“Fenella," he said heavily. "If Thane approaches you again, I want you to tell me straight away. Knock on my door. Demand admittance. Barge into my office. I don’t care who I’m meeting with; the King, the privy council, it doesn’t matter. Am I understood?”
Fen’s jaw dropped. “Interrupt you?” she squeaked. “In an important meeting?”
“Precisely.”
“Just to tell you Sir Ambrose Thane had approached me?”
“Yes.”
“Something of so little import?” she stressed.
“He has no legitimate reason to accost my wife,” he said crossing the room to her, completely naked now, to help her out of her gown. When she stood in her shift, he tilted her chin up toward him. “If you were to choose not tell me, I would still hear of it Fenella,” he warned. “And if that happens, I will have him thrown in the stocks.”
Fen’s face flooded with color. The stocks? “People will think I bear a grudge, and am mean-spirited,” she stammered.
“I think it will soon become public knowledge that your husband is unspeakably jealous,” he answered, casting her dress onto the chair and placing his hands on either side of her waist. “If it is not already.”
“You are not,” she protested hotly.
“Never before,” he admitted, walking her backward toward the bed. “But I seem to have had a change of heart.”
His mentioning his heart had a peculiar effect on Fenella. She felt her own throb almost painfully in her chest and before she could even think to stop herself, she laid a hand on Oswald’s bare chest. His sharply indrawn breath made her start to pull away, but the next thing she knew, she was swept up and onto the bed and being kissed with an abandon that quite took her breath away. And not just her mouth, but her neck, the sensitive area between her breasts and then, her soft belly. Her thin shift was pushed or pulled out of the way as if it wasn’t even there. It was bunched up at her waist now, as he breathed heavily against her tummy button.
“Fenella,” he said huskily. “Don’t be shocked.”
“Shocked?” she asked, raising her head from the pillow. A small smile started to curve her lips. Oswald Vawdrey was a passionate and sensual man, but she fancied that she was starting to find his measure. And then his mouth was there, between her legs. Hot and probing and she was shocked. Very. So shocked, she cried out, but soon the shock turned to something else, and the cries turned into something else and before long they lay satiated, a panting tangle of limbs whereby she knew not where he started, and she ended.
“Are you crying, love?” he asked ducking his head, to try and meet her gaze, but she hid her face in his neck. And if she had not been crying then, the use of the word love meant she soon was. What was wrong with her?
“No,” she lied softly, and concentrated on the feel of his fingers as they circled her lower back.
“I did shock you,” he said ruefully.
“A little,” she admitted cagily. She wanted to ask him if that was something that husbands usually did to wives, but caution held her back and she did not want the specter of her previous marriage to rise up between them again. There was a pause and then Oswald spoke.
“My Father did not pay the ransom,” he said softly. “I lied to you.”
Startled, Fenella turned her head. “What?”
“After Adarva.”
His words were so quiet, she could barely hear him. Yet, somehow, she knew he was telling her something precious. Sharing something with her that he had not told, to another living soul before. Her mind raced. She held her breath. “He didn’t?” she asked softly. “Then, how did you get free from your captors?”
“By my own resources,” he said simply.
Fen digested this. She wanted to ask why the baron did not pay his ransom, but she did not want to hurt his feelings or reopen old wounds. “That was clever of you. But what did your father say when you showed back up?”
He shrugged. “Not much. He seemed to be under the impression I was likely dead. Someone must have seen me cut down and reported it to him. Mayhap he thought the demand for a ransom was a ruse.”
Fen lay quiet, wondering how he must have felt. “You never showed him your scar, did you?” She already knew the answer.
“No.”
She wondered if Oswald Vawdrey had always been so secretive, or if he had grown that way after finding so little in common with his loud, booming father and moody, quarrelsome brothers.
He exhaled loudly. “I wish to the gods I had come back to you Fen. Things would have been different if I had.”
She held her breath. What was he saying? Her fifteen-year old self was giddy at his words. He wished he’d returned to her? His scorned little fiancée? “Different? How?” she asked, almost holding her breath.
“I would have been different,” he insisted.
Oswald Vawdrey had been twenty-one years old at the battle of Adarva. He had been her fiancée. But she had been a mere child of fifteen. “No,” she said ruefully. “I could not have handled you at fifteen.” She ached to touch his scarred shoulder. How he must have suffered. She wished she could have nursed him back to health. Would they have grown close? Become soul-mates? “Can I touch your scar?” she asked softly.
He lay so silent, she expected him to say no, but instead he disentangled himself from her and rolled obligingly onto his side.
Tentatively, she reached out to touch her fingers to his scarred shoulder blade. “I might have lost you,” she said as she traced the mass of scar tissue.
“No,” he replied simply. “If I had died, I would have died your betrothed.”
“It’s far better this way,” she said in a choked voice.
“Yes,” His words trailed off. “I wish…”
“What?”
“I wish my father could have seen me settled with you. Apparently, it was the last thing he spoke of. At the end. My marrying and settling down. He would have been pleased.” He hesitated. “He would have approved. And he never approved of me.”
