by Cheryl Holt
She left, and no one else came. Anne continued her pacing, incensed at being ignored by him. She’d assumed he would follow her up the stairs the instant he could, that they would hash out and end their quarrel.
How could he not want to end their quarrel?
She considered stomping down to the great hall, taking her place at the high table. She considered grabbing the next maid who walked by and sending her to fetch Hugh up to Anne’s chamber, but she refused to humiliate herself further.
Finally, when it was very late, when she was exhausted and thoroughly aggrieved , she crawled onto the bed in her clothes. If he came to enjoy his marital privilege and found her dressed, she didn’t care. He would just have to return when she was ready to receive him.
She sniffed with hurt, then fell asleep, but she tossed all night. With each creak of the castle, with each gust of wind, she was startled awake, certain it was Hugh, but he never appeared.
When she rose in the morning, when she hastened down to make sure Cadel was still alive, that he hadn’t been hanged—he hadn’t been—Hugh and his men were off chasing brigands.
The ass hadn’t bothered to say good-bye or apologize to her before he’d cantered away.
* * * *
“Pour water on the rocks.”
“Like this?”
“Yes. See? The steam warms the room.”
“Well, would you look at that?”
Hugh had learned the trick in his travels. Knights from the northlands had shown it to him. They’d claimed it was an ancient Norse method for bathing, for soothing a battered body when the weather was foul.
Heat rocks, then dump water on them. It created a moist fog that went beyond the healing a bath could provide on its own.
He’d been gone for two weeks, hunting a gaggle of miscreants who’d stolen some cattle, burned some cottages, and wreaked havoc before Hugh had caught up with them. They wouldn’t commit any mayhem in the future.
After riding in constant mud and rain, they’d arrived at Morven. Henry had been in a fiery mood, had wanted to romp and revel. He’d stopped in the village and invited a pair of loose tavern wenches up to the castle. He’d insisted that he and Hugh needed tending, that they deserved tending after their rough journey, and Hugh agreed. He just wasn’t certain they were the ones he should have offering him comfort.
“Hugh likes to be warm,” Henry told them. “He’s an absolute ogre when he’s not.”
“If your bones ached as mine do,” Hugh grouched, “you’d be an ogre, too.”
The girls tittered. They were silly and frivolous and fortunate that the village elders hadn’t run them off years ago for their blatant immorality.
They were in the bathing room of the castle, with Henry naked in the tub, swilling ale and generally making a nuisance of himself.
There was a second tub prepared, and Hugh should have climbed in, but he hadn’t. He’d stripped to his breeches, and the buxom blonde had been eager to unlace them, but he hadn’t let her.
The lewd scene was the same as hundreds he’d sat through with Henry. They’d journeyed the world together, had fought and frolicked and gleefully debauched in shameless ways. In the sunnier climes, sexual games were not frowned on as severely as they were in England. Brothels and baths and bawdy houses had abounded, and he and Henry had never failed to indulge in the worst behaviors.
He shouldn’t have been aggravated by Henry’s low character—it was nothing new—and he shouldn’t have been bored to tears, but he was.
Since their quarrel, he hadn’t seen Anne. He was still upset over her defiance that day in the yard and didn’t know what to do about it.
He was glad the raiders had slipped across the border, glad to have had an excuse to ride off so his temper would cool.
Cadel had confessed to attempted murder, so he was lucky to be alive. And it seemed he would stay that way. Hugh simply couldn’t kill him now. Whenever he considered it, he remembered Anne prostrate before him and pleading for Cadel’s life.
At the first opportunity, Hugh would send Cadel to London where he would be conscripted into a group of knights leaving for the Holy Land. Richard was still there, his Crusade never-ending, and Cadel of Morven would grow up and fight—or he would die trying.
Would that make Anne happy? Would she forgive Hugh and apologize for her rebellious conduct?
Hugh doubted it. He’d explained what he required from her: loyalty and obedience. Yet at the earliest sign of trouble, she’d jumped into the fray on the wrong side.
He was very bothered by her betrayal, but couldn’t figure out why. It was a small act, and he understood that she’d been anxious to save her brother, but what about Hugh? What about what he wanted and needed? Which was to have his own wife firmly back him in all matters.
He shook his head, forcefully pushing Anne out of his mind.
Upon his return to Morven, he probably should have gone to her immediately, but he hadn’t. Fourteen days had passed, and he couldn’t decide what to say, so he’d said nothing.
Though he’d never admit it, Anne had hurt him when she’d intervened on Cadel’s behalf. Her behavior was like a wound that had scabbed over, but he kept picking at it so it couldn’t heal.
It was all that red hair, he supposed. He’d suspected a fiery temperament, and he’d been proved correct, so why was he surprised?
Henry climbed out of the tub, and the two girls rushed over to dry him, spending an exorbitant amount of time on his private parts.
He was drunk, grinning, trying to shove the brown-haired girl to her knees, but she wouldn’t comply.
“Won’t you take me to your bed, Master Henry?” she begged. “I’ve always hankered to see a lord’s room.”
“He’s not a lord,” Hugh grumbled.
