by Tamara Leigh
He turned, met her gaze. “I would have it no other way.”
Frustration flew through her. It made no sense that he would not exercise his husband’s rights. Regardless of how weary he must be, surely he would put forth the effort, for the marriage must be consummated. If not—
“I know what you are thinking,” he said, “that an unconsummated marriage can be annulled and my lands declared forfeit.” He smiled grimly. “But know that you are mine, and when I can stomach having you in my bed, all will be consummated. And in that bed, you shall bear our sons and daughters.”
Those last words making her lower her chin for fear of what her face would reveal, her eyes fell upon the ring he had placed on her finger. Though it was as poor a fit as the one with which Murdoch had shackled her, Boursier’s was loose enough that it could easily be lost, whereas her first husband’s had been so tight that its removal following his death had required a fine saw.
El yanked herself back to this husband and the children he expected to get on her. Were she Thomasin de Arell, it was possible she would bear heirs, but she was Elianor of Emberly who had wed Murdoch Farrow and borne no children in the two years she had been in his bed—and not all because of the relief Agatha had provided. Of course, it was possible El’s constant prayer that she not swell with the child of a man who would make as loathsome a father as he made a husband, could be responsible for her barrenness. Perhaps in that, God had answered her.
“Now,” Boursier said, “will you behave or must I call for rope?”
She lowered her feet to the floor. As she straightened, she was reminded of the splinter. It had gone too deep to yield to her efforts to remove it once the priest had withdrawn from the chamber. Blessedly, it had not pained her when Boursier’s great body had pressed upon her. Because her mind had been otherwise occupied with that which would cause greater pain? That must be it, for it certainly tormented her now.
“Answer me, Thomasin,” Boursier demanded.
“Very well. I give my word you need not fear me through the night.”
He glowered. “’Tis not an easing of fear I seek, but rest.”
She put her chin up. “If you keep your distance, rest you will have.”
He came around the tub. “Then you will take my squire’s pallet, and I shall have my bed.”
So near? She glanced at the chairs before the hearth. “I prefer a chair.”
He advanced on her, and it took great resolve not to retreat.
“’Tis obvious you fear me, Thomasin.” He halted before her. “But there is one thing you need not be anxious about. The word I give is the word I keep. As told, I will not lie with you this eve.”
She wished to believe him, but such promises she had heard before and, to her detriment, had believed those first few times. “You are mistaken,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “’Tis not fear that gives the chair appeal. It is your scent. It could drop a man dead.”
Though the turning of his mouth was not a smile in the truest sense, neither was it grim. “And your scent”—he lowered his head, breathed to the left and right of her—“I would know anywhere.”
The rumble of his voice did something to her insides that had little to do with fear.
He drew back. “Since that night when first you came to my bed, it has stayed with me.”
When she and Agatha had stolen into his chamber and she had caught the glitter of his gaze.
He gave a bitter laugh. “Even through all the days of my imprisonment.”
When he lifted a hand toward her face, she jumped back and, once again, came up against the mattress.
He had lied, would now do to her what he had said he would not. The only good of it was that she had not been fooled.
“You will have to get used to my touch”—his calloused fingers slid over her throat, reminding her of when he had gripped it—“for once you are in my bed, I intend to touch you often.”
As the vows she had spoken gave him every right to do, time and again extracting the marital debt, regardless of her own desires.
As she cast frantically about for a way to delay the inevitable, it struck her that this time his hand on her was different, almost gentle, and when his fingers curled around her nape and pushed up into her hair, a peculiar sensation swept over her scalp and sank down through her.
“Breathe,” he said.
She gasped and, mortified by the traitorous sound, flung her gaze back to his.
“At least you are not frigid,” he murmured.
Was she not? Of course she was—detested the mere thought of him going near her dread woman’s place as much as she had detested Murdoch going there…hurting her…
She snatched her arm up, pushed Boursier’s hand off her neck. “You flatter yourself when all that can be said of you is that your stench steals one’s breath.”
His eyebrows rose. “When ’tis time to consummate, we shall know for certain, hmm?”
“Only if you are, indeed, the ravisher you say you are not.”
“I assure you, ’twill not be by ravishment I have you.”
Hating that the bed remained at her back, she said, “Your word I would have on that.” Of course, it would only be for the satisfaction of flinging it at him when he proved it a lie.
“My word I give,” he said, then stepped back and nodded at the pallet alongside the bed. “Gain your bed whilst I extinguish the torches.”
She waited until he turned away, then slid her feet out of her slippers and started to lower to the pallet. The splinter dug deeper, causing pain to tear up her thigh. Pressing her lips tight, she eased onto her side and dragged the blanket over her.
A few moments later, there was only the glow of the hearth to light the solar. Then came the sound of garments being shed.
When Boursier’s dark figure drew alongside the bed, she tensed. However, he stepped over her and settled on the mattress.
“I sleep light,” he said, then added, “that is, when my wine has not been fouled by Agatha’s hand.”
“By her hand ’twas not fouled,” El corrected him.
