A Lily on the Heath (Medieval Herb Garden #4)

A Lily on the Heath (Medieval Herb Garden #4) Page 51

By now he was off the bed, next to the tub, ignoring the streak of pain in his ankle as he crouched next to her. “Beatrice? Of Delbring? You believe I love Beatrice of Delbring? Is that what this is all about?” he bellowed, half in fury, half in joyful relief.

She merely looked at him and nodded. He was close to her, pressing against the side of the tub, his arms wide, his hands gripping the edge as if to embrace the vessel itself. Water seeped into his tunic and he could see the pulse pounding in her throat and the tempting hint of breasts. His own heart thudded madly.

“You mad, mad woman,” he whispered, reaching to touch her, curving a dark, scarred hand under her chin. “The only woman I love is you. I cannot even look at a whore because you have so ruined me.”

“But…you were negotiating a marriage contract. With Delbring. While we were at Clarendon. Nevril told Tabatha—you were so happy, he said—and then you became angry when you learned you must wed me….” Judith’s voice broke. She was looking at him through blue pools of hope, yet her eyes were still laced with suspicion and pain. “And then you left me here to go to Delbring….”

Mal shook his head, his fingers sliding down along her throat and over her delicate collarbone as he tried to understand how she could have come to such wrong conclusions. It took a moment before comprehension dawned. “Nevril. That rock-head. He did not know of our plans to wed. But I sent messages, many of them—to Mal Verne, Salisbury, and Peter of Blois and others—and aye, to Delbring. But ’twas only to give off the impression I meant to make a match there. I could not allow the king or queen to get a hint of our plans…and so I allowed some to think that was my intent. And I was happy because a miracle had happened.” He brought himself up on his knees, pulling her close. “I had the chance to wed you.”

She did not resist when he covered her mouth with his. Her lips were warm and softly parted, and he was gentle, for the fierce desperation he harbored for so long was gone. Judith tasted sweet and lush, and ’twas all he could do to keep from crawling over the edge and into the tub, gathering her damp, sleek body to him.

But she turned away too soon, easing back against the edge of the tub. “But you left me here. Why? And why did you not tell me of Violet? Why would you keep such a secret from me?”

A flicker of shame caught him and it was Mal’s turn to shift, shocking his weak ankle as he put space between them. “I had to send her from Warwick, for I wanted her to be safe from the disease there. But I was not…certain how you would accept her.”

“But she is your daughter.”

“And she is not—she will not be…. She will be a child forever, Judith.” Mal realized he was holding his breath.

“What have I ever done to make you believe I would be unkind to a child—any child?” she whispered.

He shook his head fiercely, shame heating his face. “Naught. I was a fool. I meant only to protect her…for you are so…bright and bold and filled with life. Quick and brisk. And I feared you might not—ah, I was wrong. I misjudged you badly.”

“Aye,” she said softly. “That you did, Malcolm. But I…I cannot point such a sharp finger, for mayhap I have done the same.”

He exhaled and nodded. “Forgive me.”

“Aye.” She paused, trailing her fingers over the top of the water. “Malcolm…would you help me?”

“Of course. What is it you wish?”

“I wish to climb out of the tub, and I find I need assistance.” The flicker of a smile touched her lips and Malcolm felt a rush of heat washing over him.

In one swift, smooth movement, he rose and scooped her up, hardly noticing his protesting ankle. Water sluiced everywhere, and he snatched up a drying cloth in which to wrap her…then looked down into her beautiful, flushed face. His heart pounded and his blood surged.

“I would take you to bed, Judith,” he said.

“And I would go,” she replied, reaching to touch his face.

He settled her on the bed, whipping away the drying cloth as he came to lie next to her. His fingers trembled a bit as he made a long, light stroke from her shoulder to breast to the curve of her hip, hardly believing that she was his. Then he gathered her close, drawing her up to kiss her with all the tenderness and love he’d stored behind three months of anger and frustration.

She kissed him back, sighing softly into his mouth, teasing him with her tongue. She arched against his damp tunic, which suddenly seemed like more of a barrier than even a mail hauberk. He pulled away to whip it off and froze when he saw the glitter of tears in her eyes. She blinked and one of them tipped free, trailing down into the pillow beneath her.

Malcolm’s heart seized and his insides plummeted. Nay. By God, surely she would turn him mad. “What is it, Judith? Do my kisses remind you of the king? Is that it?”

