by Traci E Hall
Mayhap I’ll have to resort to visiting the village wise woman for a simple love spell. Me, a magical healer, and I can’t encourage my own husband’s affections.
“We’ve readied the tent, my lady.” Bess and Viola giggled as she came closer to the large green-and-white striped dome. Montehue colors.
Waiting outside, the two maids were fresh-faced and pretty. Bess, plump, and Viola thin. They’d flirted all day with the knights, and Celestia felt a pang of homesickness for her own sisters.
“Will you need us anymore tonight?” Bess asked, her full lips turned up at the corners.
“We will be right here, my lady, if ye do,” Viola said, gesturing toward the fire that Celestia had just left. Turning back, she realized that while she’d been sitting there, the other members of their party had gathered elsewhere. Now that she was gone, everyone mingled around the fire.
She exhaled, wondering at why such a small thing could hurt. When would she be accepted for who she was? Ever?
“I’ll be fine. Good night, girls.”
“We’ve left out some sweet wine, and bread with cheese.” Bess giggled.
“For if you get hungry, later.” Viola dipped her head and blushed.
Then they bobbed their heads in unison and dashed away, their eyes bright with anticipation.
Celestia decided to find Nicholas before she went to bed, but found her gaze returning to the tent again and again. What was she going to do? In order to free her brothers from the baron, she had to produce a child. She sighed. Even she knew that meant having sex with her husband, which didn’t require true affection.
She walked to where the horses were stabled and found Ceffyl, who was tied next to Brenin. The two seemed content. Celestia reached her hand out to the mare. “I haven’t anything for you, my sweet.”
Ceffyl neighed, as if in sympathy, and Celestia swallowed hard. Her anger at Nicholas seesawed with hope for a future, although his reaction to her healing ability, his rejection of her body on their wedding night, and his numerous other humiliations stuck in her throat.
She might not want his love, but she needed it in order to stay who she was.
Could she put on such an act that he wouldn’t see through her façade? She was a healer, not a storyteller, she thought with a shiver of apprehension. And Nicholas’s gray eyes were penetrating.
“Good night,” she whispered to the horses. “Wish me well.” They snuffled softly as she made her way to the tent she’d been avoiding.
Pushing the flap aside was hard to do.
The girls had outdone themselves, creating a bower of romance within the fabric walls. Plump pillows and colorful blankets beckoned. A flask of wine sat on the table, and even though she’d already had plenty to drink, she picked it up and took a large, soothing swallow.
Then she stood at the entrance of the tent, holding the flask and watching her husband from afar.
He stood so casually by the fire, yet she could tell he wasn’t at ease. Nicholas was tall, and darkly handsome. While her father had broader shoulders than her husband, Nicholas was trim about the waist and hips. The borrowed tunic flattered his physique. Petyr had called him a hero, back from the Crusades, and his injuries told the story of how beaten down he’d been—yet to live, how strong he must be. He was a knight, but he could read and write and he spoke of his youth at the monastery as if it were a haven. Who was Nicholas Le Blanc?
Warrior, or monk?
She huffed, feeling like a scavenger crow gathering what bits she could, since he wouldn’t tell her anything himself.
He turned then, and his strong profile was shadowed against the flames. Her blood heated, just looking at him. What had happened to him, to wound such a man?
Celestia had heard stories, not that she took much stock in rumors, but sometimes there was a grain of truth amongst the lies. Her father thought that King Richard was a brilliant strategist, but a butcher on foreign soil. He’d muttered something about King Philip and King Richard and the fall of Sodom, and then he’d issued a warning that the king’s own brother was not to be trusted. One of her father’s friends had laughingly pointed out that in the royal family, nobody could be trusted.
She had no patience for politics. War was a man’s game, and one she didn’t fully comprehend. What good could come of death and mutilation? She was a healer, and determined to fix what England had broken.
Nicholas reminded her of a caged panther. She’d seen one once, all sleek strength just waiting for a chance to escape its bonds. Or perhaps he was more like the falcon of his mother’s family. Strong, quick, and deadly.
