Fire Dance (26 page)

His mouth gaped, for he had not expected her to think of his needs so thoroughly. Mayhap she merely meant to keep him busy.

"Excellent. We are all hungry. The day has been hard."

* * *

Ah, there it was. He'd begun to doubt himself in the last hour. But he should have known she would not fail him. Nay, it did not matter how much she avoided him, nor how much she pretended otherwise, something deep inside her had already come to count on him. In some way, though she might remember none of what transpired, she knew he would be with her in the night when the terrors hit. He smiled to himself as he rose from the bed. This time he would be there before they got such a grip on her.

He pulled the latch and pushed on the door. It seemed stuck. He shoved again, and it gave against his weight, but slowly. Bright girl. She'd pushed her chest against it. But she should have realized that anything she could push there, he could push away. The heavy door yielded, bit by bit. Ah. It was not the chest at all. She had pushed her bed against the door. No matter, as long as it moved. But knowing her cleverness, he decided to watch where he walked.

Good thing. She'd left the chamber pot where he could stumble into it. Fortunately for her, he learned the way her mind worked. He was the one fighting the winning battle.

She cringed high up on the bed, pushing her hands against the mattress, shoving herself back, as if the headboard might give way and let her escape. The little whimper that had awakened him erupted into an ear-splitting scream.

"Come along now, lady, you have nothing to fear anymore. I have come for you. You are safe now."

He didn't know if she heard him. Yet she always seemed to. Though she still trembled and gasped with a whispered torrent of oddly mixed words, she gave no resistance as he lifted her off the bed, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. Her arms found their way about his neck, fiercely clutching.

Again he carried her through the door, and left it ajar. The candle he kept lit for her cast its amber glow from the small table where he had sat it. No matter if she remembered the promise, or not, he did.

First silent, her hurried, urgent whispers began again as soon as she touched the bed. He could not understand the words, yet knew the ordeal was not over for the night. Instead, he sat at the bed's edge, pulled her back into his arms, and cradled her like a child. Soon even the whispers ceased.

"You see, it gets easier, love. I am here, and I will always protect you. Some day, there will be no more dreams."

He eased her down onto the bed and raised the down quilt to cover her before sliding into the warm nest beside her. As he lay on his back, he felt her small hand curl onto his chest, and he drew her closer, to let her head rest in the crook of his arm.

"Tell me, my sweet," he whispered, "that you do not want to be in my arms. You will find me very hard to convince."

But she would be even harder to convince that she did. He would have to tell her some day, and soon, what had happened on their wedding night. He could not tell her now, for she would not be able to understand that he had not taken advantage of her weakness. She probably had not the slightest notion what she was like when she dreamed.

Yet if he waited too long, she might discover it some other way, and would never trust him again. That he would tell her, he had no question. She must be told. It was just a matter of discerning when she was strong enough. And trusted him enough.

* * *

She felt the warmth first. Felt it as something beyond the soothing snugness of the soft quilt. Something male.

There he was again, or rather, there she was. It was her head that rested in the crook of his arm, just as it was her hand running over and through the silky black hairs on his chest. She had already memorized their pattern, a wide band across the top of his chest, coming to the center and down, column-like, between the firm, plated muscles over his ribs. It went down, down–

She jerked upward, suddenly sitting. He was awake, smiling. At what? She nearly fell from the bed in her haste to depart, untangling bed covers as soon as her feet hit the floor. The door between their chambers remained open, and her bed askew. She darted through it and slammed it behind her, recalling now how she had shoved the bed against the door. A futile effort.

She yanked her kirtle over her head, fumbled with its laces, then pulled on the overdress. Her braid had come loose in the night, and her yellow hair cascaded about her shoulders, hanging in awkward snarls. She snatched up her silver comb and attacked a section of it.

When he came in, he also was dressed, although she was quite aware he had worn nothing in bed. She pretended not to see him, and worked away at another section of her hair.

He merely stood and watched.

She could not stand the silence. "Why do you do this to me?" she demanded.

"Do this? You cry out for my help. I must come."

"You need not. No one else comes."

"You have ordered all else away. But I am your husband. I must come. Have no fear, lady. I have not molested you."

"You are not a normal man."

"Oh?" His black eyebrows arched in steep angles over dark eyes. "Is that what you want? You have only to say so. But as long as you are dreaming and cannot wake, that is a different thing."

"I did not say– "

Stop. She was about to betray herself. She diverted herself instead to a snarl near the ends of her long hair.

"You do not remember, do you?"

Her eyes flickered over him before she could stop them. She turned her gaze away from him and began running the comb through the strands she had just untangled.

