by Aston, Alexa
She was grateful for the times her husband spent away from Monteville. On those occasions, she tended her garden in her oldest, plainest tunic, dirt smeared upon her cheeks and caked on her hands. Some of her happiest times were spent in those gardens. She prayed Jean-Paul never discovered her secret.
Her husband entered their bedchamber and spied her. As he approached, she couldn’t help but see the thinning hair and deep lines of dissatisfaction and self-indulgence etched about his mouth and eyes. At least he’d bathed for once. Thank God Almighty for small blessings. Maybe their guest’s presence had some influence on Jean-Paul.
“Have you met Lord Montayne’s man?” Jean-Paul gestured and Marielle poured wine for him into a pewter cup.
“I have. He speaks fluent French.”
“Excellent. It will be easier to deal with him. English is a tiresome language.” Jean-Paul drained his drink and set the cup aside. “Shall we?”
He offered an arm to his wife and they went downstairs to the great hall.
“Did fitz Waryn speak to you of any business?”
Marielle laughed. “You must be joking, Husband.” She sobered at the harsh look Jean-Paul gave her. “No, my lord. He spoke at some length to Donatien and Pierre Bouchard. He did ask me to take him about the grounds. I showed him around the chateau and all parts of the inner and outer baileys.”
“Indeed, Comte, we spent an enjoyable afternoon together. Your wife is well-informed regarding the workings of Monteville.” Ashby bowed before them. “I am Ashby fitz Waryn, come from Lord Garrett Stanbridge, the Earl of Montayne of Stanbury. It’s a privilege to meet the noble owner of such a vast estate. I look forward to seeing your lands and the vineyards themselves in the days to come.”
Jean-Paul greeted Ashby. “You must have Donatien show you the vineyards. I fear I have been called away on business and leave at first light. I will return in two days’ time. When I next see you, you will be much more knowledgeable about the grape and its care.”
Her husband glanced to her. “Amuse fitz Waryn while I am away. Keep whatever entertainments you have planned in his honor. He and I will do our business upon my return.”
Marielle curtsied. “Yes, my lord.” She glanced around, noting the meal was ready to begin. “Come and sit. The others await us.”
She, Jean-Paul, and Ashby moved toward the dais where Marc was already seated. Her husband greeted his brother stiffly. They had never been close but things looked unusually strained between them as they gathered near him. Marielle hoped Marc would have the good sense not to cause a row in front of Ashby.
Or drink too much.
Most Frenchmen knew how to hold their drink. They knew to taste their wine, to roll it about their tongue and enjoy its many, subtle flavors. They let it enhance their meals. Not Marc de la Tresse. He washed down those same meals with multiple bottles of wine. Jean-Paul remarked upon more than one occasion how Marc’s taste buds were dulled by his careless habits. Always left unsaid was if Marielle could not produce the expected heir, then Monteville would fall into Marc’s hands someday. Jean-Paul always noted it would be a shame if the master of Monteville had not the skill to judge the vintages produced.
The meal ended and Rennier, the troubadour Marielle engaged for the week, proceeded to play several ballads. They told of unrequited love and the glory days of France. She hoped Ashby enjoyed the musician’s playing and inquired so when Rennier rested his voice for a few minutes.
“Do you find our troubadour to your taste?”
Ashby smiled, the firelight playing across his strong features. “He’s very talented but not the best I’ve heard.”
“Who would that be?” she asked, curious since Rennier possessed one of the finest reputations among all troubadours in France.
He chuckled. “Why, Lady Madeleine, Countess of Montayne. Formerly Madeleine Bouchard.”
“A woman?” Marc frowned. “What right has a woman to take the place of a man?”
“Oh, I believe Madeleine could take the place of the nightingale itself.” Ashby looked back to Marielle, a wistful look in his eyes. “Not only does she sing from her soul, but Madeleine also is a fine storyteller. She weaves absolute magic for her audience. I have heard her a thousand times over the years and she still amazes me.”
