Wicked (38 page)

His look was so intense, so filled with want for her that she almost melted there, but before she could say anything, before she could even think, he ripped her shift, still watching her face.

He looked down and she followed his gaze, saw that he had untied his chausses. Then he looked her straight in the eyes, his gaze showing her nothing but the blue fire of a passion so strong it threatened to send them both up in flames.

He pressed his body against hers, pinning her against the wall again with his sheer strength and muscle, with all the hardness that made him a man. He jerked her legs up and out, wide, then lowered his leg and thrust deeply and hard inside her.

She stared up at him, pinioned against the wall by him. She shook her head, letting him know she was as much a part of this as he was, then she clamped her legs around his hips, locked her feet, grabbed his head and jerked it down, kissing him with everything she had.

A moment later they took each other against the tower wall.

Tobin awoke and reached
out to his wife, but the bed was empty. He pushed himself up on one arm and scanned the room. It was dark on the west side of the room; the fire had dwindled, and they’d put out the candles so much earlier. The chairs and chests around the room were little more than huge dark shadows and nowhere was the silhouette of his wife. So he looked eastward.

She was standing by a window, tall and sleek, her face in profile, one hand braced on the stone ledge, and the other on the casement. She rested her head against it and was gazing outside. It looked as if she had donned her robe in a hurry, for it was loosely tied and gaped open slightly.

He turned on his side and just watched her standing there. There were more and more moments like this as the days and weeks went on, moments when he would look at her, when she did not know she was being watched, so she was at ease.

Each and every time he was overcome with something that almost felt like wonder, but stronger than that, so strong he had no word for it. She was his wife, and whenever he looked at her, like he was now, he remembered that they had a whole lifetime together.

Odd how he had so quickly noticed things like the cadence of her breath, the small mole near her right ear, the way she always rubbed her feet together over and over, slowly, until she finally fell asleep.

Every day with her was like a new day, where you were in a strange land full of things to discover. And with that thought something truly odd happened to him. He was struck with the need to know her in ways he never had needed to know another human being.

He wanted to breathe her. He wanted to hold her, to never let her go. He wanted to fill her with his children and watch them grow up with her by his side, every night, every day, forever and after.

And every night, God . . . every night was something so far beyond just being inside of a woman. It wasn’t just the act of loving, the way he joined with her. It wasn’t just something to relieve the stress of the day or to make him feel good and sleep more soundly. It was more. So much more that if he thought about it too long it scared the hell out of him.

He stayed that way for a moment, taking slow deep breaths, time moving in whispers of moments where all he did was look at nothing but the sheet under him, because he could not look at her any longer without feeling he was lost.

Finally he raised his head. She had shifted slightly, enough so he could see the outline of a rounded breast as it caught some strange and flickering amber light that came in the window. It amazed him the way her skin, that incredible white skin, drank in the color of the light around her. He looked past her toward that light. It was a faint glow in the night sky, beyond her profile, golden, red. He realized it was probably from Bonfire Night, when the hills would be filled with bonfires, burning in celebration of the last harvest and to cleanse the fields for the spring crops.

He threw back the coverlet and swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked naked to stand behind her.

“I did not mean to wake you.” Her voice was soft and weak as if it were difficult for her to speak.

He felt her vulnerability, such a rare thing, for she did not show her vulnerable side often.

He slid his arms around her and pulled her back against him, slid his hand inside her robe to cup her breast, to feel the weight of it in his hand. He leaned into her and took in her scent. She smelled like woman, his woman. He pressed his lips to her neck, then pulled his face back. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, but he felt her stiffen.

“Tell me what you are thinking.”

She looked down as if trying to make a decision, then she sighed and crossed her arms over his hands, resting her hands on his hands, her palms chilled from the cold stones.

“Whenever I see bonfires I think of my mother. I can still remember how the villagers burned mourning bonfires for her every evening for months and months. There were times when I thought the skies would never, ever be blue again.” She paused. “Even now, when I smell the smoke from a bonfire I feel myself stiffen. It’s almost as if I am the one who died.” She rested her head back against his shoulder.

He pressed a kiss to her temple.

“I think the scent of those fires must have awakened me.

“Do you want to come back to bed? To try to get some sleep?”

She shook her head. “I am not tired. Odd, isn’t it?”

“Nay. ’Tis not. For I find I do not want to sleep either, at least not without you there. I will stand here, sweet, with you in my arms, until the fires fade and your memories and the pain they cause are gone.”

She closed her eyes and sighed, relaxing easily against his body. Her hands moved in circles over his.

They stood there, just the two of them, a man and his wife, watching, being together, holding each other, until the fires in the hillsides were all gone and the skies dawned gray instead of blue.

Chapter 32

Winter rode in with a blast of ice and snow that year. The hoarfrost started shortly after Bonfire Night, making mornings white and crisp, and the stone floors so cold that on many days you dressed in bed, under the coverlet where your body warmth still lingered.

Icy winds and the cold snapping air continued until December, which came in all white. It snowed at least three times a week right up until Christmas Day and the boar’s head feast attended by many guests and noblemen, including the King and the Queen, who had plans to stay with their friends the earl and his lady for the first five days of Christmas, and then move south to Caernarvon.

The men all rode out of Camrose early that morn, with a hunting party that was gregarious and full of sport, because of the huge numbers that made up a royal hunt. They moved into the woods beyond the road, an enormous Welsh forest filled with wild boar, hart and hare, the kind of hunting grounds that any men of sport would find challenging.

Due to the size, the party split into smaller groups. Some went after boar and others after hart. Tobin was bringing up the rear of Earl Merrick’s party, when he heard something behind him. He reined in and turned, then spotted a huge boar with tusks that would make the most handsome of trophies.

The beast disappeared with a snort.

