CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
P eople would talk about how the regal rickshaw, commemorating a marriage of consequence, rushed down the main road. The musicians were forced to run to keep up.
At the mansion gate, Bartholomew intercepted the two of them without question. He then rushed ahead to open the doors before quickly bolting them shut.
Rand’s steps were heavy. He moved across the sparce front room and dropped into a chair too small for his body’s size. In the relative silence, it protested under his weight. His exhalation was from deep in his chest, and he tipped his head back.
“You have eyes, Bartholomew.”
“I do, my lord. I wish you and her ladyship long life and blessings.”
He chuffed. “It should be so easy. Take her to my room. It’s hers until a fitting space can be readied which I expect upon our return from Mynydd.”
“She...goes with, my lord?”
“You have ears, do you not?”
He bowed. “Yes, my lord. All will be ready.”
“Any desires she has.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Her wardrobe will arrive soon and so, I expect, will invitations.”
Bartholomew turned to Petra with a bow. “My lady, you are mistress here and I am at your command. You have only to—”
“Thank you, Bartholomew. Please, please don’t call me—”
“He will,” Rand interrupted. “You are the wife of a Shivalry captain.”
“I am still myself.”
Unfastening the cloak, he straightened and looked at her. His face was an illusion of ten thousand emotions. It seemed as if he took her in, body and soul. The Ensign burned under his scrutiny, and she pressed her hand over it to stifle the sensation.
“I will not be a discredit to you,” Petra furthered. “But I am still myself.”
Hurt, impatience, anger, and sympathy lit his eyes. For an instant, like fire upon burning coals, it was sparkling and fascinating. Yet when it was doused, there was only smoke and an over-tired man looking at her.
“I know you will not. Forgive me.” Groaning, he stood. “I’m exhausted. Whatever you need will be brought to you. Bartholomew, show her to my room. Then come find me. I have a wound that needs...tending.”
The servant gestured to follow him, but Petra lingered. “I have my first request now. If we leave so soon, and there is no fixed date for our return—my mother. There will be no money for her to live.”
“She will be sent for and brought here.” He motioned at his porter. “See to it and that rooms are prepared for my wife’s mother.”
“Thank you, Rand.”
He did not answer but turned his back and left the room. Again, Bartholomew motioned she follow.
He led her towards the back of the residence and up a twisting staircase that opened into a loft. Not a full second floor, a railing kept furniture from being pushed over the edge.
Dutifully, Bartholomew explained that this edition had been built by a former resident who raised his wife’s illegitimate daughter. He could not stand to look at the proof of his wife’s infidelity and kept the girl exclusively in this space.
The décor had long since changed. On the farthest end, there was a large bed, unadorned by sashes of silk and curtains typical of others of high rank. Towards the railing was a writing desk, which looked like it had been abandoned in the middle of producing a letter, strewn with ink-splotched papers and writing utensils. Across from the desk, towards the middle, was a lone divan. Upon it rested a tome, taken from the wall behind the bed, lined with books and scrolls.
What caught Petra’s eye, however, was a slim white cat, soundly asleep, and precariously balanced, as only cats can, on the railing.
Bartholomew said his master had no name for the feline, though it lived with every creature comfort.
“Why didn’t he give it a name?” she asked, moving towards the animal.
“To honor the boy who begged he take the kitten before he collapsed on the spear that had impaled him, mere seconds before my lord could reach him.”
She stroked the soft, furry head, greeted by that peculiar rippling sound contented cats produce, as if they tried to imitate doves
So, my brother was not the first innocent he took a dying request from .
Rand was a soldier and when he marched there were foes and innocents caught in the crossfire. That was the way of battle. How many times, then, had he held a dying body, privy to last words before their hearts stopped?
A dull ache throbbed from the Ensign.
The scope of his world expanded in her mind’s eye. She was a part of it now. Now she walked by a man who strode among the masses, ready to lay down his life.
With deference to the expression that likely betrayed her thoughts, Bartholomew said he would leave her. She had only to ring the handbell atop the bedside table if she needed anything. When her wardrobe arrived, he would bring the clothes to her.
