Tallie's Knight (20 page)

“And now we sleep,”
he said, blowing out the candle and turning on his side. He pulled her against
him, holding her around the waist.

Despite her recent
experience, and the knowledge that she loved him, Tallie still felt odd, being
naked in bed with him —with all that bare skin.

“Shouldn’t I put on
my nightgown?”

He pulled her tighter
against him and stroked a hand up over her hip, briefly cupping her breast.

“You won’t get cold,”
he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “Now hush, and try to sleep.”

Tallie closed her
eyes, and soon she heard the slow, deep breathing that told her Magnus was
asleep. She sighed, feeling unaccountably miserable all of a sudden. A slow,
solitary tear slipped down her cheek, then another.

“Six months?” Tallie’s
voice rose with surprise. “In Paris?”

Magnus nodded.

“Unless, of course,
you find yourself in a delicate condition before then.”

Tallie blushed. She
knew now what he meant by ‘a delicate condition’. The possibility she might be
carrying his child made her heart beat faster. But it also made things even
more urgent. She had to get to Italy before she became enceinte.

“I don’t want to
spend six months in Paris.”

Magnus poke red up
and looked down his nose, the way he usually did when she questioned his decisions.

“I think you’ll find
six months is not long enough —or is that what you mean?”

“No, not at all,”
Tallie said.

“Six months is far
too long. If we stay in Paris for such a long time, it will be near winter, and
we shan’t be able to cross the Alps into Italy until next year.”

“Cross the Alps?” His
dark brows rose.

She nodded
vigorously.

“Yes. I have heard so
many tales of crossing the Alps. It sounds monstrous exciting and I am most
eager to do it. And to reach Italy.” Her voice tailed off and she diffidently
twirled the wine glass in front of her.

“My parents’ graves
are in Italy,” she said, not looking at him.

Magnus stared at her
for a moment. It was the first time she’d mentioned her parents.

“How old were you
when they died?”

“Eleven, almost twelve.”

“And how did they
die?”

She hesitated for a
long moment, toying with the apricot pastry in front of her.

“I am not entirely
sure,” she said at last. “I think there was a coach accident.”

He frowned.

“You think?”

She nodded, pressed a
crumb of sweet pastry onto her finger and transferred it to her mouth.

“The stories
conflict. The official notification said their coach overturned and both my
parents died immediately, but then I received a letter from someone who knew
Mama which suggested that Mama died before Papa… and not from her injuries in
the accident.” Tallie licked the grains of sugar which clung to her fingertips.

“What do you mean?”
Magnus frowned, watching her.

She shrugged.

“I know no more than
that. But it is why I wish so much to go to Italy. I would like to see their
graves.” There was a lot more to it, but she did not wish to explain it to him.
Not with him being so cool, and frowning as he was. As he had been since they
had left Boulogne.

Tallie sighed.

It had been almost a
sennight since that momentous night, and he had been so cold and distant and
abrupt with her that she could almost believe it had been a dream. Except that
her body told her it wasn’t.

Despite the initial
soreness and stiffness, her body still sang with the memory of how it had felt
to have him hold her and caress her and possess her. She knew the difference
now between dreams and reality.

But he had not shared
her bed since. Nor had he so much as touched her, except to help her into the
coach and such things, and even then he drew back his hand afterwards, as if
she was hot metal. And when he spoke to her it was in such a formal manner he
might well have been addressing the House of Lords, she thought despairingly.

She had, indeed,
married an Icicle.

Magnus watched the changing
expressions flit over her countenance and frowned again. It was not going at
all as he had planned. His desire for his wife’s body had not been slaked by
that one night in Boulogne —it had only whetted his appetite for more. He’d
watched her licking the sugar off her small pink fingers and felt more than
ever like a rampant green youth.

But it was not to be
thought of, he told himself sternly. She’d been an untried innocent and was not
yet healed —he could tell by the way she tensed up when he came close to her.
He would wait until they reached Paris before he shared her bed again. It was
the only decent thing to do.

