Chapter 10
I mogen rose to her feet. They gave her little pain, she discovered, perhaps because her mind was so frantic over other problems. As she walked to the stairs, there were some whistles and shouted comments, suddenly hushed. She glanced back, but Tyron FitzRoger was impassive. She knew, however, that with a look he had silenced both his own men and the king’s.
She found her father’s room subtly altered. She had known FitzRoger had taken it for his own, but she hadn’t been prepared. His chests and hangings had replaced those familiar to her. Even though her father’s possessions had doubtless been stolen or destroyed by Warbrick, she resented this invasion.
Her father’s great bed was the same, however, except that it was now strewn with rose petals. Martha was there, grinning as if this were a joyous event.
Imogen wondered if she was going to disgrace herself after all by fainting onto those rose-strewn sheets. She really did feel very strange. He’d been right again. She should have eaten. This weakness doubtless came of too much rich wine on an empty stomach.
“Come you in, my lady, and let’s ready you,” said Martha cheerfully. The woman had taken some of the plentiful wine, that much was clear. In no time at all, Imogen found herself stripped naked, her hair combed out again to lie like silk all around her. Despite the warmth of the day, she shivered.
“There now,” said Martha. “You mustn’t catch cold.” She tenderly wrapped a blue wool cloak around Imogen. “You just sit down here and I’ll go give the sign you’re ready. What a shame you’ve no family to see you wed, my lady, but never you mind. You’ve found a good man to hold you fast.”
Imogen shivered again.
All too soon the room was invaded by FitzRoger, the king, Renald, and a stranger—one of the king’s men. “The Lord Jarrold,” the king told her as FitzRoger stripped.
Soon he was naked before her. Imogen hadn’t thought she would look, but her eyes took on a will of their own, wandering over his sun-darkened body.
She was surprised at how beautiful it appeared, for it really was not. There were plenty of scars, but they seemed to enhance rather than detract. He was broad in the shoulders and slender of flank, but contoured everywhere with hard muscle without a gentling layer of fat. She could see now how he could be so strong without great bulk.
She met his eyes and saw he was giving her time to look at him, to learn him.
She lowered her eyes and told herself that she had merely been admiring his attributes as a warrior in her service. That was, after all, why she had married him.
She heard laughter and glanced up. Under her horrified eyes, the unalarming softness between his legs began to swell and reach.
“By the sepulcher, your body knows its job,” declared Henry jovially. “And no wonder, with such a morsel ready for it.”
Martha whipped off Imogen’s cloak. She instinctively covered herself with her hands.
“Perfect in every way,” declared the king. “Into bed with you both and at it! Make me fine soldiers for England.”
Despite the cover it offered, Imogen had to be pushed into the bed by Martha. FitzRoger slid into bed from the other side and, under the covers, held her down with an iron-hard arm.
With a few more jovial comments, the king, the lords, and Martha left.
As soon as they were alone, FitzRoger let Imogen go.
She didn’t try to escape. There was no refuge available and her fears were irrational. Fighting them, and determined not to make an undignified scene, she lay still on her back, opened her legs wide, shut her eyes tight, and waited.
Nothing happened. When she could bear the waiting no longer, she opened her eyes a crack and saw him lying on his side, head supported on his hand, watching her.
“Am I doing it wrong?” she asked anxiously. “What should I do?”
“What exactly are you doing?” he queried.
She felt her face flame. “You know.”
He leaned forward and kissed her lips gently. “If I know, sweeting, why not let me take charge?”
“Because you always take charge,” she said in despair.
“Only when I know what I’m doing,” he pointed out with a touch of humor.
“You always think you know what you’re doing,” she retorted. “Very well, since you know what you’re doing, just do it. And I hope I get with child because then we won’t have to do it again for a year or so.”
“Oh,” he said as he slipped an arm around her, “it will be at least a couple of months before we know whether my seed has taken root. We’ll have to keep trying until we’re sure.”
Imogen found herself plastered up against his iron-hard body with that thing poking at her. Panic flooded her again, and she pushed away with all her might. “No! I won’t! I can’t!”
He released her and her own push almost flung her off the bed. “What are you afraid of?” he asked with a frown. “Or why are you so afraid? Everybody does this, and most people find some pleasure in it.”
Pleasure! “No, I won’t,” she said again, wriggling right to the edge of the bed.
He sighed. “Can’t you trust me a little, Imogen?”
