The Deed by Lynsay Sands
Still holding the tailor off the floor, Amaury turned to frown at her. "Why do they bind them at all?"
"For the fittings."
"But then your dresses will not fit."
"They will when I bind my chest." When his expression began to darken as understanding set in, Emma repeated what she had been told over and over again all morning. " 'Tis not fashionable to be so generously endowed."
"So you intend to tie them up?! Like Lady Gresham does with her dogs when company comes?!" He looked nonplussed by the very idea. "They are not dogs, wife! I like them! They'll not be bound!" Turning to the tailor, he gave him a sharp shake. "Is that understood!"
"Aye, my lord. Certainly. No binding of your wife's breasts. I'll remove the dress so Gytha can unbind her at once."
"Aye, ye will!" he roared into his face, then shook him again, his expression darkening. "Nay, ye'll not. Ye'll not be undressing my wife!" Dropping the little man, he strode to Emma and swung her off the stool into his arms, then strode toward the door.
Clasping her arms around Amaury's neck, Emma repressed a smile and shrugged at the tailor as her husband saved her from several hours of being poked, criticized, primped, and pinned.
He carried her directly to their room, set her down beside the bed, and began tugging at the material draped around her. Emma was silent as Amaury started on the binding.
As soon as the last of the cloth that had bound her slipped away, Emma's breasts came screaming back to life. When her husband then reached to touch the aching orbs, she immediately distracted him. "Did you want something, my lord?"
Amaury paused and stared at her blankly. There were a great many things he wanted at that moment. To get his wife naked and in bed was not least among them. It was something he had wanted quite frequently since their wedding, but seeing her bedecked in gold had raised that want to a fever pitch.
"You did come to the fitting room for a reason, did you not?" she prodded when he was silent for so long.
"The fitting room? Oh, aye. Aye." Sighing, he let his hands fall back to his sides and took a step back. Now that he had been reminded of the reason for approaching her, it seemed more important to discuss it . . . first. " 'Tis sorry I am I did not speak to you about holding court. 'Twas wrong for you to have to hear about it as you did."
He peered over her expression closely and sighed once more. "I also regret having called your offer of assistance an interference. In future you shall stand beside me at court and have a say in any decisions made. 'Tis your place."
When Emma suddenly smiled widely at him, Amaury paused and swallowed. Damn, but it was like the sun coming out after months of winter. Feeling like a drowning man reaching for help, Amaury reached for his wife. His hands tried to touch her everywhere at once as his mouth descended on hers. He settled for grasping her chemise and tugging it upward to remove the cloth that hampered his hands from caressing her skin.
Emma tugged her mouth away at once as she felt cool air graze across the hips he was baring. She had intended to ask him how court had gone, but the moment she stepped away, Amaury took advantage of their separation to tug her gown over her head. Then he pulled her back into his arms and drove the question from her mind with his passion.
Chapter 9
NAY."
"But, husband."
"I said nay!" Amaury slammed the bedroom door and strode down the hall toward the stairs.
"Do not tell me you have allowed your annoyance with your wife's pleasure in her duty to persuade you to refuse her that duty all together?"
Pausing at the top of the stairs, Amaury glanced back to see Blake a step behind him. Grimacing, he shook his head. Had it been merely the joining his wife had wanted, he would have happily complied. Amaury had quite gotten over the problem of her enjoying the act. Twice he had tried to refrain from enflaming her passions with his touch before mounting her, and both times he had found the endeavor trying and sadly disappointing. It seemed he enjoyed her enjoyment. Therefore, he had decided-- quite magnanimously, in his opinion-- to take the blame for his little wife's flaw himself. After all, he was the one who made her enjoy it. Without his touch or kisses, she was as limp as a wet tunic in the bed and forbore his attentions silently, just as other lady wives were said to do. So, her unladylike behavior was obviously his fault.
