Those beautiful blue eyes didn’t so much as flicker. ‘I have agreed,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow will be fine. There is no need to wait till after Christmas.’
Adam gave what he hoped was an unconcerned nod as a new, urgent thought relegated Golde Street to the back of his mind. He wanted—no, he ached for her to give him some physical sign of her acceptance. A squeeze of her fingers, perhaps. A smile, even. For a moment she did not move, and then it was as though she had read his mind. She smiled and reached up to draw his head down to hers.
Her kiss was as light as thistledown and she drew back at once, crimson.
It was enough. With a murmur, Adam tugged her towards him. Wrapping his arms about her waist, he buried his face in her neck and felt the first peace he had known all day.
‘Damn this wimple,’ he said, drawing back to push it aside. He kissed her neck, nipping gently at the skin. Fingers on her chin, he turned her lips to his.
The kiss went on a long time—long enough for his tongue to trace her lips, for hers to trace his, long enough for his loins to tighten and for him to want to press himself against her and wish that tomorrow was already here. Long enough for him to forget utterly that he had heard her in Golde Street only that morning…
Giving a shaky laugh, he raised his head. ‘We’ll have to do something about your clothing. I cannot wed you garbed as a novice.’
Nodding, she eased away. Because he wanted to snatch her back, Adam stuck his thumbs into his belt.
‘I saw my sister Emma’s clothes chest in the Hall. She won’t mind if I borrow her gowns.’ She tipped her head back to look up at him, and her mouth was sad. ‘My mother had some stuff stored away too…’
‘All yours now, to dispose of as you will,’ Adam said carefully, conscious that she must resent the circumstances in which she had come to inherit her mother’s belongings.
‘Yes. My thanks.’
He glanced about, seeing the cookhouse for the first time. ‘This place is a midden. And it will be dark soon.’ Turning from the filthy workbench, he nudged the dead ashes in the hearth with the toe of his boot. ‘Shouldn’t this be fired?’
‘Yes.’
That wary, haunted expression was back in her eyes. Was she afraid of him? A moment ago that had not seemed possible, but…‘Where’s the cook?’
‘Lord knows—run off and hidden somewhere. I was trying to hunt something out for supper.’
‘It’s a good thought—the men are starving. But I don’t expect you to cook for us.’
‘Someone has to…’ She was the picture of anxiety. ‘I have to tell you that the stocks are shamefully low…’
He smiled. ‘We’ve not eaten a decent meal in weeks. Another day more or less wouldn’t kill us. But you should not be cooking.’
‘I don’t mind. Just till I find Lufu.’
‘No, it’s not your place—but you will need to order the help. I saw a couple of lads lurking in the stables…’
‘That would be Harold and Carl, the miller’s boys.’
He was pleased to see the worry leaving her eyes. It was replaced with a look of puzzlement, as though she wanted to fathom him but could not. Well, that was hardly surprising. She was a mystery to him too.
‘I’ll get young Herfu to haul them over. They can earn their keep,’ he said. ‘Herfu can help too.’
‘Brian?’
‘Aye—he cooked for the troop before, and no one died.’
She smiled. ‘That’s a mercy. I can’t promise much tonight—unless we can lay our hands on some meat. There is no time to slaughter a pig or a lamb, and in any case their meat is best hung before eating—there are chickens, though, will they do?’
‘A feast. I’ve been longing for chicken ever since Mother Aethelflaeda tantalised us at the convent.’ Adam leaned forwards as a force that was beyond his strength to resist had him dropping a kiss on her nose. Fool, fool, wait until you know where her loyalties lie. ‘I’ll send Herfu over immediately. Once you’ve instructed him and the miller’s boys, come back to the Hall, would you?’
‘As you wish. Why?’
‘Because we’re going to search out the reeve—what was his name?’
‘Godwin.’
‘Godwin—aye. Maybe Godwin will know where the cook has gone, and I want you with me. It was heavy going, getting the message across to Father Aelfric.’
‘Of course. I understand.’
Dusk was falling by the time Cecily walked back into to the Hall.
Sir Richard was ensconced on a bench by the trestle, a cup of wine at his elbow, a lute in his hand. She broke her stride. A lute? Of course there was no reason why a Norman should not play the lute. But it gave her pause to see one of Duke William’s knights with a delicate musical instrument. His squire, Geoffrey, and a couple of the troopers sat with him, deep in murmured conversation. Adam was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Gudrun. But Adam’s squire, Maurice, was dandling a cooing Agatha on his knee, and Philip…
Her brother’s basket lay in the sleeping area, but from her standpoint it wasn’t possible to see inside. Was Philip with Gudrun or was he asleep? She didn’t care to think that he might have been left alone in the Hall with not a Saxon in sight. True, with Agatha crowing and waving her chubby fists at him so gleefully, Maurice did not look capable of harming a baby, but if Adam and his men discovered that Philip was the rightful heir to Fulford how would they react? Would they kill him? No, surely a man like Adam Wymark—apparently a considerate man—would not countenance infanticide?
Masking her concern, and mindful of Adam’s comments about not wishing to marry her in her habit, she stole a glance across the rushes to where Emma kept her clothes chest. It wasn’t there.
Nevertheless, Philip’s basket was. Casually, she wandered across. Her brother was asleep on his side, with only his face and one tiny fist visible above the coverlet. So sweet. So small. Her throat ached.
Adjusting his covers, she straightened. ‘Sir Richard?’
‘My lady?’
‘There was a small chest here earlier, under the window. Did anyone move it?’
‘Was it painted red?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Adam had it hauled up to the loft chamber.’
The loft room to one side of her father’s mead hall had been built at about the time of Thane Edgar’s marriage to her mother. Being Norman, Thane Edgar’s bride had not liked to sleep with the rest of the household. She had expected the Thane of Fulford and his lady to have some private space. The loft room had served Cecily’s parents as bedchamber, and also as meeting room for the immediate family.
Murmuring her thanks, Cecily hooked up her skirts and started up the ladder.
At the top, the landing was large enough for two people and the linen press, no more. She paused by the press, steeling herself—she had not entered this room since she had been forced into her novice’s habit.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted the latch. Facing her, at the gable end, was her parents’ bed—now Adam’s. Light slanted down from a wind-eye above it, lighting up a tumble of untidy bedding, a man’s green tunic, a crumpled white linen chainse or shirt. A brazier, unlit, stood at her right hand, another on her left…
A movement on the left caught her attention.
Adam! Stripped to the waist, standing before a ewer of