Conquests: Hearts Rule Kingdoms (12 page)

He left, causing the silent uproar that he had created to be released – and no one’s voice was as incredulously as Avis’.

“Anglo-Saxon food?” Avis said in disbelief. “He must be confused. A rock must have hit him on the head – it is the only explanation!”

Edith grinned at the other servants. They had all been watching Avis and Melville over the month since they had arrived, and although none of the glances that he had sent her way had been noticed by her, they had been seen by the servants. It was hilarious to see the two of them try to avoid the ever deepening tension developing between them.

“It appears he wishes to sample our food,” stated Bronson, beginning to shout orders to the servants.

Edith grinned slyly at her mistress.

“Or, he is trying to please a certain someone.”

Avis coloured at the suggestion. This change in diet could not be on her behalf, surely. Melville was not that thoughtful. But she remembered the delicate kiss he had pressed into her palm, and his understated passionate speech under the oak tree. She could feel his arms encircling her as he comforted her, and could imagine the heat from those arms if –

Quashing such thoughts, Avis began to help the preparation of the new menu. She had no time, and no business thinking such thoughts, she chastised herself. No business at all.

At dinner that night Melville’s hand hovered undecided between several dishes and platters that he did not recognise. He was already beginning to regret his hasty desire to please Avis. Glancing at his wife, he saw her plateful of the food that looked so distasteful to his eyes. Foreign food. He scrunched his nose in disgust, but then reminded himself that to many, he was the foreigner.

Picking three foods at random, he piled them on his plate and forced himself to try each one of them. His childhood had taught him to never leave good food untasted – a habit which he had struggled and failed to shake off. He gathered some of the stew on his bread, and together with some chicken covered in an unknown glaze, he filled his mouth.

Unknown textures and flavours burst across his palate, and he was shocked to discover great enjoyment. Melville took another mouthful, suspicious that the first bite had been a fluke. It was delicious.

Melville turned to Avis.

“This is incredible!” His face was so openly filled with pleasure that Avis allowed herself to smile in response.

“I am glad my lord approves.”

“Approves? To what end do your people hide such delicacies?”

Melville had meant the statement to be a compliment to her heritage, but Avis turned away.

“You Normans did not cross the channel for our recipes,” she muttered.

Melville bit his lip angrily. It seemed that he, a Norman, would never have the skill and finesse to treat Avis as she required – as she deserved.

Avis chewed on her favourite foods determinedly, refusing to allow Melville’s harsh comments to infringe on her enjoyment. She had missed honest Anglo-Saxon food for the last three years, and she was not going to talk to Melville if he was only ready to mock her.

Melville racked his brains to find something that he could say to raise Avis’ humour. He would do or say anything to see her smile, but he felt immensely stupid sitting beside her as she gracefully reached out to pour herself another glass of wine. Remembering their bitter and distant first meeting, it seemed ridiculous to him that within the space of a handful of weeks, he was now trying all he could to please this woman.

“What has occupied you today?” he ventured, hoping to encourage her to speak – but he could not have chosen a worse topic.

Avis froze, panicking that he had discovered her secret past time. She would not give up her hours in the kitchen for anything. It was the one place where she felt at home. She did not answer, and Melville grew angry.

“Will you not speak to me?” He barked.

“I will speak when I choose!” Avis returned. “I am not your servant, to be ordered when to speak and where to go!”

Suddenly Melville threw back against the table, throwing all a-top it onto the floor. Platters clanged as food splattered against the rushes, sinking into them.

“Can I do nothing that pleases you?” he thundered, eyes flashing. “Can you never be satisfied?”

Avis had jumped up to prevent herself from being covered in a particularly gorgeous sauce that had fallen forward. She took steps backwards as she attempted to dodge the food scattered floor.

“You forget yourself my lord!” she hissed, eyes glancing at the men and servants lining the hall, all who had jumped at the loud clamour. “Attempt to keep your anger to yourself!”

“Just as you keep your life to yourself!”

