Ransom My Heart (25 page)

It wasn't until her groans excited in him a similar longing that Hugo rose, shaking off her clinging fingers, which had fisted in his hair, and plunged himself into the tight warmth he'd been kissing moments before, finally making them husband and wife in truth, and wiping out any hope of an annulment. Finnula cried out in wordless pleasure as he drew back and entered her again, more deeply this time.

When release came, it crashed over both of them simultaneously, rocking Hugo forward again and again, driving Finnula back into the pillows with the force of his thrusts. Crying out hoarsely as wave after wave of pleasure rolled over her, Finnula didn't even hear Hugo's triumphant roar as he collapsed against her.

It was only when the two of them finally lay still, their hearts pounding against each other's, their breathing ragged, that they became aware of the sound of voices outside the solar's windows. Hugo raised his head from Finnula's damp throat. “What the hell…?”

Then, when it became clear that the voices were those of their wedding guests, and that they were cheering, and calling up words of encouragement, Finnula felt herself turn crimson.

“God's teeth, Hugo! They must have heard you!” she whispered.

“
Me?
” Hugo looked distinctly amused, and not at all embarrassed. “I wasn't the one screaming.”

“I didn't scream,” Finnula cried, shocked. Then, doubtfully, she whispered, “Did I?”

Hugo only chuckled, and, moving from her, reached for the wolf pelt. This he pulled over her nakedness, as if, with it, he could shield her from the world. Then he slipped back into his braies and, barefoot, padded to one of the unshuttered windows.

Finnula rose up on one elbow, eyeing him curiously. “Whatever are you doing?” she asked the man who was now, for better or for worse, her husband in every sense of the word.

“Getting rid of them,” he growled, shaking something in his hand that tinkled. “I'll not have an audience on my wedding night…even if it
is
too late.” Then, calling out to the crowd below, he hurled a fistful of coins to the ground. “Take that, you ruffians,” he cried. “And get gone!”

Appreciative squeals met his shower of coins, and Hugo was still chuckling as he drew the shutters closed. Finnula sank back against the pillows, sleepily admiring her husband's fine profile. Mayhap marriage to such a man would not be so bad, she thought. Mayhap he could be taught…

And when Hugo, extinguishing the wall sconces and once again stripping off his braies, slid beneath the wolf pelt and pulled her against him, she knew, with drowsy certainty, that there was no place else she would rather be. She fell asleep with her cheek upon his shoulder, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his broad chest.

W
hen Hugo woke the next morning, it was because his wife was sidling off the edge of the bed, taking such excruciating care not to wake him that it was obvious she was up to no good. Hugo immediately rolled over onto the trailing ends of her hair, and, feigning slumber, pulled her back into his arms. Finnula made no protest, which led him to believe that whatever she'd been up to would keep…at least until after he'd caught up on a few more hours of badly needed sleep.

When Hugo awoke again, it was almost midday and Finnula was conspicuously absent from his bed. She had not wandered very far, however. He could hear her throaty voice in the yard below his windows, barking out orders in the manner of someone well-used to doing so. Hugo did not have the slightest idea
what she could be about, and was not at all certain that he wanted to know. He rose, however, and after a good deal of stretching and splashing cold water onto his face—it had never occurred to him that having a young wife was going to prove so physically taxing—he flung open the window shutters and blinked at the vivid spring colors that greeted him…the expanse of cloudless blue sky, the emerald of the treetops, and the bright copper color of his wife's plaited hair.

At first he thought it a trick of the strong sunlight that it appeared as if the yard below was filled with furniture, around which Finnula, followed by the galumphing mastiff Gros Louis, strutted—in her leather braies, he noted, grimly. But after he'd thoroughly wiped the sleep from his eyes, he saw that, indeed, his father's canopied bed sat in the middle of the courtyard, along with a number of other items from the late earl's solar. Hugo recognized a few shields, his father's water ewer, even a chamber pot, all piled haphazardly in the center of the courtyard. As he watched, his squire, Peter, came stumbling into view, staggering beneath the weight of the late earl's favorite chair.

“Very good, Peter,” Finnula said. “Put it right there, by the bed.”

“Yes, m'lady.” Down went the chair, with a thump and a crack of wood that caused even Hugo, two stories above, to wince. “You want I should bring down that trunk in the corner by the window?”

“Yes, of course,” Finnula replied, as if she were speaking to a particularly dense child…and Peter being Peter, Hugo didn't think she was far wrong. “Everything, Peter. I want everything brought down.”

“Yes, m'lady.” Peter turned, obeying Her Ladyship's commands with an alacrity that he'd never exhibited while serving
Hugo. Hugo, frowning, tapped his fingers against the stone window casement, and cleared his throat.

“Lady Finnula,” he called down, pleasantly.

Old Webster appeared at that moment, dragging a ragged tapestry behind him. “'Ere ye are, m'lady. Where d'ye want it?”

“Oh, just drape it anywhere.” Shading her eyes with a hand, Finnula craned her neck to squint up at Hugo. “Good morning, my lord,” she called.

