Dedicated to a random commenter: Thanks for the support @PiaVasquez7 <3

Chapter 10: Butter Butter

What in the demonic hells just happened?

With a deep flush of pink, Amelia dropped Drake's hand and raced out of his bedchamber, ignoring his outreaching hand and whatever he was calling out to her. Bounding down the spiralling flight of stairs, she almost tripped over her own legs, but her pace didn't slow until she reached the safe domain that was her bedchamber, and slammed the door shut with a loud bang.

"My lady?"

Amelia yelped in fright, then spun around to see Marge sitting in the corner of the room, paused in her needlework to look up at her with wide eyes. Putting a hand to her chest, Amelia tried to calm the wild beating of her heart with heavy intakes of breath.

"What happened, my lady?" Marge moved to stand up, but Amelia gestured for her to remain as she was. The maid continued to look up at her with a worried expression. "Is my lord––"

"He is fine, he has awoken." Amelia stalked over to her bed and planted herself face down into the pyramid of pillows. "But I am not fine. I need another plan."

"A plan for–– Oh, dear," Marge sighed and put her needlework to the side. "You are not done with that yet? I thought you were through fighting this when you started watching over him like a mother hen."

"I won't stop fighting until this whole farce is over," Amelia grumbled into the pillows.

"This 'farce' meaning your marriage?"

"Papa needs me, Marge," she responded on a soft whine.

Marge may be getting old, but she was neither blind nor deaf just yet. She could tell when the young lady's resolve was weakening. Hiding a small smile, she asked, "Would you like my advice, my lady?"

"Only if it's about how to get myself unmarried," Amelia mumbled back.

Too preoccupied with burying her face in the pillows, Amelia missed the impish gleam of wisdom that flashed in her maid's eyes. "Why not just ask my lord himself?" Marge suggested.

Amelia turned onto her side so she could slant a glare of indignation in her direction. "Are you out of your mind, Marge?" She puffed an exasperated sigh before launching into a rattling rant. "Of all the useless things that my tutors taught, the chauvinist marital laws of our kingdom was something they emphasised as much as they could—the Gods-damned laws that allow husbands to lash their wives in public to effect on her the same humiliation he suffered from her disloyalty, whether that be adultery or otherwise. And breach of a betrothal contract between the families—"

"All that depends on the husband taking some sort of action, does it not?"

"Marge, I've met enough noblemen to know that they cannot stomach any damage to their pride," Amelia snapped with a roll of her eyes. "The higher their status, the bigger their ego, and papa just had to marry me off to one of the highest nobles in the North."

"Yet how many of those arrogant noblemen would want the world to know of their wives' lack of desire for them?"

Amelia tilted her head slightly in thought and her brows crossed in deliberation. "B-but my tutors told us about the cases of Baron Roger Lamine, who delivered five lashes to his baroness in the Temple of Lyons, and Viscount Vermont—"

"Both of which occurred more than half a century ago."

"But my tutors—"

"I never knew you for such a good student, my lady!" Marge teased. "They told the stories to scare little girls like you."

Amelia snorted through her nose."Well then, has there been any woman who initiated divorce and was successful?"

"Not many, but it has happened." Just as optimism began to shine in Amelia's eyes, Marge cruelly doused her hopeful flames. "With their husbands' consent, of course. Or at the very least, lack of opposition."

Amelia pouted. "And you haven't told me this before..." Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Every lady marries, sooner or later." Marge shrugged. "If the stories made you accept your marriage, then they were good stories."

"Marge!"

"Though I no longer hold that view."

"Oh?" Amelia's tone was full of disbelief. She would take more convincing.

Marge breathed, preparing to feign an act of sympathy (a skill she picked up from years of observing Amelia's acts, no less). "My lady, you know how I care for you. I had hoped that you would come to love your life here in time, but"––she sighed a very convincing sigh––"I really cannot bear to see you so miserable any longer." She gave a few moments for the words to sink in, then watched as the lady's guarded look began to crumble. Who could have expected the little lady to be played at her own game? "Heed my advice, my lady, ask him," she cajoled.

