Enemy of My Enemy

Chapter Thirteen - Paths

The morning chill woke Meg; she was curled up in a ball, naked beneath the covers. It was still very early, she could tell. Where was Guy? She'd hoped to waken alongside him, the same way they'd gone to sleep. It was that, perhaps naively, which had prompted her to come into his bed last night. The rest of it had been.... unexpected.

Nothing at all, in fact, like what she'd been led to expect. Confusing, stimulating, a mix of pleasure and some discomfort....not as much as she'd feared it would be. There had been moments in which she'd felt tenderness flow from him, like something long suppressed finding an outlet. Sweet Meg. He hadn't wanted to hurt her, she knew that. His caresses had been so....intimate...the sensations he aroused so intense, that by the time Guy had joined himself to her she'd been prepared to give herself over to the whole experience, trusting wherever it led.

She'd been a little surprised by that, by where it had led. Perhaps, she mused, gently mocking herself, if you didn't want to be devoured, then best not to wander into the wolf's den. Is it always like that? she wondered. Meg presumed not. But maybe, the next time...

....the next time?

Her eyes flashed open. He's not here. Guy's leathers were gone; he'd clearly intended to be dressed and away before she woke up. Meg sat up, rummaging amongst the bedclothes for her shift, which she slipped back on. She hauled the covers round her shoulders and sat, hugging her knees, suddenly assailed by doubts. After the intimacies they'd shared, their first morning together as husband and wife, yet he hadn't bothered to stay until she woke? What was so pressing that it needed his attention, today of all days?

Or, had something else driven him away, something she'd done? Had he found her too wanton, or.....too unappealing....or...or...

Meg swiped tears away. It was no time to let emotions get the better of her.

She wished she knew what to do next. The servants were up, she could hear them moving about. They would have no reason to suspect the master and lady of the house had slept downstairs; the thought that someone might come into the room and see her sitting there, alone, amidst stained and rumpled sheets, propelled Meg from the bed. She went to the washstand and cleaned up; that she had expected. Her married friends had warned her of it.

What now?

One thing at a time. She must make her way upstairs, hoping not to pass any of the servants. She must dress, break her fast; her maid was expected mid-morning, and Esther could help unpack her trunk. Beyond that, she had no plans for the day, no structure. She'd thought, perhaps, to spend some of it with Guy. To talk about what her role here might be, about details of managing the manor, and of helping to run the estate.

But he didn't return until evening. Moody, preoccupied, they barely spoke over dinner. Afterwards he took himself off to the downstairs room, leaving Meg in no doubt that her place, that night, was upstairs and alone. She was surprised he'd come home at all.

The next night, he didn't. Nor did he the next. When he did return, the third night, he didn't bother to join her for dinner, but shut himself away with his wine jug.

Meg, tired of his surly demeanour, told herself that she was glad.

But, a lie was a lie; she was miserable, and had been for days. Sometimes, she clung to those two small words he'd uttered, reading hope into them. Sweet Meg. And just as often, she felt a fool for doing so: a careless endearment, tossed her way in the heat of his passion. Silly to read anything into them. Foolish girl. Well, he'd told her that, often enough. Perhaps that was why he was avoiding her now.

Well, if that were the case, then she was about to do something foolish again.

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