Jean-Paul grunted. “Robert Bouchard has a bit of a reputation as a teller of tales. Is there any relation between the pair?”
“Yes, Comte. Madeleine is his daughter. She is now wife to Lord Montayne and mother of the earl’s son, Cynric.”
The conversation continued but Marielle did not join in. She thought of the look upon Ashby’s face when he spoke of this Madeleine. Was he in love with her? Surely not, with her being the wife of Lord Montayne.
More than anything, at that moment, Marielle wished a man would look at her the way Ashby had looked when he spoke of Lady Montayne. She desired to love and have the love of a good man, but fate had other things in store for her. Jean-Paul had wanted her, even marrying beneath his station to have her, but no spark ever grew between them. Marielle found she cared more about her garden and her books than she did her own husband.
At least they gave her comfort and pleasure, things Jean-Paul never could.
Rennier continued playing for another hour before Jean-Paul stood. “It’s late,” he said to the troubadour. “You may play for those assembled tomorrow.”
He dismissed the musician and bid Marc goodnight, as well. Marielle watched the two men depart.
“A pleasant sleep to you, fitz Waryn,” Jean-Paul told Ashby. “I assume you have settled into your room.”
“Yes, Comte. Marielle has been most accommodating. I thank you both for your splendid hospitality.”
At the mention her of her name, she looked up just as Jean-Paul snapped his fingers. She flinched inwardly at the sound.
“Come along, Marielle. I have need of you.” He strode off, knowing she would follow without question.
As she made to leave the room, her gaze connected with Ashby’s. The Englishman wore a deep frown on his handsome face. She glanced away and started after her husband.
But Ashby touched her arm as she passed, halting her progress.
“Is something wrong, Marielle?” he asked softly. “I have seen you recoil twice now when your husband snaps his fingers at you.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Please, Ashby. It is nothing. Do not involve yourself.”
“But if he mistreats you—”
“I beg of you. Say nothing. It would only make it worse for me. Goodnight.”
She hurried away, dread filling her as she crossed the great hall. Yet despite knowing it was the wrong thing to do, she turned back because she sensed Ashby’s eyes upon her. She inclined her head to him and left the room.
Tonight, instead of envisioning Guy during the dreaded marital act, Marielle wickedly knew she would picture Ashby fitz Waryn instead. It would be the only thing that would see her through her wifely duty.
Chapter Four
Ashby awoke early, the guest bedchamber dark and cool. In the corridor outside the room, he heard the stirrings of the chateau coming to life. He arose and dressed in gray breeches and silver hose. Both his tunic and cotehardie were of a darker slate. He slipped on his black boots while he pondered on the strange dreams that had plagued him. He rarely dreamed but when he did, he constantly awoke to vague images that dissipated and a feeling of unease. Usually, he attributed any discomfort in his sleep to the times he was on the road since he slept like a babe when under Stanbury’s roof. It troubled him, though, that he couldn’t remember anything this morning other than the sense of dread that blanketed him. He hoped the dreams didn’t foreshadow any problems he might encounter at Monteville.
As he combed through his hair, he wondered if Marc de la Tresse visited his visions sometime during the night. If so, those would have been nightmares. The man troubled him like no other he’d met. It stemmed from his faulty handshake, one that Ashby would have never truste
d, but it was much more. The younger de la Tresse brother’s eyes darted about at all times, as if he looked for conspiracy in every corner.
He also never seemed to relax. Ashby watched with interest as de la Tresse ate last night’s meal. Marc glared at each bite he brought to his mouth as if it were poisoned. He also cast odd glances in his brother’s direction, almost as if he looked for fault with the comte.
What disturbed Ashby the most was when Marc peered at Marielle. He gazed at his brother’s wife with a hunger that no man should show—especially in the presence of that woman’s husband. Ashby would have thought Marc was haggling for a showdown over Marielle if he hadn’t seen how utterly Jean-Paul ignored his striking young wife.
