Maiden of Inverness (35 page)

The need to go to her, to persuade, to compel, rose like a tide within him. But he could not. He had done his best, and she had rebuked him.

In dismay, he watched her put the book aside and blow out the candle, extinguishing the light of hope he'd held for so long in his heart.

*  *  *

On Monday he sent Gibby to ask Meridene to go a-fielding with them. Citing her duties to Sim, she declined.

On Tuesday he sent Sim to her with an offer to spend the day in Lord's Meadow. With Gibby's lessons as excuse, she refused.

On Wednesday he directed Serena to invite Meridene to view a horse race in the outer bailey. Explaining a meeting with William, she sent Revas an apology.

In church they knelt side by side. To outward appearances, nothing was amiss. But when they exited the chapel, Meridene went her separate way.

On Thursday he penned a note, wherein he threatened to commission a chastity belt. She replied with a threat of her own:
Do it, Revas, and I shall tell the entire village that we have lain together.

They would lie together again, he pledged to himself. She wasn't truly angry with her husband. The politics of Scotland had spoiled her disposition.

Revas could wait her out. She had nowhere to go, not unless an armed guard or a flock of women followed her.

When she did seek him out a week hence, her first words shocked him.

“I'm here to barber your hair. You look like a shaggy hound.” Even as the words were out, Meridene wished them back, for she hadn't intended to sound commanding and aloof.

She set the Covenant atop the pedestal table, but did not move farther into his chamber.

Sitting near the hearth, he carved a comb from a piece of smooth, dark wood. His bloodred jerkin contrasted handsomely with his fair hair and dark eyes. But he looked as tired and as lonely as she felt.

Sparing her a glance, he said, “Do not expect me to lift a paw and beg as Jaken does for favors.”

She gripped the shears tighter and moved to stand before him. She had come to make amends. She must begin again. “The coldness between us cannot continue. I should not have spoken so sharply, but do not expect me to grovel.”

“You, grovel?” Holding the comb to the light, he examined it, then blew off a shaving and continued carving. “I'd sooner pray for riches and a face as handsome as young Summerlad's.”

“Modesty is unnecessary. You are handsome enough—especially so in that color.” When he lifted a brow, she added, “It's pride you possess in overabundance.”

In a tip of his head and a half smile, he honed aloofness. “And you do not?”

“More, I would venture, but you are stubborn, and I am not. Our quarrel is adversely affecting everyone. Ellen hasn't fallen in love once since we argued. The priest goes on and on about the sanctity of wifely devotion. Gibby is confused and blames herself.”

“You did not come here to discuss my daughter, or my hair, or my pride, or your stubbornness.”

The trickster. He'd twisted her words. “I have no intention of—”

“Being stubborn? You? Nay.” He laughed mockingly.

“We must settle this.”

He looked pointedly at her hand. “Then why come to me with another purpose? Sibeal will shear me without motive.”

The troll intended to make her mission as difficult as possible. She had been wrong to ignore his gestures of reconciliation, but she'd been plagued by confusion and fear. She wanted peace between them. Especially now. A jest might work. “What you said about Sibeal grooming you may be true, but she cannot call up her ancestors to nibble at your manhood.”

That got his attention. His hands stilled, and his measuring gaze surveyed her from head to toe. “You would use your charms to make peace between us?”

“Charms? It was meant as humorous conversation.”

He tapped the comb on his thigh.

“Oh, very well,” she said. “I meant it as an insult to your manliness.”

“Then you erred in the attempt, for you do not grasp the meaning of the jest.”

Everyone, even the mercer, swore Revas couldn't hold a temper for long. Sadly, they were wrong, for he gave no hint that he would come easily to terms with her.

She moved closer. “Please enlighten me.”

“An ardent man suckles his woman's breasts. If she is so inclined, she returns the favor by nibbling his manhood.”

A vivid picture shamed her, and she blurted, “I did not conceive, and why must you use such rough talk?” Why had she revealed something as personal as the coming of her cycle?

He put down the knife and comb. “Rough? Hardly. You broached the subject, and suckling your breasts is my second favorite pastime.”

How dare he name her stubborn. The toad. “Then your first love is Scottish politics.”

He gave her a roguish grin and a villainous laugh. “Again you err.”

Her patience fled. “I am trying to make pleasant conversation.”

“If this is pleasant conversation, you must be speaking French.” Softer he added, “Do you suffer with your menses?”

Civilly put, the question dashed her embarrassment. “No. I am average in that respect.” She worked the shears. “Shall I trim your hair?”

“Aye, but do not nibble my ears.” He handed her the half-finished comb. “And try this.”

Into the wood, he'd carved a cinquefoil. She realized the comb was to be a gift for her—a peace offering. He'd always been thoughtful and generous where her personal needs were concerned.

Inspired, she walked around behind him and drew the comb through his hair. Thick and wavy near his scalp, the uneven strands turned frayed and singed. In a hail of cinders, he'd beat out the fire and saved her life.

She wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him that no one had ever put her welfare before his own. Few women enjoyed so much husbandly devotion.

“Is something amiss with the comb?”

“No.” Her voice was thick with emotion, and she cleared her throat. “It's a very fine comb.”

He shrugged, and she wished she could see his face. As she clipped the singed ends of his hair, she prayed he would soon speak to her in the friendly banter she missed.

To encourage him, she said, “Shall I close-crop it, like the Normandy men prefer?”

“Do and I shall toss you into the pond with the geese and the toads.”

