Her Bridegroom Bought and Paid For

8

8

It was not until some two hours later when she had quite given up on him that Aimee heard the heavy rap on her door. Hearing it now, she marveled that she could have ever mistaken Golda or Unwin’s knock for her husband’s. She sat up as the door opened and watched him enter in silence before closing it behind him.

He stood a moment in silence, surveying her so grimly that Aimee felt a tingle of alarm spread through her body. Then she decided the coldness of his glare must surely be a trick of the shifting shadows from the firelight.

“Shall I light more candles?” she heard herself say in a quavering voice. “Only it has turned rather dark in here.” When he said nothing, she asked, “Have you yet eaten?”

He gave a brusque nod and turned his back to her as he drew his tunic up over his head, and the words she had been about to utter withered and died on her lips. She sat as though paralyzed, watching the muscles in his back ripple. Flinging his tunic on the floor, he turned next to unlacing his crotch, and Aimee turned her head sharply to face forward, her breath coming fast.

She had long since shed her best gown and was clad now only in her shift. There was nothing more she could do to prepare, so she simply lay back down and tried not to panic. Old Janet, her father’s oldest servant, had told her how babies were made when she had turned thirteen. Merchant’s daughters were not generally sheltered against the facts of life.

Aimee reminded herself she was eager for the next part. She had anticipated Lord Kentigern’s embrace for months now, so it was no good shrinking from him now like some terrified virgin, even if that was what she was. Hearing her husband’s heavy footfalls against the floorboards as he approached the bed, Aimee braced herself and did not flinch when he reached for her.

When he rolled off her panting ten minutes later, she was reeling. The consummation had been jarring in its physicality, and for the first time, Aimee had not found Lord Kentigern’s size to be a source of wonder and awe. Underneath her husband, she had realized the act was one of shocking intimacy.

The rapport she had established – or failed to establish with her husband – made her feel very alone as he had rolled off her. He had not been rough with her; far from it. Instead, he had handled her with a sort of calculated and studied care that had chilled her somehow quite to the bone. He had known what he was doing, and he had done it with the cool and detached patience of an impartial stranger.

Her touch had not made him tremble or blush or show any outward sign of pleasure. Instead, he had turned very still beneath her fingers, his face turning blank, his eyes shuttered. She was struck with an awful suspicion that he was simply suffering her, as one who felt honor bound to be in her bed rather than a lover who desired to be there.

And, gods, she thought with horror, that was the truth of the matter, wasn’t it? At the end of the day, she had pointed him out and had her father buy him for her. To her horror, the empty feeling that had been stealing over her all evening was replaced by one of dizzying loss and panic. Their wedding had meant she had kissed her dear father and sister goodbye. This man lying beside her was her family now. This cold and strangely passionless man.

For the first time, it occurred to her that maybe his terrifying appearance did not mask a heart of gold. That maybe the one in need of compassion and pity was herself. She felt herself begin to tremble as he climbed out of the bed. After realizing his aversion, she had let her arms drop and had given up her clumsy attempts to caress him. He did not want affection from her.

She felt terribly sore, and not just in that spot between her legs, but heartsore also. A heavy weight seemed to settle over down her chest, squeezing the breath right out of her. It left her unable to sit up or even gather the sheets and cover her nakedness.

“I’ll leave you to your sleep,” he rumbled at her as he tied his braies about his hips.

Aimee nodded dumbly. Not that he noticed, for he did not look her way at all. She felt winded. Shaken. As though she had been thrown from a bolting horse and trampled on. He walked from the room still half-naked, and she watched him go in a sort of stupor.

What if he never did turn toward her? The sudden and terrible certainty of it washed over her like an icy wave, shocking her out of her insensibility. Aimee fought down the tears that rushed to her eyes. There was no one to dry them for her now.

She had delivered herself up to this fate. Nay, she had rushed headlong into it like a little fool. Lord Kentigern was the one who had been snared in her trap. She was the foolish hunter who had thought to keep her prize as a pet, and she had no one to blame but herself. A knock at the door made her gasp and struggle into an upright position. It was some old woman she had never clapped eyes on before in her life. She gazed at her in stupefaction.

“T’ master sent me,” the woman said abruptly with a strong northern accent. “I’ve hot water for you here.” She brandished a jug, and Aimee forced herself to nod as she drew the blankets up about her.

“Thank you.”

“You’ll be wanting the tub now, I suppose,” the older woman said with withering disapproval. “I’ve set water to heat over the fire, but if you imagine my old bones can lug it up and down stair, you’ve another thing coming. You’ll need to send for your own servants to minister to you –”

Aimee cut across her words. “There is no need for that.”

The old woman’s whiskered chin came up sharply. “His lordship said I’m to change the bedsheets and set you in a bath, but if you think –” she argued belligerently.

“And I said, you need not bother,” Aimee responded bracingly. The woman’s unfortunate manner, tiresome though it was, was at least rousing her from her self-pity. “This is my bedchamber, is it not?” she demanded briskly. “If his lordship wants his bedsheets changed then you had better go to his room and strip his bed.”

When the old woman opened her mouth to argue, Aimee felt her backbone spark. “What is your name?” she demanded as it suddenly occurred to her that the woman had not addressed her as she ought. She supposed she ought to pull her up about that, though it was the least of her concerns right now.

The servant’s mouth snapped shut before she forced it open again to mutter grudgingly “Ingrid” through gritted teeth.

“Well, Ingrid, do you imagine I need a clean bed changed for one measly spot of blood? I bleed more than this on my monthly courses! And I don’t require a whole tub full of water to wash between my legs. I lay in a perfumed bath all morning, and I am certainly not repeating the process now. His lordship vastly overestimates himself!” Her cheeks turned poppy-red at her own coarseness, but bluster was all she had right now to hold herself together. If her sister could hear her now, she thought, Ursula would surely swoon at the lack of delicacy!

To illustrate her point, she flung her bedclothes back and leapt from the bed to cross the room and snatch up a cloth. “Hurry and pour the water, Ingrid, and do not dawdle!” In truth, it was her thighs that were smeared with blood and not the sheets.

The old woman emitted a dry wheeze. “Well, you’re not giving me the die-away airs I expected, I’ll give you that much.”

Aimee shot her a level look as she dunked her cloth into the warm water. “Well, as I am sure you are aware, I am no gently born damsel.” She saw the servant’s guilty start at her words. Yes, she thought, decidedly, this Kentigern servant knew all about her own ignoble birth. Likely, his people had been discussing her commonness since their betrothal. “So, let us have no pretense about the matter now.”

Ingrid bridled as though this plain speaking was going too far. “Ye’re the mistress now –” she started, but Aimee had no patience for the family retainer by this point. She certainly had not addressed her as her mistress when she had barreled into her bedchamber with her insolence.

“That will be all, thank you,” she responded smartly, running the cloth up and down her thighs. “Leave me now.” Her voice cracked over the last three words, shaming her. Aimee bowed her head so her dark hair fell forward, hiding her face.

Ingrid froze for an instant, and Aimee braced herself for a barrage of words which did not come. Instead, she heard the servant’s footsteps retreat, and Aimee had just tensed for the slam of the door, only for it to softly close after her. Aimee breathed out raggedly, finished her ablutions, and crept naked back into the bed, wrapping the sheets firmly about her.

She lay completely still a while, then turned her face into the pillow and allowed herself the indulgence of a good cry. The tears seemed to help ease the weight over her chest, and by the by, she fell into an exhausted sleep.