Immortal Warrior (15 page)

“I will take myself ‘in hand’”—Ivo jerked his hand in a crude gesture that made his meaning clear—“at first opportunity. As you said, she’s just a woman. I’ve lived without them before.”

“Aye. As we all have and now must.” Brand sighed deeply. “Balls. Some of the others have taken your lead and are beginning to venture out. How can I tell them they can never have a woman again?”

“The same way you told me,” said Ivo, and he thought of his wife, alone in bed, and turned his horse toward the forest that was both shelter and prison.

 

HE HAD NOT wanted to cause her pain, Alaida reminded herself as she went about her work the next day. A considerate husband was a rare thing. A good thing.

So why was she so put out over his not lying with her? She hadn’t even wanted him as husband, after all. She wasn’t certain she did even now, especially if the only time she would see him was at night when he used her for his pleasure. But no, that wasn’t fair: he had seen to her pleasure, too—by the saints, he surely had done that—and he didn’t seem nearly as heavy-handed as she’d expected. But his refusal to tell her why he must leave so early every day grated, and his strange behavior last evening had left her out of kilter. But he had not wanted to hurt her.

But, but, but.

Her feelings toward Ivo swung wildly back and forth all day, as though buffeted by the gusty wind outside. The day was a miserable one, the wind having brought an icy rain with it, and as it grew colder and wetter, Alaida ordered the fires kept blazing against the dankness and had enough torches and candles lit for the men to work indoors.

During a lull in the downpour, she bundled herself against the wind and set out to the kitchen to see that the evening meal was under way and that the cook had all the spices she needed. As she came back, she met Wat crossing the yard. He held his head down against the wind, and his cowl drooped so far forward she nearly didn’t recognize him.

“Good day, Wat.”

“Gdaymlady,” he mumbled from beneath his hood as he hurried past. His voice sounded oddly thick, as though he spoke around a mouthful of bread. Something was amiss.

“A moment, Reeve.”

He stopped but didn’t turn. “Yeth, m’lady?”

Alaida frowned. “What’s wrong with you, Wat?”

“Naught, m’lady.”

“Then turn around and face me properly when you speak to me.”

“My lady, I—” he began.

“Look at me!” she commanded. Slowly, Wat turned and raised his head. His hood fell back and Alaida gasped. The left side of his face looked like it belonged to another, larger man, so swollen was it, and a dark, ugly bruise spread from his chin across his split lip and up his cheek. “Who did this to you?”

“I, uh, ran into thomething in the fog latht night, m’lady.”

Apparently his tongue was swollen, as well—and his brain, too, if he thought she would believe such twattle. “Do not lie to me, Reeve.”

“I would not dare, my lady. Godthtruth, I ran into thomething. Thomething hard,” he added, a bit darkly.

“What?” she demanded. He had no ready answer. “Tell me who hit you. I shall see that he is—”

“It wath my own fault, m’lady. Truly. I wath clumthy and my fathe bearth the mark of it, that ith all. I’ll mend. Do not trouble yourthelf. Pleathe, my lady.” He backed away, bowing, as he spoke, then turned and scurried off before she could say more.

Alaida watched after him, shaking her head. She tolerated neither fighting nor drunkenness among the men—likely his bruises were the result of both and that’s why he lied. Well, she would find out soon enough and deal with it; anything of note that happened around the manor or village found its way to Bôte’s ears soon enough, and thence to her own. She scurried inside as the wind blew in a fresh sheet of rain.

Those women without kitchen work had clustered near the fire in the solar with their spinning and sewing. Alaida joined them, and as she removed her needle from her little lordling’s crotch and returned to the problem of the chevron on the altar cloth, Bôte plopped down next to her with a basket of mending.

An outbreak of snickering made Alaida glance up. Her cheeks went hot as she saw the first garment Bôte had pulled out of her basket: the torn chainse from her wedding night.

“I could put in a seam, my lady, with a bit of stitchery to hide it.” Bôte’s innocent expression belied the mischief under her words. “Or shall I make eyelets for laces?”

