How to Marry Your Wife (3 page)

“That’s an unholy thing to mutter under God’s roof.” Merry stared stonily at the wall behind the altar and tugged on the boy’s hand who had turned, grinned, and waved.

Had he asked anyone what his boy was called?
Dammit all.
He hadn’t had a moment to think. He winked, waved back, and knelt next to Merry.

Putting bread and wine upon the altar, James and John readied for mass. Ann stood beside Merry and Marcus to his right. When no one was looking, Thomas leaned over and whispered to the boy who sat on the lower step kicking. “What’s your name?”

The boy stood straight up and shouted. “Thomas. Like my papa. A knight who killed dragons. He’s dead now.”

Merry shot him a glance with eyebrows raised. He’d dare not correct the lad right now and fire up the wrath of Medusa yet again. He patted the boy’s head.

At a motion from John, he folded his hands and tried to appear pious for the rest of the unfamiliar mass. God did all right without any input from him and so he wasn’t much of a praying man. And he wasn’t one to ask for anything, because he figured the payment for such a request would be more than he could afford. He made an exception for his wedding day
.

I’d ask for her joyful laugh again, Lord God Almighty Majesty. Just let me know what you’d have in trade and I’ll make a note.

Brother John doled out a litany so long that even the cupids lining the ceiling dropped off in slumber. The sun sank low and the church grew dark. Apparently, it decided it had suffered long enough upon this day. Thomas wished he could follow it into the next town and beyond. A sharp elbow hit a rib, bringing him to attention, and Marcus thrust an unfamiliar ring into his hand.

He recognized the Latin words requiring his response. “And Thomas D’Agostine, wilt thou have this woman, Meredith Umfraville, to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“Aye, I will.” Had anyone else heard the quiver in his voice? Apparently not, for all eyes now rested on his beautiful bride.

“Meredith Umfraville, wilt thou have this man, Thomas Stephen D’Agostine, to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will no—”

Ann shot a hand over Merry’s mouth.

“Mmmph.”

“Go on, Brother, of course she does. She’s just overwhelmed with the shock of having her husband return to her, wanting to renew their vows. Prithee continue.” Ann’s voice soothed like sweet honey and she beamed.

John glanced up at James, who nodded his tonsured head that the vows should finish.

What a God-forsaken farce.
Thomas should end it, but he’d not have another man bedding Merry nor raising his son.

He used the opportunity of her head bowed low to study her angelic features for once not contorted in anger. His body stirred in want and his mouth went dry. Years he had waited to thrust into her.

Damnation
. He gave a quick prayer of apology to God for where his thoughts wandered, but the mass was interminable. Bread and wine miraculously turned into the body and blood of Christ and final prayers were uttered. He thanked St. Stephen that a cantor couldn’t be found or they’d still be at the first gospel acclamation.

With the long awaited final amen, he stood from where they knelt and held out his hand to his beautiful bride. She refused to take it. With hands upon the floor, she thrust herself up onto her own feet.

“I hate you.” Grabbing her son’s hand, she dashed down the center of the church and turned at the door.

“I hate you all.”

Thomas shrugged at Marcus. “That went off quite well, don’t you think?”

Chapter 3

Meredith exited the church with little Tom in hand and rushed across the green. That . . . That . . .
man
was insufferable. She’d see to it the marriage was annulled, even if she had to walk all the way to Constantinople. If that annoying arse could find it, so could she.

How dare he call her a you-know-what.
Oh Merry, just say it
. Certainly she’d heard it whispered behind her back. Magdalene. Harlot. Loose woman. Broken belt. The names were none she’d not called herself. And despite it all? He still caused the heat between her legs to flow at the sight of him. How was that possible? No other man had ever affected her so.

She shook her head until her locks came loose out of their net and made the memory of that night fade. She kicked at the base of the well before storming toward the keep.
Magdalene
. Better to be shackled and locked in a dungeon. That’s what he thought of her now.

For six years, Brother James had insisted that with penance all would be forgiven, at least by God.

Ha, had she not prayed for all that time? Done charitable works? Kept her eyes lowered and her voice chaste? She’d given up all laughing and giggling in hopes that would appease the Father above. But no, no, it was never enough. Now, he’d allowed the devil to come back to life.

