Wicked (32 page)

“I’ll sweet you . . . ” she said under her breath. “Gone all those months and nary a word. Then he rides in and expects me to be waiting.
Be ready
.” She tied one of the gown’s ties into a knot, then did up the next one.

She got a tight cramp in her shoulder from bending so awkwardly. She winced, rubbed it, then shook out her gown. She started to move toward the door, but fortunately she looked at her feet.

Shoes!

“Sofia? Is something wrong?”

“Coming.”
Is something wrong? I’d say so
. She slipped on a shoe and hopped to the door, tying the ankle ties on one.

“Sofia . . . ”

She did the other shoe, still hopping. “Cuh-uh-uh-uh-ming.”

She took one deep breath and jerked the door open. She exhaled, and smiled sweetly.

Until she looked into those eyes of his. Her heart had been hammering in her chest ever since she’d heard his voice, but now it was truly skipping. She wanted to feel nothing. But her body betrayed her.

Standing this close to him—the arrogant lout—was still the same as it always had been. He became her whole world, in one single instant. Just a breath and he was the only thing that existed.

He reached out and tilted her face up, then lowered his mouth to hers. Only their lips touched, gently, and the knuckle he had under her chin.

He tasted of freshly mown grass and impossible hope, sunshine and man. And passion, oh, she could not forget the passion, for it was one that she had forced out of her mind for months and months.

One strong arm slid around her, low, under her buttocks, and he lifted her up and walked into the room, kicking the door closed behind him.

He kissed her long and with such intense possession, his tongue deep in her mouth, stroking her teeth and lips and her own tongue. His hand cupped the back of her head and he moaned her name into her mouth.

Her hands gripped his shoulders tightly. She could feel the muscles, the tendons, taut and hard beneath her fingertips. He let her slide down his chest and lower body until her feet hit the . . .

Armor.

Her eyes shot open. His were closed.

She kicked backwards, sending the plates and mail farther under the bed with her heel; they rattled together.

He froze. His eyes opened suddenly, then frowned. He raised his head. “What was that?”

“Rats.” She grabbed the sides of his head and pulled his mouth back to hers and stuck her tongue inside.

She loved to kiss him. She might hate him, but she loved to kiss him. She loved what he made her feel. She loved the way he tasted.

She was all over him. Her hands rubbed his chest, upward, and into his hair. She said his name, too, into his mouth, onto his lips, whispered it in his ear. Their passion swelled so swiftly it was like straw on fire.

The next thing she knew they were falling back on the bed, together. His hands were all over her breasts. He kept saying her name again and again.

She felt him grab her gown in his fist and he started to pull it up.

She was wearing her chausses. Oh dear Lord! She gripped his shoulders and shoved him hard. He flew back and looked at her, surprised.

She was stronger than she even realized.

He frowned, then shook his head and muttered something about a Scots rock of a place turning him weak.

She sat upright, anxious to get away from his hands. She stood and straightened her gown, twisted it back into place. She looked down at him, one hand propped on her hip and said in a scolding tone, “This is a convent, Tobin. Not a tavern house.”

She was suitably haughty, as if she were not just as involved in this pleasure, too.

“Aye. You are right, sweet.” Tobin stood. “’Tis only one more day.”

“One more day?”

“Aye. We ride to London now and tomorrow is our wedding.”

“What?”

“Tomorrow is our wedding.” This tone was as if he had just said the sun is rising, just like it always did. As if their wedding were an everyday thing.

“One day.” Her eyes narrowed. She could feel a rush of anger. “You expect me to wed you with one day’s notice?”

He looked at her, frowned a bit like she was the one who was mad. “Aye.” He nodded as if it were perfectly normal to not have anything to say about her own wedding, to find out it was happening the day before, when she had been waiting for over a year, perhaps since she were twelve and certainly since the day of the Miracle Plays.

She took a long deep breath, decided that Eve should have thrown that apple at Adam and hit him squarely in the head.

Sofia glanced at him, then at the bed. She grabbed a large pillow, walked over, swung back, and hit him in the head with it.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.

