The Very Thought of You
Page 29
"Then I suppose," she said sweetly, "you must needs try harder to wring them from me."
"That sounds like a challenge."
She lifted one eyebrow. "Take it as you will."
"That definitely sounds like a challenge," he laughed, then bent himself back to his work.
She didn't think anything could equal his last night's work, but she found that she was wrong. As he took her and made her his yet again, she heard herself cry out and was powerless to stop the sound. By the saints, the man undid her!
He rolled away at length and gathered her to him. Margaret curled up in his arms and rested her head on his shoulder.
"Think you," she began slowly, "that we've disturbed the household?"
His laugh was a comforting rumble in his chest. "I would imagine so."
"Hmmm," she said, tracing patterns on his chest with her fingers. "Think you we should rise?"
"There's that word again—"
"I mean rise from the bed," she said, lifting her head to glare down at him. It was only a halfhearted glare, though. It was hard to take offense at teasing when it came from a man who had just loved you so thoroughly.
Alex pulled her head back down to his shoulder. "Maybe tomorrow."
"You mean to stay abed the entire day?"
"Works for me. Why, do you have a better idea?"
She lifted her head and looked down at him. "We could spend an hour or so in the lists."
He blinked. "You can't be serious."
"We could see to our gear."
His mouth fell open slightly. "You are serious."
She looked about her helplessly. "It feels so decadent to do nothing but stay abed."
"It's not decadent. It's our duty. I'm just sure that it's written somewhere that we have to stay in bed for at least a couple of days and make sure that our marriage is good and consummated."
"You don't think it has been already?"
"I'm not sure. When I can walk again, say in a week or so, I'll let. you know. Until then, I think we have no choice but to keep at this until we're certain we've got it right. Besides," he said, pulling her head down and kissing her, "you're the countess of Falconberg. I'm sure there's someone seeing to your gear for you."
"And likely yours, too," she agreed.
"There are benefits to a title."
Indeed there were. And the best was that a title had made Alex her husband. She ran her fingers over his jaw, remembering the first time she'd had such an urge and how she'd denied herself the pleasure. It was odd that now she was able to indulge herself at will. She felt a surge of good feelings toward her husband and searched for a way to let him know of them.
"You showed well at the joust," she offered.
"Oh, my," he said, his eyes wide, "a compliment. Good thing I'm lying down or I'd probably be falling down."
"I'm being generous," she said. "After all, I did best you with the lance."
"You surprised the hell out of me," he corrected. "I was looking at Baldric waving that stupid pole with your headgear on it. I hardly saw you coming."
"You were in the dust. I was not."
He frowned at her. "If you'll remember, Lady Falconberg, I bested you with the sword."
She shrugged. "We all have our off days."
"Off days—" he spluttered.
She pulled away and looked at him with concern. "I should call for a meal. You look flushed."
"Of course I'm flushed! I beat you fairly and you won't admit defeat!"
"Alex, calm yourself," she said, sitting up. "Aye, a meal, before you do yourself an injury from lack of strength."
"Oh, no, you don't," he said, pulling her back down and rolling on top of her. He glared down at her. "Did you or did you not lose your sword thanks to my sending it flying out of your hands?"
"Well..." The feel of him stretched over her was exceedingly distracting. The man was naught but muscle. She ran her hands over his back, admiring the firmness of his skin. "Alex, where did you say you got these scars?"
"From a whip right before I had an extended stay in a Scottish dungeon, and you're changing the subject." He framed her face with his hands and frowned down at her. "Admit it, Margaret. You were defeated."
"I was distracted. You have the most arresting eyes, Alex."
"Margaret!"
"Tell me more of this Scottish dungeon."
"You wouldn't believe me. It was in the fifteenth century, and you're still changing the subject!"
She smiled sweetly. "You were distracted when I bested you. I will admit that I was distracted when you claim to have bested me."
He continued to glare down at her, then suddenly he laughed shortly. "You never will give in, will you?"
She shook her head. "Falconberg pride."
"Falconberg arrogance is more like it."
"Aye," she said, leaning up to kiss him hard on the lips. " 'Tis something you already possess in great abundance. My sire would have been pleased with you."
He laughed again, a somewhat helpless-sounding laugh, and dropped his head next to hers on her pillow. "Margaret, why is it I have the feeling I'll just never win against you?"
She patted him on the back. "I just wouldn't bother to try, were I you."
"Why should I? Every time I'm on the verge of it, you compliment me and it distracts me. I don't stand a chance."
"A wise man it is who knows his limitations."
He groaned and buried his face in her hair.
She stroked his back for several moments in silence, then cleared her throat.
"And what are your limitations on this ... um ..."
''Lovemaking?''
"Aye, that would be the word."
He didn't bother to lift his head. "You're grinding me into the ground, Meg. You know it, yet you keep on doing it."
She smiled. "Then 'tis a good thing you're such a sturdy fellow, is it not?"
He lifted his head and looked down at her, the light of battle simmering in his eye. "I'll need food first."
"I'll arrange it."
