Bliss(15)
Author: Lynsay Sands

Helen shifted in the bed, tugging back the fur to cover herself. The action immediately drew her husband’s gaze back to the bed. If looks could do harm, his would have burnt her to a cinder on the spot.

Helen peered down at the fur covering her and began to pluck at it nervously to avoid his gaze. Much to her amazement, she was suddenly suffering guilt. It was a wife’s duty to submit, and she wasn’t exactly submitting.

Irritated by the discomfort her own conscience was causing her, Helen reminded herself that this man was a cruel, heartless bastard, and that she didn’t want to be his wife. The fact that none of his behavior since arriving at Tiernay really backed up the bad opinion she had gained of him these past few years was somewhat damping to her sense of righteousness, but she forced her chin up grimly anyway. There was nothing for her to feel guilty about.

Chapter Nine

Hethe’s eyes narrowed dangerously on his bride. For a moment, he thought he had seen a glimmer of shame on her face. That fact had soothed his temper somewhat, but then her expression turned defiant and she glared at him as if this situation were all his fault. Pushing the door closed, he moved toward the bed, his hands clenching in fury. He only got halfway across the room before his bride’s eyes widened in alarm. Without further warning, she tossed the fur covering her aside, once again fanning the scent out at him.

"Did you wish to try, after all, my lord?" she squeaked.

Hethe paused abruptly and gagged again, then charged for the window. He had already befouled the chamber pot. This time he tossed the rest of the first good meal he had been served at Tiernay out the window and into the courtyard below. A muffled laugh sounded from the bed behind him, and Hethe silently vowed his wife would pay for this. Aye. She would pay.

Hethe was still hanging out the window when a knock sounded at the door several moments later. His stomach empty now, he was no longer tossing up its contents. He was simply breathing in the sweet fresh air that the position offered him. Straightening reluctantly, he turned to shout "Enter," then watched from his relatively safe location by the window as the door opened and a slew of servants filed in carrying a tub and pail after pail of water.

Hethe watched grimly as the tub was set down and water poured into it. It was amazing, really, how swiftly they worked, he thought with amusement. His wife’s servants could not seem to finish their chores and leave quickly enough. He did not miss how each of them stumbled in their step, or cringed as they caught wind of the sickly sweet odor that perfumed the air. Without fail, each servant glanced to their mistress, then to him. He had no doubt that they knew what was about, and Hethe grew grimmer with each humiliating moment that passed. It seemed this had not been a silent war of wills at all. He was beginning to suspect that every person inTiernayCastleknew about the battle their mistress had waged. It seemed the only people left ignorant were his men and Lord Templetun.

Hethe supposed he should be grateful that they, at least, were unaware of the humiliating fact that he was an unwanted groom. But he wasn’t feeling particularly thankful at the moment.

His wife’s maid was the last to enter. Ducky. A basket full of bottles and vials hung over her arm. Hethe gestured for her to approach. Taking the basket from her, he then bent a glare on the servant. Ducky wasn’t a stupid woman. Heeding his silent order, she threw her mistress an anxious, apologetic look, then fled the room. She pulled the door closed behind herself and the last of the other servants. Hethe and his wife were alone.

He immediately turned his glare on her. Apparently, she wasn’t as bright as Ducky. Either that, or she was stubbornly playing dense. Eyebrows arching, she asked innocently, "What?"

"Get in the bath," he ordered.

She hesitated briefly. Then, apparently deciding not to risk open rebellion, she gathered the fur around her in an awkward sort of toga and eased carefully off the bed. Raising her chin, she crossed the room, walking in a sort of arc so that she passed close by him.

He nearly whimpered when he found himself briefly adrift in the odoriferous if invisible cloud that surrounded her. His stomach churned ominously. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on keeping what was left in his stomach, in his stomach. Her scent, on top of the garlic that had been plaguing his digestion ever since he consumed it, made a rotten combination.

The sickening aroma faded. Hethe opened his eyes to see with some relief that she now stood before the bath. Rather than drop the fur and get in, however, she simply stood shifting from one foot to the other.