Ashby pitied Marielle when her husband barked at her. The Frenchman never bothered to converse with her. Instead, he spit out short, pointed commands. Even then, he spoke condescendingly to her, much as if she were a child. The final blow came when he’d snapped his fingers at Marielle and commanded her to follow him like a trained dog. The poor woman appeared as if she was headed to her own funeral.
He fastened his jeweled girdle low on his hips and prepared to leave the bedchamber. He tried to clear his head of any thoughts of Marielle de la Tresse. She was a beautiful woman in what he feared was an impossible situation. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the first to find herself in such circumstances. It was rare when love grew between a married couple. Marielle was trapped in a web of her own making—or one her parents had seen to on her behalf through an arranged marriage. Ashby could not concern himself with any problems in the household between his hosts. He would simply be a gracious guest, conduct his business, and be on his way back to England and Stanbury. He couldn’t afford to be caught up in the lives of the inhabitants of Monteville.
Much less a flirtation that could prove dangerous.
Despite her years of marriage, Marielle seemed an innocent to him. He’d wager she’d never given consideration to a love affair. She wouldn’t know how to proceed. If he displayed any interest in her, she would take it seriously. He refused to toy with an innocent’s affections and he certainly couldn’t leave her to face any consequences.
Yet he couldn’t shake her image as he made his way down the stairs to the chapel. He’d inquired of its location yesterday and for the time morning mass was said. Madeleine had been firm with him on this point.
“I do not care whether you are interested or not, Ashby,” she proclaimed. “A good guest in Bordeaux will attend mass each day of his visit. Daydream of your village conquests or traveling the English countryside while you are there, but you will go to daily mass. Is that understood?”
Ashby smiled as he recollected her words. Only Madeleine dared speak to him in such a manner. She had him as well-trained as Garrett. Funny how two of the strongest willed men in England meekly submitted to her every whim.
He genuflected and slid into a pew halfway from the altar. About fifty people gathered for the mass. He nodded at the man on his right. It was Donatien de Toulouse, Jean-Paul’s overseer. He’d listened carefully to the man’s opinions yesterday, glad to learn Donatien was full of knowledge and willing to share it. Garrett would be pleased at the results of this trip to France and what Ashby had learned.
As expected, he spun a few reveries while the priest droned on in Latin. How was a man expected to pay homage to God, the Highest of all Liege Lords, if he couldn’t understand a bloody thing said? That was only one sticking point Ashby found about the Church. He’d rebelled entering the priesthood from the time he was four. That was when his brother, Ashland, informed Ashby he was destined to serve the Church as a third son. Ashland was eleven at the time and already full of himself and his position as future lord of the castle.
Probably because Ashland deemed it would come to pass, Ashby fought his brother’s words tooth and nail. He’d been so insistent that in three years’ time, his father, Walter, sent him off to foster with Ryker, his old friend from their days of war. It had been the best decision—probably the only good one—that his father ever made concerning his youngest son.
Mass ended and Ashby made the Sign of the Cross. He followed the group up the stairs into the great hall, where loaves of bread and tankards of beer waited for the occupants of Monteville to break their fast.
He watched Marielle make her way over to him, a jar in her hand. He offered his hostess a smile.
“Might that jar hold sweet butter or even sweeter honey, Comtesse?”
She pursed her lips. “I so wanted to surprise you. Yes, it’s honey. We only bring it out for our special guests.” She set the container on the table. “Please, enjoy your humble meal. I promise you the next meal will be much grander.”
He hesitated and then asked, “Will you join me in breaking my fast?”
“No,” she told him. “I have far too many things to do this morning. I must meet with the servants on the day’s duties and then with our steward, Etienne. Then I will look over the supplies our butler has purchased and see to their placement in the pantries.”
“I hope you will have time to work in the midday meal.” He grinned at her shyly, unsure why he suddenly felt like a callow youth and not the experienced man he was.
Marielle colored slightly pink. “Oh, I would not ignore a guest of my husband’s. You can be assured I will cease my labors and see that you receive a proper meal in good company.” She glanced away and then back to him. “I see Donatien. I will send him to you. He is eager to show you our vineyards this morning.”
