12

12

Konrad was quietly watchful at supper. It did not go unnoticed by him that Magnatrude was only directing her conversation toward him these days, while Aimee and Freda conversed quietly with one another. His wife’s manner toward him was polite but more subdued than usual. She did not brighten like before whenever her eye happened to fall on him. He hadn’t even realized she did that until she stopped doing it. For some reason, the change irked him.

Why the fuck had his loss at Kellingford made him a prospective bridegroom as far as she was concerned?

He felt an absurd impulse to bellow the question out loud to her now in front of everyone. What would she say? She liked losers? He threw down his bread and glared ferociously down the table in a manner that made Freda, happening to glance up at that moment, gasp and drop her spoon.

“Whatever is the matter, Konrad?” Magnatrude asked, catching sight of his expression.

“I was thinking of something else,” he muttered ill-naturedly.

“Well kindly direct your murderous glances elsewhere,” his sister requested with a shudder. “We poor females are not used to such a terrifying sight across the supper table.”

Aimee glanced up at this with a spark in her eye and looked, for a moment, as though she would join the fray. He felt a sharp stab of disappointment assail him when she did not. Had she been going to defend his right to scowl at his own supper table?

Absurdly, he found himself wondering if they might not be afforded the privacy of dining alone once in a while. He could ask her anything he damned well liked if his plaguey female relatives weren’t cluttering up the place.

When he announced he was retiring for the evening, his wife bade him a good night and made no attempt to delay him with conversation or any other tactic as she had before. He frowned over this as he left the room.

Something was not quite right about how things were running; he felt it deep in his bones. As he mounted the staircase to his room, he spied one of the servants coming down. “Send Ingrid to me,” he rapped out, sending the lad scurrying.

He was dragging a shaving blade down his unscarred cheek when Ingrid appeared in the doorway with her sleeves rolled up and a disagreeable expression on her face. This was nothing out of the ordinary for Ingrid. She opened her mouth but got no further than “I’m in the midst of –” before he interrupted her.

“Never mind that now!” he replied smartly, half turning toward her but keeping his eye on the mirrored glass. For some reason, he was attempting to keep his beard in some sort of order since his marriage. He didn’t want to examine his motives for this too closely. “I want to know what’s going on in this household.”

Ingrid plunked her hands on her hips. “How do ye mean?” she stalled, looking suspicious.

“You know full well what I mean.”

She shot him a wary look. “Among the womenfolk, ye mean?” she asked cautiously.

At her words, he briefly closed his eyes. He had known a houseful of fool women would be a damned nuisance. “Aye,” he growled. “The womenfolk.” Gods damn it. He turned back to the glass.

Ingrid shrugged. “They ain’t fightin’ it out like what they’m s’posed to, that’s all.”

He frowned at her in the mirror. “I don’t take your meaning.”

She rolled her eyes. “A’course you don’t, milord. Ain’t got the first idea, have you, on account of your being a man.” She pursed her lips, and he wasn’t sure she wouldn’t have spat after the word ‘man’ if she hadn’t been in his presence.

He lowered his blade and glowered at her in their reflection. “They aren’t fighting it out,” he repeated bitingly. “Explain to me what you mean by that.”

“Well, there’s a natural order and there’s a pecking order in any fine house, ain’t there?” When he continued to look blank, she sighed. “First ways, you’ve got the established order. Man at the head and mistress after him and such like.” Ingrid started to warm to her theme. “But behind that, you got the pecking order, which is assumed by nature, so to speak.”

Konrad picked up a cloth and dabbed at his cheek but kept his eyes on Ingrid. “Go on.”

“Like sows,” she said. “They’ll go as far as to draw blood when it comes to showing dominance.” Sows? When he continued to look unconvinced, she tried again. “Let me put it this way, consider the old place.” He grunted. She meant Bartree castle, of course. “Your stepmother, the Lady Adela, was official mistress of the house for a seven year, but everyone knew as she never had the running of the place. Mistress Magnatrude always kept the keys on her chatelaine, and she guarded them close by her. That’s why she never married. Why should she? When she already had a home of her own where her word was law.”

“Are you trying to tell me that Trude is trying to wrest the reins from my wife?” he asked, starting the tricky business of shaving the carved-up side of his face. He should just let Jakeman see to this, he thought as he navigated the scars. He made a far better job of it than he ever did. But he was always leery of letting people get up close to the left side of his face. It made him feel vulnerable.

Ingrid hesitated. “No,” she said after a moment’s consideration and scratched her head. “No, I wouldn’t say as Mistress Magnatrude’s done that.” She frowned. “Truthfully, she ain’t shown a morsel of interest in how thisplace is run.”

Konrad considered Ingrid shrewdly in the looking glass. “Thinks a townhouse is beneath her interest, does she?” he grunted, thinking of Trude’s grand manner. He pulled a face. “Of course she does.” He dabbed a cloth at his cheek, deciding that would have to do, and turned to fully face her. “So, if she’s not trying to lord it over Aimee, then wherein lies the problem?”

