by Shayla Black
Seemingly unaware of her trepidation, Aric grabbed her hand in his much larger one and pulled her into the melee.
Dust rose in a thin, brown haze around the small gathering of humanity. The pungent scents of animals and people mixed into something familiar and not altogether pleasant.
Children scampered ahead of them, chasing a yapping mutt. At Aric’s side, Dog tensed. Aric stayed the animal with a curt word, and Dog fell into step beside his master once again. Gwenyth marveled at his command of the half-wild animal.
She noticed the village was more crowded than usual. Women bustled about, spreading gossip and cheer. Newly arrived merchants in their long black capuchins were setting up booths and displaying their wares for the Mayday festival two days hence. The air tingled with excitement. Gwenyth could almost hear the revelers singing now.
“Cor, ’tis the sorcerer!” shouted a dirty-faced boy ahead of them.
Villagers began turning about slowly. The gossip and good cheer ceased, quickly replaced by a rumble of anxious murmurs that disturbed the cool breeze.
Determined to ignore them, Gwenyth spotted the smithy’s wife, Ilda, standing beneath an ancient willow, her infant son in her arms. A smile spread across Gwenyth’s face as she left Aric to approach the young woman. She had not seen Ilda since helping the woman tend her children when Ilda’s ankle had pained her a month ago. ’Twould be good to see a friend and make sure all was well once more.
As Gwenyth reached Ilda’s side, the thin woman peered at her through wide, startled eyes and began backing away.
Was the woman ill? Frowning with concern, Gwenyth reached out to touch the woman. The smithy’s wife jerked away and stepped back.
“Ilda, fear not. ’Tis only me, Gwenyth. I came to ask about your ankle and little James. Is all well?”
Ilda did not answer. Instead, her eyes widened more. Something akin to terror tempered with pity filled the pale depths. What could the woman be frightened of?
“Ilda?”
The woman’s pale complexion turned completely ashen. She gripped her babe to her chest, her stare directed somewhere just past Gwenyth’s shoulder.
Gwenyth glanced back to find Aric standing a few feet behind her, his jaw locked. A glance back at Ilda showed the woman deep in dismay, panic racing across her chalky face.
The villagers feared Aric’s reputation as a man of the dark arts—including Ilda, it seemed. Did she fear Gwenyth had succumbed to something unholy by wedding Aric? ’Twas ridiculous—completely!
Gwenyth opened her mouth to say so when Ilda turned and fled with little James tucked tight against her. Tears sprang to Gwenyth’s eyes as she bunched her fists in her skirt. She and Ilda had always been friends. Why could the woman not see she had changed little, if any, since her marriage?
A glance around her proved other villagers—the smithy, a kitchen maid, and one of Penhurst’s weaving women—were all backing away with wary eyes as well.
Nay! These people had known her most of her life, and she had ever helped them when she could. Could no one see she was not a witch? Would no one greet her now?
Gwenyth bit her lip to hold in her tears. Except for Aric, it seemed she was now truly alone in this world. Aye, her life had not been the kindest before, but never had she been shunned so completely by so many people, people to whom she had always tried to be kind.
Grief pushed in on her, even as impotent fury beat in her chest. Aric remained beside her, utterly still. He had endured this kind of treatment repeatedly, without a word of complaint. Yet such must hurt him, at least a little.
Gwenyth turned to Aric. “I am sorry. Ilda…the villagers, they do not—”
“’Tis the Wizard of the Woods,” one young girl began to sing as she jumped behind Aric, who spun about to face the child. Soon, three others joined in, clapping their filthy hands. “He brings much evil and no good. He claims the devil as his sire and sleeps upon a bed of fire. Beware the beast and his dog or ’tis certain they’ll make you a frog!”
Gwenyth gasped in shock at the bratlings’ mean ditty, while their mothers snatched them away from Aric with an admonishing word to take heed of the evil man. Did they not think Aric was a man with feelings? That they could sing and talk about him in whatever manner they liked, without regard for his suffering? Ilda had been ignorantly fearful. The other villagers had been needlessly cruel.
