“What do you mean?” Della didn’t like his first idea at all, but was intrigued that there could be more.
“I don’t think you are ready. Mayhap, I will show you someday. More than likely, I will not.”
Remembering herself, she stiffened, angered by his comments, angered by what he hinted and would not tell her more about. What he had done with others and now claimed she was not capable of trying? Had he been with several women at once? Had he enjoyed it? Did he truly want her to be one of the women?
I will not do it!
“Nay, Della?” Brant lifted a brow when she didn’t speak, purposefully confusing and taunting her. It was an easy mark, hitting her with her innocence, but he was drunk and he was mad. He’d begun to sober during their dance, though his words still carried a slight slur to them.
“Nay, I will not be privy to your sinful ways.” Even angry, she was beautiful. “It is enough that I have been expected to share your bed in the past.”
At that Brant frowned, seething in irritation at the slight. The dance ended and he dropped his arm to bow to her. What else could he really say? Della curtsied properly to him and bowed her head in halfhearted acknowledgement of those around her. Unable to help himself, Brant pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Della made a weak noise.
He couldn’t continue, or he wouldn’t be able to stop. Her felt her heart beating hard and fast against him. As soon as his lips left hers he whispered, “Get you abovestairs and interrupt my festivities no more. Lest the next time I see you tarrying, I will suspect you wish to be shown what you claim to want no part of. Repeatedly.”
Della jerked away from him. Fear swam in her gaze as she looked at him. Without another word, she turned and ran abovestairs. Brant stared for a long moment before moving toward the high table. He ignored all who spoke as he grabbed a goblet of ale. It should only take a few more drinks before he could feel nothing at all.
Chapter Eighteen
Brant didn’t come to her bed that night, as she lay awake, her heart pounding in her throat, in her chest, even in her thighs. She’d seen the distant anger in his blue eyes when he looked at her. Those eyes belonged to a man she had never seen before and, for the first time, she truly feared him.
Though she lay awake night after night, he didn’t come to her bed. The feasting and gaming continued on belowstairs, much to Della’s dismay. She hadn’t seen Serilda in the hall again and had been informed that the midwife had indeed left the keep. In that she could take some bleak pleasure. However any happiness was short lived.
Her sickness held on, making her rest more than usual, but sleep was not peaceful and she almost preferred to stay awake. She missed Brant, missed the smell of him. The nightmares she had of her mother were gradually replaced by nightmares of Brant in the arms of other women. Often times they were faceless images sent to torment her, sent to remind her that she could not have the one thing she wanted—her husband.
Della believed her depression somehow kept the sickness in her. After the fifth night of hiding away from the main hall, she’d had enough. The few glimpses she’d been afforded of the dining area were enough to make her stomach churn.
On the sixth morning of exile, she dressed in one of her best gowns and took special care plaiting back her clean hair. She smiled pleasantly as she made her way belowstairs, preparing herself for what awaited her. Della was not disappointed as the fresh scent of rushes washed over her. They were being applied to the floor and were a great relief after the spilled food from Lord Blackwell’s festivities.
“What goes on here, Ebba?” Della questioned the maidservant in forced surprise. “Has Lord Blackwell stopped the gaiety so soon?”
“Nay, m’lady. It’s the cleaning spirit again. She appeared to Gayla last eve.” Ebba pulled at her short black hair in agitation. “She said the spirit was angered greatly by the mess the men made in her hall and that we had to clean it at once!”
Della gasped, trying her best to look awed. She’d said no such thing to Gayla in the night. “The spirit, she talked?”
“Yea, m’lady, and not just to Gayla. Many of the others swore that they saw her too. She told Isa that if the kitchen was not scrubbed, she would cook us black in the caldron and then the spirit threw Isa into a wall. And e’en Edwyn said she told him if we didn’t remove the stench from the rushes, she would make us part o’ it! She’d make us part o’ the stench!”
My spirit has gotten most violent.
Della tried not to laugh as she nodded. In truth, Gayla was the only one she’d run across in the hall during the darkened hours of the night. Everyone else had been passed out in a drunken slumber. And she hadn’t talked to Gayla.