Chapter Twelve

S he sensed she was alone before she opened her eyes. When she touched the empty place beside her, it felt cool to the touch; Winslow had left their bed some time ago. Unsure of what her reception would be now that she was married in the eyes of God, she put off the inevitable going down to the hall.

Closing her eyes brought the memory of last night’s lovemaking rushing back. The lethal combination of deft touches and mind-numbing kisses had her breath quickening. Her husband was truly gifted in bed.

But she was no giddy bride that could afford to lie around in bed, savoring every touch, every taste. There was work to be done, and though she may not be looking forward to the task, servants to greet, and duties to see to.

The water in the pitcher was tepid but would do. She’d ask for a hot bath later. For now, she washed away the evidence of last night, sorry that the musky scent was gone, replaced by the familiar scent of lavender.

Someone had laid out a clean chainse and bliaut of the palest gray. Not ready to summon help, and more than ready to begin her day, Genvieve dressed, taking the time to brush her hair until it shone. First impressions were important, and she wanted Sedgeworth’s people to like her.

The finishing touch would be the corded belt she’d worn yesterday. Her hand flew to her throat. If only she hadn’t lost her grandfather’s cross. The knight her mother had sent to bring her back to London had carried it to her as proof that her mother was gravely ill. Shaking the bleak thoughts free, she walked to the door.

It opened and her husband’s powerful form filled the doorframe. His gaze raked her from head to toe and back. When his amber eyes turned molten with desire, her belly clenched, and her breasts felt heavy. She wanted him to make love to her…nay, needed him to.

He didn’t move while she let her gaze travel over his broad shoulders, taking in the cream-colored linen shirt and red-and-gray plaid kilt. Her husband was warrior-strong, but his hands had gentled last night. But what was one night’s loving, when compared to the next twenty years of day-to-day living? She needed to get to know her husband, understand the way he thought and hopefully come to an understanding between them.

Mayhap she could make up for her lack of ability to give him babes if she smoothed the way between Sedgeworth’s people and their new overlord. After last night, she had no doubt at all they would do well in the marriage bed.

She smiled.

The front of his kilt moved, and he closed his eyes. “Ye’d best stop yer lookin’, lass,” he said. He opened his eyes and pinned her with his gaze. “Else I’ll no’ finish trainin’ with the guards. I’ve no time for dallyin’.”

Her smile grew wider. Genvieve hadn’t affected Francois like that. Had she? She shook her head knowing she hadn’t.

Winslow groaned out loud, strode across the room and gathered her in his arms. His heart pounded, but the rhythm matched hers. He bent his head and captured her lips, urging her to let him taste her with the tip of his tongue.

She moaned and his tongue thrust inside, mimicking the lovemaking that had made her daft last night. Her bones literally melted. She lost her balance, but he crushed her against him. He grew harder as he held her in place with his big hands.

Blind and deaf to everything but the passion between them, neither one heard the discrete cough, or noticed the servant standing in the doorway until she coughed. Winslow lifted his head and cleared his throat. “It seems we’ve been missed, wife.”

Genvieve jolted, as heat suffused her cheeks. She pinched his side to get his attention, his hands were still cupping her bottom.

He grinned at her, and called out, “We’ll be down directly.”

She let her forehead rest against his chest. It wouldn’t matter that one of the servants had seen them together, mayhap talk would begin that the new overlord was a man who cared for his wife.

Cared for. Did he?

She knew he enjoyed bedding her, but being with her when she couldn’t hold even the simplest conversations? He’d grow tired of her grating voice, and if it didn’t heal, her silent presence. She couldn’t stand the sound of her own voice, and if it didn’t return to normal, would probably stop speaking altogether.

With a sigh of regret, knowing she had no control over her life until she could speak again bothered her, but it was time to meet the servants and begin the day’s list of tasks.

Descending the steps into the hall, Genvieve was pleased to see the remnants of yesterday’s wedding feast had been cleared away and sweet-smelling rushes had been spread across the floor. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted toward her as one of the serving women carried a plate toward the long table against the side wall.