And besides, he had
no intention of allowing himself to fall in thrall to a woman’s charms. Down
that path lay disaster. He’d seen it before —his father and a dozen others,
dancing to a woman’s tune, helpless in the face of feminine betrayal. A few
sparkling grains of sugar clung to her lips. Magnus refused to notice them.

“We shall reach Paris
on the morrow,” he announced, rising from the table. “We shall depart this inn
at first light, so you had best retire early. I bid you goodnight, madam.” He
bowed.

Madam. Tallie rose, a
lump in her throat at his cool indifference. In a husky voice she murmured
goodnight and left the private parlour.

“Tallie.”

She turned on the
stairs, a tiny surge of hope rising in her at his voice.

“You will like Paris,
I know,” said Magnus from the doorway. “For a start, you will have a great many
fine new gowns and hats and so on. Neither the Terror nor the war has managed
to extinguish Paris’s reputation for modishness.”

“Oh. Yes,” she
murmured dully. “I suppose not.”

“Think of it —gowns
of silk, satin and lace… day gowns, evening gowns… the finest that money can
buy.”

She stared down at
him in silence.

“And gloves,
slippers, French perfume. And balls and routs and glittering assemblies —you
will enjoy it very much,” he insisted, frowning.

“Yes, my lord, if you
say so.” She turned and mounted the stairs to her chamber.

Curse the woman! What
was the matter with her? Magnus watched her go, watched the sway of her hips
under the dreary gown she wore. She was dressed like the veriest drab and he
had promised her the finest gowns money could buy. So why could she not offer
him at least a smile? Any one of the mistresses he had kept in the past would
have shrieked with delight and flung her arms around his neck at such an offer.
She —his wife— had responded with a dutiful murmur of obedience!

Damn it! He would
never understand women! Here he was, allowing himself to be dragged off to
foreign parts for her benefit, enduring bad roads, poor accommodation and
hard-mouthed horses for her benefit, opening his purse for her benefit and —not
least of all— restraining his desires for her benefit!

And was she grateful?
Not in the least! Swearing, Magnus took himself off to his cold, empty chamber
and his cold, empty bed. He brooded on his wife’s unnatural behaviour as he
disrobed. He’d wanted a plain, convenient, grateful wife! Hah! He shrugged
himself out of his tight coat and tossed it on the bed. She was none of those.

Plain! Even the dowdy
gowns she wore hadn’t been able to disguise her attractions —not since his
so-called wedding night, when he’d put her to bed. He ripped off his cravat and
shirt and flung them on a chair.

And as for convenient
—why, that was sheer bloody fustian! He sat down on the bed. She was putting
him to a vast deal of blasted inconvenience, he thought, tugging furiously at
his long boots. He’d even had to do without his valet because of her passion to
go to France —the fool had been too frightened to return to his native country,
having escaped Madame Guillotine once already! With some difficulty Magnus
managed to drag his boots off. And all the time, he thought, in spite of his
own desires and frustrations, he had treated her with unfailing politeness and
consideration.

But did she show the
slightest bit of gratitude for her husband’s generosity and forbearance? No!
Not she! Magnus hurled his boots across the room. She had taken herself off to
bed without a murmur, completely unmoved by the delights he had offered her!
Even now she was disrobing, preparing herself for bed, only too happy to
snuggle into bed alone. She would have removed that dull stuff gown, rolled her
stockings down over those smooth calves and dainty ankles, discarded her
petticoat and chemise and was probably —even now— standing naked, warm and pink
and glowing, preparing to don that hideous voluminous monstrosity she called a
nightgown!

Well, he would not
stand for it! She was his wife. A husband had rights! She had no business
making him wait until Paris! He snatched his dressing gown from the end of the
bed, threw it on, and in bare feet crossed the hall from his chamber to hers,
barely remembering to knock as he flung open her door.

“Oh! Magnus! Is there
something wrong?”

“Why is your door not
locked?” he snapped, staring at her, outraged.

