He stared at her in confusion. She no longer appeared the intimidating witch who’d threatened to poison Moor. Even his rage that she would raise a weapon to his brother—her husband, now—unaccountably dissipated in the face of her misery.
He stood there, inside her chamber, his legs wooden and his mind blank of any words, either of torment or comfort. Though she was nearly his height, at that moment she appeared small and slight, a sapling brought low in the violence of the storm around her. She had not caused the storm, he realized. She was merely trying to survive within it.
He cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other. “Lady Beatrix—”
“Just leave me be!” She glared at him and he was relieved to see that she retained at least some portion of her temper. “Go away from here. Leave me at least one moment’s peace before I must face my husband.”
Peter backed out of the opened door and she slammed it closed. But he did not leave right away. Moor approached him and nosed in his hand, searching, no doubt, for a treat. Peter reached mindlessly into a pouch tied at his girdle and gave his pet a hard baked roll of flavored dough. While the hound crunched the morsel, Peter stared at the door to the lord’s private chamber.
He stood there still when his brother burst into the antechamber.
“What do you here?”
“I … I was, ah, grooming Moor.” Peter glanced from his brother to the closed door, then back to Axton. “She is … I mean, well … What is—”
Axton cut him off with a sharp gesture. “If you can find no better task than to linger here with that overgrown hound, then I will find one for you. Begone.”
He did not bother to see if Peter complied, but with an impatient stride, crossed the room, threw open the door, then entered and slammed it shut.
Peter stood as he had before, staring at the door in shock. But it was worse this time. For when the door had been pulled wide, he’d seen something he’d rather he hadn’t. He’d had a clear view of the bed and the enormous bear pelt that draped it. On the pelt, however, lying there without a stitch of clothing to cover her, had been Beatrix.
It had lasted less than a moment, yet the image was burned forever in his head. She’d been naked, her milky white skin and golden hair a startling contrast on the huge black pelt. And she’d been lying on her stomach. He’d seen her tiny waist, the gentle curve to her hips and the twin mounds of her derriere. Beyond that, the endless length of her legs had stretched, to the bare soles of her delicate feet.
He’d heard of pagan sacrifices and to his mind, she looked disturbingly like one. The fact that she lay on her stomach bothered him even more, for it was clear to him that she had been terrified.
What in God’s name had Axton done to her? What was he doing to her this very minute?
He advanced to the door, then halted. No shouts came from within. No sounds, either of anger or violence.
He hesitated. She was his brother’s wife. Axton was her husband, and as such, he had the right to do with her as he wanted—short of killing her or maiming her, of course. And Axton would never do either of those, he told himself, recovering his filial loyalty.
He thought of his parents and the love they’d shared until his father had been killed in a battle near Caen. But his death had not killed his mother’s love for her husband. Though Peter never thought about the wife he would someday take, he knew now, with an unshakable conviction, that when he wed, it must be for love. He would not have a wife cower from him in their bed.
To think of his parents sharing such intimacies brought a flush of embarrassment to his cheeks. But he was nevertheless certain that on the few occasions they’d lain together, they’d done so in love, not in anger and fear as Axton and his bride now did.
Still, it was none of his concern. Axton would not welcome his interference, and Beatrix had made her mind clear in that matter as well. However, when he turned away, taking Moor by the collar as he quit the antechamber and trudged down the stairs, Peter was heavy of heart.
They’d come home to Maidenstone Castle, but it felt nothing like a home to him. Nothing at all.
W
hen she awoke she was alone. She knew it as surely as she knew night had fallen. Her eyes told her it was dark; some other sense—one without a name or a source, but an innate sense just the same—told her that Axton was gone.
Linnea rolled onto her back. She was naked, of course, and cocooned within the heavy bear pelt. The thick fur slid over her skin in a caress only one step removed from that of the man who’d wrapped it around her.
He’d killed the bear in a place called Gisors. He’d told her that in one of the brief moments of calm, as they’d lain there recovering their breath and their strength until they could begin again.
Linnea closed her eyes in utter dismay. A small cry of despair slipped past her lips into the shadowed silence of the chamber. She could not count all the times they’d come together in the way of husbands and wives—in the way of lovers.
She’d understood little enough of the goings-on between men and women before her marriage, but she knew that some women enjoyed it, while others dreaded it. Marriage gave no promise of enjoyment, so Linnea had assumed that love must be the factor that brought pleasure to the act, at least for women.
But now she knew that was not true. She had enjoyed it. She enjoyed it far too much. She did not love the man—how could she? He was her enemy, and besides, she hardly knew him. But she had cavorted with him as if he were her lover. She knew things about him now that she wished she did not know. And he knew things about her …
He knew she was ticklish. She knew he was not. She knew the scar on his chest came from the bear who comforted her now. He knew the mark on her leg was a birthmark. She knew he was twenty-eight and had been born at Maidenstone Castle, in this very chamber. He knew she was ten years younger and had been birthed in the room just across from this one.
