The Maiden Bride

by Linda Needham

  Christ, what did he mean? Damn, he hated this lopsided cat-and-mouse game. He scanned her face for clues, trying to recall what he'd just said, where he'd gone wrong. But he found only stark apprehension. What the hell would she think he meant? "That … well, my lady … that you couldn't possibly have—"

  "Slept with my husband?" She stuck her fists into her hips. "Is that what you're accusing me of?"

  Hardly an accusation. "If it seemed that way, it was only because you never met your husband."

  "And?" She was a lunatic. Or he was.

  He took a few steps closer, walking on thin and crackling ice here. "Then you couldn't possibly have slept with him, could you?"

  "Damn you, William Bayard!" She turned away in her fury, sputtering curses.

  Nicholas froze. His identity discovered, just like that. He couldn't move.

  She whirled back on him and leveled an accusing finger. "Do you see, Nicholas, the position he's put me into? A marriage by proxy, and then he dies before he sends for me."

  He. Not you. He sagged with relief. She hadn't guessed his identity. He recovered enough to say, "Unfortunate."

  "Unconsummated, Nicholas." She threw out her arms. "Do you realize what that means?"

  Yes, painfully so. The linen of her gown clung like window glass. "Well, my lady … that you are—"

  "Not completely married."

  Untried, he'd been about to say.

  "I am in legal limbo, Nicholas, if anyone ever wanted to make an issue of who has the right to Faulkhurst. Our dear king, for one. I can't have that threat hanging over me."

  Christ, she was right.

  "It doesn't take a great Oxford scholar to realize that if William and I never met, then we never shared a bed. An unconsummated marriage isn't necessarily binding and has all sorts of dangling ends."

  "Yes, it has." Another mark against his care, another pledge he must keep to her. That somehow she wouldn't lose her home. "I'm sorry, Eleanor. I wish that—"

  "Eleanor." Her smile filled her entire face, lit her eyes, and sent his heart spinning out of control. "You said my name."

  Because it felt so right. "Did I? I am sorry for the liberty."

  "No, please. Whenever you wish to." Her hair swayed in time with her hips as she settled again into the water. "And I'm sorry about my ranting. I'll take care of it in my own way. It's just that … well, you startled me. And the subject of my marriage makes my blood boil."

  He encouraged her to ramble while he gathered up his resolve. "It wasn't exactly the marriage celebration that you had imagined?"

  A decisive business transaction on his part, because de Lacey had offered him the bridge at Laberre and an overlook of the whole Tampangne Valley.

  "I wasn't given any time to imagine a celebration of any kind."

  He remembered the swiftness of his decision; timing had been critical—and now it counted for nothing at all. She was the only thing that mattered now. And his pledge. "But at least there was a ceremony to consecrate the bargain between you and Bayard."

  "Ha. It might just as well have been a bargain between me and my groom's ambassador. John Sorrel, if I remember his name rightly. Baron of something or other."

  "Arrone." One of his fee knights, infamous for his skill at squeezing the opposition of its last objection. The very reason Nicholas had sent him to do the deed.

  "Do you know John Sorrel, Nicholas?"

  Blazing hell—that again. "I knew of the man only."

  "When?" She narrowed that studying frown at him, her legs paddling behind her inside the billowing of her skirts.

  "A soldier sees dozens of battlefields, my lady. Thousands of soldiers."

  She stood and came toward him again, wearing her suspicions in her eyes, in the tilt of her head. "Aye, but you weren't just a foot soldier, were you, Nicholas?"

  This was exhausting. As exhausting as watching her breasts sway in her clinging chemise, beautifully formed, and wholly forbidden to him.

  He swallowed roughly. "How do you mean, my lady?"

  "You speak as a knight and hold yourself as one, without an ounce of subservience to your nature. You read and you write." She came to stand directly in front of him, investigating his face. "You seem to know the innermost workings of a castle and the court, and have more than a passing acquaintance with men like my husband and my father and the Baron Arrone. I'd like to know who you are exactly, steward. Beyond your name."