"If you remembered, you would know that I have already apologized to you for my churlish behavior. But you don't know."

Apology? She froze where she stood.

"I know that you don't, Melisande. And because you do not, I must say it again. You did not deserve the way I treated you on our wedding night."

"You were angry."

"A man should not allow his anger to rule him. I did. And I was not justified. You were very frightened, and I should have seen that and taken it into account. You did not merely mean to spite me. I do not understand your fear, but I do know it is there. You are not merely a frightened, balky bride who simply needs to be tamed and taught. There is far more to this. You will need time to learn you are safe."

"Who else have you told?"

"Chrétien only."

Chrétien. For all she knew, the man might gossip like a woman at the village well. She'd be in a dunking stool or tied to a stake before May Day.

"Do not fear him, lady. He is our ally in this, for he suffers the same malady as you."

"He cannot. He is a brave knight."

"Ah. And you think yourself without courage? You are not. That I know of you, already. But we are all children in our sleep, and subject to a child's fears. Even were it not so, many a brave knight has seen things he would rather forget."

"And Chrétien?"

"He was there, and helpless, to watch his wife and baby daughter tortured to their deaths. I arrived too late to save them. He has lived with this for three years, and only now begins to find some measure of peace."

Sudden moisture filled her eyes. She raised fingers to her mouth and whispered a quick prayer, wishing God would hear her.

"It is not demons, Melisande, whatever is said by the Church. You have horrible memories, as he does. But not demons."

"They speak to me."

"The demons? Indeed. What do they say?"

"They tell me to kill you."

"I am glad you have not heeded them."

"Do not mock me."

"I do not mock you, love. If demons held your soul, they would never allow you to say what you have just said. I think your fears visit you at night, as they do all of us, but you have far more to fear than I."

"You know naught of demons."

"I will not let the demons have you, Melisande."

She jerked at the words, then tried to make it appear she had merely lodged the comb on a tangle. "You presume too much. Some things cannot be changed."

"I will not let the priests have you, either."

"Now you threaten your own soul."

"Then let it be so. I do not stand alone in this. And remember, the priest is mine. He will condemn you no more than he has Chrétien."

She wished she had the courage to tell him the rest. He thought her dreams were the end of her secrets. But it was only the top of many layers. Many, many layers. In the end, he would feel betrayed because she would not tell him. In the end, he would let them have her, or he would kill her, himself. With time, he would turn from her in complete repugnance and repudiate his vow.

"Come, lady, let us go down to chapel."

An odd sort of resignation filled her. Aye. with time he would turn on her. But there might be those small moments still to come, fragments of time with him she could cherish, hold fast in the secret reaches of her heart, against that time when he must do what he must do.

As she stood, she allowed her hand to rest on his arm. She found comfort in him, despite that she had no right to seek it.

What difference, after all, did it make if she did?

CHAPTER 14

Waking up next to him was like waking up in a lion's den with a sudden desire to be eaten.

Melisande sneaked furtive peeks at the huge Norman who walked beside her, his arm linked in hers and holding her hand gently atop his arm. He caught her glance, as he always seemed to do, and laughed.

But she could not stop, all the same. He was compelling. His charcoal eyes, that seemed black as an eagle's in the shadows, midnight blue by firelight, and the color of charcoal in the light of day, seemed always to brim with laughter behind their long, thick fringe of nearly straight black lashes. His lips had a sensuous curve about them that seemed an inseparable part of the deep thunderous roll of mirth that poured forth from him, and of the gravelly whisper of his voice that lured her inescapably to him.

And his body? Was there any part of it she did not long to touch? She was not exactly sure she hadn't.

She could not let him die. This perfect man must not die. Yet even now, he wore that damnable cloak. And even now, it poisoned him. She must find a way to save him.

For all that he wore it constantly, he still seemed strong enough, but that would change quickly if the cloak had its insidious way. Although he did not mention them, she could tell the headaches were becoming more than an occasional nuisance. She saw the minute squeezing of his eyes beneath his frown, and the odd blinking to clear vision that had momentarily blurred. And she saw the trembling that came to his hands, although he tried to hide it. If not stopped, the men would soon question his fitness. And they would be right to do so, for his mind would next become confused. That would probably be too late.

His skin had not yet yellowed and he had no difficulties eating. For her mother, those things had come last, before she weakened and died. That still gave her hope.

And he was a very big man. That would work in his favor, would it not? Would it not require a higher dose of the poison to kill him? And the way he wore the cloak, more often than not over his hauberk, surely would lessen the contact with his skin. And his habit of wearing leather gauntlets must help.