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“You will not say me nay,” he whispered as she turned her gaze toward him.
Cold. It was cold and empty and, yet, lingering beneath those icy blue eyes, was anguish. And aught more he could not recognize.
“Very well, then, my lord. But do not tear my gown. ”
Something inside him seemed to crack—sharp and deep—and with a low cry, he shoved her from him, spinning away on his bad ankle. The sudden streak of agony nearly brought him to the ground, but with great effort, he kept himself upright as he strode out of the chamber, flinging away a stool in his wake.
Blinded by frustration and confusion, propelled by fury and madness, he trod roughly on his ruined foot, welcoming the acute pain as a relief from this other torture. He stumbled out into the hall, his fingers curled into themselves, his insides hot and aching, his face wet with tears.
He didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t know what place in this keep might offer him solace and sanctuary, and he staggered along in a red haze until he could no longer bear the pain. His ankle gave way and he tumbled to the ground in front of a small door, wedged open.
Malcolm dragged himself across the threshold and discovered he was in a small, dim chapel. With a hard, ironic laugh, he collapsed in front of the altar.
Judith barely kept herself from falling when Malcolm shoved her away, and she watched in horror as he spun and limped heavily from the chamber.
She sank to the floor, weak and shaking, covering her mouth with trembling hands. Her lips were full and still throbbed from his kiss, and God help her if she didn’t still feel the warmth pulsing through her.
How could it be?
The very sight of Malcolm, suddenly appearing in the doorway, had made her heart lurch and leap with gladness. He’d been so broad and large, so familiar and beloved and powerful…and the look in his eyes. Hot and determined.
But it was only that moment of madness before she remembered all he’d done to her. How he’d betrayed and dishonored her…and that the woman he truly wanted was in the hall below.
Judith would be no woman’s substitute. Oh, nay.
Yet, when he pulled her to him, when he kissed her and buried his face in the sensitive curve of her throat, murmuring against her skin, gathering her close as if he meant to devour her, she could hardly keep from sagging in his arms, dragging him to her for her own taste. Tiny licks of arousal battled with her anger and hurt, the heat of desire threatened to overtake her logic and pain. She fought it back, remaining rigid and unfeeling.
Nay, I cannot give in to him. I cannot allow him to take this from me too. For what Malcolm would take from her was much more than any damage Henry had caused.
A
nd now her husband was gone. And she was glad for it. She must be. She must make herself be glad.
For the queen was right. To love a man was naught more than to be cursed.
If he could have ridden, Malcolm likely would have left Lilyfare. But his foot had swollen again from the abuse visited upon it, and if he hadn’t torn off his boot, he would have had to cut it away. He was going nowhere soon.
As it was, he lay in the middling candlelight of the tiny chapel for some unknown length of time, wracked by agony. He wasn’t certain which caused him more pain: his ankle or the ugly, incomprehensible scene with his wife.
Her cries and accusations left a shocked muddle in his hazy mind. His mistress? Beneath her roof? What madness was that? His daughter? Well, that he understood, but the rest of it…. He shook his head wearily, his anger having ebbed some small bit…until he remembered Judith’s loathing and her denial of him. Then white-hot fury incensed him once again, followed by black despair.
Fool. You should have wed Beatrice and been done with it. At the least then you wouldn’t have the Queen of England trying to kill you as well.
He leaned back against the wall, tipping his head against the stone, and tried to ignore the incessant pounding of his foot. But that was preferable to thinking on the misery his life had become—and so he meditated upon the constant agony, fairly praying for the pain to increase.
Some hours later—after he had drunk all of the unconsecrated wine he found in the sacristy—he heard the sound of a person passing along the corridor. When he shouted for attendance, a serf poked his head in curiously and Mal demanded his squire and another bottle of wine—not in that order.
This directive brought a cautious Gambert and Rike, and—praise God—more wine. Eventually, the squires helped Mal to his feet and started down the corridor. It was a slow, laborious process, for he was unable to put any weight on his foot and weighed several stone more than either of the young men.
Eventually, they reached the doorway to a room Mal recognized as the master chamber, belonging to the lord and lady of Lilyfare. His rightful place.
“Belowstairs,” he snarled. “I would go belowstairs. To the hall. ”
Gambert and Rike exchanged looks, but neither was mad enough to speak. However, they called for Nevril to assist managing their lord down the narrow stairs. One look at Malcolm and any question the master-at-arms might have died on his lips.
Eventually, Mal was installed in a massive chair in the hall in a corner near one of the large fireplaces. His purple-green-yellow foot, thrice its normal size, was propped on a table in front of him. It was well after the evening meal and the keep was settling for the night, but Gambert brought him a platter of food.
Soon, the hall was empty and quiet, dark of everything but the last embers of his fire.
