’Tis no good to continue on this route. Naught will become of it.
She’d told him so herself, in her own blunt yet good-humored way: the queen would never allow her to wed. She said so with joy and amusement, clearly not unhappy with the arrangement. And so he dare not allow his mind to go there any longer.
But there were other options here at court—and was that not part of the reason he’d come? There was no cause to settle for the small estate of Delbring when he might have Tenevaux or another larger property. And a wife not unpleasant to look on. Mayhap even one with whom he could converse.
Funny. Until he spent time with Judith, Malcolm had never considered a pleasant, intelligent, witty woman a boon in a wife. And now….Now she was forcing him to look at things in an utterly different way.
By now Mal had reached the keep, and he drew in one last fresh breath of air before subjecting himself to the smoky, dank inside. There were nights like this when he missed the days of riding and fighting, sleeping under the stars while preparing for a siege or skirmish—and he looked forward to the task ahead on the morrow. But most days, he simply missed Warwick, and the chance to sleep in his own bed, to walk his own ramparts, to see to his own people, to ride and hunt in his own meadows.
I must leave from here.
He slipped into the hall, gaining sleepy bows from the pair of serf boys whose only job was to keep the fire going all the night. Without mail or spurs, Mal moved silently down the corridors back to the men’s chamber. As he came around the corner, he nearly collided with a cloaked and hooded figure, hurrying along the way.
She—it was clearly a woman, based on size and grace and the small part of hand exposed by the cloak—didn’t look up, nor even acknowledge his presence, but kept on walking. An armed man followed, clearly her escort, but not one to whom she spoke. He acknowledged Mal but walked past in the path of the woman.
Mal hesitated and turned to look. Something about the woman bothered him, something drew his attention. She was completely covered, her head bowed beneath a deep hood, but for her hand and a small bit of the hem of her gown, trailing from beneath the cloak.
It was an instant later that he realized he knew who it was. A deep scratch on her hand. A blue hem, embroidered with silver—one he recognized from earlier today.
What was Lady Judith doing about, and in such secrecy, at this time of night?
“Judith! What ails you?” The queen’s demand startled Judith so much she jolted her quill and made an ink blot on the paper.
“My pardon, my lady,” Judith replied, dabbing at the blot with a wadded up piece of cloth. “I was…woolgathering.”
“Well, do you not woolgather when I am waiting for you to finish your task,” Eleanor huffed. “I am in need of your witty and amusing conversation, but I cannot indulge in that until you complete that letter.” She glowered, smoothing her hand over the rounding of her belly. “You know I was ill yesterday. Today I must feel better.”
“Of course, my lady,” Judith replied, returning her attention to the parchment in front of her.
Normally, she would have been more than mildly intrigued by the contents of the message she was penning for the queen, for it was a reprimand to one of Eleanor’s vassals. The vassal in question, the baron of Doucette, had neglected to pay his quarterly rents, claiming expenditures for a new stable and mill had taken every last bit of funds from the coffers—and did the queen not appreciate the fact that he was maintaining Doucette to the highest standard?
But the queen was as tight-fisted as her husband, determined to extract every fee due her, and the letter Judith copied was filled with pretty compliments for the baron’s dedication to the estate—but also an underlying, steely threat. Usually Judith appreciated her majesty’s skill at exposing excuses and deflating subterfuge with flattery and wit, but today she wanted nothing more than to curl up in her bed and be alone.
The very last thing she wanted was to attend the queen, who, when enceinte was particularly demanding and petulant. Judith was in no humor to make witty remarks and tell stories and listen to Eleanor rave about whatever bothered her—her weariness with the pregnancy. Her weight gain, her rounding belly. Dishonest vassals. Mealy apples. Stupid serving women.
Her husband.
The very thought of the king made Judith’s belly tighten and swirl alarmingly. She pushed the thought away, forcing herself to ignore what had happened last night, hoping it would never happen again.
She’d returned to her chamber well past midnight. Other than the guard, whom the king had thoughtfully sent to accompany her back to her room, she encountered only one other person on the way. She remained enveloped inside her cloak, neither recognizing him nor being recognized herself. And though Tabby had been half-asleep, waiting up for her return, Judith merely slid into bed wearing only her kirtle.
She wanted a bath. Oh, how she wanted a bath. But it was too late, and as much as she wanted to wash, she was loathe to ask her maid in the middle of the night. Because then there would be questions. And concerns.