He was confused by her hesitation until she began to open the fur covering, then paused to glance over her shoulder at him unhappily. It came to him then that she was reluctant to disrobe in front of him.

Not surprising, really. Despite the fact that they were married, they were nearly strangers. He would have wondered had she not showed some reticence. In fact, had this been a normal wedding night, and she a normal, shy, innocent young bride, he might have given her privacy – at least until she had disrobed and entered the bath. This, however, was nothing near a normal wedding night, and Lady Helen was far from the normal, shy and innocent bride. The Good Lord alone knew what she might get up to while his back was turned. He was not going to turn it.

"In!" he snapped.

Lady Helen’s eyes narrowed on him in impotent fury; then she turned away, straightening her shoulders grimly and dropping the fur. Hethe’s mouth curved up in slight amusement at the flash of pink skin he caught as she leapt for the cover of the bath. He was positive the fur hadn’t even hit the rushes before she had settled herself in the water, knees drawn up, and arms wrapped grimly about them in as modest a position as one could manage in a tub.

As fast as she had been, he had still caught a titillating glimpse of her shapely legs and behind. Had his stomach not still been roiling, he was not sure he would have appreciated it more. As it was, he merely noted that her arse was as generous as her bosom. That pleased him. He straightened grimly and began to root through the basket Ducky had provided. She had taken his order seriously and brought anything that might be thought pleasing in scent. Dried herbs usually used for cooking lay nestled among the desiccated petals of various flowers. There were also several different oils and tinctures. Hethe opened one or two bottles, sniffing the contents suspiciously.

They were all pleasant enough, Hethe supposed. But then, next to his wife, cow dung probably would have smelled like heaven at the moment. That thought made him pause and glare briefly at her slender, curved back. Which was, of course, a waste of time. She was wholly unaware of his stare. Giving up, he turned his attention back to deciding what to try first.

His wife’s putrid stink drifted across the room to him now that the fur no longer cloaked it. One whiff was enough to make him decide that he would use the largest container of scented oil first, and if that wasn’t sufficient, would add another. Straightening determinedly, he sucked in a deep breath and held it as he strode forward.

Pausing beside the tub, Hethe dug through the basket of containers for the largest. He snatched it out, opened it and tipped its contents into the bathwater between his wife’s pink back and the rim of the tub.

She stiffened, but neither spoke nor looked around.

Hethe hesitated a moment, then replaced the container in the basket and bent to swish the water around with one hand, splashing some onto her back, over her shoulders, and even onto her head. She squawked in protest as the water ran down her hair and face; then she turned her head to snarl at him over her shoulder.

Ignoring the look, Hethe straightened, hesitated, then risked a quick breath of air. A noise of disgust nearly slid from his lips, but he caught it back. The one container of oil, of course, had not been enough.

Hethe retrieved the next bottle, opened it, and dumped the contents in as well.

Holding his newest foul breath, he dug another container out of the basket and quickly dumped it in. His lady wife jerked around to stare as he was dumping in that third container. Her eyes widened briefly in horror; then she set to squawking.

Hethe thought she was shrieking something about mixing the scents and not to use all of them, but he wasn’t sure. He was growing a bit light-headed – though he didn’t know whether it was from holding his breath so long or from having the revolting stench of her trapped in his lungs. Whatever the case, he was not going to be deterred. Ignoring her protestations, he quickly emptied the last of the containers into the bathwater; then, holding the empty containers awkwardly in one hand, he upended the basket over her, raining flower petals and herbs over her hair and shoulders into the water. She stopped squawking then and quickly lowered her head to avoid getting any dried goods in her eyes or mouth.

Hethe gave the basket a good shake to make sure that every last flower petal and bit of herb was in the bath with her, then staggered away from the tub, dropping the now empty containers back in the basket as he did. Once a good distance away, he released the foul air trapped in his lungs and took a tentative breath. Much to his horror, despite his efforts, there was no lovely perfume to the air. If anything, the smell now was worse than it had been. And he was standing further away than before.

"What?" he choked out in horror. His wife’s head swiveled, her eyes fastening on him with murder in their depths as she glared out from beneath the bits of dried flowers and herbs that had caught in her hair.

