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“My lord,” Nevril said, nearly sprinting over toward him. “I must tell—”
“Nay,” Mal said, grinding his teeth against the white-hot pain and the further delay. “I will speak with you on the morrow. And not before. ”
Nevril stilled and swallowed, opening his mouth to argue. But he must have seen that Mal was in no mood to be crossed, for he nodded and slunk off.
Malcolm gave his master-at-arms no further thought, for he was already striding painfully toward the stairs that would take him to the second floor. And then he was forced to stop when he realized he didn’t know where his lady’s solar was, for he’d never even been inside Lilyfare Keep.
A renewed wave of humiliation and frustration washed over him as he turned to another serf, demanding directions.
Thus, by the time he managed to get himself to the second level, Malcolm was very nearly out of his mind with pain, impatience and lust. He forced himself to pause outside the door of the solar, dragging in long, ragged breaths, forcing his mood under control. He was in no fit state to see his wife and he knew it.
For a long moment, Malcolm remained in the corridor. The red haze eased from his vision, the shocking, fiery pain in his ankle ebbed into a mere screaming burn, and he relaxed his jaws, which had been gritted for what seemed like hours. He drew in a deep breath and commanded himself to be easy and patient and take his time. He would even order a bath before going near her. Mayhap he would not even wait for that, and drag her into the bath.
Then he flung open the door of the solar. The women—scattered about the chamber sewing and mending—gasped at the sight of him, but his attention went immediately to Judith. She rose from her seat, shocked at his sudden appearance, her face pale, her hair ever-bright, her expression stunned.
Their eyes met across the chamber, and Malcolm felt his heart give a huge thud, then explode into the heat of some deep, consuming emotion. His knees shook. At last.
“Leave us,” he ordered when all the women in the room gaped at him. “Go!”
They scrambled up and off their stools, their embroidery or mending tumbling to the floor amid gasps and stifled shrieks as they fled the room, taking care not to come too near him. Mal fairly slammed the door behind the flock of ninnies, never taking his eyes from Judith.
All thoughts of ordering a bath, of being easy and patient, had evaporated. With three pain-filled strides, he was there, in front of her…and it was only when he looked fully into her eyes that he realized something was very wrong.
“How dare you,” she hissed. Her face was deadly white, its few freckles standing out like dark stars in a white sky.
Malcolm tried to rope back his shock, but it flared, shifting into impatience. “What ails you? That I dismissed your maids? Do not be a fool, Judith. You would have sent them off any—”
“Nay, you dirt-licking snake,” she spat, backing away from him. Her expression had turned cold and her eyes were filled with loathing. “How dare you send your mistress to my home! Do not touch me!” she cried when he reached for her. “You will not touch me! I will not allow you to lay one finger on me!”
“What? What madness has hold of you?” he roared, suddenly blinded by fury and confusion. She was making no sense, the bitter words tumbling from her tongue like a barrage of poisoned arrows. What mistress? But what she said after that was what seized his attention and pride most strongly. “You are my wife, by God, and I will not be denied of you!”
“And all your secrets! And your daughter! How dare you! You are not fit to walk upon my land. To come into my chamber!” She shrieked mad, senseless things at him, whirling out of his reach, which was clumsy from his bad ankle. “Or to come near me! Stay away from me!”
He lunged for her again, his injury screaming in pain, and he got hold of her arm, yanking her back toward him so hard she stumbled into his chest. “What are you speaking of?” he demanded, barely keeping a leash on his control. She was his wife. She could not deny him the only thing he wanted from her. Judith’s bright hair made her pale face seem even more white. Her lush lips trembled. But her eyes…they were dry and cold and tinged with madness. “Are you ill?” he demanded, trying to pull himself under control. “What mistre—”
“Take your hands off me,” she cried over his words, struggling violently to free herself. “You will not touch me! I will not allow it!”
“You will not allow it?” Malcolm bellowed, all rationality fleeing. “You are my wife, and you will do your bloody duty to me!”
He pulled her up in front of him, most of his weight on his good foot, his hands gripping her upper arms. In the back of his mind, he knew he was holding her too tightly, and he forced himself to loosen his fingers, even as she kicked and jerked about in his grip. When she slammed a wild foot into his tender, shrieking ankle he smothered a gasp as his vision went blazing red.
“What is wrong with you?” he snarled, giving her a little shake. “What has overtaken your mind?”
Apparently realizing she couldn’t free herself, Judith calmed a trifle. Her breathing was out of control, her breasts shuddering and heaving against him, her hair a wild mess of red-gold curls. She looked up at him with hatred in her eyes. “Release me,” she said in a low, unsteady voice. “I do not wish you to touch me. ”
He gave a hard laugh, tinged with his own mad agony. “You might wish all you want, Judith, but you are my wife and ’tis my right to touch you. And to have you. You do not say the king nay, but you say it to me, your rightful husband? How dare you. ”
She recoiled as if slapped, her face going even whiter—though he’d not thought that possible. And yet, still no tears. He felt her trembling in his arms, shuddering against him with loathing and mayhap fear…and yet he still yearned for her. She bewitched him with her scent, her body, her very nearness, and he was powerless to resist.
“You are my wife,” he hissed. “You cannot deny me, Judith. ”
He was too rough when he pulled her to him, but he didn’t care. He buried his face in her throat, along the curve of her jaw, inhaling her scent, tasting her warm, moist skin with demanding lips. She vibrated against him but made no move, no sound as he slid his hands to cup her head, shoving his fingers into her thick, heavy hair, holding her immobile as he covered her lips, tonguing her mouth open roughly. Drinking, tasting, devouring before he pulled away to look at her.
Judith’s eyes were downcast, and when he eased back, she turned her face from him. Her lips were slick and full from his brutal kiss, and she still heaved and trembled against his body. He could feel the curve of her breasts, the useless dangle of her arms, the warmth of her thighs burning through hauberk, mail, and hose. His blood pounded, raging through him, the sensation surpassing even the nonstop agony piercing his ankle.
Grabbing the front of her bliaut, he fisted the material in his hands. With one sharp movement, he could tear it in two, leaving her bare to him. He could fill his eyes and hands, he could take and taste and tease…and slake his lust. Take what was his.
He tightened his hands, the fabric stretching taut between them, her breasts brushing the bottom of his knuckles—and he looked down at her.