  He'd been working on this part of his fictional past, and it was an exceedingly clever story. Poignant, too, which she would appreciate. He shook his head wearily as he had practiced in the gatehouse, cast his gaze to the water, and even added a clicking noise with his tongue.

  "Alas, my lady, the youngest of four brothers receives none of his father's titles, nor a teaspoon of his lands, and must find his own way in the world."

  "The fourth son of a lord?"

  "Langridge."

  She clapped her hands together. "Just as I suspected: a landless knight errant."

  Nicholas sighed—for a deeper-hued effect, at the success of his tale, and because she seemed so very pleased. "I am that, alas."

  Her sympathy was plain. "Penniless?"

  "Aye, completely." He stepped out of the water and sat on the ledge to wring out his boots.

  "Left to wander?"

  "Interminably." This was finally going as he'd planned.

  "How then did you escape the Church?"

  "I—" haven't. The heat in the room rose precipitously, from the guilty flush of a deceitful monk who hadn't yet taken his vows, who didn't know the first thing about observing them, who could only quake and stammer whenever his wife came within a hairbreadth of him—as she was standing behind him right now. "Just as you have escaped marriage to William Bayard, milady. Fortune, I suppose." She sat beside him, facing in the other direction, her feet still in the water. "You may have escaped a monk's habit, Nicholas, but I haven't escaped marriage at all."

  The woman was always racing leagues ahead of him. He turned to face her and straddled the ledge, his stockinged foot in the water again. "What do you mean? Have you gotten yourself betrothed? To whom?"

  "To no one at the moment. But if I'm successful in rebuilding Faulkhurst, Edward will want it held by one of his barons, won't he?"

  Nicholas felt all of his tomorrows spinning darkly, airlessly out in front of him. "He will, my lady, without a doubt."

  "I plan to be even farther-sighted than he is. I will be the one to decide who my next husband will be."

  Her next. His stomach flipped, his chest suddenly molten with a burst of black jealousy.

  "Do you?" He imagined his wife and Robert Marston sharing an overripe pear in a sultry summer orchard, the man following a glistening trail of sweet nectar down her throat … and between her breasts.

  Which belonged to him at the moment—shaped perfectly for his hands, his mouth, waiting there for him with their rosy peaks, not a foot away.

  Aye, and he could well imagine that bloody bastard Hugh le Clare reaching for them while he danced with her, salivating over her with a dozen other miscreants as though she were a prime game hen.

  "And to that end, Nicholas, I've determined to begin a discreet search for the right man."

  A doubled surge of anger and a lastingly inconceivable loss hit him. He wanted to be far away from her by then, while other men courted her, kissed her. He couldn't take that.

  "And when will you begin this discreet search?"

  She smiled shyly and said quietly, "I've already started."

  Another blow that struck the air from his chest. Now she was expecting some randy swain to come striding through his gates, searching out her bed, her kiss, that fragrant, unsullied place between her thighs that belonged to him.

  "How, madam? Where?" Improbable woman. "Are you making midnight raids into Ravensglass?"

  "Aye, Nicholas, running all the way there and home. How else do you suppose I came by the blisters on my toes? But they feel much
better already." She laughed lightly and raised a foot to him out of the water, shook off the drips, and then stuck it into his lap, already crowded with his erection.

  She was all ankle and calf and wiggling toes, and sighed when he ran his finger down her instep.

  "You'll soak here tomorrow, too," he commanded.

  "Yes, steward. And the following tomorrow."

  He stood before he could drag her into the pool and make love to her.

  "And in case you're concerned, you'll have no trouble finding yourself a husband of your choice. They'll come running."

  And I will pick them out myself, by God. Sort the chaff from the grain. Suffer that affliction as well, choosing a worthy man for her. If such a creature lived.

  She stood up in her dripping gown, that one seductive shoulder tormenting him with the weighty roundness just beneath. "Why do you say that?"

  He was shaking with desire for her. "It's the truth, madam. You are that beautiful. More than that."

  "I am?" she said, catching her breath and beaming, tugging at the end of her splendid hair. "Nicholas, you're very kind to say such a thing."

