He had positioned himself so that he could see everyone coming up and down the stairs toward the room where Hero slept. He longed to join her there. He longed more than anything to make love to her again. The need was a hundredfold more now that he knew the full pleasure of it. For him, at least. She had not seemed to like it at all. He took another draught of his ale, and shrugged away his disappointment. After the fire at the inn, his need to watch out for her was more important than matters of the flesh.
It still froze his blood to think of the sight of her in Digby's arms, soot-stained and just barely saved from the flames. He closed his eyes and drove Digby's smug face with the memory of joining his body to Hero's at last. No matter that it made him want to do it again, now, he would not. She had confirmed that she still mourned the man she would have preferred, that she needed more time before she could accept Arthur in her bed. He must give her that time. He owed it to her.
He did not retire until the last patron had departed for home or bed. He was relieved to hear her even breathing when he came into their room. Remembering yesterday morning, this time when he slipped into bed beside her sleeping form, he made certain his clothing was within reach.
He woke in the morning light to find her already alert. Surprisingly, she had not yet risen for the morning. She was gazing at him as he opened his eyes. He had the feeling she had been looking at him for a long time, and there was an expression he could not read in her eyes. Shyly, she smiled, and then looked away.
"Good morning," he said, fighting the overwhelming urge to slide over to her and pull her into his arms, her warm body next to his, few items of clothing to mask the feel of her curves from his touch.
"Good morning," she replied, glancing back at him.
Neither of them lifted a head from the pillow as their eyes met and lingered.
He could have lain like that all morning. Or, more gladly, he could have reached for her, kissed her, made love to her. But he had promised himself. He must give her time. With a sigh, he turned away from her, closing his eyes in feigned sleep. He would give her the privacy to dress that he had not been able to do more fully, yet again, because the inn could not give them two rooms.
For some reason, she lingered longer in bed even after he had arranged for her to have a semblance of privacy, but at last she rose. He enjoyed the intimacy of hearing her move about the room, washing, dressing.
After a while, she left the room. He hurriedly dressed and shaved, and was pleased that he was presentable when she returned moments after he had finished his own morning routine.
She seemed surprised, he might have said disappointed if he had thought such a thing truly possible, that he was already awake and out of bed. But she said only, "I have had them lay a breakfast in the private dining room. Will you join me?"
"With pleasure," he answered honestly as he held out his arm for her to take. After a brief hesitation, she laid her fingers lightly on his arm and allowed him to escort her down the stairs to the private dining room.
Settled across the table from her, he asked, "I trust you had a more pleasant rest than you did on your previous night."
"I found the bed quite comfortable," she agreed coolly. He could not understand the reason for her mood. Had this inn not been satisfactory? He had thought it excellent himself.
"I did not see anyone in the public room who had been at the other inn the night before last I'm afraid," he said, hoping to bring back the curious Hero he preferred. He did not like this silent, brooding Hero at all.
To his astonishment, she threw her napkin down upon her lap in apparent pique. "Perhaps that might be because he was in his bed, asleep, at a decent hour?" she retorted sharply.
Baffled as to why she might be angry with him, he wondered if he dared ask. "Are you certain you slept well? You seem a bit out of sorts."
"I am well rested, Arthur, never fear." The look in her eyes was not comforting. And her next words took his breath away. "How could I be anything but rested when my own husband will not come to my bed until I am safely asleep?"
He was shocked, both by her words and her anger. What had he done wrong?
He did not know for certain, yet he could feel her distress. As he stared mutely across the table at her, he realized she was very near tears. Why? And then the reason for her upset came clear to him. "Do you wish me to . . ." He could not ask that aloud, not even in a private dining room. "…Again? I thought you had not liked it."
She said miserably, "I am your wife, Arthur. What does it say when you will not touch me?"
"It says I respect you," he answered. Didn't it? Could she think he did not want her? Impulsively, he reached out to touch her hand. "I want to give you time to adjust."
