Claim (Deridia Book 5), page 21
Her time with Adelmar had evidently been a productive one, as she had not been bound by the same measure of fear and mistrust as had held her for the entirety of their acquaintance. He could not tell her that, could not hurt her in such a way, that when she had first asked him what he’d imagined of his wife, what came to the forefront of his mind was that she would like him. Would not quake and tremble if he made a gesture too quickly, that she doubted every attempt at affection as if he would bring pain instead.
He could not blame her for it. Every glimpse at the Yarrow’s ways made it abundantly clear that a male could rule his home however he saw fit, and too many thought that discipline should include using pain to meet their aim.
It was wrong. So very wrong. And Sladec had assured him that Adelmar knew to tell her so.
And that he should simply live it. Each day. In every word, every touch, he would show her that her previous treatment was a wretched thing. That she should expect his respect, his affection, and should not be content with anything less.
She felt so delicate, yet filled his arms. She was surprisingly soft, the swell of hip just beneath his forearm, the slim torso that was currently covered by the thick shawl he had placed over her shoulders.
Her thoughts quieted, and he leaned forward, noting that her eyes were heavy as they stared into the flames. It was little wonder, as she had been so ill just the day before. He did not want to move, not for all the world, but she would be more comfortable, he was sure, if she had a proper rest upon the bed. He was weary himself, having spent far too long awake, plagued by his own thoughts.
And memories that were not his own.
“Should we rest a while?” he asked, his voice low and gentle so as best not to startle her.
She blinked, and he did not need the bond to see that she was barely conscious. “Is that not what we’re doing?” she asked, her words a little muddled, but clear enough.
He smiled, and stood. He could mention the bed, but he would well imagine how she would misinterpret his intentions. Her thoughts would swirl, the dread would return, and although she would never make the accusation an audible one, he would feel it all the same.
That he was just like the husband she expected to endure. That he would care nothing for her body, her mind, so long as she was quiet and compliant when he wished her to be.
His stomach churned just to think it.
He took her to the bed. In another life, if there had been a different woman to all his wife, it might have been a precursor to something more. A light doze, only one to wake first, choosing to pull the other from sleep with teasing touches, with tantalising kisses.
How could he tell her of such, even when she had asked him so gently to share his thoughts, his imaginings of a wife he had not known? Even now, it felt too near a betrayal, to think of another woman in her place, one that had not faced such a difficult upbringing.
His wife needed sleep. As did he. And time to heal, in every way that mattered.
He stared at the bed, considering. It was far too early yet for a full sleep, but she grew cold so quickly, and he did not know if she would permit him to hold her as they slept.
She released a tired little sigh when he placed her upon the bed, nestling into the pillows that awaited her.
He reached for the blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed, but hesitated before he placed it over her. There was a bulge at her hip, something tucked into the pocket there. If she shifted and rolled to that side, it would prove uncomfortable—perhaps even bruise the delicate skin beneath.
He wavered, not wishing to intrude upon her privacy, nor deprive her of yet more of her belongings, but he would not see her injured.
A glance upward saw her eyes closed, and he risked her upset, his fingers delving into the pocket.
He frowned at the small ball of yarn, the rectangle of work. The hook neatly tucked so as to hold it all together.
He stared at it a moment. It was an ancient craft, one studied by all. The fleece was one of their greatest means of trade, their woollens even more so. Blankets, woven or twined and knotted by hand, garments, both decorative and functional were envied throughout the provinces.
Rook glanced back to his wife. He yearned for a time when she felt she belonged here.
And she hoped that she chose to learn the craft for her own sake, not because she felt that she must.
He settled it beside the bed on the table that he hoped would someday hold little trinkets and baubles that were hers. It was not right, that he should have deprived her of all that she had known, and had spent the day wallowing rather than gifting her with alternatives.
It had been drilled into him for so long that he would have to have patience with his new wife. He had not realised that he would also have to extend the same courtesy to himself. He had made plenty of mistakes already, but there was time yet to mend them.
Or so he tried to assure himself.
He settled the blanket over her, and heard her gentle little sigh, a tension leaving her that he had not realised had been there before.
He stood, indulging the temptation to stare. His brothers would tease him for it, if they’d known. But surely they had taken advantage of the opportunity, to study a wife’s features unawares.
Or perhaps they did not have to, for their wives would not blush and grow nervous, assuming that he looked only to find fault.
He frowned at that. Her features were different to his kind, to be certain. But that did not mean she was displeasing to his taste. She was neatly proportioned, and her eyes were wide and far more expressive than she likely knew.
It was little wonder they had been taught to look mainly to the floor.
He took a long breath, grimacing when he reached up to tug at his hair, only to feel the tangled mess he had made of it already. He needed to take more care, could not risk her misinterpreting his upset for dissatisfaction with her.
He could picture it all too easily.
