Bliss(16)
Author: Lynsay Sands

"Oh, dear God! Helen!" Her aunt rushed to the bedside and put a restraining hand on her shoulder.

Helen flinched and immediately nudged the hand away to scratch, even as Nell got a first whiff of her and jerked back in horror. "What has he done to you?"

"The oils and flowers didn’t mix well with the stinkweed," Helen cried out between little gasps for breath.

"I can smell that much," Nell muttered, pinching her nose closed with a thumb and finger. "But the itching, Helen. What happened to cause the itching?"

Helen curled into a fetal position to scratch her legs, feet and between her toes before answering. "There was essence of posies in one of the vials Ducky gave him!"

"Oh, no!" the maid cried in horror when Aunt Nell turned on her. "I didn’t know. I swear. He said to fetch everything that smelled good. I raided the kitchen, then went to Old Joan the Healer and told her to give me anything she had that was pleasant smelling. I did not even think to check what each was." She turned to peer guiltily at her writhing mistress. "Oh, my lady, I am so sorry."

Too agonized to answer, Helen merely continued writhing and twisting, aware that her two friends were watching helplessly. Then her aunt turned to Ducky and said, "Go find Old Joan. Explain what’s happened. She must have a salve or something that will help. Bring her here."

Nodding, the maid hurried from the room. Aunt Nell waited until she had gone, then turned her concern back upon her niece. "Helen. You must try to stop scratching. You will cause scars. Please." She moved close enough to lay her free hand gently on Helen’s shoulder. This time, when Helen reached up to nudge her hand away, Nell caught her fingers and held them firmly. "You must try to stop."

"No," Helen moaned, trying to pull her hand free. "This rash is driving me mad."

Nell’s mouth tightened, and she was silent for a moment. To Helen it seemed that she was listening for something. She understood what when Nell said, "You are wheezing, girl. Are you having trouble breathing? Damn! I should have told Ducky to have the others bring up a fresh bath. We should be trying to wash the posy essence off you." Releasing Helen’s hand, she whirled away and hurried out of the room.

Helen promptly resumed scratching herself. She knew she shouldn’t, even wanted to stop, but she felt as if her skin were crawling with hundreds of spiders, their little legs tickling across her flesh.

It seemed like hours that her aunt was gone, though in reality it was probably only moments. The woman returned with a battery of servants bearing Lady Shambleau’s own private tub and fresh bathwater.

Ducky was hard on her heels, leading the old woman from whom she’d gotten the scented oils.

The healer took one look at Helen and rushed to the bed to grab her hands and hold them. "No," she said firmly when Helen tried to struggle. "Don’t let her scratch," she ordered Ducky. The maid rushed forward to take the healer’s place, but it required Nell’s added strength to restrain Helen enough so that the healer was free to begin mixing her salves and ointments.

"Try not to remove the smell," Helen ordered spitefully, writhing so that the fur would scratch her back since she could not use her fingers.

Joan turned an exasperated glance on her, but it was Nell who spoke up: "Surely you do not think he will try to consummate the marriage now?" she cried in disbelief.

Helen’s thoughts at that moment were more along the lines of revenge. She could no longer discern the foul stench clinging to her. She was positive it had killed her ability to smell. But she could tell by the reaction of the others that it was still strong upon her, and as she lay there, desperate to relieve an all-over body itch that would not be relieved, she was thinking that she and her husband should spend a lot more time together. Should get better acquainted. She was going to cling to him as English ivy did a wall, she decided grimly.

"Just try to not remove the smell," she hissed when she realized they were still waiting for her answer.

Shaking her head, Old Joan tossed aside the herbs she had been mixing and started afresh.

Hethe crept down the hall, mostly feeling his way in the darkness. The sun had not yet risen, though he had spied the orange and pink streaks of dawn on the horizon from the window of the small, cold bedchamber he had been given. It had not been a comfortable night. He had shunned the bed so as to avoid the fleas and had again slept huddled in the cracked chair by the cold fireless hearth. Even so, it had been better than sleeping in the room his bride had poisoned with the odors of posy and stinkweed.

