“Belowstairs,” he snarled. “I would go belowstairs. To the hall.”

Gambert and Rike exchanged looks, but neither was mad enough to speak. However, they called for Nevril to assist managing their lord down the narrow stairs. One look at Malcolm and any question the master-at-arms might have died on his lips.

Eventually, Mal was installed in a massive chair in the hall in a corner near one of the large fireplaces. His purple-green-yellow foot, thrice its normal size, was propped on a table in front of him. It was well after the evening meal and the keep was settling for the night, but Gambert brought him a platter of food.

Soon, the hall was empty and quiet, dark of everything but the last embers of his fire.

Judith slept fitfully that night, expecting her husband to storm into the chamber at any moment.

She hadn’t dared bolt the door against him, and she warred with herself over wanting him to appear and demand she welcome him back in her bed…or wanting to be left alone to grieve and loathe and rage.

The next morrow, she dragged herself from bed just after dawn, before even Tabatha had risen. When she came down the stairs into the hall, which was just stirring for the day, she saw him and stilled.

From the dim corner where he sat, Malcolm’s eyes fastened on her, cold and dark. They glittered, like that of a predator. Judith gave a little shiver and turned away, hastening to the kitchens and far from him, her heart thudding heavily.

What have I done?

She took her time away from the hall, circumventing the area as long as she could. But at last, well into the middle of the morning, Judith had no choice but to return. As she walked through, she saw Lady Beatrice and Lady Ondine sitting with Malcolm in the corner.

Jealousy flared hot inside her and Judith stalked away, head held high, heart pounding furiously. She was just out of sight of the hall when she heard, “Poppy!”

Oh nay.

She spun in time to see Violet charging across the room toward her father. Judith froze and turned, her heart in her throat as she waited to see whether Mal acknowledged his daughter. Her fingers curled into the edge of the stone wall and she tensed, ready to rush over and swoop the naive little girl away from him.

When Violet launched herself into Mal’s lap, Judith held her breath. But though a flash of pain crossed his face as the girl jarred his foot, he was smiling as he caught her up in his arms.

Smiling.

Judith exhaled in relief and wonder. Had she ever seen Malcolm smile like that? With such an expression of love and affection on his face? With such eagerness and light?

This was not a man who was ashamed by or neglected his daughter.

So then why…why would he keep her from Judith? Why would he send her secretly to Lilyfare?

She peered around the corner again, watching. Malcolm and Violet were in earnest conversation, him stroking her hair as the little girl jabbed a finger in the direction of his injured foot, then turned to speak to….

Lady Beatrice. Who smiled and nodded and tapped Violet smartly on the nose.

Judith’s heart seized, squeezing so tightly she couldn’t breathe. Of course. Mal had brought both of his women to Lilyfare…and now they were together. The three of them.

And she…she was merely the wife.

SEVENTEEN

After three days in the hall, Mal could stand it no longer. His scalp itched, his clothes were brittle, his foot was nearly back to its normal size, and surely the reason everyone gave him wide berth was because he stank. Even Violet had wrinkled her nose and squirmed away when he tried to gather her onto his lap for a tickle.

But he was not about to bathe in the midst of the great hall, and he surely was not about to allow serf and man-at-arms alike to assume he was unwelcome in his own bedchamber…even though he had never yet set foot over its threshold.

So he waited until the morrow when Judith was off on a hunting trip before he called for assistance to the second floor and ordered a bath.

To his surprise and delight, the serfs brought a massive copper tub—easily large enough for Mal to fit and actually submerge himself with only his shoulders and a bit of knee exposed. He didn’t think he’d ever had such luxury, except when once he’d sat in a bubbling hot spring at some Roman ruins. He lost count of the number of buckets of water required to fill the container, closing his eyes as one of the maids scrubbed his head and another shook out a clean tunic and hose, whilst another prepared to shave him. There was even a bundle of rosemary and a cloth of wrapped lemon peels floating in the hot water, offering a fresh, clean scent that mingled with soft soap.

His wife surely knew how to manage a household.

A stab of pain at the thought left Mal breathless, and he closed his eyes. Here he sat, in the chamber that was rightfully his—clean, neat, bright, and sumptuously furnished, smelling of his wife, filled with evidence of her presence everywhere…including a long strand of fiery hair caught on one of the fireplace stones.

Though he’d seen glimpses of her in the hall over the last days, she’d never even approached him. Her railing, shrieking accusations were a blur in his pain-filled, confused mind. Mistress? Secrets? Aye, he’d not told her about Violet, but what other madness had settled in her craw? He’d been so enraged and frustrated over her denial of him, so muddled by pain, he’d nearly forgotten about the accusations.

