Fire Song (Medieval Song 2)

“What is this?” he asked, surprised. He pushed her hand away. “You are filling out nicely, Kassia.”

His callused fingers roved lightly over her breast. “Very nicely,” he murmured, and leaned down to caress her with his mouth.

“Do you really think so?”

He raised his head.

She flushed. “I mean . . . I was so skinny!”

He looked down the length of her, his eyes pausing a moment on the soft triangle of curls between her thighs, still damp from their passion. “You are,” he said, his voice rough and deep, “as I want you to be.”

“As are you, my lord,” she said softly.

Dammit, he did not want to leave her! He eyed the messenger from Crandall, knowing he had no choice but to return and stem the rebellion there. I’ll take her with me, he thought, only to reject his decision almost immediately. He wanted her kept safe, above all. Damn Raymond de Cercy, nephew of the former castellan. He had not been overly impressed with the man, yet more fool he, he had made him governor of the small keep on the southern edge of Wolffeton. What had the fool done to bring the peasants to revolt so quickly?

He dismissed the tired messenger and strode to their bedchamber. He found her there, seated by the window, sewing. He remembered suddenly the last time he had left her, and flinched at the memory. He had been back less than two days before he had hurt her.

“I must leave,” he said without preamble.

She jabbed her finger with the needle, and cried out softly.

“I am clumsy,” she said, watching a drop of blood well up.

He dropped to his knees beside her chair and took the finger in his hand. Gently he lifted the finger to his mouth and licked away the blood.

“Where do you go, my lord?” she asked, her voice breathless.

He lightly kissed the finger and rose. “To Crandall. De Cercy’s messenger tells of a revolt amongst the peasants.”

She felt a spurt of fear for him. “Will there be danger?”

“Perhaps, but not likely,” he said, shrugging his shoulders indifferently.

Kassia was not fooled. She saw the gleam of anticipation in his dark eyes. “How long will you be away?”

“A week, perhaps longer. If de Cercy is the fool I begin to believe him to be, I will have to find another man to be castellan of Crandall.”

“May I come with you, Graelam?” She saw that he would tell her no, and immediately burst into tangled speech. “I can care for you, you will see! I don’t tire easily, and I will not bother you. I can cook your—”

He leaned down and lifted her out of her chair. “Hush, Kassia,” he said, and drew her against his chest. “I will take no chance with your safety.” Her arms clutched at him, as if she wanted to become part of him, and he felt a wave of protectiveness so strong he trembled with it. He grasped her arms and gently pushed her away.

He saw the bright glimmer of tears in her eyes. “Do not,” he said, trying to sound stern, but failing woefully.

“I . . . I will miss you,” she managed, sniffing.

He cupped her chin with his hand. “Will you really?” he asked.

Kassia rubbed her cheek against his palm, and he felt the wet of her tears on his flesh.

“I will not leave until the morrow,” he said, and pulled her against him.

“You look like a lost lamb,” Etta scolded her. “This is no way to behave, my baby! What would your lord say if he saw you wandering about pale and silent?”

“It has been four days!” Kassia wailed. “And I have heard nothing! Nothing! He promised to send me word.”

“So,” Etta said, her rheumy eyes narrowing on her mistress’s face, “it has finally happened.”

Kassia abruptly stopped her pacing and whirled around to face her old nurse. “What has happened?” she snapped.