Marriage Under Siege (18 page)

'I beg to differ. The words
were crude and unacceptable—and must be a source of hurt.'

'Ah. I presume you have
spoken with Mary.'

'With Josh. But it does not
please me. Come. I would make my peace with you. I will even admit to being in
the wrong. Will you share a glass of wine with me, Honoria?'

'Yes. After I have bathed
the wound in your shoulder.' She would drive a hard bargain.

'Now why did I once think
you would be a quiet, amenable, compliant wife?'

'I have no idea. You did
not know me, of course.'

'Obviously not!' His eyes
held hers with a quizzical gleam. 'I believe that I missed you when I was at
Leintwardine.'

'I am sure that I can soon
remedy that!' Her tone was dry, but he was satisfied to see the return of a
glow of appreciation in her gold- flecked eyes and even the ghost of a smile.

Chapter Seven

Honoria stood with her ear
pressed unashamedly to the connecting door between her husband's bedchamber and
her own. He had left her and their guests some hours ago, claiming the
necessity of paper work and accounts, but she could not find him, certainly not
in the notorious panelled room. Nor in any of the other obvious rooms of the
castle. She was certain that he had been in pain throughout the day, but on her
one tentative enquiry his clipped tones, his shuttered expression, had deterred
her from further expression of sympathy—or remorse. But she was uncomfortably
aware of the faint lines of strain around his mouth and at the corner of his
eyes, which had deepened as the day progressed. And, all things considered, he
had probably slept little the previous night. So she had excused herself from
the company, determined to find him. Whether he was in pain or not, whatever
his reaction to her presence, she would insist on inspecting his wound.

There was no sound from his
room. Nothing. She undressed slowly, hoping for some sign of movement, unsure
of her next step. Was he asleep? If so, it would be unwise to wake him. But she
must know. She wrapped a warm shawl round her thin chemise, lifted the latch on
the connecting door as carefully as she was able and pushed. The door opened
soundlessly, admitting her entrance.

The room was closed in by
thick shadows, but a single candle still burned, enhancing the glow from the
banked fire. He had clearly been working on estate papers—he had left them
strewn across the table by the window in an untidy pile. Beside them she could
see a goblet and a platter that still held a heel of bread. But he had
abandoned the work and gone to bed, restless, tangling the sheets, but now he
slept, left arm flung out in a futile attempt to find a comfortable position
for his shoulder. The fingers of his left hand curled gently on the bedcover.
His naked chest, uncovered by the linen, gleamed a little in the light where
her bandaging ended.

A man of action and
forceful character, for once her lord seemed to her to be uncomfortably
vulnerable. She moved quietly to stand beside the bed. Paused, listening, as a
mouse skittered along the wainscoting. Then stretched out a cautious hand to
brush a strand of hair from his face, now relaxed in sleep. His mouth was
softer. His fierce eyes hidden, the thick lashes fanned on to his lean cheeks
where there was a faint flush riding high. She allowed her fingers to stroke
gently down the wayward curl as her thoughts took their own direction. What did
he feel for her? Certainly no urge to betray her wanton actions of the previous
night. But beyond that, his feelings were unfathomable. She could not even
guess.

And what did she feel for
him? She pressed her lips together as she questioned her intense reaction to
his closeness, his strong male presence. From the inner turmoil, she could
come up with no answers, other than that she rejoiced in his return. And that
her pulse quickened at the prospect of his taking her to his bed again. If she
leaned forward now, she could brush her lips against his. So soft and relaxed.
Not the firm line she was so used to.

Or the slight groove
between his brows, which deepened when he frowned at her. She would like very
much to press her lips there as well. And see him smile.

She remained standing,
contemplating his utter defencelessness in sleep, surprised by the depths of
compassion that prompted her to take him into her arms and protect him. She
smiled a little at the absurdity of it. He would never permit such a sign of
weakness, of course. How foolish men could be! She now knew why he had been
absent from the castle for so long, for he had explained the attack of the
small band of Royalists who thought to take a quick and valuable prize in
Leintwardine Manor. They had tried to intercept the Manor's water supply,
digging trenches to divert the spring that ran down the hill to provide all the
Manor's needs. And would doubtlessly have succeeded if not for the opportune
arrival of Captain Davies and his expert force. The attackers had been routed
and Leintwardine Manor was safe. But for how long? It explained Francis's
absence, and yet Honoria had the strongest suspicion that he had not told her
everything. A hint of reserve could be detected, a shadow in his expression in
the telling of the tale.