Shivering, she vowed to do her best to make him love her. She’d be sweet of voice, quick of wit, and conscious of his comforts. She’d be … fortunate if she didn’t yell at the poor man for not washing his hands before a meal.
Nicholas still stood with the others around the fire, but away from them, too. It took a moment for Celestia to realize that even in his relaxed stance, he was guarding the camp.
Why couldn’t he trust the other knights?
Baron Peregrine’s men, now Nicholas’s men, were present, as was Sir Geoffrey. Nicholas said something, and they nodded. Stephan yawned and made a show of walking over to his sleeping roll near the fire. Viola giggled while she and Bess finished the last of the dishes, signifying the end of the evening. Two of the knights took their posts at opposite ends of the small camp, while the others readied for bed.
Nicholas’s gaze touched upon each of them, as if making certain that they’d do their job to protect the ones who slept. He turned toward their tent, met her stare, and then glanced away as if she was just another chore.
He had no plans for bed, she thought with a start. She’d noticed, while healing him, that Nicholas fought sleep. Mayhap that was when his inner demons came to torment him. Saint Cosmos help her; she could make him rest.
Celestia glanced around the tent until she found the tapestry bag that contained small vials of her most commonly needed herbs. She never went anywhere without it.
Letting the flap drop behind her, Celestia grabbed the bag, unrolled the top, and reached for the vial filled with pure opium powder. “Perfect,” she smiled, wanting to help him before he relapsed into fever. “He’ll relax, and mayhap let me close enough to touch him. Then,” her cheeks flushed as she imagined what might happen next. His lips to hers, his hands on her bare skin …
She swallowed, her fingers trembling as she took the vial and uncorked it. Taking a goblet from the low, square table, Celestia dropped a few grains inside. Just enough to make her husband get the rest he needed.
And if it made him amenable to sharing her pallet, then what of it? They were wed, and she needed to get with child even if Nicholas could never care for her. But it felt wrong.
Love or no love, at least her brothers would be free. Her pride ached at the thought of being without the magical power in her hands, but Gram was right. She knew enough herbal lore that she could earn her way, and still help others. Her throat was sore with repressed emotion, so she poured wine into her own goblet and took a sip.
She wanted so badly to find a common thread between them, so that they might have a future to knit together. He could be shy when it came to women. Mayhap he had another love interest, or, she sipped at the sweet wine until her head swam, mayhap the Crusades had left him unmanned.
Oh heavens, she pressed her hand to her rolling stomach. The baron had demanded a healer and a wife for his only son. Which had to mean … pity rose to the surface like water. She’d seen him, all of him, and he hadn’t looked—but if there was something—something she hadn’t known about?
Sweet Jesu, and all the saints. The healer in her wanted to mend what was wrong, while the feminine side of her wanted to feel his lips upon her own and heal him in a way that only a woman could. She stared at the goblet. Where had that thought come from?
Setting the wine on the table, she rolled up her bag and put it to the side, then she got up, determined
to catch Nicholas’s eye. How could she get his attention? How could she ask her husband if he couldn’t perform as a man?
Suddenly the way he pulled away from her made perfect sense. His self-deprecation, the blackness and despair.
She smoothed her hair, then adjusted her tunic. Chewing a sprig of mint for fresh breath, Celestia faced the tent flap and told herself to charge out there and get her man.
Her slippered feet refused to budge.
It was just as well.
The flap flew open and Nicholas stood before her.
“Ah!” she shrieked, her hand to her throat.
He spun around, his hand on the hilt of his sword as he looked behind him. “Who’s there?”
“No, so sorry, oh,” Celestia cringed. “You startled me.”
Nicholas turned all the way ‘round, then let his hand fall away from the sword. “And you, me, my lady. I was worried that I’d walked into the wrong tent.”
Celestia’s knees were shaking so hard that she couldn’t move. She gathered her courage. “We have the only green-and-white tent.”
“‘Tis bigger than some of the villager’s homes.”