Ingrid rubbed her nose. “Like I said, they ain’t fighting it out.” At his expression, she plunked her hands on her hips. “It’s like this. Your sister ain’t letting the new baroness take her rightful place in rank above her. But the new mistress, she ain’t the sort to be ridden roughshod over. She’s got plenty about her, alright.” She gave a chuckle. “I seed that alright when you sent me to tend her after your wedding night. I bleeds more on me courses, Ingrid, that’s what she said. Let him have his sheets changed, if he wants, you let me alone. I sat in a bath all afternoon, and I ain’t a’takin of one now! A washcloth will do very well for naught but a spot of blood.”

Konrad felt his color rise. “That’s enough, Ingrid!” he snapped. The old woman snorted. For a moment, he considered dismissing the impudent old witch. “Just how would Trude deny my wife’s rightful place?” he demanded instead impatiently. Without preamble, she told him. “So Trude spends her day skulking above stairs?” he clarified.

Ingrid nodded comfortably. “Taken that little oaken parlor for her own domain, she has.” Ingrid paused heavily as though debating telling him something. “And she’s been sending out messages and greetings and such like today and all.”

“Messages?”

Ingrid nodded. “She heard as how the Strethneals are in Caer Lyoness.”

Konrad’s eyebrows rose. “My sister would surely not be so brazen as to invite callers to another woman’s house without performing the correct introductions,” he said heavily.

“Happen she don’t think of it as Lady Kentigern’s house,” Ingrid sniffed. “Happen, she thinks of it as yours.” Konrad bristled, but the servant rattled on before he could correct this misconception. “But as it happens, Mistress Magnatrude had a reply from the countess the self-same day, inviting her to call on them on the morrow.”

“The Strethneals have lodgings in town?”

“They’s taken quarters at the palace,” Ingrid replied with some malicious satisfaction.

“What?” He did not even try to conceal his astonishment at this development. The Strethneals had always been staunch supporters of the Blechmarsh claim. For them to take up positions as courtiers now at the southern court surprised him.

“They’re not the only northern nobles here, neither!” Ingrid carried on. “The Martindales is here too, at the palace.”

Konrad grunted. Everyone knew Guy Randall was enamored of his southern wife. Consequently, their presence at court was no surprise. The Strethneals, though … Times were changing, he reflected. Presumably, they were here for the tournament. He wondered if Princess Una would be in attendance and felt the familiar cold prickle of shame that washed over him when he thought of the fate of their northern princess. He had done nothing to save her from her unworthy marriage.

He had lost half his sight and endured horrific wounds in battle to defend the northern standard, but when it came to the fate of that ill-starred damsel, he had turned his back on the last of the Blechmarshes. The monarchs he had pledged his life to defend.

Was his sister in the right of it? Should he have competed to win Una’s hand? There was no actual bar to northern entrants to the fray, though common opinion had been that Wymer would ne’er have allowed a former follower to win her hand. The fact of the matter was that Konrad had shrunk from the notion of spending the rest of his life with a constant reminder of all that he had lost.

He was ashamed of his behavior, that was the stark truth. He had made damn sure he was on the wrong side of the country when that fateful May Day tournament had taken place. He had spent a full week roaring drunk, holed up in a secluded hunting lodge.

What would he have done with the princess if he had won her anyway? Neither carting her from one tournament to another seemed right, nor leaving her to rot at Bartree Lodge with his increasingly embittered sister.

He dried off his face. It was a moot point now in any case. Both he and the princess’s fate were sealed. He peered at the mirror and wondered how his bride could look him so squarely in the eye without flinching. So lost in thought was he that only Ingrid’s wheezing cough roused him from his ponderings. “Send my sister up to me,” he said shortly.

Magnatrude took her sweet time making her way up from the floor below. By the time she knocked on his door, he had long finished his ablutions and was glancing into the cavernous cabinet that Jakeman had stored his clothes in. All his garments fitted neatly into one corner of the thing.

“Come in,” he called back over his shoulder, and his sister came into the room, closing the door smartly behind her.

“My, what a grand bedchamber,” she commented. “You must have the best in the house. Goodness,” she commented wryly, looking down at the fancy doublet he had found laid on his bed that evening. “Your taste in clothing has grown a good deal grander than I recall.”

“And yours a good deal shabbier,” he responded, fastening the cupboard door shut and turning to survey her.

She bridled at his words. “I am not ashamed of the clothes on my back,” she said lifting her chin. “They have done me sterling service this past decade.”

“Should you like to join a nunnery, Trude?” he asked forthrightly, making his sister gasp. “It could be easily arranged, and shabby black gowns won’t raise an eyebrow there.” He paused a moment before adding conversationally, “Was it your intention to make a show of me before the Strethneals with your mean apparel?”