It was perfect logic to Amaury, and it soothed his worries about how ladies should or shouldn't behave, allowing him to enjoy her at every opportunity. Which he had proceeded to do these last three days since seeking her out in the tailor's room. Which was also what he had been in the process of doing when she had announced that that French jackanapes required his presence for fittings today.
Amaury's passion had shriveled up like a grape in the sun at her announcement, as had his manhood, which had simply added to his irritation, causing him to snap his refusal to his wife before pushing away from her to dress himself. He found the loathsome little tailor's pomposity unbearable enough at mealtimes; putting up with it between meals was unthinkable. Besides, he didn't need any more clothes. He already had two tunics. That was enough. It always left him with one to wear while the other was being laundered.
Still, he thought with a sigh now, he should not have been so short with her. He had probably hurt her feelings, and she did seem to be very sensitive. He had come to that conclusion after three days when he had subjected himself to the difficulty of actually "talking" to her. He had been serious when he had said that she would stand beside him at court and have a say in all decisions. These were her people too. She had ruled them quite well on her own without his interference. That being the case, he owed it to her to include her in decisions he made now.
But talking to a wife was a difficult task. At least it had been at first. It was not like talking to your comrades at all. If his wife represented all women, then it would seem they were a sensitive lot. He made decisions based on practicality and justice. Emma seemed to think one should include such considerations as feelings and intentions. She was most thoughtful, thinking of the things that he did not. It had distressed him at first, but eventually he had come to understand her softer nature and find it a fine compliment to his own harder, more pragmatic one. Things were not always black or white; his little wife seemed able to see the gray as well. Finally, after three days of stumbling awkwardly through conversations with her, he'd found it much easier and more rewarding. He was proud to say it. His wife had a fine mind.
"Nay," he said in answer to Blake's question now. " 'Twas not the joining she wanted. She was trying to persuade me to spend the day locked up in a room with that French peacock, being measured. She seems to think I need more clothes."
"Ah." Blake shrugged. "Well, you do only have the two tunics. Mayhaps she is afraid you will be embarrassed at court."
Amaury rolled his eyes at that. "I have been to court afore. The people who clutter its halls are vain and foolish. I do not care for their opinions."
"Mayhap she does."
Amaury frowned at that suggestion. "What mean you?"
"Just what I said, mayhap she cares what they think."
Amaury shifted uncomfortably, worry crossing his features. "Think you she will be embarrassed to be at court with me?"
Shrugging, Blake moved past him and started down the stairs. "She is a duchess, Amaury. And you are now a duke. The title brings certain expectations."
"Damn!"
Pausing, Blake turned back. Amaury still stood at the top of the stairs, a stunned expression on his face. Before he could comment, a door opened down the hall. Glancing that way, he saw Lady Emma come out of the bedroom Amaury had exited moments ago.
Seeing her annoyed expression before she turned her head away to ignore him and moved toward the room the peacock inhabited, Amaury sighed and hurried down the stairs past his friend. He would go to the blasted fittings then if it meant so much to her, he thought irritably, but he was damned if he would tell her so now. He did not even wish to think about the sorry chor
Emma was crossing the bailey after the nooning meal, headed for the stables, when she spotted her husband surveying his men as they practiced. Frowning, she turned her stride and headed in his direction. She had been most surprised when he had announced his change of mind this morning after breaking fast. He had made his dislike for the tailor very clear before storming out of their room at dawn, and yet had agreed with obvious reluctance to attend the fittings de Lascey had ordered.
Emma had spent the morning busy in the Great Hall, seeing to all those things she had neglected during the three torturous days of her own fittings. God's truth, de Lascey's attitude was a trial to bear. She had been fully understanding as she had heard her husband repeatedly roaring from above stairs. That had not prevented her from laughing over it, however. Now, though, it seemed her husband had changed his mind again, and she was determined to find out exactly why he had not returned to the fitting room after lunch.
