Matilda looked over to where Gruffyth and Gwenllian were sitting, enjoying a performance by Owain’s bard. As she watched, Gruffyth whispered into his wife’s ear, and she laughed, then took hold of Gruffyth’s hand, twining their fingers together.
To Matilda, brought up in a Norman household, their public intimacies should have been shocking, but she was curious and cast several glances in their direction. She had never witnessed such tenderness, such ease in a couple.
Next to her, Huw reached forward to pick up his wine cup. She studied his fingers, long and slender, yet she knew from experience how strong they were. With a sudden jolt in the pit of her belly, she imagined weaving her fingers through his in the same way her aunt and uncle were doing. She could almost feel the heat of his hand in hers, the roughness of his thumb circling her palm.
She snatched up her wine cup and took a deep draught. It was impossible. She and Huw could never be that comfortable together. She clutched the cool silver cup tightly, trying to rid her hands of the burning sensation. She would never be able to trust Huw enough to relax and welcome his caress.
Yet in two days they were to be married.
Chapter Seven
Matilda wished she could press her hands to her stomach to try to ease the fluttering within, but when she lowered her arms, Gwenllian scolded her.
“Stand still, dear, or we’ll never get these lacings right.”
“I don’t know why we take so much trouble over dressing a bride,” said another lady, one of Gwenllian’s attendants. “The groom is always too busy imagining her without clothes to notice what she’s wearing.”
“Ah, but the art is to assist the groom’s imagination,” said another, giving a sharp tug to the lacings, further tightening the gown beneath Matilda’s breasts. She said something else which Matilda didn’t follow, because she was unfamiliar with the Welsh, but from the giggling it must be yet another joke about the wedding night.
A night she dreaded.
Yet after that evening where she had allowed herself for the first time to imagine the feel of Huw’s hand in hers, whenever he was near, her heart would give odd thumps, coupled with a spreading warmth in the pit of her belly.
And now, with all this talk of the wedding night, her chest felt so tight, she could hardly breathe. The women must have laced her gown far too tight.
After much fuss and discussion, Gwenllian stood back and looked Matilda up and down.
“There. You can put your arms down now, dear. Let me see how it looks.”
Matilda obeyed, wishing she could sit. She was feeling lightheaded because she had not managed to eat anything all morning. That was definitely the reason. Nothing to do with the images of Huw that wouldn’t leave her.
Gwenllian walked around her, pausing here and there to straighten seams and remove loose threads. Now Matilda knew how a horse must feel, being groomed for the market. “I knew this color would suit you,” Gwenllian said, tugging one flared sleeve into place. “This wine-red wool brings a lovely warm glow to your skin. The moment I saw you, I knew this cloth would make the perfect wedding gown. I just wish there was more time to prepare.” Her aunt ran a finger across the embroidered gold flowers around the neckline with a sigh. Then she picked up the girdle that was embroidered to match the trim on the neckline and hem, and wrapped it twice around Matilda’s hips before knotting it. “This would look so much better if we’d had time to sew on some seed pearls.”
“It’s exquisite,” Matilda assured her, forcing her frozen features into a smile. “I couldn’t have hoped for such a beautiful gown even with months to prepare. You’ve worked wonders.”
Gwenllian hugged her, then picked up an ivory comb. “Let’s get started on your hair,” she said. “It’s a good thing brides wear their hair down—I don’t know how I’d manage styling hair as long as yours. I swear it reaches your hips.” Matilda had already noticed that Welsh women wore their hair much shorter than Norman or English women. Gwenllian’s hair was only chin-length.
Matilda’s hair was a shimmering fall of golden silk by the time a soft knock sounded at the door. One of Gwenllian’s ladies peered inside. “It’s time to leave for the church, my lady.”
Matilda stood, folding her arms across her stomach. All warmth fled.
This was really going to happen. She was going to marry Huw. Until now it had seemed like a dream, unreal. Now it hit her that there was no avoiding it—within the hour she would be wed to a man who despised her.