"You've thrown down the gauntlet, you know."
"Aye, I know."
"Food," he said, considering, "then a small nap. You'll want to take one, too."
"I will?"
"I'm sure of it." He rolled away with a groan. "I'm just sure of it," he repeated.
Margaret intended to bound out of bed, just to show him how rested she felt. Instead, she found herself on her feet but suddenly clinging to the foot post as seemingly every muscle in her body set up a clamoring protest. She drew a blanket around her and chanced a glance at her husband to see if he'd noticed.
His pillow was over his face, but the rest of him was shaking.
"Too much time abed," she announced as she hitched her way over to the door.
He shouted with laughter. Margaret jumped as she felt his pillow hit her square on the backside. She turned and glared at him.
"Disrespectful man," she muttered, then stuck her head out the door and bellowed for food.
But disrespectful though he might have been, and seemingly lacking in the proper appreciation of her ability to best him on the field, Margaret had to admit he was a man without peer.
She had seen only the marriages about her and speculated on the misery endured in such unions. Instead, she found herself continually surprised by how pleasant a venture it had turned out to be.
They had returned to Falconberg soon after they were wed, to the undisguised relief of Lady Tickhill. Lord Odo had sent them off with another bottle of fine claret and a warning to Alex to expect visitors of the merchant kind within days. Margaret had shrugged it off, unsure why Odo seemed so pleased by that prospect, and unwilling to investigate further.
She had been too preoccupied with wondering how Alex might treat her once they reached home. She knew he wouldn't grind her beneath his heel, or at least she hoped she knew that, but all the same she'd wondered just how he would take over the running of her keep. Another man would have immediately
shut her up in the solar and left her there to rot.
Of course, Alex was not just another man. Though she knew she shouldn't have been surprised, she always was to find herself at Alex's side during every moment of his day, seeing to the servants, conversing with their vassals, training the garrison.
And when Ralf's gold arrived, she'd been right there next to him at the table, counting it. And then, surprisingly enough, he'd asked her what she thought they should do with it. He had deferred to each of her suggestions with an approving nod. His only request had been for a bit of it to spend as he saw fit. She had assumed he perhaps wanted a sword of his own, or another mount more suited to the rigors of jousting.
She'd been wrong.
Where he'd dredged up the idea she couldn't have said, but somewhere in that fogged brain of his, he had decided he had needed to woo her. Never mind that he'd already won her.
She'd hardly known how to take it.
It had begun in London. The journey there had been uneventful enough, merely a pleasant bit of travel with nights spent either at comfortable inns or under the stars. Margaret had been content merely to be with Alex wherever he chose to lay his head. Jamie and Elizabeth had been wonderful companions, full of stories about clan life, past and present. Margaret had even begun to accept their fanciful tales of their life in the future. They were such good souls, how could she not accept that slight failing in their mental state?
After reaching London, they had taken a pair of very fine chambers and settled in to wait for the king's coronation. She and Elizabeth had been taking their ease one afternoon when Alex had burst into the chamber with Jamie, both of their arms full of all manner of cloth and trailed by a handful of seamstresses. Alex had had a pair of gowns fashioned for her, gowns of such marvelous stuff that she could hardly keep her hands off herself as she wore them. It had almost been enough to convince her she should dress in a womanly fashion more often.
But it hadn't stopped there.
He'd seen to new hose and tunics for the both of them. He'd presented her with strange and exotic perfumes and foodstuffs. He'd had rings fashioned for her fingers and coverings fashioned for her hair.
And, of course, he'd presented her with a fine new dagger.
If she hadn't been in love with him before that, she would have been after she'd seen the firelight dancing along that perfectly fashioned edge.
"Damascus steel," he pointed out proudly.
How could a woman not love such a man?
So love him she had, more with each moment that passed. She loved the beauty of his face and form. She loved the sharpness of his logic that shone through despite the slight befuddlement of his wits over his past. She loved the ruthless light that came into his eye when he thought someone might be contemplating insulting him or, the saints forbid, her.
By the saints, she was fortunate she'd kidnapped him instead of Edward of Brackwald.
Twenty - six
Alex shifted in the saddle and wondered if he would ever accustom himself to riding with as much ease as Margaret and Jamie seemed to. Maybe it had something to do with a long ride to London and back. Or it could just be that he had a twentieth-century butt that would never accustom itself to medieval travel.
Maybe they should have stayed longer in the city. It wasn't as if he hadn't had the money to pay for lodging. Edward had delivered Brackwald's ransom to Falconberg shortly after they'd returned there from Tickhill. Alex had barely had time to count it all before the time came to set out for London. Not that he'd minded that. The very thought of being in the same place where Richard of England would be recrowned was worth any number of saddle sores.
He hadn't been disappointed. Somehow he and Margaret, and Jamie and Elizabeth, had found themselves in great seats for the ceremony in Westminster. It was every bit as awe-inspiring as he'd imagined it, and much more so than any history book could ever have made it seem.