And Judith wanted to forget it all. Forget the royal hands everywhere on her body. The rough, muscular skin sliding against hers. The intimate sounds and smells, the discomfort and, worst of all, the unwanted stirrings within her. The king had promised pleasure, and though she certainly had not enjoyed the experience, neither was it rough or painful.
Pray, do not allow it to happen again.
“Judith!” The queen’s voice was a near shriek this time. “I cannot fathom what it is that ails you this day! Put you that aside, then, if you cannot concentrate on a simple task such as copying my letter. It will wait another day. Instead, do you tell me of your adventure with the mad dogs in the forest. And be certain to tell all of the details on the rescue.” Eleanor’s lips curved mischievously, for she was a woman who enjoyed every aspect of the male species. “Ursula claims Warwick was a hero, and that you were carried off by de Rigonier.”
“’Twas not precisely that way,” Judith told her, forcing a smile. She launched into a description of the tale from her perspective, thankful to have aught to focus on besides her thoughts.
Pray, she thought as she took her leave of the queen much later—with barely time to dress for the evening meal—do not let her find out.
EIGHT
Malcolm had looked for Lady Judith the morrow after he saw the cloaked and hooded figure at night, hoping to speak with her before leaving with Ludingdon and the others to track the brigands. But though his height gave him the advantage over most other men, he caught no sight of her flaming coppery hair in the great hall or elsewhere before it was time to prepare for the journey.
Nevertheless, Mal was glad to leave Clarendon and its politics behind him as he and his companions set off. A se’ennight away from the keep would give him the opportunity to consider possible marriage options as well as put Lady Judith and the temptation of her vivacity and smile from his mind.
And, in truth, there was no real need for him to speak with her. If it had been her he’d seen rushing back to her chamber in the dead of night, there must be some good reason for it. Likely the queen had called Judith to her side apurpose.
Whatever the reason for her nocturnal activity, Lady Judith’s business was of no concern to Mal. He would do well to remind himself of that. Instead, he spoke of their strategy for tracking and capturing the brigands with Ludingdon and Castendown as they trotted along, trailed by a dozen knights and squires. All wore mail and carried swords and shields, for they eagerly anticipated a battle of some sort.
“’Tis my blessing Maris hasn’t arrived yet from Ludingdon,” Dirick said after they’d ridden for several hours. “Else I doubt I’d be off on this adventure. She is a skilled healer, but for some reason prefers not to have to mend me from any battle hurts. The woman seems to think I seek out danger and injury.”
“And what is wrong with that?” Mal jested.
Castendown, who was older than both Dirick and Mal and had been wed far longer, laughed. “Aye. But ’tis better for the woman to care whether ye return with all yer arms and legs than not, aye? Especially one as comely as your Lady Maris.” His grin couldn’t quite be considered lascivious, but ’twas certainly appreciative.
“’Tis true, that,” Dirick replied, laughing heartily. “Only methinks ’tis best all around for her not to know. Then at the least I won’t get the tongue-lashing for rushing off on what she’d name a folly.”
“A tongue-lashing is a small price to pay for such a woman warming your bed,” Castendown replied archly.
“I cannot disagree on that. And as I sore miss the tongue-lashing—and all the good that comes of it later—I am well-pleased she and the babe should arrive at Clarendon within a fortnight. Though if she’s learned from the queen, ’tis likely she’ll travel even faster and may arrive before we return.”
“In which case you’d receive the tongue-lashing and any necessary mending of your severed limbs,” Mal reminded him dryly.
“Not to mention a warm bed,” Dirick added with a satisfied grin.
Mal laughed, but the exchange with his friend gave him aught to think on in relation to marriage and wives and the benefits and drawbacks of them. He’d met Maris of Ludingdon and had been surprised—and mildly amused—by the obvious delight Dirick felt being wed to her. They were together more often than Mal had ever been with Sarah, or ever wanted to be. Malcolm had done his business, making war and managing the fiefs of Warwick, and Sarah had run the household. They coupled when necessary, ate together when it was convenient, and went their separate ways otherwise…but this was clearly not the case with Dirick and Maris. They were together as oft as Dirick was with his squire—mayhap even more. The flash of an image of Judith, sitting at table in Warwick, came to his mind and he frowned then ignored it.
When the group broke to water the horses and trade a few bites of dried meat and bread, Mal had the opportunity to speak with Nevril about Alpha.
“I left him in the charge of the second marshal,” Mal told his master-at-arms. “But mayhap you should have stayed back, for Alpha knows you and is less like to plant a hoof in your face.”
