Fire Song (19 page)

“I wish you had not come in so stealthily, my lord!
Now I am found out!” She smiled winsomely up at him, and felt her smile crack at his continued scowl.

“I do not recall having given you permission to rifle my trunk and make yourself free with my belongings.”

She cocked her head as was her unconscious habit, but he felt no tug of amusement, not this time. “Well?” he demanded.

“It did not occur to me, my lord, that you would be . . . upset at my taking the velvet. It is a lovely piece and I thought—”

“What is mine is mine,” he said coldly. “If you wished to make yourself a new gown, you should have asked me.”

“I thought,” she began again, raising her chin just a trifle, “that I shared in your possessions, just as you share in mine.”

“Your father,” Graelam said, his voice becoming even colder, “did me a great disservice. What is yours is mine, my lady, and what is mine remains mine.”

“But that is hardly fair!” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

“God’s bones!” Graelam muttered. “Just because I have allowed you to play at being mistress of Wolffeton—”

“Play!” Kassia bounded to her feet, the precious velvet falling to the floor.

“You will not interrupt me again, madam. Pick up the cloth. I do not wish it to become soiled. And remove your stitches.”

She stared at him, so indignant that she could find no words. His kindness to her since his return was forgotten. “And what, my lord,” she said at last, her voice trembling, “did you intend the velvet for?”

It was Graelam’s turn to stare at his wife. He had likely been a fool, he realized, to treat her so
indulgently. And poor Blanche. Had Kassia treated her as unkindly as Blanche had sobbed to him? He gritted his teeth. “Pick up the velvet,” he repeated, “and let me hear no more of your ill-humored tongue.”

Etta, standing still as a tombstone outside the bedchamber door, listened with mounting fear. Seldom had her gentle mistress ever spoken in anger to anyone. She launched through the open door just as Kassia, too angry to be afraid, shouted, “No!”

“My baby!” Etta exclaimed, rushing toward her mistress. “Have you nearly finished with your lord’s tunic? He will be so pleased. Oh, forgive me, my lord! I did not know . . . my eyes . . . I did not see you.”

Graelam was stopped cold. His eyes narrowed on the old nurse’s guileless face, then slewed back to his wife. Slowly he leaned over and picked up the velvet, spreading it out over his arm. He looked at the exquisite stitching, traced his fingers over the width of material, and felt a fool. Without raising his head, he said in Etta’s direction, “Get out.”

Etta, clutching her rosary, fled the bedchamber, praying that she had saved her mistress.

“It is a tunic for me,” Graelam said.

“Aye. You are so large, and your shirts and tunics so worn and ill-fitting. I wanted you to be garbed as you should be.”

He looked at her for several moments, trying to still his guilt. “You will ask me in the future,” he said, and tossed the velvet to her. “And, my lady, you will answer me honestly when I ask you a question.”

With those emotionless cold words, Graelam turned on his heel and strode from the bedchamber, leaving Kassia to grind her teeth and jab her needle into the velvet. Upon reflection, she knew she should have told
him immediately that it was not a gown for herself she was making. But how dare he treat her so! Ill-humored tongue! Looking down, she realized she had set several very crooked stitches and jerked them out of the velvet, venting all her fury on the hapless thread.

Graelam stood on the ramparts, looking east toward rolling green hills. He had tried to concentrate on the administrative problems Blount had brought him: two peasants who wanted the same girl for wife; a dispute over the ownership of a pig; and a crusty old man who had wanted to sell Graelam his daughter. But it was no use.

He turned westward and watched the sun make its downward descent. A slight breeze ruffled his hair, and he impatiently smoothed it out of his eyes.

“My lord.”

It was as if he had willed her to appear. Slowly Graelam turned to Kassia, standing some distance away from him, her head bowed.

“My lady,” he greeted her, his voice clipped.

“The baker has made some pastries I thought you would like—almond and honey, your favorite.”

Graelam cursed under his breath. “Can you not come closer?”

She obeyed him, but her step was hesitant. He watched the sunlight create glints of copper and gold in her hair. He felt a pang of guilt and it angered him.

“I don’t want the pastries,” he said when she came to a pained halt in front of him.

