Bound to the Warrior. Barbara Phinney

forehead with a shaky hand, she stood. She ached all over and needed to bathe away the smell of horseflesh and sweat of travel.

      Mayhap you should first apologize to Adrien?

      The nagging voice thumped between her temples, but grouchily, she ignored it. Husband or not, he had no right to know the details of her humiliating marriage to Ganute.

      Her maid appeared in the doorway, spotted her and turned to depart immediately. “Margaret,” Ediva called. “Where is my bath water?”

      “’Tis ready, milady. I will see that it’s brought up immediately.”

      The girl hurried off. Discarding any soft thoughts of an apology, Ediva slowly removed her wimple. With the filth of travel on her and very little sleep these past few days, she needed to bathe and rest more than seek out her husband. How many times had she begged Ganute’s forgiveness for some imaginary folly only to keep the brittle peace that was as delicate as an eggshell? No, she would not apologize again.

      Shortly, Margaret led in three servants with buckets of steaming water and the wooden tub. The young girl deftly prepared Ediva’s bath, helped her with it and then left her to her nap, with cloth-dried hair spread over the furs.

      Sometime later, Ediva awoke. Immediately she turned to the window. Even through the vellum shutters, she saw the sun setting. The shutters were a marvel, for they blocked the wind yet filtered light into her solar. Ganute was proud of them, the vellum being the finest and thinnest, stretched upon dovetailed wood frames. He’d claimed it to be his invention, but Ediva secretly suspected he’d seen them in London.

      Movement caught the corner of her eye and she flipped around. Adrien was sitting in her chair by the other window, reading the keep’s ledger whilst her maid was busy folding clothes into the trunk.

      He looked up, and in the briefest of heartbeats, their eyes locked.

      “Why are you here?”

      He closed the book and locked the long hasp wrapped around it. Where had he acquired the key? From Geoffrey or from her belt whilst she slept? She would ask later. “I have spent the afternoon with your steward, inspecting the keep and the coffers. I wanted to check on you.”

      She sat up, and then, realizing she wore only her inner tunic, she pulled up the fur bedclothes. The heavy pelts were suddenly a great comfort to her. She glared at Margaret, who didn’t seem concerned that Adrien was patiently waiting.

      “You inspected the coffers? And the records, too, I see? Were they satisfactory?” She tugged the pelts closer, even though her maid had piled coals into the brazier and closed the shutters to keep the warmth inside. Still, Ediva felt need to cover herself further. “And you have sat by my brazier since, awaiting me?”

      “I have only just sat down, milady. I fear I awoke you when I entered.”

      “I must ask you to leave. Margaret will assist me now.”

      Adrien lifted a finely curved brow, one as dark as her brows were pale.

      “I will see to our supper, then. We shall dine in the hall.”

      Ediva’s stomach growled. She’d missed the noon meal and was grateful that Adrien had delayed supper for her. Since Ganute died, she’d moved the castle routine away from two heavy meals. Their breakfasts were small and fresh, enough to keep them going ’til noon. Supper had become a reflection of breakfast, with broth that had simmered all day, something only to warm the belly. It suited her better than Ganute’s heavy meals, and with the change, Ediva had been able to cut spending, thus adding to the coins in her coffers.

      Another cold thought washed over her. No doubt those coins will soon be off to London as taxes to the king. Ediva had not increased the rent, thus easing the burden on her tenants, and had instead practiced good, sensible thriftiness to allow her to save enough to keep the castle going all winter. She’d hate to see it all leave now.

      But Adrien has already counted it. Geoffrey had opened the strongbox for him.

      She would deal with Geoffrey later.

      “I’d appreciate it greatly, sir, that you wait for me to escort you about the rest of the keep.”

      Adrien had already reached the door. “’Tis all done, Ediva. I have seen all I need to see, counted the silver and secured the strongbox. I do, however, have some changes to make.”

      She felt her ire rising and tamped it down, for she couldn’t exactly stomp away this time. “The king may own this keep, but the coffers are full because of my careful management. There will be no changes.”

      Adrien smiled. The warm curling up of his mouth took her so completely aback, she wondered what foolish thing she’d said.

      “You are quite right about your good management, milady, but know this, the coffers now belong to the king.”

      She straightened her spine. “My lord, know this. My people have no one save me.” She tried to maintain her determination, but her current position offered little help.

      Her husband tilted his head and she knew he was recalling how she’d flashed fear at him before. “Your words do not match your eyes, Ediva.”

      She drew back in her bed but lifted her chin. “When I buried Ganute, I told my people I would do my best to keep them from harm. I’ll do so even if it costs me my life.”

      He walked over, barely taking two strides to reach her. The ropes and wooden braces upon which the overstuffed pallet sat now strained as he pressed his knuckles onto them to lean close. His voice was soft, yet filled with warning. “Let us pray such a high price shall never be demanded.”

      Straightening, he left her alone. Alone and wondering if her new husband would really extract the high price she’d inadvertently suggested.

      * * *

      Adrien strode into the kitchen and ordered some food for them. Several maids scurried in obedience, leaving him alone in the smoky room. The day was nearly gone, but the door out to the small garden where he and Ediva spoke earlier remained open. He watched the youth he’d handed his reins to dump kitchen scraps near where Ediva had been sitting. From the shadows bolted several cats that grabbed the refuse before darting away. One small dog, mange-filled and bone thin, chased them for their prizes.

      Spying him, the youth jumped, turned tail and dashed away. Perturbed, Adrien jammed his fists into his hips and glowered. Aye, he was tall and well-muscled—he was a soldier, after all—but he was hardly an ogre.

      “That’s Rypan, milord. He’s not good with folks,” a fresh voice called out. “He’s not too smart and often can’t speak.”

      Adrien turned to find young Harry sitting by the hearth. A cook hurried past, snapping at him to move out of the way as she tended to the meal. Harry jumped up. The complete opposite of the boy who’d dashed away, Harry had bright, bold eyes and a saucy expression. His most annoying, yet beneficial, trait was his ability to speak French.

      “Where did you learn French, boy?”

      Harry grinned proudly. “I listened. M’maw worked for Lady Ediva’s family. Milady learned it, so I learned it, too.”

      “Did Ediva bring you when she was married?”

      He shrugged. “M’maw came with Lady Ediva, and I guess I was too young to leave her.”

      “Who’s your mother?”

      “One of the cooks. But not the cook.”

      Adrien tossed a look over his shoulder to the cook bustling around behind him. The woman shot Harry a sharp glare.

      “She’s Rypan’s aunt. He’s got no folks besides her.”

      “Your French is horrible, boy. I’ll have to teach you proper grammar.”

      An even bigger smile split the cheeky boy’s face. “I’d like that. Milady speaks to me in French, for her lord could not understand