The Deed by Lynsay Sands
"Aye, accursed! You have already put one man in his grave, and the way things are presently traveling along, I have no doubt you shall put me there as well!"
When she opened her mouth to respond to that, Amaury covered it with his own. It was no gentle kiss he gave her, however. It was rough and hard and demanding. Emma gave as good as she got, biting viciously at his lip and bucking her hips upward as he drove ruthlessly into her.
As violent as it was, this mating could not last long. It was only a matter of moments before Amaury stiffened against her, cursing before collapsing atop her. He lay still for less than a heartbeat, then forced himself to rise.
Emma bit her lip as she watched him tug his hose up, then climb into the rest of his clothes. He did not look at her until he was leaving the room. Pausing at the door, he peered back at her, his expression grim. "Let us hope that this time my seed took, wife, for I will not play stud horse for anyone. Not even the king."
Chapter 10
MERCENARIES?" Blake frowned at him. "Who the devil would send mercenaries out after you?"
Amaury shrugged, a surly expression on his face. "Any number of people."
"Aye. You do have a fair share of enemies, do you not?"
" 'Tis the nature of our business. Our previous business," he corrected himself. Being a hired sword meant always fighting a war against someone, for someone. Not his own war, of course, and that only seemed to anger whoever he was battling even more. He had made many enemies over the years. Any one of them might have set those dogs on him that afternoon.
" 'Tis lucky Lady Emma was not hurt."
"Aye." Amaury frowned as he glanced toward the castle where his wife was no doubt boiling her herbs that very minute.
"I'll have Little George increase the guards," Amaury said almost to himself. "And I'll tell him Emma is not to leave the castle grounds without at least ten men as escort."
"What about you?"
"Whether I am with her or not. Ten men."
"Nay, I meant that you should take a guard with you as well."
Amaury frowned over that, then sighed and nodded his agreement. "Aye."
Blake was silent for a moment. He had expected more of an argument over that. The fact that he did not get one made him as curious as the fact that Amaury had returned in a dark mood from escorting Emma upstairs. He was dying to ask what had occurred to cause it, and was just working his way toward doing so when Amaury suddenly turned to him.
"She thinks I am a stallion! A stud! Good for nothing more than breeding!" he roared.
Blake's eyes widened at that. "Who?"
"My wife! Who the devil did you think I would speak of?!" He glared at his friend for his obtuseness, before continuing. "All she wants me for is to beget a babe. I am no better than a bull to her! She thinks to have me ser vice her at her whim. To spill my seed 'til she is as full as an overflowing tankard."
"It sounds a horrible chore." Blake grinned his amusement.
Amaury frowned at him for his less than sympathetic attitude. "You may laugh. 'Tis not you she expects to ser vice her night and day, day and night."
"More's the pity."
When a storm began swirling on his face, Blake shook his head. "I do not understand what you are complaining of, my friend. 'Twas just a matter of days ago that you were complaining that your wife enjoyed the joining, which you were sure was not right. Now you are telling me that she thinks of you as only a vessel that holds the seed, which is what the church says is proper for a wife to think, and yet you seem distressed by this as well. Oh . . . aye . . . oh, I think I comprehend."
When Amaury merely scowled at him, Blake nodded. "Aye. It has hurt your manly pride to think that your wife's attentions are based only on begetting an heir and saving herself from Bertrand." He nodded again. "Aye, 'tis. And that suggests to me that your own attentions go beyond thinking of her as just wife."
Amaury looked as if he had been punched by that suggestion, then he immediately began shaking his head.
"Aye." Blake nodded. "Mayhap you even love her."
"Love?!" Amaury looked horrified at the very idea. "She is my wife!"
"Aye, but--"
"Men do not love their wives," he pointed out grimly. "They save that for their lovers. Wives are forborne."
"I do not see you taking a lover, Amaury."
"Nay, but--"
"And while it may be the fashion for lords and ladies to save such flowery emotions for their lovers, Emma is not the average Lady. She would be an easy woman to love," he added sympathetically.
