No, she wasn’t there and it enraged him.
His shoulder hurt, but not so much that he wasn’t going to take her again, as he knew he must. Mayhap this time she wouldn’t call him an animal. Or mayhap she would. He didn’t care. He was a man set on his course.
He opened the door and strode into the small chamber, silent, his boots clipping lightly on the bare stone. She was standing in front of the small window, the shutters open, a crisp night breeze blowing in, ruffling her hair. She still wore her gown, a soft green wool with long fitted sleeves, but her hair was free down her back. She had lovely hair, filled with colors, from the palest blond to a dark brown. Rich-looking hair, and soft. Perhaps he would touch her hair tonight, feel its texture in his hands and against his face. He liked a woman’s hair, if it was clean and sweet-smelling. He reached out his hand, then dropped it at the stab of
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pain in his shoulder. He clenched his teeth, focused hard on her, and controlled the damnable pain the way Gwent had taught him when he’d been knifed in the leg by a street bandit in Jerusalem.
She didn’t turn though she sensed a presence. “Agnes? I’m glad you have come. I have no wish to go to bed yet. Stay a moment with me and let us share a goblet of the sweet Aquitaine wine Lord Graelam brought.”
“I am not Agnes. I passed her on the solar stairs and dismissed her.” He was still displeased that the proud old woman had not immediately obeyed him, but had looked at him with doubt and opened her mouth to object. But she’d kept still, wisely, unlike her mistress.
She turned slowly to face him. “Why are you here? What do you want?”
He took another step toward her and smelled the heady scent of some herb he couldn’t identify. He said slowly, very precisely, as one would speak to an idiot, “I am your lord. I am your husband. Why are you still hhere in this maiden’s bedchamber? It smells of strange things, all these herbs you collect and grind. You will come to the master’s bedchamber. If you please me, if you obey me, I will consider letting you use this room for your herbs.”
“Ah,” she said, and then she had the gall to shrug. “You forget so quickly that it was my skill with herbs that took care of your wound? I doubt you would be so stupid as to do away with them.”
He wanted to strangle her. His hands fisted at his sides. She saw it and he knew that she paled. Good, she should fear him. He wouldn’t accept anything from her except gentleness and submissiveness. He’d expected it from the moment he’d wedded her, but it hadn’t happened yet. Very well, she would be submissive as of now. Then Trist peered out from his open tunic and reached a paw toward her.
She laughed, waggling her fingers at him. “I have wine. Does Trist like wine?”
His damned marten. He’d forgotten he was sleeping in his tunic. why must Trist poke his head out of his tunic and make her laugh just when Severin had his boot nearly settled on her neck? He would deal with
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Trist later. Just how he would deal with him, Severin wasn’t certain. He wanted to shove the marten back inside his tunic, but his hand stilled. Trist was making a soft purring sound deep in his throat. It had been nearly three months since they’d been rotting in that dungeon in Rouen. The marten had made no pleasurable sounds since then, until now.
“My marten has never tasted wine.” What was happening here? “No, he drinks only ale.” Why were they speaking of Trist and wine? He shook his head. “I asked you why you are here. You will answer me and you will do it immediately. You will not try to distract me again.”
“I gave it no thought,” she said, her eyes still on the marten. The animal, all stretched out, at least ten inches of him hanging down the front of Severin’s tunic, gave her courage. “Why would I wish to share a bedchamber with you?”