He had to be a demon. Why else would her body respond as it wouldn’t to any other? Why did just a glance from him make her melt at the knees and think wanton thoughts?

When she arrived at the arched door of the Roman fortress she called home, she gave little Tom a kiss on the top of the head and a fierce hug. “Be off to find the other children and to sweet dreams. I’ll come with kisses in a moment.”

He nodded with a face so much like his fathers that it hurt. How she’d grieved when Thomas had left without a word. Dear Lord. It was the kind of grief that had no ending. There was always a glimmer of hope, like an escaping sunbeam through dark clouds. Mayhap today, she’d think, a pigeon would announce word of his arrival in England. Day after long day, month after month, she waited and prayed for his return. Finally, all that was left were memories. And that is where she’d lingered in a life worse than death for almost a year. She could nay let that happen again. That devil would need to be expelled from her once and for all.

She sat upon a large pallet, upstairs in the chambers that Marcus and Ann had vacated for her marriage night. Thomas would be coming any moment now. There would be no gay party for her. No giggling maids brushing her hair and telling lies of giant genitalia. No mother with tears, giving final advice. No. She’d ruined all of that a long time ago.

She wept. Wept for the maiden who’d loved Thomas with abandon. Wept for the family she’d lost. Sobbed for the many years when she thought him dead and the dried up woman she’d become. Merry. She’d not heard that name since it came off his lips the day he’d left for London. Why had he not come back for her? How could he claim he loved her after all the pain he’d put her through? Outside in the hallway, she heard footsteps and the door creaked open.

He waited some time before speaking so low she could barely make out the words. “Merry?”

“Go away.”

The door creaked again and she ventured a glance. With hands at his sides, and in Templar colors, he was all warrior. One black lock fell into his eyes. He’d never looked finer. “You’re my wife and we should have relations.”

“We already did. Six years past.”
When I was beautiful and young.

“Others may believe that, but you and I know different. My shaft has not sunk deep into your sheath, although I have dreamed of it for years upon years.”

She sniffed and wiped her nose drippings onto her sleeve. If he knew the truth, how different would this speech be? “I can’t believe you. You left me, and now you’ve come back to ruin me.”

“Ruin you? How say you that? Have we not just wed?” He walked into the large room, closed the door, and leaned against the stone wall by the small hearth.

Her heart thumped despite all her efforts to make it stop. A noble Norman nose, thick lashes, and firm lips that curled into a smile would be her undoing. She clenched a fist until nails bit into palm. She’d not allow herself to love him again. Could not.

“I was to be married to an Earl. Marcus’ older brother in a fortnight. A good man, so says all. I was going to start anew.”

“But does he make you want? Does he make honey water bloom between your legs?” Moving closer, he held forward a hand. His arms, thick from wielding a sword, pulled against the chains of his mail. A new scar, still red and angry, started at a wrist and moved up under his sleeves. The scent of him brought back memories that almost made her jump into his arms, begging like a wanton whore.

She’d not take his hand nor stare into those eyes, as black as a wet river stone, for she’d be lost forever. It was because of his beauty that she’d been tempted into sin. “I suppose we could accommodate well, no doubt, in time.”

He went down on one knee with his head bowed before her. “You loved me once. Can you love me again?”

“I could, but shan’t. She resisted the urge to put her fingers through his silky locks and sighed. When he didn’t argue, her chest tightened, and her throat constricted.

He stared up at the ceiling and his frown deepened, as did the creases in his eyebrows. “Very well, then. Will you let me share what love we have left, wife?”

One part of her wished he’d come to her, the other wished for a hole from hell to open up and suck her in. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited.

“It’s your right, sir. Shall I spread my legs for you as your Magdalene?”

“Damn you.” His fist hit the wood door with one final curse and he stormed down the stairwell.

Exactly what did he expect? What did she do that was so wrong? She’d not refused him. Her heart ached to run after him, but her legs wouldn’t move. She didn’t deserve him, not after what she’d done. Besides, if he remembered, he’d never forgive her and leave for certain. She turned her head into her pillow, hoping the memories wouldn’t come. But a sinner’s prayers are never answered.

