Bliss(22)
Author: Lynsay Sands

Hethe immediately bent to set to work at undoing the laces of the mail chaussures on his legs. Within minutes, he was panting, twisting and contorting himself about in an effort to reach behind his knees to unfasten the blasted things. It appeared that Edwin had tied the straps in rather nasty knots when he had dressed his master this morning, for Hethe could not seem to get them undone. Cursing in vexation, he snatched for his dirk.

"Do you wish my help now?" his wife asked again.

"Nay," Hethe snapped, then sighed and straightened to eye her in annoyance. He would either have to let her help him, or ruin a pair of perfectly good chaussures by slicing through their leather ties.

"Oh, aye. All right." He slumped in defeat, then quickly sucked in a breath as she scooted off the bed and rushed toward him. She flushed deeply as his gaze slid over her, but picked up speed and hurried to move around him to kneel at his back. Hethe craned his neck and peered back over his shoulder and down, getting a lovely picture of her prettily flushed back.

The straps of the chaussures must have been knotted as he had suspected, for she was bent at the task for an inordinate amount of time and seemed to struggle to untie them. Or, on the other hand, mayhap it only seemed like a long time because Hethe was holding his breath.

He held that breath until his head began to spin and his lungs burned. Every time he weakened and wished to take a new breath, he recalled her odor and forced himself to hold out longer. But, by the time she finally managed to undo one chaussure and it dropped to the floor with a clang, Hethe could stand it no longer. He let his breath out in a gasp, then sucked another lungful up, nearly fainting from its polluted state. He prayed vigorously as she set to work at the other chaussure. This one seemed to go much quicker, and Helen released a murmur of triumph as it fell. Then she straightened behind him, hesitated before skittering back to the bed and lunging into it.

"Thankyou," Hethe gasped, expelling the breath he had been holding and drawing in a fresh one. This time he allowed himself a groan of disgust. Her scent stayed behind like an invisible sulfur cloud and it’s effect on Wee Hethe was devastating to say the least. The wee warrior suffered a sudden death, dropping as fast as any man struck down on the battlefield. Much to Hethe’s dismay, even peering at his wife where she again lay prone on the bed could not reverse the effect.

"Is there something else you need help with?"

Hethe grimaced at the question and shook his head. "Nay. J-just… just stay there. I have to…" Backing toward the door, he searched his mind for a likely excuse to leave, but none was forthcoming. Settling on a vague shake of his head, he opened the door and slipped from the room. He really needed a drink.

Helen gaped at the closing door in shock. Where was he going? What about the bedding? What had she done wrong, Helen wondered with dismay. She had done everything she could think of to be amenable and encouraging. She had even got nak*d as Ducky had suggested. And hadn’t that been one of the hardest things she had ever done? But none of it seemed to have worked. She had encouraged him right out the door.

Shaking her head, she dropped back on the mattress and stared at the bed draperies overhead, mystified.

Hethe took the stairs two at a time, then stormed across the great hall as if he were riding off to battle.

His arrival, and in such a state, was enough to make Stephen and Lord Templetun, who were seated at the trestle tables, gape at him in wonder. They continued to do so as he reached first for Stephen’s ale, then changed his mind and instead grabbed up the half-empty pitcher between him and the king’s chaplain. Raising it to his mouth, Hethe downed the entire contents in one long, loud series of gulps, then lowered it and bellowed for more. "Lord Holden," Templetun finally began. "What – "

"I am thirsty. Cannot a man drink in his own castle?" Hethe snapped, shifting impatiently from foot to foot as he awaited the arrival of more ale. Losing his patience, he started for the kitchens himself.

"My lord!" Templetun was on his feet and trailing him at once. "I hope you do not expect me to believe you have accomplished – "

"I do not expect anything from you, Lord Templetun. I am merely…" He paused abruptly halfway to the kitchens, then turned on the man and hissed, "She smells ."

Templetun managed to catch himself before crashing into Hethe, then regarded him sympathetically.

