Thus, with Mathieu’s death apparently an unfortunate accident, it wouldn’t occur to anyone that Rowena might be in danger herself.
What a blessing her betrothal to Lord Gawain had been so short. What a blessing she had retreated to the convent. Eric shuddered to think what might have happened otherwise.
Sir Armand was the obvious suspect. It was hard to credit, Sir Armand’s piety was legendary. Yet it was possible. Someone in Jutigny could be relaying messages to him. Eric dropped the drying cloth by the basin. He must delve a little deeper. Discreetly. If Sir Armand was his man, it would be hard to prove.
Eric took a cup of wine from the tray and started for the high table where, as Rowena’s husband and future steward of the Sainte-Colombe acres, he had won the right to sit at his lord’s right hand. Eric had questions for Lord Faramus and yet more questions for Rowena. However, the hall was filling fast—knights and soldiers; ladies, maids and children; the castle priest—all weaving in and out to secure their places at the long, cloth-clad tables. Servants darted hither and yon—doling out trencher after trencher; thumping platters on to the trestles. Eric sighed. With so many people in earshot, his questions would have to wait.
The door to the south tower opened and a man-at-arms came in—one of the men Eric had hand-picked to guard Rowena. The man held open the door, bowed, and Rowena appeared. She was followed closely by her maid and a second guard.
Eric’s thoughts scattered. Rowena was clad in a dark-rose gown that hugged her every curve and would surely be the envy of every woman in Christendom. Bon sang, he was the most fortunate of men. Her veil was the colour of cream and held in place by a silver circlet that caught the light as she moved. A shimmering river of silk, the veil flowed down her back. The fabric was so fine that it barely concealed her hair, which had been bound with rose ribbons into a loose braid and hung over her breast. Rowena’s tiny waist was encircled by a silver girdle that matched her circlet.
As her eyes met his, she sent him a shy smile and Eric found himself fighting for breath. He had married the most beautiful girl in all of creation. He hadn’t realised he had set his cup down and moved to meet her until he was tucking that small hand into the crook of his elbow.
‘I am glad to see you didn’t forget the guards, my lady.’
Rowena smiled up at him and his chest ached. He covered her hand with his. ‘Tonight your beauty outshines the sun,’ he murmured and led her past Sir Breon to their place at the high table.
As Eric feared, there was no chance of talking discreetly to Rowena’s father during supper. First potage was served and Sir Macaire claimed Lord Faramus’s attention—something about a boundary dispute with a local merchant. Then a platter of roast pork was set on the table and Lady Barbara drew her husband into a heated discussion about a petition she had received from the convent that had lately housed their daughter. By the time Eric was slicing into a pear poached in red wine and honey he had given up. He would speak to Lord Faramus in the morning.
Not that he minded, attending to Rowena was distraction enough.
A page refilled the wine cup they were sharing and Eric handed it to her. It was hard to keep his eyes off her mouth. That shy smile was so beguiling. And that gown—Lord, it was cut so low that when she leaned towards him, he could see the rise and fall of her breasts.
‘Do you care for a honey biscuit, my lady?’
‘No, thank you.’ Her veil danced as she shook her head. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight, this evening they were the colour of the sky and infinitely fascinating, the deep blue seemed to draw him in so he couldn’t look away.
Lifting a delicate hand, she hid a yawn. ‘I confess I am a little tired, sir. Convent life was uneventful which is doubtless why I have found the change of these past few days exhausting.’
Rowena didn’t look the least bit tired, Eric would swear that yawn was false. And she was biting her lip in a manner that suggested she was holding in a smile. Not to mention that the way she was leaning forward was tempting him almost beyond endurance. He wanted to snatch her into his arms and kiss her senseless. Yes, even here, in her father’s great hall with her parents and her father’s knights sitting scant feet away.