She blinked at him, her features twisted with confusion. "Time to adjust to what?"
"To me, of course." He stammered slightly, unsure how to explain himself. "We were married so hastily, and I am hardly the kind of man women dream of . . ." He trailed off. "A frog, you know."
"I—"
He interrupted her, afraid to hear what she had to say in the event that she used the words duty and obligation too frequently. "I see no need to rush you. There is plenty of time for that sort of thing in a few weeks, or even a few months."
A few weeks? Hero was incredulous. And then she felt the hurt flash through her. She wanted to scold him. She wanted to cry. Instead, she rose from the table. All the hope that had been building inside her died right then and there with his statement. Theirs was not now, nor would it ever be, a love match.
She managed, numbly, to oversee the transfer of their baggage back to the carriage, which was ready for their journey. Without further words, she settled herself in the corner of the carriage and feigned sleep. She could not even look at him. All she could do was wonder how much time he intended to give her. The rest of her life?
Her appetite was absent, and she only nibbled at the cheese and bread from the inn where they stopped to change the horses. She allowed herself to be lulled back into sleep as the carriage resumed its journey. She still did not want to look at Arthur, did not want to wonder how deeply his regret ran, for marrying her.
After all, she reflected, it was done. It could not be undone except by divorce, and she could not imagine Arthur ever doing something so unchivalrous, especially when she had given him no cause to dislike her. Or, apparently, she thought sadly, to love her either.
She woke again to find Arthur beside her on the seat, shaking her gently awake. "We are nearly arrived, Hero."
She sat upright in the seat abruptly, and the look of dismay on his face brought back their earlier conversation. Embarrassment flamed over her. How had she dared to say those things to him?
"Arthur, I am sorry for my earlier mood. I should not have said anything to you. I am certain you have only my best interests at heart." His lack of desire for her was not his fault, after all, she admitted sadly to herself.
She could feel his tension ease, and he said softly, "I understand. Traveling is difficult for me as well."
"That is no excuse — "
"Let us not talk of it now." He opened the curtain at the carriage window. "Look out the window. The view is truly magnificent, you mustn't miss it as we turn into the drive."
Hero lost her breath at the first sight of her new home. It was a castle, but in miniature. A manor house with the grandest of pretensions. Turrets and towers, and battlements. Surely, they could not be real. But there was little doubt they were as authentic as the builder could create.
He turned to her, savoring the expression on her face, and said softly, "Welcome to Camelot."
The name should have been pretentious. After all, this was not the seat of some king or duke. Arthur had no title. He had only these lands. This estate. An estate that bore the weighty responsibility of its name with pride and honor.
"It is magnificent," she said softly, and he smiled in delight at her approval. She did not tear her eyes away as they drove up the long drive. She was amazed. But then, perhaps she should not have been. After all, it was named Camelot. Whoever had commissioned it had obviously been willing to dream without limits.
"One could say that it certainly lives up to its name," she commented. Butterflies began in her stomach as she wondered what kind of mistress such a house deserved. Certainly a better one than she would be.
"Yes." He seemed a bit abashed by his own home. "I know it seems pretentious. But you have to understand, my grandfather built it for my grandmother. I got my love of Arthurian legend from them." He seemed shyly proud of the unusual history of his family's home. Her home now.
He added, "I am certain you will love it as I do."
Dubiously, she wondered. Could one love something as impressive as this structure was? "I've never seen a house so grand."
For the first time, she understood what Arthur's grandmother had meant when she referred to his destiny. Anyone who had grown up here certainly must have a destiny to fulfill.
"No matter how grand it is," he offered as if he could sense her worry, "it will only benefit from having you as its new mistress."
"You are kind to say so." And wrong, as well. She suspected quite strongly that she would not measure up, no matter that the castle was small and Arthur had no title. She tried and failed to imagine herself gliding graciously through those hallways, those gardens. No, most likely she would trip on the vines, fall into a rabbit hole, stumble upon the stairs. How would she ever manage this household?
