her true feelings, so she recovered quickly. “Thank you for this information, Michael. It will help me decide which room they ought to be given. After I discuss the matter with Lady Catherine, of course,” Margaret added, seeing how strangely Sir Wace was looking at her and the thoughtful way in which he was chewing his bread and cheese, as if he was wondering by what right she would allot a guest room at Bowen Manor.
Margaret discovered that she had lost all desire for food. The one small piece of cheese she had swallowed lay like a chunk of stone in her stomach. Finally making good her exit from the hall, she went to the kitchen again, this time to tell the cook about the expected guests who might not arrive for several days yet, depending upon the weather, but who would require both food and drink as soon as they did reach Bowen Manor.
That duty discharged, and fearing Catherine would descend to the hall and learn the news of Tristan's marriage without being properly prepared for it, Margaret piled bread, half a cold chicken, a wedge of cheese, and a pitcher of wine onto a tray and took it to the solar. There, after adding logs to the fireplace, she settled down on a bench before the fire to wait.
It was not long before Catherine appeared. She did not look well. Her cheeks were badly flushed and she came into the solar coughing.