By King's Decree

by Shari Anton

  She showed genuine surprise. “Surely you do not intend to play out this farce?”

  The hell he didn’t.

  “Did you not tell me you would be proud and honored to be my wife? Does not a betrothal usually precede a wedding?”

  Her tone sharpened. “Aye. But we both know there will be no wedding. This betrothal does no more than make me your whore for a year.”

  “Come now, Ardith. As my betrothed, no one would dare call you whore.”

  “Mayhap not to my face, my lord, but you cannot control people’s thoughts. What matter if they call me lady, if behind their hands they whisper slut?”

  “You knew when you moved into my chambers, did you not, that we would share a bed?”

  Her lips pursed, eyes averted, she answered softly, “Aye. And for a week or two, until I went home, I thought I could close my ears. But for a year…”

  “Ardith, a betrothal is as binding as marriage. It proclaims you belong to me, grants me the rights of husband as well as overlord. Who is to gainsay us?”

  Azure blue eyes, moist with unshed tears, met his gaze squarely. “Mayhap, in the eyes of man we commit no wrong, but not in the judgment of God and the church. The clergy will censure not only us, but the king, for this decree.”

  Bile rose to his throat, his body tensed, and the words slipped out before he could check them. “The opinion of the clergy be damned! What care I for pious posturing when the bishops—”

  A gentle hand on his arm, a plea in Ardith’s eyes halted his tirade. “Do not blaspheme, Gerard. It serves no purpose.”

  He shook off her hand, snatched up the goblet she’d pushed aside and took a hefty swallow. The wine tasted bitter, as though soured. “Where did this come from? ’Tis foul.”

  “Elva gave it to me. I have no idea from where it came,” she answered softly.

  Gerard got up and tossed the remains into the brazier. In control of his anger again, Gerard turned back toward Ardith.

  “The clergy can rant if they wish,” he finally answered. “Marriage among nobles is an affair of state. The king himself set our betrothal. If the bishops wish to object, they may take their complaint to Henry.”

  Ardith had hoped Gerard would heed the possibility of church censure, though his callousness shouldn’t surprise her, not since she’d heard of Lady Ursula’s warped piety.

  “What about Lady Diane? Has she agreed to the terms?”

  “Henry, I believe, is overconfident that Diane will agree. She is not a patient woman. More likely she will turn her attentions to another man and ask for release.”

  “And if she does not, if she decides to wait, will you marry her?”

  “If I must.” He waved a dismissing hand. “Hellfire, Ardith, why do we speak of failure when we have not yet made an attempt at winning?”

  Bronwyn had warned her to brace for gossip, for the wry glances of those who wondered if she shared Gerard’s bed. No longer would they merely wonder. Now they would speculate on Gerard’s stamina as he labored to infuse life into a dead womb.

  The king had bound her to Gerard, more closely than vassal to overlord, for a year. She was to live with him and try to conceive a child, and only if the impossible happened could they marry.

  As much as she loved Gerard, how could she spend a full year living as his wife, then relinquish him to another woman? The heartache would be unbearable.

  “What of me, Gerard?” Ardith said softly. “If we cannot marry, what happens to me? My father may not let me return to Lenvil. After this…test, no man will have me as wife.”

  “Ardith, I am your liege lord. You must know I would take care of you. I have any number of manors that could use a good chatelaine, or healer. As for a husband…” He shook his head. “I would have to give the matter some thought. There might be someone who…” He tossed his hands in the air. “Why are we even discussing this? I want you as my wife. You want me as your husband. Ardith, if we do not take advantage of this betrothal decree, we have no chance whatever at marriage.”

  Ardith conceded. All her life she’d dreamed of a life with Gerard. If she turned coward now, she would never know for certain if she’d tossed aside her fondest dream for naught. The dream, the life she wanted with Gerard, was worth the risk, though she wouldn’t admit as much to Gerard. He would scoff if she capitulated out of love, for the chance to fulfill a fantasy.

  Gerard didn’t love her, and as he’d stated in the chapel after hearing of Bronwyn’s matchmaking, sentiment had no import when making a marriage contract.