  "I'm far from kind, my lady. I'm very much a male. Very much—" he swallowed, trying to make rules between them, even while he broke them "—affected by you, as any man would be when you go looking for a husband. Your castle and your estate notwithstanding."

  "Are you?" She looked straight into his eyes, ready for whatever answer he gave, ready to do battle or concede or just listen.

  "In every possible way that you could imagine. You need to know that of me." There was too much honesty, and not nearly enough cool air between them. Though a thousand leagues wouldn't be far enough.

  "I think I do know, Nicholas." She was flushed above her gown, and staggered him with her slow gaze, innocent wisdom, and powerful instincts. "Some of it, at least."

  "Then you know that I didn't miss, earlier. I didn't dare go further."

  He stood fast as she rose onto her toes and lifted her fingers toward his temple, intent on some mischief of her own. "Didn't miss what, Nicholas?"

  "At the armory. When I kissed you."

  And he really ought to kiss her again. Briefly. Just to satisfy his curiosity that her mouth wasn't nearly as succulent, as sweet, as it appeared to be.

  "You did miss." She caught her lip between her teeth, holding in a pleased smile or a teasing giggle, feathering her fingers through his hair, making it difficult to breathe, difficult not to smooth his hands up her waist, to cup her breasts, to nuzzle there.

  "My aim was precise." He would ask for another simple, unadorned kiss. To take the edge off his desire to bed her every time he saw her, heard her laughter. To clear her scent from his brain and allow him to think again.

  "But you kissed me here." She pointed to the corner of her mouth.

  "Too close?" he asked, wondering when he'd combed his fingers through the hair at her nape, when he'd cupped her chin and tilted it to him.

  "Not accurate, Nicholas. A courtly kiss of peace is more on the cheek. And less…"

  "On the mouth?" Great God, he was playing with fire, foolish for letting himself believe this would blunt the edge of his need for her. She was honeyed wine, and he feared he would drink too deeply before he could let her go.

  "Exactly, Nicholas." Eleanor's pulse was singing; his words brushed her mouth like a steamy kiss, but he still hadn't yet. And she was waiting shamelessly for it, her skin on fire when he touched her mouth with his finger.

  "Exactly not here, madam?"

  "No. I mean, yes." He drew his thumb across her lower lip, his eyes smoldering, his mouth so close that her breath mingled with his, his hand spanning the column of her throat, from her jaw to the path between her breasts.

  There, too, Nicholas. I want you to kiss me there.

  "God, I shouldn't, Eleanor."

  But then he did, a wondrously gentle brush of his lips against hers, a ragged sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him.

  "Beautiful, Eleanor." Then he bent and closed his warm mouth over hers, captured it fully, deeply.

  "Oh, Nicholas." His kiss possessed her like the sunlight, shooting sparks right down to her toes. She clung to him, gripped his sleeves, and then slid her hands behind him to bring him and his stunning hardness closer; an exquisite shape against her belly that made her squirm and sigh.

  It was the very worst thing she could have done apparently, for Nicholas raised up like a bear, backed away from her, and swabbed her kiss right off his mouth with one hand and the other.

  "Holy God, Eleanor."

  "Oh?" She righted her gown and her dignity. "My kiss was that horrifying, was it?"

  "Ah, no, love. It was that … intoxicating."

  Her heart leaped. "Well, then—"

  "Then, nothing, my lady." He scooped her over his shoulder as he would a sack of flour, then stomped off toward her chamber, ignoring her questions all the way, then left her in her standing in the middle of the room, her heart in complete disarray.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  « ^ »

  "Nicholas?" Eleanor awoke to a growling rumble, dreaming that she was snuggled beside Nicholas beneath a warm counterpane.

  She sat up in the dimness of her new chamber and remembered, blushing, that he'd carried her here to the steward's office from the grotto.

  After their kiss—more than a kiss. It was an extraordinary dividing line in her life: now there was before Nicholas had kissed her and called her "love" and every day that came afterward.

  The sound came again, rumbling across the floor from the other side of the doorway drape, up through her soft felt and feather pallet, as regular as a forge bellows, and as deep as the call of a buck in full rut.