She signaled the overseer to join them. “Donatien is well-versed in all manner of the grape. His family has lived at Monteville close to three hundred years. Feel free to trust any advice he gives you.” She curtsied to him and left the hall.
*
Relief washed over Ashby as fast as the sudden downpour that hit while Donatien showed off the Monteville vineyards. They rode over three hours around the property. Ashby was impressed by the efficiency of their operation. It was much larger than the one run by the Bouchards. Ashby questioned whether Garrett should make an offer for a part of the Monteville land that connected with his own property that the Bouchards managed, one of the items he’d been tasked to negotiate with Jean-Paul de la Tresse. After having met the comte and seen the organized manner in which Donatien ran things, he doubted they would be willing to part with any small portion of de la Tresse land. Still, it couldn’t hurt to inquire, especially since Garrett had shown interest in blending certain grapes for a new vintage. He would propose the purchase according to Garrett’s instructions before his time at Monteville came to an end.
Although he’d been intrigued by Garrett’s suggestion to stay in France indefinitely and help Pierre Bouchard oversee the Montayne vineyards, Ashby knew Madeleine’s brother would resent any interference, especially coming from a man who came only knowing how to drink wine, not grow and nurture the grapes.
It would also leave him in too close a proximity with Marielle de la Tresse. Ashby found his mind wandering from Donatien’s detailed explanations all morning, only to find it hovering around images of Marielle. He couldn’t remember ever having been so taken with a woman. Except mayhap Madeleine. Even then, he’d realized from the start she was meant for Garrett.
Ashby never thought he’d find a woman with the exceptional looks, grace, and wit of Madeleine, Countess of Montayne. He constantly reminded himself that even if he did, he would have nothing to offer this vision of loveliness. That meant marriage and settling down would always be out of the question. He would be happy with no less than someone Madeleine’s equal or better, so he’d been safe these last few years.
Until now.
Marielle de la Tresse had captivated him in no uncertain terms. It wasn’t just her beauty, though that alone made a summer day pale by comparison. She carried a joie de vivre about her, a coupling of mischief and zest and quiet charm that made her irresistible. Marielle was like no other woman he’d ever met. She was set apart from those he’d dallied
with in his typical fashion. Ashby never placed his heart in the hands of another, always keeping his affairs light and carefree. Wasn’t it his luck he would discover such a rare treasure, only to find she was married, and unhappily at that.
No, leaving Bordeaux as quickly as possible offered him the only respite from the sudden longings that Marielle de la Tresse brought to him. Regrettably, the less time spent in her company, the better.
The rain drove them back to Monteville’s stables, where they handed off their reins to the stable master and walked through the bailey to the castle steps. Servants greeted them with towels and promises of hot water to be sent upstairs. Ashby barely had time to doff his sodden tunics when the water arrived. It warmed him considerably.
He changed into fresh clothes and gave the servant who arrived with his water the sodden ones. The boy promised to place them near the fire to dry and then reminded him to hurry to the great hall for dinner, which would be served within the next few minutes.
An empty dais greeted him. He waited a moment as serfs came in from the vineyards and begin gathering around the trestle tables, pulling them away from the walls and to the center of the room. Finally, he decided to take his seat. Marielle joined him almost immediately.
“I apologize for my tardiness, Ashby.”
Just the lilt of her voice caused a stirring within him. He gritted his teeth and forced a smile. Mayhap if he looked out over the crowded hall he could find an attractive, willing wench to meet his needs and take his mind from its pointless wanderings. He spied a few likely candidates and decided he would approach them discreetly after the meal.
The servants brought a single trencher and set it before them. He raised a brow.
“Is your brother-in-law not joining us?”
Marielle shrugged. “Marc comes and goes as he pleases. Sometimes, he is gone for days or even weeks, and then he turns up without a word as to where he has been. Other times Jean-Paul will send him on some small errand. And again he will be gone forever. When he is present at Monteville, he comes to meals infrequently at best.”
