Fire Song (13 page)

“My lord is kind,” Kassia said.

Blanche heard the uncertainty and fear in her voice.
Graelam deserved a shrinking wife in his bed, damn him. “Of course,” she said lightly, and rose. “Now that he is wed,” she added gently, “perhaps his other women will be relieved of their duties, for a while at least.” She knew she was being cruel, utterly mean, in fact, but she stifled her guilt at her lie, for her own disappointment was too fresh to bear in silent submission. She left Kassia, now parchment pale at her words, sitting rigidly in her chair, her hands twisting in her lap. At the very least, Graelam would regret not taking Blanche to his bed when she had offered herself to him. Perhaps, she thought, his innocent little wife would quickly come to despise him. It would be her revenge. She had nothing else, at least for the moment.

Graelam frowned toward Kassia’s bent head. She was pushing her food about on her trencher, paying no attention to her food, to him, or to anything else in the noisy hall.

“Why are you not eating?” he asked. “Are you feeling ill?”

Kassia looked at his huge hand lying lightly on her arm. He had introduced her formally as Lady Kassia de Moreton to all his men-at-arms, and all the servants. His wife. His possession. He would hurt her. She forced herself to look at him. She saw concern in his dark eyes, and blinked. Blanche had to be wrong. He was kind. He would not harm her.

“I . . . I am a bit tired, my lord, that is all.”

“You may retire in a few minutes. I will join you later.”

No!
Her tongue touched her lower lips in her nervousness.

It was an unconsciously sensuous gesture and Graelam
turned quickly away from her. He called out to Rolfe, his master-at-arms, “What have you heard of de Fortenberry? Has he kept to his own lands?”

“Aye, my lord,” Rolfe shouted back, above the din of voices. “The man is many things, but he is no fool. He knows you would burn his keep down about his ears if he dared to attack any of our demesne farms.”

“I have heard,” Guy said, “that Dienwald de Fortenberry buried his wife some months ago. Perhaps he would be interested in the Duke of Cornwall’s assistance in finding him another.”

Graelam merely grinned and said, “I wish another twelve or so men, Rolfe. Many men lost their masters in the Holy Land and have become no more than vagabonds.”

Kassia listened to their talk. She wished she could ask Graelam to direct some of his wealth toward the keep. She became aware that Blount, the steward, a cadaverous man of middle years who was once, she had heard, a priest, was speaking to her and turned politely to attend him.

Blanche slipped from the hall and made her way to her chamber. So de Fortenberry had no wife, she thought, hope beginning to stir through her. Nor did Graelam, not really, not yet. Despite what she had told Kassia, she doubted Graelam would take his young wife until he believed her strong again. She sat on her narrow bed picturing Kassia’s pale face at her words. If he were tempted, perhaps the girl’s fear would stop him, at least for a while. Unwanted tears spilled onto her cheeks. I am a wretched witch, she thought, yet I cannot seem to help myself.

Kassia’s fear had quieted. Her husband was still below in the hall discussing various matters with his men.
He had gently patted her hand when she had excused herself, but he had appeared distracted. Surely he would not harm her. She tightened the sash of her bedrobe more tightly about her waist and snuggled down under the covers. She was nearly asleep when she heard the bedchamber door open. She sat up, drawing the blanket to her chin. Graelam entered, holding a candle in his hand. His dark eyes locked on hers from across the room.

“I had hoped you would be asleep,” he said.

She wanted to ask him where he was going to sleep, but the words lay leaden in her mouth. She said only, “Nay.”

“Do you miss Belleterre and your father?”

She nodded, praying he would not see her nervousness.

He set the candle down atop a chess table and began to take off his clothes. He had stripped to the waist when he heard her gasp. He turned to see her staring at him.

“Did you never attend your father or his guests in their bath?” he asked gently.

She shook her head.

“You have never seen a naked man?”

A chestnut curl fell over her forehead as she again shook her head.

Graelam was silent for a moment, watching her. He knew fear when he saw it. An unwonted stirring of pity went through him. He slowly walked to the bed and sat down beside her. He could feel her tensing, though she did not move away from him.

“Listen to me, Kassia,” he said quietly. “You are young and innocent. Your husband is a stranger, and you are living amongst strangers. You have also been very ill.” He paused. “Must you stare at my chest?”