“No,” she said baldly.
His lips tightened. “If you are a flower, Imogen of Carrisford, the best I can imagine is a thistle. Can I at least expect you to do as you’re told?”
“Oh, you have me all nicely terrified,” she said nastily. “I wouldn’t dare disobey the master. ”
“Good,” he said. He gripped her arm and dragged her into the middle of the bed, then moved so he was half on top of her. When she pushed at him, he said, “Stop that.”
She did.
“Good again. Now lie still.”
Trembling at the look in his eyes, she did so, and opened her legs. “Close your legs,” he said quietly. “I don’t like you lying there like a sacrificial offering. Try to relax.”
“Relax!” she repeated incredulously, but got no response.
His callused hand moved onto her body near the hip and began to travel. It was a firm touch. A stroke. It moved over her belly and up her ribs to her shoulder. She couldn’t imagine what the purpose of it was but had to admit that it was pleasant. She even liked the slight abrasion of his hand’s roughness against her delicate skin.
“You’re not a thistle,” he said softly. “Your skin is like rose petals....”
He moved away from her a little so that he could stroke parts of her as yet untouched, parts never before touched by a man. He ran his hand up her thigh, his thumb brushing the curls there before moving up to circle her belly.
She squirmed. “What are you doing?”
“Gentling you.” The sun was almost down, but there was enough light left to show her his fine-drawn impassive features. He did not look lustful, but as if he concentrated on things other than the physical. This was not what she had expected at all.
“Gentling me?”
He glanced at her with a flash of humor. “Like a high-strung filly.”
“I am not a horse,” she muttered, but even so she could feel herself grow soft and warm as that hand roamed over her skin.
“That’s good.” His hand brushed over her right breast, then her left. “Father Wulfgan would definitely not approve.”
She grabbed his hand with both of hers. “Stop that! He said that was one of the worst sins, to let a man touch me there!”
With a twist he captured both her hands in his and held them over her head. “Did he warn you about this?” His mouth came down to her nipple and covered it.
Imogen screamed at full pitch. He let go of her wrists and her breast and clapped a hand over her mouth. “For the Lord’s sake!”
She looked up over his hand and saw amusement and exasperation. He was infuriating. When he relaxed his clasp she bit him.
He flung himself out of the bed. “I don’t believe this,” he said, shaking his sore hand. “I’m beginning to think we’ll have to do it your way after all.”
Imogen looked at him, fixated by the phallus sticking straight out in front. Just like Warbrick. “No,” she said, and scuttled as far away as the bed would allow. “I want to go to a cloister.”
He looked at her coldly. “Don’t be such a coward.”
“The marriage isn’t consummated,” she said desperately. “It can be annulled. You have no right to keep me from being a Bride of Christ. Father Wulfgan says—”
He pointed a finger at her. “Say one more word about that priest and he dies.”
She gasped.
He came back to the bed and covered himself, put out a long arm, and pulled her against him again. She wriggled to try to escape, but she might as well have tried to escape iron bands. That thing pressed against her thigh like an oaken staff. She pushed back mightily and made no impression at all.
He blew softly against her ear and his voice was warm as he said, “Unless, of course, you want to list all the things he says will send us to hell so I can demonstrate? I suspect I’ve acquired the best informed virgin in England.”
She could never break free and so she stopped trying. “You’re a heretic,” she protested weakly. “You make fun of a living saint...”
He turned her and pressed her flat on the bed on her stomach, hand hard in her lower back. When she didn’t struggle, his hand started to wander again, this time over her back. It was magic. Father Wulfgan had not said anything about a hand on the back. Imogen allowed herself to relax and enjoy it.
“Your body is God’s own creation,” he said softly as his hand explored her spine. “And a fine piece of work it is.”
“The flesh should be mortified,” she breathed.
“I’ll whip you if you insist on it.”
She chuckled. “As if I would.”
“Good. I wouldn’t enjoy marking this satiny smoothness....” His hand was tracing the curve of her buttocks.
Imogen wriggled, her breath catching.
“What interests me,” FitzRoger murmured against her ear, so his warm breath tickled it and made her squirm even more, “is where the good father learned just how evil carnality can be.”
Imogen was aware of melting, of bones grown soft and muscles grown weak. “He always says he was once a wicked man,” she breathed.
“His replacement will be pure from birth,” he promised.
