Pendragon

by Catherine Coulter

  She sat up when she saw the door slowly opening, and there he was, her husband, just standing there, one booted foot inside the room, looking toward the bed, looking at her. A man had just opened the door to her chamber, hadn’t even bothered to knock and now he was in the same bedchamber as she was and he was looking at her. It was astounding, this husband business. The power it gave men over women and the most private parts of their lives. Actually, she’d had some power as well when he’d taken off his clothes for her to see him the previous night. Now that she thought about that, her skin turned warm, particularly the skin on her face.

  “Meggie,” he said, not moving from the doorway.

  He was smart, she thought, not to come any closer. “Shall I pack your dressing gown in my valise?”

  “What?”

  “Shall I pack—”

  “Yes, I see that you’re wearing it. Shall I ask you why?”

  “I couldn’t very well go downstairs to get more champagne wearing my nightgown, one, I might add, that didn’t make it past the bed and to safety and is thus spotted with my blood and with you as well.”

  He appeared flummoxed for a moment at this stark talk, then said, “I see. You know, a girl shouldn’t speak so openly about intimate matters, particularly her virginal blood and her husband’s seed.”

  He would swear he saw her lips form a word, and he knew that word was moron.

  “Why did you go downstairs for more champagne?”

  “You haven’t seen Mrs. Miggs this morning?”

  He shook his head.

  “I finished the champagne you ordered up for my fantasy dinner—actually my lovely fantasy dinner spun out of a stupid girl’s head. It turned into quite something else, didn’t it?”

  “As to that, I don’t wish to speak of it. I, ah, washed out your nightgown when I awoke this morning and hung it over the back of the chair. It should be completely dry shortly.”

  “Thank you. You have erased the evidence—very wise of you.”

  “The champagne left on the table wasn’t enough for you?”

  Meggie began swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her toes were a good six inches off the floor. She said in a chatty voice, “How very odd. You sound all stiff and disapproving, like a father whose child has sadly disappointed him. Surely that is an absurdity after what you did.” He would swear again that her mouth formed the word moron. He also realized that she was on the edge of saying it, and knew he couldn’t allow it. Maybe he deserved it, but that wasn’t for her to decide.

  He said, very quickly, “You are not my child. However, as my wife, you are my responsibility. Naturally I am distressed. It cannot be wise of you to drink so very much.”

  “You are,” she said quite clearly, “a buffoon.”

  He wondered if a buffoon was better or worse than a moron and said, “You shouldn’t insult your husband,” and knew it was pathetic. At that moment he wanted more than anything to yell at her, curse at her, demand why she’d married him when she loved her damned almost cousin Jeremy Stanton-Greville, who was already married, his wife pregnant. And then, of course, that was exactly the reason Meggie had married him. She couldn’t have Jeremy, so why not take a man who obviously wanted her? But he didn’t yell, didn’t curse her. He didn’t say anything at all. If a man didn’t have his pride, he didn’t have much of anything at all.

  Meggie whistled, a nice fresh spring tune about a boy and a girl and a field full of violets.

  “No,” he said slowly, “now that I’ve listened to your song, now that I see the blood in your eye, I suppose that the champagne wasn’t enough. You went downstairs to drink more champagne?”

  “That’s right. Mrs. Miggs and I shared a bottle.”

  She wished he would leave, maybe lend her the carriage and let Tim McCulver drive her back to Glenclose-on-Rowan. She was, she realized, succumbing again to melancholia, something she recognized very well ever since that fateful morning when Jeremy had met her in the park with perfect Charlotte at his side, a sinking of spirits made only more profound after Jeremy had confessed that his loud and obnoxious act had been for her benefit to ease her pain, damn him and damn her father for knowing of her pain in the first place. And Charlotte, of course, really was a goddess, blast her.

  Was Thomas that different from Jeremy? Was he in fact the real ass while Jeremy was only the pretend ass? Had he hidden his true colors until he’d gotten her to the altar? Her spirits fell lower, if that were possible.

