“What is it?”
“Just hold me.”
He did. And he kept his mouth shut, even though his jaw hurt after a few minutes. Slowly, Zipporah loosened her stranglehold on him. She touched his face, then tucked her hand around the back of his neck and pulled his head to hers. She kissed him softly, tasting like salt from her tears. He wasn’t sure why she wanted him now, after only a few hours of sleep, but he wasn’t going to stop her.
She leaned back on the mattress and looked up at him, her bright eyes pleading for something deeper than any physical need.
A need he couldn’t identify, much less meet.
And it was scaring him.
“Whatever you are about to say, do not,” she told him. “Just keep quiet.”
He didn’t like this. Her sadness. Her need. He wanted like mad to question her, but she wanted him to shut up. Peter closed his eyes and weighed his actions. Good Lord. He had no idea what to do with her.
“Peter.”
He opened his eyes.
“This is where you make love to me. I know you are fully capable of that.” She gave him a moment, then rolled her eyes. “I can see this is going to be more difficult than I thought. You really don’t have to play so hard to get.”
She peeled the blankets back from him, looking his body over. “Aye, I suppose you will suit me well enough, lad. Until someone prettier comes along.”
Groaning, Peter pulled her close, rolling her beneath him. “This,” he said, “needs to go.” He reached down, grasped her shift in one hand, tugging it upward.
She stopped him at her hips. “Not yet.”
“It is not as if I have never seen you before.”
“Just humor me.” She hooked her bare legs around his, her hands fanning his back.
* * *
Zipporah propped herself up on one elbow, watching Peter sleep through the rising sun. She studied the peaceful lines of his face, his angular jaw, and the golden blond stubble that coated it; the nose that was not quite straight because John had broken it when they were children. She reached out with tentative fingers and brushed Peter’s smooth, heavy hair off his forehead. He shifted, and she drew her hand away.
Sitting up, she tucked her knees to her chest. How long could she hide from him like this? If she knew Peter at all, then he was confused and hurt by her refusal to remove her shift. She loosened her legs and drew back the fabric. The white lines on her abdomen were far too noticeable. She could not risk him seeing them.
She let it drop and ran her hands over her waist. How long would it take before she found herself with child again?
Her stomach would begin to ache, her head feel light, and her breasts tender. All symptoms that should feel new to her. But they would not, because her body would already know.
“Baby girl,” she said. “It seems I cannot resist your father. And now I have to tell him I let you die.”
Zipporah dressed quietly, so that she wouldn’t wake him. Then she opened the shutters to let some air in. She stood leaning against a black iron bed post. He had one muscled arm bent, his hand behind his head. The sheet was pulled up to his waist, doing little to hide what she already knew was beneath.
Her knight.
“I forgive you, Peter. You were a glory-stricken fool when you left me. But I can be a fool too. I love you. It just took me a long time to figure it out.”
Zipporah went to the door, not sure where she would go or what she should do. She was out of place at Ravenmore.
Her maids were in the corridor just outside, sitting on stools, kitting again. Zipporah pulled up short, not expecting to see them there. They both stood to greet her.
“Can we do anything for you, my lady?” one asked.
“Could you . . . fetch a meal for me and my lord?”
“Aye, my lady.” The first one curtsied.
Zipporah wondered what, precisely, John had said to them about her situation with Peter, then realized she did not want to know. The second maid was waiting for instructions. “Find Lord John’s seamstress and tell her I would like to make a new surcoat for Sir Peter. Have the supplies brought to my chamber.”
“Aye, my lady.” The second maid scurried off.
Zipporah stood there for a moment, frowning as she realized there was nothing more for her to do. She went back into the chamber. The fire was mostly out, so she crossed to it, kneeling down.
“Zipporah,” Peter said, his voice husky from sleep.
Slowly she stood, turning to face him. He was sitting propped on a pillow, one hand still tucked behind his head.
“The fire is going out,” she said.
“I will take care of it.” A breeze rippled the bed curtains. “Come to me.”
She was afraid he would question her about not taking her shift off, then swallowed back her reluctance and went anyway. He pulled her down and tucked her under his chin. Peter nudged her back after a moment, just far enough to pull the sheet over the both of them. Then he pressed her against his bare skin.
“Are you going to talk to me?” he said.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Aye, you do.” He paused. “What is wrong?”
“I thought I had a choice.”
“What made you cry?”
“I had a nightmare.” It was true. After struggling herself to sleep, she awoke with her heart pounding in her throat.
He loosened the tie on her kyrtle. She was wearing her brown one, all of the tears now repaired. He slid his finger under her collar, exposing her shoulder. He kissed it. “What was it about?”
“Death.”
“That would scare me too.”
“I do not think you are as afraid of death as I am.”
“I would not want to leave you.” Peter rolled her so that she was lying on his chest. Her hair fell over her face and he tucked it behind her ears.
“I would not want to leave you either,” she whispered.
He ran his hands down her back. “Are you worried about my having to evict Gilburn and his men?”
