by Karin Tabke
Rolf’s brows drew together in confusion, but did as she bade. She closed the door after him and realized she was famished. “Noelth, would you fetch me a tray, please?”
The maid bobbed her head and hurried from the room. Brighid came to her from the bed. “You look weary, Tarian.”
Tarian sank into Malcor’s great chair, pulling her feet up beneath her. “I am. The worry is beginning to take its toll. I fear every waking moment William will arrive on his great steed and slay me with his sword. And after this morn, I fear the people of Dunloc would fight for the right to as well.”
“I heard what happened. Who is this Ednoth, anyway?”
“He is Malcor’s half brother. The resemblance is undeniable. I just don’t know if Earl Llewellyn acknowledged him.”
“Would it change things if he had?”
Tarian shrugged. “Mayhap. As the next son, he could stand to inherit Briarhurst at least. But I have Malcor’s will.”
“Briarhurst is the gem of the holdings. I do not understand your fascination with this dreary old fortress. I would tear it down and construct a castle worthy of a queen!” She looked pointedly at Tarian and pressed her hand to her flat belly, and smiled. “But if you carry the heir, then Ednoth has no claim to anything.”
Tarian swallowed hard, not liking the position into which she had backed herself. It was one thing to smite that horrible uncle Rangor, but she’d had no knowledge of a brother. If Malcor had just left her Draceadon, there would be no strife for anyone. She sighed. If Malcor had just been a man and done his duty, none of them would be worrying whether she would live to see another English sunset.
“I fear a child may complicate things for me, Brighid.”
Brighid dipped to her knees and clasped her hands together in a pleading gesture before her. “Flee from here! We will go to Turnsly, and from there you can hide in any number of Father’s holdings. Or go north to Scotland, where there is no fear of William.”
Tarian inhaled deeply and rolled back onto the thick cushion, closing her eyes. “I cannot, Brighid. ’Twould be the cowardly thing to do.”
“Better to be a coward and live than brave and die. I could not bear the thought of life without you! Please! Think of others if you will not think of yourself.”
Tarian’s hand slid to her flat belly, her eyes rising to the clear blue ones of her foster sister. “What of the child I may carry? This place is his by right of blood. If I should run away from it?” As the lie left her lips, Tarian felt another twinge of guilt. While she was rightful heir by Malcor’s will, the child was not by blood. But did it matter? For should she wed again, would not that child inherit all that was hers? She sucked in a deep breath. The right thing to do was to concede Briarhurst to Rangor, for it was the seat of the earldom; but if she did so, people would question her motives—if there was a child, then he would be, in the eyes of the world, rightful heir to all.
She closed her eyes. “Brighid, leave me alone. I tire of talk. Let me sleep.”
It seemed only moments later that she was being gently shaken awake. “Milady,” Edith called softly, “come and sup; there is food here for you.”
Slowly Tarian roused, and there was indeed food, and hungrily she ate. “Was the wound infected?” she asked Edith as she sipped a cup of wine.
“He would not allow me to see it.”
Tarian shook her head. “Foolish knight. He courts a stump for a leg.”
“He asked once you had eaten that you go to him.”
Tarian nearly choked on the piece of meat she chewed. “I will not!”
“He refused the assistance of his squire as well.”
“I will not be prodded by guilt to tend him. If he is not man enough to strip and sit still in my chamber, then he must not be in too much pain. He will come to me on my terms when the ache is too much to bear.”
She finished her meal, undressed, and sank into the cool soft linens of her bed. But dreams once more plagued her. This time they were of Wulfson, naked and stretched out beside her in the great bed, his rough hands sliding down her body and resting on her swollen belly. He kissed her there and their child moved vigorously beneath his hand. He looked up into her eyes, love burning bright in them. As he lowered his lips to kiss her belly again, he moved his other hand from behind his back, and the glint of a blade flashed in the morning sunlight. He brought it down.
