So he did want her to speak then? “You’re not,” she said in a rush. “You’re big and hard all over.”
“Yes,” he agreed and then bit off his words when he would have continued. His tone sounded different. Amused and something else. She wondered what he was going to say, and suddenly it was important to speak what was uppermost on her mind.
“My feet are cold,” she blurted. “I don’t want you to accidently touch them and be disgusted.”
He stilled for a moment before shifting down and closing his fingers around one foot. “Why would I be disgusted by this little foot?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble from his chest. He drew her knee over his hip and placed the sole of her foot against the back of his thigh. “I’ll soon warm you up,” he promised thickly. Linnet held her breath when his hand traced over her ankle and then slid up to her knee. She swallowed as he followed her leg right up to her thigh. His fingers were hardened and calloused and she felt every brush of his fingers against her prickling skin. She felt hot, short of breath, and tingly. Her leg was resting against him and her body completely open to him. She should feel embarrassed but instead she had the strangest impulse to strain even closer to him. With surprise, she realized she was pressing her foot into his thigh, urging him to close the gap between their bodies.
“So sweet,” he repeated and suddenly his hand slid between her legs and cupped her intimately. She gave a muffled exclamation at the shock and raised her head off the pillow to peer at him. She couldn’t make out the expression on his face but he was panting now as hard as her.
“You please me, wife,” he said gruffly and lowered his mouth to hers where he kissed her entirely differently from how he had kissed her in the chapel. Their kiss there had been chaste and close-lipped. Now his mouth moved over hers in an intimate exploration. His tongue teased and prodded and invaded her mouth in a wet, hot slide that left her gasping and clinging to him, bewildered and reeling. And then his fingers were performing the same dance between her legs, petting and stroking and making her gasp into his mouth both in dismay and in shocked delight. What was this? These were not the facts of bedding as she had learned them from her aunt’s whispering ladies-in-waiting. This was surely something else entirely. She tensed and twisted, but however she moved, she could not escape the strange sensations he was arousing in her body. She squeezed her eyes shut and gave up even trying. He kissed her again, gently this time, on her closed eyelids and then reached down to hook her other leg over his other hip as he loomed over her on the bed.
“Put your arms around me,” he said thickly. “I’m going to take you now Linnet.” His voice was gravelly in warning, thick with promise.
She could be in no doubt that he was keen to get the deed done now and was glad—glad that in this dark shadowy room he had managed to forget that she was freckled and drab, with ugly red hair, and that the cushions were embroidered with the wrong initials. Glad that he had managed to find some pleasure in her unsatisfactory body. She pressed her lips together, and when he pushed inside her and it hurt, she relived the moment when he told her that she had pleased him and called her wife. The tears that streaked down her cheeks were of relief as well as pain, and when he rolled over and drifted off to sleep, she hugged herself and lay staring up at the ceiling thanking her lucky stars that Mason Vawdrey had come into her life.
V
Mason woke disorientated some three hours later and lay staring up at the velvet bed-curtains for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the dark room. The fire was low and reduced to glowing embers. He turned his head and found Linnet sleeping soundly at his side, her face serene, one hand tucked under her cheek against the pillow. Her hair was fanned out over the coverlet like a silken curtain. You couldn’t see the extraordinary color in this light, but he was suddenly tempted to touch her hair again. Remembering she was naked, he had the ignoble impulse to draw down the covers and get a good look at those smooth, pale limbs that had lately tangled with his own. He wanted to see just how much of her was freckled. And if the hair on her pussy was a matching red gold. The only thing that stopped him was the uncomfortable suspicion that she would lie there with timid obedience and let him inspect her like a new purchase. Clearly Linnet Cadwallader intended to be a good, compliant wife. Nay, Linnet Vawdrey he corrected himself. He frowned in the darkness. He had a wife, and one that would likely feel hard used after her bedding. Though he had been as gentle as he knew how, the act was a pretty brutal one for a virgin, and he knew she had not enjoyed the deed itself. She had made no protest but he had heard her muffled sounds of discomfort even as she had tried to suppress them. He wasn’t a small man and he should have tried to comfort her afterward, he thought uneasily, instead of falling straight to sleep. But he didn’t have the gentle words she would have needed to hear. He was a soldier, not a poet, damn it, and he had never had a virgin before. Besides she needed to get used to feeling hard used. He was not the bridegroom of anyone’s dreams and she had been a fool to marry him. With a gesture of disgust, he flung back the covers and dragged on his braies and then his close-fitting black chausses. This left only his chest bare which would hopefully not be too alarming for his modest bride. Striding across the room he flung the door open to find out what had happened to the meal he had requested. A servant seated across the corridor leapt to his feet.