“Aye.” She was worried about that. But that was not what her nightmare had been about.
She had dreamed that she’d given birth, and that her child was covered with pockmarks. Her parents and Edward were in her dream, as well as John and Peter. They looked at the child one by one and told her it was her doing. That she was cursed and would only bring forth death.
“This will soon be over,” he said. “It is nothing I cannot handle.”
“I hope so.”
Peter’s arms tightened around her until she thought her ribs might crack. She didn’t care. Zipporah wanted to mold into him, to erase her nightmare and convince herself that everything would be all right. She lowered her face and kissed him, pouring all of her doubt, all her feelings of inadequacy into him, pretending for once that she wasn’t hurting inside.
A knock sounded at the door and she jerked back.
“Don’t stop,” he panted.
“That would be our meal. I should get it.”
“I’m not hungry for food right now.”
“I know.” She understood.
“Are you not sick of me?”
Zipporah kissed him once more. “Nay, I am not sick of you. I will be right back.”
“Hurry.”
He let her go and she crawled out of bed, fixing her clothes as she went. When Zipporah opened the door her maid looked ready to walk in. “I will take the tray, thank you,” she said, struggling with the unaccustomed weight. The last thing she wanted was her maid there while her husband was abed.
It hadn’t occurred to her that she would be so protective.
Peter met her at the door as she closed it, catching the tray just as it began to list. He righted the flagon before it made too much of a mess.
“It does not bother you that you are not clad?” she asked, sliding the bolt on the door into place.
“She could not see me.” He shook wine off his hand.
“And she will
not see you. Ever.”
He ducked his head, lips quirked into an amused smile, made all the more compelling by his lack of clothing. “As you wish, my lady.”
There was no table, no room for one. He set the tray on the floor near the fire, then scooped her up. Laying her out on the bed, he joined her. The heavy, muscled weight of him erased the rest of the world—at least for the moment—and she was happy to let it.
“Where were we?” she asked.
“I know exactly where.”
Chapter Sixteen
Zipporah’s gelding showed the whites of his eyes at Peter’s stallion as they rode side by side down the road to Havendell. She scratched his neck reassuringly. It would take a long time for the animal to forget he’d been spooked by Peter and his looming beast.
Sir Thornton, Peter’s second in command, flanked them, as well as three guardsmen all wearing chainmail. Andrew, Sir Thornton’s tousled-haired page, had come along as well. Peter had instructed the lad to keep close to her as a lesson in chivalry. She knew the real reason. He was to be her guardian. Even Gilburn was unlikely to act lasciviously with a boy of two and ten standing close by her side as witness.
Zipporah wondered if this trip to Havendell was worth it. She wanted to see her father while she could, but was it right to put Peter into Gilburn’s path so soon after yesterday’s confrontation?
“It was just a nightmare,” Peter said.
She glanced up, realizing she must have been frowning.
“Nothing will happen to me. We will check on your father while Sir Thornton deliverers a message to Sir Mark about meeting with John and me tomorrow, retrieve your mother for supper, and then leave.”
“I hope so.”
Zipporah watched the holly and crab apple trees passing her by on the side of the road. She felt as if she were being ruled by her chaotic emotions. She really had meant to tell Peter about Katrina that morning, but the timing hadn’t felt right. She should have told him to send men on to Havendell for her mother while they remained safely home.
She really should tell him she loved him. But that would mean coming clean about the baby too. Love should be honest, right?
Coward.
“Zipporah?” She recognized the plea in his voice. Leave it to the gallant Sir Peter to tread where the fiercest of men dared not go. Any sensible man would flee.
“I am fine,” she said, clearing her throat.
He took a hold of her gelding’s reins, stopping both horses. The whole procession halted with them. Her horse eyed Peter’s stallion with renewed distrust.
Peter leaned in, tucked one hand around the back of her head, and kissed her. It wasn’t chaste, despite the four men and one boy who were trying to ignore them. It was the kiss of a man who knew very well what was his, and was more than happy to claim it again.
He drew softly back. “They have seen us kiss before.”
At the Mêlée.
“I do not believe I could be more embarrassed right now.”
“But you stopped crying.”
“I was not . . .”
He stopped her with a look, and then looped an arm around her waist, and pulled her onto his horse with him. He was wearing his chainmail shirt beneath his surcoat. It was unyielding against her, but warm from his body heat.
Peter gave her horse a slap. The gelding danced a circle in indecision, then trotted back toward Ravenmore.
“Really should do something about that horse of yours,” Peter drawled.
“He is only doing what you want him to. And you’re being careless again. What do you think Gilburn will do when he sees us?”
He lifted his brows as if to say, I know you are not really angry with me. “I will be sure to feel badly about this later. Does that help?”
She didn’t have it in her to fight with him. “You win, Peter. But I am counting on you to keep us alive.”
He grinned, his arm tightening around her waist. “Thank you.”
Zipporah glanced at the others. “Did John have a talk with these men about keeping our secret?” The last thing they needed was any of them blathering on about morning kisses on horseback.