She could hear the conflict in his voice, without seeing his facial expression. She wanted to make things better. She wracked her brain, before a forgotten memory surfaced. “Baron Vawdrey sent me a gold coin every year,” she blurted, hardly believing she’d said it out loud.
“What?”
“Every year since our betrothal was ended. On the date of our engagement. It used to make me angry, because it made no sense. Especially after …” she stopped, reluctant to mention her marriage to Ambrose.
“My Father?” he asked, turning back over to face her.
“There was no note or explanation or anything. Just a scribbled line on the paper. ‘In lieu of what was promised’. I never spent them. I tried to send them back to him once, but he would have none of it and they were returned the same day….”
“How?” asked Oswald. “How did they arrive?”
“Every year without fail. With his seal. The same line was written, in the same sprawling hand. I asked my father once, and he said there was nothing to be done with so stubborn a man. He recommended I put them in a chest and thought no more of it. He told me to mention it to no-one.”
Oswald slowly stroked her back. “Is that what you did?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“In lieu of what was promised,” he repeated softly.
“Yes.”
He sighed, and Fen shifted her body in closer to his.
“Of course, he might have just felt bad that I was thrown over, and was sending me compensation?” she suggested.
“That doesn’t really sound like my father.” His tone was dry.
“The chest is in my old room at my brother’s place. It didn’t seem right having it at Thurrold. Maybe I could give them to Linnet’s daughters,” suggested Fen struck with inspiration. “Toward their dowries? What are their names, again?”
“Lily and Margaret.” Oswald was running the back of his hand down her side now.
“What did Roland mean,” she
asked in an abrupt change of subject. “When he said he tried to steal Mason's wife?”
Oswald’s hand stilled and rested at the swell of her hip. “He was just being aggravating.” He explained. “Roland was engaged to Linnet, our sister-in-law, but it was arranged by our Father. Roland refused to go through with it as rumor had it she was a misshapen invalid. Father sent Mason and myself to jilt Linnet on Roland's behalf, but she propositioned Mason to take Roland's place. He took her up on the offer. Then later, when it turned out her relatives had told many lies and suppressed the fact she was holding a dukedom in abeyance, Roland changed his mind and tried to get their marriage annulled.”
Fen plucked at the bedsheets. Annulling marriages seemed to be rather a Vawdrey pastime. “And... was she? I mean...”
“No,” answered Oswald mildly. “Linnet has red-hair and many freckles. But nothing else ailed her.”
“And your brother Mason and she are happily married now?” she asked.
“Very.”
“Was your brother not angry with Roland?”
“Very,” repeated Oswald.
“But they are amicable in their relations now?”
He rolled onto his side to face her fully. “As amicable as most brothers,” he answered. “Which is to say, not very. But they are reconciled.”
Fen tucked her hand under her cheek and studied his face. “Did you never joust in tournaments?” she asked. She was sure that Oswald was far better looking than any other man at court.
His smile turned a little bleak. “At Roland's age I was enrolled in the King's army,” he reminded her. “There was no playing at battle back then.”
She nodded. “I see.”
“Fenella,” he said, rising up on one elbow, his tone suddenly serious. “I think you should devote some effort to becoming one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Now we know you are remaining at court for the foreseeable future, it would cement your standing and give you some guidance in how you are to spend your days at court.”
Fen’s eyes widened with alarm. “Hester Schaeffer does not think that an enviable station at all!” The idea of applying herself to becoming a sophisticated courtier was a daunting one indeed. She had only managed to get through functions before in the knowledge she would soon be back in the country.
“But you are not Lady Schaeffer,” he pointed out.
“And Lady Doverdale is one,” she said darkly.
“And so is your other friend, Eden Montmayne.”
“Yes,” she agreed reluctantly. “But Eden is so very accomplished and good at everything. And the Queen was most underwhelmed with me, when I met her.”
“I could speak to the King.”
“Oh no,” objected Fenella, lifting her head off the pillow. “I do not wish to be inflicted on Queen Armenal! She would not like that at all!”
“Very well, then I shall wait for you to ingratiate yourself with her,” he said calmly.
Fen stared at him, to see if he was joking, but to her dismay he seemed entirely in earnest. How he expected her to ingratiate herself with the Queen was beyond her!
“And now we’ve settled that,” said Oswald, shifting over her and seemingly unaware of her inner turmoil. “Let’s seal the bargain.”
And then, like he had every night since their marriage had been consummated, Oswald Vawdrey made passionate love to her.
"Tell me you want me Fenella," he said tightly.
"I want you," she repeated obediently.
He cocked his head to one side. "Not enough," he said. "Not yet." His thumb started a slow circle against the part of her that quickened the most. "I want you Fenella. I want all of you. Do you understand?"
Her brow puckered. She had no clue. His fingers were distracting. What was he demanding of her?
He gave her a slightly pained smile. "You don't and that's my fault," he said in a low shaking voice. "But I'm going to make it right. Will you let me Fenella? I need you to let me."
