Flowers From The Storm (39 page)

“We did not tell thee,” she said to the maid. “I’m sorry for it. ”Twas a wicked deception.“

“Oh, no. It don’t matter, Mistress. Long as he was pledged to ”ee. Perhaps, you being Quaker, his noble folk don’t like it? I don’t blame ‘ee, Mistress, for wedding in secret. Me aunt “n uncle did just the same, living tally ’till they could afford to be churched. And you kept separate rooms of a night; I can swear to that myself.” She smiled shyly. “Now ye needn’t to do that no more, with such a handsome lad to kiss ”ee an‘ keep “ee warm! The duke! I don’t hardly believe it’s true. Mr. Langland—well, he’s not what ye’d think, is he? Tis blowed about from pillar to post that the Duke of Jervaulx’s a clever man. Are ye—” She hesitated. “Are ye certain ’tis the real duke, m’lady?”

“Yes,” Maddy said, with at least that to say truthful. “Thou must not call me lady.”

“What’m I‘’t”call ye, Mistress?“

“ ”Your Grace,“ ” Durham supplied, shoving two mugs of foaming ale into Brunhilda’s hands. “Our guests are thirsty.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll bring up a tray.” She took the mugs and turned toward the cellar. Durham, when he left off his lazy airs and suddenly took to action, gave a person no time to think. Not only had he declared to the dowager’s half dozen henchmen that Maddy was the new Duchess of Jervaulx, he’d even managed to march them all, along with horses and dogs, across the churchyard and into the rectory hall, ready to drink a wedding breakfast. For all their shouting and pounding, the men didn’t seem very much concerned about the failure of their mission. The promise of strong spirits for celebration appeared to succeed in making them forget it entirely.

In the rectory, Durham had immediately accosted Maddy and Brunhilda in the matter of where to locate this fountain of hospitality, and the three of them came back up from the cellar just as Brunhilda’s mother arrived in the midst of everything, red-cheeked from cold and astonished at the company. Jervaulx was nowhere to be seen, but Colonel Fane was loudly informing the bewildered matron of the special nature of the occasion: the nuptials of the Duke of Jervaulx.

“Oh, him,” she said, looking a little less perplexed. “Wish’en joy, then. Do ”ee all know Himself, sir?“

“Indeed, my dear. Very well. Ah! And here she is—the blushing bride!” The colonel swept out his arm with a gallant little bow toward Maddy, as if they were spectators at a parade and he were pointing out the King.

The countrywoman turned to him, laughing. “What a humbug! That’s only Mistress Langland.”

Colonel Fane leaned over and whispered in her ear.

She listened. She put her thumbnail to her mouth and stared at Maddy, turned white and then red.

Maddy clutched the cloak tight round herself, painfully aware of having no bonnet, of her hair hanging down her back in its single loose nighttime braid. The woman drew in a breath, seeming to waver between shock and disapproval. “Souls alive!” She finally shook her head. “The wonder of this life. I’d best see to the victuals, then, for that gawkhammer girl won’t know what to do with herself. The whole village will come calling ”fore the day’s out. Long life and happiness to ye, M’lady. And to Himself.“ She dropped a curtsy and turned toward the kitchen.

“So where the devil is Himself?” Durham looked at Maddy.

She already knew that Jervaulx was nowhere in the room. “I’ll look upstairs,” she said, thankful for a chance to get away.

The upper hall seemed quiet after the cheerful babble of male voices below. She found him in his room, dogs at his feet, attempting to shave. He was in his shirtsleeves, wearing his velvet breeches, his collar open, standing at the looking glass over the fireplace mantel and scowling. His face was lathered on one side—the other had a few patches of foam, as if he had only remembered now and then that he had to put soap there, too.

Maddy stuck her finger outside her cloak and tested the water in the basin. “Thou ought to have it hot,”

she said.