Dear God, just the idea of returning there now made him wince. But it must be done. Lord Templetun had retired directly after he and the other men had seen Hethe to his bridal bed. At least, the man had not been below when Hethe had gone down to find Lady Shambleau and his wife’s maid. Templetun had also apparently managed to sleep through the disturbance that had followed the bedding ceremony. That being the case, the man was ignorant of what had gone on last night, and Hethe was hoping to keep him that way. Which meant that when the king’s man arrived to demand proof of the consummation, Hethe would provide it. He doubted if his bride was in any state to do so. From all accounts, she had had a rough night.

There would surely be hell to pay if the king’s man wasn’t provided with proof and Hethe had had just about enough hell of late. So, as the first streaks of light peeked over the horizon, he’d ripped a strip of linen off the top of the bed – as far from where the flea-ridden fur had been as possible – shook it out, then tied it around his face to cover his nose and mouth. Then he had inflicted a small cut on his hand, bloodied the center of the linen, and tugged it off his bed. He now crept down the hall of Tiernay Castle, headed for his wife’s room. He should have shaken it out better, he realized as a sudden itching began beneath his arm, right where the bundled linen rested. The sheet was still infested.

Picking up his pace a bit, he was relieved when he felt the wall give way to another door. Pausing, he took a deep breath, then eased the door open and slid into the room. While the windowless hallway had been pitch-black, the sun had risen quickly during Hethe’s slow journey and his wife’s bedchamber was already filling with an orangish golden glow. Taking a reluctant step away from the door, Hethe peered toward the bed and the woman sleeping in it. The light really wasn’t very complimentary to her present state. It just accentuated the blotchy red rash covering her once flawless skin.

Hethe had the grace to feel guilt wash over him. He truly hadn’t meant to cause this. He had lost his temper and acted rashly, not even thinking before dumping the vials of oils and such into the bath with her. He knew better than that. Acting rashly could be terribly dangerous. It often got men killed and, apparently, caused rashes on women.

He was grimacing over that fact when a rapping sounded at the door, startling him. Head jerking around, he started toward it only to pause partway there. He could hardly answer the door as he was. He reached up to tug the linen off his face, scowling and scooting closer to the door as the room’s foul atmosphere assailed him. Trying not to gag, he released the linens long enough to tug his tunic off over his head, then drop it to the side. Retrieving the linens, he stood so that the door would block him and opened it a crack to shove the linens out at whomever had knocked.

"Here. Go away. We are still sleeping," he hissed, then after a bare glimpse of the priest and Templetun’s startled expression, and Lady Shambleau’s shocked one, he pulled the door closed.

"What is about?" That sleepy question from the bed drew Hethe’s gaze, and he turned to gape at his bride. Oh… this light really was not flattering to her at all. No, sir. She was sitting up in bed now, clutching the linen to her br**sts and squinting out of her red, swollen eyes toward him. It seemed obvious that she couldn’t see a damn thing. Which was probably for the best, for if she were able to see what she looked like just now… Well, she would probably be screaming her head off.

"Nothing. Go back to sleep," He hissed at her in a hoarse whisper, then turned away to open the door a crack and peer out. Lord Templetun, Lady Shambleau and the priest were all moving down the hall toward the stairs, taking the linens with them. It seemed they were satisfied, he realized with relief. At least, Lord Templetun and the priest were. Lady Shambleau was glancing back over her shoulder and, when she saw the door had cracked open again, eyed Hethe with suspicion.

"What are you doing?" There was suspicion in Helen’s voice, too, behind him. The sleepiness was completely gone for she had recognized her husband by his voice.

Sighing, Hethe eased the door closed and started back toward the bed, only to be brought up short by the smell. Retrieving from the floor the scrap of linen he had been using to filter the stink, he quickly retied it around his face, then quickly snatched up his tunic and replaced it as well. He took another step toward the bed, but again paused. It appeared his mask was only effective from a distance.

"Who was at the door?"

"That was Lord Templetun, your aunt and the priest," Hethe admitted reluctantly.

"What did you shove out at them?" she asked, squinting even harder in his general direction. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut, and he had to wonder how much she was seeing, if anything at all.

