Page 51 of Her Dark Seduction
Chapter 16
“See to my meal, wife.”
Sawford threw a rabbit at my feet.
We had been travelling for almost a month. Unaccustomed to hard riding and sleeping rough my whole body ached. During the day we rode whether it rained or not. Sitting astride the horse behind my husband I could not relax, having to grip his waist for fear I would fall and harm the babe.
My husband.
Once again I was a bride. Six months ago I had entered Mortlock Fort a hopeful child, dreaming of a long, fulfilling marriage and the comfort of occupation as the lady of the castle. That naïve child no longer existed. Neither did the lady. I was the wife of a servant, a man I craved to be near but longed to escape from at the same time. We had married the night we left the smith’s hut having ridden straight to the abbey near Mortlock. The abbot who’d joined us, his face wrinkled with drowsiness, had refused at first to conduct the ceremony. But the point of Sawford’s sword and a handful of coins had persuaded him otherwise.
Our first night as man and wife we’d slept under cover of trees. He sealed our union with a quick, rough consummation, his breathing quickening against the back of my neck as he came to pleasure. I had woken later that night, his lean, hard body against my back while he slept—the sleep of one undisturbed by the screams and flames that haunted me since we left Mortlock Fort.
As the days passed, the smell of smoke clinging to his clothes had been replaced by the damp, almost sweet smell of the leaves lingering on the ground, their bright reds and yellows fading to brown.
Our food had grown scarce. Each time we had rested, the piece of bread he gave me was smaller than the last, until one evening after lighting a fire he’d said there was nothing to give me, before disappearing without another word. He had returned with a rabbit, which he swiftly and expertly gutted before roasting it over the fire. Since speaking my vows I had said very little, answering his questions with a nod or shake of my head. I was tired, so tired. Each time we stopped, I dropped to the ground, curling up and closing my eyes, though sleep eluded me.
“Did you not hear me?”
I looked up, lost in my thoughts. He stood over me, body tense with expectation. Picking the rabbit up by its ears I drew out my knife. The body was still warm, a gaping hole in the flesh where Sawford’s arrow had impaled it. A huge, black sightless eye stared at me reproachfully, and I dropped the knife, unable to slice into the animal’s flesh.
“I have made a poor bargain if my wife cannot fulfil her duties.”
Irritated by his tone I sheathed my knife. “I am neither peasant nor servant. See to it yourself if you are hungry.”
“You think the circumstances of your birth make you better than me?”
“The circumstances of anyone not base born makes them better than you,” I retorted.
A sharp intake of breath told me my arrow had hit its target.
“Shall I tell you what makes me better thanyou, woman?” he sneered. “I don’t need others to perform every small task for me. I feed myself, clothe myself, even bathe myself. As fine a lady as you think you are, you are a commoner now. In my world you are nothing, incapable of lighting a fire or even laying the blankets. You wouldn’t survive one day without me, whereas I would last far longer without being burdened by you.”
“Then I propose you unburden yourself, Monsieur. I am not, and will never be, your whore.”
“No”—his voice had a dangerous edge—“you are my wife. My whores may do as they please, but my wife is bound to me by law and by the church.”
Struggling to my feet, I ignored his proffered hand and walked toward the stallion. The animal pricked its ears up, and I patted him on the nose before pulling out the blankets from the panniers. I hid my face from Sawford to conceal my tears. His words had confirmed my worth to him; an item of property to do with as he pleased. By marrying him I had surrendered my freedom. I could better bear the stigma of being his whore than the prison of being his wife.
However, he was right. Though hateful to admit it, I was a peasant now. I had a duty to care for my child and in order to fulfill it, I first had to learn to care for myself.
After laying out the sleeping blankets, I returned to where Sawford was gutting the rabbit. He looked up and raised his eyebrows. I gestured toward it with my knife.
“I will see to it.”
He nodded and turned away to tend to the horse, the flicker of a smile dancing in his eyes. Ignoring him, I busied myself with the rabbit, driving the spit through its mouth to impale the body as I had seen him do, before placing it over the fire, turning it occasionally.
After a while, the smell of roasted meat made my stomach growl. It was ready to eat. Sawford did not answer my call and on looking up I saw why. He sat on the blankets, propped against a tree, his eyes closed. I had not seen his face at rest before, and it was as if a different man sat before me. While awake, he wore a similar mask as I; both of us concealing our true feelings. Were we really so different?
Since we had left the smith’s hut, he’d worked continually, setting up camp, providing food, while I dropped to the ground to sleep as soon as we stopped. While awake, he seemed impassive, emotionless as the statues that graced the altars of the abbeys. Asleep he looked tired, almost vulnerable.
I touched his face. He had not shaved since we left Mortlock and the scar on his chin was completely concealed beneath his beard. Now his eyes were closed I noticed the thick, dark lashes which framed them. Though his skin was pale, the hue under his eyelids was darker—the only sign of fatigue. His mouth was full and sensual as it had ever been. The cheekbones were well defined and his nose, which I had at first thought to be perfectly straight, had a slight kink, evidence it had been broken in the past. Would my child resemble him?
I dropped my gaze to his hands; to the scars I had seen when I first met him. How had he come by them? What hardships had he suffered to become the man he was? Would I ever understand him or, as I feared, had he taken me for the child, to then abandon me without a backward glance? What did he want with me?
The back of his hand was badly grazed. Out in the open, with little clean water, it would be prone to infection. Reaching over to the panniers I drew out the jar of salve along with the remnants of my torn nightshift. I applied the ointment before binding his hand as gently as I could so as not to wake him. On impulse I turned his hand, palm upward, and stroked the calluses with the tips of my fingers.
Looking up I gave a start. His penetrating blue gaze was on me.