“I’m a lord tonight,” Henry retorted, clutching his cock and giving it a stroke.
The girl giggled and folded a towel around his waist. The other sidled over to Hugh.
“What’s it to be, my lord Hugh?” she asked. “Will we wash you or not?”
“Yes, Hugh”—Henry’s words were slurred—“shed your breeches. Show them that massive rod of yours.”
They were snickering, slapping their thighs and guffawing, and Hugh might have spun and walked out, but the door behind him slammed open.
He whipped about to find Anne storming in like an ocean tempest.
“What is going on in here!” she demanded, and Hugh flushed with mortification.
It wasn’t her business to interfere with his personal life, wasn’t her business to tell him what he could or couldn’t do, but he was terribly embarrassed.
Henry was, too. Suddenly appearing much more sober, he straightened and slid away from the girl who had been attached to him like a leech on a thigh.
As for the two girls, they were panicked, frantically peeking at Hugh, hoping he would rescue them from Anne’s wrath. But Hugh wasn’t about to shield them.
“You harlots!” Anne fumed. “Why are you in my home? Get out! Now!”
She was clutching the leather strop he used to sharpen his razor. She raised it and began raining down blows on them. They yelped with terror and ran out, Anne slashing and whacking at their bottoms until they were beyond her reach.
Then she turned to Henry and Hugh. They hung their heads in shame.
“Master Henry,” she seethed, “if you ever bring a whore into this castle again, there will be consequences. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Lady Anne. I apologize.”
“I will not say anything to Father Eustace this time, but should I catch you again, I will request that he have you scourged in the village, while the whole town watches. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, Lady Anne. Yes. Again, I most humbly apologize.”
Henry slithered out, giving Hugh a glance of commiseration as he passed, then Hugh was left to face Anne all alone.
Anne looked like an ancient goddess, like a female warrior. Her veil was off, her aubu
rn hair flowing down her back. In her fury, she seemed taller, invincible.
“Am I your wife, Lord Hugh?” she spat. “Am I your wife, or am I not?”
“Yes, Anne, you are my wife.”
“We were married in a church, before God and His priest.”
“Yes, we were.”
“Then you will never—I repeat, never!—ask another woman to wash you.”
“I won’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it would upset you so much.”
“Not upset me? You know my father’s history. You know my history. I was forced to abandon the convent for you. I have assumed my role as you commanded.”
“You’ve done very well,” he half-heartedly offered, not sure where her defense of Cadel mixed into the mess.
“Is this to be my reward? Am I to spend my years as Blodwin did, constantly humiliated by every loose harlot who tickles your fancy? I won’t have it, I tell you. I absolutely won’t have it.”
Tears sprang into her eyes and flooded down her cheeks. She swiped at them with her hand.
“Anne…I…”
He reached for her, but she slapped him away.
“Take off your breeches. You wanted to bathe, and bathe you shall. Get in the tub.”
She pitched the strop on the floor, then slammed about, banging cupboard doors as she retrieved soap and cloths.
He observed, frozen with consternation. He’d seen weeping females before, crying over their dead husbands on a battlefield, cursing as an army stormed through and marched off with the last of the food.
But he’d never seen tears like these. He’d never hurt a woman like this, where he was close to her, where he was the reason she was so angry. Who cried when they were angry?
It made no sense, and it disturbed him on many levels. As a man. As a knight. As her husband.
She’d knocked over a stack of towels, and as she was crossly folding them, he walked over and laid his hand on hers.
“Anne, would you stop and listen to me?”
“Remove your breeches!” she shouted. “Get in the tub, Lord Hugh.”
For a moment, he hovered, anxious to draw her into his arms, to hug her to his chest, but with the state she was in, he didn’t think solace would be welcome.
At a loss, he was eager to console her, to mend what he’d done, but he had no idea how. He went over to the tub, stripped, and settled into the water. The heat instantly soothed him, and he shut his eyes and sighed with pleasure.
He heard her approach, heard her pull up a stool and plop down. He would have liked to look at her, but was too much of a coward.
He lounged, letting her tend him, her soft fingers roaming over his skin. She was muttering under her breath, and the main essence seemed to be that he was an inconsiderate oaf, a thoughtless brute.
Since he generally agreed, he didn’t contradict her.
When he made out the words lying dog, he was spurred to comment.
“I’m not a liar.” He opened his eyes and frowned at her.
“Liar.”
“I’m not!”
“Ha! A liar tries to claim he’s not one. It’s not much of a way to win an argument, Lord Hugh.”
He hated how she kept calling him Lord Hugh—as if his title was a curse.
He wanted her to calm herself, wanted her to smile and fondly gaze at him as she had in the past, but he didn’t know how to bring them back to that spot.
“How have I lied to you?” he asked.
“You spoke vows,” she said. “Mind, I didn’t speak any. You did. You promised to be faithful. You promised to honor and cherish me. And you being the king’s favorite knight! You’re despicable.”
She’d been scrubbing his hair, and she dumped a pail of water over his head. He sputtered and wiped the droplets off his face.
