LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride

by Tamara Leigh

  His consideration pleasing and embarrassing in equal parts, she said low, “I thank you,” and dipped a finger in the water. “Oh, it is lovely warm.”

  “I sent all from the hall earlier, having arranged for them to break their fast in the bailey outside the kitchen so you would not have to…”

  Face them. Though what he had done was not necessary—or soon would not be—Rhiannyn felt a surge of love for this young man who had become her brother. Though he could not replace those lost to her, it was a balm to add to the family she had begun on the night past when she had taken Maxen as her husband.

  “Are you well?” Christophe asked in a rush.

  She smiled. “Quite well.”

  “You are sure? After what—”

  “It is not what you think.”

  “But I heard weeping. Did Maxen harm you? If he did…” He shook his head.

  She laid a hand on his arm. “I vow, your brother did not hurt me. ’Twas for another reason I wept. I cried out the past. That is much, Christophe, but it is all over which I lamented.”

  “Your family?”

  Though she had never spoken at length of them, he knew she had lost all to the Norman invasion. “Aye, my parents and brothers.”

  His eyebrows rose into the hair on his brow. “You told Maxen?”

  “I did, and he offered comfort.”

  His face twitched. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “As I would have ere last eve, but much has changed.”

  He passed the basin to her. “As my brother will offer no apology for what he has done, I can but offer mine.” He lifted the damp towel from his arm and draped it over hers. “What happened should not have.”

  “Christophe,” she said, “no apology is necessary. Maxen did not take what was not given him. He and I—”

  “You love him?”

  It was her turn to slosh water, wetting the front of her chemise. “I…” She did not wish to lie, but neither was she willing to admit this deepest emotion. Determinedly returning to what would ease his concern, she said, “’Tis true I freely gave myself to your brother, just as it is true we are wed.”

  He stared wide as if playing again her words to verify he had heard right, then he startled. “You spoke vows last eve?”

  “We did.”

  “In the cellar.”

  He did not need to know it had been the prison cell. “Aye.”

  “Without witnesses.”

  His concern was the same as hers had been, and she hated the uncertainty that returned to her. “We are husband and wife,” she said firmly.

  His jaw shifted. “After last eve, all those who questioned if you are, indeed, my brother’s leman, question it no more.”

  “This day, Maxen will set them right by announcing he has taken me to wife.”

  “Will he?”

  She inclined her head. “Until he does, I ask you not to speak of it so he may himself correct the misunderstanding.”

  Christophe jerked his chin. “I pray my brother is as changed as you believe, for your sake as well as mine, for I would call you sister.”

  Were her arms not full, she would have embraced him. “I thank you.” She glanced at the water, breathed in the scent of roses. “Now I shall enjoy your gift.”

  He inclined his head and turned away.

  Rhiannyn watched him until he went from sight, then slipped back around the screen, confirmed Maxen slept, and set to bathing.

  A scent—like the roses of summer when he had walked the monastery gardens and tried to replace dark memories with the smell of unfolding petals. Instead, their crimson color had reminded him of the blood on his hands.

  Arising from a dream whose images eagerly fled, Maxen lifted his lids and slid his gaze down his body and over the coverlet to the foot of the bed. Rhiannyn sat on the clothes chest with her back to him, fair hair curtaining her shoulders.

  Why had he not awakened when she had left his side? He did not sleep deep—nor could he afford to if he was to live to a good age.

  Though tempted to call her back to bed, he watched as she pushed aside the sleeve of her chemise and dipped a towel in a basin of water beside her—no doubt scattered with rose petals, the scent of which had drifted into his dream.

  Slowly, as if with a mind divided between the task and great thought, she rubbed the cloth up her arm, beneath it, and down to her fingers. In this fashion, returning often to the basin, she bathed. When she finished, she peered over her shoulder. And blinked wide.

  He smiled. And wished the smile she returned was not destined to gutter out—that she would understand what he must ask of her.

  “Good morn, Wife.”

  “Good morn, Husband.” She stood, clasped her hands at her waist, and nodded at the basin. “I have bathed.”

  “And I have watched.”

  Her lashes fluttered. “I did not know.”

  “As I wished it.”

  Pink spotting her cheeks, she said, “Your brother was kind enough to deliver me bath water.”

  “Ah, Christophe.” Maxen felt his smile falter. “Come to rescue the fair maiden his depraved brother ruined.”

  Rhiannyn came around the bed and lowered beside him. “He was concerned. We are friends, you know.”

  “Great friends, as evidenced by the betrayal of his own brother to aid in your escape into Andredeswald.” Even before fire brightened her eyes, he regretted the reminder that spoke even worse of the one who had used their friendship to his own end. Too, what must yet be revealed would be more poorly received cast upon ground already sown with ill will.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “That is best left in the past.” He pulled her down onto the mattress, rolled to his side, and bent over her.

  She did not kiss him back, but when he lifted his head, a smile approached her mouth.

  “I want it to be better between Christophe and you,” she said. “As he is now my brother, he is more dear to me.”

  “It will be better,” he said. Of course, after last night and what had shone from the youth’s eyes when Maxen had carried Rhiannyn through the hall, it could be a long while before they reached a better place in their relationship.

