Lucy opened and closed her mouth. "A nice idea."
Too late, Emile wondered if he should have explained all that to her. Even as he watched, her expression went from bafflement to understanding. A very strange expression then spread over her face, something almost like...joy?
Joy?
"You have not felt threatened, but—you are still here," she breathed.
Emile's mouth opened. How could he explain? He was only here temporarily, only until her father could come fetch her. "Eh," he said.
Suddenly closing her eyes, she held out one hand, a stopping motion. "Nay, nay. I understand." Her eyes opened.
"Eh," Emile said again. "You do?"
"You are taking care of me." She nodded, as if confirming her own supposition. "Just like you did in the forest with the bandits. You are not so very irresponsible, after all, are you, Emile?" She gave him a watery smile. "You wish to assure the tavern's success before you make your own way in the world."
She was so far off the mark it nearly stole Emile's breath away. He wasn't taking care of her. He was incapable of such an exercise. All he did was wait for her father's arrival. That was all.
She bestowed upon him a smile deserving of a saint. She opened her mouth. "Emile, you are a good—"
"Oh, nay." He couldn't bear to hear another word of such rot. With one swift move, he grabbed her arm, pulled her off balance and into his lap. He caught a glimpse of her face, her lips parted in feminine surprise, before he covered those lips with his own.
Oh, it was a passing fine pair of lips she had. They tasted sweet and tart and headier than any of the brew he'd imbibed that night. He felt her initial jolt, followed by a melting rush.
Clasping her tight, he groaned.
"Emile," she managed to breathe out when he gave her a chance. She drew back slightly to gaze up at him in surprise.
"Aye, that's who's kissing you." He bent his head again.
Faintly, as a voice speaking far off, Emile remembered he wasn't supposed to be doing this. He was, indeed, going to leave her. Far better to leave her as a woman untouched, one who did not belong to him...
But the voice was very far away, not nearly as compelling as the woman in his arms. She was soft and warm and full of lush curves. Her scent was the sharpest temptation.
"Emile," she murmured.
The sound of her voice speaking his name broke the last thread of his reason. Taking her with him, he fell backward onto his cot. Her firm, ripe weight landed across his chest, her night rail tangled with his knees.
"Faith, you are delicious." Emile held her head to his while his mouth devoured hers.
"In sooth?" She wriggled a little on top of him. "Do you think so? Is this why you're still—?"
"So many questions," he complained, "when all that's necessary is..." He moved his hands from her head to her backside. He was rewarded with a firm plumpness beneath his fingers. His eyes briefly closed. "Oh, Lord. Hold on," With a muscular twist, he rolled them both over on the cot. She ended up on her back beneath him.
She gazed up at him, her eyes wide, her breasts rising up and down with her breathing. "Oh, Emile. This feels— It feels—"
"Aye, it verily does." He covered her lips with his once again. As she moaned beneath him, he wondered how to get at her breasts. They were completely covered by the heavy wool of her high-necked night rail. With his brain too fuzzy to figure it out, he simply cupped one of her breasts through the thick material.
Her nipple was so stiff he could feel it even through the wool. He was well engorged himself, though he doubted she could tell through the double layer of his trunk hose and brocade doublet.
"Emile. That feels—" She uttered a low, needy moan.
He felt the same. Needy. Still palming her breast with one hand, he used the other to push up the material of her night rail to her thighs.
His hand met the soft skin of her upper leg. His fingers spread and clutched.
She arched upward, clearly wanting.
He knew what she wanted—exactly the same thing he wanted. But that far-off voice, the one he'd thought departed, came riding close again. The voice started clamoring, a whole chorus of no and begone and do not. Trying to ignore the chorus, he smoothed his hand up her leg, pushing the night rail further out of the way.
Until he heard another voice, one that was not inside his head.
"I do beg pardon," said Gawain.
"Ballocks," Emile muttered. Shoving down the gown he'd pushed up, he twisted on the bed to glare toward the outer chamber door, the one he'd earlier decided not to close.
The steward stood there, stiff and white-faced.