He startled, glanced the wrong way in the mirror, and then found her by turning around. Maddy couldn’t bring herself to look directly at him. They both stood awkwardly for a moment, and then he moved to his chair and sat backwards in it, as he always did for her to shave him.

She plunged into the task as if it were mere laundry or dusting, brisk and efficient; she would
not
think of what she had done; she would
not
pay attention to how still he sat, how he watched her, how warm and clean his skin smelled. Mostly, she would not look into his eyes, because they were so dark and blue and intent on her as she struggled with the difficult double task of keeping her cloak closed tight around her and shaving him at the same time.

She finished. He caught the towel from her and cleaned his face himself, rising from the chair. Maddy turned to straighten his coat—he’d got out the brown velvet; the embroidered waistcoat and blue ribbon and star lay beside it on the bed. She realized suddenly that he thought all the regalia appropriate for the occasion. And for some reason, that seemed to make it quite, quite real, this marriage. He had not wed her in his splendid clothes, but now, as if he knew what Brunhilda’s mother had predicted, that the whole village would come—now he dressed the duke.

And she was to be his duchess.

Facing away from him, she looked down at herself, still in her borrowed nightgown under the cloak, her braid hanging behind her to her knees. They would laugh at her—married in a nightgown, with no bonnet.

Married to a duke. Married by a priest. Married in a steeplehouse. Married—married— married… to him.

She felt a little dizzy. When she turned about, Jervaulx was watching her. She took a deep breath, pulled her cloak close, and held up the waistcoat to him.

He caught her hand inside the fabric. “
Wife
,” he said.

“I am no duchess.” She hardly knew if she were apologizing or protesting.

He found the massive band of the signet ring under the silk and turned it upright on her finger. “
Mine
.”

She pulled her hand away. “As thy dogs are thine? I’m not thy possession, Jervaulx, because I wear thy ring.”

With a flick, he took the waistcoat from her hand and shrugged it on. He worked at the buttons with one hand, making little progress but not asking for help. Maddy finally pulled it closed and attempted to button it for him. With her cloak to mind, too, she was having almost as much trouble as he’d had.

After she’d struggled unsuccessfully for a long moment, he made an exasperated grimace. He caught her hands and wrenched the cloak free. He held it out, exposing her. Maddy tried to snatch the wrapper back, but he was stronger; his quick jerk popped the clasp open. Her shield slipped away. He scanned the nightgown—and then leaned his back against the bedpost, carelessly superb in his silk and lace as he made a slow inspection of her.

A very faint smile curled one side of his mouth. “Come,” he commanded, standing up. When she didn’t instantly obey, he reached out and yanked her with him, escorting her forcefully down the hall past the stair to her own room, the dogs trotting complacently ahead and behind.

Jervaulx flung open the wardrobe himself. He stood looking into it at her silver dress. “
All
?” he demanded, turning with his brows raised, as if Maddy must be hiding a roomful of ball gowns somewhere. “Yes,” she said.

“Dress… wife.” He made a little bow. “Pleasure.” Maddy’s eyes widened. She felt herself growing hot.

“I shall dress myself, I thank thee. If thou wilt go!”

He tilted his head—an instant of confusion—and then suddenly grinned. “
Buy
dress… say. Dozen.

Hundred.”

“Oh.” She felt mortified. “I—mistook thee.”

He went toward the door. Maddy expected him to leave; instead he let the dogs out and closed it, turned about and leaned back. There was no visible expression to his mouth, but the ghost of his pirate smile was in his eyes.

“Thou must go,” she said quickly. “It is not seemly.”

He made a look of surprise. “Not? Seem… nurse…
me
. Not… husband…
wife
?”

“We aren’t—truly… we are not…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Something unalterable came into his face, a new and adamant focus. “Before God… Maddygirl. I thee…
wed
.”

She turned away. “I don’t see how it could be true. I’m sure it cannot be. It is to dupe the men below only.”