“’Twas foolish of these peasants! They taunted him from gossip alone and knew nothing of the man himself. She had seen no evidence that he claimed Satan as his sire, and she doubted such was true. Nor did he sleep upon a bed of fire.
In truth, he had spent the last three nights uncomfortably, crouched in a chair with his feet propped upon the narrow bed. In all that time, he had not hurt her, not even when she had called him the most vile names she could think of. If he had the magical ability to turn people into frogs at whim, she had most certainly given him ample cause to use it. Instead, he had given her only understanding and kindness, despite their hasty marriage. Could the simpletons of this village not see what she saw so easily?
She wondered how Aric could live knowing all who saw him bore him malice and ill will. Gwenyth peered up into the angles of his profile. His expression remained unchanged, appearing as rugged and as reticent as always. How could he care so little when her own heart ached for him?
“’Tis terrible, the manner in which they treat you!” she cried.
Aric merely shrugged.
“Has it been so always?”
“Since I tamed Dog, aye. Worry not, little dragon. Such suits me.”
Incredulity furrowed her brow. “To be abhorred?”
“To be left alone. Come.” He clasped her hand tightly. “Here is a peddler with cloth.”
Gwenyth frowned in confusion as Aric led her to an old man with an array of fabrics. The merchant shot them a stiff, toothless smirk. “Good day.”
“How much for that?” Aric pointed to a serviceable woolen in gray.
As the merchant haggled with her husband, Gwenyth found her gaze wandering through all the material. She gazed upon woolens, silks, and even a velvet or two, all of good quality. The thought of new dresses, fine enough to take on a trip to London like Cousin Nellwyn, made her sigh.
Then she caught sight of a beautiful silk in the deepest red, its surface glossy. What a magnificent dress this would make! She would look a lady indeed were she to wear something in this majestic shade. Aye, she could near picture herself now in a fine castle, surrounded by vassals and villagers, lords and ladies alike, beside a tender husband who always had a smile for her…
“How much for this?” Gwenyth asked the merchant impulsively.
He rattled off an amount that had Aric’s brows rising and her own stomach plummeting.
“’Tis unnecessary,” said her husband curtly.
“But I need new dresses.” She gestured to the stained woolen garment covering her body. “Can you not see that?”
“Aye. That is why I have procured these fabrics.” Aric held up more of the gray woolen, as well as similar fabrics in an ordinary blue and an exceedingly dull brown. “These will serve you well and last long.”
And make her look every inch a woman of no importance to anyone. She grimaced.
“I find those disagreeable.” Ugly was a more appropriate word, but she couldn’t well say that to him. ’Twas unlikely he could afford better, though his robe last night had been expensively trimmed in fur. An indulgence, mayhap?
With a shrug, she turned to the peddler. “My good man, mayhap we can work out a trade of some sort. I own several books.”
The merchant scratched his graying head. “I cannot read.”
Gwenyth bit her lip, her thoughts racing. All too soon, she realized she had nothing of consequence to offer the little man. She turned away, downcast. The picture of her future looked bleak indeed.
“These fabrics are practical, Gwenyth. Come.”
Aric settled with the old merchant, who smiled and
pocketed the coin. Her husband nodded, as if pleased with the trade.
Once again, no one cared that she was ill pleased. She had been twice a fool for hoping otherwise. No one since her parents had ever really cared. It seemed no one ever would.
* * * *
The following morning, Gwenyth looked about the untidy cottage as Aric attempted to set it to rights. Most of the mess had been her doing. Her shoes lay discarded in the middle of the floor. The bit of her evening meal she had not finished sat upon the little table near the hearth, gathering flies. The bed remained unmade, and the linens needed airing besides.
Surprised that Aric had not demanded her assistance, she joined his efforts to restore the little place, somehow confused and grateful at once for his hush.
Without a word, he handed her the straw broom that occupied one corner. As she grabbed the handle, Gwenyth raised her eyes to meet his. His very closeness made her feel flushed all over. Did he still work on the carving he had of her? Or did he merely stare at it and wonder how correctly he had guessed?