"Yes?" A return of memory and all the reasons he should not have been doing what he'd just been doing made Emile's voice sound particularly stern.
Gawain briefly dipped his chin. "My apologies. I heard voices—moans, actually." His white face turned red. With a shallow bow," he backed away. "But everything here appears to be...in order. Good night." There was a dangerous light in his eye as he turned.
The steward closed the door after himself.
Too late for that precaution. Emile stared at the pine boards of the thing.
Tomorrow, perhaps, he would end up thanking the steward for his untimely interruption. In fact, even now his head was clearing enough that he had to wonder what he'd been doing. What sin had he been ready to commit? He'd nearly bedded his wife—the wife he was determined to leave as soon as he could be assured she was settled and safe.
He was most certainly a whoreson bastard.
"A near thing," he muttered under his breath. A shameful part of himself still felt tempted—the same part that remained painfully engorged. Meanwhile, he lifted himself from Lucy. Clumsily, he climbed off the bed. He sensed rather than saw her straighten her wool night rail.
"Uh..." He forced himself to glance at her. "Are you all right?"
"What?" She pushed behind her ear a lock of hair which had escaped her braid. "Oh, yes. I—I am fine." Awkwardly shifting weight, she scooted to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Shyly, she looked up at him.
"Eh..." He scratched a thumb against his beard, his body still buzzing with unfulfilled desire. But unfulfilled was the way it would have to stay. For he was leaving her. Soon. Once Latham arrived. Yes, yes, Gawain said Latham wasn't coming, and Lucy's father had already had plenty of time to do so if he had intended such a move, but—the man simply had to come. He was the wench's father. She was his responsibility.
She was not Emile's responsibility. Oh, no!
With his face warming, Emile strode deliberately toward the door of the inner chamber, Lucy's room. "'Tis passing late," he observed. He grabbed the latch and threw the door wide. Looking back at her, he declared, "Best we should, ah...say good night."
Seated on the edge of his bed, she looked temptingly tousled, irresistibly unfulfilled. And very confused. She had to be wondering why he was sending her back to her chamber when they had not concluded the business they'd begun in his.
His jaw clenched. They could not conclude. She wasn't his. Not if he didn't intend to keep her—and he could not keep her. "Good night, Lucy."
The confusion on her face cleared. She lifted her chin. Haughty. In one smooth rush, she stood up from his bed. Striding swiftly, arrogantly, she swept toward the door he held open.
He saw she was not really comprehending, merely reacting. Protecting her pride.
As she reached his position by the door, she suddenly stopped. She turned to look at him. Hard.
He was not prepared. A bland neutrality was what he should have given her. Instead, he suspected her searching eyes found him tempted, teetering, and oh, so wanting.
Her brows came down and her head tilted, as if she did not understand his expression.
He came perilously close to clearing up her confusion. In a scratchy voice, he repeated, "Good night, Lucy."
Frowning deeply, she nodded once and went through the door.
Emile clo
sed it after her with a very deep sigh.
~~~
The man confused her. In sooth, nothing in Lucy's life had ever confused her as much as her husband.
In the main room of the tavern the next morning, she gazed out the diamond-paned windows at a spring rain. The shower pelted the meadow that buffered the tavern from the woods. Between her hands, Lucy tugged a rag she'd been using to wipe the inside of the windowpanes.
Last night Emile had nearly bedded her. At least, she thought that's what had happened. Unfortunately, she'd been wrong in the past. Clearly, she was not very good at reading a man's intentions.
And yet, she was fairly certain Emile had come close to bedding her last night. She was fairly certain he had lusted for her. For her! Just remembering his desire for her made a smile tug at Lucy's lips.
But despite his desire...he had stopped. He had not bedded her. Instead, he'd sent her back to her bedchamber. Alone.
Lucy drew in a deep breath. Taking her rag, she applied it with vigor to the window. Why had he started? Why had he stopped? True, Gawain had interrupted matters, but that was all it had to have been: an interruption.
