The King's Courtesan (21 page)

She was coming up the stairs from the kitchen an hour later, with her nose in Hannah Wool ey’s book
The Ladies
Directory
. It was ful of wonderful recipes, medical remedies, instructions for making perfumes, as wel as information on running a household and dealing with awkward social situations. Unfortunately there was no entry for managing surly pretend husbands or—

She gave a shriek of alarm as she almost smacked into her hulking husband, who was bounding down the stairs two at a time with a brace of hares. Though they both did their best to avoid the col ision, Robert’s elbow caught her cheek just below the eye. She lost her footing and began to tumble backward, but he managed to catch her wrist and right her.

Her face began to swel immediately. Amidst curses and hastily murmured apologies, he swept her off her feet and carried her upstairs, cal ing for Mrs. Overton as he went.

“There’s no need to make such a fuss, Captain. It’s just a bump on the head. Have someone fetch me a cold cloth and in a day or two I’l be as good as new.” In truth it didn’t feel that bad. She felt more stunned and surprised than hurt, more shock than actual pain, though her eye watered and her face felt tight and heavy.

“Hush, elf. I’m a very large fel ow and it’s a very big bump. I should have been more careful. I shouldn’t have been going so fast and I should have watched where I was going.

Damn! Your cheek is black and blue and your eye is swol en shut. You’re going to have a very ugly bruise.”

“How ugly?” Her voice was a little anxious.

“Ugly enough to scare smal children and weak-kneed adults.”

Her involuntary grin caused a jolt of pain that radiated through her teeth, temple and jaw and she stifled a moan.

“I’m so sorry, love. I’l make it better. I promise.” He carried her with ease, and despite the pain she let her head fal back against his chest. She was not a trusting soul by nature, but she knew instinctively she could trust him to take care of her.
I think I’ve always known it
. It was an unaccustomed relief to let go and let someone else take charge for a change, and the comforting feel of his arms tight around her enveloped her in a delicious warmth that far exceeded any pain.

At least for the first twenty minutes. As Rose and her suddenly solicitous husband settled her into her bed with her head and shoulders raised on pil ows, the pain and swel ing steadily grew. The aching in her temple became so jagged it hurt to move and her jaw throbbed with a grinding pain that threatened to banish any other thought.

Her skin felt as if it were burning and stretched so tight that it might burst. She bit back a whimper as her husband, Rose, and Mrs. Overton huddled over her, consulting on how best to proceed.

“Please close the curtains,” she rasped, perilously close to tears. Rose rushed to comply and then hurried away on a mission. The captain sat on the bed beside her. She gasped in pain as careful fingers brushed her tender skin.

“Hush now, love. This won’t take but a minute. Yours is not the first black eye I’ve dealt with. My men were always breaking their heads or running into a fist.” His voice was gentle and soothing. Expert fingers explored her eye, ears, jaw, teeth and cheek, checking for broken bones and assessing the damage. She flinched and his free hand gave her shoulder a slight squeeze. “Not many of them were as brave as you.”

She wanted to tel him she wasn’t brave. Her head ached and her eye hurt and she couldn’t open it even so much as to blink, but it hurt too much to speak. She started as something cold and wet was laid across her eye and cheek. It surprised her for a moment, then it cooled her face and numbed her pain and she sighed, leaning into it, feeling a blessed wave of relief.

“Better, yes?” He smoothed back her hair and kissed her forehead.

“Better. Yes. Is it real y so ugly?”

“Not so much as it wil be tomorrow, I’m afraid.” He replied without thinking and she gave a sad little groan.

“You’l feel much better soon. Here comes your Rose with something to ease the pain and help you sleep.” He settled on the bed beside her, slipping a hand under her shoulders and easing her up, supporting her so she could drink the infusion of opium, saffron and nutmeg mixed in hot wine.

Even that slight movement made her wince.

“I’ve brought ice, my lord, and more cloths. Mrs. Overton says the laudanum should keep her comfortable the rest of the night. I can stay with her now, if it pleases you.”

“Thank you, Rose, but it’s my fault she’s hurt and I’l stay and see her to sleep.”

“Of course, my lord.” The little maid gave him an odd look as she left the room.