“I admit it,” he mumbled. “I’m a liar. It’s my worst fault.”
She scoffed with disgust. “What are we to do now? Is this how I am to carry on with you? Am I to tiptoe around you, having no authority, dodging your temper, saving the people you wish to kill, and chasing off your whores?” She threw a cloth in the water, causing another huge splash. “Is that to be my lot? For if that is your plan, you should be aware that I will not live like this.”
She was wearing only her shift, and she’d rolled up the sleeves. The steam in the room had wetted the front so the fabric was stuck to her shapely breasts. Her hair had curled in the heat, whorled strands of auburn sticking to her cheeks.
“You’re very pretty when you’re furious,” he said.
“Be silent.”
“I love how your eyes flash when you’re scolding me.”
“Don’t flatter me, my lord husband. It won’t work.”
Won’t it? he wondered. Every female in the world liked to be flattered.
He clasped her wrist and drew her to him. “Why don’t you join me?”
She scowled. “What?”
“Disrobe and get in the tub with me.”
“Bathe with you?”
“Yes.”
She stared at him, then at the tub, and her scowl deepened. “Men and women…they bathe together?”
“Yes,” he said again.
“You swear this to be true? You’ve done this before?”
He shrugged, looking sheepish. “Well…”
She snorted with annoyance. “Whoring dog.”
“I was hardly a virgin when I married you. Don’t expect me to pretend that I was.” He lifted a wet finger, placed it on her chin, then traced a hot trail down her neck, her chest, stopping at her cleavage. “Climb in, Anne. You know you want to.”
She pushed him away and rose to her feet.
“If I oblige you—I’m not saying I will—but if I do, we’ll fornicate?”
“Yes.”
“In the water?”
“Yes. Haven’t you missed me?”
She was such a bawdy vixen at heart, and she was clearly transfixed by the notion of what he’d suggested. She ran her tongue across her bottom lip, pondering, calculating.
“Tell me something first,” she said, and he grinned, knowing he’d ensnared her.
“What?”
“While you were away, were you sampling tavern girls at every inn on the road?”
“No.”
“And how about this evening? Did that whore put her mouth on you?”
“No. I was hoping you’d arrive and do it instead.”
“Lying dog,” she muttered again.
His gaze dipped to her breasts.
“Strip for me. Let me see you.”
“On one condition.”
“What?”
“Now that you’ve returned, promise me you won’t hang Cadel.”
He’d already decided he wouldn’t. Cadel would leave for London when Hugh’s other knights rode off.
He sighed, appearing greatly aggrieved. “Oh, all right. I won’t.”
She studied him, searching for any indication of deceit, but it had eluded her. The little fiend. She wasn’t as astute as she imagined herself to be.
“Your clothes, Anne. I’m tired of waiting to have you.”
“You poor, spoiled child. We wouldn’t want your command to be ignored, would we? You might throw a tantrum.”
Shocking him, she reached for the hem of her shift and drew it off. She stood before him, naked and not concerned in the least that she was.
A bolt of desire shot through him that was so potent, he was lucky he was prone. If he’d been standing, he might have been knocked over by the power of it.
She walked to the edge of the tub, then she stepped over the side and dropped to her knees, her thighs straddling his.
He took her hand and guided it to his rod, and she skillfully stroked him. He toyed with her breast, playing with her nipple, the slight pressure making her arch her back and purr.
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
“Your cock has anyway,” she grumbled.
“Some of the rest of me has
, too.”
“Are you still glad you married me?” she asked.
“I’m still glad. Why would you think I’m not?”
“You were so enraged with me over Cadel, then you left without a good-bye.”
They stared and stared, and she seemed as if she might add something more, but whatever it was, she couldn’t spit it out. As for himself, he was caught on the verge of chatter again. He wanted to tell her that he’d been lonely on the road, that he’d regretted their quarrel and should have handled the situation differently.
He wished he knew her better, how to talk to her, how to reason with her. But he didn’t know much about women, and he most especially didn’t know much about her.
The silence grew and stretched, becoming profound and intimate. Any secret might have been shared, any story told, but it wasn’t. If they started unburdening themselves, they might never stop. Then where would they be?
She broke off the weighty exchange, falling forward, her body stretched out across his. She buried her face at his nape, and he wrapped an arm around her, his palm caressing her back.
“Forgive me,” she pleaded.
“Of course, I forgive you.”
“I didn’t mean to make you so angry.”
“I realize that.”
“Be kind to me, Hugh.”
“Always, Anne. I’ll always be kind to you.”
He might have said more, but didn’t. There were so many words on the tip of his tongue, begging to spew out, but he simply couldn’t speak them aloud. He could communicate with her in only one fashion, that being sexual copulation. He could show her—physically—how much he cherished her. They would fornicate. They would bathe and romp. They would ease the tension that had festered.
It was all he could give her. It was all he could do. He kissed her, urging her into the carnal games he’d taught her. She was on top, and he would let her have her way.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I don’t wish for you to choose my daughter’s husband. Neither does my daughter.”
“Then you should have seen to it years ago. You’ve surrendered your chance to handle it yourself.”