Alensonne
Normandie is abuzz with the news of the upcoming coronation of our duke as the King of the English,” Guillaume de Valtesse announced to his daughter as they broke their fast. “It’s to take place on Christmas Day. His victory over the Saxons has earned him the name of Conqueror.”
His words sent Mabelle’s mind reeling back to the banquet at Montbryce, when she had returned the duke’s toast. “Ram foretold he would be known as the Conqueror,” she whispered.
“I’ll never understand why you broke the betrothal. You’re obviously smitten with the man, and we’ll be in great difficulty here if he comes to claim his dower rights,” he mumbled as he shuffled out of the hall.
She would never understand him. It was he who had urged her to come home, yet they had argued long and hard after her arrival. Hoping to find peace here, all she could think of was Ram de Montbryce—the feel of his lips on hers, his strong arms around her, his hands fondling her hair, her breast—she couldn’t erase the memory of him at the lake, standing almost naked, his arousal obvious.
She longed to run her hands over his thighs, his chest, his shoulders. She ached in places she had never ached before. Her body tingled when she thought of him, and she longed to see him sans braies.
However, she had made her decision. There was no going back. He would not want her, never had wanted her. How angry he must have been when he read her letter—if he received it.
The sound of raised voices disturbed her reverie. Her breathless father reappeared, Steward Cormant with him. “I told you he would come for his due. Your former betrothed is at the gates with his brothers, demanding entry.”
He’s alive?
Her heart lurched when her father began issuing orders for the men-at-arms to ride out against the visitors.
“Non, Papa, I don’t want to see blood spilled. We’ll allow him entry, and perhaps negotiate some settlement for the lands. Leave this to me. You’re too apt to lose your temper. Cormant, pass the word the Vicomte de Montbryce is to be allowed entry. Show him to the Great Hall.”
She hurried there and climbed up on the dais, hoping she looked like the Milady of the castle, in control. She wiped her sweaty palms on her dress.
Don’t bite your nails.
“He’s bigger even than I remember,” she murmured when Ram, Antoine and Hugh entered the Great Hall five minutes later, looking like they had ridden hard and fast.
What has he done to his hair?
She balled her fists, trying to still the wild beating of her heart. The sound filled her ears, and she was sure everyone else could hear it. She held out her arms to the three men. “Mon seigneur, Vicomte de Montbryce, my Lords Antoine and Hugh, welcome to my home. Welcome to Alensonne.”
Ram’s stare was unnerving, but Antoine’s hoarse words shocked her to the core. “Ram is comte now, Mabelle. Our father died.”
Ram’s grief was etched on his face. She longed to embrace him, to hold him while he grieved. “I am devastated by the news,” she said. “I loved—” The words stuck in her throat when Ram clenched his jaw.
Antoine and Hugh moved quickly to her side and embraced her. “Mabelle,” Antoine whispered close to her ear, “be patient with him.”
She smiled. “He looks like his blood is boiling because we’re whispering.”
Hugh laughed out loud.
Ram stiffened his shoulders. “Mabelle, I’ve come about our betrothal.”
“You wish to discuss the dowry?”
“Non,” he exclaimed. “I haven’t come to discuss the dowry.”
“What he means is he’s here to beg you to come back,” Antoine began.
“I haven’t come to beg,” Ram interrupted.
“He has come to ask you to return to Montbryce.”
“I’m capable of speaking for myself. Why not go tend to our horses, dear brothers?”
“I’m sure the steward—”
“Go! Leave us.”
Antoine and Hugh shrugged their shoulders and left, scarcely able to contain their mirth.
Mabelle took a deep breath. “You seem comfortable giving orders here, but Alensonne is not yours yet.”
She fought to control the excitement flooding through her as Ram quickly crossed the space between them. Would he touch her? Take her in his arms? Cradle her to his chest?
He took her hands. “I don’t care about Alensonne. I want you to return to Montbryce with me so we can be married.”
She swayed as she struggled to control her voice and the threatening tears.
