Fire Song (40 page)

Kassia brushed away her tears, cursing herself for desiring his strength and his comfort even for a
moment. “Aye, my lord,” she said quietly, and left him. She smiled and spoke throughout the long evening, seeing to Graelam’s needs, while wishing that she could creep away someplace and shroud herself in the bleakness of her spirit. She listened to him speak to his men, listened to him laugh as they traded jests. He had not touched her the night before, and she knew that he would take her this night. She wanted him to take her, she realized, make her forget, if only for a moment. But not in anger. Not as a punishment.

She excused herself and went to their bedchamber. It took her some time to rid herself of Etta. She bathed in hot scented water, forcing herself to accept the conclusion she had fought against for so long. Pride and truth yield but empty misery. She thought of all her practice with the bow and arrow, and laughed aloud at her foolishness. Perhaps Graelam would admire her, but likely it would not bring him to trust her, to believe in her. Only a lie would change how he treated her.

When Graelam entered much later, she was lying in their bed propped up against the pillows.

“I had expected you to be asleep,” he said as he stripped off his clothes.

She smoothed the bedcovers under her shaking hands. “Nay,” she said quietly. “I have missed you,” she blurted out.

His heat shot up. She saw the gleam of pleasure in his dark eyes before he quickly made his expression impassive. “Why?” he asked bluntly.

He stood by the bed, naked, his eyes intent upon her face.

“I do not want strife between us, Graelam,” she whispered, trying not to gaze so hungrily at his body.

But she failed, and he knew it. “You know what I
demand from you,” he said as he slipped into bed beside her.

“Aye, I know.”
Do not cry, you stupid fool!
“You said you would forgive me.”

“I will forgive you,” he said, his voice flat and cold.

“Then it was as you believe.”

He felt a searing wave of contempt at himself, and a surge of disappointment as well. He had wanted her to admit her quilt, admit that she had hired Dienwald de Fortenberry and given him the necklace, but facing the fact of her doing it made him almost physically ill. He rose on his elbow beside her and gazed down into her pale face. He saw tears shimmering in her eyes.

“I told you I would forgive you if you but spoke the truth. Why do you cry?”

I am so lonely! I cannot bear my loneliness! I will gladly take whatever part of you you wish to give me.

She could think of nothing to say to him. With a small, helpless cry, she flung herself against him, wrapping her arms about his back and burrowing her face against his shoulder.

“So,” he said, his bitterness sounding in his voice, “it is my body you wish.” He felt her soft mouth pressing light kisses against his chest.

“Please,” she whispered, “no more anger. I can bear no more anger from you.”

“It is not anger I feel for you now, Kassia. I will give you your woman’s pleasure, and we will speak no more about the past.” He gently pressed her onto her back and drew the covers down to her waist. Her heart was pounding so loudly she thought he must hear it. She felt his eyes roving over her body, and it both alarmed and excited her.

“Your breasts seem fuller,” he said. Very gently he
stroked a fingertip around a pink nipple. She sucked in her breath.

“You do not find me . . . too skinny?”

Oh no, he thought, stifling an angry laugh. I find you all that I want. “You are fine,” he said. He lowered his head and gently kissed her. His hand slipped under the covers and began kneading her soft belly. “I like the feel of you.”

“Please, Graelam,” she gasped, lurching upward as his fingers probed lower.

His fingers touched her soft, moist swollen flesh. “You are so delicate,” he said into her mouth. “And you are ready for me.” She felt his fingers deepen their primitive rhythm.

Kassia was shuddering with need. “Please, love me. I cannot bear it.”

To her surprise, Graelam rolled onto his back and brought her with him. “I would have you ride me,” he said, laughing softly at her uncertain expression.

She felt him deep inside her, felt his hands about her waist, lifting her and lowering her. “Draw up your legs,” he instructed her. “You may move over me as you wish.”

Kassia had never imagined that such feelings could come from her body. When his fingers found her, she lost all hold on reason and cried out, her head thrown back, her back arched.

She vaguely heard him gasp her name, felt his fingers tense over her even as her body convulsed in the almost painful pleasure. He was deep inside her when she felt his seed filling her. She fell forward, her mind emptied of all regret and pain, holding now only the aftermath of complete belonging.