“I noticed that, as well.” Celestia could feel the hot color staining her cheeks as she watched Nicholas take in the tent’s interior.
His jaw muscle clenched, and she saw anew that the floor was piled with thick, sumptuous furs and large pillows. The low table was covered in a crimson cloth, stacked high with food and wine. Saint Mary Magdalene’s mercy, but it looked like she was planning a seduction.
Gulping her fear, and feeling especially penitent, she stepped in front of the intended wedding bed. She said in a high voice, “The girls, Viola and Bess, got carried away, my lord.”
“You had nothing to do with this?” His ebony brow quirked.
“Nay,” she answered, determined to get past her embarrassment and at least let her husband rest. “The bed is comfortable,” her tongue tripped over itself at the double entendre, “I mean, if you are tired?”
“Your face has turned the color of one of the roses in your garden. Please, don’t fret over what was done out of kindness.” He stepped farther into the tent, and the flap closed behind him. A fleeting expression of panic crossed his face, and Celestia wished again that she’d paid attention to the minstrel’s instructions on how to win a lover.
“There’s drink,” she said as she walked over to the table. She paused before pouring the sweet white wine into the goblet dusted with opium.
It was for his own good.
But she’d not seduce him while he was drugged. Celestia could not do so; it went against every moral she had. Her brothers would be saved another night, and it was more important that Nicholas get some sleep.
She would guard him herself.
The pressure to be someone she was not, namely, a seductress, fell away and she was able to stop her damnable shaking.
Turning, the goblet in her hand, she caught Nicholas staring at her backside. Her body immediately warmed, no matter her best intentions. She held the wine out to him until he reached forward and took it. Their fingers brushed, and the tingling returned. She recalled the sight of their joined hands during the wedding ceremony, and the feel of his lips against hers. Her breasts grew heavy, her nipples tight and sensitive to the linen gown beneath her tunic.
The room swayed. Had she thought his gaze cold?
The gray orbs were smoldering, like banked ash. What would those eyes look like once the fire caught, and raged out of control?
Celestia dropped her hand to her belly, her thighs trembling with desire instead of nerves. The reaction was so instantaneous that she didn’t have time to rationalize her feelings, nor fight against them.
All she could think about were his hands caressing her bare skin. Would his chest be hard beneath her touch? She already knew that his body was covered with a smattering of dark hair, it had fascinated her—the way the curls crossed his chest, only to taper downward. She lowered her eyes and prayed that he couldn’t read her unseemly thoughts.
“No.” His voice was gruff, and it doused her feelings like a plunge into the lake. “I’ll not have it.”
It could be that he found her simply undesirable, that she was experiencing things he was not. Fate could be cruel, but she’d not lay her heart at the feet of a man who would trample it—for her, love and lust had to be one.
She lifted her chin and met his eyes, striving to find that cold place Nicholas lived in.
“Is the wine not to your liking?”
Nicholas brought the goblet to his lips, never taking his gaze from Celestia. She was like a dream, her pale beauty against the vibrant fabric behind her. He hadn’t felt the hot burning of desire in so long, and yet these past two days, just laying eyes upon his wife brought him close to bursting. “‘Tis nothing. The wine is fine, my lady.”
Gesturing toward the low table, she said in a clipped tone, “We have roasted hare, bread, and cheese.” As if he wasn’t there, she began unlacing the bodice of her tunic.
Nicholas fought for and found his self-control. “We should talk. I’ve told the men I would take first watch, but they forced me to come to, uh, you.” He cleared his throat, his ears burning at the ribald jokes the men had made regarding the wedding bed.
He noticed her fingers knot a lace, and she muttered what sounded like a curse. Surely not? He did not know her well, but she was a lady, forced into a situation not of her choosing.
“It will be difficult to keep up the illusion of being wed, with so many witnesses.” He took another drink of wine.
The tunic fell open, revealing a sheer linen under-gown. Feeling perverse, but unable to stop himself, he stole repeated glances. The pink of a pert nipple was visible, as was the dip of her belly. She said, “I’ve changed my mind.”