Tainted Comyn blood.
The women gathered around her, all smiles and laughter as they fastened a necklace of garnets around her throat and placed a matching circlet upon her brow, both borrowed from her aunt. Then together they walked out into the courtyard, where Gruffyth awaited them.
He gave her an approving smile. “You look lovely, my dear. Now come, we mustn’t keep them waiting.”
Taking her arm, he led her through the gates and down a rough pathway to the church. Trees and thatched dwellings passed by in a blur. All she could see was the knot of folk by the church door, Huw in the center, towering over the rest.
He was looking her way, although it was still too far to make out his expression. She doubted it would be happy. They might have come to a grudging truce, but Huw had made no secret of his reluctance to marry.
She wanted time to slow down, but all too soon she was facing him, her uncle placing her cold hand into Huw’s warm one. At first she couldn’t find the courage to raise her eyes, but when she did, Huw didn’t look so much angry as startled.
He gave her a tight smile, then they turned to face the priest. A gentle breeze stirred Matilda’s hair, blowing strands of it across Huw’s face. The lightheaded sensation returned. If it wasn’t for Huw’s firm grasp, she felt she could float away. She repeated her vows, hearing her own voice, but hardly aware what she was saying. She searched Huw’s face as he placed a gold ring studded with garnets onto the priest’s open book, but she could see no sign of happiness there. No sign of emotion when the priest slid the ring onto her finger. The kiss Huw planted on her lips was as cold as the stone walls, his repugnance a crushing weight upon her chest.
With a heavy heart, she walked through the church doors, still holding Huw’s hand, and knelt at the altar to hear their first Mass as husband and wife. While the priest’s somber chant echoed from the vaulted ceiling, she cast glances at the man beside her. Huw. Her husband.
His mouth was turned down and deep lines furrowed his brow. Not the expression a bride dreams of seeing on her new husband, but she couldn’t blame him. She doubted she looked any happier.
Huw looked up and met her gaze. Her stomach swooped. She was immobile, unable to look away. This was the first time she’d allowed herself to look at him properly. She took in the sweep of his thick lashes, the flecks of green and gold in his eyes. The way they studied her in return, drinking in every detail. His frown lines deepened, then his gaze dropped to her mouth.
Heat flooded her face, and she tore away her gaze, focusing on her clasped hands for the rest of the Mass.
They returned from the church and went straight to the great hall for their wedding feast. They sat side by side at the high table, sharing a trencher, but although Huw picked the tastiest morsels from the serving dishes for her, she could hardly swallow a thing. Owain’s great hall glowed with golden candlelight and the deeper scarlet and crimson blaze of the central fire. The air throbbed with the joyful ripple of a harp, and they were surrounded by laughing voices. But they themselves were silent.
Matilda’s nerves were as tightly strung as the bard’s harp. Every now and again her hand would brush Huw’s, or she would feel the press of his thigh against hers, and crackling awareness sparked through every fiber of her being. What was happening to her? If only one of them could say something, maybe the air would weigh less heavily, stop humming with unspent lightning. But all she could do was watch his hands where they cradled his goblet. Hands that had every right to do with her as H
uw pleased.
The bard finished one song and started another. The haunting chords merged into the very same song Huw had played in Fitzjohn’s great hall. She closed her eyes. She had to say something now to break this painful silence. Anything.
That was when it struck her.
“You haven’t introduced me to any of your friends,” she said.
“You’ve met Owain,” he answered, starting as though disturbed from a dream.
“But Owain’s your king. What about friends you grew up with?” She searched the faces of the men present, looking for any she thought would be likely candidates.
Huw shrugged. “There weren’t any. What about you? Isn’t there anyone you wish you could have with you today?”
“From Sir Reginald’s household?” She shook her head. “He made sure any companions were ones who would report my every movement to him. I spent most of my time trying to avoid companions, not seeking them out.”
