Chapter 3 – A Bed of Roses #4
Technically, they were finished. Marriage consummated; virginity taken. But though he could have rolled over and gone to sleep right there, Miche had said that on no account should she be crying when he was done.
Propping himself on his elbows, Remin kissed her again, careful not to withdraw from her.
It would only be harder to get back inside her again, and with patience and persistence, her pained whimpers turned into soft cries as he stroked slowly into her, her body rocking beneath his.
Her climax was not quite as loud as the first one, but her arms still went about his neck as she shuddered again, and he filled her a few moments later.
“Good?” he asked, winning a breathless nod, her head lolling on her neck. She didn’t look unhappy, and he drew back carefully, feeling a curious tenderness as he saw the droplets of red spattered between her thighs. They had been each other’s first.
Now he understood why men made fools of themselves over women.
Lying beside her, he had all the time he wanted to look at her, her delicate profile limned with gold from the fire.
A smooth, rounded forehead, little snub nose, and curving pink lips, like some exotic species of flower.
Thick lashes curved over her cheeks, and his huge fist lay beside her upturned hand, the silver of her wedding band shining.
She was small, and soft, and dangerous in ways he couldn’t begin to articulate.
Remin sat up.
“Stay here,” he murmured as her eyes blinked open. Padding over to the washstand, he rinsed their shared fluids from his body, enduring the cold without flinching. “It’s cold,” he told her as he set a shallow basin of water on the table beside the bed. “You must bear it.”
It was another new intimacy between them, but he was very gentle as he washed her body.
Ophele had to turn her face away as he washed her between her legs, wondering if this was really happening.
Remin Grimjaw, the greatest hero in the Empire, was washing her.
She had read extensively on the habits of ladies, hoping to educate herself, but no book she had ever read prescribed etiquette for this scenario.
She had a lunatic urge to giggle and covered her mouth with her hand.
“Did I hurt you?” The duke paused in his washing.
“Oh, no,” she said, guilty and embarrassed.
“Good.” He set the basin aside and surveyed her through narrowed eyes, as if she were a puzzle he had not yet solved to his satisfaction. “I can do better,” he said abruptly, and his long fingers trailed suggestively up her side. “Do you want to try?”
A shiver ran through her. Ophele was quite sure that whatever her virginity was, he had taken it very thoroughly, but there didn’t seem any harm in letting him make sure.
“All right,” she whispered, little dreaming of the night that would follow.
* * *
When Ophele slid out of bed the next morning, she kept going straight down to the floor.
“Ow,” she rasped, squinting up at the unfamiliar ceiling and wondering where she was and why her legs wouldn’t work. With the irregularity of life in Aldeburke, she hadn’t kept a normal sleep schedule since she was a little girl, and she was never at her most intelligent first thing in the morning.
Gripping the side of the mattress, she pulled herself upright. The sight of rose petals scattered on the floor tickled her memory, and she sat down on the edge of a bed that felt strangely large and empty.
Ah. That was it.
Her husband had elected not to stay until morning.
Memories of the night before made her blush so hard she was nearly dizzy, and she looked down at her body, feeling so strange in her own skin, she hardly knew herself.
The giggling of the Aldeburke maids made a great deal more sense now.
She felt stained with the memory of his hands, his voice, his mouth, confused by the man she thought she had neatly categorized into mean, comma, very large.
Burying her face in her hands, she flipped through a mental catalogue of books, searching for some applicable wisdom.
The best she could come up with was the observation that life was suffering.
And she had been fortunate that Rem…the duke…had been kind.
The thought stuttered through her mental machinery, a set of new parts that had no place in the current design. She didn’t know what it meant or what she felt about it and all of it made her feel tired and overwhelmed. A knock came at the door and she jumped, lunging for her blankets.
“Your Highness?” came the voice of Mistress Goel. “His Grace sent me to check on you. May I enter?”
Casting hastily about, Ophele found her crumpled chemise on the floor and grunted with pain as she reached for it and slid it over her head.
The low neck did nothing to hide the red marks all over her chest. But The Habits of a Lady said a lady should be poised no matter how uncomfortable she was, to avoid making others feel uncomfortable, so she made herself answer and tried not to blush.