  However, when he said, cold outrage in his voice, “May I ask how many men were in the taproom to see you swilling champagne, wearing nothing but my dressing gown?” Meggie immediately perked up.

  She said in a voice more serious than her father the vicar’s when confronted with an unrepentant sinner as she tapped her fingertips against her chin, “Let me think. Oh, I don’t think there were more than ten men drinking in the taproom. Were there?” She tapped, tapped, tapped, all thoughtful. “You know, it was very late. Surely most men had gone to their homes, mauled their wives, sprawled out on their bellies, taking up most of the bed, happy as clams, snoring to the ceiling.”

  “If they were on their bellies, then they would be snoring to the mattress.” He held up his hand knowing a fine display of wit was ready to burst from her mouth, “No, you don’t have to tell me—you were speaking metaphorically. Now, you’re telling me that you went downstairs wearing only my damned dressing gown, your damned feet bare—and you drank champagne with ten damned men looking on?”

  “Ah, I can see from your spate of curses, repetitive but nonetheless curses just the same, that you’re winding yourself up to really blast me now. I pray you won’t forget that Mrs. Miggs was there.”

  She was sneering at him, playing him for the fool, and doing it quite well. No hope for it and so he climbed down from his high horse and sighed. “No, you’re lying to me and you don’t do it well, Meggie. So there were no men there, then.”

  “To be certain I’m not lying to you, you will have to ask Mrs. Miggs, won’t you?”

  “No, I don’t think so. You’re not a very good liar. You will stop mocking me, Meggie. A wife shouldn’t be disrespectful to her husband.”

  “Well, then, should a man be allowed to do whatever pleases him to do to his new wife?”

  He wanted to yell out that damned Jeremy’s name to her, but he didn’t, said only, “I don’t wish to speak about that.”

  “I see. You said a wife shouldn’t be disrespectful to her husband. Perhaps you could prepare a list for me for all these pesky things a wife shouldn’t do that would irritate her husband. Do you think that would assist you into whipping me into shape?”

  “It isn’t a very long list.”

  “A list for the goose. How about a list for the gander as well? Yes, a list is a very good idea. I shall prepare it for you immediately. Then we can trade lists. I certainly know what will be the very top item on the list. Enough respect for your wife so that you don’t maul her.”

  He had mauled her. It hadn’t begun that way, but that’s the way it had ended. Didn’t she remember what she’d done, what she’d bleated out to her father? Damnation. He said, “As for mauling, that is quite absurd. I was merely overeager, that’s all, perhaps a bit over the edge, a bit out of control. As for the second time, perhaps that also was a bit too much, but it happened, it’s over, and you will forget about it.” He held up his hand. “No, don’t say anything. You are quite good at forgetting things, it seems, so you may forget this as well.”

  “What have I ever forgotten? Come, tell me. Ah, you can’t. The truth is that I’m a veritable elephant, I simply never forget a single thing. You must fish in another stream, Thomas.”

  “Stop your damned wit, Meggie. Listen to me, I was rough but I really didn’t mean to be. Everything was just too much, nothing more, just too much.”

  “What reason could you possibly have to maul your bride on her wedding night?”

  “I told you, I don’t wish to speak of
it again. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I am sorry for that. Now, you will forget it.”

  “Gone? Just like that? Very well.” Meggie snapped her fingers.

  He stared at her, wondering what was in that frighteningly active brain of hers now.

  She said, “Actually I would like to ask you a question, Thomas.”

  A question? He didn’t want a question, but he couldn’t very well clap his hand over her mouth and leave it there. He nodded, unwillingly.

  Meggie opened her mouth, then closed it. No, now wasn’t the time. She’d told him how she felt. It was enough. She said, “Still, I was wondering if perhaps all men fly out of control on their wedding nights. You know, they’ve been forced to contain themselves for such a very long time, controlling all their base desires, that when they finally have the right to open the door, so to speak, they can’t help themselves? They just fly right through, not pausing to perhaps even turn the doorknob?”

