He grabbed her ankle, held her still. ‘I’m showing you colours, remember?’
‘You’re showing me?’ She swallowed.
‘Assuredly.’ A victorious grin as he circled her core with one finger, then flicked her nipple with the thumb of his other hand. ‘These are the same... I love it when they flush darker.’
He sank one finger into her folds. She moaned.
‘I love it that this makes you moan and whimper.’
He bent and kissed one nipple, then the other. Palmed her breast as he pulled back again.
‘But this is a bit more, isn’t it? It gets darker, redder, wetter...’ He swirled that finger and she couldn’t take any more.
Grappling for his shoulders, she pulled him down. Planted her feet on the ground and pushed against the little relief he gave her.
‘Evrart, stop this showing. Please...’ she begged.
When he didn’t stop, when he teased her that bit more and pressed his thumb against her clit, making a hard circle, she spasmed.
‘What colour are you, Margery?’ he asked in a low voice. One that was half a growl, half a plea.
Panting she answered, ‘Everything.’
He released his finger and she opened her eyes. The curse on her lips quickly died when he grabbed her thighs and pressed them to her chest. When he made enough room for himself...for them.
No more soft touches or whispered words. He pressed himself forward, impaling her steadily, deeper, until he could move no further and she could take no more.
But she wanted more. Even as Evrart stilled to allow her body to adjust, to accept. Didn’t he know she had already accepted him?
Tugging harder on his arms, she pulled him closer yet, and he buried his face in the side of her neck. She felt the hot air of his breath, the low rumble of his growl. Heard his tortured groan as he pulled his hips slowly back.
But she followed him with whatever part of herself he allowed her to use—her mouth, her teeth, her hands, her arms. Her heart. She didn’t want to let him go.
His darkened eyes went wide at her sudden franticness and a shudder racked his large frame.
A shiver echoed in her own, and with a curse, Evrart clenched his eyes.
Then she didn’t have to think about restraint, or showing, or anything except him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Margery was both grateful and yet not that they rode on separate horses as they entered the village. She missed the strength in Evrart’s touch and in his presence against her back as she faced these curious people. She knew that if she’d been surrounded by him she could have pretended speculative gazes weren’t looking her way.
And they were looking at her.
Smiling at one of the waving children, she turned to the next and tried to look kind. At least, however, by riding beside him, she might be seen as an equal to this man. Perhaps be respected.
As more greetings were shouted Evrart, in his usual way, was quiet, but there was a light to his eyes that was more joy than sorrow, more calm than wary. It was a look she’d rarely seen, if ever, at Warstone Fortress. His obvious pleasure helped ease her own emotions, which she barely contained. Happiness at being free from the Warstone Fortress was warring with her trepidation at entering the village.
She couldn’t help but compare the village where she’d spent her own wreck of a childhood to this. It was larger than her old home, and seemed interconnected with others. One village after another, surrounded by miles of furrowed land. And the abbey in the near distance was beautiful.
Visually, it couldn’t be any more different from the mud-laden narrow lanes she remembered. But one thing was the same as in any other place: those curious eyes.
Secluded as she had been for three days with Evrart, she’d forgotten what it was to be stared at. To hear whispers and know the subject was her.
She gave a smile to one person and a small nod to another. This time a mother holding baby. What she didn’t do—what she forced herself never to do—was look at the men. Maybe later, when these people knew her better. Maybe...
She hoped with Evrart her life would be different.
The streets became busier and Evrart dismounted, leading the two horses behind him, with her coming up far behind as the crowd thickened.
There were hand gestures and slaps on his back. Many were talking animatedly with Evrart, who increasingly lost more of the tension around his shoulders. Words were leaving his mouth. There were some sounds of joy, and exclamations from little ones who pointed at his height. There were no other men as tall as her Evrart.
Her Evrart.
So many changes since Ian’s death, and even more in the three days they’d travelled, when they’d shared much of their lives and even more kisses. Now she was seeing a whole other side to him. One she liked, but wasn’t certain of her place with.
Again, she was happy he was back home—but she didn’t know these people. They didn’t know her. And the advantage of riding a horse whilst Evrart led wasn’t favourable. By perception, with her clothes and the horse, with her looks, it would appear she was some fine lady being led by her servant.
Evrart wasn’t her servant. He was her...lover. But that was hardly an improvement when it came to the hierarchy here. It neither boded well for Evrart nor herself. Why hadn’t they talked of this?
She knew why she hadn’t addressed it. Because part of her still believed she wasn’t worthy of him, and...and she loved him. But if he didn’t return that love, it wouldn’t be right to trap him.
They hadn’t married because he hadn’t asked her, and she hadn’t hinted. Now she wished she had—if for nothing else so she knew where she stood, knew who she was to him. Because Evrart was introducing her. There was a grin on his face, and though his gestures were careful, they were not stilted as they had been at the fortress.
She continued smiling, but all the gazes skittered away before throats were cleared and the people returned to talking with Evrart, actively avoiding looking at her. Were they displeased? How would she have felt if her brothers Isnard or Servet had brought home a woman in fine clothing who obviously hadn’t worked a day in her life, or at least not recently?