“She thinks you hit me,” Hope said dreamily, the potion already doing its work. She would never have dreamt yesterday that today her husband would be lying in her bed.

She gave a little sigh and snuggled against him. Her head fit in the hol ow between his neck and chin. Her movements were slow and languid, as if she were swimming in treacle.

Despite al those hard muscles he felt comfortable and warm.

“I did hit you,” he said rueful y, applying the ice-cold cloth to her cheek with a gentle pressure. His cock stirred as she wiggled and the soft curve of her hip settled tight against his groin.

“Mmm,” she agreed happily. “Not on purpose, though. I shouldn’t read on the stairs. Now I can’t read at al .” If a voice could pout, her last statement did just that.

“I real y am sorry, love.” In truth he was mortified. She looked as fragile as a child and he felt like a great bloody oaf. “I’ve never bruised a woman before.”

“Hmm. I know, Robert. Don’t feel bad. It was a foolish accident on both our parts.” She yawned and wiggled again and he grunted. His breath quickened and his thighs and buttocks tightened. A surge of warmth stirred in his bal s, spreading through his body, awakening al his senses and swel ing his cock. That unruly organ surged forward, tingling from base to tip, and the constraints of his clothing acted as added stimulation, encouraging it more.

He shifted position but she shifted with him, and the warmth of her bottom only made things worse. He had never been so hungry for a woman. Despite her injury and obvious intoxication he wanted to claim her. To slip his hand under her gown and slide the length of her body, up her soft creamy thighs to brush her heated center, caress her sleek stomach, plump her breasts and tweak her nipples, making them ready for—

“I wil forgive you completely if you tel me a story.” Her voice was barely a murmur.

“A story?” It took him a moment to regain his bearings.

“Mmm. To help me sleep,” she whispered.

He sighed in frustration. She was in this condition because of him but the damned woman might as wel walk around naked. It wouldn’t make him any less on edge. She’d fired his blood and now even the sound of her voice left him aroused. He skimmed her cheek with his knuckles, pleased that it was cold to the touch. One long finger slowly traced her hairline from her temple, stopping to tuck an errant silk lock behind her ear.

“What story would you like, wife?” He nuzzled her neck, breathing in her scent. She smel ed of rose and nutmeg and he longed to taste her.

Hope shivered and it wasn’t from the cold. She felt a delicious lassitude as his warm breath stirred her hair. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered lazily and she could feel a tender swel ing in her loins. Her skin felt ripe and tender, pricking from her nipples to her toes, but it was al as if it came from a thousand miles away. Maybe she was dreaming. “Robin Hood,” she said on a sigh. “
My
Robin Hood, not yours.”

“I am to do penance, then,” he said with a chuckle. “Very wel . I wil be sure to remember that you do not forget. But stop wiggling, love, and pressing your pretty bum close against me. You know ful wel what you’re doing.” She smiled, on the brink of sleep.

“Has anyone told you about the Major Oak?” His voice was a caress. He spoke in a rich soothing tone that made her think of chocolate. She shook her head. A dul shard of pain shot down her jawbone but it was too far distant to trouble her.

“Ah, wel …” He stoked her hair with the tips of his fingers. “It is a venerable ancient oak tree near the vil age of Edwinstowe in the heart of Sherwood Forest. Some say it might be one thousand years old. Thirty-three feet across its base it is, with a warm dry hol ow at its center, and thick broad branches that stretch out like welcoming arms.

People say ’twas there Robin and his men slept. My—

Someone from my childhood, who loved tales of Robin much as you do, used to delight in reciting me this poem.

It’s very old. I’m not sure who wrote it.” A fierce ache seized him. It was sudden, more bitter than sweet. It burned the back of his eyes and seized hold of his throat. For a moment he feared he would be swal owed by the past.

“Robert?” She turned toward him and laid a dainty hand on his chest.

He took several deep breaths, beating back something dark and terrible. “I’m sorry. You should be sleeping.

Perhaps another time would be—”

“Noooo. Please. I want to hear it now.”

He took her hand in his without thinking, and gathered her close. The heat of her body warmed him, melting some of the chil that had seized him so abruptly. “Then I shal tel it to you as it was told to me. Close your eyes and imagine yourself in Sherwood Forest, with Robin and his Merry Men, beneath a starlit sky sheltered by a mighty oak.” After a moment’s hesitation, he began to recite in a melodious voice a tale he’d not recal ed since his last day as a child.