"A bloodied linen," he explained gently. "I realized they would come looking for it this morning, so I crept in here to give it to them," he announced. He awaited her praise for his thoughtfulness, but he should have known better.

"You what ?" She was out of the bed and charging around it at him in a trice, apparently so mad she forgot that she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Dear God, he had never seen skin so mottled, he thought as he backed away, not out of fear of a physical attack but to avoid her intensifying smell.

"I thought to save you any embarrassment," he said quickly, his feet moving faster than his mouth as he scrambled back toward the door.

"Save me embarrassment?" she snapped, her forward momentum briefly halting – much to his relief.

"What you did was trap me in this marriage! They will not annul it if they think it was consummated."

Hethe felt himself stiffen. He had suspected that this was the purpose behind his bride’s actions of last night, but suspecting and knowing were not the same thing. A man’s pride could only take so much.

Forcing himself to remain calm, he tried to reason with her. "We were trapped the moment the king decided we should wed. All I have done is – "

"We?" Her head reared back, and she gave a short laugh. "As if you are unhappy about this! Ha! You get Tiernay, a fine, prosperous estate!"

Hethe’s eyes narrowed on her; he was losing his temper quickly. "Aye," he agreed. "I get Tiernay.

Unfortunately, it comes with you! A stinking, blotchy, rash-covered wench who doesn’t have the sense to know when to be grateful."

A shocked gasp flew from her lips then, her mouth opening and closing like that of a fish. She shut it a moment later, and he could see her winding up to release an insult or two in return, but he forestalled her by adding, "And if you are trying to lure me to your bed, you would do better to put some clothes on . I fear this light does not do a thing for you."

His wife glanced down at herself, her eyes widening as she realized she was standing there as nak*d as the day she was born. Then she raced back to bed with a squeal. Hethe took the opportunity to leave the battlefield, sliding quickly out of the room and pulling the door closed with a snap. He was pretty sure he had won this round, but it gave him little pleasure. He didn’t feel that he had really fought fair, picking on her rash as he had.

And he hadn’t been completely honest, either. While the rash detracted somewhat from her looks, it had not hidden the lusciousness of her curves, or the pertness of her br**sts. Damned if he wasn’t a little excited. If it weren’t for her smell, rash or no, he would be very tempted to go back and make the fake consummation a reality.

Damn! Real war was so much easier than this one raging between him and his bride. At least in real war he did not run about aching to make love to the enemy.

Chapter Ten

"What are you doing?"

Helen straightened from rifling through her chest at the dismayed cry from the doorway. Turning to see her aunt rushing into the room and closing the door behind her, Helen gave her a nod of greeting, then turned back to her search.

"I am looking for a dress," she explained. "An older one. One I will not mind losing should this stench not wash out – Aha!" She straightened, a suitable garment in hand.

"Oh, nay, Helen. You cannot go below like this," Nell protested, covering her nose with her hand as she hurried to her niece’s side and urged her to her feet. "You should stay up here for a while. Give your rash the opportunity to heal, to go away and – " She paused mid-sentence to turn her head away and gasp for fresh air. "Dear Lord!"

Trying not to be offended by her aunt’s reaction, Helen shrugged her relative off and shook out the gown she held, trying to remove the worst of its wrinkles from being stored in the chest. "I must speak to Templetun. Tell him that the marriage isn’t consummated, that it must be annulled."

"Nay." Her aunt snatched the gown away, then, using it to cover her nose and mouth, began to urge Helen back to bed. The woman’s voice was muffled as she said, "Not as you are, Helen. You cannot let the man see you this way. He will know at once what you have been up to. Mayhap if you are… better tomorrow, you may see him then."

"But – "

"Do you really think the king will be pleased to know what we have been up to here? Why, the Good Lord knows what he would do if he should hear of our behavior. He certainly would not congratulate you on the idea. He’s having enough trouble with a disobedient son; do you think he will be pleased with a disobedient vassal?"

"Nay," Helen agreed reluctantly. Shoulders slumping, she stopped resisting and allowed herself to be marched back to her bed. "I shall wait till the morrow. But you must not let Templetun leave before I can speak to him."