Strange, lewd thoughts came into his head, and he could not push them away, no matter how hard he thought to chase them. He pictured himself returning home and giving his wife the belt for all the bad things she'd done, and rejoicing in the red stripes he would get to bestow upon her bottom, and revelling in her tears of contrition. This would not be a mild, teasing spanking, as the ones he'd already given her. It would be a hard one, meant to make her weep and plead with him and repent for her deeds and for breaking faith with him. And he nearly retraced his steps to go back home and do just as he wished, thinking that, after this hard merciless spanking, he would be tempted to take his woman in his arms, and soothe her, and wipe her tears and comfort her and tell her that it all was forgiven and forgotten.
He pictured the punishment over and over in his head, thinking upon how glowing red his wife's naughty bottom would get and of how she would become truly subdued and let go of all her defiance. And he pictured their lovemaking afterwards, with her thrusting her red bottom at him as he rammed savagely inside her. But he pictured not only rough, punishing lovemaking, but also gentle, lingering caresses. He also pictured sharing and forgiveness. And, strangely, he thought of true love, as if this world was not only harshness, treachery and deceit. But then he strived to recall how things lay. And he resolved to keep away from a woman who'd cruelly deceived him, even if in his heart he'd come to wish for nothing more than to be with her yet again.
CHAPTER 15
Arthen spent the night outside, wide awake throughout most of it, simply waiting for morning to come, and wondering why a woman who did not care for him in truth was foremost in his thoughts. It was only at dawn that he fell asleep on the bare ground with his cloak to cover him, fitfully, coming to be wide awake only when the sun was shining brightly in the sky. He cursed viciously, angry at having overslept, and hoping John had things well in hand at the school and that he'd not be furious with Arthen for neglecting his duties. Righting his rumpled garments, he resolved to go home only to break his fast in order to be able to carry through a long day which was already somewhat spoiled by his tardiness.
But as he walked down the lane to his house, he perceived there were several people gathered there, and by the way they lingered by, talking among themselves and shaking their heads, it seemed a mishap had already occurred. Arthen's heart started thumping in sheer dread. Was something amiss? And his thoughts flew not only to his child, but also to his wife. Hurrying, he caught sight of Aunt Royse. When he drew closer, making his way through the small crowd of people gathered, he saw thatboth his aunt and Maggie were tending to his wife, who was lying on the ground, holding his child in her arms.
"What happened?" he cried, noting with relief that Robin seemed unharmed, and Maggie had already gotten hold of him, while his aunt was tending to Rowena who was still lying where she must have fallen.
"A rider!" Maggie said urgently, and by her voice Arthen understood she was striving hard to still her breath as she spoke. "Going like a madman and nearly trampling Robin to the ground. The boy was playing in the lane with other children. He's young and, unlike the others, didn't have enough time to flee before the rider's horse, which was going at a maddening speed… We all thought he'd find his doom, but somehow, Rowena was able to lunge and drag the boy from harm's way. She took a bad spill though."
Relieved his child was fine, although crying and frightened, Arthen now looked upon his wife, as his chest squeezed in anguish. What harm could have come to her? And why hadn't he been there in order to be able to shield her and Robin from all misfortunes which could have befallen them? He glanced at her with pained eyes, praying she hadn't been grievously harmed and understanding only too plainly she'd shielded their child with no thought to herself.
Already knowingRobin was safe and sound, because she had been able to snatch him from harm's way, Emma came back from the dizzy spill her tumble had caused, and found Arthen had returned home and had carried her inside the house, away from the crowd's eyes. He was now hovering over her with brown eyes filled with sheer anguish.
“I am well,” she proclaimed, attempting to sit up.
“Nay, rest!” he ordered, and Emma found herself frowning at the terse command, because in the last weeks she’d understood she was far less meek than her life as Lady Edith’s daughter or as Lord De Fael’s niece had taught her to be.
She saw Arthen heave a sigh as she resolutely sat up. Breathing in deep, she understood she was fine and only slightly unsettled from the spill she’d had. But Arthen cast her a worried glance, and felt her forehead. Emma vainly attempted to push his hand away.
“I am not feverish! I only took a tumble. And I am well, see?” she called, making her voice cheerful, and straightening herself.
Her heart was thumping fiercely though, because she hadn't missed the concern mirrored in his archer’s brown eyes. Yet she bit her lip with a pang of pain in her chest, understanding it must be concern for his wife who he thought sat there, and not for Emma herself. Arthen did not even know who Emma was. And at this time she felt too weary and shaken to share her secret with him.
He now brushed his hand against her cheek in a gesture which was quite tender, and Emma understood that never in her life had a man touched her cheek this way. So gently. The men she’d known had only chosen to strike her in anger. Yet he was different from the men of her acquaintance.
“There’s a bruise already showing,” he proclaimed with a frown, brushing his long fingers against her skin.
Emma shrugged, unconcerned. She’d had far worse from her uncle and from her husband. Besides, it was the first bruise she felt proud of. It was a bruise she'd received attempting to shield the child. Robin was hale, and it was all that mattered.
“From now on I’ll keep better watch upon him,” she vowed to herself, only belatedly recalling she’d spoken out loud.
Arthen said nothing, just perusing her with a look in his eyes which seemed softer than ever before.
“It was my fault he was nearly trampled to death,” she muttered, now already cross with herself for the tragedy which may have happened.
“Nay! Not your fault. My aunt was there and other people too. They just told me what occurred. And none of you was to blame. Everyone knew it was a safe spot where he and Will and other children often gathered to play. It was the rider’s fault. A madman. With no care and no regard for others! Who should have slowed down in a lane full of children where horses seldom tread. Did you not see his face?”
Emma shook her head. The horse had galloped in such a whirl of frenzy that she’d not had the chance to look upon the face of the rider.
“I thought so,” Arthen said with a sigh and a shake of his head. “A nobleman by the horse he rode and by the rich cloak and hood he wore, the others say. Yet not a horse or garb anyone recognized. A stranger perchance, unused to this town and uncaring.”
“A lord for certain. Men of this sort are often uncaring,” Emma whispered, thinking of her own late husband, who, upon one morn, had also come near to trampling a child when they were having a ride through town. Had it not been for Emma’s cry of warning, he would not even have cared to stop. Emma recalled only too well his cold, unconcerned laugh, and how he’d mocked her for setting such store on little commoners who did not even know how to care for themselves. He’d hit her hard that day, when they had returned home, because she’d dared to speak to him in a defiant manner.
“Uncaring, aye. It is often so,” Arthen acquiesced with a grave nod.
However he then stared at her with a look which seemed filled with wonder.
“You never used to think it was so. You used to think them better than the rest, because they were high-born and could do anything they pleased. Lords and ladies—they were what you dreamt of all day long.”
Emma hung her head in deep regret, recalling Hild’s tale only too well. Rowena was her sister. And it seemed that seeing Emma upon that day had, just as her true mother had said, poisoned Rowena’s soul and made her wish for a life which had seemed far better than hers.
“Nay. Not better at all. Worse, far worse,” she muttered, and saw Arthen’s fine eyes widen upon her.
“So,” he said at last in a hard voice, moving away the hand which had been warmly cupping her cheek. “Now you know. I suppose it should make me glad. It does not though.”