Imogen’s bones and muscles regained their strength. She pushed up to look him in the eye. “He’s my priest and he stays, FitzRoger. I rule Carrisford.”
“Under my advice,” he reminded her, pushing her down again. “I’m not having that man here.”
She pushed up again, but before she could give him her opinion of that, he flipped her over and covered her lips with his own. His leg held her down and one hand wove in her hair so she couldn’t escape.
She resolutely kept her teeth and lips tightly closed.
After a while he moved very slightly back. “Open them.”
She shook her head.
“I think we’re back to you doing as you’re told, Imogen,” he warned.
“You are—” His lips met hers, soft and gentle, and she found she didn’t want to fight him over this. She enjoyed his kisses, and kisses couldn’t be so very wicked. When his tongue ran quickly along her inner lip, she shivered with the remembered fire.
When he pushed farther to touch his tongue to hers, she jerked back, remembering more of Father Wulfgan’s warnings. If a man put his tongue in a woman’s mouth, it triggered a poison, and the woman died....
FitzRoger would not let her escape, though. She fought him, but his tongue invaded her mouth....
No poison burst forward to kill her.
Imogen surrendered to the magical sensation. Just perhaps Father Wulfgan was mistaken about a few things. After all, as FitzRoger said, how would a living saint know?
She felt him relax in response to her surrender. He turned her head this way and that, their tongues meeting in his mouth and hers. She tasted the moist warmth of him and was lost.
Imogen only slowly began to notice that he was rubbing their bodies together at the hip as if he wanted to get at her. It was coming, then, was it? Well, she knew it had to. This kissing was all very well, but it couldn’t put off the other forever. He was trying to give her something sweet, like honey to help the medicine down. She remembered her words: “You do nothing but hurt me.” He’d admitted it would be that way tonight.
She reminded herself it wasn’t his fault. She’d never thought God had been very fair to Eve and her daughters, but God was God.
Was it time to open her legs yet?
The long kiss ended and Imogen braced for the onslaught, but his head moved down in one long lick to her breast.
Oh no. What a penance she’d have to do! She grabbed his hair.
“Let go.”
No one could deny that tone of command. Her hands fell limp onto his shoulders. “It’s not my fault, God,” she muttered, and heard what sounded like a groan.
Then his tongue circled her nipple. It felt most strange. Next it flicked at her nipple and she shivered.
“That is a sin,” she whispered.
“No it isn’t,” he said with such authority that she didn’t dare protest again.
Shivery feelings were swirling around her body. His mouth moved to her other breast. It settled on it, warm and wet, and he began to suckle like a baby. The most extraordinary sensation shot through her and her whole body tensed. She gripped his hair again, but not to pull him away.
Imogen took in a great shuddering breath. An ache was growing within her, bringing a fever to her mind. Her hips moved of themselves and she clutched more desperately at him.
He kept sucking and nibbling as his hand wandered, dizzying her. Her hips heaved as if possessed. Her whole body was hot, writhing, and twitching.
“I’m tormented by devils!” she cried.
He looked up, eyes dark and bright. “And you know how we have to drive them out, don’t you, sweeting?” His hand slid between her thighs, which opened wide at his touch. Imogen instinctively closed them, but he was already within.
“Truly?” she gasped. She stared at him as her hope of salvation. “I can’t bear this.”
“They’ll torment you forever unless we do. Now it’s time to open your legs.”
She obeyed and his fingers moved against her. She whimpered.
“Do you feel a pain here?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, but hesitantly, for she wasn’t sure it was exactly a pain, but whatever it was was getting worse.
She stared at him. His eyes were darkened, his cheeks flushed with color. He looked warm and soft again, and the change she saw in him seemed to make the devils in her dance more wildly.
His fingers slid up within her a little, rotating. “And here?” he whispered.
Imogen closed her eyes and it was as if she could see inside herself to a swirling pit of demons, cavorting and jabbing at her with fiery brands. Something cramped beyond where his fingers moved. “Higher,” she gasped.
“That’s why I’m equipped to go higher, Imogen. To rid you of your devils.”
Oh, now it all made sense. She thrust up urgently against his hand. He moved it against the throbbing ache, but the torment just intensified. Instinct, not duty, drove her to stretch herself wider to him. “Do it then,” she gasped. “I’m going to die!”
“No you’re not,” he said huskily. “Your paladin is going to save you.”