Oh, there were so many questions. For example, she did not know why Emile had decided to stay with her nor for how long. Perhaps he worried about her and that was why he stayed. But if he wanted to be assured of the tavern's success, he certainly did nothing to forward the matter. He slunk out early every morning, conveniently avoiding any of the hard work involved in the place. He came home late every night—apparently after getting drunk at their rival's tavern.
Shaking her head, Lucy dipped her rag in a bucket of suds and wrung out the water. She knew she ought to ponder the most important question of all. How did she feel about him? Did she want him to stay? Did she want him to bed her?
Releasing a shivery sigh, Lucy scrubbed the windowpane. To answer that last question, all she had to do was remember Emile's touches and kisses of the night before. Doing so made her shudder. And, oh, the look in his eyes... She sighed again as dipped her rag back into the bucket. As she raised it up again, she watched the water droplets fall.
"Good morning, mistress."
Lucy looked up. In the wavery reflection from the windowpanes, she could see Gawain standing behind her in the doorway.
Her face warmed. The last time she'd seen the steward, he'd witnessed far more than she'd thought to share. "Ahem, good morning, Gawain."
He moved into the room.
Reluctantly, Lucy turned to face him. Gawain appeared to disapprove of the bed play he'd seen, though why he should have anything to say against a married couple disporting Lucy could not fathom.
Making a stab at remaining the mistress, she asked, "Is the wood chopped?"
"An hour ago." His tone was subservient, but his eyes were not. His eyes spoke all the reasons he might, with justice, disapprove of Lucy taking her disreputable husband to bed.
Lucy clutched her rag in two hands. "Yes, yes, Gawain, I know."
His eyebrows rose.
Sighing, Lucy tugged the rag between her hands. "I know Emile is not the most reliable of husbands. Not anyone to depend on."
Gawain simply looked at her with his eyebrows still high.
Lucy tossed her rag into the sudsy bucket. "I don't expect much from him. I know what he is, and—and that is all right with me." Gazing down at the bucket, Lucy realized this was true. She didn't need Emile to be perfect or even all that good. With a certain degree of shame, she acknowledged she wasn't averse to bedding him even knowing he might not stay for good.
Oh, how she wanted that closeness, the desire, that she had felt from him last night. While men buzzed around other women—most notably her sister, Patrice—none had ever buzzed around Lucy. For once, she wanted a man of her own, even if he was only temporary.
Gawain's voice sounded oddly flat. "It is all right with you."
She glanced up. Did her old friend sense her lack of shame? "I have said so."
Taking in a long breath, Gawain slowly paced toward the window next to the one where Lucy stood. "You don't expect much." The corners of his mouth turned down. "I wonder, Lucy, how very little you do expect."
Irritation nibbled at her resolve. "Very little, I assure you."
"In sooth." Gawain lifted a hand and smoothed it down the window jamb. "Lucy, do you know where your husband goes every morning?"
With a brief grimace, she laughed. "Oh, that. Yes, I know."
Gawain turned to shoot her a surprised look.
She waved a hand. "Emile is a sloth. He steals out early every morning in order to avoid being given some chore to do." She shook her head with a smile. "I do not expect Emile's help in the tavern. It was not his desire or decision to buy the place."
Gawain's gaze intensified. "He steals out early—to avoid chores. I...see." He turned to look out at the rain. "And your barmaid, Moll. A comely wench, is she not?"
Lucy glanced toward Gawain in surprise. Usually he disparaged the barmaid. "Aye, she is comely." Unlike Lucy, Moll was exactly the sort to tempt a man.
Gawain remained with one hand on the window frame. "Have you noticed, Lucy...where does she go every morning?"
Lucy went very still. Did Moll leave every morning? The maid Emile had forced her to hire? Her heart pattered while her brain wrestled the question. Meanwhile, instinct had her straighten, had her wrap dignity around herself like a cloak. "Does Moll leave early? I had not noticed. Is—is there a reason you ask?"
Gawain bent his head. He didn't answer. He didn't have to. Of course there was a reason he'd asked.
Lucy felt dizzy. Moll left early every morning, just as Emile did. But Lucy had never noticed. Was she a born idiot when it came to men? Here she stood, mooning over her husband and hoping he'd resume his lusty games with her—when she'd missed the whole point entirely.