“You’ve decided this is the right time?”
“My father pledged me to you. It would dishonor his memory if I reneged.”
Her heart sank. She pulled her hands away from his grasp. “I told you, I’ve released you from that pledge. I have no desire to dishonor your father. I loved him. But I don’t want to be wed to a man who is marrying me for the sake of duty.”
She sensed his agitation at her words. He paced nervously for several minutes, running his hand over his short hair. She had to resist the impulse to rush over and tell him of her relief he was alive, that she would be his wife under any circumstances, that she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.
He turned to face her. “Mabelle, you’re the woman I want, the woman I need. I am sure of it now, after Hastings. You were my talisman. After the battle, I burned to join my body to yours, to lose myself in you. I can be overbearing but I’ll try to—why are you crying?”
He brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb.
“Ram,” she whispered.
He kissed her fiercely, making her body cry out for him. He put his hands on her waist and pulled her to him. She felt his hard male length against her belly, and the pent up longing burst over her.
“Ram,” she whispered again, her breath catching in her throat as she reached up nervously to run her fingers lightly over his shaven head. “You’re alive—but what have you done to your beautiful hair?”
He laughed and put his arms on her shoulders. “Vaillon shaved it for battle. It will grow back, but it feels strange.”
She leaned on him, her arms around his waist. They clung together for long minutes. She could hear his breathing, feel the beating of his heart. She had never felt so safe.
“Return to Montbryce with me, Mabelle. Come be my wife, my comtesse.”
She swallowed hard. She had run away, denied her attraction to this man, but he was her destiny. “I’ll return with you. I invite you to rest here a few days. You’ve had a long journey and the grief of your father’s death. Enjoy Yuletide at Alensonne with me for a while.”
He kissed her knuckles. “It would give me great pleasure to get to know your childhood home for a while longer, but I’ve been summoned to the duke’s coronation in Westminster on Christmas Day. I want to take you there as my bride.”
“But that’s only a few days away.”
“William has promised me an earldom in England, but if I’m not at the ceremony—”
“You risked it to come here—to get me?”
“You’re the woman I want to marry.”
He had spoken no words of love but he wanted her enough to risk what was important to him—lands and titles. He would make sure she was safe. Alchemy drew them to each other. They would at least have passion.
“Then we must summon Cormant to prepare for our departure on the morrow. I’m used to traveling fast and light.”
A Wedding
Hugh and Ram walked together to the door of the chapel of Montbryce Castle where Ram took his place with the bishop and Antoine. The two brothers clasped forearms in a familiar gesture. Antoine slapped him on the back and smiled. Ram kissed the bishop’s ring as he bowed to the cleric.
He wished with all his heart his father still lived and regretted deeply he had deprived him of the satisfaction of seeing him wed. The trio waited a few minutes in nervous silence, then heard a rustling of gowns along with female whispers.
Ram’s breath
caught in his dry throat when Mabelle came into view on the arm of her father, who had insisted on riding to Montbryce with them. She seemed to be carefully studying the elaborately tiled floor. He licked his lips.
Valtesse, smiling for once, passed her warm hand into his and Mabelle stole a glance at him when a jolt passed between them. He would happily drown in those brown eyes.
As the long ceremony progressed, Ram became aware that the tall woman holding his hand tightly with her long slim fingers, was swaying. Was she going to faint? His head filled with images of running his hands over her full breasts and shapely hips that promised fertility and many healthy children.
“Do you, Rambaud de Montbryce, wish to take this woman, Mabelle de Valtesse, de Belisle, d’Alensonne and de Domfort, to be your wedded wife?”
The bishop’s voice brought Ram back to reality. Immersed in his daydream, he had lost track of where they were in the ceremony.
“I do so wish.”
Mabelle let out a long breath.
She thought I might betray her again.
“Do you, Mabelle de Valtesse, de Belisle, d’Alensonne and de Domfort, wish to take this man, Rambaud de Montbryce, to be your wedded husband?”