Graelam held her close to him and gently
straightened her legs. She fell asleep, covering his body, her hand nestled in the hollow of his throat. He stroked her tousled hair and tried to close his mind to its tortured thoughts.

It is not enough, Kassia thought, aware yet again that Graelam was watching her, his expression brooding. He wants to hate me, but his honor keeps him to his promise. She wanted to shriek and cry at the same time, but she could not. She had done it to herself, and must now live with it.

He continued to be kind to her. At night she could imagine that he loved her as he gently took her body. She was so aware of him that if his eyes darkened, her body leapt in response. And he knew it. She wondered if he hated her for that too.

It is time to concentrate, Kassia, she told herself. She urged Bluebell forward into a gentle gallop, drew back the bow, and released the arrow at the target. It hit the center, and she turned in the saddle at Evian’s shout of congratulation.

They were on the beach, a good mile from Wolffeton. She did not want to take the chance that Graelam would come by chance upon her. In this, she would surprise him. He would be pleased with her prowess. He must be pleased. It was the only thing that kept her practicing so diligently.

But he had missed her. She immediately saw the distrust and anger in his eyes.

“You plan more trees for the orchard?” he asked her, watching her dismount from Bluebell’s back.

Her chin rose. “Nay, my lord,” she said brightly. “I plan a surprise for you!”

His eyes narrowed. “Explain yourself.”

She shook her head, forcing teasing laughter from her throat. “Nay, my lord. You must wait!”

“I promised to forgive you the past, not the present,” he said.

She could only stare at him. “But I have done nothing to displease you.”

“Have you not?” he asked, then turned on his heel and left her.

If she had had a rock in her hand, she would have hurled it at his back. “I will show you,” she hissed between her teeth.

Three days later, on a bright, cold afternoon, Kassia calmly planned to surprise him. She felt excited, hopeful, and proud of herself.

“Rolfe! You promised!”

Rolfe scratched his head, wishing suddenly he was anywhere but here at Wolffeton. “I don’t think it is a good idea,” he said lamely, no match for the pleading in her eyes.

“But Graelam will be surprised and . . . pleased. You know he must be, Rolfe.” I will be just like Lady Chandra and he will admire me, she added silently to herself. If naught else, that must be true. “You said yourself that I have improved beyond all your expectations. You have already arranged the competition.”

“Aye, I have,” he said helplessly. “I will probably be hanged for a fool.”

“Mayhap,” she said, ignoring his words, “the minstrels will hear about me and write their
chansons
to praise my prowess.”

“I don’t know what will come of this,” Rolfe grumbled.

What will come of this is that Graelam will admire me. Perhaps he will even come to truly care for me, a small, wistful voice said.

“I must change my clothes.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do not forget what you will say to my lord!”

Rolfe watched her run up the stairs into the great hall. He scuffed the toe of his leather boot against a cobblestone and cursed softly.

“So, Rolfe,” Graelam said with some amusement to his master-at-arms as they walked side by side toward the practice field, “do you also expect me to give a prize to the winner?”

“The men have practiced hard,” Rolfe said in a neutral voice. “Some sort of recognition from you would not be amiss.”

“Then I shall think of something.” Graelam shaded his eyes and gazed over the course. “You are lucky it hasn’t rained in a week,” he said. “The targets are arranged wide apart,” he continued, scanning the course. “I think most of the men will complete it with a perfect score. Why is it so easy?”

So your lady won’t break her neck!
“The men competing have little practice in shooting their arrows from horseback,” he said smoothly. “I wanted to be as fair as possible to them.”

Graelam cocked a thick black brow at him. “I believe you grow soft in your old age,” he remarked. He saw his men lined up on the far side of the course, drawing lots to determine the order. He moved into position beside Rolfe, waiting for the competition to begin.

Rolfe saw him glance back toward the keep and wondered if his master was looking for his wife.

“Kassia takes great pleasure in surprising the men,” Graelam said, as if in answer to Rolfe’s thoughts. “I wonder if she will bring the winner a tray of pastries.”