Winslow led her into the hall and over to the table laden with their morning meal. He nodded to a young woman with pale-blonde hair. The woman curtseyed, then walked over to Genvieve. With hand motions, the woman gestured with her hand to her stomach and then pretending she held a cup, mimicked drinking.

Genvieve’s eyes welled with tears that spilled over. She reached for her husband’s hand, her anchor since the day she’d woken without the ability to speak. Bringing his hand to her lips she kissed it, then pressed her cheek against the freckles sprinkled across his knuckles. He’d taught one of the women to communicate with her.

“Beatrice is here to serve us, lass.”

She nodded to the woman, dried her eyes with her free hand, and let her husband lead her to the table.

A few of the household knights introduced themselves to her, all seemed to know MacInness. She wondered why, but didn’t have the means to ask. One or two of them didn’t hide their dislike of her husband. Their reaction worried her. She’d ask Winslow later, when they were alone and he could watch her lips while she asked, he’d become adept at reading them.

As the servants were clearing the table a gray-haired woman hurried over to the table. She curtseyed, then rose. “Welcome to Sedgeworth Keep, milady,” she said, spreading her hands wide encompassing the hall with the gesture.

Genvieve looked at her husband. He nodded, as if he knew she wouldn’t be able to speak if she could. “Anna runs the kitchens and will help ye with the food stores, lass.” He reached over and took her hand in his. “If ye need me, just fist yer hand and put it to yer heart, like this.”

Emotions she thought long dead surfaced. That he would go to such lengths to ease her way as mistress in their new home, where no one knew her but all would have to answer to her, filled in the empty void that her first husband’s death had left behind. And that’s when she stopped denying what her heart already knew—she loved Winslow.

She blinked away the tears, leaned over, and pressed her lips to his. Winslow’s lips were cool to the touch but warmed quickly, softening as he kissed her back. He’d not bargained for a wife, but he’d gained one the moment he made the decision to intervene and rescue her, from what she now knew would have been her death.

“There’s a lass,” he said, brushing a hand to her cheek, sweeping a tear away. After they’d eaten, he helped her to her feet and walked with her and Anna to the kitchens. With a kiss to her forehead, he left.

The morning wasn’t as difficult as she’d thought. With a few gestures and mouthed words, she and Anna had developed a rhythm, counting the barrels of flour, grain, and salted meats. Thirteen in all. The last of the barrels was recorded, and she was due in the hall to oversee the midday meal.

Brushing the strand of hair from her eyes, she silently asked, How many will be there?

Anna watched closely and finally nodded, smiling. “Most of the household knights spend the day either training, patrolling, or collecting revenues from the crofters. There will be a handful.”

She’d have to ask her husband how often the revenues were collected. It wouldn’t do to take too much from their people.

Anna was right; there were only a handful, but that handful did not linger over the meal. Her husband didn’t appear, and she’d heard he wouldn’t be stopping until the evening meal because he and his men were training in the lower bailey.

Why did they need to train if there was no war going on? No one was nearby to answer her question. She hurried through the passageway and was nearly run over by a tall black-haired knight. She stepped out of the way at the last moment, but he still knocked into her, scowling at her the entire time. He saw her, why didn’t he slow down, or move out of the way, as she tried to do?

Two hours later, exhausted from helping to organize one of the storerooms below the hall, Genvieve had all but forgotten the mishap.

“Do I have time for a bath?” she slowly mouthed to Anna.

She had to slow down and exaggerate the words, but the second time she asked, Anna nodded. “Aye, milady. I’ll have hot water brought up directly.”

“Thank you.”

Trudging up the steps, she wondered if tomorrow would have as many tasks waiting for her. Although more tired than she’d ever admit, she’d enjoyed herself today. She felt needed, and she hadn’t felt that way in a long time.

By the time she’d reached her chamber, Beatrice was knocking on the doorframe. She smiled at the younger woman delighted that the servants had arrived with the first of the buckets for her bath. “Wonderful!”