“Come in.”
“Rosset will draw you a bath.” The mistress didn’t bat an eye, briskly going to open the curtains.
The sun was already well up, streaming through the counterpanes in watery light.
Turning to face Ophele, she clasped her hands and bobbed a curtsy, a tidy woman in a navy silk gown and a vast white cap on her head.
“If you like, we will serve you breakfast afterward. Is there anything else you require, Your Highness?”
It was delicately put; the woman was tiptoeing around intimate knowledge that by rights belonged only to the princess’s personal maids and closest family. And she was taking a risk with her offer, which could be regarded as impertinent.
“A bath will be good.” Ophele took an incautious step toward the tub in the corner of the room and had to bite her lip to stifle a yelp. The pain between her legs was a dull, twisting ache when she held still, but that single step had felt like pulling open a wound.
“Perhaps some willow bark tea as well.” Mistress Goel hurried over to offer an arm. “Please sit until the bath is filled, Your Highness. The hot water will help, and His Grace sent you a lovely new gown.”
The bath was excruciatingly embarrassing.
A lady might be poised in all circumstances, but Ophele was not yet made of stern enough stuff to endure the eyes of strangers with the red marks of the duke’s mouth all over her body.
It took her a moment to realize that the stripes on her thighs were marks from his hands: those could be nothing else but fingers, punctuated by a gripping thumb.
It was as if she had been branded for a crime.
Sinking down into the steaming water, she tried to pretend that she was being washed by invisible spirits, and a friendly visitor from the aether was bringing her tea.
As might be expected from the finest inn in Celderline, they were sensitive to her mood and did their job quietly, washing her with the same care as before, lotioning, careful of all the sore places.
The tea and the bath took the sharpest edge off the pain, and she hardly yelped at all as they wrapped her in towels and helped her to her dressing table.
But when she rose to dress, Ophele was horrified to realize she was bleeding.
She looked up at Mistress Goel, her face stricken.
“Could you send someone to find my valise, please?” she asked, crimson with shame. “Maybe one of the knights will know where it is. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I will pay—”
“Sebire, go and see if you can find Sir Miche and inquire after Her Highness’s things,” Mistress Goel said promptly. “Please don’t concern yourself, Your Highness, a spot or two never harmed anything.”
“Is it normal?” Ophele made herself ask.
“Yes, dear, perfectly natural. I assume you have some bundles of cotton among your things?” She crouched beside Ophele, patting her knees in a motherly sort of way. “I remember when all my friends were getting married, some of them said it happened to them.”
“My sister said she bled for two days afterward, Your Highness,” offered Rosset, the lanky hairdresser.
“But you’ll recover quickly,” the mistress assured her. “I’m afraid marriage isn’t always a bed of roses,” she added, glancing humorously at the petals littering the floor on the other side of the room.
Ophele nodded, dumbly grateful. Everything to do with…
everything was so embarrassing. She could hardly stand to look them in the eyes, but once she was wearing a fresh chemise and had another cup of willow tea, she could at least pretend some normalcy.
She breakfasted lightly as they dressed her, and her new gown was both pretty and practical, fine violet wool over a black kirtle that would endure travel well and was deliciously soft and warm.
Rosset was just plaiting her hair into a single thick braid down her back when there was a knock at the door.
“Princess.” The duke ducked inside before she could reply, and Ophele rose immediately to her feet, flushing hot and then cold at the sight of him.
He was back in plain wool and leather again, as if yesterday had never been, and spoke with his customary briskness.
“Hurry up and pack your things. We’re leaving now. ”
“Now?” she echoed.
“Yes, now. Mistress Goel, please let my man know how much all these things—” he gave a vague wave in the direction of the dressing table “—cost. We’ll buy all of them. Hurry.”
The memory of a man who had promised he wouldn’t hurt her gave Ophele the courage to protest, her voice emerging timorously. “Your Grace, could we not—”
“What? Speak up,” he said, glowering down at her. He looked impatient, as if she were keeping him from important business, and her fingers knotted together anxiously.
“Nothing,” she whispered, looking at the floor. She couldn’t possibly tell him something so embarrassing.