Lord of Midnight (25 page)

Claire turned away, smiling. “All right” meant that Josce had been elevated to a level only slightly below God. Her brother was moving forward. He wasn’t happy yet, and the changes must still hurt—probably always would a little—but he was healing.

So. It was time.

Margret would be the one to drag her to her bed. Claire looked around the crowded hall, seeking her friend. Then she realized that Margret might be trying to find her, and returned to her seat at the high table, where she’d be expected to be. She saw Renald across the hall, and he raised his brows as if asking why the delay.

She sipped some wine to steady herself.
Come on, Margret
!

Then, as she scanned the hall, the sheriff swooped the book from in front of her, stepping out of reach before she could snatch it back.

“Eudo!”

He was untying it with urgent fingers. “Your lady mother has clearly done with it for now.”

“There’s nothing in there.”

He paused. “The pages are blank?”

“No. But it is not Father’s journal. It appears that this time he didn’t keep one. Instead he wrote down one of his stories. The Brave Child Sebastian.”

He continued with the business of opening the boards then looked at the first sheet, frowning. “This is an atrocious script.”

“Father never took time to write neatly.” He moved closer to a window, grimacing as he tried to make it out. Then he flipped to the end. Claire wanted to protest at that. She didn’t want him reading parts she hadn’t read, but it was already done. Clearly he found nothing startling. He tidied the sheets and bound up the book. “As you say, Claire. Nothing. But it will be something to treasure.”

She took it and retied the strings just to establish that it was hers, hers and her family’s. “I will transcribe it into a fair script. Perhaps you would like to read it then.”

“But of course. Clarence was a dear friend.” As he walked away, however, Claire had the impression that he was suddenly carefree. She contemplated the book, wondering what Eudo had thought it might contain.

He had read the last page. She didn’t think that had any significance, but she opened the book again. The writing was quite neat here, as if her father had had time and a flat surface.

And so the Brave Child stood over the corpse of his mighty foe, triumphant by the power of the Lord God. But tears trickled from the hero’s eyes. Tears of sorrow that he had been forced to kill, and to kill such a man.

She read the words again. The story had never ended like that before. Sebastian had never wept over the dead tyrant— The book was snatched again. “Oh no you don’t,” said Margret. “Brides don’t get lost in books on their wedding night. And they aren’t supposed to frown, either.”

“Margret! Be careful with that.”

With a grin, her friend gave it back. “What is it, anyway?”

Claire explained, admitting to her disappointment that it was a story, not a record of the rebellion.

“Well you know,” said Margret, picking up a lingering sweetmeat and nibbling it, “your father had never fought before, or not since he was a young man. When Alaine has to put on armor, he can get in an odd mood. Sometimes he comes home jubilant—it’s strange what men like. But sometimes there’s a look in his eye… Perhaps your father saw a different side to heroes.”

Claire stared at her friend, surprised by the insight. “That would explain why he wanted to write a new version. To weave in what he’d learned of fighting.” She traced the cover of the book. “It makes this even more precious, to see how Father was changed by his experiences.” She began to untie the strings.

Margret grabbed it again. “Oh no you don’t! Not tonight.”

Claire tried to get it back and in the laughing tussle, some pages fluttered to the floor. They were scooped up by the Earl of Salisbury.

“Fair ladies fighting over a book,” he said as he returned them to Claire. “It must be a very interesting tome.”

She tidied it, making sure to put the errant pages in the right place. “It is a special one, my lord. My father’s last writings.”

“His journal?”

She glanced up at him. “You know of that?”

“As we gathered to support Duke Robert, I saw him write in it every day. It must contain interesting comments on that sorry affair.”

Did he, too, look worried? Would he also want to snatch it away?

Claire firmly retied the strings. “Interesting, yes, my lord. But not a journal. For some reason he decided to write down his favorite story, that of the Brave Child Sebastian.”

“Ah, I remember him spinning it one night. A rather foolish tale.” He frowned at the book. “Where did it come from?”

“It was in Ulric’s pack. It held nothing else of interest.”