The other woman must have been watching closely as Genvieve didn’t have to repeat herself. Relieved, she sat down and waited while the servants filled the wooden tub. They left as soon as the last drop was poured.

Beatrice handed her a small-lidded jar.

Genvieve opened it and the scent of wildflowers wafted up. She breathed deeply and looked over at the servant. She smiled and Beatrice returned the smile.

“I’ll just put a dash into the water for you before I help you undress.”

Suddenly sleepy, Genvieve let herself be pampered. Sinking into the scented water, she felt her body begin to relax. She hadn’t realized she was so tense. Beatrice talked while she helped to wash Genvieve’s hair.

“Such color, milady,” Beatrice rasped. “I’ve always wanted dark hair…with not a smidgeon of red in it.”

Genvieve shrugged as she mouthed the words, “My mother’s hair is the most glorious shade of chestnut.” She sighed. “I’ve always wanted dark-brown hair. Black is just so plain.”

Beatrice frowned, and waited for Genvieve to repeat herself.

When she did, the servant snorted, trying not to laugh. “Isn’t that just the way? We all want what we don’t have.”

By the time the bath water had cooled off, Genvieve was dressed in a fresh chainse and dark-green bliaut. She’d not seen her husband all day and wondered if all went well during training.

“Milady!” Anna sounded frantic. “Come quick, his lordship—”

Not waiting for Beatrice to hand her the belted girdle, she dashed out of the room, ran for the stairs.

Anna stood at the bottom, wringing her hands and Genvieve noticed splotches of blood across the hem of the woman’s chainse.

“Where is he?” she demanded, her voice grating harshly, as she spoke aloud. “How badly is he hurt?” Judging from the look on Anna’s face, it was not good.

Following the older woman into the hall, she skidded to a stop halfway across the room. Her husband’s body lay on the tabletop. Before she could ask why they hadn’t brought him upstairs, she noticed a familiar face among the handful of men standing around the table. The knight who’d rudely knocked into her earlier. As if he felt her gaze on him, he looked up and glared at her.

Hand to her throat, she wondered why he would have such a distaste for her. She didn’t know the man and would swear she’d never seen him before today. Her husband moaned and she hurried to his side. Brushing her hand across his sweaty brow, she looked at Anna and mouthed the words, “What’s wrong with him?”

The older woman shook her head, and answered, “I’m not sure, four men carried him inside and I immediately went to fetch you.”

“I need—”

“Hot water and dry cloths,” Anna said without waiting for her to finish. “I’ve sent Beatrice and she should be—”

Genvieve ignored the rest of what the woman was saying, concentrating on the slow rise and fall of her husband’s chest. Letting her eyes and her hands guide her, she checked for obvious signs of injury. She motioned for one of the men to help her lift him.

A young knight stepped forward and braced himself against Winslow’s bulk and lifted her husband, moving around to hold him from the front; Genvieve was able to slip behind him. A trickle of blood on his neck had her stomach roiling and her fingers deftly searching the back of his head for a cut hidden by his shaggy red hair.

She felt the warmth of his blood before she realized she’d found the gash and drew back her hand. The sight of Winslow’s blood on her fingers had spots forming before her eyes. Her head felt oddly disconnected from her body.

“Milady.” Anna braced an arm around Genvieve’s back. The contact grounded her so she could do what she had to.

“We’ll clean it out first,” Genvieve’s voice grated over the words.

The older woman nodded. “Then see if it’ll need threads.”

Genvieve suddenly realized the men were still in the room. She motioned for them to leave. All but two did her bidding—one was the dark-haired knight, and the other, the warrior who helped her lift her husband.

“You’re to blame for this,” the dark one bit out.

Appalled, she stepped back needing the distance between them. The young knight who’d helped her lift Winslow strode back into the hall. “You don’t know that for certain, Giles,” the younger man defended her. “Let it go.”

While Genvieve watched, the younger man grabbed a hold of the dark knight and dragged him from the room.

Working together, she cleansed the wound while Anna held Winslow, saying, “He’s trouble, that one.”

Genvieve paused in her ministrations to ask, “Why?”

