Bliss(17)
Author: Lynsay Sands

"I won’t," Aunt Nell promised through the gown still pressed to her face. She used her free hand to tug the linens up around Helen’s shoulders. "Now, you just rest," she instructed, then made a quick exit, still covering her nose with the dress as she slipped out of the room.

Sighing miserably, Helen lay back on the mattress and tried to ignore the fact that every single inch of her body seemed to be begging for her to scratch it. Which was all his fault, of course. The oaf. The ass.

The… She gave up on maligning him with a sigh. There simply weren’t enough words to describe the man. At least, not words nasty enough.

Her mind drifted back to their earlier argument and the things he had said. "A stinking, blotchy, rash-covered wench who doesn’t have the sense to know when to be grateful." Ha! What had she to be grateful for? Marriage to him? The Hammer of Holden? The crudest bastard in northernEngland? A man whose people crawled to Helen begging for charity?

Realizing she was scratching her arm, she stopped and peered at the ugly red blisters covering her skin.

They really were ugly. She must look a mess. Perfectly horrid. The thought was terribly lowering. Helen had never thought of herself as vain, and she had always considered looks unimportant, but right at that moment, she felt horrid. Ugly and itchy… and miserable. Something ran down her cheek and she lifted a hand to find wetness there. Tears. She was crying. Oh, great.

She sniffled miserably, then winced as her own odor offended her. She had been compelled to breathe through her mouth to avoid her own stench through the last miserable night, and had not slept a wink.

While she had been numb to the odor at first, after a while it was as if the scent changed, leaving her inhaling a new form of stink with every breath. The only way to avoid it had been to cover herself with the furs. But those were so warm they had merely irritated her rash, driving her mad with itchiness.

Neither state – nauseated or covered in hives – was conducive to sleeping. The first streaks of light were creeping into the sky before Helen had finally drifted off due to sheer exhaustion.

She had been woken mere moments later by that oaf she had married the day before, that buffoon who had the gall to call her blotchy and stinky. Her tears were starting to come in earnest now, and Helen sniffled once more, but this time it was not due to the olfactory assault. Her nose was plugged up from weeping. Which just went to show that there truly was a bright side to everything, she supposed miserably, then proceeded to cry herself to sleep.

"It is a larger estate than I had thought."

Hethe tore his gaze from the land they were riding through to glance at his first. "Aye," William agreed quietly. They were just returning from surveying the Tiernay estates. They had not managed to cover them all, but had covered a good portion of the fiefdom.

Lady Helen was an excellent manager; she knew what she was about and appeared to be doing an excellent job. Hethe’s gaze slid to Boswell, Lady Helen’s man, whom he had enlisted to guide them on this tour. The man had proven himself extremely knowledgeable. He had also been extremely polite all throughout this trip, but his resentment and dislike had shown. As had the resentment and dislike of most of the villeins they had come into contact with, that day. Admittedly, those were few. While Lady Helen had dragged him to every cottage with a baby in it, and while the people he had met with her had been quiet but not openly antagonistic, Boswell had seemed to deliberately steer them clear of the majority of Tiernay’s people. And those few they had come in contact with had been surly and resentful.

The open and apparent distrust of his newest subjects was a tad disturbing to Hethe. He was used to spending his time around his warriors on the battlefield, and every last one of them was faithful and respectful. Not only that, they also liked him. Hethe did not understand, and he did not care for this animosity being directed his way. He would have liked to blame it on Helen, but since her presence on the day of their picnic had seemed to prevent this very behavior, he did not know what to think.

"You slept late this morning." There was a touch of teasing in his friend’s comment, and Hethe nearly wore down his teeth grinding them together. It was not that he was angry with his first; it was that thoughts of the night before – his wedding night – made him want to smash something. God! What a debacle.

It had not started out badly. He had a vivid recollection of his bride’s body soft beneath him, her lips opening beneath his like a flower to the sun. Her tongue stroking his. Her moans and sighs. The way she had arched into him. The way his body had responded to her eagerness, turning hard and demanding.