  “These manors you speak of,” she said, drawing a surprised look. “If this betrothal does not lead to our marriage, you would be willing to place one in a woman’s care, my care?”

  “Aye. You have done well at Lenvil. A small manor would not be beyond your capabilities.”

  “Then I suppose, my lord, we are betrothed.”

  Gerard watched her leave the room, satisfied with the result of this most uncommon conversation with a woman. He’d planned to dig deep into his coffers, placate Ardith with jewels or rich garments, the usual trinkets women found appealing. He smiled. His Ardith wasn’t typical of her sex. She cared naught for baubles, wore her newly acquired clothing with indifference.

  Fearing an uncertain future, Ardith craved a holding, a home, a gift of permanence and real worth. Her wishes had surprised him, until he realized the wisdom of her request.

  His smile soon turned to a frown. He’d granted Ardith’s unusual petition. Then why, he wondered, was Ardith not happy?

  Readying for the night ahead, Ardith sat on a stool and allowed Elva to comb through now unplaited auburn hair. A night rail of pale yellow hung in wispy folds from Ardith’s shoulders, the hem puddling around her bare feet.

  She handed a goblet of wine back to Elva. “This wine tastes odd.”

  Elva took a sniff. “Merely poor quality. You have become used to the fine wines from Kester’s stock. Drink,” her aunt instructed, giving Ardith back the goblet. “’Twill calm you for the night ahead.”

  “Is my nervousness so evident?”

  “Aye. You tremble. Drink.”

  Ardith took a deep breath to quiet her body, but her inner turmoil continued. She was as nerve-wrought as a bride awaiting her groom. But there the similarity ended. There had been no ceremony on the church stairs, no presentation of the dowry, no feast—none of the rituals practiced since beyond memory when two people joined in wedlock. She glanced at the door that connected the bedchambers.

  “Mayhap Gerard will not come tonight,” Ardith said softly.

  “He will come,” Elva huffed. “You know, dearie, I was right proud of you for demanding a reward—and such a rich reward.”

  Ardith had wondered how to tell Elva of the betrothal, to soften the blow so Elva wouldn’t screech her disapproval and kindle Gerard’s temper. At the moment, she couldn’t see a hint of the smoldering hatred Elva had always professed toward Wilmont. Elva accepted the news well—too well.

  “You overheard us speaking in the sitting room.”

  “Aye. I could not help overhear. The baron’s voice travels great distances when he speaks.”

  “And you are not angry?”

  “For your sake, I will hold my tongue. I will not risk banishment. You still have need of me, so the bones say.”

  “Do the bones also say whether I can get with child?”

  “Watch your tongue, girl. Do not slander what you do not understand. Besides, we both know you cannot conceive.”

  Ardith looked away, the words too painful to hear.

  “And even if you could,” Elva continued, “who is to say a year is enough time? Look to your sisters. Agnes and Elizabeth breed with ease. Both had babes during the first year of marriage. But Bronwyn, nearly two years wed, is childless.”

  The connecting door opened. Elva put the comb on the table, picked up the partially finished goblet of wine and quietly left the chamber.

  Chapter Twelve

  The heat in
Gerard’s emerald gaze lured Ardith into his arms, as a moth drawn to flame, ignorant of the danger.

  But she knew the danger of playing with fire, knew the folly of succumbing to temptation. She firmly pushed the awareness aside. She’d made her decision, accepted her fate. For as long as she could have him, be it for a year or for life, with or without the decree, she belonged to Gerard.

  If she couldn’t give him a child, she would give him her love, and if not the marriage he sought, then a liaison he’d never forget.

  So we begin.

  Pressed against him, she listened to his heartbeat. The steady thump pounded louder, faster. Ardith smiled at how easily Gerard responded to her nearness.

  Men thought themselves superior to women, took pride in their warriors’ prowess and control. Yet in the bedchamber, if a woman was of a mind, she could reduce a haughty baron to mere male with the paltry weapon of a rightly placed hip.

  Ardith was of a mind.

  She looked up into Gerard’s face, a smile threatening the corners of her mouth. “Mayhap women should be warriors.”