Tarian woke screaming. Terrorized and breathing so heavily she nearly suffocated, she could not get enough air. Brighid, Edith, and Noelth all sought to calm her, but she could not be calmed. She rocked back and forth in the bed clutching her belly as hot tears rushed down her cheeks.
A sharp knock on the door followed soon after. Edith hurried to it, and Tarian heard Wulfson’s deep voice. She cried out and moved against the headboard. “Nay, do not let him in!”
Wulfson did not heed the command. He pushed past the nurse and strode into the chamber. The women gasped at his state of undress. He wore only his braies. He pulled back the heavy drapery surrounding the bed and stopped in his tracks. Tarian’s wild hair swirled around her and her wide blue eyes were red and glittered with tears. She clutched a pillow to her belly and slowly shook her head. She had the look of a madwoman. But deeper than that was a profound sense of fear. Like a wounded animal. His heart melted a little then. She wore her pride as she did her honor, as a protective barrier against the world. He understood it, he lived it himself, but she played the game in a man’s world, and he could not blame her for her fear and breakdown. He set his jaw. And he only added to her misery. He would send another messenger to hurry Warner along. And he would plead a different case to his king.
He moved closer to her and she cried out, moving harder against the headboard. “I will not hurt you, Tarian,” he soothed.
She shook her head, but slowly he saw the fear recede from her eyes.
“She fears for the babe,” Brighid offered.
Wulfson stiffened, and he did not like the tightness in his gut at the thought of Tarian carrying another man’s child. “Is she? With child?” he demanded, looking to the nurse for answer.
The old woman shrugged. “Mayhap. Another few weeks and we will know for sure.”
Wulfson growled and turned back to Tarian, who, though she still clutched the pillow to her, had relaxed enough not to appear as part of the carved wood headboard.
He turned to the three women who hovered like barn flies around the bed. “Go to the hall; I wish a private word with the lady.” All three jaws dropped. “I intend her no harm. Now go, and close the door behind you!”
They jumped at his tone, and when he heard the door thunk closed, he turned back to Tarian. She had moved to the other side of the bed. “Why were you screaming?”
She closed her eyes, then slowly opened them. “A nightmare.”
He exhaled a long breath. He fought with wanting to comfort her but knowing he could offer her no promises. William’s word would be final, and unless Wulfson was to defy his king and have a price upon his own head he could do naught but obey. The thought of it made him sick. He was not a murderer. He was a soldier; he met his foes face to face on the field of battle. He did not sneak about and hide in shadows only to plunge a dagger into a noblewoman’s heart. ’Twas a coward’s way, not his.
He swiped his hand across his mouth and chin. “Tarian—”
She shook her head. “Nay, do not make promises you cannot keep. Leave me.”
He nodded and withdrew from her. When he opened the chamber door all three women tumbled in upon him. Brighid squeaked as her hand brushed his hard belly, and the two maids twittered like schoolgirls. He ignored them and walked slowly down the hall to his own chamber. And with each step his anger grew. His frustration, and his sense of right and wrong: in his gut he knew what his king asked of him was wrong.
He spent the next several days away from Draceadon. He and his men, with a handful of Gareth’s, patrolled the outlying lands. He had not lied when he told Tarian the landsca
pe pleased him. The weather had become much more agreeable, and he found that he enjoyed the sunny, mild weather infused with occasional rain. The hills were lush and green, the resources abundant; and though the people were sullen and on occasion adversarial, they were quickly handled.
When they returned on the fourth day, Wulfson was surprised to see Tarian working the gray, and Thorin, whom he had left in charge, schooling her in the ancient art of Greek cavalry maneuvers. He frowned, feeling a short stab of jealousy that his friend should be the one to teach the lady what she had asked of him. He watched her, still amazed at her audacious dress. She wore leather boots, woolen chauses, an undertunic, and a soft leather gambeson. When she drew her sword and, with her legs, commanded the gray to stop, she parried and thrust first to one side, then another.