Rolfe grunted, his eyes on Kassia, dressed in boy’s clothes, sitting proudly astride a bay stallion. She was wearing a short mantle that fastened with a broach over her right shoulder, its hood drawn up and clipped securely over her chestnut curls. It had not occurred to either of them until the day before that Graelam would immediately recognize Bluebell if she rode her mare in the competition. Thus the bay stallion, Ganfred. Rolfe watched the stallion prance sideways, and closed his eyes in a silent prayer. The horse was not as placid and obedient as Bluebell, and Kassia had ridden him but once. She had not seemed at all concerned, but Rolfe was not deceived.

“Only eight men to compete?” Graelam asked, turning to Rolfe. “Have I counted aright?”

The other men had moved away to take positions along the course. The truth was out. “Aye, ‘tis primarily the men who have not done much of this.” Indeed, he had handpicked the men who would not make Kassia look like a complete graceless child. Most of them were big men, clumsy with a bow, men who were trained to the lance and mace.

“I imagine,” Graelam said acidly, “that I am about to be most impressed,” for he had begun to recognize the men, even from this distance. “I did not know that Joseph even knew how to notch an arrow.”

“He has been practicing,” Rolfe said. “Come, my lord, I believe they are ready to begin.”

They had erected a small dais, wide enough for only two men. Graelam jumped into it and gave Rolfe a hand.

He turned at a shout and watched the first man, Arnold, ride into the course, his bow aimed at the first target. The arrow struck the target with more strength
than accuracy, and Graelam shook his head. By the time Arnold had completed the course he had managed to hit the bull’s-eye on six of the twelve targets.

There was much good-natured laughing and cheering from the men.

“Arnold the ox!”

“He’ll eat the targets he missed for his dinner!”

“Most fascinating,” Graelam said sarcastically to Rolfe. “I grow more excited by the minute.”

The next two men did no better than Arnold, and Graelam was beginning to believe that Rolfe had arranged this ridiculous competition as a jest. He started to say as much to his master-at-arms, but Rolfe was staring fixedly toward the next rider.

Graelam did not recognize the man—boy, rather, he quickly amended to himself. But the stallion, Ganfred, was from his stable.

“At least the lad shows more ability than the rest,” he said, watching the boy draw his bow smoothly back and gently release the arrow. It hit the center. He frowned. “Who is he, Rolfe? A new fledgling you wish to take under your wing?”

“He does well,” Rolfe said, trying to postpone the moment of reckoning as long as possible. “Look, my lord, another bull’s-eye!”

Rolfe felt himself swell with pride. She was doing well, despite the problems she was having with the stallion. By the end of the course, she had struck nine bull’s-eyes out of twelve.

“The boy is undersized,” Graelam said, watching him ride back to the far side of the field. “I begin to believe that you arranged this competition just to make him look good. You gave him Ganfred to ride? Who is he, Rolfe?”

“My lord, look! Here is Bran!”

Graelam shot a sideways glance at Rolfe. Something was brewing. He decided to wait and see and simply enjoy himself in the meanwhile. The wiry, graceless Bran made Arnold look like a master archer. Graelam joined the laughter as Bran finished the course, smiling widely, showing the huge space between his front teeth.

“I will challenge any jongleurs to beat this act!” Graelam said.

Perhaps, Rolfe thought, he shouldn’t have picked such utter dolts to compete. Even if Lady Kassia won, it wouldn’t be much of a victory. He realized that the men competing had, of course, recognized her, for their performance became even worse. All the men were very fond of her, and were shielding her. He saw the men whispering to each other, passing the word along, and he realized that he had made a grave mistake in allowing this. Graelam would skin him alive.

He cleared his throat nervously. “The lad appears to have won the first round, my lord,” he said as the men slapped Kassia on the back, congratulating her. “The men will pair up in the second round and compete for the targets.”

“I can barely contain my excitement,” Graelam said dryly.

Rolfe saw that Kassia was paired with Bran, the worst of the lot. He waited until the two of them rode toward the first target, jockeying for position as they drew close.

“The lad, my lord,” he said, touching Graelam’s sleeve to gain his attention, “he did win the first round.”