Draco A Medieval Scottish Roma - Jayne Castel Page 0,80
glanced up from where she was kneading bread upon the table in the center of the chamber.
A weary smile stretched across Maximus’s face. “You have no idea, just how much, carissima.”
Wiping off her hands, Heather crossed to him. He enfolded her in his arms, burying his face in her rosemary-scented hair. Maximus leaned into her; he was a fortunate man indeed, to have a woman like this to return to at the end of each day.
“Ye did well today,” Heather murmured against his shoulder. “The whole keep is humming with news of how ye and Cassian brought down the ‘Battle Hammer’.”
Maximus drew her closer against him, his hands running down her back. “That should slow Longshanks down a bit,” he murmured.
His mood shadowed then. Losing the battering ram would be a blow for the English, but no doubt they’d recover soon enough. Longshanks wasn’t done.
“Come.” Heather drew back from him, her grey-green eyes warm. “Let’s get ye into that bath before the water cools.”
Maximus didn’t need to be invited twice. He longed to soak into the hot water, to let all the day’s tension and fury seep from him. Stripping off his filthy leathers, he stepped naked into the tub and sank down into it with a groan of pleasure.
Heather returned to her dough, shaping it into a flat disc and placing it upon the iron griddle that hung above the fire. “Supper will be fresh bread and cheese,” she announced. “Sorry it’s nothing fancier.”
“It sounds good to me,” Maximus replied, reaching for the cake of lye soap and the wash cloth she’d left for him. He then began to wash, cleansing himself of the smoke, blood, and grime of battle.
For a short while, husband and wife fell into companionable silence. Then Heather crossed to the tub and lowered herself onto a stool next to it. “Would ye like me to wash yer hair?”
Maximus grinned. “Yes, carissima.”
Even without looking her way, he could sense her answering smile. Heather liked the Latin endearment he used with her.
“Ye took a few knocks today,” she observed as he handed her the soap.
“Aye … but not as many as Draco.” Maximus paused then. “He’ll be loving all the attention though, no doubt.”
He glanced down at the red welt on his left flank; a chunk of stone from a catapult had caught him in the morning. His whole body felt bruised and battered. Fortunately for him, the dawn would soothe his hurts and ready him for another day of battle.
His belly contracted at the thought, his good humor fading. “I’m sorry, Heather,” he said softly. “I really thought we’d broken the curse.”
“Don’t apologize for what isn’t yer fault,” she replied, moving around so that their gazes met. She wasn’t smiling either now, and the tenderness in his wife’s eyes made Maximus’s gut tighten further.
“But I assured you that once we solved the riddle it would be done. I’d be mortal, and we could have a normal life together.”
She shook her head, refusing to let him take the blame. “Aye … because that’s what ye believed.” She paused then, stubbornness lighting in her eyes. “Ye didn’t lead me down a path I didn’t want to travel, Max … and I refuse to believe all hope is lost.”
Their gazes fused, the moment drawing out. Heather reached out, taking his hand, their fingers entwining. She then squeezed tight. “It’s not over yet.”
XXXIII
AWAITING THE DAWN
“WE SHALL BUILD another battering ram.”
Edward of England glanced up to see Shaw Irvine standing in the doorway to his tent. His pugnacious jaw was set, his brawny arms folded across his barrel chest.
Edward exhaled slowly, wearily. It wasn’t yet dawn, but he was already awake, dressed, and finishing a light meal of bread, butter, and honey in his tent. This hour was the only moment of the day he had to himself. The last person he wanted to see right now was the Irvine laird.
Especially after yesterday.
Edward pulled a face. “Your toy lies in a smoldering heap, Irvine … there isn’t time to construct another.”
Irvine’s mouth compressed. “With your help, I can … I just—.”
“Enough,” Edward growled, cutting the man off. “You aren’t getting another battering ram.” He raised a pewter goblet to his lips and took a swig of ale. God’s teeth, this man was wearisome. Irvine never stopped talking. Since the Scot had joined him, they shared supper together every evening. Irvine prattled on and on. He loved that ‘Battle Hammer’ of his—never stopped talking about the bloody thing.