For My Lady's Heart (50 page)

“Witterly, that could not come too soon.” She held herself straight and
distant, without advancing to him. Ruck closed the door and stood with his
back to it. She was ever difficult in such a mood; he recognized it, but did
not know the remedy.

“Say me what happened in troth,” she demanded. “Who killed him?”

“No man. Donna Cara was with him on the wharf at thy brewery place. She
bolted away, she said me, and he caught her sleeve. The cloth parted. She
heard the plash.” Ruck gave a slight shrug. “And we returned to finden him.”

Melanthe stared at him. Then she laughed and closed her eyes. “It is too
witless.”

“Too witless it was that thou chained me to a wall, my lady,” he said
tautly, “but God or the Fiend has him now, and is too late for my
vengeance.”

She lifted her lashes. “Wouldst thou have tortured him, green sire?” she
asked in a scoffing tone. “Torn him limb-meal in pieces? Only for me?”

“Melanthe,” he said, “ne do nought be so this way tonight.”

“What way?” she demanded, turning from him. She went to the bed and flung
back the sheets, sitting down on the edge of it, her bare feet on the board.

“His.”

She pressed her toes downward, her feet curving until they showed white.
Her eyes seemed too large and dark to be human. She was like an elven,
elegant and sheer, as if light would pass through her.

“How wouldst thou have me, then?” she asked.

“Disporting? Meek? A worthy goodwife, or a whore? I can be any—or all, if
thou likes.”

“Readily I would haf thee in a sweeter temper, my lady.”

She threw herself backward onto the bed, lying among the sheets. “ Tis
all? How simple.” She made a web of her hands and flung them wide. “There. I
am sweet. I am honey. Come and taste me.”

Ruck unbuttoned his surcoat and dropped it with his belt and sword over a
chest. At the harsh clatter of the gold links, she sat up again.

“A’plight, a man of swift reply,” she said mockingly.

Ruck continued to divest himself. When he was naked he went to the bed
and took her down with him on it. He could not speak to her, or he would
shout. He opened his mouth over hers, kissing deep. She arched her body up
beneath him, her hands greedily about his loins to pull him into her.

Delicious lust possessed him, compounding with his anger. He used her
without indulgence, taking no time but for himself. Still she inhaled and
dug her nails into him and spread her legs to twine them about his. She
pulled frantically at him, her hands gripped in his hair so hard that it
hurt.

The pain brought him back from blind hunger, caught him sharply from his
own passion. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face a mask of ferocity, as if
she fought with him instead of straining to him.

He slowed, gentling his moves, but she would not have it. She made a
bitter cry, forcing their union as hard as her strength could force it. Even
though he stilled, she clung to him and strove to reach her pleasure.

Ruck let her use him, his own wrath sliding away. He brushed his lips
over her hair as she shuddered and seized in his arms, her skin dewed with
moisture.

She fell back, panting, her fingers digging into his shoulders. The blunt
pain eased as she slowly released him. Her palms explored, sweeping up and
down his arms, touching his hair and his face.

She never opened her eyes as her labored breathing slackened. She skimmed
her hands down his body, then spread her arms out wide on the bedsheets. All
her limbs softened.

He bent his forehead to the base of her throat, resting there, drunk on
the scent and mystery of her. He felt her twitch, drowsing. As he lay atop
her, in her, still full and hard, the last of waking tension drifted from
her limbs. Her breath became a steady feather at his ear.

He began to move again, finding his own pleasure deep in her body. But
though he came to the height of his lust and discharge with a heavy tremor
and a sound of ecstasy, she did not wake. His lost and bespelled princess,
beyond his reach even as he possessed her.

In the early morning, in a manor house empty of all but a few servants,
he left her sleeping hard and deep. He bathed and shaved in the kitchen and
walked outside, where a little huddle of villagers surprised him in the
yard, eager hands reaching out to touch him. He was, he discovered, a
miracle arisen from the dead—a notion he found repellent. He dismissed them
with the trenchant suggestion to seek out his excellent doctor instead of
miracles, which produced an efficient clearing of the courtyard.

Fog lay on the river surface, shading to mist and clear air. He stood
looking down through it toward the shore, where trampled grass and the black
clods of burned-out torches were all that remained of the departed barks.