And if anyone suspected aught was amiss between the lord and lady of Lilyfare, no one dared speak of it. But how could they not know? Yet, he was too proud to send for her—for fear she would not come.

He had but two choices: to leave Lilyfare, resigned to their failed match, or to stay and force Judith to accept her role as his wife. At the least until he got an heir or two.

Neither option sat well with him, and he closed his eyes against the sting of angry tears. By now, the maids were done scrubbing and shaving him and more buckets of water had been brought to dump over his head, rinsing away the last bit of dirt. He rose awkwardly to his feet, still unable to put full weight on his ankle, looking about the chamber as they toweled him off.

A chair sat by the fireplace with a small table next to it and a coil of leather that resembled the jesses of a falcon. Thick, woven material covered the floor near the chair and in the corner stood two large trunks. The high, massive bed was piled with furs and pillows, its curtains pulled neatly back.

Nothing had ever looked more inviting and Mal hadn’t slept in a bed since leaving Warwick—well over a se’ennight ago. So, while the tub was being emptied by a parade of serfs, the maids helped him pull on his hose and tunic. And then he sent them all away and climbed into his bed. He pulled the curtains tightly against the stream of bright sun.

And, surrounded by the scent of his wife, he slept.

Malcolm woke immediately when the chamber door opened.

“Of all the things—to fall into a bog,” Judith was saying as she came in. Her arrival was accompanied by the unmistakable sounds of the metal tub being slid across the stone floor, then the soft rustle of people moving, the sloshing of water.

Mal sat up quietly, his heart pounding, his body alert. He should reveal himself, but…nay. Not now. Not when there were serfs and maids about. He was bedamned if he’d air his dirty laundry for all to see and gossip on.

Now he could smell the stink of algae and mud, he could hear the soft swish of clothing, of trunks opening and closing, the muffle of Judith’s voice as she pulled the gown over her head. The bed curtains rippled and twitched from the activity in the chamber and he felt ridiculous, being reduced to hiding in a bed while his wife bathed. And though it would be humiliating to be discovered in such a position, he could not make himself announce his presence.

At last the serfs were gone and only Tabatha remained to serve her mistress. And though he couldn’t see what was happening, he could envision it. The soft splash as Judith climbed into the tub, the drips as a washing cloth was brought from the water, the scent of lavender and lily overtaking that of rotting plants and muck. Knowing he was about to fight what was likely the most dangerous battle of his life, Mal closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, then pulled open the curtains.

Both women whirled, staring at him with shocked eyes. Tabby gasped.

“Dismiss your maid,” he said to his wife.

Judith’s face, already flushed from the warm water, turned even pinker. Her lush lips were parted and her hair was piled on her head with a few wisps brushing her gold-dusted ivory shoulders. Thank God he could see naught else of her.

He tensed, praying she would not disobey him—for that he could not allow.

“You may go, Tabatha,” she said tightly.

The maid’s eyes were circles of surprise and confusion, but she said not a word and swiftly left the chamber, closing the door behind her.

Now Mal could return his full attention to Judith, and he did. Silence smothered the room like a heavy tapestry.

“And so you’ve come to claim your husbandly right,” Judith said at last, leveling a stare at him. It was neither friendly nor angry. Merely…accepting.

Hope leaped inside him, then faded. He wanted more than her acceptance. “I needed a bath,” he told her. “And I’ve not slept in a bed for nearly a fortnight.”

“Surely your mistress could have provided one for you.”

A wave of fury and confusion washed over him. “Mistress?” he snarled in frustration. “What is this madness you cling to? I have not even looked on a whore since the day you forced me to play chess.”

She gaped at him. Then the shock faded and her expression became pinched. “Your lover then. Mayhap you must worship her from afar because you are not wed. Which would explain the lack of a bed,” she added sharply. Her face was turned away, but he saw the slender column of her throat convulse as she swallowed.

“I do not know what you are speaking of,” he said desperately. “My lover? My mistress? Judith, you accuse me of aught I do not understand.”

“I am not a fool. I know you wished to wed Beatrice. I know you love her. You could hardly wait to be rid of me, to return to her.” Her voice became thready and high. “But why did you have to bring her here? Under my roof? Was it not enough that you must pine for her whilst wedding me?” Now she looked at him, distraught and devastated, the water sloshing with her vehemence. “I know ’twas wrong of me to open that door, to trick you into offering for me—to use your honor against you—but I tried to release you, Malcolm. I tried and you would not allow it!”