The only spooky thing had been walking through the Abbey and not seeing the graves he was accustomed to seeing. Jamie had been just as oblivious to it as Margaret was, but Alex had exchanged more than one startled glance with his sister.
"Look," Margaret said, interrupting his musings.
He followed her arm and smiled at the sight. "Home," he said with a sigh of relief.
"Aye," she said, returning his smile. "Home."
He'd never been so glad to see anything in his life. Though the trip south had been intensely interesting and seeing it from horseback rather than a speeding Jaguar had been educational, he was ready to be home. Maybe he'd work on building a tub for two. So it wouldn't be a Jacuzzi; a good soak was still nothing to take lightly.
" 'Tis pleasing to see no streams of smoke on the horizon," Margaret said as they cantered along.
"That's for sure."
Ralf hadn't been in London. The only words Alex had managed to say to Richard were "Congratulations, Sire," and "We'll send support to your army as soon as may be." Alex had used his title to his best advantage, pumping others for information and bullying where he had to, but the only report he had was that Ralf was due to arrive when Richard's fleet set sail for France. But where Ralf was keeping himself at present was a mystery and one Alex didn't want solved by seeing Falconberg going up in flames. That the skyline was clear was a great relief.
Maybe Ralf would actually do what the king had told him to do and go to France. Alex had serious doubts that would happen. If Ralf's gold resided in Margaret's cellar, Ralf was sure to follow close on its heels.
Well, there was nothing to do but prepare for it as best he could. Other than that, all he could do was enjoy being a newly wed.
And get busy building that king-size bathtub, of course.
They rode into the bailey and Alex could only gape at the sight that greeted his eyes.
It was as if the entire shire had decided to show up for an extended stay. Tents, lean-tos, branches tied together worthy of any Swiss Family Robinson hut—they were all there.
And Sir George stood on the steps, positively beaming. Alex looked at Margaret.
"Any idea what this is?"
She looked as stunned as he. ''I think perhaps they have come to have you dispense justice. 'Twas so in my sire's day."
"Well," Alex said, nonplussed. "It looks like things have been simmering for a while." He saw the tightening of her expression and winced. "I didn't mean that how it sounded."
She let out her breath slowly, then turned and smiled grimly at him. ''I know, Alex. This is hardly your doing, nor is it your fault they wouldn't come to me before."
He swung down from his mount and held up his arms for her. "Come 'ere, wife," he said, pulling her down and into his arms. He held her tightly and bent his head to her ear. "Sometimes life really sucks, Margaret."
She put her face in the crook of his neck and merely stood in his embrace, holding on to him tightly. Alex closed his eyes and savored the feeling. Just what had he ever done to deserve this woman? She would never admit defeat, never admit hurt, never admit any weakness. But the fact that she stood with her arms around him was sign enough for him that she would accept comfort from him. It was enough.
"Let's go inside," he said softly. "I think we have enough time to at least hear some of these cases."
She lifted her head and met his gaze. "We?"
"Of course we," he said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ''What do I know of medieval justice? Just call me 'Alex the Figurehead.' "
She shook her head. "They'll not accept it from me."
"Well, they'll accept it from us."
"I likely shouldn't even be in the hall—"
He kissed away the rest of her words. "If I'm there, you're there. That's how this marriage works. With any luck Cook will have something good on the fire. Jamie's not exactly the best trail cook I've ever ridden with."
"I heard that slander," Jamie called from behind him. "I'd see you repaid, but I wouldn't want to humiliate you before your entire household."
It turned out to be a very long afternoon. After calming Amery and Baldric down, Alex had taken the time out for lunch. He'd known he would need it.
Then court was in session. There were several open-and-shut cases that didn't take long at all to solve. It was the more-complicated issues of property lines and water rights that forced him to adjourn for another snack and confer with Margaret and George in the solar. Never mind that it was all Falconberg land, there were still the grants Margaret's grandfather and father had given to those who worked Falconberg land for them. By the time George and Margaret had pulled out the original books and looked everything up, Alex's head was swimming with details.
"How does it feel to be back in the saddle?" Elizabeth asked, sitting down next to him and handing him one of the last Twinkies in the box.
"It makes me wish I'd paid more attention in that dry-as-dust property law class I took," he said, rubbing his forehead.
"Well, you're looking competent."
Alex looked at Margaret and George huddled over a thick pile of parchment. "There's the one who's competent. Don't ask me how she's managed to hold this all together with all these surly tenants."
"Welcome to being a landlord," Elizabeth said with a laugh, "in the truest sense of the word." .
Alex smiled. "Strange as it may sound, I like it."
"It suits you."
Alex nodded and savored the laced-with-lard middle of the very last Twinkie. "I'm glad you guys could stay for a while."
"We wouldn't have missed it." Elizabeth smiled, then looked away. "But we'll have to go eventually."
"I know."
She looked back at him and blinked rapidly. "I keep telling myself I won't do this."
Alex squeezed her hand. "You're just mourning the fact you won't have my closet to raid anymore. I understand it and accept it for what it's worth."
She punched him in the stomach. "Maybe I won't miss you after all," she said, rising.