“Good morning, my lady.” Hugo folded his powerful arms across his chest. “'Tis a pleasant day, is it not?”

“Verily,” Finnula replied. “I trust you slept well.”

“Like a stone, madam. So hard, in fact, I do not recall you mentioning that you intended to turn the house out this morn.”

“Not the entire house, my lord,” Finnula said, darting out of the way as a wench Hugo didn't recognize traipsed past, her arms full of his late father's clothing. “Only Lord Geoffrey's solar.”

Hugo nodded. “I can see that. And might I ask, madam, what you intend to do with the items you've collected from there?”

Finnula, in a gesture Hugo instantly recognized as nervousness, pushed a few loose tendrils of red hair from her forehead. “Burn them, my lord,” she called up to him.

Hugo oughtn't to have been surprised. Knowing how much she despised the late earl, it was a relatively mild gesture. Still, the fact that she had neglected to mention the matter to Hugo beforehand was rather irksome.

“I see,” Hugo said, and he could not keep the disapproval from his voice. “I shall be down presently, Lady Finnula, to discuss this, er, bonfire with you.”

As Hugo turned away from the window, Finnula's hoarse voice beckoned him back. “Might I suggest, my lord,” she called up
to him, a slight teasing note in her tone, “that you dress before coming down?”

Quickly glancing down at himself, Hugo realized he'd been addressing his wife—and, indeed, nearly his entire household staff—in his altogether. Grimacing, he stalked away from the window, only half conscious of the astonished cry that the sight of his naked backside elicited from Mistress Laver below. The cook, crossing the courtyard in order to consult with her new mistress concerning the evening meal, had to sit down and be fanned for several minutes before she recuperated from the shock.

Hugo was shaved and dressed in a matter of minutes, a skill he'd acquired during the Crusades, where sneak attacks by the enemy had necessitated rapid toilettes. Running a hand through his damp hair, he hurried down the stairs, observing that nearly all signs of the previous evening's festivities had been cleared away. New rushes had been laid upon the flagstones, and those had been doused with something sweet-smelling. The long tables were gone, with the exception of the one at which he and Finnula would partake of their regular meals. Because the day was fine, no fire had been laid upon the massive stone hearth. Instead, all the flowers from the night before were piled where a log ought to have been, making an eye-catching and pleasant-scented arrangement.

Hugo was so intent upon reaching the back courtyard, in which Finnula'd had all his father's belongings piled, that he didn't see the four-foot-tall impediment with which he collided as he came down the stairs.

“Hey there!” cried a pile of bed curtains at the base of the stairs. “Look where you're goin'!”

Hugo, backing up with alacrity, saw that the bearer of the brocade material was none other than his son, Jamie, who looked mightily
indignant at being trod upon. Scrambling to his feet, the lad gave his jerkin a tug and said, “Just because I'm small don't mean I ain't here a'tall, you know.” And then, grudgingly, “My lord.”

Hugo looked down at the sulking little cuss and wondered how he could not have noticed the resemblance before. Though his memory of the boy's mother would probably never be much more than dim, his own features he recognized quite well. Particularly, he noted, the hazel eyes.

“Well, there, Jamie,” he said, reaching down to help the boy get a firmer grasp on his load. “I apologize for that. Have you got hold of it, now?”

“Right enough,” Jamie admitted. “Now if you'll 'scuse me, Lady Finn wants all this stuff out back—”

“Hold a minute there, Jamie,” Hugo said, drawing the boy back with a hand upon his slim shoulder. “I believe there's something you and I need to get straight.”

Obediently, the boy faced him, waiting with only the slightest expression of impatience on his face as Hugo settled himself on the bottom step.

“When I asked you, yesterday,” Hugo began, hesitantly, “to whom you belonged, Jamie, you said—”

“You, my lord.”

“Yes, that's right. You said that you belong to me, meaning, I assume, that you are my vassal—”

“Aye,” Jamie said. “That I am. Like Mistress Laver.”

“Well, yes, Jamie.” Hugo stroked his chin. “But what I really meant was…Jamie, do you know who your father is?”

“I should think so,” Jamie declared. “You.”

Hugo nodded, relieved. “Yes, that's right. Me. Now, I've been away for quite a long time, and I realize that perhaps you've had things hard—”

Jamie looked as if his patience was wearing thin. “Lady Finn'll have my hide if I don't get back with these curtains.”

“Well, stay a moment. I'll go with you and explain to, er, Lady Finn. What I want to say, Jamie, is that if there's anything, uh, anything that you need—”

“I need to get back to Lady Finn afore she kills me,” Jamie asserted.

“Yes. Well.” Seeing that there was no use pursuing the subject at the moment, Hugo rose and, taking the bed curtains from the boy, said, “Let me help you with that, anyway.”

Jamie's face was a picture of delight. “Oh! You take that, my lord, and I'll run back up and get the others! Lady Finn'll be right pleased!”