Amaury scowled over that sentiment. "You leave my wife alone. She will not be taking a lover." With that, he turned and stormed across the bailey, leaving Blake staring after him in amazement.
Emma glanced up from the pot she was stirring and smiled at Gytha as she entered. She was the oldest of de Lascey's workers. Old enough to be Emma's own mother. She even reminded her of the deceased Lady Kenwick somewhat. It was in her soothing smile and quiet dignity as she had nipped and tucked the material of one gown after another around Emma's body during the fittings. Emma liked her, and she wasn't the only one. Sebert liked her, as well.
De Lascey and his people had been here no more than four days, and already Gytha and Emma's steward were inseparable. They sat together at mealtimes, and disappeared together after the sup, and Gytha was forever finding some excuse or other to come below stairs during the day in the hopes of catching a glimpse of or a moment alone with Sebert. Emma had come across the pair in lusty clutches all over the castle. The maids and kitchen staff were beginning to giggle about it whenever the pair passed.
Emma herself was not sure what to do about the situation. She found it a bit surprising that a pair of such an age could enjoy the intimacies they seemed to be dabbling in. She also found it touching and a bit amusing as well. Add to that the fact that she had never seen Sebert so happy, and Emma was loath to reprimand them for their behavior, so she had let it go up till now. However, this couldn't continue indefinitely. Something had to end it. She was just afraid of what that might be. Emma was rather hoping that she could persuade Gytha to stay, for she very much feared that should Gytha return to London with de Lascey when he left, her steward might very well choose to follow her. That was not a problem Emma wished to address at the moment. There seemed to be quite enough excitement and difficulties occurring at Eberhart Castle just recently.
Ever since her wedding, in fact, she thought. Then she corrected herself. Nay, everything had started before that. With her husband's death? Or even with her audience at court?
"Is Lord Amaury ailing, my lady?"
Emma gave a start and flushed at the question as Gytha moved to stand beside her, peering curiously into the pot. "N-nay," Emma answered. Her voice came out in a hoarse stutter. Clearing her throat, she forced a smile and shook her head. "Nay, he is well."
"Then why do you tonic his ale every night?"
"I . . .'Tis a new refreshment I am experimenting with," Emma lied, avoiding looking at the woman.
Gytha frowned slightly now. "But is this not butcher's broom and--"
"You know your weeds," Emma cut in, eager to change the topic.
"Aye. My mother taught me." Gytha turned back to the various herbs laid out on the table beside the fire. Brushing a hand gently over the larger bundle of plants, she appeared surprised, and picked up one of the leaves to peer at it carefully. "Is that not damiana?"
" 'Tis a general tonic." Emma heard the defensiveness in her own voice and winced inwardly. "It keeps the body regular."
Gytha raised one eyebrow slightly, amusement plucking at her lips as she set the aphrodisiac back down. "Oh aye, 'twill keep a body regular right enough."
Emma flushed pink at the suggestion in the woman's tone, but was saved from responding when the door beside her opened and Sebert peered in and smiled with gentle pleasure at Gytha. "The French ferret is kicking up a fuss about yer prolonged absence, Gytha. Mayhap ye should--"
Emma's eyes widened with surprise at the suggestive tone, then widened even further at the way Sebert flushed, swallowed, then nodded at the suggestion.
"God's gorge," she muttered, shaking her head. She would have to do something about Gytha and Sebert soon. Very soon, she thought dryly, turning back to the pot she was stirring. It was another batch of damiana. She did seem to be boiling up a new batch nearly every other day. That was because she put so much in his tankards. Emma had hoped that she might soon start cutting back on the amount she gave her husband, but after his threat earlier that afternoon . . .
Not that she truly believed that he would refuse to bed her. He did seem to enjoy it. Besides, she was not quite sure of the reasons for his irritation earlier that day. Still, she was taking precautions. Rather than cut back on the damiana mixture she put into his tankard, she intended to double it. She would stop giving him the other herbs, though. She had to, else there would be no room for his ale. Emma thought it better to be safe and dose him so . . . just in case he had been serious.