Amaury sighed as he saw his wife approaching. She had that determined set about her that he was beginning to recognize. No doubt he had angered her again somehow. It did seem his wife got a bee in her cap quite regularly. At least since the French turnip had arrived, he thought grimly. After having spent a morning in the repugnant little bedbug's presence, he fully understood why.
"Good afternoon, Lady Emma." Blake gave her a smile that had melted many a woman's heart, managing to irritate his friend no end. Amaury graced him with a glare, then greeted his wife as well.
"Wife."
Emma got right to the point. "Why are you not at your fittings, husband?"
"My fittings are done," Amaury announced dryly. When she looked skeptical, he shrugged. "You may ask him if you wish, but the French turnip said he would not need me back this afternoon."
"But my fittings took three days," she complained.
Amaury leaned forward to murmur by her ear, "Mayhap there is more of you to measure." A wicked grin curving his lips, he let his eyes drop to her chest.
Blushing as memories of the night before flashed into her mind, Emma shook her head at her husband, then turned to continue on toward the stables.
"Wife?"
Pausing, she turned to peer back. "Aye?"
Amaury gave her a stern look, then scowled when that had no effect and pointed at the ground directly in front of him.
Sighing, she moved back to stand before him.
"Where go you?"
"I need to collect more herbs."
"In the woods?"
"Aye."
"You will take six men."
Emma grimaced, but nodded and turned to move away once more.
"Wife."
Pausing again, she peered back, only to mutter under her breath and return to stand in front of him once more when he raised one eyebrow grimly. "Husband, I do not have time for this. The day grows late."
Amaury merely peered at her thoughtfully for a moment, his head tilted to the side, before asking, "What do you with all these weeds, wife?"
"I--they are for medicines," she mumbled, flushing guiltily.
"Hmm." Amaury's head tilted to the other side. "Are you ill?"
"Nay, of course not."
"Then who is? You seem to use a great deal of them. You have gone out to collect them at least--"
"There are a lot of people within the castle, my lord," Emma blurted out quickly. "O'er a hundred and eighty including the servants and your men. Someone is always ill." Pausing, she took a breath, then asked nervously, "Was that all, husband?"
"Aye. Nay," he denied as he recalled why he had called her back. He had decided that now was as good a time as any to inform her he did not wish her to have the popinjay make a single dress in black. "About your gowns the French mouse is making . . ."
"Aye, my lord?"
Amaury hesitated. "I do not wish to see you in . . . You will refrain from having de Lascey make any in black. All your gowns are to be of bright colors."
When she raised her eyebrows at that, he reached out to rub a silky tress of her hair between his fingers, his expression softening and his voice deepening as he said, "Several gowns in that gold you wore the other day would be nice. 'Twas as radiant as the color of your hair."
"My hair?" Emma blinked at that, finding a slow curl of heat unfurling in her belly at the deep tone to his voice. It was the same one he used in their bed when he was murmuring what he wanted, either from her, or to do to her.
"Aye. And one or two in a shade of green like your eyes. As rich as the woods after a rain." His hand moved to feather across her brow by one of those eyes that was as wide as an apple right then, then slid to run gently across her bottom lip.
Emma breathed in deeply, then swallowed, feeling the touch on her lips as if it had been on her breasts. The Good Lord's liver, she thought dreamily. It seemed her husband need not even touch her there to touch her there.
"And at least a dozen in red."
"Red?" Her eyes widened.
"Aye, a red as luscious as your lips when I kiss them."
"Ohhh," Emma breathed, swaying toward him. The sounds of mock battle and men's yells faded in her head as she watched Amaury's face drift closer. When his lips finally found hers, she sighed dreamily. Only to gasp and pull quickly away at Blake's startled shout. A glance in his direction showed that he had stumbled over a pair of playing children, no doubt as he had tried to back discreetly away.
Emma shook her head as she watched him regain his feet. He looked quite embarrassed. Smiling, she walked to his side and patted his shoulder. "Thank you."
