Page 28 of Wed By Proxy

Tentatively, she reached out a hand to trace his shoulder blade. His breathing hitched a moment, and Mathilde froze. Then the steady breathing started back up again, and she relaxed. She would not touch him. She would simply lie huddled close by, feeling his body heat. He was so wonderfully warm, even from this distance. He groaned and muttered something she could not catch, shifting against the mattress. Mathilde held her breath.

Then, suddenly he rolled over and she found herself engulfed in a big bear hug and pressed between a hard body and a firm mattress. Lord Martindale’s face was pressed into the space between her neck and her shoulder. There was not an inch of her that wasn’t draped in muscular male. For a moment, she did not even breathe, as her senses went crazy. She could feel him everywhere! Pressed up against her in all sorts of places. She fancied she could even feel that, his — his manroot, heavy and strange against her thigh. If it wasn’t that, then she wasn’t sure what else it could be. She lay there stunned, and blinking, hardly daring to draw breath. How he could still sleep was a mystery to her. She wriggled, and found to her relief that she could still draw breath.

Doubtless, she thought with trepidation, he would wake before long. Something stirred against her, and Mathilde stifled a gasp. What was that? Her brain raced. It was definitely in the same area as his manroot. She forced herself to exhale. Everywhere else he was still as a statue. Was that — was that his body reacting to her? Her education in such matters was vague to say the least, but she had some hazy notions how everything worked. If it was his body recognizing that hers lay beneath him, was that not a good and positive thing? Strangely, Old Helga’s words about pulsing sap flashed into her brain and she flushed. But maybe, by lying with him like this, she was watering his seed somehow. If his sleeping body could recognize her as his wife, did it not make sense that his waking mind would soon follow suit? She felt quite giddy at the notion.

Forcing herself to steady her shallow breathing, she noticed with consternation, the alarming degree that her sensitive nipples had hardened against his chest. His chest hair almost seemed to be stimulating them. They must be poking right into him! Her stomach fluttered strangely too. And lower. She gulped as the trembling in her body seemed to extend out from those areas. Was this her own body reacting to his proximity? Truly, the human body was a wonderful thing! Biting her lip, she forced her eyes to close and her breathing to continue with its steady rise and fall, content to glory in the feel of his embrace.

It must have been about a half hour later that Lord Martindale’s head lifted from the crook of her neck and he gazed blearily down at her.

“Good morning, my lord,” she murmured, blushing rosily.

The expression in his eyes went from blank to shocked in an instant. He levered himself up and off her, rolling to the side. Mathilde turned her head to watch with interest as he sat on the edge of the bed. How was his skin so tanned, she wondered, when the north was so bitterly cold? As if he could feel her eyes on him, he turned to look at her over his shoulder. Mathilde gave him an encouraging smile. He cleared his throat and looked hastily away. Why did he look like that? she wondered, as her heart sank. He looked, quite frankly, appalled.

“Is anything wrong, my lord?” She faltered, with sudden misgiving, and sat up, clutching the blankets to her to preserve her modesty. It seemed waking in the marriage bed was a vastly different experience for Lord Martindale than it had been for her. He had a black scowl on his face now as he turned to look at her.

“I don’t remember,” he said grimly. “I was sotted.”

“Aye, you were,” she agreed, wondering at his accusatory tone. After all, no one else had encouraged him to empty the bottle.

He raised a hand to his brow and stared distractedly at the door and then back at her again. “This was not what I planned,” he said. “I would never have slept here in my right mind.”

Mathilde flinched as though stung. “Where else would you sleep?” she asked with an edge to her voice that it surprised her to hear. She had been so happy when she woke this morning, yet he was churlish and rude. “We are husband and wife, are we not?” He gave a harsh crack of laughter at her words, and shook his head. Mathilde gripped the sheets tighter. “I did not force you into my bed, if that’s what you mean, any more than I forced you to guzzle a whole bottle of mead!”

He turned and gave her a hard stare. “Tell me the truth for once,” he said in a hard voice. “If you’re capable of it.”

