Reckless (Age of Conquest #5) - Tamara Leigh Page 0,129

her lip as if to ensure she complied with his desires.

“What war do you speak of, Nicola?”

Her smile was like sunshine slipping from one cloud to another, one moment bold, the next shy. “I am frantic to wash you and tend your injuries, to aid and give comfort as a wife should, but…”

She went silent, and though he wanted to prompt her to finish what was begun, he allowed her to think through her words. And think through them some more.

Chest, sides, and back thoroughly cleaned and cuts salved, he dragged the thong from his hair and, exercising patience, began pulling the leather string through his fingers.

Nicola’s eyes having settled on the thong, she said softly, “I remember when that which you drew between your fingers was cloth cut from a king’s mantle.”

Now so did he. Stilling his hands, he prodded, “Your war, Nicola?”

She blinked. “Aye, that. I wish to tend you, truly I do, but I think more…” Her gaze skittered shoulder to shoulder, down his chest to his abdomen, returned to his eyes. Then in a rush, she said, “I am so happy to be able to touch you, and without worry of where it might lead should we forget ourselves. And now we are wed, even under these circumstances, that is as it should be. No shame, no worry.”

Would she ever cease to surprise? Would he ever truly know her well enough to anticipate what worked behind those fluttering lashes?

She swallowed. “Are you still angry with me?” Before he could decide how to answer, she made a sound of disgust. “Of course you are, and you have good cause since I dishonored you by leading William to believe you incapable of resisting my wiles.” She nodded. “You are angry, though not as much, aye?”

Her hands now in motion—drawing the damp, bloodied linen through them—he relieved her of the cloth and drew her to her knees.

“Not as much,” he acceded and let his mouth curve in answer to her own tentative curve, then touched the brooch above her breast.

She glanced down. “It has kept me as near you as I could be.”

Feeling pressure on his heart, Vitalis said, “I did not know I could have you, Nicola, and now that I do, I am pleased. However, still I must reconcile myself to the cost.”

Which, he did not say, seemed twice as much for the name he was to bear. Whereas Guarin had taken Hawisa’s Saxon name to preserve her family’s legacy, this Saxon was given the Norman name of Boursier. William was a worthy warrior, but in wielding power, there was still much of the child about him. For that—the hope England’s next king would be a better man—Vitalis was mostly reconciled to training the prince to ensure he was worthier of being seated on the throne than his sire and eldest brother.

“I ask that you be patient and give me space and time to do that, Nicola.”

“Then you do wish to make a life with me—and a family?”

“To the first, aye. To the second, aye, but not this night.” He covered their hands with his other one. “I am weary, I ache, and I would not consummate our marriage here. Should a child be born to us, I would not have it conceived—” Seeing wariness spring upon her, he said, “What is amiss?”

“I must tell you something, though I do not wish to. Really, I do not.”

He narrowed his lids. “Why?”

“I fear it will prevent you from touching me, and very much I wish to be touched—and thoroughly. And since now we are wed and there is no sin—”

“Nicola.” He tugged her nearer, and she scooted her knees between his feet. “It almost sounds as if you are, indeed, with child. Unless you and my instincts have led me wrong, you cannot be. So of what do you speak?”

She moistened her lips. “You are right, neither of us have led you wrong. I am yet a maiden.”

“Then?”

“William said I should not tell you yet, but I do not agree. It would be like sharpening the blade with which he intends to sever our relationship.”

Patience, Vitalis counseled. “Continue, Nicola.”

“He believes the way to ensure you stay true to him and protect and train his son well is to foster our firstborn son high—likely with one of his companions.”

Realizing his hands were tightening on their joined ones, he eased his grip. “Though I would not like that even were our son of the correct age for fostering, I suspect