Chapter 4

Merry may’ve slept some, but woke to the cuckoo’s lament in the early dawn followed by the endless crowing of the cock. That bird would no doubt strut about until finding a hen who’d welcome his advances. She pulled the pillow over her ears. Damn that arrogant bird and all males as well. Her wedded torment had begun again and they’d not even bedded. She dressed and resigned herself to a life of misery.

At the top of the stairs she stopped. Thomas, the man who’d stolen all her thoughts for years, stood in front of the great hearth speaking with Sir Marcus. Thin yellow light of dawn filtered in from the open arched doors. From the looks of their red faces and slovenly appearance, they’d been working at the jug in front of them all night. She sat silent as their voices rose on the wings of cherubs. Who else would let her in on the secrets of men?

Trying to circle fingers around a brown pottery chalice, Thomas fumbled. “Damnation. When did you buy enchanted goblets?” He brought the cup to his lips, swallowed, and belched. “I can’t thank the gods enough that the spawn of the devil are all dead.”

“That’s rather a harsh pronouncement. Wasn’t even one of your family redeemable?” Marcus stirred at the final embers in the hearth, shrugged, and shoveled in more peat.

Thomas waggled a finger. “Judgment from the man who put a knife to his father’s neck and lash to his back?”

“It was well deserved.” Marcus put the shovel down, a mug to his lips, and tilted his head. Frowning, he peered in as if checking for a bug, then poured generously from the jug.

“You’re such a good friend. Did I mention my wife wouldn’t have me?” Thomas slapped Marcus so hard on the shoulder that mead spewed forth from his mouth.

A wry smile crossed Marcus’ face as he punched Thomas back. “You may’ve mentioned it once or twice during the evening.”

“Know what? I should take my son and go. That would teach her.” Most of the amber liquid in his cup sloshed onto sticky brown tiles under foot and they both stared at the pool.

Merry held back a gasp. Take her son? Not while her body still moved would she allow such a thing.
Drunken fools.

“Give her time. It
was
quite a shock.” Marcus grabbed Thomas’ goblet out of his hands and set it upon the mantle with a resounding clunk. “No more.”

With fingers spread over his chest like a maid, Thomas spoke in falsetto. “And was this shocking for me as well?”

Unable to stay with the jest, he cursed, glared, and took back his drink. “And now . . . Now I’m heir to the D’Agostine Castle, no man’s land of the damned and disputed. We must be off, but I’ll not leave them here.”

Marcus shook his head and put a hand upon hearthstone to steady himself. “Your mind swings back and forth like a ball on a chain. I thought we just agreed. They’re to stay with Ann or with my brother.”

“I changed my mind. Not with him. He might marry her regardless that she’s already married to me. After all, I’m believed dead. No, no. Now I’m convinced. She’ll endure the ride to the north. Sh-She’s my wife and I’ll have her grow accustomed to me.” He swaggered a bit, fell into a chair, but slipped out and onto the floor.

“You, my friend, are feeling the effects of my wife’s very finest mead. The boys will stay with my brother as will Meredith and Ann. We just need to explain the broken vows. A few gold coins should stave off his disappointment. Then, we can gather knights along the way. My brother always has some to spare and I know of others for hire. No one in their right mind would dare lodge an attack against such an entourage. Are you willing to let go some of your vast fortune to pay for a small army?”

Thomas pushed himself up, wobbled, reached for the cup, and missed. He shook his head, fell down into his chair, and laughed. “Ha. I stopped in London, paid Edward his due, and still find myself with a treasure chest fit for a Sultan’s harem. Mayhap I’ll just sit here at your estate and die in peace.”

“Very well. I’ll call for the funeral pyres. After you’re sung into the grave, I’ll relieve you of all your gold. For all Christians know that mammon is the devil’s due.” Marcus guffawed.

“Aye. You do that. But being my senior, I’ll ask that you jump on the flames first to ensure they burn hot enough.”

Merry snickered.