But he didn’t know she had a sister. He didn’t know her name was Linnea. And he didn’t know how close she’d come to revealing the truth to him tonight.
Linnea clutched the bearskin to her chin, feeling for all the world as if she were a pagan from the far-gone past. The fur slid like rough silk against her flesh, rousing a faint blush on her sensitive skin. He’d touched her in all those same places. He’d kissed her there and licked her there too, and tasted every portion of her body, it had seemed.
And she’d reveled in it.
She’d been so afraid at first—and so angry she thought she’d explode from it. He’d been angry too, though
why
she could not fathom. He’d been the one to humiliate her out there on the wall-walk where anyone might see them. The fact that no one had seen was no solace at all. They
might
have. But when he’d come to their chamber he’d been angry nonetheless, and she had expected the worst. That was why she’d done as he’d ordered, hoping to appease him in some small way.
Once she’d sent Peter away she’d torn off her clothes and lain facedown on the bearskin. She’d prepared herself to be beaten. She could have withstood it too, for she’d long ago taught herself not to react to pain. It gave the person who inflicted it too much pleasure. So she’d steeled herself for the weight of his angry hand on her vulnerable flesh.
That hand that had fallen on her had not inflicted pain, though. He’d been rough, but he’d not hurt her.
But he had made it clear that he possessed her, that he owned her and that she was his. Just as he’d defeated the bear and now took his pleasure of its silken fur, so had he defeated her. Then he’d taken his pleasure of her in ways that still boggled her mind.
He’d lain on top of her that first time, kissing and biting her, from the bottoms of her feet, up the tender backs of her legs, to her derriere and waist and back and neck. Then he’d raised her to her knees, spread her legs, and entered her that way.
And she had cried out from the pleasure of it.
“St. Jude,” she whispered now to the cool night air. She had loved every moment of it, every touch and every stroke.
They’d slept afterward, a violent, collapsed sort of exhaustion. He’d roused first and found new ways to excite her. He’d kissed the chain he’d given her, following it wherever it lay against her skin, and then other places too. It was the ultimate kiss of intimacy, he’d told her when she’d started to object.
She’d been scandalized at his boldness. She’d even tried to stop him. But he had prevailed. He was stronger and older, and he knew what he was doing, he’d told her. She would like it very much.
He’d been right, of course. It had been an unthinkable act, and yet when she’d yielded, it had been exquisite beyond the telling. Even now she quivered to remember. Her very insides seemed to purr like a contented cat—an obscenely satiated cat.
But even that had not been an end of it. They’d slept again and this time she’d been the first one to awaken. She should have taken that opportunity to escape from him, at least for a little while. Instead, she’d studied him, sprawled upon the bed in his naked, masculine glory.
He was a magnificent specimen of a man. She might be naive and innocent of men, but she knew that much. Long and strong of limb. Solid and thick in the chest; stomach flat and rippling with muscles. And everywhere dusted with dark hair.
She’d touched him then, marveling at the different textures of him. Hard; soft. Rough with hair; smooth. Her fingers had explored lightly. Stroking and investigating.
That’s when he had awakened. That’s when he had discovered that she was ticklish and tortured her almost to tears. Then without warning he had entered her, and within a matter of seconds he’d brought her to stunning completion. She’d almost died in that moment. At least it had seemed so at the time. Now Linnea didn’t know what to think.
At least he was not here now, and she had time to clear her head and try to reason things out. But a part of her would rather have not needed to think. It was easier simply to react, to surrender and go where he would take her.
But he was not here and Linnea knew she should be glad of it.
With a heavy sigh she threw back the pelt and lay there, allowing the chill of night to settle upon her. She was hungry. Starving. Had she gone the whole day through without eating? Had he? Or was he in the kitchen this very moment gathering a feast for them, that they might regain their strength and continue on in this mad orgy of physical pleasure?
It was that thought which pushed her to her feet. She could not spend every moment of her wedded life in bed with him, even if he was her husband. She needed to … needed to … She needed to do something else, but she was not sure what.
She found her kirtle, twisted and slightly ripped, but still serviceable. Her sister’s clothes had been moved into the chamber, so she hastily donned the first gown she laid hands on. It was a simple teal-blue fitted tunic, with narrow sleeves laced tight at the wrist, and a strip of sheared white rabbit fur edging the neckline. She knotted a pair of plain wool stockings above her knees and stepped into a pair of everyday leather slippers.
Her hopeless hair she caught in one hand and after tying it back with a bit of cording, covered it with a wispy length of gauze veiling, anchored in place with a carved, bone hairpin.
It would have to do, she decided, tucking the slackened wrist cords up into the sleeves. Her girdle—the one with the key Axton had given her—went around her hips. Then she hurried from the empty room and into the antechamber.