She swallowed, wanting to please him. Wanting to say the right thing. Her hips were moving fitfully against his. He withdrew his fingers from between her legs and rubbed his hard length against her. Why was he teasing her? Why didn't he just-?
“Tell me there's still time,” he said urgently, his voice breaking slightly. “Tell me I'm not too late.”
“There's still time,” she said. Time for what? His expression was heart-breaking and she wanted to comfort him, to reassure him. “You're not too late.”
He entered her then on a swift thrust, groaning deeply. “Sweet Fenella,” he said, “You deserve better, but I’ve made you mine anyway.”
Sweet Fenella? He'd never spoken to her like this before! With honeyed words. She was just his wife. Unwanted. Abandoned. But he'd just told her he wanted her. All of her! Her head spinning, she moved against him, welcoming his thrusts with soft moans and shifting her hands across the width of his back, caressing him. Of course, she'd never showered affection on him either she thought watching his eyes drift shut. He seemed to like her touch, she marveled. Even when she rubbed it across the forbidden path of his scar. Raising her head she kissed his neck. She'd never taken the initiative to kiss him either she thought, flushing. She let her head fall back onto the pillow and looked up at his scorching gaze, catching her breath.
“Fenella,” he groaned. “Gods, I want you wife. Be mine.”
“I am,” she replied, in confusion.
“Tell me,” his voice was raw, his thrusts becoming stronger and less controlled. “Tell me.”
“I'm yours,” she gasped. “All yours.”
His gaze darkened. “Yes,” he grunted, his hips pounding against hers. “Again.”
“I'm yours,” she sobbed.
“All mine?” he prompted through gritted teeth.
“All yours. Oh Oswald. Oh please,” she shifted desperately against him.
He lowered his mouth to her ear and said in a low, shaking voice, “You're precious to me Fenella.”
Her world tipped on its axis and her control splintered as she sobbed out in rapture, hiding her face in his neck and sinking her fingers into the skin of his back. For a few heartbeats she felt him still stroking deep within her as she clenched and fluttered against him in the grip of passion. Then he gave a low roar and she felt him throb and then release his seed deep within her. She wrapped her arms and legs around him to hold him close as he gasped and groaned against her, his body shaking as he continued to flex his hips long after he'd stopped spurting, as if he didn't want his body to leave hers. Her brain rushed madly after a surfeit of pleasure. She was precious? She was just dropping off to sleep when Oswald breathed her name again.
“Yes?” she murmured sleepily.
“They weren’t compensation, the gold coins,” he said in a curiously calm voice.
She lifted her head from his shoulder. “They weren’t?”
“No.”
“What were they then?”
“Promise coins.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “He was keeping our contract open.”
**
As it happened, they did not make it to the tournament to watch Roland joust as Oswald was called into an emergency privy meeting. He sent a hastily scribbled note to his wife, via his assistant, apologizing and promising they would attend the next one. Of course, he could have told her to attend without him, his conscience pointed out, irritating him. Roland’s friends would no doubt have been pleased to escort her and she made a number of good female friends at court already. But tournaments tended to be a rowdy affair with a public gallery and the thought of her attending without his escort was somehow unacceptable to him. He glowered at the thought of her bumping into the likes of Thane and his new bitch of a wife. He’d be damned if he’d see her at their mercy. Of course, he reminded himself, Fenella had said that the sight of Thane no longer distressed her. The thought of that bastard having the nerve to upbraid her on her ‘unnatural’ behavior galled him, but his wife seemed averse to him bringing Thane
to account and these days, he simply did not wish to displease her. After all, he had gone back on every single promise he’d ever made her. As a husband he wasn’t entirely sure he was doing a much better job than that worm, Thane had. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. Nearby someone cleared their throat and he looked up in surprise to find the chamber had pretty much filled with council members, while he had been reflecting on the state of his marriage. He signaled to Bryce who signaled to the footmen to carry in the large covered canvas. A murmuring broke out among the ranks as he stood up from his seat. “My lords,” he said. “The King has called this extraordinary meeting today, for us to discuss the matter of the Blechmarsh princess.” He nodded to Bryce who whipped off the black covering to reveal the large oil painting depicting the Princess Una sat astride a large black destrier and holding a sword.
“Gads!” remarked Lord Sutton with disgust. “She’s an ill-favored wench!”
“Which is the horse and which is the princess?” asked Lord Caterby snidely. “Their nostrils are nigh-on the same size!” A burst of laughter greeted Caterby’s pronouncement. Uncomfortably, Oswald chose this moment to remember Fenella’s words about men’s shortcomings being so much more easily overlooked than women’s. Caterby was an ugly bastard himself, but it had never held him back. He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, let us focus on the issue at hand,” he urged.
“Which is?” asked Lord Schaeffer looking up from shuffling his papers.
Oswald smiled faintly. “Marriage,” he said, and heard gasps all around him. “His majesty has been struck with inspiration on how we may negate the threat of the last of the Blechmarsh line.”
A ripple of disbelief ran through the occupants of the room. A few of them scoffed at the idea the King had come up with any such plan.
His Forsaken Bride (Vawdrey Brothers Book 2) Page 29