The inner door opened suddenly and Will was there. “Leave us,” he commanded over his shoulder to Ethelberga, who lurked behind him. Her eyes were wide and frightened in a pale face.
Marian smothered a gasp and sank to her collarbones under the water, which thankfully was murky with the herbal additives as well as the soap she’d used. “Will, I beg you give me a moment to finish my bath,” she managed to say in a steady voice. As if men burst in upon her bedchamber while she bathed every day. “And then I will-”
“Leave,” he ordered, turning back to look at Ethelberga, who appeared as if she might collapse. “I’ll not say it again.”
The maid’s mouth was a large round O, and she looked apologetically at her mistress, fright casting a shadow over her face, before she whirled and dashed out the door. Marian didn’t blame the girl; if she had been confronted with the wild, black-haired, dark-visaged man who now stood in her chamber, she would have run too.
Apparently, that was not a luxury she would be afforded.
“Will,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort. “What has befallen-”
“Be silent,” he said in a strained voice. He was looking toward her, but he wasn’t looking at her.
He came fully into the chamber and closed the door behind him. Bolted it. And when he turned to face her, Marian felt as though her insides had been turned inside out, and back and inside out again. A face that had always been harsh and cold now wore an expression of . . . nothing. As if it were made of stone or wood. Unmoving and set.
“Get out,” he said, and when she didn’t move, a hand whipped out and his fingers closed over her arm, pulling her upright from the water.
It fell from her in a cascade, splattering his clothing and the floor. Her wet hair was plastered over her like a copper cloak, clinging to breasts, hips, thighs, buttocks, and arms.
By now, Marian could not speak. Her heart was racing out of control, and she was well and truly frightened. There was a horrible pause as he stood there, his eyes scoring her nudity as he gripped her arm.
Then he shoved her toward the bed. “You’ll deny me no longer.”
Marian gasped, stumbled when she slipped on the wet floor, and fell onto the mattress, narrowly missing the bedpost.
“Will,” she whispered, shivering from fright and chill. Her teeth chattered and she breathed as if she’d just run into the chamber. She snatched up the blanket hanging over the chair between the fire and the bed, covering herself with it as much as she could. Her hair was still dripping and cold, still clinging to her body everywhere. “What-”
“Silence,” he snarled as he kicked off his soft boots. “By God, woman, do not make me say it again.” His voice was cold, without inflection. And he did not look at her.
Something was wrong. So wrong. Marian felt the unaccountable urge to reach for him, to touch him and try to read what had happened . . . but suddenly, he was on the bed next to her, his large, warm hands covering her shoulders and pulling her against him. She felt the rough scrape of the embroidered hem of his tunic, the weight of his powerful hose-clad thigh sliding over hers, the slickness of her damp skin.
“Nay,” she gasped, trying to twist away from him. She knew it would happen; she knew she couldn’t prevent it. But not now. Not this way.
She wasn’t ready.
His fingers curled into her shoulders, tangling in hair caught between them, and held her from pulling away. She closed her eyes, felt tears begin to leak from her lids.
Not yet.
Not here.
Not like this.
But his hands held her still and his great weight covered her. One knee pushed between her legs, and she squeezed her eyes tighter, twisting and bucking beneath him, trying to keep her breathing from running away with her. Trying to keep from crying and pleading.
He muttered something in her ear, hard and so quiet it was unintelligible. She looked up at him through watery eyes, saw that his face was turned away, his lips pressed together so tightly that his mouth was white. Through a fog of fear and disbelief, she noticed details, as though the world had slowed to a crawl: beads of sweat dampened the skin along his dark hairline, and one trickled down his cheek. He smelled like horse and smoke, and something else unidentifiable. An occasional dark hair that stubbled his face glinted gray. A scar, white and thick, marred one smooth temple.
Will grasped her hands and pulled them above her head, curling strong fingers around her wrists so tightly, grinding them together, causing her to cry out.
“That’s it,” he muttered from between clenched teeth. She understood his words this time. “Fight.”
She didn’t need to be encouraged. Unable to help herself, she kicked and arched beneath him. “Nay, Will,” she breathed, catching the sob in the back of her throat.
His other hand slipped between them, moving along her damp belly, and Marian felt it down between her legs. She closed her eyes, trying to breathe easier, struggling to make herself lie still.
It hurt less if she didn’t fight it. If she lay still and relaxed. She knew this. But this man, so large and dark, his face feral and wild . . . he was different from Harold. Demanding, violent. Angry. So angry.
He propped himself up with the elbow of the hand that held her wrists, and she felt the unmistakable shifting between their bodies as, with the other, he lifted his tunic, loosened the tie of his braies, quickly, sharply, and then before she could plead once more, he made a sharp move.
She braced herself, willing herself not to whimper, but there was nothing but a jolt of the bed. She cried out in surprise and shock.
“Aye,” he said in her ear, his voice hoarse and tight. Will jerked against her again, then again, faster and harder . . . but his hand had settled between them. Covering her. Not penetrating.
Protecting her?
She looked up at him, at the tense, averted face, the perspiration that gathered at his temples and near his closed eyes. His brows knit together in an angry furrow and he gave one last thrust and sagged forward over her with a low, heartfelt groan that tugged deep at her belly.
His fingers loosened over her wrists and she pulled them away, aware that they were both out of breath.
“Will,” she began in a rough, bewildered voice.
“Stop it.” His voice sounded like a whip cracking. “I’ll not listen to your sobs.” He rolled away, tossing the blanket back over to cover her.
Marian gathered it over her hips and breasts and watched as he snatched up his boots and one of the empty buckets. “Do you not attempt to hide away in here tonight,” he said, half-turning back toward her. “You will be seen at dinner.”
From the distance, she saw that his eyes remained dark and flat. They swept over her briefly, but did not linger. And then he pivoted and slammed the door’s bolt from its moorings, leaving the chamber before she could speak again.
Marian heard the outer door close behind him, and she was alone on a bed damp from her own body . . . but not from Will, or his seed.
She lay there for a moment, bringing her trembling body under control, scarcely able to comprehend what had just occurred. Yet, she did-she realized what Will had done.
Or, more accurately . . . what he had not done.
One thing was certain: John had most definitely not been holding court this midday.
Will passed Marian’s sniffling maid, who’d loyally waited in the hall despite his orders to leave. She cowered back as he stalked by, but did not flee.
“See to your mistress,” he snarled, still carrying the bucket, folding his boots under his arm.
He made it down three steps of the shadowy side stairwell before he lost control and had to stop. Leaning against the wall, he emptied his stomach violently into the bucket, heaving until his belly ached.
Swiping the back of a hand over his mouth, he looked up to find Alys of Wentworth standing at the top of the stairs.
“Are you ill?” she asked, her blue eyes wide.
“ ’ Tis no concern of yours,” he snapped, standing upright with effort. Without a backward glance, he turned and made his way down the stairs, his fingers still trembling.