The Heather Moon (30 page)

She left the room, holding her head high, bumping her shoulder slightly on the doorjamb as she passed through. She started up the turnpike stairs and found it necessary to proceed slowly up each wedge-shaped step, trailing a hand along the rough, curving stone wall to support herself as she climbed to the next floor.

A door on the landing led to the cluster of rooms that formed William's private quarters. Tamsin walked through the first room, a small library that contained books in cupboards, and a table and chairs. She traced her fingers over the smooth wood of the furnishings as she went through, and opened a door into the adjoining room, the bedchamber itself. Beyond that larger room lay two more, a small antechamber with a cot and a cupboard, and a tiny garderobe.

Merton Rigg was a fine tower, she thought, but its simple layout and serviceable chambers could not compare to the chambers at Rookhope Tower. Both the library and bedchamber had polished wood floors, painted timber ceilings, whitewashed and tapestry-hung walls, and solid, well-wrought furniture. The rooms were dim, since windows were few and small. Candles and wall sconces were abundant and already alight, and a fire burned bright and fragrant in the hooded fireplace in the bedchamber.

She closed the door and walked into the room, grabbing the carved bedpost to steady herself when the room seemed to tilt. Bedcurtains and a canopy draped the carved walnut bed in dark green damask, and embroidered pillows were piled high against the carved headboard.

The floor beneath her bare feet was thick with fresh, matted rushes, and a small, brilliant Turkish carpet covered the flat lid of a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. She noticed that a gown of black brocade trimmed in gold, another of dark blue silk, a cloak, some chemises, stockings, and a host of accessories lay on the bed. She touched the shimmering materials and sighed.

Shoving fingers through her hair, she sighed again, and cursed herself for a fool. She realized that she had let the wine slip her tongue loose at dinner, and had shown herself to lack dignity and simple manners. If the women of Rookhope had thought little of her at her arrival, surely they thought less of her now.

A wooden tub sat on the hearthstone, filled with water. She walked to it, pausing to take off her cloak and skirt. Lifting her chemise high, she stepped into steaming water, fragrant with bay and lavender.

The moist heat eased into her feet and legs, and she stripped off her chemise and let it float to the floor, lowering herself gradually into the tub, which was so snug that she had to sit with her knees drawn up against her chest. As the water surrounded her, she sighed and sluiced it over her shoulders, breathing in the steam, hoping it would ease the headache that had begun to throb in her temples, and perhaps clear away the fog of the drink.

Nothing, though, could rinse away her conviction that she had made an utter fool of herself at dinner.

A dish of soft soap lay on the hearthstone with a stack of folded linen sheets for toweling. She picked up a small cloth, dipped it in the water, and slopped it over her face with a loud, miserable groan.

Chapter 18

"And when he came to the ladyes chamber, He tirled at the pinn; The lady was true of her promise, Rose up and let him in."

—"Glasgerion"

William knocked on the outer door yet again. "Tamsin? Are you awake?" Hearing only silence, he knocked again, soft but persistent. Finally he opened the door and crossed the dark, silent library to knock on the door leading to the bedchamber. Silence. He pushed the unlatched door open, seeing only shadows and flickering firelight.

"Tamsin?" He stepped inside the darkened chamber.

He heard a shriek and a splash, and looked toward the fireplace. Tamsin sat in a wooden tub, dragging a cloth over her breasts to cover herself. She stared wide-eyed at him, dripping wet hair framing her stunned, heat-flushed face.

"Pray your pardon," he said, turning swiftly, but not before he saw, in the light of the hearth, the swells of her breasts, and the graceful gleam of her bare shoulders and arms. "I didna think you would be in the bath. I thought you would be resting."

"Well, I am bathing. Even gypsies bathe," she snapped. "I have been soaking the spirits out of my head with hot steam and a stern lecture to myself. Are you come to lecture me, too? Since you are my husband, I suppose you have a right to be here."

"Not according to our agreement," he said, turned full away.

"These are your rooms too. Once you told your mother that we were wed, there seemed to be no question but that you would share your lodgings with me." He heard a series of splashes.

"I will go." He stepped toward the door.

"Stay," she said. "I need you here."

"Stay?" He turned in surprise.

Her back was toward him now, and she raised her hands to work soap vigorously through her wet hair. "Aye. I must bathe and dress for yet another meal—and yet another vat of wine—and I need some help to ready myself."

"I will send Helen up to you, or the maidservant," he said.

She paused in her soaping, hands deep in foamy lather, and glanced over her shoulder. "I canna ask for help from them," she said. "You must be the one, if you want me gowned proper."

He looked askance at her, and raked a hand through his hair. "You want me to do your hair and lace your gown?"

"You are better able to do that than I am," she said, and bent her neck forward to scoop handfuls of water over her soapy hair. "I can bathe myself, but I canna dress quickly or easily in the fancy gear your sister left for me. I would be all night at the task, and still wouldna finish up looking proper." She slopped more water over her head. "And I dinna have the patience for it, just now."

Watching her, he suddenly understood. Her left hand, bared and soapy, worked as efficiently as the fingered right at washing her head; it moved like fingers inside a mitten, scooping water and massaging her hair.

But the more minute tasks of lacing, tying, and buttoning, which an elaborate gown and accoutrements required, would challenge her beyond her capabilities. Indeed, beyond her patience, for she had little enough of that, he knew.