“I did not really come for that reason,” Kassia said, raising her head.

She was pale and he saw the strain in her eyes. Damn, he had but chastised her for taking the cloth! “Why did you come?” he asked.

“To tell you I am sorry. I should not have taken the velvet without your permission.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“I wanted to surprise you.” She looked at him searchingly, hopeful of some bending, but his face was impassive. “I meant no harm.”

He saw her blink rapidly and lower her head. Kassia quickly turned away from him, not wanting him to see her tears. Her anger at him was gone, and she had hoped that he would smile at her again and dismiss the entire incident. But he looked all the more grim.

Graelam cursed, and grabbed her arm. “I did not give you permission to go,” he said harshly. He closed his hand more tightly about her arm, feeling her delicate and fragile bones that would snap like a twig under his strength. “Why do you not eat the pastries? By all the saints, you are so slight that a breeze could sweep you away.”

Kassia did not understand him. He sounded furious, yet his hand had eased on her arm, and his fingers were gently massaging where he had clasped her so harshly.

“Truly, my lord,” she said at last, “I did not mean to anger you. I did not think—”

“No, ’tis obvious,” he interrupted her, hating the pleading in her voice. He dropped her arm and turned slightly away from her. “You gave orders to have the outbuildings whitewashed.”

“Aye,” she admitted in a small voice, cursing herself at the same time for her cowardice. Were she at Belleterre, she wanted to shout at him, not only would she have given orders to whitewash the sheds, but she would have also overseen, with her father, the drawing of the charter with the merchant Drieux. Would he give her authority to act as mistress of Wolffeton one minute, and withdraw it the next?

Silence stretched between them. “Have I your permission to go now, my lord?”

“Why, my lady?” he asked, turning to face her again. “Do you not find my company to your liking?”

“I must tell the servants not to whitewash the outbuildings.”

“I want it done. Leave be.”

Her eyes flew to his face. He smiled at the spark of anger he saw there. But it immediately recalled another matter to mind. “What did you do to Blanche in my absence? She was very upset.”

She cocked her head to one side, clearly puzzled. “I . . . I do not understand.”

“She was crying earlier.” Indeed, she had wet his tunic through. “You are not to give her orders, Kassia, or make her life unpleasant. She is a gentle lady, and deserving of kind treatment.”

Surely, Kassia thought, he could not be talking about his sister-in-law, Blanche! Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Which Blanche do you mean, my lord? One of the serving maids?”

“Perhaps,” he said coldly, “Blanche could teach you submissiveness and the proper respect for your husband.”

She felt such a surge of anger that she feared what she would say if she remained with him. She gasped her rage, turned on her heel, and ran as fast as she could back along the narrow walkway.

“Kassia! Come back here!”

She tripped on her long gown at his furious voice, and swayed for an instant, the cobblestones of the inner bailey rising upward toward her.

“Hellfire, you stupid wench!” Graelam roared, his gut wrenching at the sight of her weaving toward the edge of the rampart. He lurched forward, grabbed her arm, and jerked her back. “Have you no sense?” he yelled at her, shaking her so hard her neck snapped back.

She cried out, a soft, broken sound that froze him. He stared down at her white face, cursed savagely, and pulled her against him. He enveloped her in his arms, unconsciously rocking her. She leaned pliantly against him, her cheek pressed against his chest. He could feel her small breasts heaving against him as she tried to stop her gasping breaths. He felt a bolt of lust so powerful that he was momentarily stunned. He realized vaguely that it was born of fear for her, and anger, but it did not matter. She was his wife, dammit, and he had not possessed her for six days!

In one swift motion he lifted her over his shoulder and strode toward the steep wooden stairs that led down to the inner bailey. He paid no attention to the scores of gaping servants or to his men who watched his progress. He was breathing hard when he finally reached their bedchamber, but not from exertion. He kicked the door closed behind him and strode to the bed. He
eased her off his shoulder and laid her on her back. He pulled his trousers open, his hands shaking, then turned back to her. He jerked off her leather slippers, pulled up her clothes, baring her to her waist, and flung himself down over her.

“Damn you,” he growled harshly, and kissed her brutally.