Anna read her lips and shrugged. “He was loyal to Owen, the last lord of Sedgeworth Keep.”

Loyalty was sometimes misplaced. Genvieve hoped the man wouldn’t continue to cause trouble.

It wasn’t until after Winslow had been carried to their chamber and put to bed that she learned what happened. Another of her husband’s household knights spoke up.

“No one was with MacInness when he walked to the smithy right before the midday meal.”

“I was told he wasn’t joining us.”

The knight waited a moment then nodded letting her know that he understood the words she mouthed. “MacInness said he wanted to check on the state of the keep’s arms,” he explained. “Not much has been done since Owen was summoned to London.”

Genvieve listened while smoothing the linen over her husband’s still form. Worry that he had not yet wakened gnawed at her. Was it something more than the blow to the head? Had she missed something important?

“The men grew restless when their overlord didn’t return as promised,” he continued. “So one of them went to find him.”

“Thank you for your help, Simon,” Anna said walking with him to the door. “Best have someone keep watch ’til the master wakens.”

Genvieve’s hand trembled as she brushed a strand of bright red off Winslow’s forehead. He flinched. A good sign. Wasn’t it?

“I’ll be all right,” she told Anna, grateful the older woman could read lips. “Serve the evening meal without me.”

Anna nodded. “He’ll be fine, milady.”

Genvieve’s gaze met hers. “I know.”

With the closing of the door, all of her worries surfaced because she no longer had to put on a brave show in front of MacInness’s men. She sat on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers along Winslow’s brow.

No one was there to comment on the wounded sound of her voice. In a broken rasp, she pleaded, “Please wake up.”

He turned toward her touch. Had he heard her? Encouraged, she pressed her lips where her fingers had been. His skin was cool to the touch. “There is no fever. Why won’t you wake up?”

She’d only just acknowledged the depth of her feelings for her husband but hadn’t told him. Would he die before she had the chance? No , she vowed. He would not.

“I’ve a powerful need for you, husband,” her voice cracked as she continued. “I’ve only just found you.” Her voice sounded horrible to her ears, but Winslow couldn’t hear her, and no one else was around. What difference did it make?

He shifted, and she hoped he was moving toward wakefulness. She’d never encountered an injury like this before.

“Winslow,” she leaned close to his ear. “I love you,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me,” she begged. Tears welled up and she let them fall. A drop hit him between the eyes, and he lifted his hand to brush it away.

She grabbed ahold of his hand, and squeezed it. “I’m right here, and I’ll stay here until you waken,” she promised. “Just don’t die.”

*

Winslow slowly fought his way to the surface, battling against the blackness that held him down. The heavy weight on his chest worried him; something held him down…an enemy!

He tried to shift the weight off him, when he recognized the scent and feel of the woman. He opened his eyes and blinked to clear his vision. What he was seeing couldn’t be real.

His wife had lit a candle by the bedside and lay across him, her arms holding tight to him in her sleep, as if she were afraid to let him go.

“Well now, lass,” he rasped. “Dinna fash yerself on my account.”

She jolted awake and knocked his chin with her elbow. “Winslow,” she said, her voice grating. “You’re awake…I’ve got to get Anna.”

He reached out and held her, when she would have bolted from his side. “Stay, lass,” he asked, “I’ve a powerful headache.”

“I was afraid,” she mouthed.

“I dinna care how yer voice sounds, lass,” he said. “I crave the sound of it, I didna think I’d hear it again.”

She ignored how her voice would sound to ask, “What happened?”

“I was walking to the smithy, and someone clubbed me from behind.”

“Who?” She ignored the way her voice sounded.

“I dinna know,” he paused. “But whoever it was didna stick around to see if they’d killed me.”

“How do you know?” Lines of strain and worry were etched upon her brow. He raised his hand to smooth them.

“I’m still alive.”

She nodded. “Winslow—”

He pulled her close. “Dinna start, lass. I’m here and that’s enough for now.”

He’d worry about who’d struck him later. Right now, he sorely needed the comforting touch of the woman in his arms.