  “I had to tell him,” she said.

  Maxen drew back. “What?”

  “I said we are wed. Though I know you would have preferred to reveal it, he was so worried I thought you would not mind.”

  Anger began to knot in his chest, but it was not Rhiannyn in the fibers bending and coiling and pushing in and around themselves. She had but tried to reconcile the brothers, and though he did not doubt it would soon be worse between Christophe and him, he had only himself to blame.

  “I told him to speak naught of it,” she added. “That you would tell all.”

  He closed his eyes and lowered to his back.

  “Maxen?” This time it was she who turned onto her side and bent over him. “What is it?”

  He knew he should be done with it, but he wanted a few more minutes alone with her before all gained on the night past shuddered beneath the force of King William.

  He opened his eyes and laid a hand to her cheek. “Faeger,” he named her beautiful in her language.

  She smiled, leaned down, and said against his lips, “Leof.”

  That he was dear to her made what he must tell ten-fold more difficult. Further delaying, he asked, “How do you feel?”

  Her smile flexed as if uncertain it belonged on her mouth. “I am well, though sorry I burdened you with my woe and weeping.”

  “I asked you to unburden yourself.”

  “So you did. And I am glad.” She drew back, studied his face. “Something is amiss.”

  He slid his hand down her jaw to the hollow of her throat, felt the pulse there. “I made a mistake. And yet not, for I would do it again.”

  He was not surprised by the wariness rising on her face and realized it had been just beneath the surface.

  She swallowed. “Now you shall tell me something bet
ter not told.”

  “Nay, better told. But with much regret.”

  “Ah.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and pushed herself to sitting. “It was not real. For you.”

  “Rhiannyn…” He rose and turned her to face him. “It was real—is real. It just cannot be told. Not yet.”

  Her eyes moistened. “You think I played Lucilla’s game—giving just enough so you would wed me to have me—and this is you with the winning piece, me with no witnesses.” She shook her head. “He knew.”

  She surely spoke of Christophe who had not believed Maxen honorable enough to do the godly thing.

  “I know you played no game,” he said, “and though the dark past out of which I stepped to become lord of Etcheverry gives my brother good reason to doubt my honor, in this he is wrong.”

  Her nostrils flared. “Tell, you who said you would make known that the one who shares your bed is the lady of Etcheverry, why must our marriage be kept secret?”

  “I did not first seek the king’s permission, a grievous offense.”

  “You did not consider that on the night past?”

  “I did. But only afterward, while you slept, did I allow myself to think fully on the consequences.”

  “Most convenient.” The color in her cheeks rising higher, she gave a short, sharp laugh. “Fricwebba!”

  Maxen could not remember a time he had felt so splayed open, and it further vexed him.

  Calm, he counseled. “When the truth is told,” he said, “a peace weaver you will be.”

  Her eyes searched his, and he was relieved to glimpse in them what seemed hope. Still, she said, “If ever it is revealed.”

  “I vow it shall be.”

  “In this I ought to believe you?”

  “As told, I would wed you again—”

  “You would deceive me again!”

  He ground his teeth. “Could I relive the night past, I would not carry you through the hall to my bed—would not allow impatience to expose you to the derision of others.”

  She lowered her chin. “But you cannot relive it. Thus, in the eyes of all, I am your leman in truth. Not a fricwebba. A harlot.”

  That word spoken against her—so coarse, so crude, so vulgar—was a foul blow. But she was right. Though he would allow none to say it of her, many would be the whispers behind his back and the sly comments fast upon her ears.

  He lifted her face and set his forehead to hers. “In the eyes of God, you are my wife, and I am your husband.”

  “Only in His eyes.”

  “Nay, in mine and yours as well. Is that not what matters?” When she did not answer, he said, “The night we watched a couple pledge their lives to each other in Andredeswald, having invited only God as their witness, you said it was a beautiful thing.”

  “It was. But they were Saxons, and though you pretended to be, you are not. And do not forget, that same night you questioned the legitimacy of such vows, cautioning against nobles speaking them.”

  So he had. “I can but ask you to trust me in this.”

  She drew back and, mouth trembling, said, “How long must our marriage remain untold?”

  He hoped her question meant she would allow him the time needed. “Until I can ensure you will not be taken from me.”

  Her eyebrows pinched. “Taken from you?”

  Maxen had been undecided about showing her the king’s missive, for though she claimed not to feel for Harwolfson, still her roots remained entwined with those of the rebel. But if it gained him her trust…

  He turned, lowered his feet to the floor on the opposite side of the bed, and retrieved his robe from the end post. He pushed his arms into the sleeves, belted the garment, and stepped to the clothes chest.

  The missive was at the bottom where he had buried it. “Nearly a month gone, I received this from King William.” He unrolled it as he came around the bed. “Can you read Norman French?”

  She glanced at it. “Not well.”

  “Well enough, I hope.” He extended it. “As I have given you cause to distrust me, it is best you read it yourself.”

  She took it from him. When she bent her head to it, her struggle to translate the written words was obvious, but finally she looked up.