Petra nodded. She listened as his plodding footfall faded. Alone, her fatigue reared up over the adrenaline that had seized her; it was all she could do to stagger to the bed and flop down.
***
F ROM A DREAMLESS SLEEP , she woke under the weak, stretched sun beams of late afternoon. On the windows lining the upper part of the wall, flecks of snow glittered. Their brightness was a stark contrast to the stiffness in her limbs, making it difficult to sit up under the fur blanket that covered her. However, she was urged by an herbal aroma coming from a kettle just within arm’s reach of the bed on the small table. Next to the kettle was a bowl full of rice porridge.
Her stomach growled.
With a grunt, Petra pushed herself upright and scooted to the edge of the bed. She poured a cup of thistle scented tea and quaffed it in two un-refined gulps before pouring another. The creamy porridge was flavored by nothing save the wonderful, slightly sweet and nutty taste of long-cooked rice. With the hot beverage, it coated her insides like the thick fur blanket she snuggled around herself.
Nothing mattered until she reached the end of the bowl and filled her cup a third time. It was then Petra saw the number of trunks lined end to end at the railing. Twelve. Each had been propped open and displayed her new wardrobe. Silk, velvet, brushed wool, double stitched cotton, and gauzy linen were all mounded like valuables in a treasure chest. Everything, she knew, would fit her exceptionally, even the garments that had been started for another.
Petra went to one of the trunks filled with shoes. From slippers and boots for all the seasons, she chose a gray pair of slippers, decorated by a cluster of copper beads at the toe. Of course they fit. She did not, however, feel brave enough to riffle through her new clothes in search of a robe and decided to wear the blanket around herself.
For as much as she would have liked to remain in the comfort of warm food, a warm bed, and beautiful things to look at, the clothes were a reminder of her new life’s duties. She was mistress of a household now. Tea had been made for her. Perhaps her husband might want the same. Even if he didn’t, servants must see her attend to him.
She had no sooner reached the bottom of the stairs than the man she recognized as the one who often opened the mansion doors popped forward off the wall he had been leaning on.
“Lady Tsenturian!” he chirped. “Can I get you anything? Would you like to meet the household staff right now?”
“Is there more than you and Bartholomew?”
“Just one, Madame, and he was told to wait on your command.”
She shook her head. “He can see to his duties. But I would like to know where the kitchen is and where,” she cleared her throat, “my husband chose to rest.”
My husband .
As quickly as she had been struck by the resonance of his voice that first night on the road, as sharply as the color of his eyes echoed within her, in an instant of eternity, he was hers. A blink in the gaze of destiny. It seemed a sweep of fate. How strange was life.
The domestic chatted brightly about the layout and the history of the mansion while they walked. More than once, he stated that she had only to ask and he would give her the full tour of the residence and the garden behind it.
Petra was surprised to find a small kitchen. The kitchen at the Hall of the Couriers was larger and far more well stocked. Did her husband never enjoy full-course meals?
“Thank you, Samual.”
“I believe my lord is asleep. Shall I still take you to him, my lady?”
“Yes, and then I will find my way back to the kitchen.”
It looked like the mansion had once been prepared to house a large staff. They passed more than a dozen narrow rooms, just large enough to contain a cot and a modest table. Only three of these looked lived in, though a few did have made beds at the ready.
It was at one of these the servant stopped and bowed, before walking away.
Legs and arms askance and draped off the slim mattress, Rand slept. His shirt was gone and over the mystic Ensign bandaging had been applied. A blanket covered him from the hips down.
Petra blinked away the wonder if he was entirely naked, for he was magnificent. His physique was carved by a master stone mason, and the sight stirred warmth in the lowermost part of her stomach. Despite numerous scars covering his arms, chest, and abdomen, his skin looked soft, and she moved forward despite herself, clasping her hands.
It would be so easy, so fascinating, to reach out and trace his pectorals over the steady rise and fall of his chest. Perhaps let her hand run down his bicep and then come to rest on his flat stomach.
There was not enough praise for the male physique.
Petra grew unaware of how long she stared until a spasm in his shoulder made him jerk his arm. The sudden motion forced a strained grunt from his mouth, and he rolled over. The blanket slipped and she saw the uppermost part of his buttocks.
