“I am sorry,” she whispered against his chest. “ ’Tis just that I have never spoken of such things, save with Etta.”
“I am your husband,” he said. “You must learn to speak to me of everything.”
“That is what my father said.”
“Your father,” Graelam repeated blankly.
She did not reply and Graelam continued to stroke her back. “You see,” she said finally, propping herself up on her elbow, “I did not become a woman for a very long time. There was a count from Flanders who saw me at Charles de Marcey’s court when I was fifteen, and asked my father about marriage. ’Twas Etta who told my father that I must have more time. He was upset with me for not telling him myself. But I was so ashamed.” She burrowed her face into the hollow of his neck.
“What happened to the count?” Graelam asked.
“Once Father and I returned to Belleterre, I worked very hard to convince him that I was indispensable to his comfort. He forgot the count.”
“And will you prove yourself just as indispensable to me?”
“Of course,” she said, and he could picture the impish smile on her face. “Did not your wine already taste better?”
Graelam grinned into the darkness until his mind finally convinced his body, still vividly hungering of her, that he must wait another day . . . or so. “Perhaps we will play chess tomorrow night,” he said.
Graelam stepped into his bedchamber, a frown on his face, for he was worried about Demon’s still swollen hock. Also Nan had purposefully brushed her body against him, an invitation clear in her eyes. It had angered him that his body had leapt in response. And there was Blanche, sobbing her heart out against his tunic. He sighed, drawing up at the sight of Kassia, so immersed in her sewing that she did not hear him. He drew closer, a reluctant smile appearing on his lips at her look of intense concentration. His eyes fell to the garment in her lap, and his smile faltered, then disappeared entirely. It was a singularly beautiful piece of burgundy velvet that he had brought back from Genoa.
“What are you doing?”
Kassia jumped, jabbing the needle point into her thumb. “Oh!” she cried, and quickly licked away the drop of blood before it fell to the velvet.
“I repeat,” Graelam said, pointing to the velvet on her lap, “what are you doing with that?”
“I wish you had not come in so stealthily, my lord! Now I am found out!” She smiled winsomely up at him, and felt her smile crack at his continued scowl.
“I do not recall having given you permission to rifle my trunk and make yourself free with my belongings.”
She cocked her head as was her unconscious habit, but he felt no tug of amusement, not this time. “Well?” he demanded.
“It did not occur to me, my lord, that you would be . . . upset at my taking the velvet. It is a lovely piece and I thought—”
“What is mine is mine,” he said coldly. “If you wished to make yourself a new gown, you should have asked me.”
“I thought,” she began again, raising her chin just a trifle, “that I shared in your possessions, just as you share in mine.”
“Your father,” Graelam said, his voice becoming even colder, “did me a great disservice. What is yours is mine, my lady, and what is mine remains mine.”
“But that is hardly fair!” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
“God’s bones!” Graelam muttered. “Just because I have allowed you to play at being mistress of Wolffeton—”
“Play!” Kassia bounded to her feet, the precious velvet falling to the floor.
“You will not interrupt me again, madam. Pick up the cloth. I do not wish it to become soiled. And remove your stitches.”
She stared at him, so indignant that she could find no words. His kindness to her since his return was forgotten. “And what, my lord,” she said at last, her voice trembling, “did you intend the velvet for?”
It was Graelam’s turn to stare at his wife. He had likely been a fool, he realized, to treat her so indulgently. And poor Blanche. Had Kassia treated her as unkindly as Blanche had sobbed to him? He gritted his teeth. “Pick up the velvet,” he repeated, “and let me hear no more of your ill-humored tongue.”
Etta, standing still as a tombstone outside the bedchamber door, listened with mounting fear. Seldom had her gentle mistress ever spoken in anger to anyone. She launched through the open door just as Kassia, too angry to be afraid, shouted, “No!”
“My baby!” Etta exclaimed, rushing toward her mistress. “Have you nearly finished with your lord’s tunic? He will be so pleased. Oh, forgive me, my lord! I did not know . . . my eyes . . . I did not see you.”
Graelam was stopped cold. His eyes narrowed on the old nurse’s guileless face, then slewed back to his wife. Slowly he leaned over and picked up the velvet, spreading it out over his arm. He looked at the exquisite stitching, traced his fingers over the width of material, and felt a fool. Without raising his head, he said in Etta’s direction, “Get out.”