No doubt such a responsibility required someone like Guenivere, the woman who had been intended for Arthur's bride. At the thought, she felt an unhappy sense of doom. Even their names suggested that they were fated to be together, just like the first Arthur and his queen had been.
And now, through an accident, Arthur had been forced to marry her instead. He had tried to make the best of it, but it was not heartening to know how easily he could grant her time, how little he minded staying out of her bed, when she could seem to think of little else.
He appeared to sense her hesitation as he handed her from the carriage. He smiled at her gently and took her hand in his. "Welcome home, my dear." They walked arm in arm up the marble stairs that swept gracefully toward the entrance of Camelot.
Not surprised, Hero found that the entranceway, and the sweeping staircase and brilliant multifaceted chandelier, took her breath away with their beauty and style. She wondered how many other rooms would make her feel this insignificant, this out of place.
To their surprise, Arthur's grandmother was in residence when they arrived. Had she given over her chaperone duties to another London matron? Or had Gwen come home in shame, as well. That thought did not sit well in her thoughts. She would not want the girl to suffer because of their hasty marriage.
The butler asked gravely if they wished to dine with his grandmother tonight, or if they wished for trays in their room in order to rest from their travels.
Hero, not living up at all to her name, would have chosen a tray in her room rather than face Arthur's grandmother now that, seeing Camelot, she understood exactly why the woman had been so outraged at the foolish circumstances that had led to a marriage between her grandson and a woman of no feminine abilities, family fortune, or grandly titled bloodline whatsoever.
Arthur, however, said quite unwittingly, "We would be delighted to dine with Grandmama. Please inform her that we will join her as soon as we have cleaned ourselves up and dressed for dinner."
The butler nodded at the order. "Very good, sir. I will have your trunks brought up immediately." He looked behind Hero, and then out in the yard at their empty carriage.
Arthur, seeing the look, said quickly, "Most of our luggage was lost in a fire at an inn, I'm afraid."
The butler nodded. "How unfortunate, sir." For a moment his gaze assessed her. And then he turned to Arthur. "Is the lady's maid following in a separate carriage, sir?"
"I have no maid," Hero blurted out before Arthur could answer the question.
The butler stilled to the point she wondered if he had turned to marble, as so much else in this house had. And then he nodded. "I will send up young Ellen then, sir. If that will be satisfactory?"
"Excellent forethought, as always," Arthur said without a second glance at Hero.
Stifling the urge to say something sharp, and thus no doubt shock the servants again, she fumed silently at being treated like a piece of furniture. Inappropriate furniture at that.
Apparently, she now had a maid. Somehow, she did not think that small adjustment made her in the least bit fit to be mistress of the ambitious and mythic Camelot.
To her disappointment, she and Arthur had separate rooms. True, there was a dressing room that led through. But, if he had not been interested in making love to his wife when they slept in the same bed, would two beds, two rooms, with a dressing room and two doors to separate them, make it any easier? Perhaps she should order a carriage be made up for them, so that at least she could have children?
Ellen was pretty and bright with a quick smile and even quicker fingers — she had unfastened Hero's dress in no time at all and was smoothing out the wrinkles as Hero washed the travel grime from her skin in the porcelain bowl. She would have enjoyed a hot bath. But she dared not order one here. Not yet.
Even as she had the thought, the maid answered a light knock at the door and a bath was carried in.
"How wonderful" she exclaimed. Had Arthur's grandmother ordered it? She could not imagine the harridan doing so.
Ellen smiled. "Your husband ordered it for you, ma'am. He thought you deserved it after your long, hard travel, he said."
Hero watched as, efficiently, three chambermaids emptied their buckets of heated water and then moved aside for three more to do the same. Her heart sang. Arthur had ordered this bath for her. He had thought of her. Perhaps there was hope yet?