The Knight's Bride. Lyn Stone
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pleasure in the meal seemed almost wicked in its intensity. Little groaning noises of pleasure escaped his throat as it worked to swallow with gulps the steamed turnips. She looked away to hide her reaction.
Honor heard the slurping of ale go on as though he never meant to stop. The tankard thumped down on the table accompanied with a tremendous belch. “God, ’tis good brew, that!” he exclaimed.
She ventured a sidewise look and saw him rubbing his flat stomach with both hands. “Just how long since you last ate, sir?”
He grinned and pushed away from the table. “Like this? Oh, nigh on a year. Not since I left Malaig. Afore that, I canna say. On the march, we made do wi’ oats, most times dry when we couldna light fires to heat water. Some small game, half-cooked and wi’ no salt. Grubbed up wild tatties when we found ‘em. Picked a few greens here and there. Fish when we could tickle ’em out.
“Ahh,” he crooned, stretching one arm full length above his head. “Nothing like a full belly! I’m for bed an it please ye, lass. Sore tired, I am.”
He rose and held out a grease-filmed hand.
Honor took it gingerly. “Your bath awaits, husband.”
He threw his head back, affronted. “I had a bath this day!”
“You need another!” Honor retorted, risking his wrath. “You reek like—”
“Soldier?” he offered with a wry twist of his lips. He plucked at the surcoat. “Aye, ’tis this garb here. English. The gambeson was a bit gamey when I donned it, I will admit.”
Honor snapped her mouth shut and appraised what he wore with a careful eye. “English?”
He nodded, wrinkling his nose. “Took at Bannockburn. ‘Twas this,” he ran a hand down the front of his chest, “or m’ breacan. That’s still wet from th’ wash I gave it in the burn.”
“Come,” she ordered, feeling much like a mother with an errant child in tow. “We’ll see you to rights.”
Aside to Nanette who stood waiting, she instructed, “Unload his packs and have all the clothing cleaned.” Then she called to Tate, the priest’s assistant. “You, come and help Sir Alan off with his hauberk. Sand scrub it and dry it well so it does not rust.” To Father Dennis, she bade good-night and tugged her new husband into the solar.
So far, so good, Honor thought with satisfaction. He followed her suggestions like an overgrown lamb. Would he always be so docile? Dare she push him further? Not tonight, she decided. Tomorrow would prove the true test. When he had rested and realized that he, by law, ruled where he roosted, she would know the full extent of her folly.
For safety’s sake, Honor allowed Tate to complete the knight’s disrobing and get him settled in the tub of steaming water. Meanwhile, she retired behind her dressing screen to ready herself for bed. When the splashing stopped, she reappeared wearing her long woolen robe. He was asleep in the tub, his knees drawn up to his chin and his wet head lolling forward.
She ventured a soft prod to one heavily muscled shoulder. “Sir? Sir Alan? Wake up. You cannot sleep in the bath. The water cools. Come now!” She poked again, this time harder.
“Hmmph,” he grunted, sitting bolt upright and sloshing water over the edge. “Och, sorry, lass! Stand away.” Hefting himself to his feet, he stepped out and fumbled for the toweling draped over the stool.
Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to force her eyes away from the massive body that looked twice as large unclothed. Smooth sun-browned skin reached to just below his waist. Resuming downward at knee level to include his huge, well-shaped feet. His nether cheeks gleamed almost white, as did the muscled thighs, which were dusted with golden hair.
Honor thanked God he was turned away from her. If he proved anywhere near as generously proportioned in front, she was not ready for a glimpse of that! A shiver of apprehension rippled through her middle.
With an industry to make any housewife proud, Honor busied herself turning back the coverlet and shaping the pillows. Anything to keep her eyes from straying near the bath.
“I’ll take th’ floor,” he said, so near her shoulder, she jumped with fright.
“No, do not!” she shrieked before she could stop herself. The words were meant to stop his advance, but he obviously misconstrued.
“All right, then,” he said. “If ye insist. I only thought ’twould make ye a mite shivery to sleep beside me.”
Still not daring to look at him, Honor heard the rustle of the mattress stuffing as he climbed into bed. She finally ventured a peek and saw about a third of the wide bed vacant and waiting. His strong back glistened with droplets of bathwater.
What should she do? Take to the floor herself? Were she more spritely and not heavy with child, she might. But there was nothing to sleep upon unless she rolled up in her robe and lay on the hard wooden boards. The cold window seat boasted only a few thin cushions. Where would she rest?
Soft, intermittent snores drifted up from the pillow, drawing her attention to the man in her bed. Honor quirked a brow. He appeared harmless enough for now. All she had to do was lie down and then wake before he did. He would never even know she was there, fatigued as he was. Gingerly, Honor stretched out beside him, carefully not touching.
After a few tense moments, she relaxed. What an exhausting day. But sleep eluded her as she reviewed the happenings. First Ian Gray had ridden up to her walls and offered—insisted, rather—on giving her his protection. His unruly gaggle of reivers frightened half the occupants of the keep into hiding and the rest to gathering makeshift weapons.
Honor had paid no mind when Gray loudly expressed his desire to wed her. She had called down that she already had a husband. Her men issued a shower of arrows over the visitors and cut short his next exchange. No marksmen, her small troop of defenders, but their hail of missiles pricked some few. Thusly treated, and probably given the lateness of the afternoon, Gray rode off, laughing and shouting promises to return anon. His keep, Dunniegray, lay nearby. She knew that from questioning her men.
Honor had to wonder now whether Ian Gray came because he had known she was already a widow. It stood to reason he did know it, else why would he have come here offering marriage?
Honor had barely seen the last of his men disappear into the wood when this rackety knight rode in with the shocking orders from Tavish and the king.
As wedding days went, this one left a lot to be desired. But it could have been worse, she admitted. Much worse. Ian Gray probably would not have been so kind as Alan of Strode in announcing her loss of Tavish. Or in waiting on a consummation.
She balked at the very thought of a marriage to the deranged Ian Gray. The man laughed and thumbed his nose at everything, even the threat of death! Sir Alan might not be the deepest of thinkers, given his rather amusing confession tonight. But at the very least, he did seem capable of an occasional serious thought.
Honor stole a glance at the broad back not half an arm’s length from her face. Light from the single bedside candle threw dancing shadows across the tanned expanse left uncovered by the sheet. The muscles, even in repose, appeared formidable. His skin, still damp, gleamed bronze like a statue after a soft rain.
An absurd longing to touch it proved almost irresistible. She closed her eyes against the impulse. What a foolish thought, prodding a sleeping giant. Still, against her will, her hand stole out and the pads of her fingertips pressed lightly against his shoulder blade.
Warmth suffused her as she allowed her palm to rest flat against the indentation of his spine. How different he was from Tavish, the only other man whose body she had ever willingly touched. The skin felt smoother, more finely grained, not downed and lightly freckled as Tavish’s had been. The padding over these bones felt solid, dense, in no way soft. Honor flexed her hand.
Huge muscles quivered, tensed, and then moved like flash lightning.
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