  His confusion showed in his eyes and voice. “Ardith, are you feverish?”

  Ardith had never learned women’s wiles, didn’t know if she could seduce. If she had any talent at all, now was the time to find out. She lowered her voice and half closed her eyes. “Aye, Gerard. I burn. Come ease my torment.”

  His reaction was most gratifying.

  Gerard moved with the grace of a young lion. He bent his golden-maned head, delving for a stunning kiss as he swooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Ardith floated within the snare of his embrace, hearing the promise of sweet pleasure that he vowed with silent, mobile lips.

  Her night rail melted away under his practiced hands. Gloriously naked, Ardith slid into bed as Gerard disposed of his garments. This time, watching him disrobe, she didn’t close her eyes as he whipped his sherte over his head, exposing a body of sculpted perfection.

  Over the wide plane of his chest, from nearly shoulder to shoulder, from prominent collarbone to taut stomach, glistened whorls of golden hair. A thumb-width scar slashed through the coils to below his navel, where the hair thickened into a thatch surrounding his male parts. Her female places quickened, responding to the urgency of his growing desire.

  “Is aught amiss?” he asked, his voice rumbling low with a note of unease.

  What could possibly be amiss? Surely, Gerard knew his body was magnificent.

  “I wished only to admire, Gerard. I am sorry if I offended.”

  His smile widened as he joined her, pulling her into his arms. Ardith pressed close to his warmth and raised her lips. He responded as a man with a terrible thirst, drinking long and deep.

  “You did not offend,” he said at long last. “If you enjoy the sight of my body, you may admire all you wish. In truth, the mere thought of your eyes upon me heats my loins.”

  His callused hands brushed her soft cheeks. His fingers played with her hair, twirling the strands as he explained, “I only wanted to know if you still feared my size.”

  Ardith remembered her earlier apprehension upon learning the size of his member. Hot upon the memory burst another, of how Gerard wielded his mighty sword, of the ecstasy spawned when sword entered scabbard. Her searching fingers eased along his side, skimming his trim waist, then hip. He hissed when her hand closed around that part of his body now as hard as iron covered with silk.

  “How could I fear that which gives me so much pleasure?”

  Relieved at her words and willingness to touch him, but unable to withstand the sweet torture, Gerard eased from the cocoon of her hand. Her touch, like no other woman’s, threatened his control.

  Maybe, someday, he would teach Ardith how to enjoy pleasure without joining their bodies. But until she swelled with his babe, he wouldn’t veer from the method needed to get her with child. Nor, he ruefully admitted, did he want to, for sliding into Ardith’s depths had proved addictive.

  The silken skin of dark-peaked, rounded mounds met his hand, rising and falling with her breath. Gerard rolled to his back, bringing Ardith belly to belly. Her hair swirled in a fan of auburn, then fell into a veil around her face and down her back. An enticing scent, delicate yet hardy as a field of wildflowers, invaded his nostrils. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He couldn’t hold back a chuckle at the sudden thought that no warrior had ever smelled quite so good.

  “What made you say women should be warriors?” he asked.

  Smiling slightly, she wiggled, nudging his member’s memory of the task at hand. “Because males are so easily subdued.”

  “Hmm. Was this how you intended to subdue Percival?”

  “Gerard!”

  The horrified look on her face set him chuckling again, then he grew serious, remembering Percival’s pursuit. “Did the shoemaker deliver your boots?”

  “Aye, while you met with the king.” Her eyes held a wary look. “Must I learn to use that dagger?”

  In this he would brook no argument. He would guard her well during their betrothal, but someday…the thought of Ardith alone, out of reach, rankled.

  “Pray you never have need to use a weapon against an enemy, but you will learn. Have a care for your safety, Ardith. Remember you belong to me now.”

  “I carry value to you?”

  Her tone teased, but Gerard saw the uncertainty. How could Ardith doubt? Wasn’t she the mate of his choosing?

  He ventured a teasing smile. “Aye, you hold value, Ardith. I might even hold you equal to my destrier.”

  “Your horse, my lord? How flattering!”