He was between her legs and she felt that hardness against her ache. “Yes,” she said. “Oh yes.”
“Yes,” he said, as breathlessly as she. “You’re a hard woman to save from the devils, Imogen of Carrisford.”
The devils were spreading throughout her body. She clutched him. “Hurry!” she cried out. “Hurry!” She felt him begin to fill her, stretching her. The tightness was astonishing and came close to pain, but it was promising relief from the greater torment. “So good,” she muttered. “So good.”
“Yes,” he groaned and kissed her. With his mouth hot and soft over hers he breathed, “My flower, my treasure, my ultimate pleasure....”
That shocked her eyes open. “ Pleasure! ” It was as if Wulfgan himself loomed over the bed. “No!” she shrieked, and pushed against him with all her might. “Think of our children!”
His jaw clenched and his eyes shot green fire. “Wulfgan is dead,” he promised grimly, and pushed into her.
Pain, excruciating pain, struck. God’s judgment!
Imogen kicked and squirmed. “You’re a devil yourself! Sweet Savior, help me!”
Now she knew why Janine had screamed.
She beat at him, crying. “Stop. Please stop.” It was like trying to move a boulder. She went for his eyes. He seized her wrists and stilled her breathlessly.
“Imogen. Stop this.”
His voice came from a distance. She saw only Warbrick thrusting into her screaming maid, felt only a monstrous imprisonment and invasion, and terrible, terrible pain. Powerless before his great strength, Imogen echoed Janine’s plea, with the same tearful despair. “Sweet Mary, aid me!”
She was free.
Imogen rolled out of the bed and huddled on the floor, shaking so she feared she was rattling the castle walls. She couldn’t bring herself to look to see if the monster was coming after her.
Then she heard the click of the latch. It was like a key turning, bringing back sanity, bleak sanity, to her tangled mind. Fearfully she uncurled from her defensive position enough to peer over the bed at the room.
It was empty.
He had gone. FitzRoger had gone.
Imogen broke into soul-shaking sobs that spoke of relief, and anguish, and a deep mysterious loss.
When Renald de Lisle finally found his small wall chamber—a somewhat difficult matter after the quantity of wine he’d drunk—he found the bridegroom lying on the narrow bed, hands behind his head, staring at the beams. In the small amount of dying sun slicing in the slit window, it was hard to see anything except Ty’s shape.
Renald struggled for his wits but still couldn’t think of anything safe or sensible to say.
It was Ty who spoke. “I said I didn’t bruise flowers,” he said. “I lied.”
Renald looked at the flagon of wine he was carrying. There wasn’t much left, but he sloshed it into a wooden cup and set it by the bed. “Went hard, did it?” he said, not really believing it. Ty had tricks enough and the girl had been practically eating out of his hand these last few days.
Ty was completely immobile, which was a very bad sign. Renald hoped it wasn’t the little bride his friend wanted to kill, for he supposed he’d have to try to save her, which was to greet death himself.
“You were right about the priest,” Ty said at last, quite calmly. “I was too clever by far there.” After a long, heavy silence, he added, “Keep him out of my sight.”
So that’s who he wanted to kill. Renald hadn’t the slightest idea what had happened in the marriage bed, but dealing with Father Wulfgan seemed a simple enough matter. “I’ll sh-send him on his way tomorrow.”
Silence.
“Now?” Renald queried, knowing himself incapable.
“He will stay as long as Imogen wishes him to stay.”
Renald gave up and let his wine-sodden legs buckle so he was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. “There’sh wine by your head. Plenty more below... Get drunk. I am.”
“That’s obvious.” Two strong arms hooked under Renald’s and hauled him onto the narrow bed. Ty’s steps moved away.
Renald couldn’t keep his eyes open and it was too dim to be a useful effort anyway, but he struggled to use his brain. He knew he was needed here and wished to Jerusalem he hadn’t drunk so deep.
He’d thought a full-blooded celebration was in order.
“Wha’ happened?” he asked.
There was no audible emotion in his friend’s voice when he replied. “Nothing extraordinary. Go to sleep, Renald. I may be lacking in many respects, but I’m still capable of handling a military emergency if one should arise.”
Renald heard the curtain rustle as his friend left.
By the wounds, he wished he hadn’t drunk so deep. But the drink took him anyway.
Imogen didn’t know what had happened to her, except that time had passed. Had she slept? Fainted?
