He nearly set Mary aside himself. “Listen to me, wife. I want us gone before my mother starts giving you instructions that will surely make you want to clout her in the head.”
She was silent a moment, then said, her voice really quite nice and calm now, “Oh, I see. That is probably a good idea.” Then she smiled at both Mary and her husband, turned on her heel and strode, just like an arrogant boy, to the stairs. She was whistling. She paused there for a moment and said over her shoulder, “I will not need an hour. I will help Mary, then see to all our supplies. How many days will we be traveling?”
“Three or four.”
“Very well.” And she was gone, taking the deep stone stairs two at a time.
Jerval stood there in the Great Hall, listening to a few moans from men curled up amid the rushes.
“That was quite a surprise,” Jerval said, staring after his wife, whom he could no longer see. He said to Mary, who stood silently not two feet from him, “You will not step between us again. Do you understand me?”
“Sometimes—no, rarely—she loses her temper. I did not know what she would do.”
“She would have done nothing.”
“I hoped that she would not.”
“She would not dare to strike me, her husband.”
“Well, mayhap, but she didn’t.” She slowly nodded and hurried after Chandra.
“You acted like a husband, Jerval,” Mark said quietly. “I do not believe it a wise way to approach your lady, particularly when she wears a sharp knife at her belt.”
“Aye, that’s the truth of it,” Jerval said. “By all the saints’ tribulations, do you think she would have thrown herself on me? Do you think she would have gone for my throat with that knife of hers?”
“You wish for honesty here? All right, I think it is possible,” Mark said. “You rode her hard, Jerval. Mayhap you should stop ordering her about, explain your reasons for things, ease her more gently into this new role she must play.”
Jerval waved away Mark’s words. “Next time, I will let her have at me—knife and all—and we will see.” He frowned. He looked baffled. “I wonder why she doesn’t seem to remember her softness and pleasure of last night.”
Mark wisely said nothing at all, and Jerval strode away himself.
“You’ll curse yourself, Jerval, for leaving the warmth and comfort of Croyland if those storm clouds I see to the west keep building.”
Jerval slewed his head about and looked thoughtfully toward the sea. “You might be right, Mark. Let us hope the winds blow the storm southward.”
Mark was silent for several minutes, his gray eyes, out of habit, searching the rugged hills to the east for robbers. They rode quickly enough since there were no baggage mules loaded with Chandra’s dowry goods to slow them down. There was only one mare to carry all Mary’s and Chandra’s clothing.
Mark heard Mary laugh and turned in his saddle to see a seabird winging close to her. He watched her hold out her hand to the gull and hoped the bird wouldn’t bite her. She was still shy around him, but she didn’t flinch or slither away anymore.
What had happened to make her fear men so much? Or was it just him? Surely he had never given her a reason to fear him.
“I will ride with Mary for a while,” Mark said, watching the gull fly over her head, coming no closer, simply keeping pace. “I will send your wife to you. It is to be hoped that she will not go for your throat.”
Jerval smiled. “At least not whilst we are riding.” They were well away from Croyland. She was his wife, his responsibility, and he felt very good about that. This morning hadn’t been a natural sort of morning. She had forgotten he was her husband, her lord. But she would not forget again. He would help her not to forget by taking her again and again, until he filled her belly with his child. If he had not been surrounded by his men, he would have called a halt and taken Chandra into the fields just yon, eased her onto her back, his cloak spread beneath her, of course, and then he would . . .
“I once camped with my father in those fields,” Chandra said, reining in Wicket beside Pith, who snorted and veered away.
Her damned father again. He didn’t need to hear that. He said, “Aye, I was thinking of those fields, but not camping for the night there.”
She was riding astride, dressed like a young squire, her mail vest beneath her tunic. Since her braid fell over her shoulder, there was no chance to mistake her this time for a boy. When she had come running down the stairs into Croyland’s Great Hall, thusly dressed, he had held his tongue, for she had obeyed him. They were away within the hour, and she had said nothing more to gainsay him. Mayhap he had pulled the reins too tightly. He would go more easily with her.
He reached out his hand and laid it on her wool-clad thigh. He felt her muscles tighten beneath his palm. He was instantly harder than the boulders beside the narrow road. Surely it wasn’t all that healthy for a man to be hard so quickly, so often. He cursed. “I wish this day would be over.”
She stared down at his large hand for a moment, but didn’t try to shove him away. “Why? It is a beautiful day. Those rain clouds that so worry Mark—they won’t settle over our heads. Just breathe in that sweet air. The sea is only a half mile to the west.”
She was talking, just talking about this and that, and he wanted to take her down off Wicket’s back and carry her that half mile to the beach. There was sand, and so he would use his cloak again and . . .
“Why are you smiling? I said naught of anything funny.”