The stallion worried at his bit and pranced crabwise, side to side. Thorin called to her, “Nay, nay, nay! You cannot instruct him to halt with your hands then with your gyrations of the sword give him another command with your legs.”
“I did not!”
“Aye, you did. Your bottom was up and back in the saddle while your legs pressed and your spurs dug into him. You confused him. He must trust your commands, Tarian, or he will bolt time after time when you need his calmness the most.”
Wulfson scowled at the familiarity with which Thorin spoke to her. He urged the black forward, and Tarian looked up from Thorin, who had placed her legs in the proper position to halt and stay a horse.
Thorin turned and followed her gaze. “Aye, you return!” He called to all the men. “Did you find any Welsh lurking about in the bushes?”
Wulfson dismounted. Rolf quickly took the reins, along with Wulfson’s helm and gauntlets. Wulfson pushed back his cowl and ran his hands through his damp hair. “A few, but they ran like the cowards they are.” He looked past Thorin to Tarian, who sat silent upon her horse. “Are you well?”
She nodded.
Wulfson could think of no pithy remark, so instead he asked Thorin, “Has Warner returned?”
“Nay, but the bastard Ednoth has come here twice to seek a word with you.”
He could see Tarian’s body stiffen. She dismounted and walked toward Wulfson, leading her horse with her. “He claims the earldom. I would not produce the will until such time as you returned. I assure you it is valid. Not only did Edith and that cur Ruin witness it with their marks, but Father Dudley as well. They can all be brought forth as witnesses in person.”
“First you must produce the document.”
“I have it here, and will gladly present it to you, but if you do not mind I would have the matter done in private.”
Wulfson nodded. “I can see no harm in that. I have a need for a good soak in the tub first.” He grinned wide and winked at Thorin. “As the lady of the manor, ’tis it not your chore to see to the baths of all guests?”
He watched the color flood her cheeks. He grinned wider. She bent her head just enough to acknowledge him. “I will see to my horse, then to your bath.” She turned on her heels and strode to the stable, her back as rigid as his sword.
Thorin laughed and slapped him on the back. “You are a better man than I, Wulf, to tangle with that wildcat. I swear she is a most intense student, but a most distracting one as well.”
Wulfson could only nod in agreement, for he was not sure, if he spoke, that his words would not be construed as a challenge to his friend. And one thing the men had never done was quarrel over a woman. Share? Aplenty, but never quarrel over one, and Wulfson found he most definitely would quarrel over this one. He’d spent the last four days in the saddle, with nothing but thoughts of a different kind of ride altogether, and the only face that came to him in his daydreams and dreams late at night was that of the blue-eyed witch Tarian Godwinson.
Sixteen
As he lowered his aching body into the wooden tub of hot, soapy water, Wulfson could not help a deep sigh. “Ah, ’tis heaven.” For long moments he reclined in the large tub, eyes closed, his head against the backrest, allowing the heat of the water to seep into his tired muscles. His wounds were healing, and he would have Tarian snip the stitches from his back and leg. He smiled. If he were slow and careful, he just might cajole the lady into shedding her clothes and joining him in the tub. When he opened his eyes and found her frowning down at him, his hopes were dashed.
“Sir, I have many chores that need my attention. So please sit forward so that I can bathe you and be done with it.”
He did the opposite: he continued to recline, and scathed her with his gaze. “You look well.”
She approached and dunked a thick sponge into the water near his feet, then put a bar of soap to it and vigorously rubbed up a lather. “I am quite well.”
“Well enough, I see, to take lessons from Thorin.”
“He has the patience of a saint.” She cocked a dark brow at him. “’Tis more than I can say for some other Normans I know.”
He was not put aside by her quip. “You have not given me a chance. I am a tutor of considerable skill.”
“I have given you a chance. You have proven you have only a single focus, and that is for your king. I accept that. Now accept that I want no further dalliances with you.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him as he sat up in the tub. “Do you dally with Thorin, then?”