Thomas grinned up at her with a loopy smile. “What ho? Lady Merry? She’s a-spying on us now? Merry, Merry, quite a fairy, hears a secret and there she tarries.”

Marcus hiccupped and glanced up as well. “My God. Your verse is more atrocious than I ever recall. Perhaps you’ll do better up north with the Scots. Their English will nay be so offended.”

“I’ll spend the rest of my life working to improve, but my muse has been lost to me.” He put his hands up toward her, went down upon one knee, and promptly fell over.

She put one hand to her mouth hiding how he still amused her. It wouldn’t do well to give him hope. They were not destined to have a happy life. She’d seen to that years ago.

While helping him stand, Marcus said, “While you do that, I must see to my estates, then find my pallet.”

“Papa, Papa . . .” Three-year-old Timothy passed her and raced down the stairs with five-year-old Marc in pursuit. Tom ran behind them with a blanket tied around his waist and a wooden sword cleaving the air.

Marcus picked up both his boys in one arm and her son in the other. He lifted them high in the air. “Sir Knights. What manner of dragons be there today?”

“No dragons, sir. A blackguard. An evil knight who has come to steal a fair maiden away.” Little Tom had one half of his mouth crooked up so like his father that this time Meredith really did giggle. She quickly covered it.

Her new husband grinned and bowed at the waist. He opened both palms toward the boys. “Alas, you have me, Sir Knights. But I must confess. I’m not stealing her away.”

Marcus set Tom down in front of Thomas, who knelt so as to be eye to eye. “I can’t steal what already belongs to me, now, can I?”

Her son stood his ground and put the point of his wooden sword to his father’s chest. “How say you my mama belongs to you?”

“She’s my wife. And you, good sir, are my son.” He put his hands to his hips, smiled, and waited for a response.

Meredith’s heart caught in her throat. This was not how she intended to tell her son that information. She got halfway down the stairs before Sir Marcus caught her. He whispered, “Let it play out, Lady. The bird has fallen from the nest and there’s no putting it back in. Let it fly.”

Since when had Marcus become a poet? Already, Thomas’ influence was upon all those around. Soon, as before, mayhem and destruction would follow in his wake. She cowered under her protector’s stern glare and swallowed the words she was about to let loose.

What a brave boy her son had become. Tom’s lower lip quivered for a second. “You’re my papa? The one who was dead and slayed dragons?”

Thomas tilted his head and one corner of his mouth went up. “Tales tend to be exaggerated by song-makers.”

Tom nodded, scrunched his face, and his dark locks fell into his eyes. “Aye, that’s what Sir Marcus says about the tales of him being a beast.”

“But he is a be—” A fast backhand to the chest from Sir Marcus stopped Thomas short. He knelt so the boy could meet him eye to eye. “Exactly.”

“Your breath stinks.” His son lowered his sword, held his nose, and pushed himself away.

Marcus chortled and grabbed Merry’s elbow such that she had to join them on the floor in front of the fire.

She faced her husband, worked to find just the right tone of disdain, and crossed her arms over her chest. “How just. He’s the spitting image of you in look and in manner.”

She wondered if he regretted what he’d spoken to her in the bathhouse. If he ever remembered the truth, he’d say it over and over again.
Magdalene
. Had little Tom heard the word, too? If so, she hoped he knew not the meaning.

Eyes twinkling, her drunken sot of a husband said, “Aye. All knights stink. That is the weight one must carry when one does dirty business with dragons. Would you boys join me with the men in the baths? Perhaps we men can wash the stench of dragons away.”

The littlest, Timothy, jumped up and down eagerly. “Can we, Father? With the men?”

Sir Marcus placed a hand upon the blond bouncing head. “Ask your mother. I can’t keep track of such things. If she agrees, the next time the single men bathe, you may join. Now be gone to slay what you must. Sir Thomas and I have much to discuss.”

The boys rushed off toward the green, but her son swiveled on a heel and ran back. She reached out to take him into her arms, but instead he bowed like a noble in front of Sir Drunken-Lout. “Thank you . . . Papa.”

He paled and staggered to a stair. “You’re most welcome . . . my son.”