“Nay. I did.”
“But will they listen?”
Peter leaned back to look at her. “Yet you believe they would listen to my brother?”
“Will they?”
He ignored her. Zipporah decided silence was the best option at that point.
They rode through the village gates, meeting no resistance. She smiled politely to the villagers watching them. When they reached the bailey, Gilburn was there, his arms crossed over his chest, his face broody.
“It was my horse,” she told him from her perch on Peter’s lap. “It got away.”
He scowled at Peter. “Imagine that. It seems the beast only misbehaves when a certain someone is present.” Gilburn turned her way, his tone softening. “How fair you, my lady?”
Her stomach turned in on itself. “I am fine. Thank you.”
Peter helped her down. She was aware of the way her hip brushed his leg on the way, and what Gilburn was probably thinking. Peter dismounted and stood just behind her, as if he were her personal guard. As if still just a knight. And that bothered her.
A lot.
“I need a moment alone with you,” Gilburn said.
She glanced at Peter. He nodded. “Not too far.”
“Over there, if you please.” A muscle on Gilburn’s jaw twitched as he pointed. “Where the entourage can still see us.”
“And I will be right here,” Peter announced clearly. He motioned to Sir Thornton’s page. “Andrew lad, stay at your lady’s side.”
The boy nodded his dark curly head. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
Gilburn didn’t offer his arm, which was just as well, seeing as Peter might have cut it off. She laughed, then stopped herself. It really wasn’t funny. Must have been the stress. Andrew was at her side, his baby-smooth jaw firmly set. He looked like he was trying to mimic John. The three of them stopped just out of earshot.
“I wanted to give you this.” Gilburn handed her a familiar leather pouch.
She willed her fingers not to shake as she took it. “Thank you. I wondered where it had gone to.”
“One of the maids found it.”
And gave it to Gilburn instead of her mother. That did not bode well for her mother’s authority. Zipporah tied the thongs of her coin pouch to her belt, hoping Gilburn didn’t notice how nervous she was.
“Will you still be attending the archery competition, my lady?” he asked.
“Of course.” She wondered if he knew about the letter? Was it still in her pouch? Or had he taken it, and was waiting for the right moment to question her.
“Good.” He leaned toward her as if to whisper. Andrew drew closer too. Gilburn scowled, but the boy didn’t back down. “Do you mind telling me what is going on here? Do I not deserve that much?”
She floundered, not sure what to say. “Considering yesterday’s events, Peter fears you may lose your temper in front of me. The boy has been assigned for my protection.”
“I was not referring to the boy. And I would never hurt you.”
“Of course not,” she said, smiling.
“I do not know what you thought you were doing yesterday in the garden, but I have given it some thought, and I do realize that young women are prone to lapses in judgment.”
She was tempted to cut his arm off herself.
“That is why it is so important for you to marry sooner than later.”
Andrew’s sword was within reach.
“You need mature guidance, and I assure you, my lady, that I will prove myself your worthy leader.”
“At the archery competition.” she said.
“Is that what you want?”
“I would prefer to avoid bloodshed between you and Sir Peter. Are you not both Englishmen?”
“Well, aye.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Then let’s hand
le this like knights and not barbarians, shall we?” Zipporah tried her best to sound like her mother. “You can compete for me with tests of skill, beginning with the archery contest.”
“Aye, my lady.” He ducked his head. “It will be my pleasure. I am sure you are anxious to see your father. Can I walk you through the garden first?”
“Very well, Sir Gilburn.”
They left the bailey, making their way down the path to her mother’s garden. He opened the squeaky iron gate, Andrew following close on her heels. Peter and the other men were behind them.
As soon as she stepped under the stone archway, gooseflesh prickled her skin. What if Gilburn pushed her inside the garden, locked the gate, and then called for reinforcements?
She looked to Peter for direction. He nodded, and with caution she continued through. Gilburn didn’t move to lock the gate behind them. She breathed a sigh of relief.
“I have to admit,” Gilburn said. “I am concerned about what manner of things Sir Peter might be saying about me.”
“Things?”
“Perhaps he has said nothing at all,” Gilburn finished under his breath.
“You want us to be friends, do you not?” she asked.
“I had hoped for more.”
“But it starts there. I am not sure you understand that, especially after what you said yesterday, about courting being a waste of time.”
“I . . . only meant that I know you dislike so much fuss.”
“Did you know that my father and mother were not an arranged marriage? He stole her from another knight.”
“Your father is unable to guide you now.”
“Like my mother before me, I am able to make my own choices.”
“Is any young lady really able?”
She lifted her chin to him. “Pardon?”
“There is a very good reason for arranged marriages.”
“So you would rather my father had betrothed us immediately.”
“It would have been easier.”
“If it were correct.”
“And you think it is not?”
“What I am saying, is that I am not certain it is within our power to decide. There are higher powers than my father.” King Richard for one.
Enduringly Yours Page 15