Her eyes widened in genuine surprise. She yanked her arm from his grasp and sat back on her heels. “’Tis what you think of me? A camp whore who will lie with any man for a trinket or a morsel?”
Wulfson could feel the thump of his heart against his chest wall. Jealousy knotted up in his gut. He could not get out of his head the vision of Tarian arching beneath Thorin. He stared at her unblinking, wanting to believe her, but he knew women too well.
“That you classify me as of the same ilk as your other women only solidifies my decision.” She lathered up the sponge some more and moved around to his back. He felt her touch the wound she had tended. “The threads have done their job. I will cut these out before they grow into your skin.”
“There are shears in the chest there,” he said softly, pointing toward it. He flinched when she ran her fingertips over the scar again; not from pain, but from her touch. He was a fool, he told himself, a fool to classify her among any other women. ’Twas impossible to do, for she was unlike any he had met or would ever meet.
“The stitches are brittle; I will dampen them so they will be easier to cut.”
Wulfson set his jaw, knowing all hope of a tender moment between them was gone. She had abandoned him, and while he understood her reasons for doing so, it did not cut any less deep. Once the bath was complete, she told him to stand, and reluctantly he did. He could not help his engorged member, for while she might not want him, his yearning for her had not quelled. He heard her soft gasp, and had his mood not soured so much he would have made light of it.
“You are safe from me, Tarian, ignore it.”
She hurried to pat him dry, and once done, she pointed to the chair nearest them. He wrapped the linen around his waist and sat.
When she approached him with the shears he locked gazes with her, and he saw fear in her eyes. His gut twisted as if he had some illness. He cursed softly and stood. “I will not harm you this night! Jesu! Do not look at me that way!”
She nodded, and motioned for him to sit. Grudgingly, he did so. Her hand was gentle with the shears; he did not feel even a prick as she snipped and removed the threads from his shoulder. He watched her face pinken as she pulled a stool up and pressed open his thighs. His hardness had subsided, but with her touch on his thigh so close to what made him a man, it thickened. “Ignore it,” he said.
She looked up into his face, and he was relieved to see a twinkle in her eye. “’Twill be difficult—it is so intrusive.” But she settled between his thighs as she had done nearly a fortnight ago, and as he’d done then, he now rose against her side. Wulfson gritted his teeth and endured the living hell of having her so close but being
unable to touch her.
She pushed back the linen and looked at the neat scar, then turned her face up to him. “’Tis healed.”
He nodded. “Aye.”
“But—?” Her eyes narrowed and he watched his ruse dawn on her face. “It never festered!”
He grinned in embarrassment. “So you found me out. ’Twas a ploy to get you alone.”
“You have no honor!”
“I never claimed any.”
She shook her head and quickly saw to the threads. Once she was done she made to move away from him, but Wulfson stayed her with a gentle hand. When she turned, wide-eyed, he shook his head. “I will not harm you, nor will I attempt to seduce you.” His cock flexed as he said the words, and they both caught their breaths. “My pardon, I cannot seem to control that whilst you are near.”
She trembled in his arms, and he wanted to believe it was because he made her feel the same heat she made him feel. “I have a query of you,” he softly said.
Nodding slowly, Tarian said, “Ask me.”
“When last we were thus, did I displeasure you?”
Color flooded her cheeks and she looked down, then away. She shook her head, not looking at him.
“You pleased me greatly,” he whispered, pushing her hair from her face and turning her to face him. “As no other before you. So do not think I compare you to other women. You are above them all.”
Her eyes moistened. “Why do you say these things to me?”
“Because they are true.”
“Nay, how can you say them when one night I will find you standing over my bed with your dagger in hand?”
He stiffened, and very carefully he spoke. “I told you once that my king was not a fool. I trust him to make the correct decision based on all the information presented to him.”
“But how could you? Your man left here a month ago!”
“I sent another messenger, Tarian.”
Her body stiffened, but he saw a softening in her eyes. “You did? Why?”