She turned a dull red at that. “Someone has been talking,” she muttered. “Ingrid, of course. Her first loyalty was always to you.” He made no reply, as the matter of Ingrid’s loyalty was obvious. It would belong, of course, to her liege lord. “You do not wish me to meet with the Strethneals?”

“I simply fail to see the need for all the secrecy. Why are you shutting yourself away all day in one room until my return of an evening?”

“I don’t know what you mean!” she flung back at him. “I live very quietly at the lodge and am not used to the society of other women!”

Konrad snorted. “Yet you crave the society of the Countess of Strethneal.” When she did not speak, he added, “Freda, too, shares your circumstances, yet she does not scorn my wife’s company.”

Trude’s mouth twisted. “I always forget how confrontational you are,” she mused. “It’s a shame, brother, that you could not have brought this same fighting spirit to the May Day tournament last year.” So, there it was. Evidently, she had still not forgiven him for that.

“A strange wish considering your avowed aversion to female company. Should you have liked a fellow inmate at Bartree Lodge, sister?” Konrad growled. “Another spectator to the slow degradation of our former home? Knowing how terrible you believe your own fate, you think Princess Una has not yet suffered enough that she should share in it?”

Trude flushed. “It would be better than the fate that has overtaken her,” she flung at him.

Konrad shrugged. “De Bussell is an amiable enough fellow. I daresay his company is far preferable to my own.”

His sister’s breath hissed through her teeth. “That southerner is not fit to clean her shoes let alone to warm her bed!”

Konrad snorted. “What do you know of bed-warmings? If you had not been so capricious, you would have been wed years ago.”

“You fling that at me?” she seethed. “You? Who was jilted just as I was! I would have thought your own experience would ensure some fellow feeling, but you are as cruel in this as everything else!”

“Spare me the histrionics, sister. Even without the intercession of the war, I doubt you would have wed Kimarne. You bickered more than you were ever in accord.”

“How dare you speak his name in front of me!”

“And as for my own experience,” Konrad continued dryly. “I consider the fact I never married to be a blessing. Grace Fultree would have been miserable indeed this last six years, rattling around Bartree Lodge with you!”

“Any wife of yours would be miserable!” Trude raged. “For you have a flinty heart and a cold, intractable nature!”

Konrad laughed. “Yet my wife seems content enough,” he pointed out with a shrug.

“Oh yes,” agreed Magnatrude. “She is vastly pleased with herself! But mark you, ’tis only because she does not know any better!”

The humor fell from his face. “Watch your words,” he warned in a low voice, and to do her justice, his sister looked instantly contrite.

“I did not mean –” she broke off, before adding in a low voice. “You know I did not mean her lack of breeding, brother.”

“Her breeding is none of your concern. It is thanks to her that the home of our ancestors is to be fully restored.”

“Thanks to her father, the rich merchant, you mean!”

“No,” Konrad corrected her swiftly. “For it was she that picked me out, not him.” His sister was struck speechless for once. He had surprised himself by sharing that fact with her. Was he bragging?

It suddenly occurred to him with uncomfortable clarity that Aimee might have a thing for tragic figures. He stroked unconsciously at his mangled cheek. Could that be why pretty Aimee had picked out the ugliest knight in Karadok for her groom? The notion displeased him. Dimly, he realized his sister was speaking once more. Some rubbish about the company of her fellow countrymen being a balm to her soul.

“Karadok is one unified country now,” he pointed out shortly. It was something he had never actually said aloud before. “You meet with these so-called countrymen in the palace of our former enemy, to whom they now bend the knee. Can you even hear yourself?” When Magnatrude opened her mouth to speak again, he threw up his hand. “Enough! You will show my wife due deference, Trude. Whether you like it or not. I will not have her insulted in her own home. Do you understand?”

His sister’s expression turned mutinous. “I have never –” she started, but jumped violently when he repeated the last two sentences in a thunderous roar. “I understand!” she gasped, clapping her hands to her ears.

“There will be no more hogging of that withdrawing chamber. It is not for your exclusive use. From tomorrow, you will act as a civil guest in her house. Leave now.”

Magnatrude hurried to the door, her face aflame. Once there, she hesitated with her hand on the latch. “What of my visit tomorrow to the palace?” she asked in a sullen voice. “Am I to go or not?”

“It’s a little late in the day to ask me that, isn’t it?”

“May I go?”

“If you wish it, but, Trude …”

“Yes?”

“At the tournament the following day, you will make the necessary introductions to my wife, do I make myself clear?”

An expression of anger entered her eyes, which she swiftly masked by lowering her gaze. “Yes, brother.”

“You may go.”