This may be the moment she’s chosen for her revenge.
“I do so wish,” she whispered, her head bowed.
He slowly exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“I now declare, to all present, they are husband and wife. Comte Rambaud de Montbryce, you may kiss your bride.”
They both stood perfectly still for a moment before turning to face each other. His heart racing, he lifted the veil and smiled, scarcely able to believe the erotic passion she provoked in him. Then the unhappy thought came again that he had come cross his bride lying barely clothed in a meadow. Had she been expecting someone? It wasn’t Antoine, but perhaps another man? But then he had something to confess as well. His smile turned to a frown. Why was she so cool? He bent his head to kiss her. At first she didn’t respond, but as he darted his tongue into her mouth, she opened to him.
Ah oui. She definitely feels the passion.
“Mabelle,” he whispered, “you’re beautiful.”
“Milord Ram,” she faltered. “Milord, you are—what an impressive weapon,” she giggled, pointing to the sword she’d hefted into the lake, a naughty grin on her face. “Is it a family heirloom?”
The bishop eyed her curiously. Ram suppressed a chuckle at the confused perplexity on the cleric’s face. L’évêque was not a man who showed any emotion. Ram doubted he’d ever known a new bride openly admire her husband’s weapon.
He bent to whisper in her ear. “Oui, Mabelle, my weapon is a family treasure,” he replied with a smile. “It’s always ready to be of service.”
She reddened and averted her eyes, though none of the guests had heard the exchange.
They signed the book of records and led the procession out of the chapel to the Great Hall. Ram gripped her hand, momentarily nervous she might loudly denounce him. Or perhaps he should accuse her, cast her off? But that would mean never experiencing the fulfillment of the needs she aroused in him. No, the die was cast. He dismissed his worries as the confused ravings of a newly married man, and there would be time enough to confess his dalliance with Ascha Woolgar.
Mabelle risked a glance at Ram when a spark passed between them and her throat went dry. During the long nuptial ritual she lapsed into a daydream. A tall, dark, naked man rose in a glittering spray of water from the depths of a pool, his manhood erect—
“Arrête,” she chided inwardly, opening her eyes, trying to get back a sense of what was next in the sacred ceremony, not sure of how long she had been distracted.
She felt his hand twitch and close tightly around hers when she spoke her vows and breathed a sigh of relief when Ram gave his promises. She would not need the dagger concealed in the sleeve of her gown, ready to thrust into him if he betrayed her again.
By the time the rest of the ceremony was over, the vows completed and the ring blessed and placed by Ram’s large, firm hand on her trembling finger, she was worried that when he lifted her veil, she would be withered by his look of mistrust.
Was that what she saw as his smile turned to a frown? When he kissed her, she tried not to respond, but the wanton, aching feelings returned. She couldn’t help herself when he darted his tongue into her mouth. Then the courage which had helped her survive for many years came to her rescue, bolstered by the wine drunk rather rapidly a short time before, and she made a remark about his weapon, clearly shocking the bishop.
Relieved no one else had heard the exchange, she was glad to see Hugh hurrying to embrace Ram. He took her hand in his, bowing slightly as he bestowed a kiss upon it. “Welcome to our family, Mabelle. I’m confident you’ll make your husband very happy.”
“Patience, dear sister. You will need lots of patience,” Antoine teased.
Their remarks warmed Mabelle’s heart. She’d never had a brother who cared.
Her father shook Ram’s hand vigorously, and then gave his daughter a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “I depart for Alensonne on the morrow,” he informed her.
Soon invited guests were pressing around, congratulating the newlyweds. They became separated.
She lost track of her husband, until she saw him a while later, beckoning to her from the dais, a hint of uncertainty in his blue eyes. She had to admit grudgingly she was happy to find him again, having felt strangely bereft without him at her side.
He deemed her behavior inappropriate, yet, on his way to his own wedding, he had hidden in the woods, watching a scantily clad maiden. It was immaterial that she found him attractive. It was a betrayal. Then he had abandoned her at the chapel door. He claimed she was his talisman—but could he be trusted? Did he have some ulterior motive for marrying her? She steeled her emotions as he approached.