"But the risk... It could ruin my family's reputation and... and papa..."

Marge smiled with a small shake of her head. "Know this, my lady. There are two very different ways to command a man to do your bidding. Some, you must persuade by threat or force. And then there are others who need to be buttered up first."

A delicate brow cocked in doubt. "Are you saying... Drake is the type that needs to be, uh, buttered up?"

"Well, how has attempting to force his hand turned out for you?" Seeing Amelia's grimace, Marge nodded. "Thought so. I dare say he is the sort that must be buttered up, then. Tell me, was he nice to you when he woke today?"

Clearly not expecting the question, Amelia choked and spluttered, "So... so, h-how do I butter a divorce out of him?"

The lady's profuse blushing and finger-twiddling did not escape the maid's sharp eyes. Picking up her needlework again, Marge lowered her head to hide the small curl of her lips. "You have to be nice to him, my lady. Agreeable, gentle, caring, nice. This will be the perfect time, for he is still recovering, and will greatly appreciate your kindness. Be so nice that he cannot bear to hurt you, even if you cause him humiliation. Appease to him, so that in time, you may ask, in exchange for saving his life, that he consent to a divorce."

Amelia sat up languidly in the bed, and simply stared at Marge for a long moment, her little brain whirling, turning, attempting to digest the plan. At last, her jaws dropped. "Marge, how did I never know you for a master schemer!" In the next second, she was flying across the room and pressing slobbery kisses to the maid's wrinkled face.

As the kisses receded, Marge poked the sharp tip of her needle into the fabric and slowly pulled the thread through. Beneath the silken folds of the dress she was mending, she held two fingers crossed the entire time, in a silent prayer for forgiveness for her well-intentioned misguidance.

* * *

Inch by inch, Drake shuffled the weight of his own body towards the edge of his bed. Pushing his legs off the side and holding on to one of the wooden bedposts, he pulled himself to his feet. A burning pain seared into his right leg, and he fell back into the bed with a muffled curse.

He glared at the new bell ringer to the side. He refused to give up so easily.

Again and again, he tried to heave himself up, only to fall back down. At last, sweat-soaked, he managed to steady himself on his feet. Then it was the most minuscule shift in balance that sent the pain through his leg again, and he fell to the floor with an agonising groan.

Leaning back against the edge of the bed, he swiped his fingers through his hair in bitter frustration. Only then did he realise how long it had gotten. He touched his fingers to his face, and felt the coarseness of a fortnight's worth of beard. Looking like a street scum was the least of his grievances at the moment, but a grievance nonetheless.

He glared down at the arrow wound in his thigh. Blood had seeped through the linen bandage from his unsuccessful attempts to stand. William said he almost lost his leg for good. The arrow had embedded in its stem a series of small metal hooks. If it had been pulled out by force—as his men had tried to do—the inconspicuous little hooks would have ripped through his muscles and caused a wound so unmendable that his leg would have needed to be amputated.

It was Amelia who spotted the small hooks in the protruding stem and insisted, despite his men's warning protests, that the arrow be pushed through his thigh. The operation required skill—one which she clearly possessed. Now the wound extended from the top side of his thigh to the underside, but his leg was intact.

As he conjured the imagery of the auburn-haired nymph he saw in his dreams, his frustration simmered into something else entirely. If someone had told him half a year ago that he'd come to think of the irritating little chit he married as an interesting creature, he would probably—nay, most certainly—have sent the person to a healer for the mind. And now, she was plaguing his mind in a way he'd never before experienced.

He blamed that blasted Duran, who was tasked with writing him regular reports while he was away in Westdawn. The reports mentioned everything about Steersberg, his household, what Amelia did each day, the assault she encountered... All but her complete change in appearance and demeanour. One measly little task and he couldn't do it right. Argh.

