And he became aware of something else, someone’s presence. He turned his head without moving, still stroking her, soothing her, and saw his wife. Her face was glazed with hatred and malicious triumph, but at the sight of his blazing blue wrath, the expression was instantly replaced with fear. She stepped back.
Rolfe was so enraged that his voice, when he spoke, was low and calm and even. “Get out,” he said. “Await me in the solar, and do not move from it until I come.”
Alice did not need to be told twice. She fled.
He was shaking. He got a grip on himself and looked down at Ceidre’s head. Covered with mud and muck, like an animal. He trembled again. Then, very gently, he shifted apart, because he wanted to talk to her, he wanted to look at her, he needed reassurance that she was sane again. But she whimpered in protest and went with him, clutching him desperately. Firmly but so gently, Rolfe slid his hand from the back of her head to her chin, his thumb stroking along her jaw in little wisps of movement. He felt her relax anew and lifted her face up so he could look into her eyes.
They were full of pain, but lucid. He knew it was not physical agony, but emotional, and it hurt him even more. Her gaze, though, was wide and grateful—and trusting? And so vulnerable. Not even seeing her dirt, not even smelling her stink, Rolfe’s own lashes fluttered down and he gently touched his mouth to hers.
Her lips were soft and passive, but not unyielding. Rolfe felt choked with tenderness and despair, with pity and paternal protectiveness. His mouth plied gently, his tongue touched her lips and retreated. Bolder now, he increased the pressure, parting her, touching her teeth. And he retreated again.
His lust had arisen, so immense, he thought he might explode in his hose.
Shaken by the overwhelming need to bury himself in her, to comfort her this way, and with the giving to take his own comfort, to reassure himself with her responses that she was still Ceidre, still his, he rose, separating himself from her. This time she did not make a sound of protest, but her gaze was glued to him. She lay exhausted and still. He noted, gladly, that she was breathing normally at last.
He walked to the door and bellowed for the hot water for his bath. He paused there, afraid to go near her again, seeking control, afraid of the terrible depth of need he had just experienced. He felt her riveted gaze and turned to see her staring with the same wide-eyed look. There was apprehension mingled with the trust, and he saw that her fists were clenched upon the bedcovers.
“I am not leaving, do not worry,” he said huskily, correctly understanding why she was anxious. He noted that her palms relaxed, some of the tension left her gaze.
He came back to her. “Are you all right now, Ceidre?” She did not answer. “Talk to me. Please.”
She looked at the floor. “I was so afraid.”
His hand found her hair. “I know.”
She choked on her fear, an unshed sob. “I prayed,” she whispered. “I prayed you would come.”
He swept her back into his arms. “I did come, I did come, but not soon enough, and I am sorry.” She clung, and he almost didn’t hear the knock upon his door.
He watched the servants bring in the hot water, filling the tub. When they had finished he ordered them out. He returned to sit next to Ceidre, pulling her upright. His hands were already loosening her girdle. She did not protest. “You will feel better once you bathe,” he said.
He tugged her onto her feet, between his thighs. She was weak and she clutched his shoulders. He stripped her of her gown, then her undertunic. He tried not to look at her naked body, at her small waist and full, shimmering breasts, at her lush hips, at her femininity. He carried her to the tub and gently placed her in it. She sighed, closing her eyes.
Rolfe knelt beside her. He watched her immerse herself under the water, watched her come up with a sputter. She floated loosely and turned her head to stare at him.
The water did not cover her big, beautiful breasts, and her long nipples were hard and pointed. He was undone, throbbing and needing release, needing to bury himself inside her. But her gaze was still dark with her phobia of the dungeon and wide with her childlike trust of him. He picked up the soap and handed it to her. His hand trembled; his entire body shook.
“No,” she said, closing her eyes. “I am too tired. Tomorrow….”
So he washed her hair himself. There was no question of calling a maid. Then he washed her feet and legs, only as far as they were covered with mud, to just past her knees. When he picked up her raw hands she whimpered, when he gently soaped them she wept without fighting him. He did not touch the rest of her body—she trusted him, but he did not trust himself.
He wrapped her in clean linen and carried her to his bed. As he placed her in it, she said, “Do not leave me,” in her raw, tortured voice.
“I will not,” he promised.
“Hold me.”
He hesitated, then was lying beside her, and before he could embrace her, she was crawling into his arms. She fell instantly asleep. He did not.
Rolfe left Ceidre sleeping soundly on his bed, curled up in a tight ball, like a child.
His strides were hard and determined as he crossed the hall and swung open the door to the solar, with such force that it clapped like thunder against the wall. Alice, seated in bed, watched him approach with wide, frightened eyes.
He did not pause. As soon as he was close enough, he hit her, hard, across the face, the blow making her scream and fall back onto the pillows. He had used enough force that the slap would leave an ugly mark, but not enough to crack her jaw. Shrinking from him, she whimpered. He stood over her, panting with his rage.
“Your ill will toward your sister has gone too far, Alice. You are confined indefinitely to this chamber. You are not to leave it under any circumstances, do you understand me?”
She looked at him, crouched on her hands and knees now, her small bosom rising and falling rapidly, eyes wide.