  “That makes no sense.”

  She sighed. “Of course it does. You just don’t like to see yourself in this light.”

  “I don’t wish to speak of it. No more.”

  And she snapped her fingers again. She said, “It is odd. Mrs. Miggs told me I wouldn’t feel at all well this morning, what with all the champagne, but she was wrong. Will you please leave, my lord? I wish to bathe and dress. Oh my, I should have respectfully inquired about your plans, which must, perforce, be mine as well since I am the adjunct here. Do you intend that we leave this morning?”

  “Yes, as soon as you are able.”

  “Ah, do you also have plans that aren’t any of my business?”

  “We are on our wedding trip. Now, you will cease your ridiculous anger. A wife should not be angry with her husband.”

  “That is on the list?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Go away, my lord. Go take a strap to one of the horses.”

  “How much champagne did you drink?”

  “Enough to want to play a fiddle and perhaps dance a bit with Mrs. Miggs. Enough to forget that I wanted to kill you. In any case, even drunk, I realized I would be hanged if I did you in, and that would be distressing to my father. Hmmm. Since I can’t ask my father about this, perhaps the next time I see Jeremy, I can inquire about this door business and a husband blasting through it on his wedding night.”

  He went pale, then red to his hairline with rage. “You will not speak of him further, do you understand me? Oh yes, I would be more distressed than your father if you killed me.”

  “No, you would be dead and not feel a thing.”

  She simply didn’t know that he’d overheard her and her father, so how could she possibly know why he was so damned angry? Maybe that was a good thing. He said, “You honestly feel fine now?”

  “I feel ready to take on the world. I feel more than ready to take you on, my lord.”

  “I am your husband. My name is Thomas. A wife doesn’t take on a husband, if you mean by that to start an argument with him.”

  She realized they’d done nothing but argue since he’d shown himself in the doorway. She said slowly, “Actually, I was thinking about hitting you in the nose.”

  He said nothing to that, very wise of him to keep quiet, she thought. He believed in some self-preservation.

  She looked at him a moment, wrapped his dressing gown more closely about her, then said slowly, “Actually, I feel very sore between my legs. Does a man regard that as an accomplishment, something he’s expected to do on his wedding night?”

  “Since you are not riding, you will be fine by evening. It is nothing. There is no accomplishment here. Last night simply happened. Don’t speak of it again.”

  “You are an expert then. You have done this particular business many times, at least enough times to know that my pain was and is a mere bagatelle. I don’t suppose you experienced any distress from your splendid performance last night?”

  He shook his head, but he was lying, of course. When he had broken her maidenhead, he’d wanted to scream at her and howl from the intense pleasure that filled him.

  “I see. So you didn’t realize what you were doing? Neither the first time nor the second time? You didn’t hurt me either time on purpose?”

  “Be quiet, Meggie. It’s over.”

  She looked up at the ceiling. “God is letting me down here.”

  “Sometimes God forgives actions when they are justified.”

  “Whatever that means. Would you care to clarify that a bit?”

  “I don’t wish to discuss it further.”

  “Yes, yes, don’t mention anything a husband might find thorny. I must relieve myself. Go away.”

  He looked as if he would say more, but he didn’t, just turned and closed the door quietly behind him.

  “Thomas.”

  At the sound of his name, he turned slowly.

  She’d poked her head out the door. “Here.” She threw his dressing gown to him.

  She closed the door, leaned against it, covering her bare breasts with her hands, and sighed. She saw that he had indeed washed most the blood out of her nightgown. She folded the nightgown into a small square and stuffed it into her valise. She planned to look at it quite often, a reminder that expectations were quite different from reality.

  She was downstairs within the hour, her bonnet ribbons tied beside her left ear, her pale green muslin morning dress, freshly pressed by Ann, one of Mrs. Miggs’s daughters, and Mrs. Miggs herself assisted Meggie to dress, marveling over and over how splendidly hard Meggie’s head was when the good Lord knew she should be moaning this morning, still in bed, the covers pulled over her head.

