Malia Martin (7 page)

His head only dipped further. She knew that he probably did not completely understand her, and suddenly she wanted more than anything else in the world to protect this good-hearted, golden man.

That strange thought gave her pause for a long moment. But then a memory came, a good memory. Her mother stroking her hair, kissing her temple, crooning words of love. Without thinking, Aleene stroked Cyne’s hair again. “It will be all right, Cyne. You are safe now.” She kissed his temple, tentatively at first, and then when the warmth of his skin caressed her lips, she kissed him again. “You will never be in need again. I will feed you, clothe you.” She kissed his cheek. “Never again will you need to be dirty, need to go into someone else’s forest and steal food.” She kissed the side of his mouth. “You can spend your days playing with the children, and,” she kissed the corner where his lips met, “showing me flowers in the weeds.” She smiled and kissed him again. “I will try not to run from it.”

The words that came from her own mouth shocked her. She hadn’t voiced her deepest thoughts in a very long while. But, really, what harm could come of it? Her husband could not tell others her thoughts, he probably did not understand them completely himself. She kissed him again, a tantalizing new feeling of freedom putting wings on her heart,

She wasn’t sure if Cyne turned his head, or if she did it on her own, but suddenly she found herself kissing her husband’s mouth. And for a few precious moments, nothing came to her mind but a sense of comfort and lightness. Her husband’s soft, full lips fit against hers perfectly. She could smell the ale on his breath, taste it and him. His taste finally broke through the comfort and made her feel something else. Something not completely horrible, only different and, as a result, scary.

As if he sensed her fear, his arms went around her, and he pulled her close against him.

He was everywhere. Against her breast, she felt the breadth of his chest, against her thigh she felt the strength of his. He consumed every sense; she could hear him breathing, smell the leather of his tunic, the light fennel on his breath, and another purely male, purely warm scent emanating from his skin. Low in her belly, she felt as if butterflies moved slightly, rippling in the stillness of her body. It was a wholly new feeling that terrified yet excited her.

She tried to focus on the conflicting feelings and with focus came realization. She was not repelled by this man’s intimate touch. Slowly, experimentally, she relaxed against him, waiting, still, for disgust to swamp her, for her body to recoil. But no such thing happened. Instead, she found herself enjoying the feel of his lips against hers, the pleasure of his arms around her, holding her as none had before.

She moved her lips against his, wanting to experiment more, feel more. Gripping his arms, she felt the hard muscles flex beneath her fingers and came away from her husband’s mouth, only a small space away, so that they still shared breath. She could see his eyes, hazy, unfocused. She licked her lips, tasting where his had been, and his eyes went there also.

He leaned into her, slowly, his gaze where her tongue had been. She held her breath, holding tightly to his arms, then nearly crumpling as her husband put his own tongue to where hers had just been.

Cyne tightened his arms around her and licked again. With boyish expectancy, he pushed further, breaching her lips with his tongue, touching places only she had touched. She felt him first against her teeth, soft, thrilling, probing slowly, bringing a whole new feeling to their kiss, deepening it, making it something wild rather than gentle.

And then as one they leaned back, lying together on the bed, never interrupting the joining of their lips. And a tiny slice of fear slivered through her. He seemed suddenly to be whole, a masterful, complete man with all of his faculties. Remembering the small moment when she believed she had seen something more than confusion in his eyes that evening, Aleene stiffened and pulled away, peering through the darkness, needing to see his eyes, the vacancy there. Needing desperately to know that he was like no other. That he would not hurt her.

In the blackness she could see nothing, only feel his strength against her and realize that her fingers trembled and something inside of her yearned for his lips against hers once more. And yet she hesitated, hearing only his harsh ragged breathing in the silence.

He waited also, his arms unmoving around her. And then he lowered his head and put it against her breast, just laid it there, moving his arms so they circled her waist. Unsure, a bit afraid, she put her own arms around his neck, holding him against her.

As the night deepened, Cyne’s breathing followed, finally lengthening into the rhythm of sleep. Only then did Aleene relax, smoothing her hands through her husband’s hair. She enjoyed doing that. It soothed her, released the smell of her own soap from his long, gleaming locks. And when she slept, her dreams were the same golden color as her husband’s hair.