“Hitting you!” She whacked him again.

And again.

He held up his arms. “What’s the matter with you?” He tried to grab it.

She side-stepped him. “Nothing!” She pulled back and used both hands, swinging with all her newly earned strength.

“Ouch! Dammit! That hurt!”

Nay. It felt so good!

Whack, whack, whack!

She spun around in a circle, building momentum.

He raised his arm to block.

The pillow hit him in the chest and exploded. Downy feathers went everywhere, as if it were snowing geese.

He stood there, looking at her while feathers lit on his whole person.

She waved the feathers away from her face and mouth and waited until they settled to the floor, then she looked up at him.

He had feathers in his eye sockets, on his eyebrows, in his ears and mouth.

He spit out a mouthful and just looked at her. “You’re angry.”

“Me? Angry with you?
Sir
Tobin de Clare? Whatever gave you that idea?”

He merely shook his head, turned, and left the room. Just before he closed the door she heard him say, “Women . . . ”

They arrived at Windsor
Castle by torchlight, the de Clare and Earl Merrick’s men-at-arms making an impressive escort. Sofia dismounted before Tobin could barely turn around.

He turned. She was standing and murmuring to the horse. She glanced up at him and saw the odd look on his face. “You feel no soreness from being in the saddle.”

“Nay.” She smiled. “I love to ride. ’Tis a fine horse you gave me. She is spirited but has an easy canter.”

“’Tis a de Clare-bred mount.” There was pride in his tone. “I broke her myself.” He placed his hand on the horse’s neck and gave her a pat.

Sofia cocked her head in surprise. Breaking horses, training them, both tasks took patience and a gentleness of hand and tongue.

Tobin had turned and was giving orders to his men. Sofia stood there, eyeing his broad back and wondering what else there was inside of him that she did not know. ’Twas then that she realized she was marrying a stranger.

He could turn her on fire with a look. Anger her with a word. He had touched her most intimate places with his hands, with his mouth, but she knew little of him, of who he truly was, and she wondered what in her lifetime she would discover inside of this man, who tomorrow would be her husband.

Sofia stood at an
arched window, staring up at the moon—a plump pearl of a ball in the dark night sky. Stars were blinking down at her. Her room was just above the castle ale house and she could smell the scent of barley and yeast in the air, could hear voices from all sides and corners of the courtyard below.

There was much to do this night. A huge wedding at the royal castle on the morrow. Most of the castle workers would be up all night, and had probably been up for more nights before this.

Guests were already there. She and Tobin, the bridal couple, were the last to arrive. She had chosen to have bread, cheese and wine in her room. Her belly was wild from the moment she had arrived. She felt anxious and uneasy. As if she were ready to step off a cliff.

There was drinking and gaiety in the Great Hall. She could hear the laughter in the distance, the music. Most were drunk, already celebrating the wedding.

Her wedding.

She paused in her thoughts, chewing on her lower lip, then turned and crossed the room. She knelt at one of her small chests and opened it. Her mother’s pearls and the exquisite cloth were sitting inside.

Sofia lifted them out, took a few steps and sat down cross-legged in the middle of the tester bed. She propped her elbow on her bent knee and  stared down at them, trying to remember and only being able to forget.

There was a sharp rap on Sofia’s bedchamber door, then it opened with a squeak of the iron hinges. Eleanor came inside.

“Sofia?” She looked to the bed. “There you are, child.” She shut the door, turned and gave her a long look. “I would like to talk to you.” She moved near the fireplace and gestured toward the chairs. A fire burned and cast shadows over the rich tapestry rug on the floor and the tray with the crumbs that remained of Sofia’s light meal.

“Talk to me? Why?” Sofia crossed the room. She flopped into a chair, slumping down. “What have I done now?”

Eleanor gave a soft chuckle. “Nothing like that.”

Sofia’s robe had split open and she caught a soft whisper of warm air from the fire against her bare legs. She stretched them out and crossed them at the ankles, staring at her toes.

Whose toes did she have? Her father’s or her mother’s? She would never know.