Emma opened her eyes, peered at the empty bed beside her and sighed. It appeared Amaury had been serious about his determination not to bed her again. He had taken to drinking at sup the night before, and had not stopped until his head had dropped onto the tabletop and great snores had erupted from his chest. Emma had left him sleeping there when she retired to the room they shared.
Despite the fact that she had not only doubled the dosage of damiana in his ale, but doubled that again as well, he had not come to her. Mayhap the effects of the potion lessened as the body adjusted to it. Or mayhap the amount of ale her husband had consumed had merely counteracted the effect. What ever the case, it had not worked, and she had spent a long, cold night tossing about in their bed alone. It was odd how one could get used to having another about. So much so that his presence was missed when absent.
Sighing, she finally moved herself to get out of bed and set about dressing, considering as she did the idea that her husband might truly intend to refuse to bed her now. It was a concept she did not even wish to consider. 'Twas not just her wish for a babe that made the idea unpalatable either. 'Twas the truth she would miss his very presence.
Amaury had kept to his word, and now consulted her on most matters. He had also taken to actually talking to her of a night, holding her in his arms after loving her and discussing the day's events. It had been awkward at first. She had been more than aware that he had been uncomfortable doing so. Still he had continued and it had become a sort of nightly ritual. A ritual she had missed last eve, Emma admitted to herself as she left their room.
The Great Hall was alive with noise when she reached the bottom of the stairs and headed for the trestle tables where servants and soldiers alike were breaking fast. Her gaze sought out Amaury where he sat hunched at his normal place. He was eyeing the people with discontent, as if resenting their easy smiles and laughter. It seemed his mood had not improved overnight.
Sighing inwardly, Emma dredged up a bright smile to grace him with as she approached, but her steps faltered halfway across the room as her gaze fell on the dogs by the fireplace. Curiosity mingling with worry to pluck at her smooth forehead, she hesitated, then turned her steps in their direction.
The dogs had a pattern to their behavior just as everyone else in the castle did. During the day they hung about outside, either playing with the children or aiding in a hunt were it needed. On rainy days they could be found lolling in the kitchen itself, following the cook with mournful eyes and soft mewls of sound produced in the hopes he might throw them a tidbit. At night they settled before the fire and slept by its warmth, only to awake as the first person entered the Great Hall to break fast. Then they too moved to the tables, where they could be found at every mealtime, snapping up bits of food dropped or tossed down to them.
That was where they should have been now. Yet they appeared to still be sleeping and that made Emma's concern deepen as she neared the beasts. It was almost inconceivable that they could sleep through the noise the diners were creating. Unless they were ill.
Amaury knew the moment his wife entered the room. His body told him with a small tingling sensation that buzzed across his back and up his neck. He always had that sensation when she came around him, though not always across his back. Most often it hit him in front and quite a bit lower. Damned if her very presence wasn't enough to set his nether regions to tingling life. Her smile was enough to make him as hard as the rocks at Stonehenge. The problem was it turned his mind to mush. Blake was right to a certain degree. Amaury was not making any sense. First it had bothered him that his wife enjoyed the bedding; now it bothered him that she seemed mostly interested in the bedding to gain a babe. His feelings were such a mess even he did not understand them. Mush. His mind had become a great mass of cow dung.
His wife was probably just as confused by his behavior as Blake was. No doubt it seemed perfectly reasonable to her that they mate for the purpose of children alone. Enjoying it aside, that was what the Church said the purpose for marital relations was. But . . . he wanted more. He did not simply want to be the one who stood between her and Bertrand. He wanted . . . hell, he did not know what he wanted exactly, and that was the problem.
"Mayhap you even have love for her." Blake's words rang in his mind and Amaury shuddered at the very thought. He had scant experience of that emotion. There had been very little of it in his life. Still, as much as he had lacked the emotion in the past, he did not relish suffering under it now. Especially not for a woman who thought of him as simply a bull in the barn that would save her from Bertrand.
