“Come,” he said as they approached the arched entrance to the great hall. “All of Ravenwood awaits us.”
The newlyweds entered the hall to the fanfare of trumpets. The people shouted and cheered, and William proudly led Emma onto the dais and to their seats at the high table.
A moment later, Meg, Gertrude, Wulfstan, and Robert joined them. Pages stepped forward with ewers, basins, and napkins.
As William washed his hands, he turned to Robert. “Where’s Aldred?” he asked in a low voice.
“Gone,” Robert replied.
“What?”
“True to form, he flouts custom and decency. I suppose he couldn’t stomach the celebration, now that the marriage is well and truly sealed.”
“Did he give any excuse?”
“None. He simply announced he was leaving.”
“Well, that’s one Saxon boil off my skin.”
“Only one. Wulfstan intends to stay a few days.”
William rolled his eyes as he dried his hands. “Of course he does.”
“Don’t worry,” Robert said with a grin. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Good. Your eye is as keen as they come.”
“Keen enough to detect a change in you.”
“What change?”
Robert ran his hand along the smooth, white tablecloth. “Well, for a start, you just complimented me.”
William grunted. “’Tis the second compliment I’ve offered today. I must be losing my touch.”
“Or your heart?”
William’s mood soured. “Never,” he vowed. Then a slight pressure on his forearm drew his attention.
“My lord.” Emma removed her hand from his arm. “Is aught amiss?”
“No,” Robert said quickly. “What could be amiss on so fine a day?”
William gave his brother a meaningful look. Then he turned to his bride. “What indeed?”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “You’ll need your appetite for the feast we’ve planned.”
Suddenly, William forgot Robert’s comment. Lavender silk consumed his focus.
“I can assure you,” he murmured, “I’m ravenous.”
Chapter Eight
The wedding feast went on and on. The guests ate pheasants, peacocks, partridges, and quails. Goose, heron, venison, and rabbit. There were eel pies, fruit tarts, eggs, and custards. With each course came a subtlety, a sugar and marzipan model of a castle or boat. Always, there was more ale, and more warm, spiced wine.
Toasts abounded, and the music soared. Yet Emma’s gaze kept straying to the gold ring on her finger. ’Twas tangible proof she was a married woman, the property of William l’Orage. Soon, in the bedchamber they would share, she’d discover exactly what that meant.
She shuddered. Would he understand her predicament? He might laugh. He might even force her to betray her sense of self preservation. ’Twas his right, and she’d said the words: “to be bonny and buxom in bed and at board.” The board she could handle; bed was another matter.
Still, there were moments during the ceremony when he seemed softer somehow. When she entered the chapel, the look in his eyes stole her breath. It implied approval, pride.
And desire.
For the second time in as many minutes, she shivered. She looked to the high, vaulted ceiling and twisted her wedding band.
“Cold again?” her husband asked. The low, rich timbre of his voice was seductive and becoming all too familiar.
She dropped her hands into her lap and cast a cautious glance his way. “Not especially.”
A pox on the man! He looked sinfully handsome today. It made him unduly appealing and far more dangerous. His eyes glittered like the dark jewels on his belt.
She squirmed in her high-backed chair. His belt, she thought. God save me from what lies below it.
“You’ll be warmer once we withdraw to our chamber,” he said.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Oh?”
“I told Tilda to have a fire waiting, and plenty of warm wine.”
“Oh.”
“Is that all you can say?”
“What more do you require?”
“If not words, how about a smile?”
“I’ve smiled overmuch the past few hours. My cheeks are numb.”
His grin was sensual by nature and mischievous by design. “Have you no enthusiasm for the coming festivities?”
She stifled a grimace. “Festivities,” she said. “Is that what you call them? If you want a festive night, you’d do better to invite jugglers and mummers to prance about the chamber.”
His black eyes smoldered. “No, my bride. You and I will devise our own entertainment.”
The power of speech deserted her. Yet she kept her composure during the toasts and as the people cheered the bride and groom for the last time. Then William rose to his feet.
The dreaded moment had come. In a daze, she stood. Her eyes sought Meg, but the older woman was deep in conversation with Wulfstan and didn’t notice.
William guided Emma away from the table and out of the boisterous, oblivious hall. Once they were beyond observation, she pulled her hand from his arm and used her veil as an excuse to occupy her hands elsewhere.
She climbed the spiral, stone stairs as slowly as she dared, delaying the moment when the bedchamber door would close behind them. The stairwell torches were ablaze with flames that eagerly licked the shafts of wood. Behind her, William’s footsteps were as loud as thunder.
At the top of the stairs, the large, oak door stood wide open. There was no one inside the bedchamber, not a single soul to grant her one last pardon. Tilda had turned down the bed, and it loomed in the shadows, waiting.
On shaky legs, Emma crossed the rush-strewn floor and stood in front of the massive, arched fireplace. She studied the inferno roaring inside, refusing to look at William. Behind her, the door closed with a thud, and the bolt slid to with a scrape of finality. She heard and felt each crunching step as he came up behind her.
