Wolf Bride (38 page)

Then the sickness took hold of him again, and the nightmares returned.

Eloise was there, a welcoming smile on her face. He could hear water running sweetly behind her, and smelt moss, the tang of summer flowers. He was lying on his back in a sunlit meadow and Eloise was kneeling beside him, stroking his head. Her golden hair tumbled over him, brushing his cheek. She looked down at him, her eyes so warm and loving he felt he could tell her anything.

‘I love you,’ he whispered. ‘Eloise.’

But her face suddenly clouded over. She did not want his love. Her eyes grew cold. She told him his love was smothering her, like a hand across her mouth. Then they were arguing, and Eloise was saying she could not love him, that she had never felt anything for him, that she was in love with another man.

He reached for her. ‘Eloise, please . . .’ He was begging, he realised. Begging like a fool for her love, as he had once begged Margerie.

Then it happened again, just as he had feared.

She rose and left him without a word. The meadow grew chill and silent, as though a dark cloud had covered the face of the sun and all the flowers had withered. Then the meadow itself vanished, and he was alone in a darkened chamber, only the glow of a fire to keep him company. He had driven his betrothed away with his obsessive love, and he knew she would never return.

Wolf lay hot and aching in the darkness, his heart in turmoil, his body on fire. What had he done amiss?

He slung an arm over his eyes, fighting back the tears that would betray his weakness. ‘I will never love again,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Never.’

Eloise closed the door to their bedchamber and stood a moment in silence, her face hidden in her hands. It was so hard to watch him suffer. But at least his fever was subsiding. He would live. She had stripped and bathed Wolf in cool water as the physician had suggested, and given him poppy juice to help him sleep, and now he seemed over the worst.

He was still having nightmares, though. She feared his rambling, tormented dreams, wondering who was with him in that shadowy half-world into which he had retreated since his injury.

She had still not recovered from the horror of receiving that first missive, the news that her husband was gravely wounded and close to death. When their cavalcade arrived at the hall, Wolf tossing and sweating in his litter, half-crazed with fever, she had thought his death imminent. That first night had been spent on her knees beside his bed, praying relentlessly for his safe recovery and following the physician’s instructions as carefully as she could.

By the time day broke, she had been almost dead herself, barely able to rise and lie down beside him, needing to close her eyes for a space.

If she had not fully appreciated his physical strength before, she knew it now. At the height of his fever, it had taken three men to restrain Wolf as he fought and lashed out, cursing them for traitors in his feverish dreams.

Hugh Beaufort appeared in the doorway to the hall. ‘My lady,’ he said deeply, bowing.

She smiled at him thankfully. Hugh had stayed on after escorting her and Susannah back to Wolf Hall, gallantly insisting he could not leave two women alone and unprotected when there was an uprising in the north country. Even when Susannah had been ordered back home to face her father’s wrath at her running away to court, Hugh had stayed at the hall rather than return to London. ‘Lord Wolf would never forgive me if I left you alone here. I shall await his return, and make my way south after that.’

Eloise had secretly suspected Hugh of wishing to spend time with Susannah, for the two seemed to have grown dangerously close again in recent weeks, despite their frequent quarrels. It should not be encouraged, for she knew her stubborn father still intended Susannah to marry one of his old friends, a local landowner, and would not look favourably on this match with a stranger, however influential with the king. Yet who was she to force them apart?

For now, she was deeply grateful to have another gentleman about the house, for she could think of nothing but Wolf while he lay so dangerously ill, and there were daily tasks to be done about the hall which Hugh had willingly taken on.

Hugh straightened, frowning at her appearance. He shook his head. No doubt she looked quite wild and dishevelled, she thought wryly. ‘You should rest, my lady. You have not slept these two days.’

‘My lord needs constant care and attendance.’

‘Then let a servant attend him. You will do your husband no good by working yourself into the grave.’

‘Maybe an hour or two, then. But I cannot leave him alone for long. When they first carried Wolf inside, I feared . . .’ She closed her eyes. ‘I thought he would die, Hugh.’

‘He is stronger than he looks.’

‘Yes.’ She drew a long breath, trying to prepare herself for the worst. ‘But his wound irks him. I worry it may fester and poison his blood. He is in great pain, though the fever has masked it. The physician fears that Wolf . . . that my husband . . .’

She halted, suddenly unable to go on.

‘Speak it,’ Hugh urged her.

Eloise looked at him, her agony out in the open. ‘Wolf may never be a whole man again.’

His expression was grim. ‘His groin?’

She nodded.

‘Sweet Jesu,’ Hugh muttered, shaking his head in pity. ‘And Wolf is such a man that any doubt or shame cast on his manhood would kill him.’

‘I fear so too.’

Her husband’s friend came nearer, laying a hand gently on her sleeve. ‘And you, my lady? How do you fare under that burden?’

‘What I feel is not important,’ she told him proudly, shaking away the tears.

Eloise straightened, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin. Yes, her heart was burning with agony, knowing she might never more feel Wolf’s hard body driving into hers. Yet even if he never lay with her again, never gave her that hot, intense pleasure she had come to crave, she would not love him any less. Not even knowing that he loved another woman.

‘Whatever tomorrow brings, Wolf is still my husband.’

Wolf limped to the window and stared down into the sunlit gardens. Eloise was directly below, giving directions to the servants as they clipped and garnered herbs for the kitchen. She looked so radiant these days, her breasts swelling out of her bodice, her hips sweetly curved under the coarse apron she had donned for household work.

He felt a stirring of arousal and smiled hungrily, wishing she would hurry back upstairs. Though even if she came to him now, he knew they would not end up in bed together.

