Page 46 of The Bear's Heart
Arthur’s head turned, and I saw with a shock that dried blood crusted his face and beard. From beneath a dirty bandage his dark eyes found mine and lit up. He was off his horse in a second, and I ran into his arms, tears running down my cheeks.
“Gwen!” He held me close, arms tight around me, as though he never wanted to let me go. I clung to him, breathing in the scent of blood and horses and male sweat that once would have made me turn up my nose, but now was comfortingly familiar.
“Arthur!” I could only repeat his name, so relieved was I to have him back with me. “Arthur.”
Merlin stepped up to us and slapped him on the back. “Best keep walking or the rest of the army will never get through the gate.”
Arthur jerked back to reality and, releasing me from his embrace, took my hand instead and began to walk along the wide street that led to the forum, leading his horse. Merlin fell in just behind us. I had a hundred questions, but for now I was content to walk quietly by his side, basking in the fact that he was back safely with me at last. In my belly, our child turned a little somersault.
Chapter Eighteen
In the privacyof our chambers, I knelt beside the wooden bath, sponging Arthur’s back as he leaned forward. His body mapped how the war had gone, bruises of varying shades mottling his skin alongside a multitude of grazes and healed cuts. He winced as I applied a little too much pressure, and I hesitated.
Turning his head, he looked up at me from beneath his damp curls. “Scrub as hard as you need. I’m filthy and stink, and can’t wait to get rid of the smell of battle.”
I rubbed harder again, trying to lather a soap that didn’t want to oblige. The sight of him so damaged ate at my heart. If this was the reality of fifth-century warfare, would I have to see him like this time and again? I could understand why Uthyr Pendragon had seemed aged beyond his years, and why Manogan was as mad as he appeared to be. Maybe turning to God, instead of war, was a better alternative. As his mother had wanted.
The cut on his head which the bandage had covered was in his hairline, and relatively new. When I washed his hair, the cut began to bleed afresh. Bright blood trickled down the side of his face to his freshly shaven chin. Rinsing my cloth in a bowl of now bloodstained salty water, I re-applied it to the cut. “How did you get this?”
He gave a shrug. “I’ve no idea. I only noticed it when the blood got in my eyes.”
As well ask a modern car mechanic how he’d got so dirty.
I finished his back, and he reclined in the bath, the dirty, cooling water slopping. Despite the state he was in, he had a smile on his face that I recognized, as he raised a wet hand and touched my cheek. “I thought of you every moment of every day I was away.” His thumb caressed my skin, and my heart gave a little leap as I closed my eyes in pleasure. After all these weeks, I’d almost forgotten the way his touch could send shivers through my body.
My breath caught in my throat. “I could think of nothing else but you.”
He pushed aside the washing cloth, and I let it drop into the water unheeded. Standing up in the bathtub, he drew me to my feet and pulled me into his wet embrace. I clung to his naked body as if I’d thought I’d never do so again– which, in fact, in moments of doubt, I had. He stepped out of the bath and scooped me up in his arms to carry me to our bed. With infinite care, he laid me down on it, then crawled across me until his face hovered over mine, careful not to put any weight on my still only scarcely rounded stomach.
I reached up to touch his damaged face. The bleeding had all but stopped, and his skin felt smooth and bristle free. “I prefer you without a beard.” My fingers traced the contours of his chin. “I like being able to see what you look like.” A nasty bruise darkened his cheekbone, and a scab clung where the skin had been broken.
He laughed. “And do I please you?”
My heart thundered in my chest. “You do indeed.” My voice had grown husky with desire, and an ache for him was pounding through my body so that I was nearly squirming with anticipation. “Although you’d please me better if you weren’t so battered.”
Ignoring my rebuke, he bent his head and kissed me, his loose wet curls brushing my skin as his mouth came down on mine. My lips parted, our tongues met, and I reached my other hand to pull him down onto me.
Eventually, we both came up for air, panting. He grinned mischievously, and his hand ran down my body, hitching at my skirts. “You’ve far too many clothes on.”
My breathing came fast and shallow. “I’ll remedy that. Get up a minute, and I’ll take them off.”
With laughter playing on his lips, he rolled off me to lie on his back, watching in open appreciation as I stripped off, letting my clothes puddle about my feet. In a moment, I was back on the bed, straddling him. That he was pleased to see me was more than evident, but I wasn’t going to hurry.
Still smiling, he reached up and pulled my heavy plait round to lie between my breasts. With slightly shaking fingers, he undid the tie that bound it, then ran his fingers through the braid until my hair fell loose around me in a shining chestnut veil. “I do believe your hair has changed color since I left.”
“Yes. Sunlight does it.” I leaned forward, brushing his curls out of his eyes, my own hair cascading over his body. “And missing you.” I bent my head and kissed him with all the pent-up emotion I’d been gathering since he’d ridden away without telling me he was going.
Much later, we lay back together on the bed, our bodies slick with sweat. In the midsummer warmth, we had no need of clothes.
After a bit, he rolled onto his side, and I became aware of him studying me with his gold-flecked brown eyes. Conscious of his intent scrutiny, I turned my head and smiled, a sensation of languorous satisfaction perfusing my body. The movement of the baby flittered through me as though aware of its father’s gaze.
I took Arthur’s hand in mine and laid it on the soft rise of my belly, palm flat against the skin. After a moment of absorbed concentration, a look of wonder suffused his face, and he raised surprised eyes to mine. The baby moved again, slithering beneath my skin, as indefinable as trapped wind, and Arthur laughed, a sound of pure joy, in stark contrast to the seriousness of his normal demeanor. Suddenly, he was my Arthur again, not the Dux Britanniarum, or the king of Dumnonia.
“That was him?” he asked. “That was our son?”
I smiled back. “Or maybe our daughter.”
He shook his head. “No, I know this baby is a boy. Merlin told me so.”
