Nothing Else Matters Read Free Page B

rare beauty he held. Then he turned the same look on the talking mouse girl. And smiling like a cat, he lunged.

    * * * * *
“I’m not marrying her!”
    “You certainly are!”
    Stian bel owed, “The bitch bit me!” It was a wonder he could shout at al for the pain throbbing through his tongue. “And she clawed me!” He pointed to the scratch marks on his bare chest.
    “You shouldn’t have grabbed her like that,” Roger bel owed back. “She’s gently reared. You frightened her.”
    “Al I did was kiss her.”
    “Half ravishing a maiden on the top of a table is more than a kiss.”
    “I wasn’t ravishing her. I lost my balance when she kicked me. We tripped on to the table.”
    His father struck him on the shoulder. Roger of Harelby had always had a hard hand, though he often added a loving word or two after a beating. Stian
    had learned never to flinch and always to stand up for himself.
    “You frightened the girl,” his father said, as though this Eleanor’s emotions mattered to him.
    “Mice frighten easily,” Stian replied. She’d fought him like a hel cat, in truth. Stian had been surprised by her spirited response.
    “Mice don’t general y inflict wounds,” his father pointed out, and laughed. Stian growled at the sound. Roger cal ed for more wine and handed him a cup when it came. “Calm down,” he ordered. “Let us talk.”
    Stian was suspicious of too much talking but his father was fond of it. He perched himself on the edge of the table and drank down his wine. When he was done, he mumbled, “What? I’m not marrying her,” he added, just in case his father hadn’t heard him the first time.
    “It’s time you married.” Roger declared. “I’ve chosen Eleanor for you. You’l wed her tonight.”
    “No.”
    “You’l do as you’re told.”
    “Why?” Stian began to pace across the dais.
    “To give me grandchildren.”
    Stian gestured at the large crowd of servants gathered in the hal who gaped openly at them instead of going about their business. “I must have sired
    some of the brats down there.”
    “You’ve probably sired half the brats in the shire,” his father said. “It’s heirs I want out of you. Babes born in wedlock to inherit our lands. A grandson to hold in my arms.”
    Stian drank more wine and scratched his bare stomach. His chest bore several bloody lines raked through his reddish chest hair by the mouse’s claws.
    “Nicolaa Brasey,” he said after looking at the scratches for a while. “I’l wed the Brasey widow.”
    “You’l do no such thing. You’l marry Eleanor FitzWalter! And,” Roger added, shaking a fist at Stian, “you’l treat her with respect.”
    “She’s a mewling, mousy virgin!”
    “She’s no mouse.”
    Stian recal ed his aching tongue. “More like a cornered rat,” he acknowledged. “Damn!” He threw himself into the room’s one high-backed chair. It was his father’s place but he paid no attention to that formality. Neither did Roger.
    “I don’t mind the thought of marrying,” he said. “One bitch is as good as another for breeding on. But this girl…” He didn’t quite remember what she looked like, though he had an impression of soft breasts crushed against his chest when they fel . He had her round bottom under his hands the instant before that. “Why can’t I have the pretty one?” he complained.
    His father’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Eleanor is pretty.”
    “The other one’s prettier.”
    “Edythe is my wife.” The cold, firm tone warned Stian away from arguing. And away from Roger’s property.
    Oh aye, take the best for yourself and leave me with the scrapings , Stian thought resentful y. Then he was immediately guilty at his own surly jealousy. It was his father’s right to marry where he chose. It was also his right to order his son to marry as wel . “Damn,” he said, but the word was spoken more in acquiescence than in protest.
    “You’l like her,” Roger said, as though he needed to