He gazed at her, a shadow of a frown between his brows. She paced to the table and sat down, scowling at a dish of wheaten frumenty, well aware that he stood close behind her.
From the edge of her eye she could see his arm, the velvet rich with light and shadow on the black curve of his sleeve.
She took two swallows of the cereal, which was nearly cold and only barely palatable, before her throat closed. She put down the spoon. "I cannot eat, until I hear your decision."
"My lady," he said, "what decision?"
"Will you take me hence?"
He walked away. Melanthe slid a look after him. He stood at the window, his back to her. "Take you hence?" he demanded harshly. "In faith, then why did I trouble to bring you here, instead of drowning you like a kitten in a bag, for to spare myself the toil? If that be the decision you'd hear—I'll not take you hence, no, nor anyone show you the way. In good time, when it's safe enough, I'll see you to your hold. Until then, you must bide here, though it displease."
She bent her head, clasping her fingers tight together. "No—I won't displease. I can make myself pleasant to them. It's the easiest thing possible. I can't thank them for their injury to you and your rightful estate, but I'm your wife, and would not have discord sown between us." She took up the spoon again abruptly, plunging it into the pottage. "And such is a humble speech as I'm not accustomed to making, in truth, but I love you, even if I don't adore your churls."
She forced herself to eat, sitting on the edge of the chair with her back straight.
From the window he spoke hesitantly. "It's not that you will to go?"
She did not care to admit the depth of her desire to stay. Lightly she said, "Indeed, I don't pine for the back of a horse again soon."
The floorboards creaked beneath the carpets. He came behind her. "Perhaps it's rest and a soft bed you desire, my lady, after your meal."
If some mannered gallant had said such to her, she would have known how to understand it. But she heard nothing beyond his careful courtesy in his voice, though again he stood very near her as he took up a napkin and poured hot ale from the hob. He set the kettle back.
"You've not taken your own repose," she said, watching steam rise from the gold chalice and vanish against the background of patterned silk on the wall.
"No," he murmured, still close behind her. "No, lady."
He offered no dalliance, and her court wit deserted her. All the words that came into her head seemed green and foolish. He sat on his heels beside her chair and served her a roasted apple. She ate a few bites. He didn't rise, but remained there like a man at ease.
She felt herself strangely daunted by him, overpowered by his greater size, the black line of his legs, the heavy square links of the belt that hung at his hips. He wore it as if it had no weight at all, though each joint, ornate and thick, studded with the silvery sable of marcasite crystals, would have balanced a cobblestone on the measuring scale. But in his velvet he moved effortlessly. When she glanced at him, his eyes were on her, his lashes showing very dark, his face somber, almost severe. As if he had forgotten himself by kneeling there, he rose instantly, drawing away.
Melanthe wasn't certain of whether he had made an invitation to share the bed or not. As she sipped at the honeyed ale, she felt a miserable excitement, doubtful of what he wished. In this mute courtesy he could hide anything. She did not want to sleep alone, away from him.
At last she set down the chalice. "I'll leave you then, to take your rest as you're due."
She rose. With her eyes downcast she went to him and put her hands upon his shoulders. She reached on her toes and touched her lips to each cheek, lightly, taking a mannerly leave as if he were an honored guest or close kin. "Give you good eve, sweet knight," she murmured.
He stood still, only turning his face slightly, returning pressure in response to each kiss. She let her hands slip down his arms. His palms turned up; he caught her fingers for an instant—and then let them slide through his.
She turned swiftly, taking up her cloak as she went to the door. At that moment she would gladly have given up all of her noble estate and forgone the cold and private luxury of the ladies' chamber. At least she didn't intend to sleep with the dust: she would rouse out these useless minstrels for a fire and proper comfort. Perhaps she could find a maid or two among the women, to make the bower clean without moving any item from its sacred place, and then invite him there on the morrow, when he might be—
"Melanthe."
She halted with her hand on the door hasp. He had never before called her by her name.
He stood, all black, his legs set apart as if someone might come at him with a sword. "Are you sorely weary?" He made a trifling motion of his hand. "I'm not one to sleep in the light of day."
Pleasure and relief soared through her. "No, how is this?" She crossed the carpet to him and lifted her hand to his forehead. "Do you go sick? I've seen you snore with some success in daylight before now."
"I wouldn't have you depart so soon, if it please you."
"Please me?" She let her hand slip down and sighed. "What—forfeit a cold chimney and empty bower, only to suit your liking? Verily, you're a tyrant, husband."
He caught her waist, holding her between his hands. She had been wary of mirrors, and compliments, but in his face as he looked down at her what she saw was desire, open and vehement, unembellished.
"Will you have me?" he asked softly.
Almost, he frightened her, in the lightness of his hands and the calmness of his voice. He was like Gryngolet when she hunted, a silent rage, hushed violence, riding currents beyond knowing.
"Yes," she said. "Gladly."
His hold tightened a little. "Then I would hear—how I can best please you."
She rested her hands on his arms uncertainly. "I am pleased with you," she said.
His jaw was tense. "Perhaps I'm not gentle enough, or skilled enough, or—what would delight you."
All of her experience was in denying men. For delight she knew nothing beyond kisses, and lying beneath him as she had done. There was more to it, experience and skill, as he said, and a new fear sprang alive in her, that he would expect her to know such things.
She made a small lift of her shoulders, feigning sport. "You must guess what delights me."
He looked down upon her. He lifted his hand and drew his thumb across her mouth. His green eyes showed a new light, a trace of amusement. "Then I'll take experiment of you, lady. Happens I've made me a modest study of wicked delectation."
She murmured, "I thought you chaste, monkish man."
"Aye, I have been." He closed his eyes and bent to her, kissing the side of her mouth. "But no monk am I in my head, God grant me pardon," he whispered. His body drew closer, velvet and taut elegance. "My confessor has chastised me often, and bade me study on my sins at length. And so, lady"—he kissed her, the hunger in it sinking down through her like a comet falling—"I've studied."
SEVENTEEN
Melanthe drew a breath, tasting him on her lips, inhaling his scent. "And what have you mastered in your study, learned husband?"
He seemed to grow abashed, turning his face away. "My lady, it's all nonsense. Better you should say me how to give you pleasure. I'm not accomplished in love wiles, truly."
She drew her palm down the soft nape of velvet on his chest. "I'd hear what you've learned. For my pleasure." With a light pluck she freed the topmost golden buttons on his doublet.
He made a low unhappy laugh. "I know well that you wield more skill in this art than I."
She stepped back. Standing in the half-light, he appeared no innocent, but a man full in prime of carnal boldness, no more chaste than a stallion might be chaste, being beautiful and strong and only what it was, a creature made for life and union.