A Lily on the Heath
Page 49

“Leave us,” he ordered when all the women in the room gaped at him. “Go!”
They scrambled up and off their stools, their embroidery or mending tumbling to the floor amid gasps and stifled shrieks as they fled the room, taking care not to come too near him. Mal fairly slammed the door behind the flock of ninnies, never taking his eyes from Judith.
All thoughts of ordering a bath, of being easy and patient, had evaporated. With three pain-filled strides, he was there, in front of her…and it was only when he looked fully into her eyes that he realized something was very wrong.
“How dare you,” she hissed. Her face was deadly white, its few freckles standing out like dark stars in a white sky.
Malcolm tried to rope back his shock, but it flared, shifting into impatience. “What ails you? That I dismissed your maids? Do not be a fool, Judith. You would have sent them off any—”
“Nay, you dirt-licking snake,” she spat, backing away from him. Her expression had turned cold and her eyes were filled with loathing. “How dare you send your mistress to my home! Do not touch me!” she cried when he reached for her. “You will not touch me! I will not allow you to lay one finger on me!”
“What? What madness has hold of you?” he roared, suddenly blinded by fury and confusion. She was making no sense, the bitter words tumbling from her tongue like a barrage of poisoned arrows. What mistress? But what she said after that was what seized his attention and pride most strongly. “You are my wife, by God, and I will not be denied of you!”
“And all your secrets! And your daughter! How dare you! You are not fit to walk upon my land. To come into my chamber!” She shrieked mad, senseless things at him, whirling out of his reach, which was clumsy from his bad ankle. “Or to come near me! Stay away from me!”
He lunged for her again, his injury screaming in pain, and he got hold of her arm, yanking her back toward him so hard she stumbled into his chest. “What are you speaking of?” he demanded, barely keeping a leash on his control. She was his wife. She could not deny him the only thing he wanted from her. Judith’s bright hair made her pale face seem even more white. Her lush lips trembled. But her eyes…they were dry and cold and tinged with madness. “Are you ill?” he demanded, trying to pull himself under control. “What mistre—”
“Take your hands off me,” she cried over his words, struggling violently to free herself. “You will not touch me! I will not allow it!”
“You will not allow it?” Malcolm bellowed, all rationality fleeing. “You are my wife, and you will do your bloody duty to me!”
He pulled her up in front of him, most of his weight on his good foot, his hands gripping her upper arms. In the back of his mind, he knew he was holding her too tightly, and he forced himself to loosen his fingers, even as she kicked and jerked about in his grip. When she slammed a wild foot into his tender, shrieking ankle he smothered a gasp as his vision went blazing red.
“What is wrong with you?” he snarled, giving her a little shake. “What has overtaken your mind?”
Apparently realizing she couldn’t free herself, Judith calmed a trifle. Her breathing was out of control, her breasts shuddering and heaving against him, her hair a wild mess of red-gold curls. She looked up at him with hatred in her eyes. “Release me,” she said in a low, unsteady voice. “I do not wish you to touch me.”
He gave a hard laugh, tinged with his own mad agony. “You might wish all you want, Judith, but you are my wife and ’tis my right to touch you. And to have you. You do not say the king nay, but you say it to me, your rightful husband? How dare you.”
She recoiled as if slapped, her face going even whiter—though he’d not thought that possible. And yet, still no tears. He felt her trembling in his arms, shuddering against him with loathing and mayhap fear…and yet he still yearned for her. She bewitched him with her scent, her body, her very nearness, and he was powerless to resist.
“You are my wife,” he hissed. “You cannot deny me, Judith.”
He was too rough when he pulled her to him, but he didn’t care. He buried his face in her throat, along the curve of her jaw, inhaling her scent, tasting her warm, moist skin with demanding lips. She vibrated against him but made no move, no sound as he slid his hands to cup her head, shoving his fingers into her thick, heavy hair, holding her immobile as he covered her lips, tonguing her mouth open roughly. Drinking, tasting, devouring before he pulled away to look at her.
Judith’s eyes were downcast, and when he eased back, she turned her face from him. Her lips were slick and full from his brutal kiss, and she still heaved and trembled against his body. He could feel the curve of her breasts, the useless dangle of her arms, the warmth of her thighs burning through hauberk, mail, and hose. His blood pounded, raging through him, the sensation surpassing even the nonstop agony piercing his ankle.