‘Rowena...’ His voice was choked. Rowena might have been innocent when they married, but she knew what she was doing. The sparkle in her eyes told him that she was deliberately trying to heat his blood. She was certainly succeeding. She gave another small yawn and her head came to rest against his shoulder. To an onlooker it would seem like a gesture of trust and affection, but Eric knew otherwise. The way that low neckline gaped made it an attempt at seduction. She wants me. Eric caught a glimpse of a rose-tipped breast and almost groaned aloud. He looked into her eyes and an eyebrow twitched. That shy, almost-smile was irresistible.
Time to surrender. He had given Berthe orders to have a brazier lit in their bedchamber, he hoped she had remembered. ‘Tired, my lady?’ Sliding an arm about his wife’s tiny waist, Eric pushed the platter of pears aside with a sigh as false as Rowena’s yawn. He turned to Count Faramus. ‘My lord, with your permission, Rowena and I should like to retire.’
* * *
The faint glow of a brazier filled the bedchamber. Good.
Eric snatched up a taper, held it to a coal and lit the candle on a wall sconce. ‘Come here, witch.’
‘Witch?’ With a swish of brocade skirts, she came to his side. ‘We haven’t been married a week and already you are calling me witch?’
‘You are a witch. Adorable. Enchanting. A witch. Your behaviour in the great hall...’ Allowing his voice to tail off, he shook his head at her.
Her eyes softened. ‘I shocked you,’ she said, resting her hands against his chest.
He set his hands on her hips. ‘Lord knows what your mother must have thought.’
‘Mama thinks we’re in love. She will excuse almost anything for that.’
‘Love?’ Eric felt his face freeze. ‘That’s not possible.’
‘I know that,’ she said lightly. ‘You will have to forgive Mama, she has been listening to too many troubadours.’
Frowning, he lifted her hands from his chest and held them out, the better to examine her gown.
‘Eric, what are you doing?’
‘Looking for lacings.’ He turned her about and couldn’t see any opening at the back. ‘It seems to be all of a piece, where the devil are they?’
He heard a soft laugh. ‘At the wrist and sides.’ Briefly, Rowena freed herself from his grasp, set the silver circlet on the shelf next to the candle and removed her veil.
Eric took her by the wrist and, leaning against the bedpost, pulled her to him. The lacings at the cuff were thin and fiddly. Naturally, in his eagerness his fingers turned into thumbs. As he wrestled with the fastenings, it seemed the chamber was filled with the heady fragrance of summer.
‘This gown must have scandalised the nuns.’
The candlelight gleamed in her eyes. She huffed out a breath. ‘I didn’t take it to the convent.’
‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’ Eric had finished one sleeve and loosened the side. He started on the other. ‘Although perhaps the nuns wouldn’t have worried if they had known what a trial it is to get you out of it.’
She laughed. ‘It’s not that easy getting into it. Berthe has to help.’
The second sleeve loosened, he moved on to the side lacings. ‘Rowena?’
‘Hmm?’
‘I need to ask you about Mathieu de Lyon.’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re quite certain no one saw you with him?’
‘Quite sure. Why?’ She touched his hand. ‘You have heard something.’
‘No. It is just an idea.’
She gripped his fingers. ‘Tell me.’
‘I’d rather not at this stage.’ Eric couldn’t
tell her that he suspected de Lyon might have been murdered on her account. He had already had her put under guard and he didn’t want to add to her worries. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. ‘Rest assured, if I learn anything definite, I will tell you.’
Loosening the final lacing, Eric heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God. We shall have you free of this in no time.’ Sliding his hands down her body, he caught hold of the rose brocade and pulled it from her.
* * *
When Rowena woke, pale light was filtering round the edges of the window shutter. She shivered, the brazier had gone out in the night and Eric had all the blanket. Pulling some of the covers back towards her, Rowena snuggled close. Eric was the best bed warmer.
He gave a murmur, opened sleepy eyes and smiled. ‘It can’t be morning already.’
They hadn’t slept much last night.
‘Not quite. I was cold. You, sir, are a blanket hog.’
