She recoiled as if slapped, her face going even whiter—though he’d not thought that possible. And yet, still no tears. He felt her trembling in his arms, shuddering against him with loathing and mayhap fear…and yet he still yearned for her. She bewitched him with her scent, her body, her very nearness, and he was powerless to resist.
“You are my wife,” he hissed. “You cannot deny me, Judith.”
He was too rough when he pulled her to him, but he didn’t care. He buried his face in her throat, along the curve of her jaw, inhaling her scent, tasting her warm, moist skin with demanding lips. She vibrated against him but made no move, no sound as he slid his hands to cup her head, shoving his fingers into her thick, heavy hair, holding her immobile as he covered her lips, tonguing her mouth open roughly. Drinking, tasting, devouring before he pulled away to look at her.
Judith’s eyes were downcast, and when he eased back, she turned her face from him. Her lips were slick and full from his brutal kiss, and she still heaved and trembled against his body. He could feel the curve of her breasts, the useless dangle of her arms, the warmth of her thighs burning through hauberk, mail, and hose. His blood pounded, raging through him, the sensation surpassing even the nonstop agony piercing his ankle.
Grabbing the front of her bliaut, he fisted the material in his hands. With one sharp movement, he could tear it in two, leaving her bare to him. He could fill his eyes and hands, he could take and taste and tease…and slake his lust. Take what was his.
He tightened his hands, the fabric stretching taut between them, her breasts brushing the bottom of his knuckles—and he looked down at her.
“You will not say me nay,” he whispered as she turned her gaze toward him.
Cold. It was cold and empty and, yet, lingering beneath those icy blue eyes, was anguish. And aught more he could not recognize.
“Very well, then, my lord. But do not tear my gown.”
Something inside him seemed to crack—sharp and deep—and with a low cry, he shoved her from him, spinning away on his bad ankle. The sudden streak of agony nearly brought him to the ground, but with great effort, he kept himself upright as he strode out of the chamber, flinging away a stool in his wake.
Blinded by frustration and confusion, propelled by fury and madness, he trod roughly on his ruined foot, welcoming the acute pain as a relief from this other torture. He stumbled out into the hall, his fingers curled into themselves, his insides hot and aching, his face wet with tears.
He didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t know what place in this keep might offer him solace and sanctuary, and he staggered along in a red haze until he could no longer bear the pain. His ankle gave way and he tumbled to the ground in front of a small door, wedged open.
Malcolm dragged himself across the threshold and discovered he was in a small, dim chapel. With a hard, ironic laugh, he collapsed in front of the altar.
~*~
Judith barely kept herself
from falling when Malcolm shoved her away, and she watched in horror as he spun and limped heavily from the chamber.
She sank to the floor, weak and shaking, covering her mouth with trembling hands. Her lips were full and still throbbed from his kiss, and God help her if she didn’t still feel the warmth pulsing through her.
How could it be?
The very sight of Malcolm, suddenly appearing in the doorway, had made her heart lurch and leap with gladness. He’d been so broad and large, so familiar and beloved and powerful…and the look in his eyes. Hot and determined.
But it was only that moment of madness before she remembered all he’d done to her. How he’d betrayed and dishonored her…and that the woman he truly wanted was in the hall below.
Judith would be no woman’s substitute. Oh, nay.
Yet, when he pulled her to him, when he kissed her and buried his face in the sensitive curve of her throat, murmuring against her skin, gathering her close as if he meant to devour her, she could hardly keep from sagging in his arms, dragging him to her for her own taste. Tiny licks of arousal battled with her anger and hurt, the heat of desire threatened to overtake her logic and pain. She fought it back, remaining rigid and unfeeling.
Nay, I cannot give in to him. I cannot allow him to take this from me too.
For what Malcolm would take from her was much more than any damage Henry had caused.
And now her husband was gone. And she was glad for it. She must be. She must make herself be glad.
For the queen was right. To love a man was naught more than to be cursed.
~*~
If he could have ridden, Malcolm
likely would have left Lilyfare. But his foot had swollen again from the abuse visited upon it, and if he hadn’t torn off his boot, he would have had to cut it away. He was going nowhere soon.
As it was, he lay in the middling candlelight of the tiny chapel for some unknown length of time, wracked by agony. He wasn’t certain which caused him more pain: his ankle or the ugly, incomprehensible scene with his wife.
Her cries and accusations left a shocked muddle in his hazy mind. His mistress? Beneath her roof? What madness was that? His
daughter
? Well,
that
he understood, but the rest of it…. He shook his head wearily, his anger having ebbed some small bit…until he remembered Judith’s loathing and her denial of him. Then white-hot fury incensed him once again, followed by black despair.
Fool. You should have wed Beatrice and been done with it. At the least then you wouldn’t have the Queen of England trying to kill you as well.
He leaned back against the wall, tipping his head against the stone, and tried to ignore the incessant pounding of his foot. But that was preferable to thinking on the misery his life had become—and so he meditated upon the constant agony, fairly praying for the pain to increase.
Some hours later—after he had drunk all of the unconsecrated wine he found in the sacristy—he heard the sound of a person passing along the corridor. When he shouted for attendance, a serf poked his head in curiously and Mal demanded his squire and another bottle of wine—not in that order.
This directive brought a cautious Gambert and Rike, and—praise God—more wine. Eventually, the squires helped Mal to his feet and started down the corridor. It was a slow, laborious process, for he was unable to put any weight on his foot and weighed several stone more than either of the young men.