The women all looked to Alaida expectantly. She hesitated only a moment: Bôte had caught her at a moment when she was feeling more kindly toward Ivo, and an imp took possession of her tongue.

“Eyelets. Although my lord’s lack of patience may prove too much even for laces.”

The laughter was hearty and the jest brought her firmly into the fold of married women. Hadwisa and the other maidens were quickly shunted off to the far corner, and the chatter took a swift turn from village gossip—no mention of Wat—to talk of men and bedding, and thence to babies and birthing. By the time the servants put away their hand-work and headed down to prepare for supper, she sat wide-eyed with new knowledge and fresh fear.

“Do not let them frighten you, my lady,” said Bôte as she slipped her needle into its wooden case and tucked it safely away. “You are made for childbearing. Good, wide hips you have, and a husband with strong seed to plant in your womb. You will drop a healthy babe when the time comes.”

“It worries me, Bôte.”

“It worries all women. But you will do well at it, lamb, I promise.”

Her certainty was a balm, and Alaida let it ease the fear. She slipped her needle into the wool and rose. “Shall we see what trouble the men have gotten into today?”

None, as it turned out, and in fact, good work had been done. Between them, Edric and the others handed over a dozen new horn spoons, a bone knife handle, and a fine wooden spindle whorl to replace one that had broken before Christmas, while the stable master carried two mended bridles and a newly braided girth strap when he headed out with Tom to see to the horses for the night.

There was no sign of Ivo and Brand by the time the stable master returned, nor by the time the hall was ready and every hand washed. They all stood by, Alaida absently fiddling with her keys, as the food grew cold. She was about to give the order to go ahead when the door finally burst open on a gust of wind and Ivo and Brand blew in, looking like wild men as they shook the water from their hair.

“Bring dry linens and gowns,” Alaida ordered. A servant hurried off and she motioned to another. “The cook was to warm some mead for after supper. Fetch some now, and be quick about it.”

Ivo and Brand strode toward the fire, tossing their sodden cloaks and gloves to the nearest maids to be hung. The bedraggled raven was set on its perch, and the two men began peeling off clothing.

She knew that handsome flesh, Alaida realized with a sudden stab of possessiveness as she watched her husband strip down to his braies; she recognized those muscles and the scars she’d traced in the night. The varlet returned with dry clothing, and as Ivo tugged on a clean, white chainse, it struck her that she was licking her lips as though he were a well-basted shank of mutton.

Flushing, she tore her eyes away, grabbed two of the washing-up towels, and hurried over. “Here. Dry your heads before you take a chill.”

“Too late for that, my lady,” said Brand, taking a cloth. “I’m wet to the bone. ’Tis brutal out there.”

“I wonder that you stayed out all day.” She knew as the words came out of her mouth that they sounded more critical than she had intended, and when Ivo turned to take the second towel, his expression said he’d taken them badly.

“Wife.” He put both greeting and warning in the word.

“Welcome home, my lord.” She set a smile on her face, but that imp from earlier came back, now irritated by his tone. “Did you enjoy good . . . hunting, was it?”

He stopped toweling his head and assessed her. “No.”

“Ah. Well. I imagine most wild creatures have . . .” Have the sense, she started to say, but did manage to rein in the imp a little. “A place to stay out of the rain.” She gestured at the raven that squatted miserably there on the iron branch that had once held her grandfather’s hawk. “Unlike that poor bird, who looks like he roosted under a waterfall.”

Brand poked his head out of the tunic he was pulling on. “I promise, my lady, he had good shelter most of the day.”

“Better than we did,” added Ivo sourly, dropping his towel into a servant’s waiting hand. “Where the devil is that mead you sent for?”

The mead arrived in short order, but it turned out to be the only truly warm thing about the whole meal—including, to Alaida’s consternation, her husband. The warrior who had burned his way past her defenses the last two nights was as chill as the weather, spending much of the meal in conversation with Brand and directing barely enough attention toward her for politeness. There were none of the random touches that kept her senses tingling, none of the hungry looks that made her go all liquid, none of the sweet words and wicked jests that set her mind spinning wildly off onto thoughts of flesh against flesh. There was only a courteous, somewhat dour nobleman who might have been a visiting stranger. By the time the gingerbread was brought out to end the meal, she was ready to pitch it at him.

