Chapter Nineteen

There were freckles across her cheeks. They spread out from her nose, fanning across her broad cheekbones all the way to her curl-framed temples. In six years of being her husband, he had never seen them before.

He studied them now as she slept. Perhaps he had never noticed them because they vanished in the weak winter sun, or perhaps it was because she had so often kept her face turned down in false modesty. Whatever the reason, the tiny, sparse flecks were evidence of all that he had failed to see when he looked at her.

There was more she hid from him, more that he had not yet discovered – details that were as crucial as her captivating freckles, and far more dangerous. He knew that.

But in the warmth of this bed, in this growing pool of morning light that illuminated her skin, he did not care. What she had revealed of herself in the night interested him far more. It was infatuating. All her hesitation had burned away, and she had filled the dark hours with desire. Her hands had grasped at him eagerly, demanding and directing without shyness, her hungry mouth taking its fill in the secret recesses of the night. His body ached in the aftermath, everywhere, in the sweetest way.

Now she stirred, lashes fluttering and mouth faintly working. He had not thought it could be so pleasurable, to watch a lover awaken. Her eyes opened and found him. Her gaze fell to where her hand rested, low against his naked belly. He felt her go still, felt the flush that heated her body and darkened her cheeks.

He caught her hand as she pulled it away, and leaned closer when she turned her face into the bolster.

"Nay, do not," he said to the mass of curls at the back of her head. "Deny me your bed if you will; say me nay when I reach for you and I will obey. But never turn from me in shame."

Her hand did not take up its place again, but she turned her face back to him. Through her curls she considered him, never quite looking in his eye. He could see all the words they had flung at each other coming back, gathering in her eyes and crowding out all else that had been between them in the night. It was undeniable, impossible to ignore.

Pleasure was done with, then. Daylight had found its merciless way to them.

She wasted no breath on pleasantries or evasion. "When did you know?" she asked.

"That you were a liar?" He immediately regretted the word. It was too harsh. Too simple. There was nothing simple about her. "That you were more than you would have me believe," he amended.

She nodded. "How long ago did you suspect?"

"I should have known from the beginning, when I saw no fear in you."

He thought of all the times he had mocked her, and she had met his contempt with her own muted version of the same disgust. But that was all in the past now. He leaned forward, hoping to kiss her and turn the morning into something more enjoyable. She pulled back from him, not to be deterred from this serious mood, and he sighed in resignation.

"In truth it was not until the bishop accused you, and you did not deny it," he admitted. "Only then did I perceive you were no mindless supplicant."

She blinked, still not looking at him. "For many weeks, then."

Something changed in her face, a minute tension that held her features carefully in place while her mind worked so feverishly that he could almost hear it. This was not deception at work. It was fear, and fear of showing fear. He wanted for a moment to turn his own head away in shame, to know he had at last given her reason to be afraid of him in truth. Empty threats, designed to force her from her cover – and they had worked too well.

"No harm will come to your friends," he assured her. "Nor will I seek to use them, whether to lay your sins at their feet or to learn more of your schemes."

No relief came from her, no ease of tension.

"How solemnly you say it," she said, quiet and calm. "Just so have you sworn a thousand promises to a thousand courtiers, only for them to curse themselves later for their folly in believing you."

It was such an exaggerated number, such a misrepresentation of the maneuverings at court that he wanted to laugh. He could not, though, when her unease was so plain.

"I swear it to you now, those you love will be left in peace." He tugged her hand forward, laid her open palm against his heart. "On Ruardean do I swear it."

Surprise flared in her eyes. She knew him better than he had imagined, to recognize that these were no idle words.

Yet no sooner had she decided to believe him than her jaw hardened. "So great a boon, to swear to do what is only right." Her brows raised in a little flare of scorn. "Am I now to praise your benevolence?"

He fought against the illogical urge to kiss her until he could not breathe. It should not thrill him so, this swift defiance, this refusal to be a grateful petitioner to a charitable lord. There was such a willfulness in her, such fire.

He loved it too well. Far more than was wise. He turned his eyes up to the canopy so that she would not see it.

"Nay," he said finally. "I do not want your praise." And that was true enough.

He could feel her eyes on him, a long consideration. "What then do you want?" she asked, and there was a whisper of bitterness behind the words, a recognition of her powerlessness.

This was the point of weakness. He recognized it easily, the obvious place to apply a subtle pressure, to insinuate dire consequences – to make the trade. It sent a warm satisfaction spreading through his belly, possibilities blooming in his imagination. The familiar feeling of opportunity raced through his veins, intoxicating as ever. But it put a sour taste at the back of his tongue, a foulness that overpowered the rest.

Advantage. He had all of it. And for the first time in his memory, power felt like a poison.

Unbidden thoughts of his mother's secrets came into his mind. And his sister, who had hidden so much from him though he knew she loved him well. Even Gryff, the only true friend he had ever known, had not felt free to confide in Will during the many years of his exile. Those who knew him best, who loved him – they did not trust him.

It hit him like a blow. They did not trust him. And he could not fault them, because never had he given them reason to.

Nor had he given her reason to trust. Yet she lay naked beside him, all her defenses exposed, and asked him what he wanted.

"I want…" he began, and then instinct stopped his tongue.

Only hours ago he had bidden her take what she wanted, and she had. But it could not be the same for him. What he wanted was hard enough to admit to himself, and it could not be taken. It could only be given. There could be no planning, no scheming, no leverage or bargaining. No recourse if he was refused.

