She’s a stubborn filly.” He looked up from his bench. “'Tis good you’re here, if she’ll listen to you. It’ll be pleasant for her to have an older, sensible woman about the place.”
So they all thought her an old, sensible, mother hen, did they?
But then she caught a little bit of a grin, partially hidden as he bent his head and pretended to be enthralled in his work. He was teasing her. This time she knew it.
Emma sidled around his bench, hands behind her back. “Will my presence be pleasant only for your sister?”
Now he showed a flash of strong white teeth as he darted her a quick, less timid smile. “Not only for her I reckon.”
“Who else for?” she pushed, moving closer.
“The other women here. One more of their kind about the place.”
Eyes narrowed, she observed his profile as he turned back to the chair he worked on. “Just the other women?”
“Soon the men will be outnumbered,” he muttered, eyes down.
“You’d best hope your sister has a son then.”
“Aye.”
For a while she watched him work. They said nothing; the only sound was that of his file and chisel—the click and shuffle and scrape over the wood.
“I suppose it’s different here to York,” he said suddenly. “I hear it’s colder there, up north, the land bleak and wild.”
York. There it was again. Why did they keep asking her about York? She’d come from Colchester, not York. Had never been to York in her life.
Her pulse slowed. She looked at the man hunched over his workbench. “Yesterday your sister called me Amias. Why?” She could hear her own heart beat as it tried to pick up the pace.
He shrugged. “Was the name written on the king’s missive. Spelled wrong. Or my sister read it wrong. More than likely.”
But what if it was not wrong? The note she’d received from the king had no name upon it, just a sternly penned order and his seal.
Unfortunately she had a cousin called Amias.
And her cousin, also a ward of the king’s, lived in York.
It was a coincidence. Perhaps.
Wulf lifted his head and gave her another of his smiles—shy, heart-warming, body-stroking.
Emma caught her breath quickly, before she might feel tempted to say anything.
It was coincidence. She was decided.
There.
Hands behind her back, she wandered to the window and looked out. “A storm comes.”
“Feels like it. The rain will be good for the crops. The fields are fair parched.”
And the fields weren’t the only things parched, she thought. “Yes.” Her face turned away from him, she rolled her eyes. Foolish talk about nothing. All she wanted was to get him upstairs. The thick, stifling air wasn’t helping her mood. It felt as if the sheer need to consummate this marriage was crushing her very bones. But what excuse could she use to draw him away from his beloved tools? She didn’t want to seem desperate.
* * * *
He wished she wasn’t standing there. In the light of the window her figure was outlined clearly and only made waiting that much more painful. Wulf had come here to work alone and in peace; to hopefully put the forthcoming night out of his mind for a while.
Now she was close enough—if he wanted to reach out he could touch her. He could smell her warm, female scent now. It invaded his work space, competed with the wood shavings. Every slight whisper of her gown against the edge of his bench distracted his attention from the work at hand.
There were hours yet to come before he could take her up to bed. It wouldn’t be right to rush her. This threatening storm wasn’t helping; it only added to the anticipation, the creeping sense of waiting endlessly for the rain to fall.
Dear God the woman was stretching now, reaching up with both arms, moaning softly about the heat. She arched her back and his gaze slyly followed the deep hollow at the base of her spine, all the way up to the elegant curve of her neck; then back down to the lush bosom. He would like to copy that shape one day in his
So they all thought her an old, sensible, mother hen, did they?
But then she caught a little bit of a grin, partially hidden as he bent his head and pretended to be enthralled in his work. He was teasing her. This time she knew it.
Emma sidled around his bench, hands behind her back. “Will my presence be pleasant only for your sister?”
Now he showed a flash of strong white teeth as he darted her a quick, less timid smile. “Not only for her I reckon.”
“Who else for?” she pushed, moving closer.
“The other women here. One more of their kind about the place.”
Eyes narrowed, she observed his profile as he turned back to the chair he worked on. “Just the other women?”
“Soon the men will be outnumbered,” he muttered, eyes down.
“You’d best hope your sister has a son then.”
“Aye.”
For a while she watched him work. They said nothing; the only sound was that of his file and chisel—the click and shuffle and scrape over the wood.
“I suppose it’s different here to York,” he said suddenly. “I hear it’s colder there, up north, the land bleak and wild.”
York. There it was again. Why did they keep asking her about York? She’d come from Colchester, not York. Had never been to York in her life.
Her pulse slowed. She looked at the man hunched over his workbench. “Yesterday your sister called me Amias. Why?” She could hear her own heart beat as it tried to pick up the pace.
He shrugged. “Was the name written on the king’s missive. Spelled wrong. Or my sister read it wrong. More than likely.”
But what if it was not wrong? The note she’d received from the king had no name upon it, just a sternly penned order and his seal.
Unfortunately she had a cousin called Amias.
And her cousin, also a ward of the king’s, lived in York.
It was a coincidence. Perhaps.
Wulf lifted his head and gave her another of his smiles—shy, heart-warming, body-stroking.
Emma caught her breath quickly, before she might feel tempted to say anything.
It was coincidence. She was decided.
There.
Hands behind her back, she wandered to the window and looked out. “A storm comes.”
“Feels like it. The rain will be good for the crops. The fields are fair parched.”
And the fields weren’t the only things parched, she thought. “Yes.” Her face turned away from him, she rolled her eyes. Foolish talk about nothing. All she wanted was to get him upstairs. The thick, stifling air wasn’t helping her mood. It felt as if the sheer need to consummate this marriage was crushing her very bones. But what excuse could she use to draw him away from his beloved tools? She didn’t want to seem desperate.
* * * *
He wished she wasn’t standing there. In the light of the window her figure was outlined clearly and only made waiting that much more painful. Wulf had come here to work alone and in peace; to hopefully put the forthcoming night out of his mind for a while.
Now she was close enough—if he wanted to reach out he could touch her. He could smell her warm, female scent now. It invaded his work space, competed with the wood shavings. Every slight whisper of her gown against the edge of his bench distracted his attention from the work at hand.
There were hours yet to come before he could take her up to bed. It wouldn’t be right to rush her. This threatening storm wasn’t helping; it only added to the anticipation, the creeping sense of waiting endlessly for the rain to fall.
Dear God the woman was stretching now, reaching up with both arms, moaning softly about the heat. She arched her back and his gaze slyly followed the deep hollow at the base of her spine, all the way up to the elegant curve of her neck; then back down to the lush bosom. He would like to copy that shape one day in his
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