She stared back. Then, unusually timid, she looked away to tend the floor. She swept the twigs and the last of winter’s brown leaves that littered the floor into a corner, aware all the while of her silent husband tidying the hearth.
Did he watch her? Gwenyth could near feel his stare upon her back, caressing the curve of her waist, the arch of her backside. Purposely dropping the broom, Gwenyth bent to retrieve it and glanced over her shoulder. Aric did indeed watch her, and with an intense, soundless appraisal that made her tingle of a sudden. She whirled about and began fidgeting nervously with the broom.
Had he been watching her thus all day? Why did he seem to want her so? And why did the realization he did make her unwisely pleased?
“You cannot sweep the very dirt off the floors, Gwenyth,” he said suddenly, mere inches behind her.
Gwenyth felt his warm breath against her neck, could almost feel his chest pressing against her back. Would he touch her now, as he had been since telling her the tale of Dog and his hare? That woodsy, musky scent of his she smelled each night on the bed linens rushed up to taunt her as she waited, holding her breath.
Aric looked the kind of man every woman wanted in her bed. Suddenly, she feared she was no exception. An odd disappointment filled her when he stepped back.
She swallowed against the erratic racing of her heart. “Aye, I think ’tis done.”
With a gentle clasp of his fingers over hers upon the handle, he removed the broom from her grip. She started at his touch and felt her breathing go shallow from its effect as he raked the leaves onto an old cloth and tossed them outside.
God’s nightgown, she must cease this foolish behavior. Why did he sway her senses so fiercely? She must remember Sir Penley and her future.
She must have rain, and if Aric could make it, he must—quickly. Somehow, she had to gently goad him to action or lose her chance at a secure future. ’Twould not do to delay the rain further by annoying the man.
“We’ve been long months now without rain,” she said to his back as he left the cottage with the refuse.
“So I hear.” He grunted as he tossed more leaves outside.
“Such will make for a warm summer, do you not agree?”
He shrugged as he reentered the cottage. “As I hail from the north, this southern clime always seems warm to me.”
“Do you not miss the rain, though? That gentle patter of water upon the earth, letting trees and flowers and crops grow, always cheers me. I fear the land turned quite brown well before autumn last year. Such a shame, for I care not for brown grass and hillsides. Do you?”
Placing his massive fists on his lean hips, Aric scowled. “I do not think overmuch about the rain. Neither should you.”
’Twas clear he saw through her ruse. Knowing she must drop the matter for now, Gwenyth smiled at him. “Nay, I am but making conversation. Since we live here alone, we must talk.”
“Not always.” He stepped closer and whispered, “At the moment, the bed linens need our attention.”
Though he certainly meant they needed airing, the suggestion in his voice hinted at something warm and new, something she felt herself reaching for, despite her better judgment. Gwenyth shivered and prayed Aric had not noticed.
He left her to walk to one side of the bed. Feeling somehow aware and dazed at once, she moved to the other side and began removing the linens with his help.
At one corner, their fingers met. She started, her gaze flying to the masculine splendor of Aric’s face. A smile crept over his mouth, something rich with promise, something that made her melt when he laced his fingers with hers and squeezed.
No one had ever touched her so. She felt as if her heart might jump out of her chest.
Gwenyth drew in one deep breath, then another. Her sanity seemed to return, although her senses remained clouded by his evocative scent, his low voice.
“Are you well?” he asked, his tone concerned.
“Aye. ’Tis the heat, I am certain,” she lied.
Aric nodded and scooped the bed linens up in his arms. “Take these outside. The air there may help you.”
“A good idea.”
Slowly, Aric stepped around the bed toward her. The heels of his soft boots reminded her he moved closer, ever closer. His grin returned, stirring her stomach into a new frenzy.
He stopped inches away. Barely a breath separated them as he placed the sheets into her arms. As he released the bed linens, he stroked the length of her arms and fingers with his palms before stepping away. Gwenyth balled her fists, fighting the insane urge to drop the rumpled linens and demand Aric kiss her again.
