Bound to the Warrior. Barbara Phinney

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      Adrien did not move until finally Ediva leaned forward. “My lord, ’tis time to leave.”

      He continued to watch her. “Why are you in such a hurry to leave God’s house?”

      She folded her arms. “The service has ended. Our meal awaits.”

      “Jesus said He is the Bread of life.”

      She gaped at him, having not heard such words since her youth. She looked away. “I would prefer my cook’s bread today, Adrien. ’Twill be fresh and will fill my belly.”

      Adrien lifted a hand and slipped his fingers into the loose part of her wimple to touch her jaw. The veil on top, secured with a simple diadem, brushed his arm.

      “Sir, remember where you are!”

      His attention stayed focused on her. “I’m in church with my wife. And from the quiet around us, I’d say we are alone.”

      Blood surged into her neck and she was sure he could feel her skin warm. “Adrien, you promised you would not touch me.”

      “I promised you I would not expect my rights as husband until you accept me.” He leaned closer. “I’m only holding your attention.”

      “For what purpose?”

      He leaned dangerously close. Despite her rigid spine, she could barely keep herself still. She found herself struggling between the urge to pull away to protect herself and wanting to ease closer.

      A mere hint of space lingered between their lips, but she refused to lean toward him. “I am not like your first husband, Ediva.”

      Holding her breath to crush the instinctive wash of fear, she found she could do nothing to escape. His eyes held hers and his lips had begun a slow descent onto hers, sending her emotions swirling like snow in a winter storm.

      She couldn’t endure much more. She could either give in to the kiss and be done with it, or pull back. But if she allowed the kiss, she would be allowing him power over her, something that she had promised she would never allow again. If she backed away, she risked the dangers she’d faced the first and only time she’d stood up against Ganute and his harsh demands for her wifely duties.

      Nay, Adrien had given her his word, and despite the churning indecision, she knew deep down he wouldn’t retract it. They may be married and she may be willing to show courtesy due to his new rank and give the king his taxes, but she wouldn’t give of herself as she’d been forced to do many times before.

      Testing the air that weighed heavy with expectation, she eased slowly back and felt with relief Adrien lowering his hand. A flicker of disappointment danced in his gaze but he gave her no word of reproach.

      “’Tis time for our meal, Adrien,” she whispered shakily. “’Twill only be hot for a short time, and the day is cool for me.”

      “You are quite warm, Ediva. A lie in the house of God isn’t good for one’s soul,” he answered blandly.

      “I have no hope for my soul.”

      Unexpected tears stung her eyes and she shifted away to blink at the mural. The Biblical offer of rest reached her watery gaze.

      Beside her, Adrien sighed. He gathered her hands in his and held them gently. “There is always hope, Ediva.”

      A moment later, he drew her hand up to his warm lips. She fought the tears filling her eyes. She didn’t want this foolishness between them. She didn’t want him to be patient and kind and to love God.

      Pulling free her hand, she stood. “Our meal awaits us.”

      He moved away. Thankfully, the tightness in her chest eased. Oh, ’twould be far easier to deal with Adrien if he was difficult and demanding. She’d learned years ago how to tuck her heart away from all her body could endure.

      But right now, it felt as though her heart was out on a battlefield, ready for the final death blow.

      She hated it.

      * * *

      Adrien pulled on the reins, bringing his mount to a stop. He’d risen early this mid-week morning, several weeks since his first chapel service with Ediva. Since then, he’d spent much of his time dealing with minor disputes, overseeing the cataloguing of all Dunmow Keep owned and other items of minutiae. Today, he decided to forgo morning chapel in order to inspect the estate’s potential, especially at the perimeter of the keep’s control. The king expected a full report, not only on the coffers, but also the viability of the land.

      Atop the rise west of Dunmow Keep, he could see the River Colne, and to the north, the fens of East Anglia. Adrien’s new home would surely be the point where the upstarts against William and the king’s forces would meet. The land here was rich and fertile, worth fighting for.

      He itched to return to battle. To do anything but what he’d come to Dunmow to do. Like an aging mare put to pasture, he found himself staring ahead at endless days dawdling about the keep. Aye, he’d met the villagers, inspected the coffers and viewed the records. His ancient grand-mère could have managed those things.

      Under him, his courser stirred, sensing his edginess. Or mayhap the horse was bored of simply loping around a field without the disciplines of battle that, like Adrien, had been bred into him.

      Adrien leaned forward to pat the stallion’s massive neck. “Aye, ’twould be good to fight again.”

      Better than the dance he was doing with Ediva. He’d kept his distance the whole full moon cycle he’d been here, but she still seemed uncertain and skittish in his presence, as if she expected a blow at any moment. Only those few moments in the chapel weeks ago was he given the opportunity to close that yawning gap between them. Reaching her heart seemed almost within his grasp then, but she pulled away. And since that time, there had been nothing but politeness and distance between them.

      Of what good would anything he tried be? He’d practically ordered her to the Sabbath services and, even then, he knew her heart was leagues away. So much good would come if she let God into her heart. He wanted that more than earning her trust.

      But it would be nice to have both. Very nice.

      After he sighed, Adrien urged the stallion forward toward the keep. He’d seen enough this morning, and with nothing in his belly, he was anxious to return for the noon meal.

      And to see Ediva. Though the distance she enforced between them was a trial, he could not deny himself the joy he took in spending time with her. Even in the chapel where they kept the politeness to a fault, he valued their time together. The only mark on such time was the tension he’d felt between her and the chaplain. Entering the bailey, he spied Ediva. His wife. And yet, not his wife, save on some record kept by Poitiers.

      She turned then, and her cyrtel, a pale pink like the roses that climbed the wall near the door, swirled with the movement. Her hair had been coaxed free of her simple veil by a warm breeze. Her wimple was gone, and he was glad to see her long, flaxen braids dropping down below her veil to rest upon her cyrtel.

      She met his gaze, and then turned from it far too quickly. Unexpectedly, his heart sank. She still did not trust him even with her own shy looks.

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