He removed his boots and stole to the other side of the bed. His duties would need to be seen to, eventually, the tasks and responsibilities that others would surely wish returned back to him. But for now, her transition mattered most, and if that meant a nap in early afternoon, he would not complain.
Rook eased in beside her. The bed was unfamiliar, more hers than his, since she had been the only one to use it since these quarters had been assigned to them. He felt an intruder, and he lay stiffly beside her, trying to will his mind to quiet.
He had only been marginally successful, focusing on the slow rise and fall of his chest, the soft breath from the woman beside him.
Would it be wrong to reach out and touch her as she slept? To twine their hands together? An imposition, and unacceptable when she was not awake to express her discomfort at the action.
But the longing was there, and he did not know what to do with it. The bond felt an entity all its own, and it wanted to be strengthened, nourished, though their increased connection.
Or perhaps that was simply... him.
The rustle of fabric, the subtle movement on the bed beside him.
A soft hand resting against his upper arm.
Her eyes were still closed, but her breath deepened, as if she had slipped further into slumber.
But she had sought him out, even unconsciously, and he smiled.
And found that he could sleep.
He thought he would have been the first to wake. He had always slept lightly, which led to much resentment when more brothers had joined the single chamber. So miserable had he grown when Dundrel learned he could escape from his bed to play, regardless of the hour, that his parents had taken pity on him and moved Rook to a separate room all his own.
He had revelled in it, even gloated a little when Lorken declared it an injustice, but was certain to convey how much he appreciated the provision to his father, lest he rescind the privilege.
But he woke with heart pounding, with a certainty that he had overslept and missed...
Something.
“I am sorry,” came a voice, and he turned to find Naida looking at him with wide eyes. “I tried to be quiet.” She glanced at the washroom door, and he immediately felt guilty for reacting so.
“No,” he disagreed with a shake of his head. “I...” he did not know what to say. He had not dreamed that he could not remember, but there was a coldness to his limbs, a feeling in his belly that suggested that he might have, the effects lingering and disturbing what should have been a peaceful waking.
He ran a hand over his face, and felt Naida watching him. She would blame herself, he was certain.
He turned his head to look at her. “Did you sleep well?” he asked instead, not wanting to trouble her with his own jumbled feelings.
“Yes,” she murmured. Always so soft, so careful with her words. He wondered if she was even capable of some of Adelmar’s outbursts, when frustration bubbled into firm declarations as his sister liked to call them.
He eased back amongst the pillows. His heart was calming, and Naida mimicked the movement. They stared upward, where trees and boughs were punctuated by slats of sanded wood, the better to keep out the rain and wind during the cold season.
She pulled the blanket up higher around her. “Are you warm enough?” he asked, turning his head so he might look at her.
Naida glanced down at herself, and he realised that the only alternative was for her to burrow beneath the rest of the bedding, and she might be unwilling to do so when it was not yet nightfall.
He should add another log to the fire, should light lamps as the suns grew lower and the rays less pronounced. But he did not wish to move. Not yet.
Especially if...
The walls rattled, and the lamplight flickered as a draught caught and moved throughout the room. Naida looked with some alarm at their surroundings, and he supposed if one was not used to a storm amongst the trees, it could be distressing.
It did grow colder, when the wind found the gaps in the wood, when it pushed through the seams of the shutters with unrelenting force. On truly cold days, they would bundle fabric wherever it was coldest, unwilling to use anything more permanent for the breeze was lovely in the warm season, when shutters were pulled aside and open air brought welcome relief to the heat that seeped into the shade of trees.
A flash of light, then the low answering rumble, and he was reminded of bringing his new wife back in the midst of the last storm.
She seemed to remember it too, already trying to huddle beneath the lone blanket, her eyes wide. She seemed very far away, and he remembered all too well how cold she had been in his arms, and he had been almost certain he was about to lose her entirely.
“Come here,” he urged, moving his arm in what he hoped would be an invitation. She had been nervous, joining him in his chair, but he wanted to see if she would be as equally willing even when they were here.
In their bed.
Already reclined.
She chewed at her lip, but her hesitation was mild, scooting across the short distance between them, halting only when she came close to touching his side.
His arm came about her shoulder, and he pulled her the rest of the way to him. There was no jerk of movement, just a gentle coaxing until she yielded, her head coming to rest upon his chest as he offered his warmth.
“Better?” he asked, allowing her to say no. He could fetch more blankets, could fashion her a proper cocoon that would allow her warmth and privacy instead, but perhaps...
She’d asked what couples did, when they were alone.
And they were fond of one another.
He could remember seeking out his parents when he was young, a bad dream having driven him from his own bed. He’d been certain that Sladec wasn’t big enough to drive away the sorbekt from his nightmare, so he’d crept to his parents’ chamber. They were not sleeping yet, but were laying close, nestled much like he was now with Naida.
“You are very warm,” his wife murmured. There was a tension in her, but her body was not quite so rigid. It became so, when there was another clap of lightning, a longer, almost deafening boom as the thunder answered back.