  But Ardith didn’t really take offense. If Gerard deemed her as valuable as his indispensable warhorse, her value was high indeed.

  Gerard rolled, flinging her to her back, pressing her into the mattress. “I might,” he said huskily. “Are you a good mount, Ardith, equal to the demands of my ride?”

  Ardith’s breath caught in her throat. Gerard hovered above her, his eyes dark, his body tense. She could picture him riding the huge warhorse. Regally, skillfully, Gerard could guide the destrier with a slight suggestion from his knees, a firm hand on the reins.

  “A mount’s performance depends much on the rider. Are you a skillful rider, Gerard?”

  “What is this? A challenge, my lady?”

  Ardith stroked the plane of his chest and raked her nails through the golden whorls. As her fingertips brushed pebbled nipples, he swallowed hard.

  “Nay, not a challenge, for then one must be the victor, the other vanquished. I would have us both prevail. Is that possible?”

  “More than possible. In truth, I would say probable.”

  Gerard quieted any further rejoinders with a kiss, long and hungry. Ardith fed his soaring passion with matching fervor. He noted the lack of surrender on her part. She leaped into the fray as an equal, taking and giving in full measure.

  He struggled for control, even attempted to slow the pace. But Ardith would have none of it. Her insistence for the coupling strained his flimsy grasp on sanity.

  Unable to do otherwise, Gerard answered her silent plea and slipped inside her welcoming warmth. Breathing hard, he lay quietly atop her, man joined to woman, flesh within flesh. Then she squirmed, and he was lost.

  With long, smooth thrusts he stroked her velvety woman’s place, riding high on the tide of passion. Ardith crested on an upthrust, crying out as ripple after ripple lapped at the dwindling sands of his control.

  Joyfully, Gerard joined Ardith in a sea of oblivion. His member pounded in completion, emptying wave after wave of life-giving fluid into her depths.

  He kissed her sweat-sheened forehead. “You drain me dry, scamp,” he whispered. “How can we not succeed? Bear me a child, Ardith. Male or female, I care not which.”

  Her arms tightened around his trunk. “I fear you wish for the impossible, Gerard. You may be unwise to expect success.”

  “Mayhap, but neither will I accept failure, not without a fight. An
d I fight to win, Ardith, always.”

  Ardith could feel the stares. Seated at evening meal beside Corwin, her skin prickled beneath the flagrant curiosity of the court. She concentrated on the morsels of meat and bits of bread she put in her mouth. They went down hard, hitting her stomach with a thud.

  Voices buzzed around her, too low to hear words clearly. Surely not everyone gossiped about the unusual betrothal, but some did, and the knowledge nudged Ardith’s anger. She wanted to scream a defense, tell everyone to stare at King Henry or Gerard. The king had declared the betrothal and Gerard agreed to the terms. She was merely a pawn, innocent.

  Except she wasn’t innocent. She’d protested but then yielded, not to the decree, but to a man, Gerard. Body, heart and soul, she’d yielded.

  And Gerard had well and truly claimed the offered prize, again and again, with tenderness, passion and reassurance. Her body still ached from last night’s vigorous comfort.

  “As bad as all that?” Corwin asked softly.

  The question brought Ardith up sharply, until realizing Corwin didn’t feel her aches, was only reacting to her mood.

  “I will survive,” she said, amazed at the conviction in her voice.

  “Now that Gerard has sent Father back to Lenvil, mayhap the talk will die a swift death. I knew Father would not like the decree, but to vent his spleen before anyone who would listen…well, Gerard would not tolerate it. Too bad Gerard cannot send Lady Diane away as well. Her tongue is quieter, but just as angry.”

  An understatement. Lady Diane de Varley’s opinion of the decree had spilled out of the audience chamber, flowed down passageways and now whirlpooled in the hall. Ardith almost felt sorry for the noblewoman. How galling it must be for Diane, to be told she must bide her time while the man she’d asked for in marriage tarried with another woman for a year.

  Ardith glanced toward Lady Diane’s place at table, and for the briefest second their gazes locked. Diane’s seething anger, bright in her eyes, sent a chill up Ardith’s spine.