She cursed the gown she had on. What would his family think of her? His family... She didn’t know what his home was like, but she knew they must be close as Evrart stepped them along and two women came barrelling around the corner.
One was older, the other noticeably younger than Evrart. Both were large of bone, their hair matching Evart’s. When he stepped away and opened his arms, the youngest flew into them.
Something tugged at Margery then. Both nostalgia and missing her own family, but also trepidation at what it all meant.
She didn’t have time to think on it as Evrart pulled them through the crowd and he helped her dismount, right in the centre of everyone. Three boys took the horses away, so she didn’t even have them for cover as more eyes looked at her and Evrart. And then, in a voice she hardly heard above the others, he announced she was his Margery, from Warstone Fortress.
She couldn’t feel any relief at his proprietorial hand at her back. Or at the way he looked at her as if she mattered. His sister, Peronelle, looked at her with narrowed curiosity. His mother, Blanche, simply said, ‘She’s small.’
Evrart couldn’t recall when he’d felt such lightness. Most likely not since the last time he’d returned home, which had been years before. Ian had loathed letting him see his family. When he had let him go, it had been with a fellow mercenary who would report independently to Lord Warstone on what he’d done.
He had, however, been grateful to be allowed to return to his village when the rest of the guards and mercenaries had not. But although Evrart had been afforded certain liberties they had been burdens as well. Mostly because he’d yearned for the life he had been torn from, and every time he’d gone from home to the fortress, he had
been reminded of the bargain he’d made. His family lived, and so he served.
But now he was free, and at his side was a woman whom he adored, whom he intended to spend the rest of his life with. He had shown her that honour by dismounting and pulling her through the village rather than simply going around to the far side, where his family lived. He’d wanted to introduce her to everyone and he had, pleased that he had refrained from marking her neck or other places they could see.
He was also pleased that the places he had kissed roughly, she’d asked him to kiss some more. She liked him—brute that he was. And though he’d vowed to be careful, she didn’t want that. She wanted him.
Bringing her home—this moment—was more than he’d dreamed.
He’d smiled so much his jaw was sore, but that hadn’t precluded him from smiling all the more when he’d seen his sister run around the corner of the last hut on the path, quickly followed by his mother.
And now they saw the woman he intended to call wife, and his quiet, taciturn mother, who kept her head down and ignored everyone, had actually spoken.
His life could not be happier.
‘She’s hungry, too—as am I,’ he said.
‘You’re always hungry,’ Peronelle said. ‘I bet she eats nothing.’
He turned to Margery, expecting a full debate on food and her choices. Some competition such as who could eat the most bread rolls or berries. Her happy liveliness, her ability to pull him along with no fear, would be a good match for his sister’s cynicism. He swore that Peronelle had been born with a suspicion of life.
But Margery’s eyes were dim. Ah... It had been a long journey, and since that moment under the mulberries he hadn’t stopped touching her. Stealing as many moments as he could while it was just the two of them.
‘Food and perhaps some rest, first,’ he said.
‘If you’d sent a message ahead of time, we could have prepared,’ Peronelle said.
‘When have I ever sent a message ahead?’
His sister looked behind him. ‘Where are the other guards?’
‘No others. There is only Margery and I.’
‘Is there something I can do to help?’ Margery asked.
‘I’m getting to it!’ Huffing, Peronelle turned to him. ‘Is she always so impatient?’
Frowning fiercely, his mother grabbed Peronelle’s arm.
He turned to Margery. ‘I must apologise for my sister. She likes it when I travel with the guards, for they know to bring her gifts.’ He leaned over to whisper in her ear. ‘I’ll explain later.’
Margery rubbed her hands along her skirts. She wasn’t certain she wanted Evrart to explain anything later. She wished the horses hadn’t been taken away. Not that she could safely ride one, but she was terrified enough to give it a try. Her doubts on their relationship and about her own worth were quickly turning to dismay. Had she made a mistake coming here? It was as if his mother had looked at her and known she wasn’t good enough for her son.
‘Where are our things?’ she asked.
Evrart shrugged. ‘They’ll bring them by soon enough.’
Who would bring them by? She’d thought he had grown up as she had. In poverty and desperation. But this village wasn’t poor...these people had sturdy clothing and happy expressions.
‘Do you have servants?’
He chuckled.
But what villager helped other villagers? When her mother had crumpled and fallen into herself, when their father had left, no one had helped her siblings with their land, their home or their taxes. When it had got truly bad, a neighbour had bargained with her sister. They’d be allowed to use his oxen if he was granted favours.
Her brothers...what they had suffered! And Mabile. She had married early, but that had provided little care, for she’d had babies so soon...when she was barely old enough. And Margery had worn torn clothing and shoes that had been handed down until they were more holes than any leather or cloth.
‘Come, let me show you my home. It is not much, but there are some separate rooms. My brothers and I demanded it when Peronelle was born.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘You’re cold.’