The boys ran off as if nothing monumental had just occurred and Sir Drunken-Lout cleared his throat. His eyes met hers while she stood with Marcus at the foot of the staircase. “He is a good boy?”

Her eyes stung as she nodded. Sir Marcus filled in the awkward silence. “I would say more like you. Loyal to a fault, with mischief as deep as his little legs will allow him to get into.”

“I can never repay you for seeing to him in my absence.” He spoke to Marcus, but his eyes held hers.

If only things were different.
Eyes so dark they appeared black captured her. For a moment, they were the only two people below heaven and above hell. God help her, she wanted him again.

Marcus stared incredulously at Thomas. “Have you turned into a woman without my guidance? Do I see wet at your eyes?”

Thomas wiped the back of a hand over his face, leaving a black streak. “God’s blood, you don’t. The fault is yours because of the dust in your keep.”

“Don’t let Ann hear you or those may be your last words on this earth. Before that, she’d have you on hands and knees scrubbing the mosaics under our feet. She refuses to throw thatch upon our floor.”

Marcus plowed out of the main hall and into the kitchen, “Dame March, when was our last meal? I’ve no recall.”

Grabbing Merry’s hand, Thomas followed. “I believe it was before the owl started to hoot and the miserable tens of pigeons stopped cooing. By God, they’re loud.”

Marcus wielded a long-handled paddle and expertly slipped a pie off and onto the counter. Pigeon gravy, laced with nutmeg and cinnamon, bubbled out of slits in the top crust. He pulled out a knife and sliced out generous portions. “You’ll thank me well enough when you put those tasty birds in your mouth.”

Was it truly six years ago when she’d stood in this very spot rolling out crusts, while the most handsome of men entered the kitchen? He’d walked so close that the smell of leather, horse, and pure male had set upon her like a plague. She’d turned and he’d caught her mouth in a kiss so quick that no one else had seen. How her face had burned and she’d bit her tongue stifling a giggle.

Thomas stared at her intently and she knew he shared the same vision.

Dame March appeared from the door toward the rear of the room that led to her chambers. She squawked, pulled Thomas to her ample chest with her thick arms, and hugged him. “They told me you was back. ’Tis good to see you, young man. But not so good to smell. Already deep into the cups are you?”

She stepped back and scrunched her nose. Taking a large wooden spoon off the long work table, she swatted at Marcus’ fingers. “You should be hanged for letting poor Thomas come to such a state when he should’ve been wrapped up in furs with his wife. Have you no heart for the girl at all? You both look like the devil himself.”

Before Merry could blurt out the truth, her cheek was squeezed to one of Dame March’s flour covered bosoms and Thomas to the other. While nose-to-nose, his honey-tasting lips met hers in a quick kiss. She gasped at how she wanted another.

Pleased, Dame March released them from her ample chest. “Ah, the lovebirds have returned to the nest. Won’t you let them retire upstairs, Marcus?”

Merry opened her mouth to object, but Thomas put a finger over her lips. “Shush. We were just going to steal a pie. The night was long and arduous.”

“Ah, no doubt you’ll need filling up so to have the strength to make another son.” Dame March giggled and jabbed him in the stomach with an elbow.

“Aye, I’ll be needing a salve. She may do me in.” Placing a hand over his cock, he winked.

Oh, for everything holy.
“We are not going to—”

With another kiss, and a hand to her back, her legs went weak.
Dear God, how will I ever resist him?

He released her and kissed the tip of her ear. “Stay that tongue of yours and appear as a contented wife. Would you have all know our marriage is a farce?”

He grabbed the wooden spoon from out of Dame March’s belt, made a wild dance on his toes like a jester, then cut and parried with his odd weapon. He struck iron pans and made them ring. “I’m the mad Sir D’Agostine and have come home to my wife, the very wary leery Merry.”

He lunged at her and swatted her behind and sung with a sweet tenor, “Fair Merry waits for her husband anon. She loves his big nose, his broad sword and his . . .”

He grasped at his cock. “. . . song.”

When he took a breath for the next verse, Merry put her hand across his open mouth. “Enough.”

She exited the kitchen before he could hear her chuckle. Behind, both men and Dame March burst into hoots and howls of laughter.