A powerful arm wrapped round her. ‘A blanket hog?’ His eyes darkened. ‘I can think of other ways of warming you, if you are agreeable?’
Afterwards, Eric rose and went to the jug and ewer to wash. He was completely naked and utterly unselfconscious. Rowena lay in bed, watching him. Admiring. He had such a beautiful body, but he was so much more to her than that. She was a lucky, lucky woman. If Eric had not agreed to her father’s proposition...she shuddered. ‘Eric, thank you for marrying me.’
He smiled and set the towel on the side table. ‘It is no hardship, I assure you. I should be thanking you.’ Moving back to the bed, he reached for her hand. As he kissed it, a dark eyebrow lifted. ‘Marriage with you is greatly to my liking. I enjoy your company.’
She gave him a frank look. ‘You’re not alone in that. I too enjoy our time together, but I give you fair warning I want more from our marriage than that.’
‘You mean children? I, too, hope we shall have children.’
A brief image of small children—a boy and a girl—with Eric’s unusual eyes flashed into Rowena’s mind. The pang of longing that followed was almost unbearable. Firmly, she ignored it. ‘I wasn’t referring to children. I think you should know that I intend to use our mutual enjoyment of each other’s bodies to bind you to me.’
Expression puzzled, he turned and took his chausses down from a peg. ‘Rowena, I am already bound to you, in marriage. What more can there be than that?’
‘What about love?’
He froze. ‘Love? You want my love?’
‘Yes.’
Eric cleared his throat and she saw the muscles in his legs flex as he stepped into his chausses. His face was empty of all expression, he seemed to be at a loss for words. Then he cleared his throat a second time. ‘I told you, you can’t love me.’
His tone was flat. Firm. Uncompromising. Was he forbidding her to love him?
‘Why not?’
‘Rowena, you simply can’t.’
He turned his back, leaving her to contemplate his wide shoulders. Something about the set of them told her that Eric was not ready to think about love. It was far too soon for her to pursue that line of thought. She held down a sigh. She would have to try another approach.
When Eric picked up his shirt, she saw her chance and flung back the bedcovers.
‘Eric, I have something for you.’ Winding a blanket about her, she padded over to her coffer. The hinge creaked as she held the lid open and drew out the shirt. ‘I finished this yesterday just before the supper bell sounded. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to wear it.’
Handing the shirt to him, she held her breath. He shook it out and stared at it and Rowena’s heart cramped at the bemused expression in his eyes. It was as though he had never set eyes on a shirt before. ‘This is what you began making at Monfort?’
‘Aye.’
‘A shirt.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘For me.’ He stared silently at it, fingering the fabric, running his forefinger along the tiny stitches at the neck. A muscle flickered in his jaw.
He didn’t like it. He was so silent. If he liked it he would surely say something. ‘Eric, you don’t have to wear it. It’s nothing much, only an undershirt.’
Rowena felt herself go still. She had never seen him look quite like this. It came to her that she had startled him. He looked vulnerable. Although, if she read him correctly, underneath his surprise he was pleased. Deeply pleased. As well as uncertain. She had made him a shirt and he had no clue how to respond.
Her gut clenched. Surely this wasn’t the first time he’d been given a gift? Her mother had given Eric clothes when he’d arrived at Jutigny and he’d been issued with more as he grew older. However, everything would have come from the quartermaster. Thinking back, when they were young Rowena could only remember Eric wearing standard issue. Likely he had started paying someone to make him clothes when he had begun earning his knight’s fee.
Even then his tunics had been plain. Straightforward. Like the man. Except that she was discovering that Eric de Monfort was nowhere near as straightforward as everyone supposed.
His head was bent over her work, he was examining at the initials she had embroidered on the front—‘E’ and ‘R’ entwined in blue-and-crimson silk.
He looked up, eyes hooded. ‘This embroidery is very good. Excellent work. Rowena, I thank you. I have never had anything so fine.’