The door closed after her, and Konrad stared at it a moment with a heavy frown. He should have bundled Trude off to a convent years ago. She had fasted two days a week since girlhood and clearly thought herself some kind of martyr. Kimarne had doubtless known what he was about when he had thrown her over. Last he had heard, the bastard now had three fine sons to bear his name.

On impulse, he walked out of his room and up the corridor, pausing outside his wife’s room. Before he could change his mind, he rapped twice and then pushed at the unlatched door. Aimee was stood by the window holding up a gown to the light.

He cleared his throat. “Can I come in?”

“Of course!” She lowered the gown at once, threw it on top of the trunk, and turned to face him. “Did you like your new tunic?” she asked with a faintly anxious look in her eye.

New tunic? He nodded. For some reason, he couldn’t remember what it was he had been going to say. “It looks different in here,” he observed instead, looking about him.

“Oh yes.” She looked pleased by his comment and pointed at once up at the ceiling. He followed her finger uncomprehendingly. “The carpenter fixed it up for me so I could hang my bed curtains. And there’s more furniture, of course. Did you see I put one of our wedding chests in your room?”

He grunted. What the fuck was a wedding chest? She had put a whole bunch of clutter in his room, he knew that much.

“Would you like a seat?” she asked politely, gesturing toward two chairs she had set before the large fireplace. “Or … are you staying?” Her eyes darted to the bed, and her cheeks turned a little pinker, but she did not drop her gaze from his, and to his amazement, her expression looked more hopeful than otherwise.

She wanted that? He cleared his throat again and made his way over to a chair which he dropped down into. At once, she seemed to brighten right up and bustled over to a side table to pour some wine. When she fetched it to him and sank into the chair opposite, she was practically beaming.

“How was your training today? Is all looking well for the royal tournament?” She took a sip of wine, and Konrad found himself casting about for something agreeable to say.

“I don’t plan on crashing out in the first round this time, if that’s what you mean,” he heard himself reply heavily. Not quite the tone he was aiming for, but she flashed her dimples at him in any case.

“I thought it was wonderful how you took your loss at Kellingford. That’s what made me –” Her breath caught a moment, and her color heightened. “Like you so much.”

Konrad was thunderstruck. How he had taken his loss? He cast his mind back. At the time, he had been so bloody surprised and pleased for Renlow that he had congratulated the lad. Shit. Did she think he was some kind of parfait knight who espoused fair play? If so, she was in for a rude awakening! “Was Kellingford the only tournament you’ve seen me fight in?” he asked slowly.

“No,” she admitted. “I also saw you before once at the palace, but we were far from the noble’s boxes and did not have the greatest view.” He made no reply to this, surmising she must have been among the crowds in the commoner’s stands. She rattled on. “I wonder if my sister will attend with Sir Renlow? I must send a message to enquire.”

He forced his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “You think they will have left your father’s house by now?” He had his doubts.

“Of course!” Aimee responded at once. “Ursula was not really poorly, you know. The celebrations were all just a bit too much for her.”

He shrugged. “She lacks backbone.”

“No, that is not fair,” Aimee objected. “She has a very sweet nature in truth …” Her words trailed off, and she traced a finger on the arm of her chair. “Were you disappointed?” she blurted suddenly, taking him by surprise. “When you found out?”

He lowered his goblet. “Disappointed? About what?”

“That it was me, I mean. That I was the one …”

The door flung open, and Golda came sailing in with a pitcher of water. “Oh!” She halted so abruptly when she saw them seated together that the water sloshed from the jug. “I had not realized, milady,” she said backing up.

“It is of no matter, Golda,” Aimee assured her. “If you just set it down over there, it will suffice.”

“And have someone light the fire,” Konrad added.

Golda pursed her lips and set down the pitcher of hot water. “Yes, milord,” she muttered and beat a hasty retreat. An awkward silence fell over the room in her wake.

“Should I have asked for Golda to send up some refreshment? Dates maybe or some pickled walnuts?”

Konrad ignored this as nervous chatter. “I was not disappointed,” he said heavily.

Her eyes went wide. “Truly?” He gave an affirmative nod, though how she could think otherwise was beyond him. She lowered her voice. “Do you suppose Sir Renlow might also have been in the dark about which of us was his intended?” she looked concerned.

Konrad shrugged. “If he was, he likely kept his surprise to himself.” It stood to reason that Renlow would have more discretion than a blunt bastard like himself.

“I hope so,” Aimee bit her lip. “Ursula is quite sensitive, and I should not like her to have been upset by any misunderstanding.” When he made no reply, he could almost see her casting about for some other topic. “My father came to the house today,” she said brightly. “He spent above an hour with Freda and myself.”

“Freda has been keeping you company?”

“Oh yes, for most of today.”

“She won’t tomorrow.”

She looked startled. “She won’t?”

He shook his head. “Trude will need her company when she goes visiting.”

“Your sister has acquaintances in the capital?”

“Apparently,” he admitted grudgingly. “Some visiting northern dignitaries.”

