Page 69 of Suddenly a Bride
“I swear to you, milady, that I’m makin’ him see reason. And itisworkin’. Just give me more time.”
Gwyneth studied her friend’s pale face. “Of course, Lucy. Thank you for your help.”
But she watched her walk away and could not stop her nagging sense of worry. Was Hugh perhaps not the man Lucy should be with? Surely the girl would tell her if he was harming her in some way?
~oOo~
That evening, the servants all remained in Swintongate. Geoffrey and Harold disappeared rather quickly, leaving Gwyneth alone with Edmund in the great hall. She watched suspiciously as he swayed before the hearth. She’d never seen him overcome by drink before.
Walking up to his side, she slid her arm through his and looked up. “Edmund, I could teach you to dance. No one would care that you had to limp.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I already know how to dance. I used to be quite good.”
“Really?” she asked with delight, knowing he had to be drunk to compliment himself like that.
He arched a brow. “Do you doubt me?”
He caught her about the waist and whirled her out into the center of the great hall. Though his lame leg was awkward, his grace in fencing carried over into dance.
When they stumbled to a halt, she laughed and clutched his waist.
“I cannot do the leaps with a leg that won’t bend,” he said ruefully. “Such things were probably strange from a man my size anyway.”
“I would have liked to have seen it,” she said softly, not releasing him. She was thankful that he didn’t seem too depressed by the party. In fact, he hadn’t even pushed her away, which started her thinking about a drunken man’s lack of inhibitions.
When he staggered and clutched the table for support, she said, “Let me help you to your bedchamber.”
Chapter 16
“I am perfectly capable of walking,” Edmund said.
He probably was unaware that his words were starting to slur together. Gwyneth noticed he didn’t protest when she held him around his waist and pulled his arm over her shoulders. Together they walked down the corridor into the servants’ wing, where she pushed open his door. He moved slower and slower, and she staggered under his weight once inside the room. Guiding him to the bed, she propped him against it. He sat on the edge, blinking at her, while she studied him.
“Let us begin by removing your garments,” she said firmly.
When he said nothing, she allowed herself to relax and enjoy the chance to touch him as she’d always wanted to. She remembered their morning at the inn, when she’d been naked beneath his caresses. If she did the same thing to him, surely he wouldn’t resist consummating their marriage then?
Working his boots off was difficult, but he managed to help by lifting his legs when she requested it. The stockings came next, and she saw a rough-looking scar that snaked down from higher up his leg. Although the room was lit only by firelight, she knew he watched her, felt his gaze never leave her face. After unbuttoning his doublet and pushing it back off his shoulders, she let her hands slide down his arms. He felt so big and warm and safe that she wanted to bury her face in his chest and smell the clean scent of him.
She settled for unbuttoning his shirt and spreading the neck, letting her fingers graze through the hair on his chest. He was too tall for her to pull the shirt over his head. Feeling brave and even seductive, she put her fingers on the buttons of his breeches then slowly opened them one by one. Her face felt hot, and she couldn’t meet his eyes until the breeches sagged down his lean hips. Then she glanced at him, only to find him watching her hands instead of her face.
“Stand straight, Edmund.”
He almost fell, but she caught him around the waist, even as his breeches dropped to the floor.
“You’re still too tall,” she whispered, sliding a stool closer and pushing him down onto it. He kept his right leg straight out to the side.
Their eyes were almost at the same level, and he watched her as she pulled his shirt up over his head. Her breath caught as she took a step backward to look at him. She’d seen his naked chest and arms, massively muscled and so impressive, and the small linen undergarment at his hips. He had long, heavy legs, well shaped until that last dreadful battle. Though the room was mostly shadows, she could see his misshapen knee and the painful-looking scars that cut across it.
When she touched the hard ridge of one scar on his thigh, he flinched and fumbled for her hand.
“Gwyneth, nay.” His words weren’t slurred so much as too slow and careful.
“I want to touch you,” she whispered, evading his hand. Stepping between his spread thighs, she let her fingers trail up his skin ever closer to his hips.
Suddenly his head dipped, and he rested his forehead against her shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt you,” was his harsh whisper.
He’d said such words before, all in an attempt to elude her. But this time she heard a wealth of pain he was too drunk to disguise.