"Oh, aye… Well… I had noticed that, my lord." He heaved a deep sigh and pondered a moment, his wrinkled old face twisting and contorting and tugging this way then that before he shook his head. "You have my deepest sympathies, my lord, but this must be done. Surely you can bear her smell long enough to… er… accomplish the necessary deed? Or…" He brightened suddenly and suggested, "Perhaps you can hold your breath?"

"Hold my breath?" Hethe scowled. "I tried doing that while removing my armor. It took so bloody long that I had to breathe in and – "

"But your armor is off now," the man pointed out cheerfully. He clapped Hethe on the back and turned him back toward the stairs he had just descended. "All you need do now is cross the room and finish the job. Surely you can hold your breath that long?"

"Hmmm." Hethe considered the possibility. If he took a deep breath before opening the door, then rushed across the room… Let’s see , he thought. There were perhaps ten good strides from the door to the bed. He’d need another moment to push down his breeches and position himself between her legs –

"Here we are."

Hethe glanced around with a start to realize that while he had been thinking, Templetun had led him back upstairs. They were now back outside his bedchamber door.

"Just take a nice, deep breath," Templetun instructed, sounding inordinately pleased with his plan.

"That’s it," he said when Hethe dutifully inhaled. "Now hold it and get in there and do your duty!"

With that encouraging hiss, the king’s chaplain pulled the door open, gave Hethe a shove that sent him stumbling into the room, then promptly closed the door behind him.

Hethe shuffled to a halt a few bare steps into the room, then glanced toward the woman on the bed. She still lay exactly where she had lain when he left her. Apparendy, she had decided to obey him for once.

He wasn’t really fooled by this sudden turn in her behavior. If she was playing nice now, it was for a reason. Perhaps she had finally realized that she could not win against him and was hoping for good terms of surrender. Too bad she hadn’t tried that tactic earlier… Suddenly realizing that he was wasting time, something that definitely wasn’t endless at this point, Hethe hurried forward, tugging his tunic off as he went.

He found his wife’s eyes were wide and anxious when he reached the bed. Hethe tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it was difficult with his cheeks all puffed out like a chipmunk’s. Tossing his tunic aside, he paused to consider her briefly, unsure where he should start. Despite what Templetun had said, he could not simply leap upon her without any preparation. No matter that she probably deserved it after all her stunts, he simply could not do it. Besides, he needed a little time to ready himself. His own flesh wasn’t exactly throbbing with desire at this juncture.

So, should he caress her br**sts? Fondle her feet? He usually started with kissing, but that, of course, was out. His thinking had barely got that far when he realized he had used up his breath. A puffy-cheeked frown tugging at his face, he turned and hurried back to the door to gasp out the air he had sucked in. He dragged in another breath.

"Is something wrong, my lord?"

Hethe had trouble formulating a response to his wife’s anxious question. Was something wrong? Nay, nay. Nothing was wrong. Except that this was impossible!

"Is there something I can do to help?" she asked.

Hethe rolled his eyes. Now, she wants to help? She could not have been more biddable on their wedding night, waited abed for him all sweet and perfumed then? Nay! Then, she had made herself as unappealing as possible. Now that she smelled like stinkweed and posies, now she was eager to be helpful? Women!

"Should I jiggle my br**sts or something?"

"What?" He whirled on her, his eyes wide and incredulous.

"Well," she said with obvious embarrassment. "Ducky said that when her Albert was alive, all she had to do was jiggle her br**sts at him and he would – "

"Oh, please," Hethe interrupted faintly, trying to banish the sudden image of the plump, middle-aged maid jiggling her not unimpressive br**sts. "I really do not want to know such things."

She was silent for a moment, then asked, "What should I do, then?"

"Just lie there," he ordered grimly. "Just – I need another drink."

Turning on his heel, he strode back out of the room without even bothering to retrieve his tunic. He walked down the corridor, straight down the stairs and across the great hall with the same grim strides as before. Reaching the table, he picked up the ale pitcher – it still rested on the table, and he was relieved to find that it had been refilled – and began to gulp down its contents.

"Oh, dear," he heard Lord Templetun mutter somewhere behind him. "This isn’t going at all well."

"Well, the first time, he was minus his armor, and now he is minus his tunic. At least he is making progress," Stephen pointed out, his voice sounding suspiciously amused.

