She sighed, thinking on the very long and restful sleep. The truth was that she felt much better than she had in quite a while. “Then it is little wonder that I am so famished,” she said. “Would it be possible to have some food brought to me?”
Atticus was on his feet already, moving for the chamber door. “I will have them bring a feast,” he said. “You slept through the meal last evening so I would imagine that you are quite hungry.”
Isobeau yawned one last time, her eyes lingering on the man she had married as he opened the door and sent the nearest servant running for the kitchen. She reflected upon him the first time they’d spoken at Alnwick, when they had discussed Titus’ death and the man’s subsequent request for the two of them to marry. Atticus, at that time, had been a hard and bitter man but those particular traits seemed to have left him as of late and she was thankful. Ever since their discussion back in that cold, dark, livery stable, discussing their lives over Titus’ coffin, Atticus had seemed much different towards her. Almost… kind. And sweet.Well, perhaps not exactly sweet, but there were times when she thought he might have a propensity towards that particular trait. Like now; he had been quite kind and friendly as she awoke from a deep sleep. Almost as if he was glad to be there.
But no; Isobeau knew he was marrying her out of a sense of duty alone. Still, if the man remained kind to her, she could grow used to such a thing and learn to accept it. She could learn to accept him even though she truly had no choice in the matter. She hoped they could at least have a pleasant association. She didn’t expect it to be anything like her relationship with Titus so pleasant was the best she could hope for. Anything more seemed impossible. Confusing, even. But… even the least bit attractive.
Do you transfer your affections so easily?Solomon had asked her. Isobeau had never considered herself one to share her affections with anyone other than her husband, but Atticus was her husband now. Perhaps in time, there might be affection. She wondered if she would be an awful person for allowing that to happen.
Lost to her thoughts, she noticed when Atticus entered the chamber again and she sat up in the bed, immediately realizing she was in her clothing from the previous day. She brushed at the now-wrinkled dress.
“Sweet Jesus,” she muttered. “I am still in the garments I wore yesterday. You must think me a terribly slovenly person for sleeping in my finery.”
Atticus gave her a half-grin. “As I said, you were clearly exhausted,” he said. “It was a difficult day for you.”
“And for you.”
He shook his head, averting his gaze as if an inherent sense of guilt forced him to. Guilt for allowing Titus’ child to come to harm, guilt for his inability to protect Isobeau from forces beyond his control.
“I would say it was considerably worse for you,” he said quietly. Then, he eyed her. “Are you sure that you feel well?”
“I do.”
“I do not need to summon another physic or a midwife to tend to you?”
Isobeau knew what he meant and her heart hurt, just for a moment, thinking on the child she had lost. She sighed softly. “You do not,” she told him. “I feel well, indeed. Please do not worry so.”
Atticus wasn’t sure what to say to that; if the woman said she felt well then he would not be rude and press her. So he simply nodded his head and changed the subject away from the unhappy occurrence of yesterday. “I instructed the servant to bring you warmed water as well so that you may wash if you wish,” he said. “Is there anything else you require to begin your day?”
Isobeau shook her head. “Nay,” she said quietly, her gaze lingering on him. She, too, wanted to move the conversation away from the tragic event of her lost child, something neither one of them could do anything about now. It was best not to dwell on it because there was so much to be hurt over as of late. But she had cried her tears. At some point, they were going to have to move past the pain. “I… I suppose this is a terrible way for a new bridegroom to spend the eve of his wedding, watching his bride as she passes out on the bed like a drunkard.”
He laughed softly. “It was not so terrible,” he said, his eyes rather warm. “I can think of worse ways to spend an evening.”
She snorted, smoothing at her mussed hair. “If that is true, I cannot think of one.”
“I can.”
She simply grinned, perhaps a bit embarrassed at his moderate flattery, and rose wearily from the bed. It took her a moment to get her balance before she headed over to hercapcases lined up against the wall. She noticed that he was watching her and she paused as she opened the first case, looking to the man with some sincerity.
“I did not have much opportunity to speak with you yesterday on the event of our marriage,” she said, “but I would like to say that I will do my best to make this a pleasant association. I would say that it is for Titus’ sake, because it is he who wished for our marriage, but it really has nothing to do with Titus at all. I say it because we are married now and will be together for the rest of our lives, and I should like for our association to be pleasant and peaceful.”
Atticus pondered her statement for a moment. He realized that he wanted to say something more about it, as if he wanted it to be more than simply pleasant or peaceful, but he held his tongue. It was too soon to say such things, so he succumbed to the appropriate answer.
“As should I,” he said. “I told you once before that I would endeavor to make a good husband. I will hold to that vow.”
With a little smile, Isobeau turned to her capcases and began rummaging around for something to wear for the day. Atticus lingered over by the door, watching her. He liked to watch her. In fact, she had the most beautiful hands he had ever seen and he found himself fascinated by the way she moved. Every movement was fluid and graceful. He found himself moving from her hands to her torso, eyeing the woman’s incredible figure of full bust and slender waist, thinking that all of that tender flesh now belonged to him.
He tried not to think on the fact that his brother had once touched that same flesh; there, he’d said it. Was it perverted that he would be lusting over her, tasting what Titus had tasted, joining his body to the woman in the most private sense where his brother had once been? Perhaps that dilemma, more than anything, had been bothering him. He was sharing the samewoman his brother had loved and he was expected to perform as a man should perform with her. He was expected to impregnate her with his children as Titus had done. Was it wrong? Was it strange? Perhaps it was only to him, but it didn’t matter now. He was married to her and she was his wife. He was allowed to do as he pleased. Already, the woman was drawing his lust, as misplaced as that might be.
A knock on the chamber door jolted him from his thoughts. He opened the panel, expecting to see a servant bearing food, but it was Kenton in the corridor instead. One look at Kenton’s face and Atticus knew that something was amiss.
“You must come,” Kenton said, his voice low. “We have sighted riders heading for Wolfe’s Lair.”
Atticus could hear the concern in the man’s voice. “Have you identified them?”
Kenton nodded. “One of them is wearing a Norfolk tunic,” he answered, keeping his voice down so that Isobeau could not hear. “You must come.”
Startled at the mention of Norfolk, and seized with both curiosity and rage, Atticus fled the chamber, slamming the door in his wake and charging down the corridor with Kenton on his heels. He found that the information had him unstable, furious, and he struggled to contain his emotions.