“My lady,” he murmured. “My wife.”
She couldn’t face him. “Aye,” her voice cracked. The fire looked wild, hungry.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked.
His breath warmed the side of her neck. A second later, his lips sealed the tender flesh with a kiss.
“Wine,” she said, spinning around. “Wine would be nice.”
His eyes blazed hotter than the fire. He hesitated, then smiled. “Then wine you shall have,” he said, moving in two strides to the table where it waited. He grabbed the pitcher and poured dark liquid into one of two silver cups. Then he offered one to her.
Her fingers brushed his as she took the cup. She thanked him with a closed-mouth smile and took a sip of wine. The heady mixture of cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, nutmeg, and cloves tickled her tongue. The liquid warmed and soothed her throat.
“Good?” he said.
She nodded and sipped again.
He grinned. “Perhaps ’twill loosen your tongue.”
“Perhaps.”
His grin deepened. “Though I see it’s had no effect yet.”
Hours of nervous tension crystallized. “I’ve better use for my tongue than to prattle the night away.”
“Really?” he said, stepping closer. “Would you care to demonstrate?”
The silver cup froze midway to her lips. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t, but the idea has merit.”
“The wine is delicious,” she stalled. “Won’t you have some?”
“I’ve had my fill.”
She gulped down the rest of hers. “I could use another cup.”
He stole the cup from her hand, placed it on the table, and returned without it. “You could use a kiss.”
“No, I think—”
His lips silenced her. They were strong, demanding. A heartbeat later, she returned his kiss. She blamed the wine and silently scolded herself, even as her hands slipped up his chest and encircled his neck.
&
nbsp; With a groan, he thrust his tongue into her mouth, and she received it, willingly. Her tongue toyed with his in a game of cat and mouse. Her fingers slid into his dark, silken hair, and she clung to him as the kiss swept her beyond sense and reason.
’Twas a tempest. ’Twas heaven.
His hands roved like the wind over her silk gown. His mouth rained hot kisses down her neck to the valley between her breasts. In another minute, she’d be gone, lost in a haze of sensation.
A warning bell clanged in her mind. She rallied every ounce of her strength and pulled away from him.
“I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly.
His eyes shone like black onyx. “Emma.”
’Twas the first time he’d addressed her so. No title. No pretense. Just her name.
“Forgive me,” she said, “but I must speak to you.”
He folded his arms. “Then speak.”
No turning back now, she thought. Here we go.
She took a deep breath. “There’s a matter of great importance that involves us both…well, all of Ravenwood, really. You see, there’s a curse.”
“I know.”
Her mouth fell open. “How? When?”
“People gossip,” he replied blandly.
She crossed her arms, mirroring his stance. “Mayhap you know what I’m about to say.”
“If you’re going to tell me the curse is nonsense, then I applaud your intellect.”
“’Tis not nonsense but very real. For centuries, every mistress of Ravenwood has died in childbirth.”
“Coincidence.”
She shook her head. “No, the curse.”
“So say the peasants.”
She bristled. “So say I.”
He turned to the fireplace, and she took a step back. She held her breath as he stared into the flames.
At last, he regarded her. “You’re not serious.”
“Unfortunately, I am.”
“Why do you mention this now?”
“Because there can be no wedding night. Not the kind you want.”
His nostrils flared. “What I want is my right. I am your husband.”
“I know that, but you must try to understand. If I become pregnant, I’ll die.”
“Ridiculous.”
“I wish ’twere so.”
“Ravenwood must have heirs.”
“No matter the cost to me?”
“There will be no cost.”
Her body shook. “There will!”
His arms dropped to his sides. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I’ll be your loyal and obedient wife in all ways but one. You must never bed me.”
He clenched his fists. “I see. Why didn’t you tell me before the ceremony?”
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
She sighed heavily. “You. Myself. Losing your protection.”
“Protection from whom? Aldred?”
“And his kind.”
His eyes narrowed. “You would use me thus?”
Her hands found her hips. “You used me to gain land and position.”
“And sons! Do you think Ravenwood and our other manors can survive without them?”
“You forget. Our union was the king’s bidding, not mine.”
“I forget nothing.”
She threw her hands up. “Oh! First you fear nothing, and now you forget nothing. God himself must marvel at your perfection.”
“As he must rue your disobedience,” he said, stepping forward. “You made a vow.”
“And now I must make a bargain.”
“I don’t bargain with liars.”
“And I will not give my body to a man who cannot love!”
He reached out. His large hands clamped around her upper arms. “I could force you,” he barked.
She lowered her gaze to the endless network of rushes on the floor. “You could,” she murmured.
Abruptly, William released her and stomped to the door. He yanked the bolt free and twisted his head around. “Good night, Lady Ravenwood,” he bit out. “May you rot in your damnable chastity!”
The heavy door slammed shut. Emma turned toward the bed and stared at its cold, linen sheets. Tears welled in her eyes. She’d never felt so alone.