Eventually, however, Sir Brand excused himself for a little, and Ivo leaned toward her.
Finally
, she thought—then he spoke.

“I have explained my absences as much as I intend to, Alaida.” He kept his voice low, so his words were for her ears alone. “Do not challenge me on it again, especially not in front of others.”

“You mistook what I first said, my lord.”

“Perhaps, but not what came after.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but found she had no good argument. “Granted. Though I did try to soften my words.”

“Not very successfully.”

“No, I suppose not.” From the low tables, they probably appeared to be whispering endearments to one another. Alaida encouraged that mistaken belief with a half smile as she reminded him, “You have laughed at worse from me.”

“What amuses me in private and what I will tolerate before my men are two different matters.”

“Well, then, perhaps you should list out your rules, my lord, so I may commit them to memory.” She broke off a piece of gingerbread and started to pop it into her mouth.

He stopped her, staying her hand as easily as she might stay a young child’s. “You were doing well until that last bit.”

She looked up and found amusement sparking in those flint eyes of his. A curious flutter of pleasure quashed much of the irritation she’d felt a moment earlier. “My lady grandmother, God rest her, oft pointed out my inability to stop at the proper moment.”

“So it is not just me.”

“No, my lord—though you do seem to make it worse.”

“Do I?” Before she could answer, he turned her hand and guided the gingerbread into his mouth. His lips brushed the tips of her fingers, and like that, the heat was there between them.

“I missed some,” he murmured, and dipped his head to lap off a morsel with the tip of his tongue. There must have been another crumb, because he went back again, this time slowly drawing the tip of her thumb into his mouth in search of the elusive speck. He sucked, and sensation burst through Alaida, streaking from her hand throughout her body. He was readying her, she knew, telling her he would do this later, in the great bed, but not to her thumb, and the parts of her that had felt the plunder of his mouth throbbed with want.

She blushed at the wicked impatience of her lust, unable to take her eyes off the hand that held hers so firmly, so gently. Poor hand. Here in the light, it looked much worse than it had last night, all bruised and battered. She leaned forward to touch a kiss to the swollen knuckles.

“My lord.” Brand’s voice cut between them like a broadax. “A reminder—you wished to speak with Oswald.”

For a breath, perhaps two, Ivo might have been stone. He sat motionless, distant, some strange, frightening battle going on behind his eyes. Then his face cleared and he rose.

“Your pardon, my lady. I have business to attend to. You will want to retire.” He still had her hand, and he tugged gently to bring her to her feet and led her to the foot of the stairs.

The swiftness of the change stunned Alaida, as did the abrupt way she was being dismissed—like a child being sent to bed. She stood there in a haze of arousal, trying to figure out what had happened, her eyes searching his face, his manner, for some clue. Her gaze landed once more on the hand that held hers.

The damage actually
was
worse, she realized. That split across his knuckles was much longer, the bruising deeper. A row of bloody cuts marched along the tops of his fingers, as evenly spaced as teeth—those hadn’t been there at all last night. He’d hit something else since then, and hard, by the look of it. Something hard . . . Suddenly the whole thing fell together. “Wat.”

When she looked up, the truth was in his eyes. He shifted his hold to his other hand, and flexed the injured one slowly, deliberately, before her.

The center of her went cold. “No wonder he would not say who hit him.”

“It is not your concern.”

“It is. These are my people.”

“They are mine now, just as you are. No one offends my wife without consequence.”

“I took no offense.”

“I did. The matter is finished, Alaida. Go to bed. My business with Oswald will keep me awhile. I will be up later.”

“Do not trouble yourself,
monseigneur
.” She jerked her hand free. “You will surely rest more comfortably in the hall.”

Her foot had barely touched the first step when he grabbed her and spun her back into his arms. The kiss he pressed on her was brief and ruthless, a show of power that held no trace of affection. When he finished, he put his mouth next to her ear. His low growl echoed the rage that shook them both.