He wanted someone else.
Hadn't it happened the same exact way with Sir Robert? During the whole span of their betrothal, Lucy had never suspected he was actually tumbling a blond countess. No, not until she had walked right into the very act. Until that moment, Lucy had believed her affianced adored her.
"But—" Lucy said. Dignity—and a last, mad hope—were all that kept her from melting into her bucket of suds. But Emile kissed me last night. He put me on his bed and lifted my skirt. He wanted me.
Until, of course, he hadn't wanted her.
She swallowed and looked at Gawain. But—Emile wasn't like Sir Robert.
On the other hand...what of his kiss in the barn to hide his bag of loot? Or the one by the wagon that held the gold coins he'd coveted. Had he ever been honest with her when it came to kisses? "But—there could be an innocent explanation," she said anyway. It was true, after all. There could be.
Gawain raised his head. Slowly, he blinked. "Aye," he agreed. "There could be."
The improbability of the statement rang in the air.
How, oh how, could she have imagined the man might want her? Nobody wanted her.
Lucy pressed her lips together. "That is all," she pronounced, as if they had been discussing her orders for the servant. "You may go now."
"Yes, mistress." Acting obsequious, Gawain bowed.
After he left, Lucy turned to gaze out at the rain, falling and falling on the waterlogged meadow. Her head felt stuffed, her chest tight. Was Emile with Moll every morning? But his eyes, his touch, his kiss last night—it had all felt so genuine.
She had told the truth. Just because both Emile and the barmaid were gone every morning did not mean they were together. There could be an innocent explanation.
Lucy's heart contracted. On the other hand, how deluded an idiot was she?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"I tell you, mistress, 'tis not a good time to plant."
Moll's voice floated toward Emile from the kitchen. It wafted over the newly hoed garden beds he traversed on his way in to the tavern. "The moon is waning," Moll added. "Tomorrow just will not do."
"Does it ta
ke a phase of the moon to milk the cow?" Lucy's voice carried forth in reply, crisp and authoritative.
Emile halted. Lucy was in the kitchen.
As he stood there, delaying his entry, Moll hurried out the door. Pulling her shawl about her shoulders with a scowl, she did not notice Emile lurking in the dusky shadows. He could slip away.
But he hadn't eaten since yesterday, and he could hardly avoid his wife forever. Taking a deep breath, he stepped onto the threshold.
Lucy swiveled.
Instantly, Emile felt the ground drop from under his feet. The details of the night before rushed back at him: the give of her flesh beneath his hands, the tangy heat of her lips, and the hot, mad hunger he'd felt driven to satisfy.
As their eyes met now, Emile knew Lucy remembered it, too.
Then she quickly bent over her kettle.
Biting his moustache, he stepped into the kitchen.
Lucy busied herself with whatever was in the pot, stirring and moving things around. Emile was not fooled. He knew what she was thinking.
The same thing he was thinking.
Fortunately, they were not alone in the kitchen. Gawain sat at the table, glaring at Emile over the remains of a meal.
Warily, Emile edged toward Gawain. He seemed a safer bet than Lucy. Aye, while Lucy wanted to bed Emile, the steward only wanted to pound the stuffing out of him.
"I, um, thought there might be something left of supper to eat." Emile's stomach growled. From where he stood, he could only see Lucy's back, bent over her kettle.
"Ahem. I suppose there is a bit of pottage." Lucy's voice was too high. She reached to the side for a trencher.
Emile sucked in his lips. He could hardly blame the woman for wanting to pursue the matter he'd so idiotically begun the night before. Physically, he'd left her hanging. But Lucy didn't know that Emile had entirely high-minded reasons for holding aloof from her.
Gawain growled and scraped back his stool. As he drew to his feet, his glare toward Emile darkened.
Emile tensed, readying for battle. Gawain had warned him what would happen if Emile dared lay a hand on his wife. Gawain had no idea how deeply Emile himself regretted the caresses he'd given Lucy. Emile knew making love to Lucy would be a disaster.
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