Page 106 of Bride of Fire
“I’ll see what I can learn in the armory,” Bethac promised her.
It took all afternoon. But the maid finally located her weapons. For Jenefer, the sight of her bow and arrows in Bethac’s possession was more enticing than even the fish pottage she’d brought for supper.
She immediately inspected the bow. God knew what rough handling it had received from these undisciplined Highlanders.
But it appeared whole. Her score of shafts were all there and intact as well. Her bracer was still tucked into the pocket of her quiver.
The hour was too late and the day too dark to begin training tonight.
“On the morrow,” Bethac said, “after William has finished his chores and while Morgan is busy with his midday meal, I’ll help ye slip downstairs.”
“Perfect.”
Jenefer couldn’t deny a pang of guilt over how easily she’d tricked the devoted grandmother into bringing her weapons. But she completely understood how Bethac felt. Jenefer wasalready keenly protective of Miles, and he wasn’t even blood kin to her.
At least she’d be helping William. Her efforts might serve to save the lad’s life one day.
It was plain to Alicia that Morgan expected to swive her tonight. He’d washed his face and combed his hair. He’d let the fire dwindle, leaving the room dimly lit by a single candle, just the way she preferred it. And he’d slid into the bed with such stealth that even the abbess of a convent wouldn’t have detected him.
But she was no longer interested. Her earlier fear and jealousy, her worry that the scheming nursemaid was trying to insinuate herself into Morgan’s household, had waned somewhat. She hadn’t glimpsed the pesky wench all day. And every time she’d stolen from her bed to peer out the window, Alicia had seen Morgan engaged in the field with his soldiers.
Perhaps the seeds of doubt she’d planted in Morgan’s mind had taken root after all, and he planned to keep the woman at arm’s length. If so, she had nothing to worry about. Consequently, she felt less of a necessity to bed him.
When he sidled up next to her in the bed, she moaned, half in feigned pain, half in annoyance.
He froze. “Have I hurt ye?”
“Nay,” she said, her voice tight. “’Tisn’t anythingyou’vedone.”
“What can I do to make ye feel better?” he murmured against her ear.
She squirmed away from him. “You’ve already made me feel better.”
He snaked a hand beneath the coverlet and began inching up the fabric of her linen kirtle. “Perhaps I can help ye forget the pain.”
She let out a shuddering sigh and pushed his hand away. “Oh, Morgan…”
“Aye, sweetheart?”
She tugged her kirtle back down. “I fear I may not be quite ready.”
He nuzzled her neck. “I can help make ye ready, love.”
She turned her head away and rolled her eyes.
How she hated swiving. She hated the sweat, the smell, the panting, the grunting. She hated the feeling of invasion when a man shoved his member inside her. Abhorred the beatific victory on his face when he pumped her full of his seed.
For her, swiving had always been a means to an end. A weapon to be wielded strategically. A way to make a man do her bidding.
At the moment, Morgan was already amenable to her wishes. She had no need to engage in the disgusting act.
“Oh, Morgan,amor meu,”she lied, “’twould be my greatest desire to oblige you. But after my ordeal, I fear…”
“Aye?” He stiffened.
“It may be some time before…” She left the words as she intended to leave Morgan—dangling and unfinished.
She felt his heavy sigh of disappointment.