He had not expected this morning, this moment. He had never since the day
she left Wolfscar believed in his heart that he would have her to wive
again. Even before, it had never seemed perfectly real, but a thing of
fantasy with no tie to the earth. They had not spoken of the future, because
they had both known that in truth there was to be none.

But abruptly, he was in it—future and present, anchored by his own battle
to prove their vows and her public words of acceptance in the hall.

Amid birdsong and wet flowers, he walked aimlessly toward the empty
stables. He heard someone behind him and turned, half expecting Melanthe,
but it was not.

It was Desmond. He wore his court clothes, her fine scarlet livery, limp
with the mist.

“My lord,” he said, and went to his knee. “My lord!” His face crumpled
into tears. “Will ye letten me go home?”

Ruck reached for him, and the boy came into his embrace, holding on as if
to life.

“My lord,” Desmond sobbed against his cote, “ne’er did I break my word!
Ne did I say aught of Wolfscar, nor that ye kept wedlock with my lady, e’en
did they rack me! But Allegreto said me nought to comen to you, that I mote
nought, for my life and yours. And I saw you die, my lord—I—”

He lost his voice in weeping. Ruck crossed his arms over Desmond’s neck,
rocking him fiercely.

“My lord, can I go home? Oh, my lord, I made blunder and wrongs and
failed you, but I beg you.”

“Desmond.” Ruck put his face down in the boy’s shoulder. “I will taken
thee home if I bear thee on my back in penance. God forgive me, that e’er I
sent thee out alone.”

Carrying wine in a blue-and-white jug and waster bread from the pantry,
Ruck mounted the stairs to her chamber. A thin mist of daylight fell from
the open door above, painting a faint golden stripe in a curve down the
stone wall.

He had expected to find her still asleep, but instead she was up,
kneeling in her linen beside an open chest. Her head was bent over something
in her hand.

He saw that it was a mirror, fine and rare, made of glass instead of
polished steel. She held her loose hair on her shoulder, looking at the
carving on the ivory back. As he came into the room, she held up the glass,
reflecting his image onto him.

“What dost thou see, monk-man?”

“Myseluen, my lady. Wilt thou break fast?”

She rose as Ruck laid the napkin over a chest and set the food and
tankards on it. He shut the door.

“Here.” She held out the mirror to him, turning casually toward the
window seat, as if he were one of her maids meant to place the thing away.

He stood holding the glass. She did it by design, he knew, to bedevil
him, and it succeeded. He felt the difference in their stations sharply; he
thought that if he let it pass now, her small disdain, he would have to live
like a servant evermore.

“My lady wife,” he said, pouring wine and handing it to her along with
the mirror, “ne do I require this glass for looking.”

“Hast thou no vanity?” She laid it facedown in her lap. “But I forget—thy
choice of sin is lust.”

He poured for himself. “If I mote choose,” he said, “yea.”

“But verily, thou art a comely man. Thou might be vain with some justice.
Look.” She held up the glass again.

“Is aught amiss with my face, lady, that thou wilt bid me stare in this
mirror so oft?”

She gazed at him, still holding it. Then she smiled slightly, bringing
the glass up so that her face was half-hidden behind it, like a shamefast
girl. “Nay. Aught amiss, bestloved.”

The mirrored surface gleamed and flashed at him, her eyes above it
unreadable. But she pierced him through when she smiled.

“I saw Desmond below,” he said.

The mirth vanished from her. She lowered the mirror and stretched out her
bare feet on the window seat.

“I take him to Wolfscar as soon as I can,” Ruck said.

“Nay, thou dost not leave me. I send a courier to deliver him, if he mote
go.”

“I take him, my lady.” Ruck drained his wine.

“No.”

“Dost thou poison me and chain me to prevent it?”

She sat up. “Does that wrathe thee? By God’s rood, thou wouldst be dead,
had I not!”

“God a’mercy that I am alive, for is none of thy doing, Melanthe! What
demon was in thy head, that thou didst nought say me true of that hell-hound
Navona, that I could serve thee?”

She turned her head, looking out the window with a lift of her shoulder.
“I could not.”

“I well know that troth is like bitter wine on thy lips, but thy
falsehood is beyond absolve for this.”