She awoke still wrapped in Cyne’s arms. In the quiet of the morning, she lay very still, waiting. She knew when he stirred awake. He too, though, did not move immediately. Together they lay, awake, intertwined. When a light rap came at the door, Aleene jumped, holding tightly for a moment to her husband’s arm, not wanting to give up the rare peace that had settled in her heart.

“Milady?” Berthilde opened the door, and Aleene shut her eyes to the intrusion.

“I will not need you this morning, Berthilde.”

“Milady, I must speak with ye. ’Tis very important.”

Finally, she untangled her body from her husband’s and sat up. “Yes, Berthilde.”

The old maid came further into the room. “I . . .” She wrung her hands before her, flicking a glance at Cyne, who still lay on the bed. “I heard Aethregard last night speaking with his man Ulf.”

“Ulf? The big one?”

“Yes, milady, the one with mean eyes.”

With a deep sigh, Aleene stood, smoothing her hands down her gown and only then realizing that she had slept fully clothed. “What was said, Berthilde, between Aethregard and Ulf that has upset you?”

“They plan harm for your husband, milady.”

Aleene jerked her head up. “Harm?”

“Aethregard wishes for Lord Cynewulf to suffer an accident.” The maid shot a frightened look at Cyne. “He cannot protect himself, and ye have left him alone for the past few
days.” She looked back at Aleene. “I fear for your husband, milady.”

Aleene glanced at her husband. He had not moved from his curled position on the bed. “I will take care of this, Berthilde.” She dismissed the woman with a flick of her hand.

The maid hesitated, looked as if she might say something more, then with a shake of her head she turned.

“Berthilde.” Aleene stopped her impulsively.

She turned. “Yes, milady.”

“Thank you.”

Berthilde stared at her for a moment, then slowly smiled. Aleene realized it had been a very long time since she had seen her old maid smile.

“Of course, milady.” Berthilde turned to leave, then stopped again. “Oh, milady, Cuthebert wishes to speak with you this morning. Some of the tenants are worried about harvest.”

“Tell him I will see him after I break my fast, Berthilde.”

“Yes, milady.” With another tentative glance at Cyne, the maid left.

“Well, you shall have to stay at my side this day, husband mine.” Aleene turned to smile at her husband. His own answering smile outshone the sunbeams gleaming through her small bedroom window. A real answering of warmth glowed in his eyes and with a jolt she realized that she had never smiled at him before.

It seemed that the small offering energized him, for he bounded off the bed, gave her a clumsy, childlike hug, and beamed at her again.

She laughed, a true happy sound. Then she stood shocked that she had remembered how. Finally, a touch of self-consciousness made her move away from her husband. Taking up her brush, she went to her small looking glass and worked at the snarls that tangled her hair. “You must stay close, today, Cyne. Do not wander, and do not go near Aethregard or any of the other men in the castle.” The brush snared in her hair, and she yanked harder to free it, wincing as it pulled at her scalp.

Her husband’s hands covered hers. She jumped and the brush dropped to the rushes between them. Cyne bent quickly and retrieved it, pulling herbs from its boar’s hair bristles and releasing a heady fresh scent from the worn rushes as he straightened beside her. He spent a few more moments cleaning the brush, then cocked his head at her.

“Th . . . thank you,” Aleene said, reaching for the brush, but her husband did not release it. Instead he reached out and fingered a strand of her hair, then moved closer to her and began to do the task he had just interrupted.

In the wavy looking glass, Aleene could just make out her husband’s form behind her as he carefully fingered her hair, then gently pulled the brush through. Aleene stood stiffly for a moment, chewing on her lip and wondering if she should protest. Cyne continued his careful ministrations over her hair, though, and she slowly relaxed her shoulders. Closing her eyes, she allowed Cyne to continue his work. Berthilde often did this for her in the morning, only then she stood rigid, hating the feeling of being at someone’s mercy, uncomfortable with the closeness of another human.