He wheeled his mount around and beat through the brush until he found a trail, paw marks left by some of the hunt dogs that must have caught the boar’s scent. He rode down into a ravine, where his mount slipped and skidded and almost threw him from his seat.

He reached the bottom. There was an icy brook that trickled through the snow. He looked around him; it was thick with trees and there was little room for trails or his horse. He dismounted, tied his reins to a low branch and followed the dog tracks in the hard-packed snow.

The bushes and trees grew densely here; it was dark and he moved with his sword drawn and ready. He could hear something ahead, not far, a rustling in the bushes, the crunch of a hoof in the snow. He sidled through the trees and moved with quiet and stealth.

He could see the bushes ahead of him shake. He heard the snort of a boar.

Sweet success! He moved in for the kill. Paused near a tall tree, the he leapt into a small clearing.

A huge dark-skinned boar with tusks over a foot long lay on its side, snorting, downed already.

Tobin saw his mistake.

No dogs here.

Instead, he looked into the reddish gold eyes of a vicious wolfpack. The wolves stood like men-at-arms around the whole clearing, their teeth long and bared from the taste of blood. Their eyes flicked nervously from the boar to Tobin.

He froze. Dared not move.

One of the wolves growled, low and mean.

A second later they turned away from the boar and attacked.

Sofia and Clio spent
the morning hours in the kitchens adjacent to the gardens, where they were molding clay boxes for St. Stephen’s Day. ’Twas an important part of the Twelve Days of Christmas, for this was the specific day when the lord and lady gave gifts of money and cloth, white flour and blocks of Cyprus sugar to the villeins and servants of Camrose and all of the surrounding villages.

The work had been going on for days, by Clio, Sofia and some of the other noblewomen, even Eleanor and the Poleaxes were among those who had given a hand, for it would never do that the servants made their own hard boxes, which were meant to be broken open at the perfect moment—the celebration that night, after which they would choose the Lord of Misrule.

Sofia finished with the last clay box and washed and dried her hands on one of the cook’s aprons. She left the hall with Clio’s blessing and ran through the hallways and out into the bailey on her way to her chamber, so she could bathe and get ready for that evening.

’Twas one of Sofia’s favorite times of the year. She found that now, she even liked the snow. She picked up a handful of it and packed it into a snowball, tossing it lightly and trying to decide what she would use for a target.

The huntsmen’s horn sounded over and over, loud and shrill at the gates. She turned and frowned, for the men were back early and the horn was still blaring. Suddenly the guards on the walls were running and shouting. Servants came out from buildings and the thunder of horses’ hooves clattered over the drawbridge and into the bailey.

Sofia moved back and stood there, trying to see through a hundred or more riders.

Earl Merrick was shouting orders.

Someone was hurt.

Sofia stepped up another step and tried to see, but could see nothing but a sea of riders.

With a clatter Clio burst from the kitchens and stood there talking with a squire. ’Twas one of the twins, Thud or Thwack, she could not tell. Clio turned and looked at Sofia with the oddest expression.

Sofia’s belly sank. She turned toward the men.

Merrick broke through the other riders, pulling the reins of another mount, one with a man slumped over the saddle, his back and arm so covered with blood that you could not see the cloth or his skin.

For just the shock of the moment, Sofia was unable to recognize what she was seeing, then she screamed her husband’s name.

Sofia stood near the
bed, feeling helpless and out of place because there were so many people still inside their bedchamber. She cast a quick glance at the calibrated candle in the stanchion. She’d felt this way for almost two hours, because that was how long ago Merrick, along with Tobin’s man, Parcin, had carried him inside, laid him on a trestle table in the hall belowstairs, and began to wash and tend his wounds.

Merrick told her Tobin was attacked by a pack of wolves, hungry from the hard and early winter they were having.

His body looked simply horrid, as if there were nothing on his right side that was not torn and bleeding. Even his face had deep scratches and was streaked with so much dried blood she could not tell for certain if he had wounds there or not.

She knew her hands were shaking, so she clutched them tightly, as if she were praying, her fingers threaded together. But that only served to remind her of how Tobin always threaded his hand with hers, ever since their wedding day. And every time he had her heart had picked up a beat.

So she stood there, wondering if he would ever hold her hand again, watching and waiting, trying to look, but hating what she saw.

She had to take slow, deep breaths to keep her head from turning light and her eyes from blacking out. Clio handed her some wine and made her drink, then stood with her, her arm around her, consoling her until Sofia was able to move close enough to see his face.

Even then, all Sofia could do was stand beside his dark head, her hand on his brow. She hoped he knew she was there with him. His right arm, his sword arm, was full of puncture wounds and rips in his skin and flesh. At one spot, near the elbow, the bone showed through, until they washed it with witch hazel and vinegar and sewed the wound closed.

Tobin had tossed and turned and she knew he was in deep pain, but finally they had used a sponge soaked in juice from foxglove and poppy, a remedy that was supposed to make him sleep and not feel the pain as terribly. She watched and saw that Tobin had slept after they moistened the sponge and placed it over his nose and mouth.

Now they were all in the bedchamber and her husband lay on the coverlet, bandaged and washed and still sleeping. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited for him to awaken.

Finally Merrick and Edward escorted everyone out of the room, even Eleanor and the Poleaxes, who had stitched Tobin’s wounds.

Merrick crossed over to her. He slipped his arm around her. “He will be fine, Sofia. It looks much worse than I think it is.”

“Aye, Cousin!” Edward said. “I have seen men on the battlefield lose their arms and half their legs and live.”

Sofia winced and stared at her cousin. That was supposed to make her feel better?

“We shall bid you goodnight, Sofia,” Merrick said tactfully. “Tobin will sleep for most of the night. Should he awake or need anything, there will be a servant outside the door. Just let him know.”