Shana Abe (14 page)

His arm rose and fell with each breath she took. She liked the weight of it on her, she liked the way he didn’t crush her with his strength but rather kept her steady against him, allowing her to feel the reassurance of his body.

Part of her realized it was scandalous. She should open her eyes. She should smile at these primped gawkers as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be standing there at Henry’s court with the Earl of Lorlreau stroking her softly, leaving pinpricks of heat wherever he touched her.

Her husband.

Her eyes snapped open. Roland was good-naturedly answering the barrage of questions.

“Well, yes, Lady Beatrice, it
was
rather sudden.”

When she shifted, his arm tightened; the caress became a bond, holding her in place as he continued on in that affable voice.

“In fact, I myself feel as if it only just happened. No doubt it is the effect of my overwhelming delight that the lady would have me, unworthy as I am.”

Uncertain congratulations echoed around them; a few more of the women moved forward to kiss her, all cool cheeks and rustling satins and velvets, the diaphanous worlds of the scarves enveloping her as they came close.

Kyla smiled tightly at each of them, attempting a normal stance even though she couldn’t move; Roland’s grip gave her no quarter.

“A most interesting tale you have to tell, I am sure,” said Lady Elisabeth. “Perhaps one day you will share it with me.”

Kyla didn’t know what to say, what could she share with these people, even her mother’s friend? But Elisabeth merely patted her hand and drifted off, signaling a retreat to the rest of the more polished set. Gradually the crowd thinned until Roland gave their excuses, saying they both needed to rest.

They left the room still arm in arm, with the dense knots of people staring after them.

He took her in a different direction from where she had been brought in, opposite the dank walkway that led back to the little room assigned to her. She followed without comment, trying to absorb the shocking changes the last hour of her life had brought, trying to find the glaring hole she was certain must exist in this bizarre plan he had created for them.

But she couldn’t find the hole. There was no escape. He had told the king they were married, and in the minutes afterward he had made it a truth, and she had let him. Now everyone knew.

They were married. Those private vows were as legally binding as anything public, she knew it as well as he did.

Married!

Kyla swayed a little against him and Roland frowned down at her, wondering how long it would take before the feverish blaze in her eyes sapped the strength that let her walk now. He tightened his support on her arm and willed her to stay with him a little longer, just enough to get back to his chambers. Then she could faint all she wanted.

Roland didn’t question the thing in him that had pressured her in that timeless moment back in the antechamber. True, his ruse to the king was a tricky thing, and certainly they could have been undone by the discovery of it, but such immediacy was not really necessary.

He could have taken her back to Lorlreau and married her there. Harrick would have performed the ceremony without a fuss, and never spoken a word of it again if Roland had asked him not to.

As long as he kept her with him, no one would have known if they were actually wed or not. It would not have mattered all that much.

But then, crossing that threshold from the private chamber to the more public beyond, riding high on his thrill of out-maneuvering Henry, Roland had looked down at the woman beside him, her hand still tight in his, the delicacy of her features turned up to him, the silver-smoke eyes, the sculptured curve of her cheek …

The
want
had come pounding back fiercer than ever, the urge to crush her to him, to overwhelm her with himself, to make love to her forever, drowning them both. It seized him with fire, mingled with the exhilaration already singing in his blood, and he knew then that he could have her the way he wanted, permanently, that his advantage was right now, and if he took it, the eyes, the lips, the hair, her body, all of her would belong to him. He could take his time dousing the fire that burned for her every day for the rest of his life.

There was no question about it. She had wavered as the crowd approached and he had pressed her, pressed her hard, exaggerating the danger until the fear he had built up spilled over her defenses. When she gave in, when she said the words he needed to hear, the satisfaction drenched him, the completeness of it searing his soul, and he had thought,
At last
.

She had borne up well against the assault, but he had known she would. Kyla Warwick—no, Kyla Strathmore—was no wilting flower, but rather something more sturdy. An eagle, a lioness.

