He nodded. He looked complacent to her. She moved a little closer. "You aren't always going to get what you want," she whispered.
"Yes, I am."
She saw the sparkle in his eyes then. "You're an impossible man," she muttered.
"You mentioned that before."
He smiled. She didn't know what to make of that. She bowed her head. He forced her chin back up. Then he slowly leaned down and kissed her. His mouth only brushed her lips for a fleeting second, but it still left her flustered.
She was just regaining her wits after that surprise when he pulled her to his side, draped an arm around her shoulders, and turned back to his friends.
He treated her like a piece of baggage, she thought to herself, but at least he had given her a proper greeting. Lord, he confused her.
That feeling stayed with Nicholaa throughout the long dinner. The man all but ignored her while the meal was served. She was given compliment after compliment from both the men and the ladies, yet somehow their remarks didn't count. Royce hadn't said anything about her appearance, but she didn't care what he thought, she told herself, even as she tried to smooth her hair just so.
Because of the injury to her hands, someone would have to feed her, and that was a humiliation Nicholaa wasn't about to suffer. She turned to whisper just that thought to her husband, but was waylaid when he shoved a piece of meat into her mouth. She chewed instead.
There was such a commotion of laughing and talking going on inside the hall that Nicholaa didn't think anyone was paying her any attention. Matilda sat on her right, but she was in deep discussion with her husband. The topic, Nicholaa chanced to overhear, was their children.
And so she allowed Royce to assist her with her dinner. It helped that he was so nonchalant about the task. He could have ordered his squire to see to the chore, and she found herself thankful that he wasn't making an issue out of her affliction.
"Baron Samuel said he would take my bandages off tomorrow," she told Royce.
He nodded. Then he turned to speak to a baron she hadn't met. She nudged Royce with her foot. He didn't turn back to her.
Nicholaa sat there, feeling all alone and miserable, her burned hands resting in her lap. It didn't take her long to start feeling sorry for herself. Her hands were stinging, and the pain only added to her melancholy mood. She noticed several unattached women giving her husband coy looks. She edged closer to Royce and frowned at the shameless wenches.
She didn't like being ignored. Royce came to that conclusion when she kept squeezing herself closer to his side on the long bench. If she moved again, she'd be sitting on his lap.
He finally took mercy on her. "Are you enjoying yourself, Nicholaa?" he asked.
She lifted her shoulders in a dainty shrug. "Where did you sleep last night?"
Nicholaa turned away from Royce to glare at an ugly redheaded woman who was trying to get her husband's attention. "Well?"
"Look at me when you ask me a question," he commanded.
He patiently waited until she'd complied with that order, then said, "I slept with my wife."
"I'm your wife."
He raised an eyebrow. "Yes, you are."
"You slept with me?"
"That's what I just said, woman."
"You needn't sound irritated. I don't remember last night, and I did wonder. So you slept with me."
She couldn't seem to get it straight in her mind. Royce held his patience. She was such a joy to watch when she was pricked about something. She was certainly pricked now. She was trying not to frown and failing miserably. He decided to goad her a little. "Actually, I slept under you. You were on top."
Her face turned flame red. Royce laughed. The loud booming sound drew several startled glances.
"You made me sleep on top of-"
"You wanted to."
"I was drugged."
"Yes."
Her shoulders straightened. "I'm not taking a draft tonight."
He agreed when he saw how upset she was becoming.
Nicholaa was pulled into a conversation with Matilda then. Royce noticed she didn't move away from his side. She seemed to want to be close to him. He didn't understand why, but he liked having her by his side. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to put his arm around her shoulders. Nicholaa didn't shrug his arm away. A few minutes later, when Matilda finished relating an amusing story about one of her daughters and turned back to her husband, Nicholaa gave in to her weariness and leaned against Royce's side.
To outsiders, she supposed she and Royce looked like a happily wedded couple who couldn't wait to have a bit of time alone together. In part, that was true, Nicholaa thought. She couldn't wait to get Royce alone. And the minute she did, she was going to give that unbending brute a fair piece of her mind. Lord, he was inconsiderate. Why, every time she thought about the way he'd bellowed her name and arrogantly motioned for her to come to him, she started seething.
It didn't take her any time at all to work herself into a fine state of fury. Then Royce ruined it. He started rubbing the tension right out of her shoulders in such a soothing way she couldn't help but snuggle up against him. She yawned, too.
"Do your hands still burn, Nicholaa?" he whispered against her ear.
A shiver of pleasure made her neck tickle. The tenderness in his voice felt like a caress. She knew it probably wasn't proper to be pressed up against his side in front of the guests, but she was too weary to care.
Besides, it was chilly inside the hall and Royce was so incredibly warm. She told herself she only wanted to borrow a little of his heat.
She wiggled a little closer to him before she gave him her answer. "My hands do sting a little, Royce. It isn't unbearable, though."
He started rubbing her shoulders again. She liked that. She liked his scent, too. Royce smelled so clean, so masculine. When he turned back to talk to his friends, she didn't feel as though he was completely ignoring her anymore, because every now and then he'd gently stroke the back of her neck or brush his hand against her upper arm, just to let her know, she thought, that he hadn't forgotten her.
King William suddenly stood up, waved his hand for silence, and then commanded that Sir Clayton come forward.
A tall, thin man with a long, narrow nose and thick jowls separated himself from the group and made a low bow. He was dressed in purple garb, a bright red cape draped across one shoulder.
King William took his seat, and everyone hurried to find a chair. In a matter of minutes silence reigned in the hall.
Clayton made quite a flourish when he motioned for his assistants to come forward. Two young men, dressed alike, stood on either side of Clayton. The assistants held trumpets in their hands.
Nicholaa straightened away from Royce's side, her curiosity piqued. She assumed the trio would sing for the gathering.
King William clapped his hands. The assistants sounded the trumpets, then walked forward. Clayton followed.
Royce was also watching now. He leaned back against the bench, then nudged Nicholaa to do the same.
She turned to smile at him. "Are they going to sing for us?" she whispered.
He shook his head. "That's Clayton the herald," he explained.
Nicholaa didn't understand. She knew that the herald was the living memory of the times, the history teller of important events. The Saxons also used heralds, of course, and although she knew what the duties were, she couldn't imagine why Clayton was giving an accounting now.
She leaned into Royce's side again. "Is he going to tell what happened at Hastings?" she whispered.
He shook his head. "He's going to recount a special legend, Nicholaa. Pay attention. You'll understand soon enough."
Clayton had already begun his tale. Nicholaa caught the end of his remarks about the importance of securing a lucrative holding in King William's name. The herald's voice was strong yet musical, too. In no time at all, Nicholaa had become engrossed in the remarkable story.