No wonder she wore such simple clothing, he thought. Chemises and skirts, cloaks, no shoes—even breeches, shirts, and doublets were far easier for her, with her independent spirit and small left hand, to manipulate. Elaborate gear required dexterous fingers, and sometimes even a lady's maid for a second pair of hands. He suspected that Tamsin Armstrong had never accepted help from anyone regarding such matters. Until now.

He stood there silently, watching her work at her hair as firelight and water slid over the fragile contours of her bare back and slim arms. The lush swell of her breasts, tucked against her raised knees hinted at their fullness.

He noticed her bare left hand, half buried in her dark, dripping curls. And he realized that she had not exposed her hand to his family during dinner, or at any time before that. Understanding hit him like a blow to his belly. He knew why she had eaten so little, so that the wine had gone, fast and sure, to her head.

She had not wanted to show her hand.

What a fool he was, he told himself, not to see the agony she must have been enduring. He could have torn bread for her, could have offered her some sliced food from his plate, like a bridegroom might have done, so that she would not have had to sit there and silently starve in order to save her pride.

"Aye, then," he said softly. "I'll help you."

She paused to hear his answer, then went on scrubbing and rinsing. He came up behind her and dropped to one knee by the tub. She started a little to see him so close. William picked up a bucket filled with water that sat by the hearth, and lifted it over her head. He placed a hand on her wet, soaped hair. The fragrance of roses swept up to him, warm and misty, with the steam of the bath.

"You need some clean water," he said. "You will be all night just rinsing that thick Flemish soap out of your hair."

Soap suds edged the tops of her breasts like lace. She covered herself with crossed arms, bending her neck again to allow him to rinse her hair. He poured a shimmering stream over her head, sluicing water and lather away with his hand. Soon her hair gleamed like rain-swept ebony.

She lifted her head and skimmed her right hand over her hair, keeping the left arm tucked over her breasts. Her fingers slipped over his, lingered for an instant. That brief touch was enough to set his heart to a faster beat.

"My thanks," she said, and closed her eyes suddenly, rubbing at her brow. Her left arm, he saw, tucked a wet cloth against her torso.

"Are you well?" he asked. "Does your head ache?"

"A bit," she said. Her closed eyes were shadowed, and her head and face, with her hair slicked back, were beautifully shaped, with high cheekbones and balanced, elegant features. He stared, fascinated by the strength and simplicity of her beauty. His body stirred, hardened, his breath quickened. In firelight, wet and naked, she was more a siren than any woman he had ever seen. He was sure that she was unaware of the power of her allure.

But his awareness was certain and keen. Remembering that he had promised to respect chasteness between them, he leaned away, took his hand down, as if distancing himself would lessen the intensity of what he felt. He found it had no effect whatsoever.

"I didna eat much, and had a good deal of spirits," she said after a moment. "I am not used to strong drink."

"I know," he murmured. "I told my mother you were likely more accustomed to drinking watered wine or ale."

She nodded, and a small crease folded between her brows. "Oh, William," she said, covering her eyes with her right hand, the fingers slim and graceful. "I am ashamed."

"Och, lass, no need for that," he said. "My mother and my sister think you are charming and bonny."

"Charming and bonny?" she asked. "They are only being polite, if they said that. They surely think me a disgrace! Dirty, ragged, without manners or decent clothing, fuddled with wine... what a wife for the laird of Rookhope, they will be thinking!" She shook her head again, and winced as if her head throbbed. "'Tis good I am not your wife, in truth."

He threaded his fingers through her hair, combing out the sopping strands, letting the pressure of his fingers linger on her temples. "Och," he said softly. "Helen laughed with delight over how you dropped the spoon and the napkin. She said 'twas like watching a jester's play. And Sandie is quite impressed. He said you were drunk enough to swarf, and yet walked out of the room like a queen. You have only his respect for that exit."

She grimaced. "I canna face them again."

He bit back a smile. "My mother thinks you are a treasure."

Tamsin shifted her fingers to peer at him. "She said that?"

"Near enough. She laughed, Tamsin. I have rarely seen her laugh so well—not at you," he added hastily, when she looked horrified, "but because she enjoyed dinner immensely. She did suggest that perhaps you should eat a little food with your spirits at the next meal."

Tamsin groaned. "Tell them I canna come down to supper," she said. "Tell them I canna come down, ever. Tell them you have decided to confine me to these rooms for Musgrave's fortnight. Oh, William, William—what have I done?"

He liked the sound of his name drawn on her lips like that, the tone rippling through him. "What have you done, Tamsin lass?" he asked gently. "Coaxed a laugh out of my solemn sister? Brought a smile to my mother's lips, and she in widow's black for the second time in her life? Tell me, what have you done that wasna a good thing, truly?"

"Shown myself to be an ignorant tawny and no more than a jest, an ughsome lass who doesna deserve to be wife to a laird," she said bluntly. "They will ask you to show me the door, and tell you to find a suitable lass to wed. Not that you would protest that," she added.

"'Tis for me to say who should be lady of my house."

She peered at him. "You were displeased with me. I saw those looks you gave me. You were ready to show me the door."

He shook his head. "I think," he said, "that you are every bit the daughter of Archie Armstrong."

"What does that mean?"

"A nimble tongue for a jest," he said. "I would have laughed out loud myself, silly lass, if I hadna felt so stern and eager for my kin to welcome you. But I think they liked you even better swine drunk than if you had worn brocade and laces and slurped your soup dainty-like, with a golden spoon."