“What do you mean?” Mathilde’s voice rose with indignation. Was he calling her a liar now? She saw him glance down at his lap and then back at her speculatively.

“Nay,” he said, shaking his head again. “I’ll not believe it.” He stood up from the bed, naked and glorious, walking across to the nearby chair where his clothes were folded. He stooped and pulled on his braies. Mathilde realized she was staring wide-eyed at him, and forced herself to look away and give him some privacy. “If I’d forced ye last night,” he said in a low rumble. “You’d not be able to walk.”

For a moment, she was so shocked by his crude words, she could not even speak. Then her brain scrambled to her defense. Suddenly it was imperative that she wiped that look of skeptical arrogance off his handsome face. Oh, he thinks me a pathetic little thing, unfit for purpose, does he? She blinked rapidly to dispel the bitter tears. He was like everyone else. Judging her and finding her wanting. She took a deep breath.

“Oh, you didn’t force me,” she said brightly. “And you seem to forget you are my third husband. I’m an old hand at beddings.” She sat very still as he absorbed her words.

“You—” He breathed, taking an involuntary step toward the bed.

Mathilde sat up straighter. “Yes, why don’t you come back to bed, husband?” she said in the same sweet tone and patted the spot next to her. “You’d be most welcome.” How she wished she truly was a woman of the world, she thought quaking inwardly at the dangerous glitter in his eye. One who no man would resist. Instead of a foolish, thrice-married virgin!

He seemed to struggle a moment for speech, and watching him Mathilde felt a sort of wild elation to have turned the tables on him. However, she didn’t want to push things too far. Instead she concentrated on relaxing her hold on the bedclothes, which she was gripping so tightly her fingers were white. She had no idea how she was going to get from the bed to her clothes, without exposing her nudity. She felt stupid and vulnerable sitting here naked, while he flung about looking like a thundercloud. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up blubbering again like she had yesterday, though then her tears had been happy ones.

Striding wordlessly to the wooden dresser, Guy snatched up a jug of water and started drinking it straight from the pitcher. She watched water trickling down his chin and onto his bare chest. He seemed to have a raging thirst, and her eyes opened wide to see it. Then her eyes dipped down further and she gave an involuntary exclamation. His tented braies did not hide the fact he was hard. For her. She stared, rapt. Perhaps she wasn’t so hopeless after all.

Once again, it was Old Helga’s words that sprang into her mind. “You’ll need to learn some new tricks,” she had said. New tricks. “Are you sure you’re up to it?” she had asked shrewdly. Mathilde nodded slowly. But she needed help. Where was that book Old Helga had given her for guidance? In truth, it had not looked promising, but she was desperate enough to try anything.

The jug thunked down on the dresser, and Lord Martindale dragged his forearm across his mouth. He stood there panting a moment. When he spoke his voice was gravelly and deep. “I’ll not believe it,” he said gruffly, not quite meeting her eyes. “I’ve never broken a vow in my life.”

What vow? Wondered Mathilde, then inspiration struck. She had once seen Queen Armenal yawn elegantly at some edict the king had made. Somehow, even a little goose like her had recognized instinctively that the queen had done it purposely, in order to needle her spouse. King Wymer had turned quite purple with chagrin at the time.

“As you wish, husband,” Mathilde said as nonchalantly as she could manage and faked a yawn, stretching back languorously into the pillows. When she glanced up through her lashes, to see how he had taken that, she saw it wasn’t her face he was staring at. Glancing down, Mathilde found her full body stretch had exposed her naked breasts to his view. Snatching at the sheets, she covered her front, hoping she hadn’t ruined the sophisticated tone she had been trying to set.

Her husband raked his face with his hand. “You’d better call me by my given name,” he said, his voice husky and deep.

Her eyes flew to meet his, startled. “Very well, Guy.” Speaking his name made her breathless. It felt dangerously like progress. Was she getting somewhere?

“You still want me to call you Mathilde?” he asked in a pointed tone.

What else would he call her? She frowned. “Of course, Guy.”

He snorted, cast a rather cynical look her way and started pulling on the rest of his clothes. “I’ll get a bath sent up for you.”