“What?” Nicholas’s penis stirred at the news.
She pointed to the bed. “Would you sit, please?” Celestia shrugged off the tunic completely so that she stood before him in the practically invisible linen gown. He was reminded of the crackling, mind-numbing heat between them on their wedding night. It had taken all of his will to stand his ground then, and he didn’t know if he was strong enough to do it twice.
“I don’t think,” he blustered, draining the remnant of his wine despite the bitter aftertaste. “I suppose that, well, the annulment can’t happen if we consu—” she brushed by him on the way to the pallet, her hair a beacon as he choked out the words, “consummate our,” she lay back against the pillows and patted the spot next to her.
His body told his head to take a jump off the nearest cliff.
He covered his face with one hand, as if that would block the image of Celestia supine before him, her unbraided hair spread out behind her. He croaked, “Why, have you changed your mind about us doing, er, it?”
She closed her eyes, mumbling something. Nicholas found himself enamored of her golden lashes as they fluttered against her porcelain skin. What would they feel like, if he ran his fingertips over them? Soft, delicate as silk. “I can’t come to bed,” he said, stomping across the tent floor and taking a seat on the single low stool, as far away from Celestia as possible. He crossed one foot over the opposite knee. “Boots.”
Shifting, she rose to one elbow on her side, her gaze pinioning him. “Would you care for help?” She spoke slowly, her voice a melody to his ears. “I’ve not been prepared to be a good wife, Nicholas, but I am willing to learn.”
He groaned and tugged the boot off his foot, then switched legs. Teaching, learning, lovemaking—no. “The annulment is for the best.”
“But what if the baron says no? My family is relying on me to save them, and I … I have feelings for you, Nicholas, that I would be willing to explore.”
Nicholas tossed the boot to the corner, then stood, his entire body humming with the need to bury himself deep within his wife’s sheath.
He picked up a slice of bread and took a ferocious bite. “I am not worthy of anyone’s
feelings, my lady. I’ve told you before,” he chewed and swallowed, “I am going to confront Baron Peregrine—”
“Your father.”
“He is not that to me,” Nicholas welcomed the anger that took the edge off of this unseemly attraction. “I will confront him, and you can return home, as pure as you are now.”
The open expression on her beautiful face fell, and he wondered if she was keeping a secret from him.
“I am a healer, my lord, if, uh …” she stammered as she looked pointedly toward his groin, “if there is anything you want to tell me?”
Nicholas reached for the goblet of wine, but found it empty. Had she been implying that there was something wrong with his manhood? Come to think of it, her father had been asking many pointed questions, as well.
He saw her take a deep breath before she lifted her eyes to his. Nicholas coughed on a stone from the bread, wondering if he could choke to death on embarrassment.
“There is nothing wrong with my, er, parts.” He took a piece of cheese, eating because he didn’t know what else to do. His head felt fuzzy, and his tongue thick. He was desperately thirsty, so he poured more wine.
“I am so glad to hear it, my lord.”
Was that a tremble in her voice? “My reasons for keeping you untouched are noble ones. Why do you tempt me with something I do not want?”
She sat up, pulling a blanket around her shoulders, the roses gone from her plump cheeks.
His fingertips itched to touch her hair, to trace the shadow between her breasts. Why did he feel like he would jump from his skin for the merest chance to be inside of hers?
His voice shook as he said, “I told you before that I won’t be consummating this marriage, my lady. It doesn’t concern you.”
He’d not seen such a sudden flash of temper, as she exploded upwards from the pallet, her fists clenched at her sides. “Not concern me? Is this a new humiliation for me? You are so repulsed by my healing gifts that you cannot even lie next to me? I’d changed my mind about seducing you tonight, but now—I don’t care if I ever reach beyond your cold exterior! I care not for your reasons, by God. What shall I tell my maids? That you are not a man? What shall I say to my family when I don’t get with child? That I will never save my brothers because it is none of my concern?”