Unfortunately, he also had vivid recollections of the scent of her once that fur had been stripped aside, and of puking up his dinner out the window after forcing her into the perfume-laden bath. Damn, one memory made him hot for her, the other made him want to throttle her. But the memory of her initial response to his touch gave him hope. He was sure that if it had not been for her rude scent intruding on them, he would have consummated the wedding last night – and with Lady Helen’s blessing. She had certainly moaned and sighed and arched and shuddered beneath him like a willing wench. Until her trick had called them both back from their passion.

"Long sleepless night?" William teased now, making Hethe realize that he had not responded to the earlier comment.

"It was my wedding night," he pointed out, somewhat uncomfortable regarding the dishonesty of that implication. "One is not expected to sleep much on his wedding night."

"Nay." The other man grinned, then shook his head and sighed. "I must admit, I envy you. She is a beautiful woman."

"Aye. She is."

"And she has a sweet voice. I find it hard to believe she is the Tyrant of Tiernay."

"I don’t," Hethe muttered artlessly, then scowled. "I mean, I don’t believe it myself," he lied to cover up that there was anything wrong with his marriage. Much to his relief, the group left the woods then and began to cross the open land that circled the castle.

Hethe immediately spurred his horse to a trot, grateful for the excuse to avoid his man’s questions.

Helen was pleased to find the great hall relatively empty when she crept downstairs. She had hoped it would be so, since it was late morning and there was a while yet until the people would congregate to enjoy theirmiddaymeal. Still, the way her luck was going lately, she would not have been surprised to arrive to find the room crawling with people. There were just half a dozen servants moving about, though, each seeing to his chores.

Helen went in search of food. She had not eaten much at the wedding celebration the night before, then had cried herself to sleep this morning instead of breaking her fast, so when she had woken up several moments ago, she was famished. She had dressed, brushed her hair and made her way below questing for sustenance hoping to get something to eat and drink, then slink away before the hall started to fill up.

With that thought in mind, Helen approached the nearest servant, grimacing when the woman glanced up to see her and briefly smile. Very briefly. The look was quickly replaced with one of horror as Helen drew nearer and her stench became apparent.

Muttering rather desperately that she would fetch Ducky, the servant whirled away and hurried toward the kitchens. She was followed quickly by all the other servants as the stench surrounding Helen slowly began to fill the hall. No one wished to be near her.

Trying to convince herself not to take it personally, Helen moved to sit at the trestle tables with a sigh.

They had already been cleared, of course. There was not a scrap of bread, a bit of cheese or a mug of mead about for her to partake of while she waited. It wasn’t long, though, before the sound of the kitchen door opening drew Helen’s attention away from her hunger.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Ducky moving cautiously closer, and she stood to greet her. The maid paused several feet away, her nose wrinkling briefly before she controlled the instinct and managed a smile.

"Good morn, my lady," Ducky began, then bit her lip. "Your lady aunt said that you would not be coming below today. She seemed to think it would be best if you remain in your room until the worst of…" She gestured vaguely toward Helen, a gesture that might have referred to her smell or to the angry red rash covering her once pearl-white skin. "Until it had passed."

"I know, but I woke up and was hungry. I came in search of food."

"Oh. Of course. Well, I can bring something up to your room for you and – "

"There is no need for that, Ducky. I would rather eat here. It will be less trouble for you." When the maid looked doubtful of her plan, Helen sighed. "I am sick unto death of sitting in my room. There is no one around right now. If I eat quickly, I can be done and return above stairs before anyone comes."

"But your aunt – "

"Where is my aunt?" Helen interrupted impatiently.

"She went down to the village. Lucy had her baby and – "

"Lucy had her child? Oh, I should go see her!" Helen’s excitement died abruptly at her maid’s horrified expression, and melancholy took its place. "Oh. No, I suppose that wouldn’t be a good idea, would it?"

"Why do you not just sit down, my lady, and I shall bring you something to eat and drink," Ducky murmured. She’d evidently relented on forcing her mistress to return to her room, and she was eyeing Helen now pityingly.

Nodding despondently, Helen sank back onto a trestle table bench and sighed miserably as her maid hurried off to do as she’d promised.