  “Your king wishes to use me to gain leverage over Edwin. That is what it says, does it not? That whether or not you have me to bed, you are to ensure I do not escape.”

  Maxen inclined his head. “Should news of our marriage reach him, and he remains set on using you, he could try to remove you from Etcheverry. And if he does not, what I have done, fully aware of his intentions all these weeks, would be seen as defiance.”

  She set the missive beside her. “Such he will not tolerate from The Bloodlust Warrior, one to whom he owes much?”

  There was hope in that, but Maxen was not certain it was enough. “The Penderys have long been on Norman soil, too long and too well rewarded for some who have the king’s ear and oft question the strength of our ties with the Saxons. Thus, when my brothers and I were called to take up arms against your people, it was upon us to prove our allegiance to our overlord. And so we did on the battlefield.” He thrust aside the memory of Nils. “But though Thomas and I earned the king’s favor for our family, it is not merely unwed conception which gained him the name, William the Bastard. It is as much the temperament behind what appears a composed face. Thus, in addition to losing you, my defiance puts Etcheverry at risk—indeed, all of my family’s holdings since I am heir.”

  She pulled a deep breath. “I see. But tell, if the king does determine I am best used against Edwin, whether by relinquishing me to him or threat of harm, what then?”

  “I will find a way around him, another way to bring Harwolfson to heel. I give you my word.”

  Her laugh was as weary as it was bitter. “Forgive me if I wrong you in questioning the word you give.” She pushed off the bed, stepped past him, and retrieved the green bliaut that bore some of the blame for his imprudence on the night past. As she had served at table, he had envied the way the garment clasped her curves and imagined he was the soft, woven threads that told the tale of her body.

  “I must make ready for my day,” she said and lowered the gown over her head and pushed her hands into its sleeves.

  Maxen stepped to her side. Before she could undertake the tightening of her laces, he caught their trailing ends, tugged them snug, and secured them.

  She considered the bow that was too long in its loops, murmured, “I thank you.”

  “Remain in our chamber until I summon you,” he intentionally named the room hers as well as his.

  She looked up, and though light flickered in her eyes at his attempt to reassure her of their relationship, she frowned. “I have duties to which I must attend.”

  “No more.” He returned to the chest, lifted the lid, and withdrew a clean tunic. “Set your hands to sewing if it pleases you, but no longer will you wait upon my men.”

  Rhiannyn stared at her husband to whom she could not yet—and might never—lay claim as he donned the tunic and reached for hose. She knew she should be grateful for his consideration, for it was no pleasant task to tote drink for men who grew callous when their cups had been filled one too many times. Or not enough. But in the guise of Maxen’s leman, she resented it.

  She squared her shoulders and waited for him to look up from the belt he secured about his waist. When he did, she said, “Sewing, rather than serving at table, is as a wife would do, Maxen, not a leman.”

  “This day is not the same as yesterday. You are my wife, and though our two peoples do not know it, I will not suffer you to wait upon them.”

  But he would suffer her to appear a harlot. He would suffer her to move among those whose eyes defiled her with their knowing. He would—

  Enough! she silently commanded her hurt. I will make peace with this.

  She must, for though she detested the corner into which she was pressed, she was more inclined to believe Maxen than not—that w
hat had happened between them in the cell was true, that he had intended to announce their marriage, that neither did he want this, that he would make all right. But when?

  “Rhiannyn?”

  She opened eyes she had not realized she had closed and found him standing over her. Of what had they been speaking?

  Placing herself, she said in a rush, “If I do not resume my duties, others will believe you favor me.”

  He brushed his lips across hers. “So they will, but it is not unseemly for a man to be so taken with a woman that he affords her greater consideration and protection.”

  Heat rose so thick to her face she felt near to perspiring, and before she could think better of her words, she said, “Such speaks well of a wife. What it speaks of a leman is that she brings much to the bed.”

  He straightened, and though she expected him to meet anger with anger, he said, “Bear with me, Rhiannyn. If I cannot find a way through this, I will make a way through it.”

  Those words and his seemingly sincere regret eased her hurt. “I want to believe you.”

  “Do. Now I must speak with my brother.” He retrieved his boots, shoved his feet into them, and crossed to the screen. “You will remain here until I send for you?”

  “I shall.”

  He stared at her as if to determine whether or not to trust her, and once more hurt put words in her mouth. “If you doubt me, mayhap you ought to chain me again.”

  His jaw tightened, and he strode around the screen.

  “Ah, Rhiannyn,” she murmured, “this day you are more a woman than ever, yet you let the girl speak for you. Make your peace with this.”

  She turned toward the bed. As it was much in need of straightening, she saw to it first and once more found King William’s missive in her possession. Before returning it to the chest, she again struggled through the Norman French and was glad Maxen had entrusted the missive to her. Though fear of pain caused doubt to persist, she was nearly convinced he had taken her to wife as sincerely as she had taken him to husband.

  She closed the lid on the missive and busied herself with ordering the rest of the chamber. When she was done, she paced the room. How many times, she could not have said, but when she sank into the chair, her mind flew to the cell where Maxen had replaced memories of their first meeting with their second.