A fox, beautiful and resourceful.

Still, he supposed it was natural that she might be feeling some of it now. The shock was wearing off. They were almost to his rooms.

When they reached his door she paused uncertainly in front of it, as if she was afraid he would leave her standing there in the hallway instead of ushering her in. But she entered the rooms readily when he motioned her to go before him, stopping a few feet inside with her arms crossed over her chest, looking distractedly to the window on the far wall.

It offered a view of the courtyard; nothing very interesting there. Roland had seen it countless times before. Henry always gave him the same set of quarters whenever he stayed in London. All too often there were things taking place down there in the courtyard he did
not
want to see, and he thought perhaps Henry knew this and kept him here on purpose, as a not-so-subtle lesson true to the monarch’s style.

Roland shut the door behind him firmly, then threw the latch.

She seemed so alone suddenly; an isolated figure standing forlornly in the middle of the openness of the outer chamber. She had pushed her hair forward over one shoulder to cover her arm, so from where he was he could see that her back was slim and perfectly straight, he could follow the trimness of it almost down to her waist, until the bliaut faded the line with loose folds of cloth.

“Very impressive,” Kyla said to the window in her husky voice, and he didn’t know if she was speaking of the room, or the view, or rather of his own performance just now.

She threw him a look over her shoulder. “The rooms a little higher up the stairs, my lord, are not nearly so fragrant as this.” A graceful sweep of her arm indicated the fresh rushes on the floor.

“I am sorry about that,” Roland began, wanting to soothe the glimpse of pain in her.

“Nay, for what?” she interrupted. “There is no need for you to apologize. You were only doing what you had to do.”

“That’s right.” He crossed to her, glossing over whatever hidden meaning she might have, then added emphatically, “Wife.”

Her chin dipped down at his word, her fingers tightened on her arms. That little crease he had seen before appeared again on her brow, boding trouble.

“It cannot be.…” Her voice faded away, mystified.

“It is.” Roland stood before her a little combatively, ready to battle for this unexpected union with a fierceness that surprised him. “You gave your vow, Kyla, and I gave mine. It is an honorable match.”

She wanted to argue with him, he could see that she wanted to argue, but for whatever reason the words failed her, and she only looked searchingly across the room, as if the answer to her problem lay just behind a chest or tapestry.

He pressed his advantage. “You would not go back on your word, Kyla.” He made it a statement, not a question.

“Of course not.” Her arms uncrossed, the fire in her eyes sparking again.

“Excellent. I suggest we sup and then retire. Tomorrow will be a long day for us both.”

Without giving her a chance to respond he took her hand in his and led her to the door of the adjoining bedroom. She followed him, stepping delicately around the rushes with the catlike dexterity he had first seen that night in the inn, when he had watched her and admired the skill of a thief. When they reached the threshold he stopped outside it.

“Why don’t you take a moment to refresh yourself while I send for the food? There will be warm water in the basin.”

“How do you know—”

Roland smiled. “There is always warm water in the basin here. Henry enjoys showing off as much as the next man.”

And he was right. After he smiled at her again—tender and intense, a smile that set off a warning chime somewhere within her—and shut the carved wooden door between them, Kyla found the polished copper basin resting on an iron trestle near the fireplace, with enough heat collected in it to keep the water delightfully warm.

This was his bedroom. It was not so grand as Henry’s chamber, of course. It was smaller, more comfortable, less imposing, and obviously much more easily heated.

A chest for clothing, several wood-and-leather chairs around a table, a painted wooden screen in a corner, and yes, a marble floor.

One bed. One not-so-large bed, more of an oversized pallet, really, certainly big enough for one person, even a large man like Roland. For two, it would be by force a cozy affair.

Kyla turned quickly away from the bed and cast about
rather apprehensively for some alternative place to rest. The chairs? Only if she wanted to remain upright all night.