It was some three weeks now since he had woken to find his fever gone and his body weak, but healing slowly. He was glad to be home at Wolf Hall, to have these familiar old rooms about him as he regained his strength. But he was not a fool, and he could not help remarking how aloof Eloise had been since his body cooled and he opened his eyes to find her face beside him.

To see her at his bedside when he woke, a lovely, golden-haired siren in a white gown, had given him a simple joy he had never known before. He had wanted her as before, yet now his lust had turned to purified desire, a love he had never felt, even for Margerie. For that had been a boy’s love, a burning need to possess and have his manhood confirmed by their mutual pleasure. Now he looked at Eloise and felt friendship as well as desire, the need to embrace and comfort her as well as take her to bed.

What was that if not a man’s love?

It had not felt wise to declare his love too soon though, still in this damnable weakened state, a healing scar on his groin that could yet make him less than a man.

So Wolf had tried to express his love to her in smaller ways, kissing her hand and asking her to play chess with him or read aloud from Chaucer’s tales, loving the hours they spent together in such idle pursuits. Eloise had not responded though, drawing away whenever he began to kiss her, her face shuttered.

Why?

It had to be his old ghost, Margerie. When they had parted at court, he had known Eloise feared he was still in love with his former betrothed. But she could not be more mistaken.

He loved Eloise to distraction. And he knew she was not indifferent to him. Far from it. His body ached with arousal, remembering how they had lain together so passionately before the king had ordered him north. He could have sworn then that she loved him, that Simon was forgotten at last and her heart belonged to him alone. Yet now she was strangely distant, avoiding his touch as though she feared it.

She looked up at that moment, seeing him at the window. His gaze met hers. He felt the shock through his body as she stared back, smoothing her blue gown over her hips, almost nervous. What was she thinking?

Frustration seized him and he spun away from the window, limping heavily back to his bed.

Moments later, she came into the bedchamber, closing the door quietly behind her when she saw him lying clothed on his bed. Slowly she unlaced her work apron and laid it aside, each movement unconsciously sensual, making his blood rise.

God, he wanted her.

But had she lost her desire for him now he was all but bedridden? He saw concern in her expression, and silently cursed his injury for reducing him to the status of an invalid.

He must show Eloise he was still a man, still capable of siring the child he was sure she must want. Then perhaps she would look on him less indifferently when she came to his bedside.

‘My lord? What is this? You should not be out of bed yet. The physician says . . .’

‘Damn the physician,’ he growled, and held out his hand. ‘Come here, woman.’

‘Wolf, I . . .’ She shook her head, not moving.

‘Yes? What would you say, Eloise?’ He stared at her, his jaw tense, his body aching with need, dangerously close to that madness he had denied feeling before. ‘Am I not your husband? Are you not my wife?’

‘You are not strong enough,’ she began tentatively, but he saw the flush in her cheeks, heard the tremble in her voice, and he knew she wanted him too.

‘You would deny me my rights, is that it?’

‘Wolf, please.’

He slid his legs to the floor and crossed the room towards her, carefully schooling himself to hide the jarring pain in his leg. He stopped before her, and searched her face for signs that his touch might be unwelcome. He was her husband, but he was no rapist.

‘Eloise, what is this foolish hesitation?’ He brushed her cheek with his fingers, and frowned at how she recoiled from his touch. Pain flashed through him and he too winced, taking a step back. ‘God’s blood, woman. Am I such an ogre?’

She shook her head, apparently struck dumb.

‘Is this about Margerie?’

Her lips parted as though to agree, her face startled, her colour rising, yet still she did not speak.

‘I do not love Margerie,’ he told her bluntly. ‘She never loved me, but she was everything to me once, I admit it. That is all over. She came to see me at court. She knew the king desired you, and she offered us help. It was her idea for Kate Langley to accompany me to the king’s privy chamber that night.’

He turned away abruptly. Eloise did not care who he loved or did not love, she merely thought him an invalid. If he could no longer pleasure her, her thoughts would soon incline to Simon Thetford again. And why not? Thetford was younger than Wolf, and would no doubt fill her bed as readily as he had done.

The thought of her in bed with another man made him groan aloud, his fists clenched in helpless rage.

‘My lord, what is it? Are you . . . are you in pain?’

‘Yes,’ he bit out, and turned to face her. He took her by the shoulders, the scent of her skin driving him wild. ‘I am in agony over you, can you not see it?’

His voice broke, suddenly hoarse. ‘I lusted after you from the first, Eloise. Your smile makes a man want to come inside you. The king wanted you too. Hard to blame him, knowing how very beddable you are.’ He paused, then forced the words out. ‘But you were only ever a body to me, a female to bring me pleasure and bear me sons.’

She made a rough sound under her breath. ‘Please . . .’

‘No, you must listen. After Margerie, I told myself I would never be such a fool as to love another woman. Not even my wife. That was why I was happy to marry you, knowing you were in love with Thetford and would not demand a closer bond.’ He forced a smile to his lips, but it fell awry, twisting into a grimace. ‘Only I changed my mind once we were lovers. I could not help myself.’

‘And Margerie?’

‘I told you, that’s over.’

‘So easily?’

‘Damn you, no, not so easily,’ he growled, his voice brittle with tension. ‘When I saw Margerie again at court, I realised what a fool I had been to hold on to her memory. If I loved anything, it was the dream of her. Not the woman she has become. There was nothing in my heart when I saw her again but pity.’

‘Pity?’ she queried, frowning.

He nodded. ‘For the terrible life she has led since we parted, for she lost her reputation when she broke off our betrothal and ran away with another man. She has no hope of making a respectable marriage now.’

‘And what of that letter you wrote to her, my lord?’