The surprise transformation—not just in terms of her looks, but the way she interacted with the servants—has left him dumbfounded, bewildered and infinitely intrigued by his wife. A wife who, in all respects, was entirely new and unfamiliar to him. She has had a hidden agenda from the start. That much was obvious. Strangely, it did not bother him, only made her that much more mystifying.

Drake looked down at the palm of his right hand. It burned with his recollection of her kiss. He closed his fist, as if to contain the memory of that moment. It'd been three days since she ran from his side.

With a renewed burst of energy, he clambered back onto the bed and reached for the bell ringer. If she was going to avoid him, he would come to her.

* * *

The emotions Amelia carried as she trudged careful, dainty steps towards Drake's bedchamber were akin to those that a soldier might bear in the face of his first real battle. In other words, it was a mixture of fear, nervousness, and a consistent refusal to accept she'd signed herself up for this.

It had taken a day for her mind to acclimate to the ideas that Marge had come up with, and another two to muster the courage to actually embark on this ridiculous plan. Kind gestures and gentle touches she could do. Even soft speech didn't seem that great of a challenge. But—she glanced down at herself—this new attire...

Coming to the entrance of Drake's quarters, it took every ounce of her willpower not to retreat back the way she came.

"M'lady." Indeed, the curt nods that the guards greeted her with were accompanied by widened eyes and lifts of the eyebrows. Lucas, the young guard who'd helped her smuggle a herd of farm animals into Drake's bedchamber several months ago, even threw her a playful wink and cheeky grin.

Her hands shook, and she almost dropped the silver platter she was carrying. Muttering a curse under her breath, she rolled her eyes at Lucas and quickened her pace.

At the door to his bedchamber, she hesitated. How pathetic was she really? Not long ago, she was here everyday for a fortnight. Now, she was afraid of bringing some afternoon tea to him? She was the one with a plan. He'd been on a restricted diet, and Marge said the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. She just has to do this right, and everything will go according to plan. Balancing the tray on one hand, Amelia swallowed her nerves and counted to three before she knocked.

Silence.

She knocked again and pressed her ear to the door. Nothing. He was probably asleep. Carefully, as quietly as she could, she pushed open the door.

Through open windows, the afternoon sun of late fall bathed the room in a warm, golden glow. In the large, empty chamber, a soft breeze tugged at the smooth silk drapes of–– Wait, empty? Her eyes went first to the mussed up sheets on the bed, then flicked to every corner of the room, and back to the bed. There was––

Her breathing hitched with every step she took towards the bed. Fear gripped her heart as she looked down at the angry colour that stained the sheets. Blood. No.

Just as she was about to scream, voices echoed from behind a side door that led to Drake's bathing chamber. She wondered for a moment if she should call the guards, but the voices sounded again. Feminine voices. She walked slowly to the door. It was left slightly ajar, and she nudged it open with a foot.

The door to the bathing chamber swung open to reveal a naked man surrounded closely by three women––one behind and one on either side of him. The tray she bore, now forgotten, dropped to the floor with a shattering clang. All three women spun around. The man, sitting on a stool in the middle of the chamber, turned to regard her with dark, unreadable eyes.

Alright, he had a towel around his waist, but... "Drake," she gasped. He lifted a brow in silent question. As if she was the one to be questioned! Rage overtook her and Marge's advice about being soft and smooth like butter flew out the open windows in an instant. "Get out," she growled. "NOW!"

Though her order was directed to the three women, she kept her eyes on Drake, unfaltering even as they scrambled out of the bathing chamber. She did not care to identify them. They were not the problem—he was.

And yet he just sat there, all scarred muscles and a towel, folding his arms across the chest and looking up at her like nothing had happened.

Their staring contest continued for a brief while, until she could no longer contain the snarl that spilled from her lips. "You twisted, disgusting, sorry excuse—"

"I was disgusting," Drake began, his calmness a sharp contrast to her screech, "which was why—"

"—of a man. You—"

"—they were here to—"

"—sicken me!" she spat.

"—clean me."

"You–– Clean? Clean..." She stopped. "Clean what?"

"Me," he repeated.