“Tomorrow is your wedding and I thought we should speak of things. Of a wife’s duties. Of the bedding.”

“I know all about it.”

Eleanor smiled softly. “You are certain?”

“Aye.”

“Well.” Eleanor sat down. “Do you have any questions?”

Sofia wanted to tell Eleanor how was sorry she was that poor dear Eleanor had to do what went on in the marriage bed with Edward. But she knew that Eleanor loved her husband—how was a question she would never know the answer to . . . like the toes.

And Sofia would not hurt her, even if the thought of them doing what she and Tobin did was enough to make her want to cringe. “I have no questions.” Sofia stopped. “Oh, perhaps one.” She looked at the Queen. “Does a wife ever truly know her husband?”

“Some wives do. But they have to want to look inside the man they love. They have to care, to search for the true man. ’Tis a fact that most men do not easily show what they feel or think. Sometimes a woman must dig it out of them. Men do not like to feel things deeply. They like to act as if they are above emotion. Too strong or powerful or some such foolishness. When a man lets down his guard and shows a woman his emotions, what he feels and truly thinks, know then that he is in love with her. That she has his heart and his trust. ’Tis the only way they will ever let us inside.”

Tobin did not let her inside. They had nothing, nothing but lust and passion and that thing between them that stirred her blood and his. No love.

“Anything else you want to ask me?”

Sofia shook her head.

Eleanor stood. She stepped forward and cupped Sofia’s cheek in her hand. “You know you are a daughter to me, do you not?”

Sofia looked up and Eleanor and felt her eyes grow moist She did love this woman. She nodded. “Thank you.”

Eleanor walked to the door and opened it, then paused. “I suspect you will find tomorrow night to your liking, my dear. Tobin is young and a good man, not cruel. I believe his heart will be true . . . unlike his father. Good night.” Then she closed the door.

Unlike his father?

Sofia frowned. What was this? She got up and went to the door, then opened it and glanced down the hallway, but the candles had been put out, Eleanor was already gone below, and there was nothing but darkness.

Chapter 27

The day of the wedding came in with a chill. A white glaze rimed the grass around Windsor Castle. Sofia crawled from her bed and stood. The floor tiles were cold and sent chills up her bare legs. She hopped backward, then scooted into bed and pulled the covers over her cold feet, rubbing them together and shivering, until a servant came in and put wood and hot coals in the fireplace.

She lay there, bundled under the covers, and tried to make herself believe that today was truly her wedding day. She glanced around the room.

Nothing was different. But to her it should have been. The sun should have risen in the west and the moon should have set in the east; the rivers should run backward and time should stop. The world should be turned upside down, because she knew that after today, nothing in her life would ever be the same again.

There was a scratch at her door.

“Come in!”

Edith poked her head around the door. “Sofie?”

“Edith! You are here! Truly here!” Sofia flew out of bed and ran across the room. They hugged each other. “I have missed you so.”

“’Tis been quiet since you were gone, Sofie.” Edith released her. “Too quiet perhaps for even me.”

“Come.” Sofia took Edith’s hand and pulled her over to the carpet near the fire. “Tell me all that has happened.”

Edith stood there for a moment, looking as if she wanted to say something.

“What is it?”

Edith averted her eyes, then she looked up, her face bright and her smile soft. “My betrothed has returned.”

“Hmph! ’Tis about time. He is fortunate to have you, for no other woman would have been so patient.”

“You mean that
you
would not have been so patient.”

“Aye. You are a saint.”

“Not truly.” Edith was pensive, then she spoke again, “I did not tell you something about him, a secret I kept all to myself.”

“What secret?”

“’Twas simple to wait for him, because he sent me missives the whole time he was gone. Every few days another would arrive.”

“Edith! Why did you not tell me?”

Edith shrugged. “They were beautiful messages and I wanted to keep them close to me.”

“What kind of missives? Do you want to tell me now? What does a man say to someone he truly loves to make her understand him?”

“He praised my eyes and my fiery hair. He tells me how very wonderful I am. He says he thinks of me every night before he goes to sleep. That his heart is full of me and only me.”