"As I was telling you, my lord. One should never haphazardly mix perfumes and herbs. They do not always blend well."

Hethe closed his eyes with a groan. Not only had they not mixed well together, it seemed to him they didn’t mix with her at all. At least not with the eau de stinkweed clinging to her. If anything, adding the herbs, flowers and oils had only accentuated her original stench, amplifying it. Rather than defeating, he had aided her. The realization was rather galling.

A sudden solid mass at his back brought Hethe’s attention to the fact that while he had been thinking, he had also been unconsciously backing away from his bride. He now stood against the wall next to the window. Even there he could not escape her stench. His eyes were beginning to sting and fill with tears as they were assaulted by the pungent air.

Hethe cursed under his breath. It looked as if consummating the marriage was definitely out of the question, now. The only positive thing about the situation was that his bride looked about as miserable as he had been since arriving at Tiernay.

Aye, this definitely made up for his cold, mean room, ancient maid, frigid bath, horrid food, awful ale, flea-ridden bed and his bride’s unbearable breath. Not to mention her little scheme to get him in the water today. And whereas he had been able to at least escape his flea-ridden bed and room, she could not escape her own stink. Aye. Had he planned this, it would have been a brilliant strategy.

"Oh, no!"

Drawn from his thoughts, Hethe glanced at his wife sharply, noting with dismay that her face was turning a bright red. "What?"

"Those flower petals. What were they?" she asked urgently.

Hethe stared at her blankly for a moment, then noticed that her eyes were growing puffy and turning red – rather like they had that day they had picnicked in the field. His eyes widened incredulously. Was it his imagination, or did he vaguely smell… ? Peering down at the basket he held, he lifted one vial after another out to briefly sniff. It was a whiff of the largest one that made him pause. This was the bottle he had poured in first. The one he had mixed about in the water before splashing it over her head and shoulders. His eyes turned to his bride in horror. She didn’t notice. She had raised her arms out of the water and was peering at them in dismay. Even from where he stood, Hethe could see the angry rash beginning to form on her skin.

"Posies!" she shrieked, suddenly leaping from the water as though it were acid. That was when he saw that the irritation did not just cover her arms. Every inch of her that had been submerged in the water was now growing a dark red rash. Oh, dear, this definitely made up for everything she had done or tried to do to him, he thought faintly as she held her arms away from her body and turned slowly to face him.

"You threw posies in here with me?" she cried in disbelief.

Unable to speak, Hethe merely held up the empty vial. It hadn’t been petals, he was sure; it had been the oil. Her howl of misery nearly deafened him. Guilt suddenly enveloping him, Hethe began to ease his way toward the door. This was not good. Not good at all. Nope. He had never meant for something like this to happen. This was… Well, it was awful, he decided as he reached the door and scrambled to open it.

Just seeming to notice his attempt to flee, Helen stopped howling and transfixed him with her eyes.

"Where are you going?"

"Going?" Hethe gave a guilty start, then hesitated briefly, his hand pausing on the doorknob.

"Aye. You are not just going to leave me like this, are you?" she cried miserably.

"Leave you? Nay, nay." He began to scrabble at the door latch again as she started forward, her scent billowing forward in a noxious cloud.

"Nay, of course not," he assured her solemnly, but the humor of the situation and the way her plans had backfired were suddenly striking him as terribly amusing, and he was having trouble keeping a smile off his face. He knew his lips were twitching, and that only seemed to infuriate the woman before him more.

"Nay. I merely thought to fetch your maid up to attend to you… and perhaps your aunt, too," he murmured, then pulled the door open and slid through it while he could. Hethe barely got the door closed before a frustrated screech sounded and something crashed against the door.

His amusement dying, replaced by concern now that she was no longer standing before him, arms outstretched, hair and body littered with bits of herbs and dried flowers, he hurried for the stairs to the great hall in search of assistance.

Helen was rolling on the bed scratching herself like mad by the time her aunt and Ducky appeared. Their arrival didn’t stop her, though. She didn’t even look around to see who it was. She simply continued to writhe on the mattress scratching whatever she could reach with her hands. What she could not reach with her nails was chafed against the rough fur with her wriggling and writhing.