Both stood still, Aric watching her, Gwenyth drowning in the mysterious depths of his hot gray eyes. ’Twas clear he wanted her. Why did he do nothing more about it?
Why did she want him to so badly?
Gwenyth cleared her throat. “I shall go outside with these.”
His smile broadened as he gestured to her to lead the path to the door. Forcing her gaze away from him, she marched outside.
The crisp morning air was beginning to give way to the promise of the afternoon’s warmth. Birds sang amid the leaves covering the tree branches, and a squirrel scurried into a fragrant bunch of wild hyacinths, sending their sweet scent into the air.
Gwenyth inhaled deeply. Certainly such pleasant smells were found nowhere near Penhurst. Animal droppings and unwashed bodies filled the air there. And ’twas so quiet here, she thought, as she hung the bed linens on a low tree branch. She could almost hear time pass, almost feel the whisper of God’s hand moving in the swaying trees.
If Aric had chosen to remain here for the peace of this place, he had indeed found a wondrous spot.
Thwack! The noise rent the peace of the day. Gwenyth turned to the sound, only to hear another thwack coming from the side of the house.
That man! The first moment of peace she had known since their disastrous marriage, and he seemed bent on ruining it. The odd clamor came again. The mangy mongrel. Gritting her teeth, Gwenyth lifted her skirts and hurried to the source.
As she rounded the corner, a tongue-lashing ready to spring from her mouth, she stopped short. There Aric stood, an ax in one enormous hand, eyeing a fallen log before him.
He was completely naked from the waist up.
Gwenyth drew in a shaky breath at the sight. Whatever she had been about to say fled, forgotten at the sight of his male body. Taut golden skin stretched over a chest seemingly fashioned of steel. Hard ridges covered his belly as he drew a deep breath. Curves formed beneath his flat brown nipples as he grabbed the ax and lifted it. Swells of sinew protruded from his shoulders and arms as he swung it down to split the log. If she had half as much talent with a knife and wood as Aric, she would be tempted to carve a likeness of his form for herself.
Dear Lord, her mouth went dry just looking at him.
“Bring that basket to me,” he said suddenly between swings of his heavy blade.<
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Gwenyth only half heard him. “Basket?”
His taut cheeks looked as though he repressed a smile. “Aye, the basket under the eaves, beside the door.”
Nodding, she reluctantly looked away from her husband and drew in a calming breath. Why did her heart race merely from looking at the man? ’Twas not a good sign, she felt sure.
She retrieved the large basket, noting its woodsy smell and the wood chips lingering in the bottom. He was beginning to store wood for the next winter, giving it ample time to cure. Such made sense, and he certainly seemed fit to do so. Still, watching him—in his state of near undress—complete the mundane chore was not wise. She must deliver the basket and go inside until he finished.
But when Gwenyth reached Aric again, her eyes simply would not heed good sense. They led her gaze up the firm length of his calves and the muscle-hardened span of his thighs as she stood before him. His brown hose conformed to the heavy bulge of his man’s staff.
Swallowing hard against a rising tide of tingling heat, Gwenyth let her gaze wander up to his unyielding stomach and hard chest. He watched her in silence, his eyes veiling his thoughts. Did this magnificent man truly think her as beautiful as the carving suggested? Warmth surrounded her, whether from the sun or Aric’s proximity, she could not say.
“Set the basket down, Gwenyth.”
Nodding, she did as he bid, then found her gaze attached to him again. He released the ax and stepped near her.
She was close enough now to see the light thatch of pale hair between his tight nipples and the myriad scars that covered him. A faded gash that began beneath his left nipple and ended near his waist had once been a wicked wound. Nicks and slices, old now, also dotted the sleek surface of his arms and shoulders.
He looked like a hardened battle warrior, no stranger to the lift of a lance and the thrust of a blade. Was it possible? What of his magical ways? He looked like no soft mystic who sat about all day turning children into chickens.
Without thought, she traced the long gash dividing his stomach with her fingers. He sucked in a breath but did not move. Gwenyth jerked her hand away from the warmth of his skin and glanced into his guarded expression.