This was absurd. She would simply take some blankets and put them on the floor, if she had to, or perhaps Roland would be willing to …

Sleep in the bed with her. He was her husband, Kyla realized with fresh shock, of course he would want to sleep in the bed with her, wouldn’t he?

What an incredible thing he had done, that bluff. How noble of him. How completely unlike the Hound of Hell she had been expecting. Why on earth would he have done such a thing?

The heated water was invigorating, much better than what she had been given in her other room, earlier. She tried to concentrate on that and nothing else, the comforting cleanliness sliding over her face and arms, warming the tip of her nose and her cheeks, relaxing the tightness in her hands.

In a daring move she dragged the heavy wooden screen over to the fireplace and behind it quickly stripped out of the bliaut and slippers, standing shivering on the marble tiles until she wadded the cloth under her feet to block the chill. She bent over and twisted her hair into a rope, then tied it up high on her head, wrapped secure in its own coils.

A sea sponge was provided with the basin—all the luxuries for the favored guests, Kyla thought wryly—and with it she scrubbed away the last of the travel dust until her skin was pink and glowing and the crackling fire evaporated the drops of water decorating her that the squares of drying cloth had left. She would never have thought a sponge bath felt this good.

Kyla knelt, warm now and oddly comfortable, in front of the hearth of the fireplace, holding her hands out in front of her, letting her palms absorb the heat, watching the flames dance between her fingers.

The door to the outer chamber opened.

She stood up quickly, using the screen to hide herself.

“Kyla, something has just—”

Roland stopped when he saw the screen, the top of her
head just visible. She watched him nervously from the crack between two panels.

Her gown, ripped and dirty, was still beneath her feet.

“I, uh …” He seemed at a loss, staring at the top of her head, then moving down to catch the corner of the eye that peered out at him. In his arms was a bundle, a cloth sack of some sort, which he held motionless, as if forgotten. She saw that small smile coming back to him, curving his lips upward until it lit his eyes as well, so vividly sea-blue right now, and she felt herself respond with a slow inner heat.

“Yes, my lord?” She attempted a normal tone.

Roland shook his head, still smiling, and glanced down at the bundle in his arms.

“This has just arrived for you, from someone or another’s maid. Lady de Corbeau, I think she said.”

“Oh? Lady Elisabeth?” Kyla tried, without success, to maneuver so that both eyes could see through the slats. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. Clothing, I suppose. It feels like clothing.” The brightness in his gaze magnified. “Why don’t you come out and see for yourself?”

“No, thank you. You may leave it on the chair, if you please.”

Her body was warmer than the fire now from the blush that flooded through her. She quickly bent over and shook her hair out like a cape to cover her, and even though she knew he could not see her—it was impossible that he could see her—she could have sworn he followed the move as avidly as if the wood were clear glass.

“The chair, my lord.” She prayed he would do as she asked, leaving her alone in her embarrassment.

For a moment he did nothing, seeming to debate something within himself, staring down at the material he held. But then he bowed to the screen—and if ever a bow could carry a sort of wicked sauciness, this was it—and placed the bag carefully on the chair nearest to her.

“Our food is ready, my lady. Please do join me at your leisure.”

“Of course,” she said, feeling ridiculous.

He shut the door carefully behind him.

She sagged a little against the screen, then gathered herself and darted out to the chair, grabbing up the bundle and taking it back to the fire. It was quite heavy, and she almost had to drag it instead of carrying it.

The flickering light revealed a sturdy cloth sack with a corded satin drawstring tied in a knot to keep it closed. Inside were, of course, gowns: lovely bliauts and underskirts, the fine, rich fabrics that she used to be so familiar with, months and months ago.

Lady Elisabeth, in her genteel way, had noted her problem and moved to solve it. A small note inside said she hoped that Lady Kyla would forgive her impertinence, but as Elisabeth understood that the nature of travel could be quite inconvenient and not so accommodating to the niceties of a lady, she hoped Lady Kyla would accept these few poor gowns as her own until Lady Kyla found the time to have some better ones made up.