Watching the boy scamper back up the stairs, Hugo shook his head. Somehow or other, Hugo was going to have to impress upon Jamie that he wasn't one of the servants. Though Hugo could not, in fairness to Finnula, name the boy as his heir, he could see the child properly—and prosperously—raised. The lad was going to have to be educated and apprenticed somewhere. Though what household would take him, filthy as he was, Hugo couldn't imagine. Mayhap Finnula, whom the boy seemed to worship, could induce him to bathe.

Gathering up the bed curtains, Hugo headed for the back of the house, carefully dodging scurrying chambermaids and frantic-looking laundresses, none of whom acknowledged his presence except by gasping and hurrying away. He could hear Mistress Laver barking orders at some hapless scullion, and if the aroma wafting from the kitchens was any indication of what awaited him for breakfast, he thought the cook hardly needed to scold anyone.

But he himself had some scolding to attend to before break
ing his fast, and accordingly, stepped outside to find his wife instructing old Webster's newly hired assistant to hitch up the farm wagon, since she wanted all His Lordship's furniture carted to the south field where, she sweetly explained, it would be burned to the ground. Finnula was quite unconscious of Hugo's looming presence and didn't even turn around until the groom, gulping, pointed over her shoulder.

“I'm thinkin' 'Is Lordship is wantin' ye, Lady Finn,” the rough-looking lad said.

Finnula spun around, spied the bed curtains in Hugo's arms, and cried, “Oh, lovely! Put those there, will you, my lord?”

Hugo dropped the material, then snaked out an arm and anchored it around his wife's waist. “Finnula,” he said, through gritted teeth. “You and I need to have a talk.”

“Not right now,” Finnula said, squirming against him. “I've got work to do.”

“I can see that you've been working very industriously indeed this morning, my love.” Hugo's grip on her was inexorable, and she finally gave up twisting within it and eyed him, her gaze wary but her chin thrust out obstinately.

Glimpsing the fleeting surrender in her gray eyes, Hugo bodily hauled his wife out of earshot of the servants, depositing her on the far side of the courtyard, near the well. Once her feet touched solid ground, Finnula, catlike, set about adjusting her attire, tucking the ends of her white shirt back into her braies and flicking suspicious glances in his direction.

“You said at the millhouse,” she began haughtily, “that Stephensgate Manor was mine, to do with what I chose—”

“But to burn all my father's belongings?” Hugo glowered at her. “Weren't you even going to consult me about my feelings on the matter?”

“
Your
feelings on the matter?” Finnula stamped a booted foot, her cheeks pinkening with anger. Her normally gentle gray eyes suddenly snapped fire as she jabbed a finger into Hugo's broad chest. “Your father was a miserable weak man”—she emphasized each word with a jab of her finger—“who allowed that
leech
Reginald Laroche to suck out his life's blood until all that was left was a half-crazed shell. Your father let that man rob and starve the very people he was sworn to protect, and then, to top it all off, he forced me to marry him against my will, died, and left me to be accused of his murder!” Drawing breath, Finnula dropped her hands to her hips and glared at him. “And you stand there and protest
your
feelings!”

Hugo frowned down at his obstreperous wife. His anger, if truth be told, was mostly feigned. What did he care about a lot of old furniture? But he couldn't allow Finnula to think that she, not he, was lord of the manor.

“And burning all of his belongings is going to remedy my father's mistakes?” he demanded, with what he considered intimidating gruffness.

Not very surprisingly, Finnula hardly looked cowed. “Burning all of Lord Geoffrey's belongings will make me happy,” she informed him tartly. And then she added, with a sly glance at old Webster, who'd come stumbling into the courtyard bearing the late earl's saddle, “And 'twill make his subjects happy, as well. I'm sorry to say there wasn't much love lost between Lord Geoffrey and his vassals toward the end. Your allowing them to throw something of his onto an enormous bonfire just might make some of them forgive and forget. That, and the fact that you've dismissed Monsieur Laroche, will make them more accepting of you…”

“You think so, do you, wench?” Hugo couldn't help grinning at her. “And do you care whether or not my subjects accept me?”

She lifted her nose. “Certainly not. But 'twill make my role as chatelaine easier—”

Looking up at him, Finnula suddenly bit her lower lip, and laid a slim hand on his arm. Finnula so rarely touched him of her own accord—at least, without a knife in her hand—that Hugo raised his eyebrows, surprised by the gesture. He didn't have the slightest idea what caused Finnula suddenly to soften toward him, but all at once, she was looking up at him with something almost like sympathy in her eyes.

“I'm sorry to malign your father in this way, Hugo. I know that toward the end of his life he was…ill. But even before that, he was rather horrid—”

Hugo shrugged, amused. “I told you myself he was rather horrid, remember?”

She blinked up at him, and he saw the tenderness leave her face. “Oh, yes. That story about how your mother and father tried to force you to join a monastery.” She laughed shortly, a laugh without mirth, and dropped her hand from his arm. “'Twas stupid of me not to have realized then who you were in truth. That's quite a famous story round these parts.”