His love juices thundered into her eager body. He hadn’t meant to give in to her so easily, but she was impossible to resist. And now he knew. You made love to a wife like you made love to any woman. With passion, with skill, and in Rosamund’s case, with love. He kissed her ear, murmuring into it,“Baaaa!”
Rosamund giggled. She couldn’t help herself. He had just made love to her in a most exciting way, and she felt wonderful. “Let me up, my lord. Now we must both bathe, I fear.” She felt his bulk remove itself from her, and straightened up. “Come. The tub is cooling. You first, and I will wash you.” She took him by the hand and led him over to the round oak bath.
He climbed into it, seating himself carefully. “I don’t suppose there is much room for two,” he suggested hopefully.
“Not in this tub, although I have heard there are larger ones. Shall we have the cooper make us one, my lord?” She knelt by him, and began to bathe him with her flannel cloth and a bar of soap.
“Yes, madame, we must have the cooper make a tub in which we may both bathe together. In fact, I like the idea very much!”
She washed his face, gazing into his eyes and feeling her heart melt within her. Was it possible that she was going to love this man? She certainly liked him a great deal, and their lovemaking was wonderful. Of course she had no basis of comparison, but he gave her such incredible pleasure that surely meant something. Didn’t it? Rosamund slicked the flannel across his chest. She washed his long arms and his big back, his neck and his ears. “You must do your own legs and feet,” she said, “for I fear if I do”—she blushed—“we may spill water upon the floor in our enthusiasm for each other.” She handed him the washrag.
“I agree,” he said, and took it from her.
She waited patiently until he had finished, and when he stood up she wrapped him in a warmed towel. “You must dry yourself, my lord, else the water get too cold for me,” she told him. Then she plopped herself into the tub and began to quickly wash, for the water was indeed cooling. When she was finished and arose, Owein wrapped her in a second warmed towel that he had taken from the rack before the fire. Rosamund yawned as he dried her off.
“We will sleep a while now,” he said. “We have been home scarce a week, and you are not used to such traveling, lovey.” He picked her up and tucked her into their bed, climbing in beside her.
“Aye, my lord, I am tired,” she admitted, and nestled within the curve of his arm she was quickly asleep.
It was late afternoon when they awoke, and it was to a discreet rapping upon their bedchamber door.
Maybel’s head popped around the open door. “Ah, good, you’re awake,” she said, apparently not in the least surprised to find the master of the house with his wife. “Will you be coming down to the hall for the meal, or shall I bring it upstairs?”
“I will come down,” Owein said, “but my lady must remain abed and rest. Bring her a tray of something nourishing.”
“I’ll send a lass up,” Maybel said, “and I’ll send the lads to empty the tub and put it away.” Then she was gone, closing the door behind her as she went.
“I am rested now,” Rosamund protested.
“Nay, lovey, you are not.” He opened the trunk at the foot of the bed and drew forth a delicate linen chemise, which he handed her. “Put this on, Rosamund. You should not beau naturalbeneath your coverlet when the lads come to remove the tub.” He was dressing as he spoke.
Meekly she obeyed him, realizing as she did that he had begun to look after her as a husband should. It was comforting. “Give me my brush,” she said, and when he had handed it to her she began to brush her long hair. Then she fixed it into a single plait, which she tied with a blue ribbon that she found in the pocket of her chemise. “Am I respectable enough to receive the lads now?” she teased him.
“Except for that well-satisfied look in your eyes and your pretty bruised mouth, aye,” he said. “I think I shall remain until the lads have gone.”
“Are you jealous then, my lord?” she flirted with him.
“I am jealous of every minute of your life that we have not shared, Rosamund,” he told her.
“Oh!”She was quite overwhelmed by him. He was so romantic, and she would have certainly never expected it when she first met him.
“You are not the man I thought you were,” she told him.
“Are you disappointed, then?” he asked.
“Nay! You are wonderful, Owein Meredith!” Rosamund said.
“I never thought I should be a fool over a woman,” Owein admitted to her, “but I fear I am one where you are concerned, lovey. I love you quite shamelessly, and I want you to love me back one day.”
“I will,” she promised him. “I think I am already falling in love with you, husband. How could I not love a man who has been so gentle and kind with me? A man who respects my small position as the lady of Friarsgate. You are unique among men, and much like Hugh Cabot might have been had he been a younger man.”
“High praise indeed,” Owein responded with a smile. “I know how very much you cared for Sir Hugh. I know how much you respected him. Would you be offended if I said I think I feel his spirit in this house, and I believe he approves of me?”
“Nay, and I feel it, too, and I think he does approve of you,” she said.
It was a new world in which Rosamund now found herself. She was actually a married woman, even as other married women. The days became weeks and the weeks months. The harvest was now all gathered. The grain had been threshed and was stored in her stone granaries. The apples and the pears had been picked. The manor folks were surprised when Sir Owein climbed to the top of each tree in the orchards, harvesting the fruits from the very tops of the trees. In past these fruits had been left to rot or fall to the ground for the wild beasts.
“It is not right to waste,” he explained to them quietly.