He was silent a long moment. “Then she used you well.”
“Or I her.”
More silence that made her regret she had not kept her spiteful thoughts to herself.
Lord, let him keep his word, she silently prayed as she turned the ring on her finger. At least this night.
And it seemed he would, for a quarter hour later, his breathing deepened.
CHAPTER NINE
Accursed snow! Still it fell, though not as thickly as on the night past.
Bayard shuttered the window, pulled a black tunic over his head, and adjusted his eyepatch.
The only good of the new day was that he was clean, having washed away the filth of his six days of imprisonment. Though he had longed to sink into a hot bath, he had made do with a basin of chill water, soap, and a hand towel, for there was much to set in motion. More, it would not do for the maids who carried water to see his bride upon his squire’s pallet. And that thought reminded him of the need for proof of consummation.
Dragging a hand across his bearded jaw that he would have Squire Lucas scrape clean later this day, he stepped around the bed and halted at the foot of the pallet where Thomasin lay on her side.
Though her brow was bunched as if she suffered unpleasant dreams, she was undeservedly lovely. Blond hair that was not as dark as previously thought, and which knew neither curl nor wave, fell across her face, over a small nose, and lifted gently at the breath come from a mouth that required no rouge.
Plain of face! Whoever had said that suffered poor eyesight.
She moaned softly, parting her lips to allow a glimpse of teeth, then rolled onto her back. Her eyes popped open, and she startled to see him standing over her. “Oh, this dream is not much better than the other.”
“Worse,” Bayard drawled and retrieved his sword belt from atop the chest and began fitting the metal-trimmed leather around his waist.
“Unfortunate for you, I am quite real.”
She slid her gaze down him. “You are certain? The man from the night past looked more a beast.”
“The man you remember, Lady,” he said, buckling the belt, “spent nearly six days and nights in a hell of your making.”
“And has finally bathed.” She sat up, but though she lowered her face, he heard her breath catch.
“You are ill?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I must…relieve myself.”
Berating himself for the show of concern that was surely born of a fair face, he said, “See to it,” and lowered to the chest to drag on his boots.
She thrust the blanket aside and stood, but when she stepped forward, she favored her right side.
Had her leg cramped? Reminding himself he did not care, he pulled on the second boot as she closed herself in the garderobe.
He stood and considered what mischief she might make while he was belowstairs. The walled passage and the iron-banded chest presented the only threats. With keys from the purse on his belt, he secured both, then turned to the rumpled bed and reached for his dagger.
If not for Thomasin’s muffled moan, he would have himself provided proof of consummation.
He crossed to the garderobe, but before he could demand to know what ailed her, she muttered, “Oh, ’tis deep.”
The garderobe shaft? Surely she did not think to escape down it. No lady would—
Neither would any lady do what she had done to him. Though Griffin de Arell had titled his daughter, she remained far too common.
Bayard wrenched the door open.
Standing in the bit of light that shone through the narrow slit in the wall, Thomasin snapped her chin up and dropped her hitched skirts—but not before he glimpsed a shapely thigh marked by angry red flesh.
“That you dare!” she cried.
“Without apology.” He pulled her from the garderobe to the bed. “Show me!”
Face flushed, she glared at him.
Though he knew he should not concern himself with the wellbeing of one whose only concern for him was that he forfeit his lands, he said, “Do it, else I will toss up your skirts.”
“I have taken a splinter, ’tis all!”
He caught a fistful of her cotehardie and yanked it high.
Though she tried to sidestep, he held her firmly as he looked upon the swollen flesh. It was a splinter—three inches lodged beneath the surface of her skin.
“Sit,” he said.
“I will not!”
He pushed her onto the sheet and, when she tried to scramble off, pressed a hand to her chest. “Cease, Thomasin!”
She dropped onto her elbows.
Bayard pulled her skirts higher and confirmed the flesh of her thigh was infected. “How came you by this?”
She pressed her lips tight.
“That piece of wood you thought to put through me,” he concluded, then said, “The splinter must needs be removed.”
“As I endeavored to do ere you trampled my privacy! Are you done?”
He frowned. “You would leave it to fester deeper?”
“I would not have you touch it.”
Why did he think to do so? That she might tremble for fear that such an intimate view of her would incite him to claim his rights over her? Though he was tempted to convince himself it was what he wanted, he did not. Regardless of his past sins, regardless that he had once before wed a lady who had not wanted him in her bed, he was no ravisher.
He straightened. “I shall leave you to it.” He strode to the door.
“Have you a physician in your household?”
Bayard turned, saw that she had risen from the bed. “Castle Adderstone has a physician, but he is gone. Do you know where?”
“Of course I do not know!”
“He accompanied my sister to the barony of Blackwood.”
She looked down. “Oh.”
Bayard nearly left her then, but there was the question that kept running through his mind. “If ’tis true Griffin de Arell knew naught of my imprisonment, how was it accomplished?”
Her lids lifted. “Upon my word, ’tis true. Whether you wish to believe it or nay, you were bested by women, Bayard Boursier.” She took a step forward, winced.
