“Then what are you still doing here?” the old man blustered.
“Seeing that you do not make a serious mistake. The lady you wished to avail yourself of is no longer available. She has already wed.”
“Sothatis why you did naught,” Rothwell chortled, then drew closer to add, “You should have come back and said so, but never mind. She can as like be made a widow. My offer still stands are you interested.”
A golden brow rose questioningly. “Five hundred marks to kill the husband?”
“Aye.”
“That would be a bit difficult, my lord, as I am that husband.”
Rothwell’s eyes bulged. For a moment, he choked on his own spittle. When he did find his voice, it came out in a roar.
“Devil’s spawn! You stole my bride! Kill him!” he shouted at those men closest to him.
Eric and Searle put their hands to their sword hilts, but Ranulf did not move. Neither did Rothwell’s men, other than to control their mounts that were spooked by the noise the old man was making. And he got louder, his face blotched with color, enraged that his orders were ignored.
“What are you waiting for? Are you all cowards? He is only a man!”
“He is also Lord of Clydon,” one of his men hissed at him. “Think what you are saying.”
“He stole—”
“Enough, Rothwell,” Ranulf growled menacingly. “Naught was stolen from you, and well you know it. The lady was never betrothed to you. She had never even heard of you. But she is now wed to me, and I will keep what I have made mine. Do you wish to dispute that, challenge me now and name your champion.”
Rothwell was delighted with the offer, until he looked toward his men to see who would fight for him, and not one would meet his eyes. Again his face suffused with color.
“Cowards all, that is what I have!”
“Nay,” Ranulf said. “What you have is honest men whose misfortune is to have you for an overlord.”
“You have not heard the end of this, Fitz Hugh.”
“Then you court your own death,” Ranulf said in a tone as ominous as the words. “For I will give you only this one warning. Go home and forget Clydon, or I will ignore how old you are and kill you myself.”
He did not await a reply, yanking his horse about and riding off. But he had seen the fear in those old eyes. Rothwell would find himself another bride.
Chapter Forty-three
Reina was nearly four months pregnant. For long and long she tried to deny it, finding one excuse after another to convince herself it could not be so. She had to stop trying when her waist increased, but her appetite did not. That day she was impossible to deal with, a veritable shrew to one and all. Her temperament had not improved much since. Fortunately, Ranulf had been gone a good deal of this time and missed her truly bad days, when she would be so beset by conflicting emotions that she would either rage at the least little provocation or burst into tears.
She had been told again and again that this would pass, that ’twas the changes in her body making her so emotional. Each of her older ladies had assured her of this. They all knew about the child. Everyone knew about the child—everyone except the child’s father. But no one was aware of what was really bothering her. ’Twas not something she cared to discuss, even with Theo.
That lackwit was as excited about the baby as ’twas possible to be. You would think he were to bear it. Not that Reina was not excited herself. She wanted this child, more than anything. Already she loved it, imagining it not half formed as it was, but as it would be, a life to cherish, to protect—to spoil. Her little giant, exactly like Ranulf, but unlike Ranulf, needing her.
Oh, sweetJesú, there were those cursed tears again. Reina angrily swiped them away and left the brewhouse, the unlikely place where Lady Ella had decided to deliver her litter of five. She had been missing for a week, causing a castle-wide search and panic, at least on Reina’s part, to find her ere Ranulf returned. He had been so silly over the cat’s pregnancy, so delighted yet anxious, she had almost told him about her own, but could not do it. Now, she had waited so long, she would not have to tell him. Her body had done its changing during this three-week absence of his. He would know as soon as he saw her, or at least as soon as he took her to bed. God, how she was dreading that.
The past few months had been so idyllic and uneventful. She had had no trouble with Ranulf since his father’s visit. Hugh had sent a new steward to Warhurst, whose duty it was to wade through the mess Richard had left behind, and recompense all those who had suffered unjustly. The prisoners Ranulf had held had been turned over to the new man to be retried, this time fairly, and nearly all had been cleared of any wrongdoing. And Ranulf had kept busy, which was why he had not been witness to any of Reina’s recent uncharacteristic swings in mood.
He had made a tour of all the Clydon fiefs. He would be gone a few days or a week, return for a short time, then leave again. Reina had gone along the first few times, until the riding began to cause her a queasy upset, and she made excuses to remain at Clydon after that.
This last and longest absence of Ranulf’s was a trip to London at his father’s invitation. All was going well with them, or so the letter she had indicated. This was her first correspondence from Ranulf, but in no way personal. ’Twas in fact written by Walter, who had gone with him. But Reina had learned from Ranulf himself that he could neither read nor write. Thus her reply lacked intimacy as well, since it would have to be read to him. She had already determined something should be done about that, though Ranulf was likely to balk at learning what there were clerks aplenty to do for him.
None of that mattered, naught did, in light of what would happen once Ranulf learned he had done his duty and given her the child she had demanded of him. The only reason she had been the recipient of his lust thus far was because he took seriously the duty fulfilling the terms of the marriage contract. That lust would be gone now, and with it the closeness she had come to feel toward him. She had never guessed, when she had decided to enjoy it while it lasted, that she would in fact be devastated when Ranulf no longer had a need to bed her.
She wondered if he would ask her to move back to her old chamber. She wondered how long it would take him to find a mistress. She wondered if she would be able to forgive him and accept him back when it was time to produce the next child, for she had asked for children, not just one child. She was driving herself mad with the wondering. SweetJesú, she was not supposed to have cared about any of this. ’Twas not the way she had ever imagined her married life to be. But then she had never imagined she would come to feel lust herself, intense, insatiable lust, and for a husband no less.
She had been selfish to put off the telling. It could not have been easy for Ranulf to remain faithful to her all this time, and she believed he had been, even when he was gone from Clydon. A man who returned and immediately took his wife straight to bed, no matter the time of day, and did not leave it for hours on end, was not a man who had been getting his pleasure elsewhere. How she was going to miss that, and so much more.