She leaned close and whispered, “Ellen said I should leave braids at your temples.” He trembled, and she continued. “They are the mark of a man of great import.”

He swallowed loudly. “What do you think?”

“That I cannot nibble your ear with your hair covering it.”

He cocked his head to the side and raked his hair out of the way, effectively presenting his ear. “I'm here to please.”

Words she should have spoken earlier came rushing out. “I should have said that I am grateful to you for putting out the fire, and I'm sorry you burned your hair.”

Dropping his hand, he turned, and his look was steady, as if he knew she had more to say.

“I was stubborn and afraid.”

“Others may not have been offended and worse, but to me, you were unreasonably stubborn.”

He meant that she should have considered his feelings. He was correct. “Yes.”

“And I was blinded by anger because I failed to protect you.”

A man as powerful and honorable as he would suffer. To give him ease, she said, “Worry not, for I am so safe, only Elginshire midges brave my presence.”

When he gave her a slight nod, she broached an important matter. “William said you sent word to King Robert of what my father has done.”

Staring at her lips, he licked his own. “You have resolved your differences with your brother?”

With William looking on, she had finished the new tapestry. Together they had explored the years of estrangement. He was no longer the cheerful young lad, but neither was he cold and deliberate like her father and her other kinsmen. “I confess I do like him.”

His gaze slid to hers. “You gave him a flower penny?”

Were they hers to give, she'd bestow the stars upon Revas Macduff. But so guarded were his feelings, she read no emotion, no need, in his eyes.

“I gave William two flower pennies. They are for his children. What do you think the king will do?”

Blinking, he glanced away. “I think he will do nothing. You are sleeping well? No unpleasant dreams?”

“Would you have come to me, had I awakened in fear?”

Like a compass needle swinging true, his attention came back to her. “In a trice. 'Tis a husband's duty to comfort his wife.”

They could have been discussing the ceiling beams, so amiable was their exchange, so uncommitted their words. He showed no feelings, except for that tiny glimmer in his eye, which she intended to explore. A moderate topic would be best. “Gibby is learning to weave.”

“So she said.”

A tent of apprehension dropped over them. Meridene's heart began to pound. “You went a-fielding with her on Monday.”

Silence was his reply.

He had invited her, but she'd been too stubborn and prideful to accept. “I should have gone with you,” she admitted. “I regret that I did not.”

His gaze sharpened. “I should like you to give me the sword of Chapling. I regret that you have not.”

Bluntly said, the statement went to the heart of his purpose. Disappointment awaited him, and for that she was truly sorry. To fortify herself, she took a deep breath. “There is no claim to make against my father's throne. I am a virgin no more.”

He grew eager. “You have considered demanding the sword? It has crossed your mind?”

She had done little else since their quarrel, save think of her future and the man she loved and had alienated. By facing her father, she could seek the reward of revenge. After so much suffering at his hands, she wanted retribution. “Yes, but it matters not, for I have lain with you.”

His brief smile dented the solemn mood. “Your mother had lain with Cutberth before she gave the sword to him.”

Disbelief turned to puzzlement. “How do you know that?”

“How could you
not
know it?” He pointed to the book. “ 'Tis in the Covenant for all to see. Eleanor miscarried a fortnight after speaking her wedding vows.”

Now was the time for truth. Meridene put down the shears and walked to the pedestal table where the Covenant rested. Where Revas had kept it for so many years. Once he cared more for her heritage than she, but no longer. “I have not read my mother's chronicle.”

“Perhaps not of late, but surely you remember her poor legacy.”

Poor legacy. An apt description of Eleanor's motherly devotion. This latest transgression didn't surprise Meridene, for her mother had withdrawn from her children early in their lives. “As a child, I was not allowed to touch the book. My mother locked it away with the Maiden's belt.” And just because she could, Meridene laid her hands on the book and caressed the ancient bindings.

“But on the day we were wed, you gave it into my keeping. You were ill from the poison, but surely you remember.”

She did, but the pain of that day had diminished, along with so many heartaches from her youth. “I gave it to you one day after my mother placed it in my hand. I could not let the English king see it. I was not alone on that journey here, save at night, and they did not provide me with a lamp.”

If eyes could speak, his verily trilled a welcome. “You were so lovely, Meridene. I still remember the clean smell of your clothing and the softness of your skin. You were quite the bonniest sight I'd ever seen.”

As she basked in his flattery, she remembered him saying those very words to her and more. The butcher's son who feared for his own life, yet found the strength to reassure a frightened and abandoned girl. “You were the most gallant lad I'd ever met.”

“You do not know what your mother put down in the book?”

Meridene had picked up the book countless times, but couldn't find the courage to read it. “No.”

“Shall I tell you? Will you take the word of a butcher's son?”

Coming from him, the words might not be so hurtful. She relaxed and leaned on the high table. “Please. What did she write?”

His expression turned sad. “No words. She only listed the dates of her children's births and the miscarriages.”

The knowledge should have saddened Meridene, but she was growing accustomed to her parents' selfish ways. A mother who cursed her child wouldn't bother with words of encouragement, even if she was the Maiden of Inverness and bound to ensure continuation of the legacy. Her own troubles must have caused her indifference, for Ailis, in her own hand, had taken the blame for giving Eleanor to Cutberth.

“My mother suffered the loss of two babes.”

“Aye, and the first was a fortnight after she gave the sword to Cutberth. The second child was lost 'twixt William's birth and yours.”