  "Nicholas?" She slipped out of bed, parted the drapes, and would have stepped on him if the moon hadn't been peering in the casement window.

  He lay stretched out on a pallet that seemed only the size of a pillow in contrast to his hugeness, bare-chested and wearing only breeches.

  And he was snoring, deeply, peacefully—as though he hadn't rested in years.

  Shavings from his carving were scattered across his chest. A merry little bear lay finished inside the palm of his hand, looking altogether contented there.

  An enviable nest, to be sure. A shameless urge to lie down beside him washed over her—to snuggle herself into that welcoming space beneath his shoulder and fall asleep to his breathing.

  But why the devil was he sleeping in her chamber?

  "Nicholas?" She knelt beside him and hadn't even touched his shoulder before he bolted to his feet, armed with the small wooden bear.

  "What?" He swabbed his hand across his face and shoved her behind him, her breasts to his broad back, protecting her from something he saw in the shadows. "Has the siege lifted?"

  He was dreaming. "No, Nicholas." She came around from behind him and took hold of his hand. "You were snoring."

  He peered down at her, more bleary-eyed than she had first realized. "What?"

  He was obviously exhausted and should be sleeping in a better place than this. "What are you doing here?"

  He glanced down at his hand and found the bear there, and frowned. "Protecting you—this is as near as I can get without actually sharing your bedchamber. Which I can't very well do because we're not—" He seemed to stop breathing entirely, stumped for the very simple word.

  "Because we're not married."

  He let out his captured breath in a rush. "Yes. There, you see—"

  "And you're protecting me because…?"

  He snorted and tucked the bear head first into his dagger sheath, then advanced on her until she stepped backward into the curtains that divided the two rooms. "Because Mullock is a thief and Dickon was a highwayman, and God knows what other brigands you'll let walk through your gate, my dear."

  "So you plan to sleep in my chamber every night to protect me?"

  "Yes." He was staring sloe-eyed at her mouth and
dampened his lips as he had before he'd kissed her, sending those rampant shivers through her, anticipating whatever he had in mind.

  "Thank you for your concern, Nicholas, but it isn't necessary."

  "It is until I say that it isn't, my lady." He gathered her against him with his arm, his body warm and thrilling—the largeness of his chest, the strong male part of him awake and pressing against her belly, his mouth moving against her temple so that she barely heard his whisper for the clanging riot of her heart. "Though I don't know, my dear, who the hell's going to protect you from me."

  A silly thought. She would have told him so, but for the sudden footfalls and hammering on the door that was as frantic as Lisabet's voice.

  "My lady? Come!" Eleanor leaped past Nicholas and slid the bar, her heart paralyzed with terror as she threw open the door.

  "What is it, Lisabet? Who—" But Lisabet was already yanking on her arm.

  "Come quick! There's a lady here in the great hall, and she's in an awful hurry. Hannah said for you to come."

  "A lady? In a hurry?" But Lisabet scurried down the steps, and Eleanor after her, Nicholas on her heels and then a dozen steps ahead of her as they reached the great hall.

  "Holy hell." Nicholas stopped dead in his stride, was a thick wall that she had to move aside before she saw what he did: a woman standing in the glow of the coming dawn, her arms hooked under her bulging belly, balancing her weight backward, as pregnant as any woman Eleanor had ever seen.

  Hannah, completely transported with joy, paced alongside the woman and the stick-thin boy who must have found his way here, too.

  "Cora's babe is coming, my lady. Very soon."

  A birthing! Dumbstruck with joy, Eleanor hurried to them, blinking away her tears, but they welled and then fell anyway.

  "Mullock, have you seen a birthing stool anywhere in all this mess?"

  The man looked stunned. "What be that, ma'am?"

  "A chair with the front removed from the seat."

  "Never heard of such a thing."

  Eleanor quickly found one, and sent everyone on errands. She spared a glance at Nicholas, who stood apart from the comings and goings, a giant, leaning silhouette against the hearth, watching Eleanor and then Cora as though he believed the woman was contagious, and that Eleanor herself was the mastermind of still another folly.