She frowned, shaking her head, placing a hand on his bare chest. Her touch was welcome, arousing and comforting, but he forced himself to wait for her to speak. “Oh, nay, Mal. There was never any kissing with the king. Ever.”

A pulse of disgust surprised him, but he pushed it away. He would not think of his liege now, would not imagine the lecherousness of the man to whom he must be loyal. “Then why the tears, Judith? What makes you so sad and hurt that when I touch you, you must cry?” His voice was edged with frustration and he gritted his teeth.

She dragged herself up on an elbow, wiping away the tears. “Oh,” she said, her expression turning from surprise to comprehension and tenderness. She touched his hair, sliding her fingers into it, combing gently along his scalp. “I am not sad or hurt, my love. These are tears of happiness and joy. For I cannot keep from weeping so when I am thus content. And I am content now…or I shall be, methinks, once you have bedded me.”

Her smile was a charming combination of shyness and teasing, but Mal hardly noticed through his mingled relief and chagrin. “And that is why you cried on our wedding night? And when we were to leave Clarendon? I bethought you were sad and angry and did not wish—that you wished we had not wed.”

“Oh nay, Malcolm. That was not crying. That was weeping.”

“There is a difference?” he asked, hardly able to believe he was having such a conversation with his wife when she was sleek and naked, warm and damp from her bath…and ready for him.

“Aye, indeed,” she said, sliding her hand down over his chest and ridged abdomen. He was shockingly aware of his skin leaping and trembling beneath her touch, and how his hose jutted out in a most insistent bulge. His breathing became ragged, and he could hardly follow her words. “For when I cry, dear husband,” she explained with a sassy tilt to her head, “you shall know it. For I am red-eyed and runny-nosed and my face turns pink and I am furious and loud. Very…loud.”

Malcolm’s breath caught when she curved her fingers around his heavy, thick cock, pulling it gently from its confines. He stilled and nearly lost himself right then.

“And so…” he breathed…and then completely forgot what he was about to say. His mind went utterly blank, aware of naught but the sensation of her hand, sliding tightly, smoothly along his erection and back again. He slammed a hand over hers, halting the movement, and peeled his eyes open. “Nay. You will unman me,” he told her.

She grinned, her eyes lighting up into a duo of mischievous, sparkling blue. “Is that a challenge?”

“Nay!” he said, moving swiftly once more, flinging her onto her back. “You are already challenge enough, Judith.” He placed a hand over her belly as he knelt in front of her, firmly parting her thighs, lowering his face to taste her in that hot, musky place. “But now, my love, ’tis my intent to make you weep.”

EIGHTEEN

Four months later.

Judith broke the seal on Maris’s letter and unfurled the parchment eagerly. She always enjoyed hearing from her friend, and hoped Maris would join her at Lilyfare to midwife for the birth of her first child. The babe was not due to come until early summer, but she had already sent word to ask for attendance.

Settled in a large chair by the huge fireplace in the great hall, she settled in to read what she hoped was a gossipy missive, then suddenly found herself skimming quickly through it. “Tabby! Send for Lord Malcolm at once!” she said, rising from the chair. “He is in the training yard.”

Her maid, who herself was round with child, bustled from the hall as Judith hurried up to her chamber. She wished to have this conversation with her husband in private.

Moments later, she heard the pounding of footsteps down the hall. Mal burst in, eyes wild, still holding a sword. “What is it?” he demanded. “Are you well? The babe?”

“Oh, aye, all is very well,” she told him, holding back a giggle. He looked so very fierce. “So I do not believe you are in need of that….”

He paused and looked from her to the broadsword he held and back again. He frowned. “When you send to me with such urgency, what do you expect me to think?” He shoved the blade into its sheath and unbuckled the weapon from his waist, placing it on a trunk. “Well? You interrupted my training for what purpose?”

“A letter from Maris.”

He looked at her sharply. “And….?”

Judith could not hold back a smile. “She is very careful, of course, not to say anything outright—”

“She is coming to midwife for you?” he asked.

Judith rolled her eyes. “I am not even rounding in the belly yet, and you are worried. Aye, she will be here. But that is not what news she sent.”

“You might not be rounding in the belly, but I am seeing rounding elsewhere, mistress wife,” he said, his eyes settling on her breasts. When she huffed a little, he sighed and said, “Do you mean to tell me or shall I continue to guess?”

She smiled. “’Tis news from court. Eleanor gave birth to a boy, John—”

“Aye, we have already heard that news—”