Francis awoke, senses
alert, immediately aware of Honoria standing by the bed. The scent of lavender.
Merely her presence. He made no move, did not even open his eyes, concentrating
on keeping his breathing even. He had no wish to startle her or to destroy his
enjoyment of her proximity. Their fragile relationship was far too vulnerable
and he wished to preserve the peace that had been re-established between them
during the day.

He felt the gentle touch of
her hand on his hair. A warmth stole through his limbs to ease the dull ache in
his shoulder, but could not quite dispel it. It had plagued him all day,
draining his energies, nagging like a rotten tooth.

Perhaps he should simply
pretend sleep and let her go.

A jolt of lust startled him
as he felt her fingers move over his chest and shoulder to press lightly on the
bandaging, to check its security. Or perhaps he was not surprised. Not that he
would be much good to her with a raging fire in his shoulder and a weak arm
that would not bear his weight. Even so...

Honoria turned from him,
lingering only to adjust the hangings to keep the light of the fire from his
face. The miniature no longer rested on the nightstand, the beautiful girl with
burnished hair and enticing smile. Presumably put away for safe keeping. She
would not think about that tonight, merely offer up thanks that her lord had
returned safely to her.

A hand closed lightly round
her wrist.

Honoria's nerves twitched
and she automatically tried to pull away from the warm clasp, almost as if
embarrassed to be found at the dead of night, uninvited in her husband's room,
in a state of undress. The fingers tightened as she flinched. Forcing herself
to remain still, she looked down to see his eyes on her. Clear of any fever,
but sharp and intent on her face. Questioning.

'I came to see if you were
in any discomfort.' She kept her voice low. 'If you needed anything... I did
not intend to disturb you but I thought you were in pain tonight.'

'No.' He moved his head on
the pillow. 'It is tolerable.'

'I should change the
dressing at least.'

'No. Tomorrow will do.' He
pulled her gently towards him so that she was forced to approach, to sit on the
edge of the bed. There he released her wrist to draw his hand in a long caress
down the heavy braid that had fallen forward over her breast. He was aware of
her trembling beneath his touch so kept it light and unthreatening. But he held
his eyes on hers. Hypnotic. Domineering. Refusing to release her.

'Do you need anything, my
lord?'

He shook his head. Then
changed his mind. 'Yes.'

'What is that?'

'
Unbraid
your hair, lady.'

It was such a very simple
request. 'Very well.' She did as he asked, releasing the heavy silk, dragging
her fingers through the shining fall until it curled over her shoulders. 'I
wish it were not so plain,' she lamented, more to herself than to him. 'Dull
mouse!'

'Never. It is lovely. Soft
and lustrous with golden lights. See how it curls round my hands.' He threaded
his fingers through it, lifting the tresses. And then clenched his fist in the
dense mass of it.

'Are you in pain?'

'No.' He released her hair
to lift her hand to his lips and press a kiss to her open palm. 'Lie with me.
Now.'

He heard her breath catch
as she swallowed. Trapped in his gaze, the glitter of dark silver that enclosed
and imprisoned her. A request or a demand? Whichever, she found that she could
not refuse and, if she were honest, did not wish to.

Sensing this, he folded
back the covers with his good arm. Then unwrapped the shawl from her shoulders,
allowing it to drop to the floor. He pulled her carefully into his arms,
settling her on his right side where she could curl against him, head cushioned
against his chest.

'But your shoulder!' she
murmured as she would have resisted.

He grinned, if a trifle
grimly. 'Don't wriggle. You will have to treat me gently.'

She flushed. And her whole
body tensed against him. When he glanced down at her he was aware of her
heightened colour and the renewal of anxiety in her face, even in the shadows.
'Relax, lady. I think I am incapable of doing too much harm to you tonight.
Your bullet has seen to that! I simply need your presence in my bed.'