“‘Then taking them to rest, his merry men and he Slept many a summer’s night under the greenwood tree.

From wealthy abbots’ chests, and churls’ abundant store, What oftentimes he took, he shar’d amongst the poor: No lordly bishop came in lusty Robin’s way.

To him before he went, but for his pass must pay: The widow in distress he graciously reliev’d, And remedied the wrongs of many a virgin griev’d: He from the husband’s bed no married woman wan, But to his mistress dear, his loved Marian, Was ever constant known, which wheresoe’er she came, Was sovereign of the woods; chief lady of the game: Her clothes tuck’d to the knee, and dainty braided hair.

With bow and quiver arm’d, she wander’d here and there, Amongst the forests wild; Diana never knew Such pleasures, nor such harts as Mariana slew…’” As his voice trailed off he felt her go limp against him. His knuckles brushed her cheek. “Good night, Lady Nichols,” he whispered in her hair.

Hope drifted to sleep under a leafy bower, her bow over her shoulder, her husband’s hand in hers. Her last thought before she slipped away was that Robin looked a great deal like her Robert.

FOR THREE LONG DAYS
Hope lay abed. Her swol en face was iced for twenty minutes every hour. She felt sorry for creating so much work for the new maid, whose job it was to trek back and forth from the straw-and-sawdust-lined icehouse deep in the cel ar. The ice and possets seemed to be doing the trick, though. The pain was down to a manageable roar and she could open her eye again, though the effort hurt and burned. It was stil hard to read, or eat or drink, and she had little to do but listen to Rose’s chatter and play on her bed with Daisy. The kitten’s antics kept her amused for a while, but she was getting restless.

Her husband was a tyrant. He’d given orders she was not to leave her bed until he said so, but he’d hardly visited her over the past three days other than to poke his head in her room and leave. She had a vague recol ection of him staying by her side the day she was injured, and even tel ing her a poem late in the night, but she was beginning to think she had imagined it. It had been about Robin Hood after al , and everyone knew laudanum could make people imagine some very strange things.

It surprised her how easily she had come to think of him as husband, and she supposed she was lucky as far as those things went. He was a taciturn man, not easy to know, but he was young and handsome and honorable, it seemed. It was a trait much mocked at court, yet an important one to her. But it was not going to keep her in bed. No husband was going to rule her. It was her face that was injured, not her legs. She could surely walk.

Her determination withered as soon as Rose brought her a mirror. Her face was no longer black and blue. It was black and purple and a sickly green and yel ow, and though her eye could open it was stil swol en and misshapen. She let out a low moan. “Sweet Jesus, Rose! Why didn’t you tel me? What did he do to me? I look like a monster. I can’t leave the room looking like this.”

“A little face powder, my lady, would make a world of difference and—”

They both looked up to see the captain standing in the door. Rose glared at him, her eyes flashing, while Hope unconsciously put her hand up to hide her face.

“Ladies.” Red-faced and stiff, he bowed and then left.

“Robert, wait! I didn’t mean to…” Her voice trailed off. He was already gone.

“Rose, I look awful. No wonder he can’t bear to see me this way.”

“More like he can’t bear to see his own handiwork,” the maid replied with a disdainful sniff.

“Oh, dear. You might be right. But it’s not what you think. I’ve told you several times that—”

“That you run into his fist, ma’am. That’s what my ma used to say, too.”

“Wel , I’m sorry for your mother, Rose, if that was the case.

But I assure you the captain is
not
that way. He is a gentleman. And it wasn’t his fist. I ran into his elbow. I don’t want to have to explain it again.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rose left the room with a handful of sewing and a mutinous tilt to her chin.

TWO DAYS LATER H OPE LEFT her room. The swel ing was down considerably, it hardly hurt at al , and she could see. She did stoop to using face powder, which almost made her more uncomfortable and self-conscious than the bruising did, but she was determined to get outside. It was a beautiful midsummer day. Roses, heavy with bees and perfume, spil ed over the garden gates and wended their way, lush and colorful, over long abandoned pergola and broken trel ises, and up red brick wal s.