His forefinger traced over the blue ‘R’ and he bit his lip. Slowly, he shifted his finger over the crimson ‘E’. ‘I like the way you’ve worked our initials.’
‘You are my husband.’ She shrugged. ‘I saw the pattern in my head and thought they would look pretty intertwined.’
Green eyes bored into hers. His face was unreadable. Then, snatching up his tunic and sword belt, he strode out. The door thumped shut.
Rowena sank on to the edge of the bed, the blanket clutched to her breast. She closed her eyes. Her gift—likely the first that had been fashioned especially for him—had angered him and she wasn’t quite sure why. It was obvious he was pleased at becoming part of the family. She felt sure that her gift had touched him. Was that the trouble? He didn’t know how to respond.
Opening her eyes, she stared at the door. She could no longer hear his footsteps, he must be downstairs with Alard already. At least he had taken the shirt with him. Would he wear it? She had no idea. Clearly, winning Eric’s heart wasn’t going to be as easy as she had hoped. She would have to take it one step at a time.
Chapter Ten
A man on a mission—in truth a man on two missions—Eric stalked into the bailey, his cloak flapping at his heels. His squire was waiting for him near the gatehouse.
The horses were already saddled and tethered to a ring in the wall and Alard was leaning against his horse’s withers, knuckling sleep from his eyes. On seeing Eric, Alard straightened and pulled Captain’s reins from the ring.
Eric dragged on his gloves and took the reins. ‘My thanks.’
When he and Alard were mounted, Alard looked at him. ‘Where are we going, sir?’
‘Provins. The cloth market.’
Alard stared. ‘Again?’
Eric felt his face heat. ‘I made a promise and I must fulfil it.’
That bolt of blue samite lingered in his mind’s eye. That was his first mission. Rowena had admired it and now they were married he intended to buy her a length to make a gown. Admittedly, he hadn’t expected to be doing this quite so soon.
Leather creaked as they heeled the horses into a walk. The sky was overcast, the colour of pewter, and the wind was coming from the north. It would rain later. Absently Eric rubbed his chest. Rowena’s gift lay beneath his gambeson and tunic, next to his skin. He had finished dressing in a chamber beneath theirs and when he had pulled on her shirt, he’d had a lump in his throat the size of a gull’s egg. It seemed ridiculous to be moved by so sma
ll a thing. He was married and his wife had made him a shirt.
It was not an uncommon thing for Rowena to have done, wives made clothes for their husbands every day. Yet somehow her gift had wrong-footed him. The fabric she had unearthed from the Monfort linen chest was soft against his skin, the stitches tiny. Perfect. Never in his life had he owned anything so fine, the stuff he usually got the seamstress to sew for him was coarser and the stitches heavier.
It felt strange wearing something Rowena had made for him. He liked it even though it unsettled him. Had Rowena’s mind been on him while she had been setting those tiny stitches? Before she had given it to him, she had said something about wanting his love, even though he had warned her not to expect it from him. Had she been thinking about love when she had sewn his shirt? He would never love her, he would never love any woman.
As they left Castle Jutigny behind them and joined the road to Provins, Eric grimaced. His response to her gift left much to be desired. She must think she had married the most surly of men; she must think that he disliked the shirt when the opposite was true. Eric had been struggling to frame some sort of a decent response even as he noticed that the delicate stitching of the red and the blue was more than just a pretty pattern. It was their initials, interwoven. The knowledge had floored him. He’d been utterly stunned.
What had he done to deserve her? Lady Rowena of Sainte-Colombe had married him under duress. It was obvious she’d been mourning Mathieu de Lyon when she’d entered the convent. She’d been forced to marry Eric, and yet she was behaving in every way as though he were her choice. Eric wasn’t her equal. He had become a knight but there was no escaping that a foundling could never be her social equal. Mon Dieu, she hadn’t the first clue about his background.
Eric stared blindly at Captain’s ears as he remembered the gentle expression in her eyes as he had traced his finger over their initials, as he had understood what they symbolised. We are united, those initials seemed to say.
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