Eventually, they reached the doorway to a room Mal recognized as the master chamber, belonging to the lord and lady of Lilyfare. His rightful place.
“Belowstairs,” he snarled. “I would go belowstairs. To the hall.”
Gambert and Rike exchanged looks, but neither was mad enough to speak. However, they called for Nevril to assist managing their lord down the narrow stairs. One look at Malcolm and any question the master-at-arms might have died on his lips.
Eventually, Mal was installed in a massive chair in the hall in a corner near one of the large fireplaces. His purple-green-yellow foot, thrice its normal size, was propped on a table in front of him. It was well after the evening meal and the keep was settling for the night, but Gambert brought him a platter of food.
Soon, the hall was empty and quiet, dark of everything but the last embers of his fire.
~*~
Judith slept fitfully that night,
expecting her husband to storm into the chamber at any moment.
She hadn’t dared bolt the door against him, and she warred with herself over wanting him to appear and demand she welcome him back in her bed…or wanting to be left alone to grieve and loathe and rage.
The next morrow, she dragged herself from bed just after dawn, before even Tabatha had risen. When she came down the stairs into the hall, which was just stirring for the day, she saw him and stilled.
From the dim corner where he sat, Malcolm’s eyes fastened on her, cold and dark. They glittered, like that of a predator. Judith gave a little shiver and turned away, hastening to the kitchens and far from him, her heart thudding heavily.
What have I done?
She took her time away from the hall, circumventing the area as long as she could. But at last, well into the middle of the morning, Judith had no choice but to return. As she walked through, she saw Lady Beatrice and Lady Ondine sitting with Malcolm in the corner.
Jealousy flared hot inside her and Judith stalked away, head held high, heart pounding furiously. She was just out of sight of the hall when she heard, “Poppy!”
Oh nay
.
She spun in time to see Violet charging across the room toward her father. Judith froze and turned, her heart in her throat as she waited to see whether Mal acknowledged his daughter. Her fingers curled into the edge of the stone wall and she tensed, ready to rush over and swoop the naive little girl away from him.
When Violet launched herself into Mal’s lap, Judith held her breath. But though a flash of pain crossed his face as the girl jarred his foot, he was smiling as he caught her up in his arms.
Smiling.
Judith exhaled in relief and wonder. Had she ever seen Malcolm smile like that? With such an expression of love and affection on his face? With such eagerness and light?
This was not a man who was ashamed by or neglected his daughter.
So then why…why would he keep her from Judith? Why would he send her secretly to Lilyfare?
She peered around the corner again, watching. Malcolm and Violet were in earnest conversation, him stroking her hair as the little girl jabbed a finger in the direction of his injured foot, then turned to speak to….
Lady Beatrice. Who smiled and nodded and tapped Violet smartly on the nose.
Judith’s heart seized, squeezing so tightly she couldn’t breathe. Of course. Mal had brought both of his women to Lilyfare…and now they were together. The three of them.
And she…she was merely the wife.
SEVENTEEN
After three days in the hall,
Mal could stand it no longer. His scalp itched, his clothes were brittle, his foot was nearly back to its normal size, and surely the reason everyone gave him wide berth was because he stank. Even Violet had wrinkled her nose and squirmed away when he tried to gather her onto his lap for a tickle.
But he was not about to bathe in the midst of the great hall, and he surely was not about to allow serf and man-at-arms alike to assume he was unwelcome in his own bedchamber…even though he had never yet set foot over its threshold.
So he waited until the morrow when Judith was off on a hunting trip before he called for assistance to the second floor and ordered a bath.
To his surprise and delight, the serfs brought a massive copper tub—easily large enough for Mal to fit and actually submerge himself with only his shoulders and a bit of knee exposed. He didn’t think he’d ever had such luxury, except when once he’d sat in a bubbling hot spring at some Roman ruins. He lost count of the number of buckets of water required to fill the container, closing his eyes as one of the maids scrubbed his head and another shook out a clean tunic and hose, whilst another prepared to shave him. There was even a bundle of rosemary and a cloth of wrapped lemon peels floating in the hot water, offering a fresh, clean scent that mingled with soft soap.
His wife surely knew how to manage a household.
A stab of pain at the thought left Mal breathless, and he closed his eyes. Here he sat, in the chamber that was rightfully his—clean, neat, bright, and sumptuously furnished, smelling of his wife, filled with evidence of her presence everywhere…including a long strand of fiery hair caught on one of the fireplace stones.
Though he’d seen glimpses of her in the hall over the last days, she’d never even approached him. Her railing, shrieking accusations were a blur in his pain-filled, confused mind.
Mistress? Secrets?
Aye, he’d not told her about Violet, but what other madness had settled in her craw? He’d been so enraged and frustrated over her denial of him, so muddled by pain, he’d nearly forgotten about the accusations.
And if anyone suspected aught was amiss between the lord and lady of Lilyfare, no one dared speak of it. But how could they not know? Yet, he was too proud to send for her—for fear she would not come.
He had but two choices: to leave Lilyfare, resigned to their failed match, or to stay and force Judith to accept her role as his wife. At the least until he got an heir or two.
Neither option sat well with him, and he closed his eyes against the sting of angry tears. By now, the maids were done scrubbing and shaving him and more buckets of water had been brought to dump over his head, rinsing away the last bit of dirt. He rose awkwardly to his feet, still unable to put full weight on his ankle, looking about the chamber as they toweled him off.