  Meggie assured Mrs. Miggs that she felt dandy. As a matter of fact, she looked young and fresh and very innocent. She smiled when she said good-bye to Mrs. Miggs and heard the lady say into her ear as she hugged her, “Do not kill him. You would hang and I would be unhappy. If I were unhappy, then Mr. Miggs would be unhappy as well because I would see that he was. Not as unhappy as your family, but still, there would be some active discomfort.”

  “No, I won’t kill him, even though he refused to answer any questions. No, I have other plans for the clod,” Meggie said, gave her another quick hug, saw her new husband’s dark eyebrow raised at this affection between his wife and the innkeeper, and helped her into the carriage.

  17

  St. Agnes Head

  Cornwall

  SPRING WAS SERIOUSLY in doubt on the northern coast of Cornwall. As they traveled to the northwest, it became more cold and blustery. The wind blew hard, making the tree branches moan and rustle in the darkness. The air off the Irish Sea tasted of brine and the smell of seaweed was strong.

  Thomas didn’t call a halt until nearly eight-thirty in the evening. For the entire day he had ridden some fifty feet in front of the carriage, leaving her to stew alone. She’d been so bored, and finally so desperate to relieve herself, that she’d finally opened the carriage door, leaned out as far as she could, and shouted up to Tim McCulver, “Stop the bloody carriage or I’ll jump!”

  The carriage stopped in under six seconds.

  “Thank you,” Meggie said, climbed down, and walked into the stand of oak trees beside the road.

  When she came out some minutes later, her new husband was sitting astride his horse, looking intently at her. “Are you all right?”

  “As in was I careful not to attach any poison ivy to myself?”

  “No, but were you careful about that as well?”

  She nodded, paid him no more attention, and climbed back into the carriage. If he didn’t want to be lover-like, perhaps beg her pardon a dozen times, then she would do her part and ignore him.

  Exactly two hours later Tim McCulver pulled the carriage to a stop, opened the carriage door, and said, “His Lordship asked me to see if you wished to stop for a moment and perhaps commune with nature.”

  “Yes,” Meggie said. “Thank you.”

  They didn’t stop for dinner. It was nearly twi
light. Meggie was so bored, she couldn’t stand herself anymore. She didn’t think, just climbed out of the carriage window. Tim McCulver didn’t see her until she swung onto the top of the carriage, crawled over the low railing and slipped down onto the seat beside him. He was so startled, he dropped the reins and let out a yell.

  “It’s all right, Tim. Goodness, the reins. Here, let me get them.”

  Before Meggie could reach down for the horses’ reins, Tim squeaked, threw himself forward, nearly falling between the two horses, managed to snag the reins, and as Meggie nearly lifted him back into his seat, he was moaning.

  “Are you all right?”

  “It ain’t the done thing, milady, it jest ain’t the done thing. Ye’re here wi’ me, and his lordship will twist me ears off me head. Oh Lord, listen to me, yer favorite sinner needs yer good graces.”

  “His lordship will do nothing of the kind. If there is any twisting to be done, let him just try it on my ears.”

  And she laughed, feeling the wind tear at her bonnet.

  It wasn’t until they drove into St. Agnes, a very small village one mile inland from the Irish Sea, that Thomas rode back to the carriage to see his wife seated beside Tim McCulver, who’d driven his mother since Thomas was five years old.

  He couldn’t think of a thing to say. He saw Tim’s anguish, saw the grin on his wife’s face, not a sweet confiding grin, but rather a grin that dared him to make a scene. He wasn’t without sense. He kept his mouth shut. Later, he thought, later, he would take her apart. He pictured her hauling herself out of the carriage window and blanched.

  There was some moon, but it was hidden behind dark bloated clouds.

  Tim said, “It will rain before midnight, milord. I’m glad we didn’t get caught in it.”