Her eyes flew upward to his face. “I am sorry, my lord,” she whispered.

He felt a surge of impatience at her for acting like a whipped puppy. “You have nothing to be sorry about,” he said harshly. “I fully intend to sleep in my own bed, with you. I will not take you. But you will become used to me. When you are well again and have added flesh, you will become my wife.”

He rose and pulled off the rest of his clothes. “Look at me, Kassia,” he said.

Kassia raised her eyes. He was standing by the bed, sublimely indifferent in his nakedness. He felt her eyes roving over his body, and despite himself, his member swelled. He quickly eased into bed beside her. He heard her erratic breathing.

“The scar, my lord,” she said hesitantly.

“Which one?”

“The one on your leg that goes to your—”

“My groin?”

“Aye. How did you get it?”

“In a tournament in France, some ten years ago. I was careless and my opponent was quick to take advantage of it.”

“And the scar on your shoulder?”

He was silent for many moments. “That,” he said slowly, “was a gift from a lady.”

“I do not understand.”

“ ’Tis a very long story. Perhaps someday I will tell you about it. Now go to sleep, Kassia. Tomorrow, if you are feeling strong, we will go riding.”

“Yes, my lord.”

But she did not close her eyes until she heard his deep even breathing. She pictured his body, so different from hers, and felt her face grow hot. She had been
taught modesty. Evidently men were not. Blanche was right, she thought, huddling near the edge of the bed, her knees drawn to her chest. He would hurt her. She tried to imagine him covering her as a stallion would a mare, and penetrating her body. She quivered with dread. How would she bear the pain?

Graelam turned in his saddle at the sound of Kassia’s bright laughter. A sea gull was swooping down, nearly touching her shoulder, and she tossed another bit of bread high into the air. The gull squawked loudly, and dived to catch it.

She guided Bluebell forward to escape the half-dozen gulls now gathering behind her, and reined in beside him, her eyes crinkling with pleasure.

Graelam gazed at her, remembering again how she had looked early that morning, her legs drawn to her chest, her pillow hugged in her arms. He had reached out his hand and gently touched the soft curl over her temple. A sudden fierce protectiveness had flooded him and he had quickly drawn back his hand, angry at himself for his weakness. His abruptness with her when she had come into the great hall to break her fast had made her draw back and gaze at him uncertainly. He had left the hall quickly, aware of the silent condemnation from Drake, his master armorer, and Blount, his steward.

Damn them for not minding their own business, he thought now, but he smiled back at her, unable to help himself.

“Oh! Look, my lord!”

He followed Kassia’s pointing finger to the sea lion who was diving in the waves. They had ridden to the southern boundaries of Graelam’s land, then turned downward along the coastline.

“Would you care to rest awhile?” he asked her.

She nodded happily, still watching the sea lion.

He swung off Demon and tied him to a wind-bowed cedar, then clasped his hands around Kassia’s waist and lifted her down.

She walked quickly to the edge of the cliff while he secured Bluebell’s reins. It was a bright, windy day and Kassia lifted her face to the sun, feeling it warm her. She turned to see Graelam unfasten his cloak and spread it on the ground.

She sat down as would a child, her legs crossed in front of her. Graelam joined her, stretching out on his back, resting on his elbows.

“The man who was hurt this morning,” she said. “Is he all right now?”

“Aye,” Graelam said shortly, disliking to be reminded of his own stupidity. He had pushed his men too hard after he had left the hall, until one of them, careless from fatigue, had been hurt.

Kassia lowered her eyes to the rocky cliff edge but a few feet away. “I . . . I am sorry if I offended you, my lord.”

“You did not offend me,” he said roughly. “I had much on my mind this morning.” It was a half-truth and as much of an apology Graelam had ever offered to a woman. After a moment he asked abruptly, “Do you
believe Geoffrey was responsible for your brother’s death?”

Her eyes clouded for a moment, in painful memory. “If he was,” she said slowly, “it would mean that he is evil. I remember the day very clearly. My brother, Geoffrey, and I had a small boat and we would take turns rowing it to the mouth of the cove and fishing. On that day, Geoffrey and Jean ran ahead. My father and I were nearly to the cove when we heard Jean scream. Geoffrey was standing at the edge of the water, and he started yelling and pointing when he saw us. My father watched his son drown and there was naught he could do.