“Oh.”

“Doubtless she will introduce you to them at the tournament.”

Aimee’s expression wavered somewhere in between gratification and nervousness. “Last year, Ursula and I spent some months with the Wycliffe family. Do you know them at all?”

He frowned. “No. They are southern?”

“Oh, yes. Their manor is only a day’s ride from Caer Lyoness.” She hesitated before adding, “I did not like them very much.”

He could not help himself from asking: “Why?”

“They were … stuffy and rather condescending. Sir Maurice apparently has debts which is why he agreed to my father’s scheme in the first place.” Konrad could think of no reply to make to this. After all, his own situation was not so very different. “I do not think Lady Wycliffe much appreciated having to squire about a pair of merchant’s daughters to meet all her acquaintances.”

He wondered if that had been a bone of contention. Was that why Aimee Ankatel had wanted to wed him? To secure a title to rival this Lady Wycliffe’s own? The notion made him frown. “Do they attend the royal tournaments?” he asked abruptly.

“I should not think so,” she answered at once. “They go to various royal functions, but they are a scholarly family and more interested in things such as astronomy and natural philosophy.”

Konrad snorted disparagingly. “I’m not surprised you disliked them. They sound a dull bunch.”

“They were,” Aimee agreed fervently, her dimple flashing out at him again. “For a while, I was quite worried their son James might offer for one of us, but when it came down to it, he could not quite make the sacrifice. He is a great lover of music, you see, and our untutored playing made him wince. Then he took great offence to a song I sang one night after dinner.”

Konrad frowned. First Willard Hemming and now this James Wycliffe. It was a miracle Aimee Ankatel had remained unwed this long, especially considering her father’s fortune. “Was there ever anyone you ever did want to marry?” he asked.

Her gaze flew to meet his before dropping. “Well, yes,” she admitted simply. “There was you.”

A knock on the door interrupted them, sparing him from making any answer. Golda re-entered the room carrying a second jug of steaming water. A large manservant on her heels carried an armful of logs. Konrad was not sure if this water was for him to wash or to replace that she had spilled. Golda set it down and departed with a curtsey.

Meanwhile, the fire in the hearth was kindled and set alight. The burly servant stacked some logs at the side of the fireplace and bowed clumsily before hurrying after Golda. Neither of them uttered a word as these services were performed.

“That was Matthews, the new manservant I mentioned previously,” Aimee said after the door shut behind him.

Konrad grunted. “He looks capable enough.”

“Yes,” Aimee agreed and turned toward him. “Will you spend the night in here with me tonight, my lord?”

He lowered his goblet. “Yes,” he said shortly and knew it was the right answer when her face lit up.

She then surprised him by immediately rising from her seat and hurrying about her ablutions. If he didn’t know any better, he would think she was almost afraid he would change his mind. She had no sooner washed and pulled the pins from her hair, then she was tugging and loosening the laces of her gown at her neck and wrists. “Would you mind?” she asked twisting about to glance over her shoulder at the laces she could not reach. “Or shall I call back Golda?”

He gestured for her to approach and then obliged with clumsy fingers at the small of her back. Her long hair was hanging loose now, and he had to push it out of the way to reach the fastenings. She must use some fancy soap, he thought, for he had never thought of hair as fragrant before, but Aimee Ankatel’s hair smelt like roses and some other elusive scent that escaped him.

He passed his hand through it a final time, just to enjoy the sensation of the silken length slipping through his fingers. “Done,” he said gruffly, and Aimee moved away with a murmured thanks. He cleared his throat and turned his back as she wriggled out of her gown. The least he could do was give her some privacy to undress, he told himself, as much as he wanted to stand and stare.

Reaching for the fastenings of his tunic, he shucked it over his shoulders and flung it on the chair behind him. The rustling stilled, and for a moment, he could have sworn he felt her eyes on him. Resisting the impulse to turn and check if she was watching him undress, he started unlacing his braies instead.

“Should I leave my shift on?” a voice enquired politely.

As he had stripped her of it last time with scant consideration, he really ought to let her keep it on this time. “No,” he heard himself answer shortly.

There was another rustle and then the sound of bedcovers being drawn back. The bedframe creaked and then there was nothing but the crackle of the logs in the fireplace. He shed his chausses with quick economic movements and then blew out the candles on the table before moving toward the bed.

Aimee was sat up, showing her bare shoulders above the covers but keeping everything else demurely hidden from his devouring gaze. She was watching him, he realized with a start, as he pulled back the covers and joined her in the bed. “You have a very impressive physique,” she told him admiringly. “Your whole family is tall, is it not? Even Freda, though her frame is a lot narrower than that of you and your sister.”