She listened at the door to the stairwell. A voice or two sounded quietly from the hall, just murmurs that she could not put a name to. She did not want to run into Axton, but she would have to go down the stairs and take her chances if she was to find something to eat.
But with every step she knew she did but delude herself to think she was somehow escaping him. There was no escape from him. The chain that burned against her inner thighs was a constant reminder of that fact, as was the damp soreness that went much deeper.
The hall was dark. All the torches had burned down save the one beside the door to the bailey. Opposite that the fire that softly hissed in the big hearth cast a small half-circle of light, an eerie, red glow in the dark cavern of the empty hall. A brace of candles flickered at one end of the table that had not been put away, and it was there a few men gathered still.
One of them lay on his back upon the bench beside the table, his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed to be asleep, and his snores rose in a soft, regular rhythm. Another man sat head down, his elbows bent on the table, studying his heavy mug of ale—or else asleep sitting up, she speculated. It was the man with the red beard, she realized. Axton’s man, Sir Reynold.
But where was Axton?
“I would be better rid of them.”
Linnea nearly leaped out of her skin. Though not loud, the words caught her unaware, and she pressed a hand to her chest, above her pounding heart. The man at the table lifted his head and looked to his right. Linnea followed his gaze only to find precisely what she’d not wanted to find. Her new husband sat in the lord’s chair. She’d not spied him before because the chair was turned to face the fire. But only the lord of Maidenstone would dare sit in that chair.
Her heart did an odd sort of dance, a thumping response to him that she would prefer to think was caused of agitation rather than anticipation. She could not possibly want to do any of
that
again. Only a complete wanton could desire even more of such shameful behavior!
“I would like to be rid of them all,” he repeated. “Father, son, and crone, as well.”
“But you would keep the daughter.” It was not a question, Sir Reynold made, but a statement.
Axton let out a snort that sounded like derision. But he did not answer.
That seemed to goad Sir Reynold on, however. “I take it the minx suits you. ’Tis the talk of the castle, how you have bedded her the whole day long.” He laughed. “Was the wedding night inadequate, that you needed the entire day to prove you could do better? Or is she simply a slow learner?”
Linnea’s ears turned hot with shame. Axton de la Manse had no need to prove his prowess. But she … she knew nothing. Did he consider her a slow learner? Was he disappointed in her?
Axton pushed himself out of the chair and moved to stand before the fire. He’d donned plain braies and a loose chainse. He wore neither weapon nor even a girdle. Even his boots were low and ordinary. But there was nothing ordinary about him, she saw at once. Even garbed little better than a squire, he was every inch the lord. It should have angered her to no end, but instead Linnea felt a foolish prickle of pride. This was her husband. She was married to him.
“The son and father will remain my prisoners until Henry orders otherwise. The old crone, however, can go to Romsey Abbey,” Axton said.
“Romsey Abbey, you say. Well, then, it is too bad you did not decide this sooner. The priest has already departed for there. She might have accompanied him, had I known that was your intent.”
Axton turned toward his captain. “The priest is gone from the castle? Why? And why there? Who authorized his travel?”
“You did.” A slow grin broke over the other man’s face. “As I recall, however, you were staring at your bride when we spoke on it. Never say you were distracted at the time?” he added, laughter in his voice.
Axton thrust both of his hands through his hair. “Apparently I was. When did he leave?”
“Before first light. Why? Does it matter?”
Linnea held her breath. The real Beatrix had traveled with Father Martin. Did Axton suspect anything? Did he know how they plotted against him? Did he know who she really was?
Axton shrugged. “’Tis in my nature to be suspicious. Arrange a small band to deliver the old woman to the abbey—the sooner the better. Keep two men at watch over de Valcourt, and one on his son.”
“What of the daughter? Who will keep a watch over her?” the bearded fellow asked, not bothering to hide his mirth.
But Axton was not annoyed by the man’s humor. There was a bond between those two, Linnea noted. Axton did not appear the sort to suffer the jesting of just anyone.
“I will manage my wife—”
Axton broke off, and Linnea at once knew why. He’d seen her, though she yet stood in the shadows of the wall. She felt the touch of his eyes and it was like a familiar shock to her system.
“I will manage my wife,” he repeated, but this time the words were spoken directly to her, not to his man. Sir Reynold must have recognized the change in his voice, for he looked around and grinned when he spied her.
“Ho, Maurice. Come greet your mistress, man. Do not offend her with your stinking breath and worse manners.” Sir Reynold kicked the bench that held the third fellow, and with a muffled curse, the man landed on the floor.
“Whoreson bastard!” the fellow sputtered, springing instantly to his feet. His hand went to the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his waist, but he did not draw it. Indeed, he seemed to forget why he’d reached for it and now stood there befuddled. Swaying on his feet.