Hers To Command. Margaret Moore
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made certain he had activities with which to amuse himself and that kept him away from both her and her sister for the past few days, such as hunting and riding about the estate. She’d insisted that he take a guard whenever he rode out. As she’d told him, he was vulnerable to attack, too.
He’d taken no offense, but simply laughed in that appealing way of his. Then he’d said he was pleased she had so much concern for his person.
And she did—too much. He was so handsome and well built, she could hardly stop from staring at him as he sauntered through the hall, or spoke to Giselle or Father Thomas.
Now every night she lay awake, restless and uneasy, and prayed to forget the memory of his body and his smiling face. She prayed for the strength to ignore the lust she couldn’t control, the feelings she thought forever destroyed by her past mistake, only to discover that they rose, strong and almost overwhelming, when she was with Sir Henry, and away from him, too. How could she be tempted when she knew where giving in to desire might lead?
Yet she was tempted. She’d nearly kissed Sir Henry that first night, until the fear and panic had come, overpowering her and making her act like a frightened child.
Sighing, Mathilde went to the arched window and looked into the quiet courtyard. The sentries’ torches burned on the wall walk, little flickers of light in the darkness—darkness that even now might cloak Roald’s progress toward Ecclesford.
Had she done enough to prepare for his eventual arrival?
They had as many soldiers as they could afford and Cerdic had to be a better commander than Martin, who she would have sent away even if he hadn’t immediately declared he wouldn’t take orders from a woman. If her father had been stronger this past year, she would have asked him to select a new garrison commander months ago, but he’d been ill, and she’d thought to spare him any more trouble.
If only he had lived! If only she’d been stronger. If only Roald had not come last year and brought disaster with him.
Rubbing her hands up and down her arms for warmth, she tried not to think about Roald or Sir Henry anymore as she went to pour herself some water in which to bathe her face.
The ewer was empty. No matter. She would get more water from the kitchen.
Opening the door, she peered down the corridor toward her father’s bedchamber, temporarily Sir Henry’s. A torch burned in a sconce on the wall, providing some light, although it was dark near the door to her father’s chamber. To her surprise, a shaft of light spread out from below the door.
Sir Henry was still awake? Or had he fallen asleep with the candle lit? A guest had once set his bedding aflame by leaving a lit candle too close to the bed curtains.
Even so, she was not about to enter that room now, in the dead of night, and with him abed and perhaps… naked. Commanding herself not to think about that, she headed for the stairs leading to the hall.
When she passed the door to the lord’s chamber, a low moan came from within. God help her, did he have a woman with him? Was he as lustful as Roald? Was it Faiga?
As long as he helped them as he’d promised, did it matter if he bedded a servant? Faiga would have gone to him willingly; she’d seen the way the serving woman had looked at Sir Henry. There would be no force or coercion.
Mathilde prepared to continue on her way, until she heard a groan from inside the chamber, as if Sir Henry was in pain.
What if he was sick? What if he had brought some illness to Ecclesford?
What if he had knocked the candle over and the bedclothes had caught fire and the room was filling with smoke—
She put her hand on the latch and opened the door. There was no smoke, and a single lit candle stood upon the table beside the bed, its weak flame wavering. Sir Henry was alone, the sheets twisted around his lower body, his hair damp on his forehead and his naked chest beaded with sweat.
Moaning again, he rolled onto his back, one arm flung across his eyes.
Perhaps he had the ague, with its chills and fever that came and went. Maybe he’d traveled to the south of Europe and contracted it there. She’d heard that sickness could come and go for years.
Or perhaps he was only having troubling dreams. How many times had she awakened from a nightmare to find her shift clinging to her sweat-soaked body?
For the sake of the household, she should find out if he was feverish or not. She would be risking more illness if she didn’t.
She crept slowly, carefully closer. He didn’t make any noise, or move again, so with the same cautious deliberation, she took hold of his wrist and eased his arm away from his forehead before placing her palm lightly there.
No fever, thank God.
Sir Henry’s eyes flew open. He grabbed her wrist in a vicelike grip and sat up abruptly. “Constance!” he cried, staring at her. “Is she safe?”
Mathilde’s heart seemed to stop, then began beating rapidly when she realized that this was not a true awakening. He was still in the hold of his dreams.
“Yes, she’s safe,” Mathilde whispered, wondering who Constance might be as she tried to extricate her wrist from his grasp and push him back down. “Rest now, Sir Henry.”
Instead of relaxing, his grip tightened. He blinked, his eyes coming into focus and she realized he was waking.
She yanked her hand free and turned to run to the door before he found her there.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Henry cried, grabbing her bedrobe to tug her back, nearly pulling it from her body as he tugged her down onto the bed atop him.
Panic seized her, giving her strength as she struggled to get away.
He threw his leg over hers and grabbed hold of her hands, so that they were lying face-to-face on their sides. “I’m not going to hurt you!” he said softly, but firmly. “My lady, I’m not going to hurt you!”
Sir Henry’s words finally penetrated through the grip of her fear. Panting, she stilled, and his face came into focus.
“I assure you, I won’t hurt you,” he said, his gaze intently searching her face.
“Then let me go!”
“Gladly,” he said, releasing her hands and moving his leg.
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