“He ordered the boat brought to shore after my brother had been buried. There was a jagged hole in the bottom.”

“Surely that is not proof enough,” Graelam said.

Kassia shook her head sadly. “But you see, I had taken the boat out the day before. It did not even leak. And there is more. Evidently Geoffrey could swim. Yet he had stood on the shore watching my brother drown. He could have saved him. When my father found out, he went into a rage and ordered Geoffrey from Belleterre. That was eight years ago. My father’s sister, Felice, kept after him to allow her to visit Belleterre occasionally. She and Geoffrey have been allowed to visit three times in the past three years.”

“How old was your brother?”

“He was but eight years old when he died. I was nearly ten years old. I am not certain that Geoffrey did kill my brother. Perhaps he did not rip the hole in the boat. Perhaps his only fault was that he was a coward, and was afraid to try to save him. I do not know.”

“Geoffrey is still a coward,” Graelam said. “I am glad you are safe from him now.”

There was warmth in his voice and Kassia turned to face him, her eyes glowing with pleasure. “You sound like my father,” she said.

“I am not your father!” Graelam said harshly. “His eyes fell to her breasts, the wool of her gown outlining their small roundness by the wind. “Tell me about your mother.”

Kassia cocked her head at him, wondering at his constantly shifting moods. “She was very loving and gentle. I do not remember her very well, but my father has told me often of her goodness. And what of your mother, my lord?”

“Her name was Dagne, and unlike your mother, she was not particularly loving and gentle. My father had oft to chastise her for her disobedience and ill humor.”

Kassia stared at him. “You mean he
struck
her?”

“Only when she had earned his wrath.”

“And when your father earned her wrath, did she strike him?”

“She was a woman. Of course she did not strike him. But I recall her tongue was very sharp on occasion.” That was half-truth if ever there was one, he thought. His mother had been about as soft-spoken and gentle as a snake. Not, of course, that his father had ever done anything to call forth more gentle emotions from her. He shrugged that thought aside as Kassia said sharply, “That, my lord, is hardly the same thing! My father would never harm someone smaller and weaker than he. Surely a man could not love a woman and still wish to hurt her.”

“Kassia, you do not understand,” Graelam said patiently. “It is a man’s responsibility to discipline his
wife. It is her duty to obey, to serve him, and to bear his children.”

“Being a wife does not sound very pleasant,” Kassia said. “I think,” she continued with alarming candor, “that I should prefer being a dog. At least he is petted and allowed to run free.”

“There are benefits to being a wife rather than a dog,” Graelam said dryly.

“Oh?” Kassia asked in a tone of disbelief.

He raised his hand and lightly stroked his fingertips over her jaw. “When you are ready, I will show you the benefits of being a wife.”

Her eyes widened as she remembered Blanche’s words. She blurted out, without thinking, “Oh no! That is not a benefit! That is worse than a beating!”

Graelam dropped his hand and stared at her. “Kassia, it is natural for you to be nervous, perhaps even afraid, of what you do not understand. But lovemaking is not a punishment, I promise you.”

“Why do you call it lovemaking?” she asked rather wildly. “It is like animals, and it hurts, and there is no love.”

Graelam could not believe his ears. Nor could he believe his patience. “What did your father tell you?”

She shook her head, refusing to look at him. “Nothing. He said nothing.”

“Then why do you believe it will hurt?”

Kassia bowed her head. “Please,” she whispered. “I . . . I will do my duty when I must. I know that you want sons.”

“Who told you it would hurt?”

“A . . . lady,” she said in a taut voice. “She told me that you . . . that men were demanding and cared not about a woman’s pain. She told me I must bear it.”

Graelam cursed long and fluently, the more foul of his curses thankfully whipped away by the wind. “This lady,” he said finally in a very calm voice, “was wrong to say such a thing to you, and she lied.” He sighed, knowing he had not been truthful. “There are some men who are not interested in a woman’s feelings, but not all men are like that.”

Kassia turned wide, innocent eyes to his face. “Are you like these men, my lord?”