The room that had been bloodred with the setting sun was now silvered by the moon. It was her father’s room, where she had always been safe; the place she’d played as a child, and come to as she grew to ask questions and discuss problems.
Now, however, it was no longer safe. It was tainted by an alien smell and troubling memories.
Violence. Death. Corpses....
Memory clicked in.
Bastard FitzRoger. Her husband.
She shuddered as she remembered what had occurred. She remembered it all, the pleasure and the pain.
Pleasure? Yes, she remembered pleasure. She remembered, too, her husband’s face when matters had been right between them. He’d let his mask fall for her, and she’d seen the man, and the soul within the man.
So briefly sweet.
Then she’d fought him, and screamed. She’d seen him as Warbrick, monstrous and vicious.
He’d left her.
She was sure the mask was back firmly in place.
She covered her face with shame.
What had she done?
She could try to blame FitzRoger for the disaster. She could say that he should have waited, given her longer to grow accustomed, but he’d been gentle with her. She remembered begging him to do what he was doing and do more of it.
Until the pain.
Had it been the pain she’d fought, or the pleasure? The pain had been far worse than she’d imagined, bul the pleasure had frightened her too. Frightened her into her worst nightmares.
Father Wulfgan was right. Pleasure did lead straight to hell.
FitzRoger seemed to think that pleasure in the marriage act was not wrong, but he had not been to the Holy Land and been nailed to a cross for his faith. He did not fast most days of the year and whip himself with metal-tipped thongs.
And now FitzRoger was proved to be wrong, for the terror and pain that had come between them must be a punishment for their lust. If he’d simply entered her, it would surely have gone much better.
Imogen knew she had virtue, harsh virtue, on her side—but still, her instinct said that she had done very badly this night.
What must FitzRoger have felt, with her screaming and fighting beneath him as he did only as he thought best?
Could she do otherwise next time?
Imogen rested her head on the bed. She wished she had someone, anyone, to advise her, or even just to hold her. “Father, Father,” she moaned. “Why did you have to die? It was so... so careless of you! I need to talk to you.”
She gave a choke of laughter. She could almost hear her practical father pointing out that if he hadn’t so carelessly died she would not be in this predicament. And, Imogen, my darling, you must grow up, and quickly.
Imogen sat up straight. It was almost as if she could hear her father, here in the room where they had shared their most precious private times.
You have been plunged into a torrent of the evils I tried so hard to spare you. But you have chosen your course—not a bad course—and you must see it through.
Was she going mad? Imogen didn’t know, but this moment of communication was too precious to risk with skepticism. She closed her eyes tightly and framed a question.
Do you approve of him, Father?
He is not what I would have chosen for you, my child. I confess I had a father’s distaste for giving you to a lusty young stallion. But he will serve you well if you let him. And remember that you must serve him.
In the marriage bed?
Not only in that. Perhaps least of all in that, daughter. No man is so strong as to be able to stand alone. Look to your husband’s needs.
Needs? Imogen tried to imagine how FitzRoger might need her other than as bed partner and mother to his children. He had perhaps hinted that she should manage the domestic arrangements at Cleeve, and as his wife that was now her duty.
That must be what her father meant, but this did not address her current problem. She must learn to tolerate the marriage bed.
What of Father Wulfgan? she asked. Is he right about lust?
She could swear she could hear the worldly humor that had marked Bernard of Carrisford. Saints are sent to irritate our tenderest spots rather than ease us, Imogen, and Wulfgan is very good at irritating. That is why I brought him to Carrisford, for I was always a worldly man, but I had heed to my soul and knew I needed the goad of a stern conscience. But even saints do not always know the truth, daughter. Have you forgotten your lessons? Listen respectfully to all who have the authority to advise you, but take the decision from within your own heart. And then accept the consequences.
Accept the consequences.
“Sweet heaven,” she murmured. “Consequences.”
What would be the consequences of this night’s work?
She had to do something.
She leaped up and pulled on her clothes. She didn’t know what she should do, except that she must find her husband.
Where was he?
She went to peep out of the door, hoping that he would be hovering there. He wasn’t. She could hear raucous celebration still going on in the hall. There seemed a remarkable amount of feminine squealing, but she couldn’t be distracted by that. She supposed the castle women were enjoying themselves, too.
Where would FitzRoger have gone? Surely he wouldn’t have rejoined the carouse below on his wedding night. That would be to shame her terribly.