Konrad thought of his stringy cousin and was not flattered by the comparison. He settled back against the pillow bearer and squinted down at his wife. “We Bartrees are all tall,” he agreed as she scooted closer to him, surprising him with her eagerness for proximity. She hesitated for just an instant before settling her soft, cushiony body against his side, and Konrad heard his breath hiss through his teeth.

“You are not injured?” she asked with alarm and would have drawn back if he had not taken that opportunity to slip his arm about her waist, urging her closer still.

“Injured?” he repeated blankly, as his mind briefly stalled, pleasure flooding his body. Strangely, he felt himself relax against her; all save one part of him at least. He lifted his knees to prevent the blankets from showing the outline of his stiffening cock.

Aimee shifted closer again, and it was at that point he felt the hair of her mound brush against the outside of his thigh.

“From your practice?” she elaborated. “I thought perhaps you might have strained a muscle.”

“No,” he replied shortly. He wanted her to straddle his leg. He wanted to feel that springy triangle of hair pressed hard against thigh, while she rubbed her pretty slit against him and told him she wanted him. Of course, such things were hardly reasonable requests from a near-virginal wife.

“Put your leg over mine,” he heard himself rumble at her. He had almost forgotten he was not a reasonable man. She had wanted him, and she had gotten him. Whether she would be happy with her purchase, over the next gods alone knew how many years, was another matter.

No, that wasn’t right, he thought with a frown. They would be largely apart, he reminded himself. He would go north more often than not, while she remained mostly here in Caer Lyoness.

“Like this?” Aimee asked uncertainly as she swung her leg over his, and there was no hiding his body’s reaction to her soft, sweet flesh pressed against the hard muscle of his thigh. He could not bite back his harsh groan, and she reared back a little in alarm.

“Like that,” he told her raspily. “Exactly like that.”

She nodded and resettled back against him, her face now aflame. “We did not – that is, last time –”

“Last time was for duty,” he puffed out. “It was never going to be good for you.” Or me, he thought grimly, not after all that time. It had to have been nearly six years.

“I knew that much,” she admitted on an outward breath. “Old Janet told me.”

Who? Maybe if he kept her talking, she would not get so nervous this time. “Who is Old Janet?” he asked huskily as he slid his hand down her short, smooth back to her ample rear. Gods. He squeezed his eyes shut a moment to appreciate the feel of her soft backside.

“Oh, um – an old servant of my father’s,” she muttered breathlessly.

“Another servant?” he managed to utter, cracking his eye open.

Her lips twisted wryly. “He has a houseful, my lord,” she whispered. He focused on those pretty lips, and the direction of his thoughts surprised him. It occurred to him that he would not mind a taste of them. “Up,” he urged her. “Come up over me,” he rasped, urging her off the mattress to sit on top of his thigh instead.

She moved obligingly enough, though she made a strangled noise in her throat as she straddled his leg. Without the sheet covering her, her breasts jostled for his attention, scattering all thoughts of kisses completely. Her nipples were dark, like ripe little berries, her breasts high and full. He wanted to feel the weight of them in his hands, against his chest.

“Where shall I put my hands?” she asked, sounding flustered. He hardly knew where he wanted to put his own, he was so spoilt for choice.

Instead of answering her, he caught her wrists and drew them down to his chest. “Here,” he practically growled at her. He felt her fingers dig into his chest hair and groaned again.

“I am not too heavy?” she asked in alarm.

He ignored this question as it was patently ridiculous. He was about twice the size of her. “Bear down,” he growled. “I want you to ride my leg. I want to feel it.” Aimee gazed down at him, looking perplexed. “Here,” he said, his voice so gravelly he was practically growling at her. He ran his thumb through the woman’s hair between her legs. “I want to feel your silky pelt rub against me.”

For a moment, she just stared at him with an almost comical expression of confusion. “My? – ??” Words seemed to fail her.

“You heard me, Aimee. That’s what I want.”

Her gaze flew to meet his, and for a moment, he did not understand the expression in her eyes. Then he realized that must have been the first time he had used her given name. Something passed between them, he hardly knew what, and then she gave a little sob and rocked forward on his thigh.

It felt so good he had to stop himself from thrusting up. “Again,” he bit out. She dropped her gaze and bit her lip, concentrating on moving on him the way he liked. “Eyes on me,” he insisted tersely as she did her best to comply with his demands.

“Like this?” she asked breathily. He nodded, narrowing his eyes as he watched her curvy body undulate as she strove to please him. “This feels nice?” she asked.

“Yes,” he rasped, but it wasn’t enough though. Not by a long shot. He closed his eyes to savor the feel of her and that was when he felt it. “Stop,” he said hoarsely. It wasn’t just him feeling good. Aimee was growing wet. For him.

Aimee lifted her head. Her breathing was ragged and her eyes dark. “Stop?” she faltered.

He nodded. “Move back.” She blinked but shuffled down his leg obligingly. He reached down and swiped his fingers along his thigh before bringing them to his mouth. When his gaze snared hers, she caught her breath.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a strangled tone.