The splinter pained her, and not even for ease of it would she ask for his help.
“Though most of what I know of Griffin de Arell is from a distance,” he said, “it would be a changed man who would allow his daughter to do what you did.”
She thrust her chin forward. “As I did not wish interference from one who would refuse to allow me to do what needed to be done, I did not ask for permission.”
“I am to believe a woman-child of but ten and seven capable of working such ill?”
“I am twenty and—” She snapped her teeth closed.
Unsettled, Bayard said, “Twenty and what?”
In that moment, El almost wished Murdoch had cut out her tongue as he had threatened to do when she had used it as a sword upon him. Holding her gaze to Boursier’s, she said, “Twenty and some months.” Not that it was much of a lie, for she was but a year older than that.
Whether or not her deception passed, she could not know, for he shuttered his face.
Pressing her shoulders back, she tried not to think about the wretched splinter. “’Twas I who determined to abduct and imprison you. My—” She had nearly said uncle. She shifted her weight opposite her aching thigh. “My father knew naught of my plan.”
Boursier crossed the solar and once more placed himself over her.
There was barely a foot between them and she had to tip her head back, but El held. And wished she had put more distance between her and the bed. Wished he smelled as he had done on the night past. Wished his auburn hair waving off his brow did not look so clean and crisp. Wished she did not still feel the touch of his fingers upon her thigh. Most of all, she wished the gait of her heart was all fear.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I did it.”
His scarred eyebrow rose above the eyepatch. “If ’tis true it was done without De Arell’s knowledge, it was surely at that witch’s counsel.”
“Her name is Agatha, and though she aided me, she did so because I asked it of her.” From what had happened in the underground, did he know Agatha had turned on her lady so she might work her own plans against The Boursier?
His blue-green eye glittered. “It was Agatha who came to kill me.”
El swallowed, not only for the lie she would tell but to distract herself from her throbbing thigh. “She did as she was told. Thus, your vengeance should fall upon me alone.”
“Then”—he looked down her—“the only question is how best to extract payment from one’s wife.”
Though he had vowed he would not ravish her, the threat ran through El on wanton feet.
He lifted her chin. “Of course, until I ride on Castle Mathe, I shall not know the extent of what is due me.”
When would that be? Had the snow let up? Might he attempt a ride this day? If so, his absence from Castle Adderstone could mean her escape—and the sooner the better, if there was any hope of freeing Agatha.
“But this I vow,” he continued, “if ill has befallen my sister, you shall wish I had left you in the underground with that beastly woman.”
She stepped back, only to whimper when pain shot through her thigh.
Boursier turned steel around her forearm. “Fool,” he said and pushed her down on the bed and dragged up her skirts.
Something about the bend of his head and his hand upon her thigh prevented her from struggling.
He looked up. “You would have me draw it out or nay?”
She jerked her chin. “Pray, do.”
He pulled a dagger from his belt, and she flinched at the sight of the keen edge. “What do you intend?”
“Be still.” He gripped her thigh and lowered the dagger toward it.
Grabbing up handfuls of the bed coverings as his blade
opened the thin layer of flesh, El squeezed her eyes closed to keep tears from spilling.
“’Tis out,” he said.
She looked at the bloody splinter between his fingers, breathed, “I thank you.”
He considered her, then set the splinter on the bedside table.
“Hold,” he said when she started to rise, then swept up the sheet and, with an impersonal touch that shook El in ways it should not, wiped the cloth across her blood-smeared thigh.
Regardless that she told herself she was as repulsed as she had been by Murdoch’s touch, this was different. And it made her shudder.
Boursier’s gaze captured hers, and something passed between them that stopped her breath and caused his nostrils to flare. “Why?” he said softly. “Why when you do not wish it any more than I?”
Neither did she understand it, nor would she discuss it. “I do not know of what you speak.”
He lowered his gaze to her lips, and of their own accord, they parted for him as El stared into a face that, despite its bearded jaw, was more attractive than previously thought.
He drew nearer, and she did not know what possessed her, but she lowered her lids.
She heard his breath, felt it on her lips, caught the faint scent of mint.
“Aye, Wife,” he rasped, “you will soon come to my bed.”
She sprang her lids open and, awash in self-loathing, said, “For what would I willingly lie with a man so undesirable he could not hold his first wife?” It was cruel, but it cleared the satisfaction from his face, and so she pressed on. “Rejection is what comes to one who takes that which does not belong to him.”
His gaze darkened. “Pray tell, Lady, what comes to one who fails to take what does not belong to her?”
As in Elianor of Emberly who had tried to steal his birthright. She narrowed her lids. “I suppose that would be marriage to a one-eyed beast.”
Slowly, he drew back. “Enjoy your sharp teeth whilst you have them, Lady, for I will pull them.”
Though she knew she ought to leave it there, once more she did not heed her inner voice as so many times she should have done with Murdoch. She dropped her feet to the floor and stood. “Possible only if you can hold me as you could not hold Constance Verdun.”