Hethe’s relief upon returning toTiernayCastlewas short-lived. He had barely taken two steps inside the keep when his nose was assailed by the most godawful smell. He knew at once that his wife was somewhere about. Still, it took him a moment to place her as the woman seated at the trestle table.

Mostly, he supposed, because he could not believe that her stench could reach so far. She must have just come below, he decided, leaving a trail of foul air to drift in the atmosphere behind her. He took in her forlorn pose with a weary sigh.

"Dear God, what is that smell?" William exclaimed, a step behind his master.

Hethe promptly turned to face both him and the men who had accompanied him on the tour. They had all been eagerly looking forward to a drink to wet their dust-filled mouths. "You and the rest of the men go down to the village tavern for a drink, William," he instructed grimly. "I shall follow directly."

His first hesitated a moment, then shrugged and turned to herd the men back out of the keep.

Hethe waited until the door closed behind him, then cautiously approached his wife. He found he could only manage to get within ten feet of her before the smell became completely unbearable. Taking a seat on a bench some distance from her, he turned about to eye her. He was positive she was aware of his presence, but she did not trouble herself to address him or even look his way.

She was pushing meat and cheese around in a trencher, looking completely miserable. Hethe felt his heart soften somewhat for how she must be suffering. She could not get away from herself. Also, he experienced some guilt because he was responsible for worsening her state. Yet, he remembered, she had brought it on herself with that damnable weed. He frowned over at her.

"Is there something wrong with your food?" he asked. As an opening gambit it left much to be desired, but it did make his wife raise her head to look at him. Hethe nearly winced at the sight. Her face was pale, the only color being dark shadows beneath her eyes and those damnable patches of raw skin. Her hair was pulled sharply back from her face, leaving it looking somewhat hawkish.

"Nay."

"Then why are you not eating? If the fare isn’t acceptable, you should let Cook know."

She heaved a sigh at that. "There is nothing wrong with the food. It is me."

"You?"

"I cannot smell anything but myself, and therefore can taste nothing I eat," she explained quietly.

Hethe grimaced. He could understand that completely. The smell was certainly killing the appetite with which he had returned from his tour. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do to rectify the stink, so he struggled for something with which to change the subject. He suddenly noticed that she was wearing the ugliest damn dress he had ever seen. Not just ugly, it was faded and tattered and even a bit too small.

He scowled as he peered at it. "What the Devil are you wearing?"

At her husband’s words, Helen glanced down at herself with disinterest. "A dress."

"Well, I can see that. But why are you not wearing something more befitting a lady? You have better gowns than this. I have seen at least two of them on you."

"Those are my good gowns," she explained patiently. "I thought I should save them – " She paused abruptly as a servant suddenly appeared at the table with a mug and a pitcher of ale. The serving maid set the mug before Lord Holden and poured drink into it, then hesitated, her gaze shooting reluctantly to Helen. "Did you wish for some ale, too, my lady?"

It was obvious the girl was hoping that Helen would say no, and Helen almost did out of pity, but she had awoken with a terrible thirst and had quickly consumed the mug of mead Ducky had brought with her meal. Grimacing apologetically, she pushed her mug as far along the table as she could in answer.

The servant bit her lip unhappily, then straightened her shoulders like a soldier going into battle, sucked in a deep breath, held it, and raced forward. She filled the mug with more speed than care, slopping much onto the table in her rush. In an effort to redeem herself, Helen supposed, she then pushed the mug halfway back toward her mistress before whirling to rush away. Her gasp as she released the air she had been holding was quite plain in the silence of the room as she rushed toward the kitchens, sucking in great gulps of air.

Helen sighed, her gaze sliding to the Hammer. The man was gazing after the servant and, even as she watched, amusement began to curve his lips. A laugh bubbled up inside him, until he caught her glare. He straightened his face at once.

"Hmmm," he said, clearing his throat and grimacing in an obvious effort to kill his desire to laugh. Surely he knew she would never forgive him, or allow him into her bed, should he laugh. He’d be lucky if she ever –