“Tasting you.”

Aimee’s mouth fell open, but she didn’t utter a single word, just stared at him with her beautiful dark eyes, her breath coming fast. What he really wanted to do was haul her over his cock and thrust right into the heart of her. He wasn’t quite that selfish though. She was by no means ready for that kind of treatment.

Instead, he took a deep breath in and out and locked eyes with her. “How about you lie on your back?” he suggested. When she nodded, he rolled her carefully onto her back and loomed over her. It occurred to him that one hint of trepidation or fear from her at this point would be like being doused by a bucket of ice-cold water.

Lucky for him, his sweet little bride was inexplicably eager for his attentions, her hands reaching for him before she suddenly froze. “Is this … permitted?” she asked. He stared at her a moment. “For me to touch you, I mean. Last time, I gained the impression …” she broke off her words.

“You can touch me if you want,” he replied and braced himself. Her touch was curious and caressing. She slid her hands along the muscles in his arms and made a murmur of appreciation.

“You’re so strong,” she whispered. “Your body is magnificent.” Magnificent? He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just held still and let her run her hands up and over the bunched muscle, then up and over his shoulders. “Could we – that is –” She licked her lips.

“Tell me.” Whatever it was, he was pretty sure he would be happy to oblige.

“Kiss?”

Oh. That. He really didn’t like people coming in close to his face. In general, it wasn’t a problem as he towered over most people. Kissing, though, tended to bring your face up close and personal. He squinted at her dubiously. She wanted to see his ruined face at close quarters? Her hopeful gaze didn’t even waver.

Ah, what the hells. She really wasn’t asking for much. Bracing himself, Konrad leaned down to press his lips to hers. He wasn’t expecting her to fling her arms about his neck or come at him with such clumsy enthusiasm. Drawing back wasn’t really an option when she had his neck in such a tight grip. If he was honest, though, the feel of her breasts pressed up against his chest made the experience a lot more tolerable.

He made no attempt to deepen the kiss, just waited patiently for it to be over, but Aimee seemed in no hurry to draw back. He frowned. He was pretty sure she was holding her breath. She would pass out at this rate. He jerked his head back, and sure enough, she dragged in a shuddering breath, gazing up at him with glazed, unfocussed eyes. Really? She’d liked it that much?

Well, they had done something she liked, so now they could do something for him. “Can I touch you, Aimee?” She nodded, but tipped her face up again, clearly under the impression he had asked for another kiss. He’d better disabuse of her that notion. “I don’t want to kiss your mouth.”

“Oh.” For a moment, there was a flash of disappointment in her eyes.

“I’ll kiss you somewhere else though,” he said quickly to make up for it.

“My hand?” she suggested with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

His lips crooked into an involuntary smile. “Not your hand, no.”

She waited politely, and he slid his hand between her legs, finding her so wet and warm that he could not hold back his deep groan of appreciation. Slipping his fingers between her folds made her tense, but she soon relaxed again when he took his time, swirling his thumb against the fleshy pink pearl hidden between them.

“I thought you were going to kiss me,” she said shakily, and he frowned. He had touched her here the other night to ready her, so she knew what came next. Clearly, she did not relish the thought and wanted more kisses and talking.

“I will,” he said tersely, breathing out. Aimee was clearly a talker. He was not. By habit, he was as stoic in the bedchamber as he was everywhere else. “I’m going to kiss your breasts,” he said and shifted down her body, transferring his hands to her waist.

She seemed surprised by this but voiced no objection. On his wedding night, he had wanted to spare her any indignity and had got the consummation over with as quickly as possible. He licked his lips now in anticipation and tried not to feel conscious of his wife’s intent gaze on his face. Should he pay her some compliment? He cast a quick look up at her face. “Ready?” he asked instead when words failed him.

She nodded and he lowered his face to trail kisses down the valley between her soft, full breasts. Her tender skin quivered beneath his mouth, and her breathing sharpened. He was just deciding if that reaction was good or bad when he felt her hand at the back of his head, lightly clasping him to her. Good, he thought. She likes it.

He continued his journey of closed-mouth kisses underneath and around one breast, then the other. Her breathing grew ragged, and the clasp on his head grew firmer. He opened his mouth over her nipple and greedily sucked it into his mouth. Aimee made a strange noise in her throat, half sob-half moan, which went straight through him like a bolt of lust. He wanted her to make that noise when he gave her his dick.

He swirled his tongue over her nipple and then released it to lavish the same attention on her other breast. Gods, but she had lovely breasts. Aimee was panting now, her breathing ragged. He rested the palm of his hand against the soft swell of her stomach. She was as pleasingly rounded here as everywhere else on her delectable body.