Grabbing the front of her bliaut, he fisted the material in his hands. With one sharp movement, he could tear it in two, leaving her bare to him. He could fill his eyes and hands, he could take and taste and tease…and slake his lust. Take what was his.
He tightened his hands, the fabric stretching taut between them, her breasts brushing the bottom of his knuckles—and he looked down at her.
“You will not say me nay,” he whispered as she turned her gaze toward him.
Cold. It was cold and empty and, yet, lingering beneath those icy blue eyes, was anguish. And aught more he could not recognize.
“Very well, then, my lord. But do not tear my gown.”
Something inside him seemed to crack—sharp and deep—and with a low cry, he shoved her from him, spinning away on his bad ankle. The sudden streak of agony nearly brought him to the ground, but with great effort, he kept himself upright as he strode out of the chamber, flinging away a stool in his wake.
Blinded by frustration and confusion, propelled by fury and madness, he trod roughly on his ruined foot, welcoming the acute pain as a relief from this other torture. He stumbled out into the hall, his fingers curled into themselves, his insides hot and aching, his face wet with tears.
He didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t know what place in this keep might offer him solace and sanctuary, and he staggered along in a red haze until he could no longer bear the pain. His ankle gave way and he tumbled to the ground in front of a small door, wedged open.
Malcolm dragged himself across the threshold and discovered he was in a small, dim chapel. With a hard, ironic laugh, he collapsed in front of the altar.
Judith barely kept herself from falling when Malcolm shoved her away, and she watched in horror as he spun and limped heavily from the chamber.
She sank to the floor, weak and shaking, covering her mouth with trembling hands. Her lips were full and still throbbed from his kiss, and God help her if she didn’t still feel the warmth pulsing through her.
How could it be?
The very sight of Malcolm, suddenly appearing in the doorway, had made her heart lurch and leap with gladness. He’d been so broad and large, so familiar and beloved and powerful…and the look in his eyes. Hot and determined.
But it was only that moment of madness before she remembered all he’d done to her. How he’d betrayed and dishonored her…and that the woman he truly wanted was in the hall below.
Judith would be no woman’s substitute. Oh, nay.
Yet, when he pulled her to him, when he kissed her and buried his face in the sensitive curve of her throat, murmuring against her skin, gathering her close as if he meant to devour her, she could hardly keep from sagging in his arms, dragging him to her for her own taste. Tiny licks of arousal battled with her anger and hurt, the heat of desire threatened to overtake her logic and pain. She fought it back, remaining rigid and unfeeling.
Nay, I cannot give in to him. I cannot allow him to take this from me too. For what Malcolm would take from her was much more than any damage Henry had caused.
And now her husband was gone. And she was glad for it. She must be. She must make herself be glad.
For the queen was right. To love a man was naught more than to be cursed.
If he could have ridden, Malcolm likely would have left Lilyfare. But his foot had swollen again from the abuse visited upon it, and if he hadn’t torn off his boot, he would have had to cut it away. He was going nowhere soon.
As it was, he lay in the middling candlelight of the tiny chapel for some unknown length of time, wracked by agony. He wasn’t certain which caused him more pain: his ankle or the ugly, incomprehensible scene with his wife.
Her cries and accusations left a shocked muddle in his hazy mind. His mistress? Beneath her roof? What madness was that? His daughter? Well, that he understood, but the rest of it…. He shook his head wearily, his anger having ebbed some small bit…until he remembered Judith’s loathing and her denial of him. Then white-hot fury incensed him once again, followed by black despair.
Fool. You should have wed Beatrice and been done with it. At the least then you wouldn’t have the Queen of England trying to kill you as well.
He leaned back against the wall, tipping his head against the stone, and tried to ignore the incessant pounding of his foot. But that was preferable to thinking on the misery his life had become—and so he meditated upon the constant agony, fairly praying for the pain to increase.
Some hours later—after he had drunk all of the unconsecrated wine he found in the sacristy—he heard the sound of a person passing along the corridor. When he shouted for attendance, a serf poked his head in curiously and Mal demanded his squire and another bottle of wine—not in that order.
This directive brought a cautious Gambert and Rike, and—praise God—more wine. Eventually, the squires helped Mal to his feet and started down the corridor. It was a slow, laborious process, for he was unable to put any weight on his foot and weighed several stone more than either of the young men.
Eventually, they reached the doorway to a room Mal recognized as the master chamber, belonging to the lord and lady of Lilyfare. His rightful place.