“Milord, you are awoken. ”
“You will call me Sir Mason,” he interrupted him swiftly.
“Yes, Sir Mason.”
“My wife and I were expecting some repast.” He hesitated. “But first send a lady’s maid with a pitcher of hot water for washing.”
“Yes sir.”
Mason scowled at him. “And be quick about it.” He turned back and closed the door. He noticed warily that Linnet was rubbing her eyes and sitting up. To his surprise she gave him a shy smile.
“You’re awake,” he said stupidly and then turned away to draw his linen shirt over his head. He hadn’t missed the dazed look in her eyes as they passed over the expanse of his chest or the slash of color that spread across her cheeks. He suddenly felt the bewildering need to reassure, not terrify his new bride. As he drew his shirt down over his body he remembered her words from earlier You’re big and hard all over. He almost stumbled. Was it any wonder he had been a touch overeager? His sheltered wife’s words had inflamed him, as had her hesitant touch. He hadn’t been expecting her awkward advances. They had been strangely endearing. A hearty knock on the door heralded the arrival of a rosy-cheeked maid who looked more fit for the kitchen than for above stairs.
“Your pardon, gentles,” she said cheerfully and bustled in with a large pitcher of steaming water and some linen towels.
Mason opened his mouth to direct her, but she had taken a swift look about the room and made straight for the dresser on Linnet’s side of the bed.
“Here you are milady,” she said encouragingly. “Let’s get you freshened up before your dinner.”
Linnet slid towards her beneath the covers. “If you could just pass me my shift,” she asked politely. “I would be most grateful.”
Mason tried to disregard their whispered conversation as he set about adding more logs to the fire, but he felt a surprising awareness of every movement being made as the water was poured into a bowl and his wife washed herself under her thin chemise. The maid dried her off with the linen towels and helped maneuver her underdress throughout.
“If you could fetch me my robe and veil that would be very kind of you . . . ?” Linnet floundered, not knowing her name.
“Name’s Gertrude, milady.”
“Thank you, Gertrude,” Linnet’s voice was warm and encouraging. Mason mildly wondered at it. She was not living up to her ill-tempered, peevish, invalid reputation one bit. He smiled grimly, imagining his brother Roland’s reaction when he found out the truth about his jilted bride. Looking up, he found Gertrude facing him with a resolute expression on her face.
“Yes?” he asked curtly.
“Wi
ll I be taking the bedsheet now?” she asked squaring her shoulders. “For the showing.”
Mason’s eyebrows snapped together, but before he could respond, Linnet’s steady voice forestalled him.
“Yes please, Gertrude,” she said. “You must hang it from the north tower as is the custom.” Her cheeks were pink but she gave a small smile. “Has my uncle’s party yet removed itself?” she added softly.
“Not all of ‘em, milady,” sniffed Gertrude. “He’s gone and his fine lady with him,” her words were faintly scornful. “But there’s still many and sundry lingering.” She was stripping down the bed now with firm economical movements. “Reckon this sight may see some of them off.” She gave a satisfied nod as she surveyed the bottom sheet before bundling it up. He could see the small spots of red on the white from where he stood and his gaze flew to Linnet, quite sure she would be shrinking in horror at the idea of her maiden blood being displayed to the castle. His wife was sat busily finger combing her silky hair, her glowing face lowered. Of course, reports of the consummation of their marriage would strike quite a blow to her furious uncle. He nodded to Gertrude as she gave him a brief curtsy and left the room. The door thudded behind her.