“I could not!”

“Melanthe! Thou took me for thy husband, and yet could not say me?”

“He would slay thee.”

Ruck made a furious turn. “And so that he mote nought, thou left me, and
went to him to be his wife?”

“He would slay thee.”

“His
wife
!”

She gathered her knees up against her. “Foolish simple! Ye know naught of
it. He would slay thee.”

“Yea, and so would I choose to be slain than to see thee in his bed, but
I think me that I would nought die so tame!”

“I did not bed him, ne would have. I was for a nunnery instead, so thou
moste be easy on that point.”

Ruck shook his head in disbelief. “Thy brain is full of butterflies! A
nunnery, by God, when thou hadst only to say me of thy need. Is my place to
protect and defend thee, Melanthe; is my honor.”

She sprang to her bare feet. “Yea, thy honor! And where is honor when the
bane finds thy lips? I have said thee why I did it. I would do it once
again, and lie and cheat and steal the same, so be it, to save thee.”

Carefully he set his clay tankard on a chest. “Then I haf no place with
thee, by thy own word.” He lifted his sword belt, girding it. “I take
Desmond to Wolfscar, and thence to my duty to Lancaster.”

“Lancaster! Thou art not his, but mine. He will not abide thee.”

“For the ill way things go in Aquitaine, he mote needen seasoned men. A
lord will forgive much to a captain of experience.”

“Nay!” she said sharply. “Thou shalt not go away from me!”

“In this, my lady, thou does not command me.”

“Thou art my husband. I will have thee at my side.”

He buckled the belt. “Lady, is a lapdog thou wouldst have at thy side. I
will buy one for thee at the marketplace.”

“Ruck!” Her frantic voice made him pause at the door. She stood with the
mirror clutched to her breast.

He waited. For an instant she seemed to cast for words, her lips parted,
her eyes darting over the room, but then on an indrawn breath she pressed
her lips together and stared at him royally.

“Nay, thou dost not go away to France, sir. I so command!”

“My lady, I have been your liege man. Now ye hatz made me your husband,
and named me so to the world. It is I, lady, could command thee if I willed,
and no man would say me nay.”

Her brows lifted. “Shall it be war between us then, monk-man, for who
commands? ‘Ware thee my force in that battle.”

He put his hand on the door, to yank it open, and then dropped the hasp.
He turned on her. “I doubt nought that I should beware the force of thy
guile! Well do I know the depth of it—much time had I to ponder in thy
prison!” He shook his head with a harsh laugh. “I am no match for thee,
faithly. Thou couldst skulk and slink to Lancaster, and poison me in his
ear, so that I mote nought go to France. Thou couldst take Wolfscar from me
if it pleased thee, so that I haf no thing of my own. I doubt nought thou
couldst command me, and hem me, and keep me by thy side. Thou does value thy
falcon better, for you set her free and trust her to return to thee, though
it be e’ery time a peril. Thou might mew her in the dark for e’ermore, to
keep her. But I see thy face when she flies, and thy joy and wonder when she
comes.” He shook his head again. “Nay, lady, there is no war between us.
What use a war with a dead man? For ne could I live mewed up. at thy
pleasure, nor e’er love thee again as I do now, in free heart and devotion.”

She pressed her palms over the mirror, holding it to her mouth. Then she
turned to the window. “Gryngolet comes to the meat upon the lure—not for
love.”

Her shoulders and arms were pulled tightly inward as she held the mirror
against her. Her smoke-black hair cascaded down her back. The colored window
light turned bright white at her smock, drawing a fine outline of her body
within.

“Happen I am a man, and not a falcon,” he said gruffly.

“Ah. Then I cannot tempt thee with a chicken’s wing.”

“Nay, my lady.”

She sighed. She sat down on the window seat, frowning down at the carved
mirror back.

“Wilt thou nought look into thine own glass,” he said softly, “and see
what I would return to?”

Her body stiffened. She squeezed her eyes shut, averting her face a
little. “What if I am not there?”

“How couldst thou nought be there?”

“Haps I am a witch, with no reflection.”

“Times there be that I think thee a witch in troth, my lady.”

“Why?” She gave him a quick glance. Her eyes had an uneasy vividness,
that imperfect blue smudged to violet.