Huw’s mouth twisted. “It seems we have more in common than we first thought. We both prefer to be alone.”
“Yet we have to find a way to work together if we want to retake Coed Bedwen.”
“It’s quite simple—do as I say, and there won’t be a problem.”
A spike of irritation stabbed her in the gut. “You might be the one who’s spent years as a spy, but Owain chose me because I know Coed Bedwen. Don’t let your animosity blind you to my usefulness.”
To her surprise, Huw didn’t strike back with a barb of his own but set his cup back on the board with a sigh. “You’re right. You have my word I’ll listen to you. But you must trust me and let me have the final say.”
Trust. She picked up a piece of bread and slowly tore it to pieces. “You know I find trust difficult.”
“And with good reason, I grant you. But this will only work if we can rely on one another. We’ll probably have to work separately, but I’ll be there for you if you get into trouble. I need to know you’ll do the same for me.”
I’ll be there for you.
Matilda swallowed down bitter bile. What had she got herself into? She stumbled to her feet with no idea of where she was going, she just knew she had to get away.
Before she could make a move, a commotion broke out among the revelers.
One man raised his cup with a cheer. “Looks like the bride is in a hurry to get to the bridal chamber.” Judging from his flushed face, he had downed more than his share of the wine. “Time for the bedding revels!”
To Matilda’s dismay, the cry was taken up by others, and soon it was clear they wouldn’t be quieted. A group of men surrounded Huw and swept him out of the room, some of the jokes they shouted made Matilda’s ears burn. She didn’t have time to wonder where Huw was being taken, however, for Gwenllian and her ladies approached.
“This is earlier than I’d expected, but I suppose we can be grateful we got through the feast without any broken heads,” her aunt said, taking her arm.
Pressing her hands to her stomach to ease the churning within, she allowed the women to lead her from the hall. She walked blindly, only becoming aware of her surroundings when she saw they were in her guest chamber. There was a glowing fire in the brazier and the large, canopied bed had been strewn with blossoms and herbs.
“It’s my own secret mixture of herbs,” said a dark-haired woman as she tugged at the lacings of Matilda’s gown. “It’s guaranteed to ensure the conception of a son. You’ll have a swollen belly come harvest time.”
Despite the heat from the brazier, goose pimples rose on her skin. She shivered. She wasn’t ready for this, needed more time. Would it hurt?
“There’ll be maids weeping across Gwynedd tonight,” another woman said. “I’d be tempted to cast aside my Dafydd for a tumble with Huw ap Goronwy.”
That gave Matilda pause for thought. From what these women were saying, not only was there pleasure to be found in the marriage bed, but Huw was considered particularly desirable. She had spent so much of her life being wary of men that she hadn’t paid attention to their attractiveness.
There wasn’t time to ponder the effect Huw had on women, though, for the sound of male laughter and singing approached.
Her pulse sped up as the women hurried to undress her, all the while offering advice on the best ways to give Huw pleasure, while ensuring her own. Finally, she was left standing in her shift while they combed her hair and anointed her with rosewater.
Fists rapped at the door. Giggling, the women stripped Matilda of her shift and hustled her into the bed. The linen sheets were cold against her naked flesh.
The door burst open and the men tumbled in, Huw in their midst. The women squealed in protest, but it sounded half-hearted.
Peering over the bedcovers, she saw the women leave and a priest step forward. Sprinkling the bed with holy water, he prayed God’s blessing on the couple, then he left. She watched as the men began to strip Huw of his clothes. Her eyes newly opened to his potential desirability, she studied him, willing herself to feel something. Anything to help her through the night.
There was much to admire, now she came to look. She already knew he was strong, but now, as the men removed his tunic, his undershirt did nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders and narrowness of his hips. The ties on his shirt were undone so it gaped open, offering her a glimpse of sculpted muscle and whorls of dark hair.
Her mouth went dry. Although she hadn’t lost her fear of what was to come, a thrill of anticipation accompanied it.
