Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
“See to my meal, wife.”
Sawford threw a rabbit at my feet.
We had been travelling for almost a month. Unaccustomed to hard riding and sleeping rough my whole body ached. During the day we rode whether it rained or not. Sitting astride the horse behind my husband I could not relax, having to grip his waist for fear I would fall and harm the babe.
My husband.
Once again I was a bride.
Six months ago I had entered Mortlock Fort a hopeful child, dreaming of a long, fulfilling marriage and the comfort of occupation as the lady of the castle.
That na?ve child no longer existed. Neither did the lady.
I was the wife of a servant, a base born man I craved to be near but longed to escape from at the same time.
We had married the night we left the smith’s hut having ridden straight to the abbey near Mortlock.
The abbot who’d joined us, his face wrinkled with drowsiness, had refused at first to conduct the ceremony.
But the point of Sawford’s sword and a handful of coins persuaded him otherwise.
Our first night as man and wife we slept under cover of trees.
Sawford sealed our union with a quick, rough consummation, his breathing quickening against the back of my neck as he came to pleasure.
I had woken later that night, his lean, hard body against my back while he slept—the sleep of one undisturbed by the screams and flames that haunted me since we left Mortlock Fort.
As the days passed, the smell of smoke clinging to his clothes was replaced by the damp, almost sweet smell of the leaves lingering on the ground, their bright reds and yellows fading to brown.
Our food had grown scarce. Each time we had rested, the piece of bread he gave me was smaller than the last, until one evening after lighting a fire he’d said there was nothing to give me, before disappearing without another word.
He had returned with a rabbit, which he swiftly and expertly gutted before roasting it over the fire.
Since speaking my vows I had said very little, answering his questions with a nod or shake of my head.
I was tired…so tired. Each time we stopped, I dropped to the ground, curling up and closing my eyes, though sleep eluded me.
“Did you not hear me?”
I looked up, Sawford’s sharp tone returning me to the present.
He stood over me, body tense with expectation.
I picked the rabbit up by its ears and drew out my knife.
The body was still warm, a gaping hole in the flesh where Sawford’s arrow had impaled it.
A huge, black sightless eye stared at me reproachfully, and I dropped the knife, unable to slice into the animal’s flesh.
“I have made a poor bargain if my wife cannot fulfil her duties.”
Irritated by his tone I sheathed my knife. “I am neither peasant nor servant. See to it yourself if you are hungry.”
“You think the circumstances of your birth make you better than me?”
“The circumstances of anyone not base born makes them better than you,” I retorted.
A sharp intake of breath told me my arrow had hit its target.
“Shall I tell you what makes me better than you, woman?” he said.
“I don’t need others to perform every small task for me.
I feed myself, clothe myself, even bathe myself.
As fine a lady as you think you are, you are a commoner now.
In my world you are nothing, incapable of lighting a fire or even laying the blankets.
You wouldn’t survive one day without me, whereas I would last far longer without being burdened by you. ”
“Then I propose you unburden yourself, Monsieur. I am not, and will never be, your whore.”
“No,” he said, a dangerous edge to his voice. “You are my wife. My whores may do as they please, but my wife is bound to me by law and by the church.”
Struggling to my feet, I ignored his proffered hand and walked toward the stallion.
The animal pricked its ears up, and I patted him on the nose, relishing the soft velvety fur.
Then I reached into the panniers and pulled out the blankets.
I hid my face from Sawford to conceal my tears.
His words had confirmed my worth to him; an item of property to do with as he pleased.
By marrying him I had surrendered my freedom.
I could better bear the stigma of being his whore than the prison of being his wife.
However, he was right. I was a peasant, now. I had a duty to care for my child and in order to fulfill it, I first had to learn to care for myself.
After laying out the sleeping blankets, I returned to where Sawford was gutting the rabbit. He looked up and raised his eyebrows. I gestured toward it with my knife.
“I will see to it.”
He nodded and turned away to tend to the horse, the flicker of a smile dancing in his eyes.