“It is my life!” Avis smiled angrily. “Or so I was told underneath a certain tree. But I suppose I was wrong to have thought that such pleasing words could be trusted.”

In three short strides Melville had closed the distance between them. He stood as close as he dared to the trembling Avis, who rocked unwillingly towards him. She felt dizzy. His musky presence confused Avis, causing her to forget they were in a crowded hall. Unsure but summoning his bravery, Melville drew her closer slowly by encircling her waist with one hand. Her bodice brushed his chest, and fire burst into his veins. Avis refused to raise her face, but a hand reached to lift her chin. Melville.

“What can I do?” he whispered softly. “What can I do to please you?”

Avis could not reply, unable to speak. Her anger dissipated as quickly as it had risen, but the emotion that remained was unknown.

“Command me,” Melville spoke slowly and quietly, so that only Avis could hear him. Avis could feel his heart beat against her breast, and the hand placed in the small of her back felt comforting – it felt natural. There were many things that she could command, Avis thought wildly. He was at her mercy.

Melville was at her mercy. Avis gazed into his dark fervent eyes and realised that her husband was completely in her power. This was not lust, but something softer that drenched her from his eyes. Avis knew that she could not be so heartless as to manipulate him when he was making himself so vulnerable to her.

It was difficult, but she broke free from Melville’s tight embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Avis looked into his startled face, and felt terrible for the words she was speaking – but knew that she was speaking the truth. “Do not ask me.”

Avis began to walk away, but Melville took her hand and pulled her back.

“Command me.” He groaned.

Avis pulled her hand away, terrified at the rush of emotions that spread from his red-hot touch.

“Do not tempt me.” Her voice was hoarse, startling her, and she ran from the room.

Uncomfortable chatter had filled the hall whilst Melville and Avis had been speaking, and so Melville stood alone without an embarrassing silence. Her rejection had been clear – but he had seen the desire in her face. Melville smiled wryly. Progress of some sort, at least.

Avis had retired to a small room which preceded her private chamber. It was intended as a place for her to receive important guests and visitors, but there had been no need for that during her marriage, and she used it more as a place to sit and think. A large fire warmed her shaking hands, and she sunk gratefully into a large chair, snuggling into the furs that draped over her back. She shivered, despite the heat of the room.

“I cannot explain him!” she muttered to herself.

And this was the problem. Avis had been quick of thought since her childhood, and there had been no person that she had been unable to understand – even if she disliked them. Avis had been very ready to dislike Melville when she had married him, and indeed his haughty, superior manner had aided her in this feeling. But here, and more frequently now, were glimpses of a different Melville. Avis brought her feet underneath her, curling herself up into a ball. This different Melville was a confusing, vulnerable and yet strong man – a man unlike any she had ever known.

Avis sat by the fire, and began to doze. She was so unaware of her surroundings that she did not notice a solitary figure leaning against the door frame.

Melville stood there, contemplating this tantalizing woman that was his wife. She had wrapped herself in the furs like a small child, and a smile danced across her features as she slept by the fire.

Melville walked silently into the room, and settled in the chair opposite her. He studied her, marvelling in the gracefulness of her features: her clear expressive face, soft skin, and the reams of golden hair that had escaped its veil.

Melville longed to know more of her – to see more of her. But as Avis slumbered, he allowed her to rest. Their lives had become so angry and on edge, he mused, she must need the sleep and relaxation.

Avis was dreaming. She could see Melville rushing towards her across the bridge, and she was completely unable to move. She tried to open her mouth to speak, but before a word had been uttered, the dream-Melville placed his closed lips powerfully onto hers. Tight arms drew her to him, and she initially struggled against the intoxication of it all.

But the dream-Melville was so careful with her, allowing her to keep her lips closed as he tenderly massaged life and vigour into her mouth. Avis could not help but respond, clutching at his linen shirt, unable to feel her legs, weightless in the experience of his kiss.

