Medieval Brides. Anne Herries

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      Adam stood just inside the cookhouse door, blinking at the sight of the beggarly lad in filthy homespun who was sobbing into Cecily’s skirts. The lad reeked—Adam could smell him from the doorway—but Cecily was embracing him with no sign of revulsion. Far from it—she was stroking his lank hair back from his brow, hugging his unwashed person to her, and murmuring soft words that he could not understand into the boy’s ear. Saxon words. Words that could speak treason and he would never know it until it was too late. But somehow he did not think treason was being spoken here. Fool that he was, he did not want it to be treason that was being spoken here…

      ‘Clearly one has to be Saxon to win your favour,’ Adam said, forcing a smile.

      They sprang apart. The boy edged sideways, sleeving his tears. Cecily’s chin came up. ‘This is Wat,’ she said. ‘An old friend.’

      Adam leaned against a littered table and folded his arms. His stomach was churning with doubts concerning her loyalties, but he’d be damned before he’d let her see it. But, hell, both Cecily and the boy looked the picture of guilt. He adopted a dry, teasing tone. ‘First Edmund—you kiss him. And now Wat. He is embraced. How many other admirers are hiding in the woodwork? Will I have to fight for your hand?’

      ‘No, S…Adam. It’s not like that,’ she said, biting her lip and flushing.

      ‘No?’ Adam tipped his head to one side. The boy Wat was watching them open-mouthed; the tear-tracks had left clean streaks on his face. ‘Cecily, come here.’ Adam wanted to have it out with her about her little visit to Golde Street, but he could not—must not. The waiting game, he reminded himself. You are playing the waiting game.

      Hesitantly, still biting that lip, she took a step towards him. Something was worrying her. She was holding herself in a way that told him she half expected him to hit her. Guilt? Or something else?

      ‘Closer. I have something to tell you.’

      She took another step towards him as, behind her, Wat edged past and made a dash for the door. ‘What is it?’

      ‘Closer.’ Their feet almost touched. Her blue eyes were wide. Innocent. Guileless. Charmingly hesitant, if he could but believe what he was seeing. If only he had never heard her in the goldsmith’s house…if only she did not look so afraid…

      ‘Adam, is something amiss?’

      Leaning forwards, he took her hands and stared into her eyes. Her pupils were dark, her lashes long. He could see the light from the doorway reflected in them, the shadow of his own self. ‘Cecily,’ he muttered, and shook his head. Hell, why was it so important that she did not hate him?

      ‘Adam?’

      ‘I’ve spoken to Father Aelfric. He speaks a little French, and I speak a little Latin, and between us I think we managed to understand each other. He has agreed to marry us on the morrow. I gather that if we don’t wed then we’ll have to wait till after Christmas—because it will be Advent, and it is bad luck to marry in Advent.’

      ‘That’s true.’

      ‘So.’ He gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Reasoning that we need all the luck we can get, tomorrow’s our wedding day—if you are still in agreement?’ Jesu, why had he done that? Offered her an escape route again? He might not trust her, but he damn well wanted her—he should take her and have done. It wasn’t as if he was in love with the girl that he should be so concerned for her feelings.

      Those beautiful blue eyes didn’t so much as flicker. ‘I have agreed,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow will be fine. There is no need to wait till after Christmas.’

      Adam gave what he hoped was an unconcerned nod as a new, urgent thought relegated Golde Street to the back of his mind. He wanted—no, he ached for her to give him some physical sign of her acceptance. A squeeze of her fingers, perhaps. A smile, even. For a moment she did not move, and then it was as though she had read his mind. She smiled and reached up to draw his head down to hers.

      Her kiss was as light as thistledown and she drew back at once, crimson.

      It was enough. With a murmur, Adam tugged her towards him. Wrapping his arms about her waist, he buried his face in her neck and felt the first peace he had known all day.

      ‘Damn this wimple,’ he said, drawing back to push it aside. He kissed her neck, nipping gently at the skin. Fingers on her chin, he turned her lips to his.

      The kiss went on a long time—long enough for his tongue to trace her lips, for hers to trace his, long enough for his loins to tighten and for him to want to press himself against her and wish that tomorrow was already here. Long enough for him to forget utterly that he had heard her in Golde Street only that morning…

      Giving a shaky laugh, he raised his head. ‘We’ll have to do something about your clothing. I cannot wed you garbed as a novice.’

      Nodding, she eased away. Because he wanted to snatch her back, Adam stuck his thumbs into his belt.

      ‘I saw my sister Emma’s clothes chest in the Hall. She won’t mind if I borrow her gowns.’ She tipped her head back to look up at him, and her mouth was sad. ‘My mother had some stuff stored away too…’

      ‘All yours now, to dispose of as you will,’ Adam said carefully, conscious that she must resent the circumstances in which she had come to inherit her mother’s belongings.

      ‘Yes. My thanks.’

      He glanced about, seeing the cookhouse for the first time. ‘This place is a midden. And it will be dark soon.’ Turning from the filthy workbench, he nudged the dead ashes in the hearth with the toe of his boot. ‘Shouldn’t this be fired?’

      ‘Yes.’