The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

Lily sat up, her loose hair tangled and hampering her movements. “Ready for what?” she demanded, her voice husky from sleep.

“Lord Radulf wouldn’t say and I wouldn’t dare to ask.”

It had taken Lily a long time to get to sleep. She had kept thinking of the letter she had removed from Radulf’s tunic. Beloved. She could no longer pretend her husband’s strange behavior over Lady Anna Kenton was anything other than love.

She tried to rationalize it. Other husbands dallied with other women; it meant nothing. Powerful men often married with their heads and did not expect to find physical satisfaction with their wives, so they looked elsewhere. Why should she fret over such a commonplace event?

And yet this was different. Radulf and Lily found infinite physical satisfaction with each other. Lady Anna was not a lowbred whore, she was the wife of a rich and important lord. And Radulf, so strong and indefatigable, had seemed suddenly weak before her.

Lily did not doubt that he would go to St. Mary’s Chapel. She shivered and pressed suddenly damp palms against the bedcoverings. Why was this happening? It was ridiculous; she had no time for it. She should be considering how, in her new position as Radulf’s wife, she could best help her people. She needed to be as she once was: calm and cold, using her situation to maximum benefit. Why could she not turn herself back into the frozen woman she used to be when she was wed to Vorgen? Where had that woman gone?

Instead she had lain awake all night, tossing and turning and thinking of Radulf. She had raged and bitten back tears, all because the husband who had forced her into a marriage she swore she didn’t want, had dared to love another!

She only knew that if he did turn to Lady Anna, she would not be able to bear it.

Lily had had to live alone for so long—there were her people, of course, but that was different. She had played Vorgen’s cold wife, she had accepted Hew’s perfidy. She had run for her life, hiding like a deer in the forest, and shivering with her loneliness. And then Radulf had found her.

He was like a huge, roaring fire in a room that had always previously been icy cold. The heat, the attraction drew her closer, despite her mind telling her it was wrong, that it was a trick, that the fire could be extinguished just as quickly as it had been lit. But instead of listening to good sense, she had held out her hands, she had crept nearer and nearer. The warmth flushed her face and softened her rigid limbs, she grew drowsy and unprepared. She cared only for the flames. She cared only for Radulf.

He had sapped her of her strength and purpose.

Now he was going to succeed where both Vorgen and Hew had failed.

He was going to break her.

“Lady!” Una was all but jumping up and down. “You must rise!”

Lily gave a deep, heartfelt sigh and reluctantly climbed out of her warm cocoon. Once again Una had worked miracles with her limited wardrobe, and her clothing was sponged and pressed. She splashed water on her face before dressing, then twisted her hair over one shoulder before opening the door into the common room.

As Una had forewarned her, Radulf was waiting.

As always, the sight of him burst upon her senses, no matter how prepared she had thought herself, bringing warm color to her cheeks and sending her pulses into a stuttering flurry. He was striding up and down the room, making his men nervous, but at the sound of the door opening he turned to face Lily. He gave her his blackest frown as he came toward her. She rearranged her face into an expression of calm disinterest.

It was not easy to appear disinterested when the man approaching her was so physically attractive. Those wide shoulders, that strong torso, the lean hips and long, well-muscled legs, those dark piercing eyes and the sensual mouth.

Inside, Lily trembled. Truly, she was besotted.

“Come, lady, do not tarry,” Radulf growled.

“I am not tarrying, my lord,” Lily retorted coldly. “Where do you take me?”

He must have read the flare of doubt in her eyes, although she tried hard to conceal it. There had been too many journeys of late, and none of them pleasant. His hand closed over her shoulder, fingers warm and firm and comforting. Lily resisted the urge to relax into his strength.

“Nay, lady, ’tis nothing to concern you. I intend to buy you materials for new clothing. The wife of the King’s Sword should not feel shame in the presence of her inferiors.”

Lily’s eyes flashed. “Feel shame?” she bristled. “’Tis not my fault if I am in rags, ’tis yours! You have harried me from one hiding place to another for weeks, and then dragged me across the countryside to York. Should I have had gowns of silk for such a life? It would be better I wore sackcloth!”

Radulf laughed, his dark eyes alight with humor.

“And when someone gives me a fine gown you burn it!”

The smile wiped from his face, Radulf glared down at her, pressing closer so that she smelled the clean, male scent of him and saw the dark shadow on his clean-shaven jaw. She began to feel breathless. Had she gone too far?

“Have a care, lady. I may change my mind about your new clothing.”

Lily tossed her head, pretending not to care. “As you will, Radulf. If William the Conqueror asks why I am still wearing rags, I will tell him it’s because Radulf mislikes my conversation.”

He looked at her a moment longer and then snorted. “He is your king, too, lady, whether you will it or not. Best accept the defeat. The Normans rule here now.”