Kassia felt suspended, as if time had stopped, and she was another, gazing down upon the furious man savaging a girl who was no longer she. She felt his hands upon her, roughly jerking her legs apart. When he reared over her, she realized starkly that he was going to force her. Still, her mind held her utterly still, like a stick puppet with no will of her own. She felt his fingers parting her, felt his rigid manhood thrust inward. A tearing pain seared her, plummeting her mind back into her body. She screamed, a high, thin wailing sound that melded with his harsh breathing, and her body fought the pain. She began to fight him, striking his shoulders and back with all her strength, but she was impaled, helpless.

Graelam felt himself tearing into her small, unwilling body. Thrusting his full length, he seated himself to his hilt. Her pounding fists made no impression on him as he sought to subdue her, to force her to utter submission. He flung himself onto her, grasped her face between his hands, and thrust his tongue into her mouth. At the taste of her salty tears, his mind balked, but his body, intent upon release, rammed into her until his senses blurred and his seed burst from his body, filling her. He was insensate for several moments. It was her helpless moan that jerked him to awareness. He raised himself over her and stared down at her face. Her eyes were pressed tightly closed, her thick lashes wet spikes
against her cheeks. There was a spot of blood on her lower lip, bitten in pain.

He closed his own eyes for a moment, wishing he could close out the enormity of what he had done.

“Kassia.” Her name was a growl of pain on his lips. He withdrew from her, feeling her quiver, and drew her into his arms. She lay utterly still, unresponsive even as he smoothed the curls back from her forehead.

“Look at me, damn you! Kassia, open your eyes.” He clasped her jaw and shook her head until her lashes fluttered and she looked up at him.

What he saw chilled him. She was staring up at him, and he knew that the wide, unseeing look in her eyes reflected her thoughts.

“Stop it!” he shouted at her, shaking her shoulders. She did not respond. For the first time in his life, he felt himself to be despicable, a brute who had hurt someone who had not half his strength. He knew a churning fear that made him tremble. “Kassia,” he whispered, and buried his face in her hair.

“You hurt me.”

Her small, stricken voice made him jerk his head up. The blind look was gone from her eyes and she was regarding him like a child who does not understand why the parent has struck him.

“You promised you would never hurt me again. You lied to me.”

He wanted to beg her forgiveness, but the words stuck in his throat. Never in his life had he uttered such words to a woman. Images of his father telling him that a wife was her husband’s possession, to do with as he pleased, careened through his mind. A woman had no will; she existed only through her husband and through
her children. He was struggling with himself when she spoke again, softly, her voice holding no anger, no reproach.

“You told me that being a wife was better than being a dog. You told me that there were benefits to being a wife.”

“Aye,” he said helplessly, “I told you that.”

“I think,” she said very clearly, “that I should prefer being a dog.”

“You have no choice in the matter!” he said sharply. “You are as God fashioned you.”

“Must I also blame God?” She moved away from him and he let her go. She pulled her clothing down and stood a moment by the bed. She looked remote, yet utterly calm. “Have I your permission to leave now, my lord? There is the meal to see to. I would not want you displeased.”

He stared at her, frustrated, sunk in his own guilt. “Go,” he said harshly. She turned away without another word. He saw her weave a moment, then stiffen and walk slowly toward the door.

Graelam closed his eyes a moment. He pictured the Earl of Drexel in his mind, the man whose page and squire he had been, the man who had knighted the very young Graelam for saving his life at the Battle of Evesham. He had attended him after the battle, as was his wont, and watched his blood lust become sexual lust. It did not surprise him, for he had seen his lord take both willing and unwilling women. But the peasant wench had screamed and fought. The earl had merely laughed, cuffing her senseless. “What else are women good for, lad, if not for a man’s pleasure? The stupid wench wasn’t even a virgin.” He had shaken his head,
perplexed. The fat priest with them had said nothing. It was a point of debate among Church prelates whether or not women possessed a soul. Then why, Graelam thought, did he feel so despicable, like a mindless, rutting animal? Kassia was his possession. There would be no one to say him nay or even look at him askance if he beat her within an inch of her life, with or without just cause.