Perhaps she deserved that shame. She rubbed away tears and made herself think. There were other rooms and wall chambers, but on instinct she took the narrow circular staircase which led up to the battlements.
She found her husband there, standing by the battlements, looking out as if on guard at a landscape washed white by the large low moon.
FitzRoger was not on guard. On the far side of the square space the watchcorn was keeping watch, horn and bell at the ready to sound alarm.
FitzRoger was still and calm, but something about him stabbed a pain near Imogen’s heart, a pain that was largely guilt.
She didn’t want to deal with this. She wanted to creep away and let someone else sort everything out, but she was done with such weakness. She said a brief prayer to her father and walked over to her husband.
He sensed her at the last moment and spun around, a knife flashing in his hand, halted inches from her body.
He let out a hissing breath. “Don’t ever creep up on me, Imogen.”
“I’m sorry,” she said shakily. “I didn’t think...”
She could swear he was shaken too. “Start thinking,” he said sharply.
Imogen bit her lip. She wanted to speak of things that had to be said, but not when he was angry, and not where the watchcorn would hear every word.
He must have caught her anxious glance at the studiously oblivious guard, for he moved away from the battlements, silently leading the way to the stairs, back down to their room.
Imogen grabbed his arm—she couldn’t go back there yet—then jerked her hand away from his hard flesh as if burned.
He stopped and looked at her. In the chill moonlight he seemed to be carved of stone, cold stone. Then he moved. Almost hesitantly, he put a hand on her waist, and the hand was warm. When she made no retreat, he drew her gently against him, his arms encircling her.
Imogen shuddered as she leaned her head against his shoulder. She hadn’t known how much she needed to be held.
Tears swelled in her, and she knew it would do her good to weep here within the strong encompassment of his arms, but her tears would surely hurt him and she had hurt him enough. She won the aching battle with them.
It was comfort enough just to be held. She hoped it was comfort for him to hold her....
It was only when he softly said, “There is a perfectly good bed below,” that she realized she was drifting off to sleep. Perhaps had slept.
She stirred and saw from the position of the moon that quite some time had passed.
“You need sleep, too,” she said, and realized it was an invitation of sorts. She hoped it was not an invitation to disaster.
She couldn’t read him. He was more relaxed than before, but guarded. Without a word, he guided her toward the stairs with his hand on her back, then went down their blackness ahead of her.
The castle was quiet now. The carouse must finally be over.
The solar seemed strangely normal when they reentered it, though eerie in the moonlight. She had expected it to be marked by what had occurred.
Still he didn’t speak, so Imogen braced herself to break the silence. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t behave at all well.”
He was standing calmly in the center of the room. “What has that to do with it? I’m sorry I couldn’t make it easier for you.”
His flat tone bruised her. She wished she could explain some of the devils he hadn’t been able to exorcise, but the words would choke her. “I’m sure it will be better next time,” she offered.
She saw rather than heard the sigh. “Go to bed.” He turned toward the door.
“Where are you going?” she cried in alarm.
He turned back. “It’s all right. You hardly ate at the feast, and I’d forgotten that you probably took that business of fasting seriously. You’ll feel better with some food in you.”
“You mean you didn’t fast?” she asked in dismay.
“No,” he said, and she could almost feel his effort at patience. “And if you give birth to rabbits, Imogen, I vow I’ll make pilgrimage to Jerusalem on my knees.”
“Oh, don’t say that!”
“Imogen, women do not give birth to rabbits.”
“With God all things are possible.” She wondered if he were heretic enough to deny that .
“Doubtless. But I’m sure God has better things to do with his omnipotence.”
Imogen bit her lip. That sounded both true and sacrilegious. “And the monsters?” she asked.
He moved back, a step closer to her. “Imogen, women do give birth to strange children—crippled, even lacking limbs. I once saw a babe like a Cyclops, with only one eye. You must have seen some unfortunates, even in Carrisford. But I don’t believe God made them that way as punishment for adultery or unseemly pleasure. I’ve seen animals similarly deformed. Did they also enjoy themselves too much?”
Imogen couldn’t think what to say to that. She had once seen a lamb with six legs.
He touched her cheek very gently, and she could swear there was a trace of a smile on his face. “My biggest crime, I think, is to forget how young and naive you are. Sometimes you are so brave and strong. Go to bed. I’ll be back shortly.”