“Come and sit by the fire,” Mason said, clearing his throat. “You must be cold. I can see you shivering from over here.” What he meant was that he could see her nipples clearly outlined under her lightweight shift and was curious about the color, but Linnet was not to know that. It had been too dark in their bedchamber when he had had her. Next time he would have candlelight. She rose quickly and approached until she stood before the newly awakened fire. Mason drew a chair up for her.
“Thank you, Husband,” she said formally as she sat down. He saw her wince slightly and realized that she suffered some discomfort from their joining. There it was again, the odd pang of guilt. Being addressed as ‘Husband’ was distracting enough to draw his attention away from her small, pink nipples. “Call me Mason,” he said.
“Mason,” she repeated as if trying it out for size.
Their eyes met and he was the first to look away. Linnet busied herself twisting her hair into a coil and then driving the retrieved pins into it securing it to her nape.
A knock on the door announced the arrival of another maid. This one was younger with eyes as big as saucers. She almost gasped when she saw Linnet wearing her transparent shift before the fire.
“I’ve bought your robe milady,” she said bobbing a curtsy.
“Thank you,” smiled Linnet as she stood up. The maid helped her don the dark-green front-lacing gown.
“Have them send in our repast now my wife is dressed,” said Mason as the maid finished buttoning the long cuffs on Linnet’s sleeves.
“Yes milord,” whispered the maid, as she scurried from the room.
Mason didn’t have the heart to tell her fleeing form that he wasn’t a lord. Glancing back at Linnet he was annoyed to see her donning a wimple to cover her hair. “Leave your head uncovered, Linnet,” he said abruptly. At her look of surprise, he found himself adding gruffly. “I wasn’t lying earlier. I prefer you without.”
“Very well,” she sounded bewildered as she drew it back off. “As you please, Husband.”
A discreet knock this time meant their meal had arrived. Mason bellowed “Come in,” and was glad of the distraction as the table was set up and the food laid out before them.
Supper for Mason consisted of a couple of roasted capons served in a red wine sauce with a dark loaf of rye bread. Looking up he was surprised to see Linnet served with an entirely different meal. Waving away the sweet mead he asked instead for ale and pointed his knife at her bowl.
“What is that?” he asked the server with a frown.
“Milord?”
“It’s pottage,” Linnet interrupted helpfully. “Have you never had it?”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “Many times.” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her it was peasant’s food, but he held back, hesitating. “Are you on a fast?”
“Plain foods are considered better for my weak constitution,” she told him with a smile, picking up her spoon.
He frowned. “So you always dine on invalid’s pap?”
She flushed at his scathing tone. “Many people eat this kind of food,” she said staunchly. “It agrees with me better than meats. Would you prefer me to eat separately from you?” she asked with dignity.
That surprised a laugh out of him. “No,” he admitted. He turned to the servant who was removing the mead from the table. “Where are you going with that?” he asked sharply “You have not served your mistress.”
“M . . . milord?”
“I only drink milk,” Linnet told him calmly.
“Milk?” he echoed sitting back.
“Yes, milk,” she said. “From a goat.” Their eyes clashed a moment and he was surprised to see amusement in her pale-green eyes.
“You just got married Linnet,” he told her drily. “You can’t drink a toast with milk.”
“Very well,” she said after a moment and turned to the startled servant. “I will join my husband in drinking a cup of ale.”
“Y . . . yes milady.” He presented her a cup with a flourish. She took it gingerly, took a sip and spluttered. “Is it supposed to taste so bitter?” she asked, sounding bewildered.
“Have you any apple or pear wine?” Mason asked the servant.
The servant looked startled. “I . . . er . . . I am not sure milord ,” he gulped.”
He was starting to feel irritated by the man’s uncertainty. Was every servant in the place a bundle of nerves?
“’Tis of no great import,” Linnet hastened to ensure him, picking up the cup of dark ale again. “I am sure I can manage a few sips of this bitter brew.”