“And the book cannot shed light on Ulric’s murder. That’s a strange puzzle, and one that will probably never be solved. Sheriff Eudo also lost a manservant not many months back with the killers never found.”

“It can’t be that uncommon, my lord.”

“Uncommon enough. Most murders are obvious crimes, rising out of moments of hasty anger or fear. But in the sheriff’s case, lie was set upon by brigands who escaped back into the wild lands. A lesson to him not to ride out without proper escort.”

She couldn’t imagine why he was talking of such matters, but didn’t much care. Darkness had settled, and Margret had slipped away to gather the other young matrons. Her fate loomed deliciously close.

Claire looked across the hall to see her husband down on his haunches with the boys, rolling a knucklebone. Thomas was laughing.

“Ulric must have known how your father died.”

Claire looked back to the earl. “Yes, he never left his side.” She sighed, despite the major part of her that just longed for the marriage bed. “I wish I had heard his tale.”

“I’m sure you would have found it most enlightening.”

Claire blinked at his strange tone. “Enlightening?” Where was Margret?

“Lord Renald brought your father here, I understand. In mail, as he died.”

“My lord, this is no time for such talk! I am trying to be joyous on my wedding day.”

“I see you are eager for the bed.” After a moment he added, “Some of us are cowards.”

She stared at him, wondering why he thought that of her, but Margret was coming, thank the Virgin, leading a group of noisy, laughing young women.

The earl glanced at them and she thought she heard him sigh. “I will pray for you, Claire.” He suddenly leaned forward, bringing his face close to hers, forcing her to pay attention. “Before you revel in your marriage bed, Claire, think more on
death
. Think about your father. About mail, and swords.”

She watched him walk away, wondering if drink had scrambled his wits. Think on death. Now? Clearly he did wish she would weep and wail through her wedding. As if she didn’t know that her father had never wanted her to marry a man so fond of his mail and sword. But by venturing into the world of mail and swords, her father had brought all this about. She was just trying to put things back together again.

When the women surrounded her, she let them drive away all memory of the earl’s words, and surrendered to laughing excitement.

In moments she was being dragged to the solar, pretending nervous unwillingness. Not having to entirely pretend. Despite desire, the marriage bed was a pit of the unknown, and there were those stories of screaming victims…

Nonsense. Snake stories.

Before she was dragged around the screen to the solar door, she looked back and saw Renald had risen to his feet to watch. It was as if flames of desire licked out from him to sear her.

He took a step forward as if to follow, and three men grabbed him to hold him back. Perhaps it was just part of the act, but somehow, she didn’t think so. The power of his desire shocked her. But it thrilled her, too.

Then she was in her bridal chamber, rich with the perfume of flowers and herbs. Scarlet rose petals scattered the coverlet and floor along with other blossoms of every hue.

Busy hands undressed her but then someone said, “By the crown, Claire. Without your hair, you’re indecent!”

“Into the bed, I think,” said Margret. Claire was happy to get under the perfumed covers and pull them up to her chin. Once again, her rash act of cutting her hair returned to plague her.

Margret touched the ends. “I don’t know how you could.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Typical.”

Claire wriggled, swallowing nervously. “Rose petals on the sheets feel quite strange.”

“But smell pretty.” Margret scattered some grains of wheat for fertility. She also tucked some herbs under the pillow.

“There, that should ensure a merry night and a babe in a nine-month.”

“It certainly worked for you. At least,” Claire added, blushing, “the second part.”

“And the first,” said Margret with a wink.

“The first time? It was good the first time?”

“It got better, but yes,” said Margret, “it was good the first time.”

Claire glanced at the other ladies, who were standing by the door listening for the men. She had time for a quick question. “Margret,” she whispered, “is there anything I should know? Things I should do? Other than just lie there.”

The men were coming, laughing and singing.

Margret turned a little pink. “Oh. Well, tell him when you like things. Or when you don’t.”

“He won’t mind?”

“Alaine doesn’t.”

Now they were hammering on the door, while the laughing young women held it shut. “Anything else?”

“Don’t be afraid to touch him. Anywhere.” The door began to inch open. “When you feel like it, you could put your mouth to him.”

“Mouth? To him?”

