to see if the edge grabbed, he cursed as the honed blade slid into the soft base of his right thumb.
He swore roundly, before placing down both stone and blade and wiping blood against the linen of his long shirt. He felt keyed up, nervous almost, the fear he had seen in his wife’s eyes somehow…important.
Could this be her first time? At twenty-six! Lord, the whole idea unnerved him. He had been less than half her age when the fifteen-year-old daughter of a French knight had asked him into the deserted tack room of her father’s stables and showed him exactly what it was he had been missing. When their illicit affair had been discovered, he’d been hauled off to the battlefield of Vironfosse in Vervins with Philip the Sixth, his back tanned with the sharp end of a whip and the sure-fire knowledge that he would never bed an unmarried girl again. And he hadn’t.
He frowned. He would bed Grace Stanton and hope that issue would be forthcoming quickly.
The ghosts of the past quietened under his plans and, digging into his sporran, he found his brother’s ring and turned the rubies into the light. Remembering.
Ruth. His first wife! He had taken this very ring from her finger as she had been buried in the consecrated ground beside the chapel because he had not uttered a word.
Not one.
And the secrets that simmered beneath the liturgy of honour and esteem and integrity spoken at her burial had remained untold because of the baby, her skin marked close with blue veins. The bastard progeny of his brother and stillborn, as if God in all his omnipotence had smote her breathless.
Hannah. He had called her that after his mother, because she had needed at least a name. Grinding his teeth together, he stood. Time should have leached some of the pain but it had not, and when Malcolm had been killed his violently uttered oaths had brought him Grace Stanton.
God, what irony was there in that, he asked himself and went to stand at the window, pulling back a sheath of leather and staring out. The sun was low, falling behind the Cheviots on its journey west. Night time. Almost. The thought of his new wife readying herself for him was surprisingly arousing. Erotic, even. He had instructed his housekeeper to make certain that she bathed, a custom he had adopted daily since his first sojourn into Acquitaine. He hoped that she would not be adorned with too heavy a nightdress. He hoped that her hair would be down. But most of all he hoped that she would not share the trait of Ruth, her sullen inertness at the whole process of lovemaking a decided inhibitor to any enjoyment.
The sun fell now into the darkening dusk, turning the surrounding countryside into hidden shadow. Taking breath, he released it carefully. He felt suddenly like a young boy, the pull of lust strong in his blood.
How would he take Grace? Quick and hard or slow and soft? Up to him. Completely. The flesh between his legs swelled as an unwanted power, all the old betrayals surfacing. He did not want a wife to worry about. He did not want a spouse to watch over to determine if her conscience was clear or not. He did not want the fetter of trust laced again around him, its tethers pulling tighter and tighter with the passing of time.
If she hated him, all this would be so much easier. He would have her as a wife in name only, to ripen with his children and hold her own counsel. Already he could see how those in his castle had turned against her and he had made no move to make it different. Nay, Grace Stanton with her fire-red hair and her stutter would bear his children and ensure his lineage. That was all.
‘Sheas,’ he muttered into the silence. At thirty-three he was too damn old for all this nonsense. Too old to try to mend what was broken, and lust was such a fleeting companion.
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