“Pour her a goblet of mead,” Mason instructed. He turned to Linnet. “It’s made of fermented honey and fruit.”
She bit her lip. “Very well, I shall try it,” she announced heroically.
The servant shot him a nervous look as he passed her the goblet. Linnet took a sip, blinked and then smiled at the servant. “This tastes very well,” she said with a relieved look.
Mason felt an inexplicable irritation that she had not bestowed the smile on him.
The servant bowed and retreated back into the shadows.
“Would you like to try some of my pottage?” she asked sweetly.
He shot her a suspicious look.
“It’s very good and has both beans and peas.”
“I’ll pass,” he replied. The meat was tender and not too salty.
“The food on your campaigns can’t have been too enjoyable,” she ventured lowering her spoon.
He looked up grimly. “No, it was not,” he answered shortly. The bread was good and surely freshly-made. He broke off another piece.
“Nothing fresh I’ll wager. Dry biscuits?” she hazarded. “Flatbreads?”
He took a swig of ale. He wasn’t inclined to discuss the practicalities of warfare with her. Instead he let his eyes roam over her slight frame. “You’ll need to build yourself up if you’re to give me a son.”
Linnet flushed at his directness. “Certainly.” She inclined her head as grandly as a princess, her gaze wandering to the door where the servant stood, his eyes bulging. She cleared her throat. “Do you—that is, have you any existing children?”
“Are you asking me if I have any bastards of my own, Linnet?” he demanded lowering his knife. She was bolder than she looked, he thought narrowing his eyes.
She swallowed audibly. “Is that indiscreet? I only meant—that is—I should be happy to have them here at Cadwallader Castle with us.” She fiddled with the stem of her goblet. “After all”―she broke off her words and took a fortifying sip of mead―“is not plain speaking best between a man and wife?”
He stared at her a moment. “I wouldn’t know. And no, I do not have any existing children.”
She nodded hastily and asked brightly, “Are Roland and Oswal
d your only brothers?”
He tensed. For some reason, hearing the name of his youngest brother on her lips made him feel an inexplicable flash of anger. And he never liked discussing his family at the best of times. Mason ground his teeth, realizing she was trying to make polite conversation and not liking it. Small talk had never been his strong suit. He pushed his plate away and beckoned the servant forth.
“Send in Robards,” he said, naming the steward, “with the household accounts. He has had ample time to get them ready for me.”
“Yes milord,” The servant bowed and backed swiftly out of the room.
“But Cecil does not have the household accounts,” Linnet protested. “I keep them. Remember? I did tell you . . . ” She dragged back her own chair. “I shall fetch them.”
“Stay where you are, Linnet. You have servants for that.”
“But I keep them locked in my trunk,” she objected, half out of her chair.
“You can send the key with a servant.”
She flushed hotly. “But I don’t want to,” she said, raising her gaze to his mutinously. “I keep my private things in there.”
“Private things?”
“Papers, books . . . ” she tailed off. “I have a collection of pages that I am illustrating,” she confessed in a rush. “The Tales of Sir Maurency of Jorde?” She plucked nervously at the jeweled belt around her hips as if she had just made some dreadful confession.
“I see,” he said heavily. Well, he supposed she must have some occupation all day locked away in her tower. Tapestry would have been more conventional. “Fetch them then.”
She shot him a grateful look, slipped off her chair and fairly ran from the room. He wondered what precisely was meant to ail her. Clearly she was not malformed in any way, despite the rumors. He had seen no sign of a weak heart in her coloring or deportment. One of the squires in his father’s service had used to turn almost green in color and faint under duress or during exertion, but Linnet had shown no such weakness. And now she had hared off to her tower as if a pack of hounds were on her heels. It made no sense. Unless . . . there was naught that ailed her. Could her uncle’s perfidy really run that deep? A dry cough from the doorway announced the arrival of the household steward. Mason looked up with a heavy frown.
Her Baseborn Bridegroom (Vawdrey Brothers Book 1) Page 4