She was freezing.
‘Margery...?’
She squeezed his hand. ‘I’m well.’
‘Maybe some rest.’
He tugged, and she followed.
Many of the villagers had returned to their homes; only a few lingered in the lanes. It was easy to guess Evrart’s home. The thick roof was by far the tallest. Still, Evrart bent his head in the doorway and stepped a few feet in.
The square room contained a kitchen and a thick oak table with benches. At each end of the room were other openings. Blanche and Peronelle were nowhere in sight.
‘You have doors,’ she said.
His gaze was quizzical. ‘They have rooms behind them, too.’
This wasn’t the same; this wasn’t the same at all.
She had grown up in one square room where they’d all slept together. If Biedeluue or Mabile had ruined dinner, their eyes had burned all night with the smoke.
Panic sweeping her, she felt the small of her back prickle with sweat. Evrart’s past life hadn’t been like hers, with cold winters and no blankets. He’d had family, and doors, and villagers.
Holding her hand, Evrart dragged her to the room on the right. ‘This one is occupied.’
The room was large, with three massive beds and nothing else but foot boards where she imagined clothes were hung. It was plain, but far nicer than anything she’d had growing up. The wooden slats were tight, the daub and wattle thick. The room felt secure, with nary a draft.
Across two of the beds were clothes, and various lavender and rosemary branches. There also appeared to be some unwashed dishes. The third bed was unmade, with the quilt partially on the floor. It was a disaster.
But the freedom of such abundance only made her hands clammy. She had known she was different from him, but she’d counted on their past being some commonality. This wasn’t the same. Now what did she share with him? She couldn’t think!
‘Let’s see the other.’
Releasing her hand, he walked around her. Stepped through the living area to the other door. He glanced in and stepped back. ‘That is still my mother’s. You didn’t see a large tub in the other room, did you?’
She saw everything else, but not that.
‘I didn’t see it leaning outside either. No matter—we’ll have Peronelle move.’
As if conjured up, the front door banged open and his sister and mother entered. Margery jumped.
‘The meat and potatoes are still roasting and not nearly done.’ Peronelle turned her full glare on Margery. ‘You’ll have to wait.’
Of course she would wait. Did Evrart’s sister think she would stamp her foot and demand food? Did they think her vain and spoiled!
‘That is good,’ she said, trying to keep her voice as friendly as she could. ‘There will be time for us to talk.’
‘As if I have time for that,’ Peronelle said. ‘Azamet killed some chickens—they’ll need plucking and draining—and Mama needs to wash the clothes.’
Margery drew herself up. She could do this. It couldn’t be as bad as she feared. It was simply returning to a village that had caused this frenzied tension inside her. ‘If you show me where to go, I’m sure I could help. When I was a child I—’
Peronelle made a scoffing sound. ‘In those clothes?’
Margery felt her loud dismissiveness as if it was a blade. His mother frowned in their direction. She was certain it was aimed at her.
‘Tomorrow is a much better day for all that,’ Evrart said.
Blanche turned to her. ‘You rest.’
Margery didn’t want to rest. If she rested she’d feel useless again.
Peronelle went to her room. ‘Why is the door to my room op
en?’
Evrart crossed his arms. ‘That’s my room. And where’s my tub?’
Peronelle shrugged. ‘It was too big, and you were gone.’
‘How am I to bathe if it’s gone?’
‘Like everyone else. Outside.’
Evrart looked at his mother.
‘Peronelle...’ Blanche said.
Peronelle flinched, but quickly rallied. ‘Why does he think he’s better than anyone else and gets to bathe in private? And why is she ousting me from my room?’
Margery looked to Evrart. The tub they could find or build, but didn’t he understand that if he said nothing she’d have no position in this house? Her vision narrowed and she felt ill. This was like her own village, except there would be no chance of accepting Josse. No making a decision to help her family and help herself. She’d chosen Evrart, who seemed blind as to what was happening around him.
‘I don’t need your room,’ she said. ‘I’ll help with the chickens, and we’ll resolve where I sleep later.’
‘We won’t,’ Evrart said. ‘There’s nothing to be resolved. We’ll move Peronelle’s things now, and then when our supplies arrive from the stalls we’ll have a place to put them.’
Blanche gazed at her son as if she’d never seen him before. What was going on here?
‘You can’t move my things!’ Peronelle said.
Evrart growled. ‘We’re resting now.’
‘No!’ Margery said, much louder and more desperately than she’d intended. But she was desperate. If she stood there much longer, she’d faint or be sick. ‘I can sit in the chair, here by the fire. Or maybe I can check on the firepits outside and stir some pots.’
Peronelle eyed Margery’s hands, and linked her arm with her mother’s. ‘We’ll take care of the food, since you’re obviously too hungry to wait.’
Evrart uncrossed his arms and exhaled slowly as they left and turned out of sight. ‘She’s grown since I last saw her.’
Was that the reason he was giving for her being rude? That she was growing? Her family had always struggled, but with three girls they’d had to work together more often than argue.
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