But she had slept with the man behind her, his head upon her breast. It seemed silly now to be uncomfortable with his nearness. So she banished her reluctance and reveled in the feel of her husband’s fingers against her scalp, in her hair, against the nape of her neck. His fingers strong, yet gentle and warm, so warm. Tipping her chin up, Aleene sighed and relaxed, weaving a bit on her feet. She felt her husband’s chest against her back, then
his lips against her hair, and she smiled. This would work. It would.

Cyne only knew childlike obedience. The innocence that had so struck fear into her heart a few days before in the garden now proffered freedom to her. With her husband, she could let go of the fear, knowing that he could not hurt her. Knowing that he would never, ever control her, or even try.

And, in no way was this man repugnant to her. She would be able to consummate her marriage, get an heir. Filling her lungs with the cool dew of the morning air, Aleene turned and smiled at Cyne, then went to her trunk and removed one of her veils. She placed it carefully over her hair then used her mother’s gold circlet to hold it there.

Her husband had also slept in the clothes he had worn to supper. She straightened his tunic, brushing at a tuft of lint and realizing, again, the breadth of her husband’s chest. Her hand came back trembling slightly, but she straightened her shoulders.

“Come, Cyne,” she said as she left the room, smiling again as she heard her husband follow. He kneeled silently next to her as she said her prayers in the chapel, then mimicked her again as she washed her hands when they finally sat at the table in the great hall. When he ate his cheese slowly, methodically, and took great care to leave his trencher intact, Aleene realized with a start that she need not force herself to sound as a warrior commanding his troops when she spoke to Cyne. Her husband would follow her to his death. He knew no other course than to follow.

That thought brought a burden of shadow to her light mood. Yes, Cyne gave her a long-forgotten bit of freedom, but he also weighed down her responsibilities. As she watched him, though, his beautiful, blond hair falling against his cheek as he leaned towards his food, Aleene knew that she wanted that responsibility, yearned for it, really. Beside her sat the only person in her life she did not have to fear or mistrust.

She kept Cyne at her side when she went to Cuthebert to speak of her people’s fears. Her husband fingered the rolled parchments in her steward’s chamber, running his hands over the few rare books with a touch of awe. Aleene watched him, barely able to keep her attention on Cuthebert’s words.

“Milady?”

“Hm?” Wrenching her gaze from her scrutiny of Cyne’s jawline, Aleene returned it to her steward’s hunched form.

He arched a brow with just a touch of menace. “Milady, the harvest?”

“Oh, yes.” Shaking her head, Aleene tried to concentrate. “The harvest.”

“Most of the men are gone, giving their time to the Fyrd, and we must begin the harvest.”

“The king has promised they may return on the Nativity of St. Mary, Cuthebert, which is only a few days away. By then we may be assured Duke William will not attempt a channel crossing.”

“Still, we may not see them for another week as they make their way home. Meanwhile, their crops, and ours, sit ripening in the fields.” Cuthebert frowned at Cyne, then pulled a much-treasured tome from his lord’s hands.

“The fields will keep for another few days.” Aleene scowled at Cuthebert, taking the book from him and returning it to Cyne. “Assure the people that our men will be returning home within the next week. And when they do, I will personally make sure that every family brings in their harvest.”

“That is quite a promise, milady.” She hated the derision she could hear in her steward’s voice, but she knew the only way she was going to wipe it from his tone was to keep her
promises to her people, without the help of Aethregard.

Aleene sent an icy look down her nose at Cuthebert. “I have given my word. Pevensey will not go hungry this winter.”

Cuthebert averted his gaze and watched Cyne from under heavy brows. “And if the people do not believe even your promise?”

Aleene narrowed her eyes on the small man in front of her. “They have no reason to doubt it. I have never done anything to give them leave not to believe me.”

Cuthebert finally met her gaze full on, his thin lip curling into a sneer. “This castle is without a lord; the people are nervous.”

“This castle has a lord now,” she snapped, gesturing toward the blank-faced man at her side. “They would do well to remember it.”

Her steward settled a disgusted gaze on her husband. “Time will tell,” he finally said.

A tremor shook Aleene’s hand, but she clenched her skirts within her grasp to hide it. Would she ever find favor in the eyes of her people? Aleene took a deep breath, then smoothed her hands down the front of her kirtle. “I thank you, Cuthebert, for keeping me informed of the people’s worries.”