He needed her! It swept
through her like a torrent. Through all her insecurities, Honoria held on to
that one important thought. 'I am sorry I shot you.'

'So am I!' His dry tone hid
a smile. 'But it is not life-threatening. If that is the worst damage we do to
each other before the war is over, we will be fortunate indeed. Now go to sleep.'

She lay against him, wary
of moving, but conscious of every inch of his body, hard and lean, pressed
against hers. Heat and strength. His arm around her, holding her possessively,
a band of steel. His presence warmly secure and comforting. Even his scent was
now so familiar to her. Her taut muscles gradually relaxed, her pulse gentled,
her breathing deepened as she fell into sleep as easily as a child.

Francis rested his head
against the softness of her hair, moving his shoulder cautiously to find a
better position where the twinges of pain were not so sharp. It was worth the
discomfort to his shoulder—and to his loins—to hold her like this. To feel her
melt into his arms, her senses surrendering to his embrace, betraying the
reluctance of her body. It was a moment to treasure as he deliberately closed
his mind against the terrible scenes that they had chanced upon on the roadside
by Leintwardine, a bare mile from the Manor. A party of travellers, probably
making their journey to Ludlow, waylaid and slaughtered, possessions stripped,
bodies left in the ugly attitudes of violent death. He had not told her, of
course. And would not. It would not be wise to paint too accurate a picture of
conditions outside Brampton Percy. But the images remained fixed in his mind in
terrible clarity, which seemed not to diminish with time or distance. Used to
death, it was the wanton destruction of innocent travellers that had been like
a blow to his gut. And two of them had been defenceless women. Death had been
heartlessly cruel. Without mercy.

He needed the warmth and
closeness of her body against his tonight. To remind him that he was alive—and
so was she—and they had much to live for.

When she awoke it was dawn
and she was still curled against him. She carefully lifted her thigh, which was
inexplicably resting over his. He must have slept well and deeply—he had not
disturbed her at any time through the night. His face was now turned into the
pillow against her hair and she could feel the brush of his warm breath on her
cheek. His right arm was still holding her against his side, though now relaxed
in sleep. Honoria took a moment to enjoy the sensation of warmth and softness.
And resisted the impulse to stretch and
recurl
like a
replete, sun-warmed cat, into his sheltering body.

I
must get up. Now. Before he wakes.
Her one clear thought,
when she had wakened enough to think rather than merely experience. She
suppressed the temptation to turn her head and press her lips to his temple. Or
his hair. Or perhaps the silvery scar along his hairline. Or wherever... But it
would be better if she were not here when he awoke. Conversation would
be...difficult.

Moving carefully, slowly,
to extricate herself from his lax embrace without disturbing him, Honoria
discovered that her chemise was well and truly anchored by his thigh as he had
turned to her
some time
in the dark. She hissed in
momentary frustration. And tugged.

And he awoke. Instantly
alert at the movement beside him. 'What are you doing?' His voice was a sleepy
growl against her neck.

'Getting up.' Why was she
whispering? 'We are expecting the carrier this morning with supplies from
Worcester. The second delivery of gunpowder. I must be up.'

'The carrier can wait.'

'I doubt it. Master Drayton
always manages to find some cause for complaint. Last week it was the surface
of the road and the pot holes between Leominster and Ludlow—as if I personally
were to blame. And I cannot trust him to deliver...' She was still whispering!
She bit her lip in frustration and embarrassment.

Francis stretched
cautiously, testing his shoulder, but did not release her. 'Never mind the
depth of the pot holes. I hope Master Drayton falls in one. My lady...I have a
distinct feeling of events repeating themselves here—or should I say untimely
interruptions.'

Honoria tensed. Why had she
not managed to make good her escape?

'Unfinished business, you
might say.'

'I suppose so.' She risked
a glance at him and wished she had not.

'But this time...' his
gaze, fixed on her, was no longer heavy from sleep '...we will not leave it
unfinished. Lie still. You will not leave this bed until my body has confirmed
the legality of our marriage.'