The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

He smiled. His beautiful Lily had put on some flesh now that she was safe. No more running and hiding, no more living like a wild animal in the thickets of the north. She would grow plump and contented at Crevitch.

“Come to bed,” he said.

Her hands stilled at the sound of his voice, and he half expected her to refuse. Instead, she quickly finished with her hair, tugged off her clothing, and climbed under the covers beside him.

Her feet were cold; he caught them between his legs, warming them.

“You were worried for me, Lily?” he murmured, his voice even huskier than usual, his hand resting in its customary place on her hip.

She shifted restlessly, as though the question troubled her, but her eyes were cool. “Naturally I was worried for you. You are my husband, Radulf. Without you I would once again be at the mercy of your king.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I had forgotten for a moment why it is you value me so.”

There was a note in his voice Lily had not heard before—a sort of wry self-mockery—and it startled her. She gave him a suspicious look.

“What should I say?” she retaliated. “That I love you?”

Silence, as if they both held their breath. Lily’s throat was dry; she licked her lips. Beneath Radulf’s dark lashes, his eyes were gleaming black. He leaned closer, his mouth so close to hers that she felt the heat of it.

“Love was never a consideration,” he said.

“Of course not,” Lily whispered.

He kissed her, tongue thrusting hot, the palm of his hand filling with that fine, soft flesh he had just been admiring. She was bigger—the knowledge nearly drove him over the edge. Radulf rose above her, forgetting his aching body, only knowing he had to have her. But even as his manhood eased into the tight, welcoming sheath between her thighs, he knew to his delight and despair that it would never be enough.

After a time, when their breathing returned to normal, he said, “Sleep now,” in a voice that was almost gentle.

Obediently Lily closed her eyes.

Radulf continued to watch her in silence. His head was so light with weariness, he felt as if he were floating. Love was never a consideration. He had taken her, married her, and it still wasn’t enough. He wanted more, but with that “more” came the temptation to trust her, to place himself entirely in her hands. And Radulf doubted he could ever do that.

What would she do if he did? Despise him for his weakness, pity him? Or make his life a living hell, as Anna had made his father’s?

It was better not to take the risk.

Lily listened to her husband’s breathing steady and deepen. He slept so easily, and woke swiftly and completely refreshed. Like a child. Only he was no child; the pleasant ache between her legs reminded her of that. Lily wished her own thoughts were as easily stilled, but they gripped her vitals, making her feel hot and cold in turns.

She was going to have a babe.

For the past few days the question had been there, flitting about in her head like a bright, erratic butterfly, teasing and taunting her by turns. She had dismissed it—her monthly time was more than likely late because of the traumas she had suffered, both physical and emotional. And so what if she seemed to weep and worry more than usual? A great many women wept and worried—perhaps Lily was just becoming more womanly.

It was the fainting that convinced her. Lily’s mother had fainted when she was carrying Lily. She had often said so during those companionable sewing afternoons, adding her story to the stories of other women who had borne their children safely and lived to tell the tale.

I am carrying Radulf’s child.

The knowledge should give her joy, but all she could remember was how the thought of a child had caused Radulf to take extra care with her, when he feared he might be prevented from returning to her. He wanted an heir. Well, of course he did! Just like Vorgen had desperately wanted an heir, a son to step into his shoes as tyrant of the north.

And Radulf had far more to lose.

Lily closed her hand into a fist and pressed it to her belly. Somewhere deep within her there was a singing gladness—she loved a man and he had given her his child—but just now the sorrow and disappointment were greater.

She loved a man, and he did not love her.

Chapter 17

The house Radulf found them belonged to one of York’s wealthier merchants, who was undertaking an extended trip to the East. The man was more than happy to vacate it and make way for the King’s Sword. His servants remained, and all his linen and household goods, which meant there was little for Lily to do but give orders.

It was wonderful to have a house of their own after the cramped quarters at the inn. Still, Lily missed Una’s friendly face and the less formal atmosphere of life with Radulf’s band of men.