Avis could smell that elusive fragrance that announced Melville’s presence, and in her sleep she moved – and realised that the tight clasp of her dream was no fantasy. She could feel strong arms underneath her knees and neck, carrying her. With a great effort, she forced her eyelids open, to discover that she was nestled into Melville’s neck as he lifted her. Not the dream-Melville with whom she had been sharing such an intense experience, but the real Melville. Her physical husband, a very definitely tangible man.

“Melville?” Avis said drowsily.

“Hush,” he replied softly. “Sleep. You are safe.”

The veracity of his words lulled her back to sleep, revelling in the safety of his strong and sturdy body. Melville cautiously placed her gently onto her bed.

Asleep again, she reached up for his comforting touch, murmuring, “Melville?”

He gritted his teeth. Avis was so unaware of herself, even of the chaste but powerful kiss that he had devotedly placed on her inviting lips, that he knew he could remain in her room. Spend the night. Share her bed. But it was not a choice that Avis had consciously made, and Melville bristled at the idea of taking advantage of any woman – especially Avis.

Silently he left the room, calling a servant to fill the copper bath in his chamber with ice cold water. He was going to need it.

Chapter Eighteen

When Avis woke up, she at first could not recall how she had travelled from the chair in the outer chamber to her bed. Blurred images and sounds crowded her mind, and she tried to organise them into a coherent order. She had sat by the fire – had slumbered in the balmy air. She had fallen asleep. She had dreamt…

Avis sat bolt upright, horrified as partial memories flooded into her consciousness. The intimacy in which Melville had lifted her, had carried her! The care and concern in his words! Avis’ lips seared as she recalled the kiss, which she hoped beyond hope had been part of her strange yet intoxicating dream.

Shaking away the remnants of such thoughts, Avis arose and dressed quickly. She hoped to go down and speak to the villagers before she broke her fast. There were concerns amongst the peasant Anglo-Saxons that Melville’s agricultural decision about the fallow land would ruin next year’s harvest, and she prayed that she would be able to bring the two opposing views together without much discord – and before planting began.

Although she reached the village of Ulleskelf before the sun had arisen, the situation was more complex than Avis had previously thought, and it was near midday when she finally reached the familiar hall of the manor. Bronson would be disappointed that she had missed one of his sumptuous breakfasts, but she had been given a wonderful meal by the baker and his family.

But when Avis arrived in the entrance hall, she was surprised to see no Melville. He did not appear throughout the afternoon, and she began to half hope that he would appear without warning – but when she ventured down to the kitchen as the lazy sun was setting, Bronson informed her that Melville had ridden off to York early that morning on a judicial matter. Powerless to decipher her own confused feelings, Avis settled into the soothing routine of bread making.

Relaxed chatter surrounded her, and Avis poured out her intense unknown emotion as she kneaded the dough. The servants gave her a wide berth; it was always obvious when Avis wanted to be left alone. A sudden end to the noise was ignored as Avis focussed on creating the traditional Anglo-Saxon loaf – but a gasp and the sound of a bowl breaking caused her to turn around, ready to scold the clumsy servant.

Melville was standing by the kitchen door, mouth open, staring at Avis in blatant and terrible disgust. Servants backed away from his threatening powerful authority, and Bronson rushed forward, hoping to distract his master from the flour streak in Avis’ uncovered hair.

“My lord, my lord…” Bronson’s voice trailed away, his knowledge of the Norman language almost exhausted.

Melville stepped forward and effortlessly pushed Bronson out of his path. When he spoke, it was a deep but bitter voice that the servants heard, but could not understand.

“Leave us.”

No one moved. Melville repeated the words in a shout.

“Leave us!”

No translation was needed. The kitchen emptied, leaving Avis to face Melville alone and unprotected. But she needed no protection. Just as they had in their last confrontation, her fists clenched unconsciously as she prepared herself for the fight.

“You.” Melville made no attempt to say anything else, his piercing gaze reaching down into Avis’ soul itself.

“Me.” Avis’ reply was quiet, but strong. She would not allow herself to be bullied – and after all, she reasoned, shuffling her feet from side to side as if preparing for battle, she knew that she was not in the wrong.