But she asked. And he wanted.

"I want no fear between us," he said to the bright silk canopy above him. "I want that you will lie no more to me, nor give me your false self. I want…" He turned his eyes to her. "I want that you believe me when I say that even do you deny me these things, I will visit no harm on those you love – because I have sworn it, and I would have your faith in me."

Her lashes lowered, hiding her thoughts, fingers curling lightly against his chest.

"You ask much."

He did. He knew it. The weight of all that he asked pressed on him, heavy as the air before a storm.

"If it is too much, then give me but one of these, as a start." He covered her hand with his own. "Let there be no more falsehood between us."

Her hesitation might mean a thousand different things, for good or for ill. He did not let himself consider them. Nor did he let himself consider the folly of promising truth to one who could destroy him in so many and varied ways. He only looked at a tiny eyelash that had fallen amid the field of freckles on her cheek, and wished he might return to that moment six years ago when he had first seen her, and foolishly believed she was exactly what she seemed.

"No more will I be false to you," she agreed. Twin lines furrowed her brow as she pressed her lips together and shook her head faintly. "But I have no Ruardean to swear upon, and I cannot think what surety I might give you."

He pushed her curls back, so that her shoulder was bared.

"Give me your lips," he said. "I could want no more than that."

She did. It was an absurd exchange, perhaps, his full trust only for her willing kisses. But in his life, he could not recall any better bargain he had ever made.

Margaret startled when Constance entered the bedchamber an hour later, though she came every morning at this time. Constance herself seemed only mildly surprised to find William there. Her eyes settled for a moment on the place where Margaret's arms embraced him, but she merely turned her eyes down and asked if her lady would come to the chapel for her morning prayer.

"Nay, I will say my prayers here this morning." Margaret did not know how to convey anything useful only with a look, so she merely said, "This evening will I come to the chapel as is my habit, and I beg you will join me there."

There would be explanations to whisper, difficulties and assurances, a review of all the things that must change for them now that Margaret's mask had been pulled away. It would need more than a few hurried minutes at the start of the day to untangle a knot so twisted.

Constance nodded and moved to put her small tray onto the table, where it sat next to the golden girdle.

"Is this all you bring to break your lady's fast?" William eyed the tiny portion of bread, no more than three bites, beside a cup of clear water. "Send for a full loaf, and cheese, and meat if there is any to spare. If she has no appetite, then I have enough for three men."

When Constance again nodded and silently left, he stood and went to the table. He held up the scrap of bread and scowled at it as though it had personally insulted him.

"Of all the penance you have been given, it is the fasting I like least. We will find some way to fool the bishop without you must starve."

He was so earnest that she could actually see him calculating how best to secretly feed her. All her uncertainty seemed to gather in her breast, the prospect of honesty tempting and terrifying at once. But she had sworn she would not be false to him, and it was a small enough thing to confess.

She rose from the bed. It was a complicated thrill to feel her nakedness, to ignore the compulsion of modesty and remain bare before him in daylight. She found the purse that usually hung at her belt, her fingers closing around the small key within. Without looking at him, she fit it into the jeweled casket that stood on the table. It opened to reveal a square of gleaming ivory cloth.

"Were you not here, Constance would have added to this." She pulled aside the embroidered silk to show him the pile of almonds, dried fruit, and an oatcake that made her mouth suddenly water. She realized she was famished. Through a mouthful of oatcake, she said, "But gladly will I accept your aid as well."

He was staring at the casket while she pulled a robe over herself and chewed. There was that telltale tension in his upper lip, holding back a deluge of words. In the end, he spoke only a few.

"I thought this housed a holy relic. A fingerbone of Saint Silvia, you said. You paid handsomely for it."

"I paid for a lazar house in Cornwall. It is attended by physicians and priests who do not require the sick to attend mass twice daily to receive their care." She swallowed before daring to look at him. "If I am to hide my schemes from you no longer, you will learn of many you mislike."

She felt a little mad, standing half-naked before him and offering up a secret that only yesterday she would have fought with all her breath to keep from him. The lazar house had caused a small scandal among the churchmen, and she knew well how little her husband liked scandal. "In truth," she said in this new and strangely confident voice that was entirely her own, "there may be much about me you will mislike. Nor will I change my convictions only for your comfort."

He was looking at her as he had last night, when she had shouted her defiance at him. Like he had never seen anything like her. Then without warning he kissed her, soundly and thoroughly. It caught her unprepared, his mouth swallowing her startled little gasp, his hands holding her face steady.

As he stopped, there was a rumbling in his chest, gentle laughter vibrating on lips that hovered over hers while she recovered her breath.

"I would not change you for all the world," he vowed. "Not any part of you." Then his lips pressed firmly against her temple, a brief and solid connection before he moved to pick up his linen and prepare for the day.

She watched him dress, and eat, and laugh and frown and plan his day like any other man might – and never let herself think of what was hidden in her promise to him. It was a small thing. Brother Quinten would be gone from England soon. He must be. It was safer, just as Lady Eluned had said, that William was kept ignorant of that business until it was done. It was not a lie, but merely a delay in truth.

And though normally such careful and flattering logic would cause her to spend hours in reflection, teasing apart the moral implications of it all, right now she did not care. She did not want to care.

She wanted to kiss him, and forget her many worries. She wanted a day – a whole day where she did not consider what God wanted of her, but what she wanted for herself. To learn what it was to be herself instead of a pious imitation of a woman.

Take what you want , he had said. And she would. She would take this.