****
The rest of the keep still rocked with merriment. Careful to avoid the great hall, William stormed to the prison tower. At the bottom of the stairs, he snatched a torch from the wall.
He climbed the tower with a vengeance. His chest tightened a little more with each step. Once inside the prison chamber, he thrust the torch into an empty wall socket. Then he began to pace.
’Twas outrageous. Not to be borne! He’d faced pain, hardship, armies of Saracens salivating for the kill. Yet, on the other side of the keep, in his bedchamber, stood a mere slip of a girl who mocked everything for which he’d fought.
I should’ve expected betrayal, he thought. Why should Emma be any different from—
No! Years ago, he’d vowed never to say her name again, never to think it. The past was dead, buried.
The prison door swung open, and he whipped around. Robert stood at the threshold.
“Well?” William demanded.
Robert stared at him. “Well what?”
“Are you going to lurk on the doorsill all night or come in?”
Robert slipped into the chamber and closed the door behind him. “What,” he said, pausing for emphasis, “are you doing here?”
“Ask my bride.”
“I’m asking you.”
William glared at the chamber’s cold, empty fireplace. So like his wife. And his heart.
“William,” said Robert.
Despite the chill in the room, sweat beaded on William’s brow. “What?”
“Does this concern Wulfstan?”
William’s temperature rose a notch. “Fortunately, no.”
“I’m glad to hear it. If circumstances were different, we might actually be friends.”
“You and Wulfstan?”
“Aye.”
A rumble sounded deep in William’s throat.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re here?” Robert asked. “Or must I wait until we’re old and gray?”
William strode to the fireplace, then back again. “You were right,” he growled. “My wife does believe in the curse. She just told me.”
“Ah. And how did that drive you to spend your wedding night in a prison?”
“The stench of merry-making plagues the rest of the keep, and I need peace.”
“And ’twouldn’t look right if Ravenwood’s new lord were seen roaming about the castle when he should be enjoying the pleasures of his bed.”
“We never made it to the bed.”
“I see. So at present, Lady Ravenwood is scared of pregnancy.”
“Not just scared. She refuses to consummate the marriage.”
“Ever?”
“So she says.”
“God’s blood! ’Tis unthinkable!”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m too furious to decide.”
Robert’s gray eyes widened. “You owe your success in battle to calm logic. Clear tactics. You don’t let emotion dim your judgment. ’Tis why so many fear you.”
William stared at the wall in front of him. The flaming torch created a miniature battle of shadows on stone. “I know,” he muttered.
Robert rubbed his chin. Then he began to pace. His footfalls created a smooth, continuous rhythm on the planked floor. Suddenly, he stopped.
“We know the curse is codswallop,” he said.
“Utterly,” William agreed.
“Can you convince your wife of this?”
“Not before she survives the birthing bed.”
Robert looked pensive and nodded slowly. “Then you must make her forget until that day arrives.”
William grunted. “One might as soon make a kn
ight forget his sword on the battlefield.”
“Then coax her into choosing you in spite of her fears.”
“You suggest a miracle.”
“No,” Robert said, shaking his head. He raised an eyebrow. “A seduction.”
William regarded his brother in silence.
“I’ve seen your charm at work,” Robert said. “You’ve lain with more women than I can count, and you’ve had every opportunity to perfect your lovemaking skills. I remember a certain sultan who rewarded your mercy with the use of his harem.”
“An offer I could hardly refuse,” William said, smiling. For a moment, he was back in the exotic East, surrounded by perfume, rare silks, and the tantalizing flesh of a sea of women.
“I doubt there’s a maid alive who could resist you indefinitely, and Lady Ravenwood is your wife. She’s legally bound to you. With time and persuasion, she’ll give in.”
William felt lighter, reassured. “Perhaps you’re right. But for tonight, I’ll stay here.”
“And I’ll stay with you. As prisons go, this one isn’t half bad.”
“A veritable palace.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I would, but for one night only. My wife may deny me her body, but she’ll not rob me of comfort.”
“Nor should she. The bed is now yours.”
“And I’ll have her in it.”
In a mock toast, Robert lifted his hand as though holding a goblet brimming with spirits. “She’ll fawn over you with a saint’s devotion.”
“I want no saint in my bed.”
“A wanton angel, then.”
“That’s better.” William eyed the torch on the wall. He could feel its heat even from a distance.
Robert clapped him on the back. “’Twill happen, Brother. You’ll see.”
William grinned. “So shall Lady Ravenwood.”
Chapter Nine
The wind moaned a woeful song the following morning. It woke Emma from a fitful sleep she was glad to forsake. Alone in the massive bed, she rolled onto her side and stared into the murky depths of the chamber. The fire had died in the night, and the oak shutters were still barred against the wind. Below, the castle stirred to life.
Memory inundated her with echoes of words and emotions. Her wedding night was a disaster, an experiment in shame. Regret rose in her throat. She’d said some hurtful things to William. She never intended to insult him, but she refused to sacrifice herself on the altar of his pride and lust.
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