Once Huw was stripped to his undershirt and braies, he managed, with much scuffling and cursing, to oust the last of the men from the room.
He slammed the door shut. They were alone.
The blood pounded in Matilda’s ears.
She expected him to come straight to bed; instead, he paced over to a table in the corner, upon which stood a jug of wine and two goblets. Matilda’s heart hammered, admiring the play of muscles in his calves and thighs that were visible through his fine linen braies.
She sat up, tugging the sheets to her neck, and took the cup her offered her. The pounding in her chest became painful when he stripped off his shirt and braies. She lowered her eyes and took a gulp of wine, but not before she caught a glimpse of sleek, firm flesh. The mattress dipped as he slipped into bed beside her.
Then Huw spoke, his voice making her jump. “Don’t look so afraid. I won’t hurt you.”
She raised her eyes to his face and saw not the distaste she had half feared, but a look that she could have sworn was confusion. But she must be wrong. Huw always knew what to do.
“We neither of us have made any secret that this marriage is against our wishes,” Huw continued, his voice gentler than she had ever known it. “We’re both in this for Coed Bedwen, and I won’t do anything to risk losing it.”
“Nor will I,” she replied, wondering where he was going. This seemed a strange conversation to be having on their wedding night.
“I’ve been thinking what you said about trust earlier. I realize I need to show you that you can trust me. So I won’t touch you. Not until you’re ready.”
She doubted that was a hardship, considering his distaste for her, but she bit back the retort to that effect. This was what she wanted. Why question his motives? Besides, the stresses of the day had worn her down; she couldn’t face an argument.
“I appreciate that,” she said finally.
“Then we’ve got a long journey ahead tomorrow. We should get some rest.”
But as she settled back in the bed, along with the relief that washed over her, she was aware of a nagging, hollow feeling in her chest. She did her best to shrug it off, dismiss it as tiredness.
She couldn’t possibly be disappointed.
****
A pale light was just seeping through the cracks in the closed shutters when Huw gave up the attempt to sleep. He slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Matilda, and pulled on the laborer’s clothes he had placed there the previous day.
The can
dles had burned out, but there was just enough glow from the brazier to make out Matilda’s slight form beneath the blankets. She was lying on her side, her hair fanned out upon the pillow. The blankets had slipped from one shoulder to reveal silken flesh and the curve of one breast. She looked vulnerable, peaceful, as she never looked when awake.
It had been hours before her breathing had slipped into the deep, even rhythm of sleep. He wondered if she had been as affected by his nearness as he was by hers. He had burned with the knowledge that her naked flesh was only a hand’s breadth from his. There was nothing stopping him from pulling her into his arms and taking what he had desired almost from their first meeting. Nothing except his oath.
He was torn. Two men. One was burdened by the need for revenge, the other was overcome by an unexpected tenderness for the woman beside him. And he wanted to give her pleasure. Hear her soft cries, feel her slender body arch beneath him, see the rapture on her face as she surrendered herself to him.
Saints preserve him! He strode over to the table, poured himself some wine, and swallowed it in a single draught. They had a long way to travel today and a raging arousal wasn’t going to help.
He poured another cup and returned to the bed. She looked so peaceful. Innocent.
Could she truly be held responsible for the sins of her grandfather?
He reached out a finger toward her bare shoulder, fighting the urge to rip aside the blankets and take her there and then.
In the next instant, he jerked his hand away. Hellfire! He mustn’t forget his oath! He couldn’t falter now, not when he was so close to regaining Coed Bedwen. Not to mention that he’d only last night promised Matilda he wouldn’t touch her. It was the only way he’d been able to think of getting her to trust him.
It was vital to win her trust if they were to have any chance of succeeding in their task. That was far more important than slaking his lust. And it could only be lust—nothing more. It was inconceivable that he should have any softer feelings toward a Comyn.
Bound to Her Blood Enemy Page 8