"My lord," Templetun began at last as Hethe lowered the emptied ale pitcher. "I really think – "

"I do not want to hear any more of your thinking," Hethe interrupted.

"But you must – "

"Tell it to Wee Hethe, Templetun. He’s the one not cooperating."

"Oh, dear." Templetun’s gaze dropped briefly below Hethe’s waist with speculation. "What appears to be the problem with, er, Wee Hethe?" Was there laughter in the old man’s voice?

Hethe rolled his eyes at that and bellowed the obvious: "She reeks!"

"Well, aye. But wee Hethe has no nose. How would he know?"

A guttural growl sounding deep in his throat, Hethe started toward the man. He would be mocked no longer! Luckily, Stephen jumped to his feet and moved between them. "A mask!"

Hethe glanced distractedly at his second. "What?"

"Can you not wear something over your nose to dull the scent?"

Hethe made a face at the suggestion. "I tried that the morning after the wedding. It blunted the smell, but did not keep it entirely out."

"Oh." Stephen and Templetun sagged with disappointment, then seemed to chew the matter over again.

After a moment, his second perked up and suggested, "Perhaps, if you perfumed the mask – "

"A brilliant idea!" Templetun decided, nodding excitedly. "That will do the trick!"

Hethe didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Helen sat up on the bed, her gaze moving resentfully to the door. Really, this was too much. How many times was the man going to flee the room like that? She would almost think it was funny, were it not for the fact that she was so anxious.

What with the conversation she had with her aunt and Ducky that morning, Helen was as nervous as the virgin she was, and her husband’s constant retreats were not helping much with her anxiety. Not to mention the discomfort and embarrassment. Lying here on the bed, splayed out and awaiting his pleasure, was humiliating. Helen was not used to being passive… in anything.

She glanced toward the door again, her mind considering what was to come. What her husband’s…

She couldn’t help but wonder what it looked like. She had a vague idea, but she hadn’t had the sense to look on their wedding night now, she wished she had. How big was it; she wondered. The concern seemed a valid one. The man had colossal shoulders. Was his… was it just as colossal? Her legs slid together at the thought. She wished he would get this damn act over with. It was like awaiting stitches, or having a tooth pulled.

A rattle from the door warned of Hethe’s return, and Helen promptly fell back on the bed. She heard the door open but refused to look up. Perhaps if she pretended she wasn’t here and this wasn’t happening…

"Sweet Jesu!" she shrieked suddenly, scrambling up the bed as a masked figure stepped up before her.

"It is I, Lord Hethe," it said. The muffled voice slightly ruffled what she saw was a strip of linen tied around the figure’s head.

Helen merely stared. Surely her husband did not intend to wear that while he… Dear Lord, yes, he did.

Biting her lip, she immediately dropped her head.

"This was Stephen’s idea," he explained, untying the laces of his breeches and beginning to shove them down. "This way, your smell should not prevent the… You are trembling. Your shoulders are shaking.

Do not be frightened; I will not hurt you."

Helen managed to subdue the dismayed laughter making her body shake, and she raised her head. The first thing she saw was his manhood, and it had a detrimental effect on her composure. She had been so terrified all day, so frightened of the object before her that actually seeing the wrinkled little bit of flesh sagging between his legs now was rather anticlimatic. She was expecting something huge, something terrifying. But, nay… This was the great hog? This could cause her damage? "Not bloody likely," she muttered aloud and burst out in gales of rather hysterical laughter.

Catching the stricken look that immediately filled Hethe’s eyes, she tried to stem the flow of her amusement, but really, she had been so tense and anxious for so long, she could not seem to stop the sudden outpour.

"I am sorry. Truly," she gasped out as sincerely as she could while laughing uproariously. "It is just that you look – " Her voice died on a sigh as he tugged his breeches up and whirled away from the bed with disgust.

Chapter Thirteen

Hethe stormed across the room toward the fireplace. He could not do this. How was he supposed to do this with her laughing? With her smell? Not to mention that blasted rash. Every time he looked at her red, blotchy skin, guilt consumed him – and annoyance. And both had a detrimental effect on an erection, it seemed. He had never considered it before.