She was bent over a
dish of water, up to her elbows in soap, clad in that dreadful nightgown and an
even worse dressing gown. With not an inch of skin to be seen.

“Oh, I must have
forgotten it.”

“See you do not
forget it in future. Anyone could have just walked in.”

She looked at him for
a long moment and a tiny smile appeared on her face.

“Someone just did.”

“Who the devil was
it?” he thundered, glaring round the room.

Tallie giggled and
bit her lip.

“You, my lord.”

Magnus stared at her
for a moment. The tips of his ears turned faintly pink.

“Ah, yes… well… humph,”
he said, and strolled around her chamber, glaring at the neat, untouched bed,
her clothes hanging tidily on the hooks behind the door.

Tallie resumed her
washing. The motion drew his attention.

“What are you doing?”

She blushed.

“Just rinsing out a
few things.”

He strode over and
stared at the basin.

“What the deuce are
you doing that for? There are maids for that sort of thing. My wife does not
wash clothes!”

“It’s nothing, just a
few bits and pieces,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to hide them from his
sight.

They were her underclothes,
he realised —he recognised the patches. He had a set just like them in his
valise, with the tapes cut.

“I don’t care what
they are —get the maid to do it.”

“But I don’t want the
maid to see—” She broke off, her cheeks rosy with embarrassment.

“See what?” he said,
puzzled. A thought occurred to him. “You’re not… is it your time of month?”

Tallie’s face flamed.

“No!” she gasped,
horrified. She had not known men even knew of such things.

Magnus indulgently
observed her flaming cheeks. His innocent little wife was easily flustered. He
rather enjoyed it, found it surprisingly arousing, though he did not intend she
should realise it. He shrugged.

“Then what do you not
wish the maid to see?”

Tallie was infuriated
by the cool enquiry.

“It is nothing to do
with you. I will do as I like in my own bedchamber. There is no one to see me —you
need not worry about what people will think!”

“You will do as I
tell—”

“I am your wife, not
a slave—”

“Exactly! And I will
not have my countess washing clothes!” Magnus stared at her, baffled by her
intransigence over such a trivial matter. What the devil was wrong with the
wench? Most women who’d had a life like hers would lap up the luxury of having
unpleasant little tasks done by a servant. Why would she want to wash her own
underclothes? And what did she not wish the maids to see? As if the maids had
not seen underclothes before —and a damned sight better… The truth suddenly hit
him with the force of a blow to the midriff. She was embarrassed. Not because
her unmentionables needed washing, but because they were in such appalling
condition —patched and darned and ill-fitting. She had pride, his little wife,
too much pride to have a maid pity her for her lack of adequate clothing. Again
he called down silent curses on his cousin’s head for her lack of care for
Tallie. He vowed his wife would never again have cause to be embarrassed by her
clothing. The moment they arrived in Paris he would procure her the finest
garments that money could buy. From the skin out.

He shrugged
nonchalantly.

“Very well, then, I
will tolerate it this time. But once we reach Paris, mind, you shall leave all
tasks of that nature to the servants.”

He strolled over and
sat on the bed.

Tallie stared at him
a moment, stunned by his abrupt volte face. Then a fresh thought hit her. He
had come to her bedchamber. He was sitting on her bed. In his dressing gown.

He was going to lie
with her again.

With shaking hands
she hurriedly finished rinsing out her petticoat and chemise, anticipation and
excitement rising within her. She darted quick little glances at him as she
worked. His large, strong hands fiddled with items on the bedside table. Tallie
shivered with pleasure, imagining the way those hands would soon move across
her skin, knowing her, possessing her.

He wanted her again.
The thought thrilled her. Quickly she wrung out the clothes and laid them over
the back of a wooden chair, out of his sight, then moved shyly towards the bed.

Blushing, she slipped
out of her dressing gown and climbed into the high bed beside him.

“M… Magnus…” she
whispered.

He turned towards
her, cupped her chin in his hand and gazed deep into her eyes.

“It is not too soon?
You do not mind?” His breath caressed her skin.