Marsh King's Daughter by Elizabeth Chadwick

Author:Elizabeth Chadwick [Chadwick, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: medieval
ISBN: 9780751524109
Amazon: 0751524107
Goodreads: 500290
Publisher: Time Warner
Published: 1999-06-30T14:00:00+00:00

It was very late when Nicholas returned to The Angel. The cathedral bells had tolled the hour of matins and the city was dark and silent, all fires covered for the night, all the shutters barred. The landlord let him in with a heavy frown that was only lightened when Nicholas pressed a coin into his palm. By the sputtering light of a single rush dip, Nicholas skirted the trestles and made his way to the loft.

In the bed, Magdalene turned over and sat up. She had left a candle burning and in its glow her red hair shone like new copper.

'I thought you had abandoned me.' Her voice held a querulous note. 'I have been lying here listening to that damned bell ringing the hour and wondering where you were.'

Nicholas repressed the urge to snap at her. Tonight's happenings were none of her fault, and although their arrangement was one of business, still there was an undercurrent of care and concern. 'My client wanted to discuss shipping matters,' he said, extinguishing the rush dip and setting the holder on the coffer. 'I could hardly get up and walk away just for the lateness of the hour.' The lie and the slightly exasperated tone came easily. It was no concern of hers that he had been walking the streets of Lincoln for the past two hours, his mind a quicksand of conflicting thoughts and emotions.

Magdalene pouted at him, but more as an end to the protest than a continuing sulk, for she was essentially good-natured and solidly pragmatic. She flapped back the covers invitingly. 'Fortunately, I have been keeping the bed warm,' she purred.

The smell of her fragrance flowed out towards him in sensuous waves. The curves and hollows of her body beckoned, offering comfort, offering joyous, uncomplicated lust.

Tearing off his clothes in haste, Nicholas leaped into bed, pulled the covers over, and buried himself in her welcoming embrace.

When they had finished, and she curled up against him, murmuring sleepily, Nicholas lay awake, staring at the rafters. His body was sated, but his mind was far from a state of peace. Nor had he really expected the act of physical release to perform any alchemy. The spell was too deep for that.

He had found her, something he had dreamed of doing but never expected to happen. Gone was the nun with the haunted eyes, gone the drab 'widow' in that awful dress he had chosen for her. In their place was an elegant young woman, if not poised, then certainly accomplished and making as much of a success of her life as he had done of his. She had not looked ruthless, sitting there at the trestle struggling with her composure, but he had no doubt that she was. Robert Willoughby had said that she was the widow of a good friend. She must have wasted no time in finding a 'suitable' husband for protection the moment she had run from that alehouse in Nottingham. And on his death she had married one of the most influential wool merchants in the Middle Counties.

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