Blake's eyebrows rose at that. "For what, my lady?"
"For the lovely compliments you gave my husband to use."
He flushed bright red at that, his eyes shooting to Amaury, who was looking quite upset. They had practiced for hours exactly how to phrase the words, the tone of voice to use, and even the caresses to accompany them with. All to no avail, it seemed.
After searing his hapless friend with a fierce glare, Amaury straightened his shoulders and turned back to her.
"Blake may have aided me in phrasing them, but the words were true," he told her grumpily. "I do not wish to see you in black. You should only wear colors such as gold. You were. . . ." He frowned, searching for words of his own. "You fired my blood in the gold, and 'tis sure I am that you will please me in red or green as well."
Emma's eyes widened at that, and a slow smile started on her lips, but her husband was not finished. It seemed he thought a lecture was in order.
"As your husband, 'tis my place to recognize your needs and fulfill them. I have noticed that you are in sore need of esteem. The only way to build that up is to give you compliments."
" 'Tis?" Surprise was evident on her face.
"Aye. So . . . there you are. You are lovely, wife," he told her stiffly. "In fact, I have never set eyes upon as lovely a woman as you are. Fulk was a fool not to have recognized his good fortune in finding you. You are fair lovely."
Emma merely stared at him. Some part of her mind was daring to tell her that he must have some affection for her to be so concerned with issues such as her esteem. Another part was telling her not to be so foolish.
"Well?"
Emma blinked. "Well, what, my lord?"
"Have you nothing to say? I said you were lovely. You are lovely."
"If you say so, my lord," Emma murmured dutifully, then headed away again, her mind taken up with the possibility that her husband might have some real feeling for her. Not the dutiful love a husband must have for a wife, but one born of liking and respect. A husband need not see to a wife's feelings, yet Amaury concerned himself often with hers. That must mean something, she thought hopefully.
Amaury glared after her in vexation. "She agreed only to placate me."
"That would be my guess," Blake agreed. "Mayhap you should go convince her."
"What?"
Blake shrugged. "Everything is in hand here. We thought you would be in fi
Amaury scowled at him. "I do not tumble my wife. She is a lady. 'Sides," he added grimly, "none of my other tumblings seem to have raised her confidence in her looks." But even as he offered the protest, his mind had been caught by the image of making love to his wee wife in the woods. Emma, naked and natural with naught but grass for a bed, the sky for a roof, and trees as the walls of the room . . . And not a stitch of black anywhere to be seen. He would have to get her completely naked, he determined. He did not even wish to see a bit of black hose.
"Then compliment her while you tumble her."
Amaury's imaginings faded slightly at that. "Compliment her while . . . ?"
"Aye. Tell her what you like about her while you're loving her."
He considered that briefly, his gaze running down the length of her body as she paused to talk to the stable master just outside the stable doors. "She has a fine mind. The finest mind I have ever found in a woman."
Blake rolled his eyes at that. "I think you can leave that compliment out. Stay with things you find attractive about her looks. Tell her what you like and why."
His mind filling with all sorts of things he liked about her, Amaury murmured thoughtfully, "Aye, mayhap that will work." His eyes began to sparkle with something other than good humor as he inventoried each individual part of her anatomy, the reasons he liked them, and things he would like to do to them. "Aye, I will." Ignoring his friend's laughter, he headed off after his wife.
Amaury peered at his wife in repose and smiled. He had loved her well and thoroughly, revealing each inch of her body and explaining what he liked about it as he went. It had been most satisfactory. He was now positive he had gone a long way toward mending her esteem problem.
The snapping of a twig nearby drew his narrowed eyes to the surrounding woods, but there was nothing to see. Still, the memory of the attacking bandits was now brought to mind and Amaury frowned, wondering if he truly should have dismissed the guards that had prepared to accompany Emma on this trip. He had only been thinking of loving her in the woods, not of any danger there might be.