It occurred to him that perhaps, in the absence of any polished compliments, that he could speak some of these thoughts aloud. Would that please her? Even before the catastrophic battle scars, he had been far from a ladies’ man. He had been betrothed, it was true, but his father had arranged that match. No wooing had been required of him. The only company of women he had sought out had required hard coin rather than soft words.

He lifted his head to look at his wife’s flushed face. “How about giving me another taste, Aimee?” he suggested thickly. “From the fount this time.” He saw her attempt to make sense of his words, before giving up and nodding anyway. Obliging, he thought. “Open your legs.” He shifted down again, his hands on her thighs urging them to part. “Bend your knees.”

Aimee followed his instructions, though he heard a sharp indrawn breath as though she would speak. He lowered his head, cutting off whatever words she had been about to utter as he pressed a lingering kiss to her sweet mound. She gave a startled squawk. He certainly had not done this on the previous occasion. “My lord?” she asked in a quavering voice, as the trail of his kisses led downward.

He supposed he really should give her permission to speak his name, only his mouth was rather busy right now with other things. He paused a moment to breathe heavily against her as her nether hair tickled his face. His chest was heaving as though in the midst of battle. Unable to hold back any longer, he dragged his tongue slowly and deliberately through her slick cleft.

“Ohhhhhh, Lord Kentigern,” she moaned breathily, and his cock jerked hard. On the other hand, he kind of liked how she said his title. By the time he’d lavished his attentions there for a few minutes, he no longer minded the fact she was so vocal either. The words and broken phrases falling from her lips might not make a whole lot of sense, but they were stimulating as hell to hear.

He sucked her pearl into his mouth and felt her come apart around him with a satisfying series of whimpers and moans. She was still quaking in the aftermath when he slid back up her body, positioning his hips between her splayed thighs.

“Ready?” he rumbled. She gave him a dazed nod, and he reached down to align himself with her before starting to push inside. This time was a lot less of a struggle, but Aimee held very still and fell disappointingly silent. He suspected she was once more holding her breath. Once he was fully seated, he stilled himself and looked down at her red face. “Are you … comfortable?” he asked, unsure of his word choice.

She puffed out her breath and pulled a face. “Yes?” she answered but did not look at all convinced.

“Would you tell me if you weren’t?” he asked shrewdly. He was holding his considerable weight off her with his forearms, but the difference in their size was considerable. He was aware how intimidating it must be to have him in her bed and that wasn’t even taking his mangled face into account.

“Of course,” she answered in a strangled voice.

He still wasn’t convinced, but the promptings of his own body were fast overtaking his scruples. He rocked his hips, and when she didn’t protest, he set a pace brisk enough for him to reach release. It didn’t take long, but he couldn’t resist from lowering his face into her neck at the end and pressing his mouth to her smooth skin. He stayed there a moment, breathing raggedly, and it was only when he felt her hand softly stroking his side that he mustered the energy to withdraw and roll onto his back beside her.

He lay waiting for his breath to even out before hauling himself up into a seated position and turning his head to look at her. She reached for the sheet to cover herself. “It will get better for you, or so I believe,” he said harshly.

She turned her head and sent him a reassuring smile. “I know.”

She did? Then he remembered. “Old Janet told you so?”

Her smile widened. “Yes, Old Janet.”

He grunted. That pleased her? “I’ll send someone in to attend you.”

She glanced at the second pitcher of water. “Why? There’s still water warm enough for me to wash. I don’t need anyone.”

He wanted to ask why she was still lying there. Didn’t she want to wash all traces of him off her body? “It’s been a long time,” he heard himself admit instead, “since I’ve been with a woman.” Gods, was he making excuses now? “Not since –” Instead of vocalizing it, he gestured to the left side of his face and braced himself to bear her sympathetic reaction.

“Good,” said Aimee Ankatel simply.

He turned his head sharply to look at her in surprise. Good? He huffed out a breath in something damned near a laugh. Probably the closest he had come to it in years.

When he walked back to his room moments later, entirely naked, he was still fighting the upturn of his lips. Good, he thought. His little wife thought it was good he had not lain with a woman in seven years. He made for the washstand and briskly washed himself down before dropping down into his own bed and scooting into the middle of it.

He stared up at the canopy. He doubted she would think it so good if he had declared an intention of staying in her bed until he was good and ready for another round in the sheets with her, as for an instant he had felt strongly inclined to do. Or would she?

He hesitated a moment, considering the matter. For the first time, he noticed his own crest on the pillow bearer beside him. He turned his head and stared at it a moment. Then, slowly he cast his eyes around the room, taking in all the costly furnishings and gifts his wife had showered him with.

His crest was fucking everywhere. He turned over the top of the sheet covering his stomach and saw a whole line of portcullises embroidered in gold thread. Why hadn’t he noticed them before? He puffed out his breath. Had Aimee sewn the devices with her own fingers? He ran a blunt fingertip over the tiny stitches. And if she had, why did that suddenly make his chest feel so tight?