Grimacing, he peered down into the murky liquid of his tankard. His friend was right, however, Emma was a special lady. Amaury had been witness to the actions of many a so-called lady. His father's wife, for instance. A pretty woman, always ready with a friendly smile-- so long as there was someone she deemed worthy around to see it. To the unworthy, such as the servants and her husband's bastard, she was a cruel, heartless, virago.
Then there were the ladies at court, he thought cynically. It had seemed to him that the women there ran their pursuit of a husband much as the men ran their wars. Coldly, brutally, and with much plotting and sneakiness.
He saw none of these qualities in his wife. Her people, whether servants or men-at-arms, seemed to truly like and respect her. That was made obvious by the way they responded promptly to her softly spoken requests. Even to the point of seeing that every article of cloth in the castle was blackened when she wished it, including their own clothes. When Amaury had asked the steward, Sebert, why they all wore such bleak raiments, he had answered simply, "Her ladyship requested it. She is in mourning. Or she was. I suppose that ended on her remarriage." As he had stood contemplating the etiquette of the matter, Amaury had asked, "And you did it?"
"Aye, my lord."
"Why?"
"Why?" He had seemed perplexed by the question. "Why, to please her."
A simple enough answer that said much more than the words themselves. To please her. Not out of fear. Not out of duty. Not even because she was their mistress, but to please her. Her people worked hard to please their lady. And in turn, she fussed over them. Fretting over their health, seeing to their meals, caring for their needs. She had even taken his men under her wing, tending their countless wounds and ailments and fussing over their health.
An exclamation of dismay drew his eyes to the fireplace. His wife was kneeling by the dogs, horror on her face. Frowning, he stood to move toward her, then paused as Little George burst into the castle and hurried to his side.
"A party approaches."
"Who?"
"I could not see their banner. They are too far away."
Amaury frowned. "A war party?"
"Nay. Too few."
"Mayhap Lord Rolfe returns," Amaury suggested with a shrug, then continued on to stand
Emma sat back on her heels and stared blankly at the animals lying so still. "They are dead."
"Dead!? All of them?" His exclamation caught the attention of the rest of the people in the Great Hall, and many of them began to drift toward the fireplace.
Emma sighed at the disbelief in his voice. She could hardly believe it herself, though she had touched each one and felt the cold stiff bodies beneath the fur of the three animals. They were dead, and had been so for hours. "Aye, husband all three of them."
"Is it the plague, my lady?" Maude asked in a bare whisper, kneeling beside her to peer at the animals herself.
"Nay," Emma muttered grimly, throwing her a reproving look for the suggestion. Just mentioning the word "plague" was enough to cause a panic nowadays. Turning away from the woman, she lifted one of the poor animals' heads in her hands to examine the eyes and mouth, a frown furrowing her brow.
"Is it the spotted fever?" Maude asked.
"Nay!" She snapped as a murmur of fear rippled through the crowded hall and people began moving a step or so away again. " 'Twas poison."
"Poison!" the servant gasped, eyes askance.
"Poison?" Amaury's gaze moved over the animals. They ate only the food from the tables, scraps tossed to them from the diners. No one else was sick. Other than that, the only offering given to them was a large bowl of water that was set out by the kitchen door each morning. His gaze slid slowly to that bowl now.
"Aye, poison." Emma got grimly to her feet and turned toward him.
"You killed them!" The accusation exploded into the silent room, nearly knocking Emma over with the shock of it.
"What?" she asked in a whisper of amazement.
"You killed them. Poisoned them with those herbs of yours."
She stiffened indignantly at that. "Are you mad? Why would I poison the dogs?"
His gaze turned down to the poor animals. "Me."
"What?"
"Me. You were trying to poison me!" he exclaimed as if just realizing it.
"My lord husband," Emma said with exasperation, stepping toward him.
"Nay!" He took a step back, holding up his hand as if holding off a witch. "Did you or did you not put a potion in my drink at sup last eve?"