He was silent. .Maddy looked at the bed hangings, at the venerable red fabric, faded on the outside of each fold, the tarnished trim, the tangle of unmade bedclothes that she’d left in her hurry. She felt hideously aware of herself, of her body inside thin linen, her plait trailing down her back and hips.

The floor creaked. She felt him come behind her, standing close.

She stood still, frozen in place.

He tugged on her braid. He drew it lightly taut, exerting steady pressure on the connection. It didn’t hurt.

It teased her. She might have pulled away as he idled with it, gentle tugs that courted her, coaxed each tiny yield in his direction. She knew it. She stood with her face averted, burning, aware of how she allowed it. He twitched the plait, sending a ripple up to the nape of her neck.

“Maddygirl,” he said softly, with that wicked smile in his voice.

She shook her head, as if it had been a question and she must answer no.

He moved closer. She could feel the warmth of him at her back. He lifted the braid over her shoulder and curled it round her throat.

Slowly, slowly, he increased the pull. Maddy put her hand to her throat, clutching the braid, holding it from growing tighter. Her hips touched him, her back. She grew stiff, frantic and fixed in place.

He caught her shoulders. He held her against him, a domination, his breath rough beside her ear—and then his hard grip turned to a caress. He smoothed his hands down her sleeves, laced his fingers through hers, covering her hands with his palms.

A low hum, deep music, like his laughter: the sound he made as he touched his mouth to her bared throat seemed to touch a note inside her, turning quiver to resonance. He lifted his arms, their hands still enlaced, and crossed them against her breasts.

Her braid lay over her shoulder and their hands. He toyed with the tip of it. He held it in one fist and ran his thumb against it. The single strand of hair, the tiny thread that she’d looped tight to hold it—the strand broke, and the plait came free.

He made a sound, low and hot. And then he released her—before she could find herself in his embrace, before she could say what it felt like—only that he was solid and tall and heated and catastrophic, only that she felt bare and hollow when he let her go.

He moved past her. He lounged against the bed, holding her loosened braid. As he rubbed it between his fingers, the plaiting spread and curled over his hand. He sat on the edge of the unmade bed, smiling down at her hair in his hands.

“Tower,” he said, “Girl…
tower
.”

“I don’t understand. I must dress.”

He opened his fingers, working the braid apart higher and higher. “Let… down… thy hair. Shining…

hair.” He shook his head. “Girl. Can’t remember…
girl
.”

“Thou must go away.” Her voice was light and shaky. With each fraction of an inch that he moved up the length of the braid, unplaiting it, he pulled her that much closer to him.

“Maddygirl.” He worked steadily. “Princess… tower. Lock. Lonely. Prince… outside… no stair.” His knee touched her. He had reached halfway, spreading her hair loose below her waist. “Call… lonely…

fairy princess… let down thy hair. Beautiful hair.
Long
. Climb up… come up to me.” He brought her closer. She stood now between his legs, her plait undone higher yet. He leaned forward, blowing against it where it lay over her breast, sliding his fingers into it there, drawing them down the whole length.

“Come up to me.”

He blew again—and then touched his lips to the fall of her hair, a soft pressure at the tip of her breast, a stolen instant of contact, so brief and exquisite that she shuddered, flinched back when he kissed her other breast as lightly, but his arm was there at her waist to hold her.

“Maddygirl,” he whispered, with that heavy moan in his throat, burying his face in her breasts, drawing his hands downward to touch them. “Shine… princess.” He held his palms to her shape, his hair black against the whiteness of her gown.

She pulled back, refusing. “No. I cannot.”

His fingers tightened, locked at her waist. His lips moved over her breasts, her throat. “
Mine
.”

He was so close; he shattered her, made her strange to herself. Her body pulsed and ached, wantonly bared to him. She strained away. “I am not thine. It was not a true marriage.”

The line of his mouth changed. His grip hardened. “Yes.
True
.”

“Not for me.”

“True.”

“No.”

He looked at her, blue flame and blackness, utterly still.