“The servants are ready to serve the feast, milady. Please come and take your place by my side.” She allowed him to lead her to the head table, saying nothing. The touch of his hand made her incapable of speech. This would never do. She would need to be wary.
Allegiance
The festivities began. The servants brought out large platters laden with food from the kitchens. Two liveried serving lads appeared, carrying on their shoulders a large iron pan with the traditional boar’s head. There was crusty fresh bread. La Cuisinière had spared no effort to provide a sumptuous spread for the wedding of their comte.
A serving dish of roasted chicken was placed on the head table between the newlyweds, a symbolic shared first meal. Ram tore off a wing and offered it to Mabelle. She accepted with a nod, eyelashes fluttering, and bit into it, the succulent juices dripping on to her trencher. She licked her lips and fingers, savoring it.
“I’ve eaten nothing all day,” she whispered.
Ram’s manhood—hard since their kiss—pulsed. He pressed his thigh against hers, wishing it was his fingers she licked. She seemed to sense his arousal as she stole a blushing glance at the tight bulge in his hose. He wondered how he would get through the next few hours of food, wine, ale, ribaldry, jongleurs, toasts and speeches without ripping the clothes from her body and making love to her on the tables.
It was a heady thought that he had married a passionate woman. He could stir her with his kisses, his touches. But she harbored resentments, and it sobered him. He had some groveling to do, but she too had things to explain.
There was a sudden flurry of activity. Antoine and Hugh were up on their feet, indicating to the diners in the hall something was about to happen. People were being ushered into lines.
“What is it, Ram?” Mabelle asked nervously.
“We’re going to have a ceremony,” he replied, rising from his seat.
She frowned. “Ceremony? We just—”
“Allegiance. Everyone will swear their allegiance to me, as their new comte. And to you.”
“To me?”
Ram turned to her. “Ma
belle, you’re now the Comtesse de Montbryce. I would expect my people to honor and respect and serve you. They’re your people now.”
Mabelle quickly wiped greasy hands and lips with a napkin, her heart racing. It was the first time he had acknowledged she could be a good comtesse. Vaillon came forward to refasten the short cloak Ram had shed during the meal. Her husband took her hand and led her to stand at the front of the dais. He drew his sword, braced his legs, pushed the cloak further back on his shoulders and took up a stance with his sword pointing down, his left hand on the hilt.
He looked at his wife. “Place your right hand on top of mine.”
She obeyed, her knees turning to water. He put his right hand on top of hers. His hands were warm, and soon those hands—
Ram gestured to Antoine. “Begin.”
Antoine came first, followed by Hugh. Each brother bent the knee, placed his hand atop Ram’s, and pledged, “In the name of our Lord, and in the presence of all gathered here, I acknowledge that you, Rambaud de Montbryce, are my comte, and my liege lord, and I am your loyal man, and I acknowledge that you, Mabelle de Montbryce, are my comtesse, and I am your loyal man.”
The knights and men-at-arms followed suit. When all had pledged themselves, Ram turned to Mabelle and declared in a loud, authoritative voice, “I’ll accept your pledge now, comtesse.”
Her instinct was to refuse. Ram wanted to use the occasion to demonstrate his dominance. But what choice did she have? In a deep curtsey before him, she placed both hands on his, looked into his eyes, and made her pledge, hoping her voice didn’t betray her nervousness. “In the name of the Lord, and in the presence of all here gathered, I acknowledge that you, Rambaud de Montbryce, are my comte and my liege lord, and I am your loyal woman.”
I am your woman.
The words echoed in her head, and her mouth went dry. She was this man’s woman. A baron she barely knew was her future, her forever. Ram bowed slightly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He took her hand and helped her rise, and she silently thanked God for the strength she felt in his grip. She assumed he would lead her back to her place, having established his superior position.
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 14