The firestorm assaulting the chamber began to settle as she asked dumbly, "Huh?"

"Amelia," Drake sighed. "I had not bathed for over two weeks. And as you can see"—he stretched his arms to his sides, revealing the stitched slash across his chest that still trickled with blood—"my ability to help myself is quite limited," he said with a sardonic smile.

It was then Amelia finally noticed his freshly bandaged thigh and, indeed, sitting in a tray beside his stool were linen bandages and herbal poultices. A wave of déjà vu swept over her as she felt like digging a hole for herself, again. Suppressing the embarrassment for the time being, she rushed over to him, stumbling over the tray of tea and food she'd dropped to the floor in the process. She blushed. "I'm sorry..." she mumbled, but added quietly, "But did you really need three?" He arched his brows but said nothing.

Cleaning first around the area of his chest wound, Amelia applied the poultice carefully to the slash that stretched from one side of his upper ribs to the collarbone of the other. Picking up the bandage, she met Drake's hawk-like gaze for only a second, but it was enough to make her fingers tremble. She could do this. She did this for two weeks while he was unconscious. This time would be no different.

She scooted closer. To lay a strip of linen bandage over the wound, she had to get so close that her nose almost touched his chest. So close that she felt invaded by his spicy, masculine scent. A droplet of water fell onto his shoulder and crossed paths with the white linen. Her eyes followed the wet trail upwards the way it came, until she took in the profile of his clean-shaven jaws and short-cropped hair. Cleaning, bandaging, shaving... this, she supposed, was why he'd enlisted the help of three maids. The embarrassed flush in her cheeks extended to her neck and ears.

His voice sounded just above her head. "Are you going to secure that somehow, or are you going to keep holding it like that until the next time you change the dressing?" She looked down first at her hands, splayed awkwardly on two sides of his chest, then raised her head to see his lopsided grin. Oh, he found this funny, did he? Despite all her profuse blushing, she glared at him. Unperturbed, he continued, "You see, it is getting cold here. Though I wouldn't mind it if..." He leaned into her so that his next words came out as a whisper of hot breath against the side of her neck, "You came a little closer."

Amelia gasped, suddenly all too aware of his state of undress, the proximity of their bodies, and the heat that passed from beneath her palms and travelled through her veins. She reeled back, desperate to put much needed space between them. Get a grip! she scolded herself.

Wordlessly, diligently and as coolly as she could manage, she rolled the bandage over his shoulder and around his back––forced in the process to almost hug him. She dreaded having to do this twice more. Why, oh why, did she send the maids away? Could she ask them to come back, and explain that she'd thought they were copulating with her husband? She wanted to kick herself into oblivion for her rashness.

Drake wasn't helping either. Though she avoided his gaze, she could feel very acutely the hot air that he continued to breathe down the column of her throat and her breasts. Mostly the latter, because devils had possessed her when she let Marge talk her into wearing this form-hugging, cleavage-boosting, utterly inappropriate gown.

The dress felt impossibly tighter.

Her nimble hands doubled in speed and fastened the bandage with a small pin. Mission accomplished, she stepped back. He stared up at her with those dark, fathomless eyes and she could only wrung her fingers nervously, unsure of what she was supposed to do next. "D-Do... Do you need help getting back to... your bed?" Why did her voice sound like a squeak? Now she wanted to slap herself.

Drake ignored the question, proceeding to ask his own. "Now that the lady of the house has made it so abundantly clear that she does not like others helping me bathe..." He raised an eyebrow, and swept his gaze over the wounds, large and small, that covered his body. "How do you propose I should...?"

Why did he have to remind her of the stupid act she'd committed earlier? "I'll do it," she snapped, quick to disguise her sheepishness.

Amusement danced in his eyes. "Oh, you will?" he drawled, his voice suddenly sounding husky and... dangerous.

She flushed again, for reasons unknown. "I—"

"Good."

As he studied her with his all-too-intent gaze and a smirk too smug for her liking, she could not help but feel as if she'd just stumbled into not one, but two traps.