“You know. Kiss it. Suck it. Drives them wild.”

Claire stared at her friend. “Are you teasing me?”

“No! I swear it.” The door was heaved inward.

“Suck it,” Claire repeated as the men burst in.

“Not right away!” Margret cautioned in a whisper. “I know you. He’ll think you’re overbold!”

Most of the men were three-parts drunk, but they had Renald held tight in their midst as if he had, indeed, lost the way and had to be dragged to her. He freed himself easily and gazed at her. Her toes curled and breath suddenly became precious.

“Hey, don’t we get to see the bride?” one of the men demanded.

“No.” Renald was already stripping, not taking his eyes off her. “Only I do.” Naked, he turned to them. “Anyone want to fight me over it?”

Claire was not surprised when the men laughingly backed away. Nor by the saucy comments of the women. She knew Renald was a big, strong man. Only now did she see that every inch was hard muscle—shoulders, back, buttocks, legs. When he turned back to her, her mouth was so dry she could neither speak nor swallow.

Vaguely, she was aware of people leaving. Mostly, she was aware only of him walking toward the bed. His front was as awe-inspiring as his back, and his male member jutted urgently.

It did seem rather big. Amazingly big.

As fluid returned to her mouth she swallowed. “Don’t hurt me. Please.”

He stopped, then sat on the bed. “Of course not, Claire. What’s frightened you?”

“You’re big.”

His lips twitched. “Not that big, I assure you. I won’t hurt you.”

“My maidenhead?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps a little, then. But with good fortune, it won’t go too hard.” He slid easily under the sheets and gathered her into his arms. “Better?”

After a startled moment, Claire found that everything was better. Being up against his hot, hard body was a miraculous sensation that melted fears. She slid a leg over his, wrapped an arm around his broad chest, and worked her head into a comfortable dip.

“I was just being silly.”

His hand traced her back, which was even more wonderful than his teasing of her nape had been. “I won’t crush you. But if you like, you can be on top.”

“On top?” But he was already moving her so she lay fully on top of him. It was like lying on sun-warmed smooth rock. His erection, however, lodged hard between her thighs, reminding her of certain problems.

“By big,” she said, knowing she was turning red but determined to get this out in the open, “I meant your… your manhood.”

It felt as if it was growing even bigger. Was that possible? Just how big could it grow?

“Felice…” she said, wriggling slightly. “In your camp, Felice heard your men. Talking about your size. Down there. That you… that you damage women.”

He closed his eyes and muttered, “Lucifer…” and something that might have been, “Hoist, indeed.” Then he looked into her eyes. “Claire, I swear to you, I have never damaged any woman that way. I’m not so big, and I do take care. Can I show you?”

She nodded, even though she suddenly felt painfully shy.

He eased her off him, flipping the bedclothes back so they were both uncovered, exploring her with his eyes. “So pale. So sweetly curved.” Then he ran his hand over her hip, up her belly, to caress a breast. “You feel like silk. My rough hand might snag silk, but it won’t hurt you.”

At the slight abrasion of his touch on places never touched before, breath became scarce again. Claire put a tentative hand on his hard chest, feeling the heat and the silk of his own skin, but tracing the roughness of scars here and there. As her senses swam in his teasing touch, she counted and cherished her wolf’s marks.

Once his size, his strength, had frightened her. Once scars of battle might have disgusted her. But now everything about him stirred only heat, and a feverish, aching hunger deep inside.

She suddenly grasped his wandering hand and looked at the calluses there. “I do accept what you are,” she said, kissing the hard ridge that crossed his palm. “I accept the sword.”

A look almost of pain crossed his face. “Ah, Claire. Sweetheart…” he murmured, and he kissed her, deeply, drowningly, seemingly with every inch of his hot body. Against her mouth he whispered, “I wish I were a better man for you, my wife. But I will be the best I can.”

Then he lowered his lips to her breast.

As Renald tasted her skin, relished the rough texture of her small, untried nipple, a shiver of ecstasy passed through him, swelling him to the point of pain. But he could deal with that. Almost, however, she’d broken him with that trusting kiss to the hand that had killed her father.