She spun on her heel, nearly struck the doorframe, and sped back to the kitchen.
If the blanket has fallen off completely by the time I get back, I’ll leave the tea at the threshold. Even though I should stand over his naked form and cover him, like any woman might do for her man. Nurture is in the very fabric of a woman’s being. A woman’s body was created to care, bear, and sustain. Soft, inviting, and vulnerable. A woman is meant to receive and give back.
Cherry red heat suffused her cheeks and flamed over her ears. Instead of returning to the kitchen, she hurried back to the loft. She could not be seen, the lady of the house, with a flushed face and pander about in a fur blanket.
I must change. At least, then, if my cheeks are still hot, I won’t look like an embarrassed adolescent, mortified to know the nature of a man and woman. It might be a nature we reach one day.
Petra tripped on the stairs.
***
L ATER, CLAD IN A GRAY -blue gown that cinched underneath her breasts by a braided, twisted, silk rope serving as the only decoration, she stood in the kitchen. Waiting for water to boil, she had rummaged through the stock of teas and found the bitter greens brew.
During their conversations, in what seemed a lifetime ago, Bartholomew had mentioned the bitter greens were Rand’s favorite. The loyal older gentleman had confessed he detested the smell and pinched his nose every time Rand requested it.
In truth, it was not a pleasant aroma. High and acrid, the rubbed herbs smelled like long fronds of grass had been left to ferment and then strained.
When aggressive bubbles broke the surface of the water, Petra lifted the pot high while pouring it slowly into the kettle. This way, the satchel of tea would not be blanched by sudden, scalding heat.
Setting the kettle and two cups on a tray, she then walked back where her husband slept. All was relatively quiet. Random sounds came from the edges of the residence. The porcelain cups rattled gently as she walked. She heard the fabric of her gown swish and sweep from her steps. Her slippers clacked faintly. And there was an odd comfort, a strange peace in it all.
Peering around the corner of the door, Petra was grateful the blanket had not fallen off, despite Rand having moved again, this time to his stomach. The parts of him that would betray her innocence remained covered. She sighed and set the tray down with care.
He stirred. She flinched against the instinct to flutter from the room.
Stay. You are his wife. You must keep in mind who you have become.
A heavy exhale that sounded like relief escaped him and he opened his eyes.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For coming. The Ensign,” he began, his voice heavy with the weight of fatigue, “would not give me peace.”
“You’ve not slept at all?”
He grimaced and sat forward. “Some but it was fitful. I feel better now.”
Now that I’m close? Now that you can see me?
It was the nature of the bonding, of course. Yet, a glimmer of an emotion she dared put no name to shimmered within her.
“I would have slept here, on the floor, if I knew you couldn’t rest instead of taking your bed.”
He shook his head. “And I would have carried you to the bed. Don’t burden yourself. It’s my load. It’s not for you to lift.”
“But I can help.” From the kettle, she poured a full cup of cloudy tea. “Here. It’s your favorite.”
Rand grinned. “I thought I was dreaming that smell.” He took the cup from her and inhaled with relish before he took a slow sip. “You brew a delicate beverage.”
“Is it too weak?”
“On the contrary. I think Bartholomew must learn from you how to measure. It’s perfect.”
From over the cup, small in comparison to his hand, he looked at her. Deep burgundy and umber, his gaze was warm with kindness like a hearth on a cold winter’s night, welcoming and wonderful to be near.
“Might I ask,” he continued, “how my wife, to whom I am a stranger, knew my favorite tea?”
Petra picked up the other cup. “You are not such a stranger to me.”
“And how is that?”
She looked down. “When you were gone, letters still came for you. I was here often, and Bartholomew took his job of me being your courier seriously.”
“As he should.”
“He would offer me refreshments and we would fall into conversation.”
“About me?”
From under her lashes, she saw amusement glisten in his gaze.
Petra took a long sip of tea. “Yes. I...I had many conflicting thoughts about you, then.”
“Do you still?”
“No.”
He set the cup down and extended his hand to her. “Then sit by me and tell me about the woman I am married to. I wish to know her as well as she knows me.”