Ignoring him, I busied myself with the rabbit, driving the spit through its mouth to impale the body as I had seen him do, before placing it over the fire, turning it occasionally until the aroma of roasted meat filled the air, making my stomach growl.
I called to Sawford when the rabbit was cooked, but he did not answer.
I glanced up to see him sitting on the blankets, propped against a tree, eyes closed.
I had not seen his face at rest before, and it was as if a different man sat before me.
While awake, he wore a similar mask as I; both of us concealing our true feelings.
Perhaps we were not so different
Since we had left the smith’s hut, Sawford had worked continually, setting up camp, providing food, while I dropped to the ground to sleep as soon as we stopped.
While awake, he seemed impassive, emotionless as the statues that graced the altars of the abbeys. Asleep he looked tired, almost vulnerable.
I touched his face. He had not shaved since we left Mortlock and the scar on his chin was concealed beneath his beard.
Now his eyes were closed I noticed the thick, dark lashes which framed them.
Though his skin was pale, the hue under his eyelids was darker—the only sign of fatigue.
His mouth was full and sensual as it had ever been.
The cheekbones were well defined and his nose, which I had at first thought to be perfectly straight, had a slight kink, evidence it had been broken in the past.
Would my child resemble him?
I dropped my gaze to his hands; to the scars I had seen when I first met him. How had he come by them?
What hardships had he suffered to become the man he was? Would I ever understand him or, as I feared, had he taken me merely for the child, to then abandon me without a backward glance? What did he want with me?
The back of his hand was badly grazed. Out in the open, with little clean water, it would be prone to infection.
Reaching over to the panniers I drew out the jar of salve along with the remnants of my torn nightshift.
I applied the ointment before binding his hand as gently as I could so as not to wake him.
On impulse I turned his hand, palm upward, and stroked the calluses with the tips of my fingers.
When I looked up, my stomach curled with apprehension. His penetrating blue gaze was on me.
I tried to let go, but he gripped my fingers. For a moment we looked at each other, and I held my breath, waiting for a sneering comment, but none came. The heat rose in my face, and I needed to break the silence.
“Your meal is ready, Monsieur.”
“Monsieur!” His voice was soft but carried a faint mocking tone. “So formal, still? Why not address me as you ought?”
“Husband,” I whispered.
He lifted my hand and brushed his lips against my fingers.
“Come, wife, we shall dine together.”
Though we ate in silence the air had been cleared a little.
The wall of hostility between us had lost some of its height.
There was a little meat left on the rabbit after we finished, and I wrapped it in a cloth before handing Sawford the waterskin.
He drank slowly, his eyes on me, before handing it back.
Aware it was nearly empty, I took a small sip, but he shook his head.
“You need water. Finish it. I’ll find us more tomorrow.”
Squeezing the last drops out of the skin, I handed it back before sinking, exhausted, onto the blankets.
Listening to the sounds of him moving about the camp and the crackling of the fire, I closed my eyes and waited for him to join me. For the first time since we’d left Mortlock, I fell into a dreamless sleep.
I woke as he lifted the blanket and crawled in behind me.
The night was freezing, and I moved closer to his warmth, turning sleepily to face him.
My eyes flew open as his lips covered mine.
My body responded before my mind could object, and I opened eagerly for him, drawing his tongue into my mouth.
He moved his lips over mine and pulled me toward him, his body hard and ready.
“Lisetta,” he whispered, kissing me on the jaw, following a heated trail down my neck while he caressed my arms. He cupped a breast, and I sighed, arching my back to offer myself to him.
“Lie back.”
I was his to command, not only in the eyes of the world, but my body yearned to obey him.
I relaxed against the blankets and closed my eyes as he unlaced my gown.
I possessed neither the strength nor the desire to resist. His hands set every nerve on my skin ablaze before his hot, wet mouth came down on my breast. I cried out as he laved me with his tongue and grazed my nipple with his teeth, and I buried my hands in his thick, dark locks, holding him close.