It was enough to pull a squeak from her, her head coming to burrow in his chest, as if she could only get close enough, the storm itself would disappear.
He swallowed, a strange feeling settling over him. He had known since first he’d caught sight of her that he wanted her safe. Protected. But to feel her willingly cling to him, to look to him for solace...
He strengthened his resolve. The promise of what could be, if he was patient, if he did not frighten her away with his resentment toward her people.
And carefully, almost timidly, he allowed himself to skim his fingers through the length of her hair.
It was nearly as black as the ink Lorken used for his many plans and drawings, and so very smooth...
He remembered seeing the Yarrow women as they went about the city. They wore veils that hung low, some elaborately beaded, others plain and simple. He had thought little of it, as Orgarond wore similar coverings, simply because their hair was so thick and plentiful, it was easier to tuck it away with fabric than to cut it short with such frequency.
“Does this bother you?” he asked, for he doubted if she would be willing to tell him if it did. “For me to touch your hair?”
She swallowed before answering, and he could feel her nervousness, even as some of the tension began to leave her body. It would return, he was sure, when the storm spoke again, but he would offer what comfort he could in between.
“No,” she answered, her voice slightly muffled as she spoke without turning her head from its place against his chest. “It... it feels... nice.”
He hummed in agreement. He did not want this if she did not, but he could not deny that he had despaired of ever touching her at all. Not when things were so strained between them.
“Did you always cover your hair?” he asked, knowing he could look for the answer himself through the bond, but hoping to distract her from simply awaiting the next bought of the storm.
“Of course,” she gave in answer, her usual response when he questioned one of her customs. He could hardly blame her, for until recently, the Yarrow had no experience with other peoples. Their ways were absolute, were questioned by none, for there were no other ways.
She hesitated, and he could feel her tension mounting again. “Only... only females that... that were forced to... that had no house would go without a veil.”
She declared it that with such implication that it baffled him. His fingers stilled, and he tried to work it out for himself, but he failed utterly. The bond only showed him that she was anxious, but it was all muddled between her feelings about the storm that he could not tell if he had trespassed into a subject that was particularly difficult for her.
“They were without lodging?” he prompted, trying to understand but not wishing to distress her further.
She huffed out a breath, warm even through the fabric of his tunic. She tilted her head, so she could peek at him ever so slightly, but another boom of thunder drove her into hiding once again. “No,” she began, “They...”
He had to try very hard to understand her as a sudden downpour beat against the roof above. The tangle of branches served as a measure of protection, but particularly strong storms would still find their way between, and the sound of the rain against the shuttered roof only added to the difficulties.
He pulled the blanket more fully about her shoulders, tucking her in and ensuring no pull of cold air might find her, and shifted his body downward, even as he kept her steady. They were closer, then, his head nearer to hers, the better so he might hear her.
She raised her head briefly, blinking at him and looking so vulnerable, and before he had realised he had done so, he reached out and touched her cheek gently. “They...” he prompted, encouraging her to continue what she’d started.
“They had no house,” she repeated, stressing its significance. “No father or husband to give her his colours and share his house with her.”
“Oh,” Rook breathed. That was not quite so bad, was it? “No brothers either?”
Naida nodded. “And when there’s no house, there is no trade.” She glanced downward to the laces on his shirt, and frowned. “So there are few options left to her.”
That she was uncomfortable with the subject was clear, and he considered simply plucking the answer from through the bond. But Sladec had been firm that it was necessary they learn to talk with one another, not simply rely upon a fledgling bond to see them through the first, difficult moments of their marriage.
“Which are?” he encouraged, feeling like a child himself for not understanding her meaning. It was too much like when Sladec would say something and pass a knowing look with his friends, leaving a younger Rook to flounder and feel foolish when he did not catch the joke or implication.
She chewed at her lip, but seemed to remember herself and stopped, eyeing him worriedly. “She... that is... In exchange for food or coin she has to...” she huffed out a breath and closed her eyes again. “She would receive males that were not her husband.”
Rook’s eyes widened.
And he could feel the rush of heat that typically meant that his ears were turning pink.
He hated that.
Mostly because it usually accompanied his brothers teasing him for it, as theirs never did so.
Although perhaps that was simply because nothing could embarrass them any longer.
He swallowed, uncertain how he should respond. With everything he knew of the Yarrow, he could well imagine that such women were given little choice, regardless of what they were made to believe. And to know that their men would be willing to use them in such a manner...
It made his stomach churn.
He touched her hair again, this time at her temple, past the delicate shell of her ear. “That is why you wished for something to wear on the way home?” The sick feeling spread. “You worried that some would think you were...” he could not say it. Did not wish to even think it.
Her lips drew into a firm line, and she did not flinch when the lightning came, so focused was she on the turn of their conversation. He did not know if that was an improvement, since this seemed just as distressing for her.
