by Claudia Dain
Marie realized instantly that she had blundered in her recitation, for Lady Cathryn had never before shown even a hint of the raw emotion that was seeping out of her now. To lose one's home to a stranger was bad enough; to lose oneself to the same stranger as an afterthought of little value was worse. But she said nothing; she simply retreated from the subject as if it had not been broached.
"Would you like to bathe, my lady?"
Marie could not know it, but she had given her lady the means to regain her composure with that question. Would she like to bathe? Knowing, as she did, how her new husband cherished the act of bathing? Knowing that he had commanded her that all the inhabitants of Greneforde should bathe?
With a serene smile, Cathryn answered, "Nay."
Almost as an afterthought, she added, "And avoid bathing yourself, Marie, as you continue to keep yourself hidden from sight. I would be more familiar with le Brouillard's men."
"Lady," Marie began nervously, "he is your husband and your lord. Is it seemly that you refer to him so?"
Probably it was not, but she was past caring, and Marie's high tension was causing her own nerves to stretch to the breaking point. Wanting to be alone to calm herself, she spoke the words that would give her solitude.
"Marie, you have done me good service in distracting me whilst I prepared for bed, but now you must depart, else my lord will find you on the stair."
No more needed to be said. With blue eyes as round as a startled owl's, Marie fled the room, closing the door softly behind her. The drape scarcely moved in her wake.
There was little left to be done. Moving to the padded stool, she sat before the fire and unbound her hair with rapid fingers. Picking up a comb of ivory, one of the few fine possessions left to her, she dragged it through her long hair, lifting the ends onto her lap so they would not hang on the floor. It was a job she enjoyed, usually. The act of combing her hair was soothing in its very repetition of movement, and she loved the feeling of her hair hanging free of constriction. Tonight she found no pleasure in it, rushed as she felt.
It seemed that every moment she heard heavy feet on the stair or the latch turn or the curtain move. But the moments passed and she had the room to herself. This privacy could not last long. She knew the look in le Brouillard's fog gray eyes. He would be here soon.
Putting the comb carefully on the seat of the bench, she ran to the bed and scrambled to the middle of it, sitting small and straight in the pristine white center of it.
When her feet got cold, she got under the blankets and held them securely around her hips. At first she stared at the fire. The room was in complete darkness now, save for the fire and the lit taper near the door.
He would come any moment now, this le Brouillard who was so silent when faced with an enemy. And how would he face her? If he was silent, did that mean he saw her as a foe? By his look at the table, he had reconciled himself to a wife. He wanted her, that was clear enough, but did he want her for a night's sport or as a true wife? She was not so innocent that she did not understand that a wife could be nothing more than a warm body to her husband and a vessel for his heirs. She had always wanted more than that, but when she had done her wanting and her dreaming, she had not been the wife of le Brouillard. Did she yearn for a fuller union with him?
The silence of her soul was the only answer she could lay hand to.
How long she watched the fire and thought of him, she was not certain, but certain she was that the fire had burned down. It was full dark. She turned her head to watch the doorway, almost expecting to see him there, but he was not there. Was he such a man to dawdle on his way to the bridal bed? Strange men they bred in France, and not at all as the troubadors sang of them.
Fie on the man! She could not—would not—sit and wait like a dumb animal for the ax that would cleave its skull. Scrambling out of the big bed, she hurried to the warmth of the fire, but could not stand still to enjoy its heat. Pacing, measured, graceful, unhurried, but pacing nonetheless, she expended some of her excess energy. The cold numbness of her feet forced her back to the relative warmth of the bed, and she climbed in, with less care to the smoothness of the coverlet than she had at first shown.
How much time had passed? Surely all must be abed by now. No sounds of laughter or the scraping of a bench reached her ears, yet it had been a quiet wedding feast. One might even say somber. No matter. The meal had been well prepared and artfully presented, even if the quantity was not abundant. Her people had naught to be ashamed of. And she?
She who had worn plain, uncolored wool to her wedding while her betrothed had worn clothing that would not have shamed him at royal court? No, she had worn her best; she could do no better than that. And now the bedding. She had forced the thought from her mind since first receiving message of her marriage from the curtain walk, and now it was upon her. She could not but think of it now.
He was a large man and well muscled, this stranger who now laid claim to both Greneforde and her. Greneforde he had wanted. But Cathryn? Even after Marie's words, she did not need to ask. His look of desire was clear. And after the bedding?
Cold or not, Cathryn bolted out of bed. She did not seek the fire, for she could not force herself to stay near it. Like a caged animal, she prowled the confines of her chamber, her stride long and swift, her hair flying out behind her like a golden banner of war.
No, he did not wish for a wife, though the gift of a woman he would not turn aside after a cold day in the saddle. Greneforde had been his goal and Greneforde was his prize—a gift for faithful service. What matter that she was part and parcel of that prize? What matter? Of no matter at all! It was absurd even to contemplate. She and Greneforde were one. It had been told to her many times and she believed it; how could she not when to have Greneforde meant to have Cathryn? And le Brouillard had breached the outer defenses of Greneforde as he would soon be charging up the stairs to breach the final barrier: the one between her legs. Oh, yes, she and Greneforde were one—both voiceless prizes to be handed to the strongest warrior. Why, it put her in mind of a tray of succulent meat being passed at table, offered to anyone with a hand to grab.
And without her quite realizing that it had happened, Cathryn's control, the control that ruled as well as protected her, broke. As ice cracked and melted beneath the heat of the sun, her composure ran down and away and she was powerless to call it back.
It was then that the curtain parted and William le Brouillard entered.
The sudden flaring of the fire was her only clue that something had changed within the room. Whirling, her hair swirling around her in a golden nimbus, she faced him. Cathryn had as little control of her emotions as a cornered animal, and all of her helpless fury and frustrated despair was reflected in the dark brown depths of her eyes.
* * *
Of all the possible reactions William had anticipated from his bride, this was not one of them, and, for a moment, he did not recognize what he was witnessing. She was Cathryn of Greneforde, as emotionless as the earth waiting for the plow. He knew that about her. Yet here she was, fists clenched and blowing hard through her mouth, her eyes alight with a strange, licking fire.
With slow steps, he entered almost cautiously and, in truth, he did not wish to alarm her. She was a bride of but hours and faced with the prospect of a bedding. It was maidenly nerves that had her strung so tightly and he would dead gently with her, as he had assured Father Godfrey.
Her eyes never left him. She watched him as warily as any opponent he had faced on the field of battle. The comparison did not sit well with him. She was his wife. He did not want to begin this marriage, this bonding, as adversaries. Moving toward the fire and toward her, he watched as she watched him. Watched as she backed up at his approach. Watched the unfamiliar glitter that shone from her dark eyes.
With a smooth motion, he removed the ruby brooch that held his mantle and swept it from his shoulders. His eyes never left hers, as hers did not leave him. She backed up a small step and then lift
ed her chin. It appeared that she had determined not to give ground to him again.
Ah, but she was a beauty, and this new side to her, a side he had little anticipated, only whetted his appetite for her to a sharper edge. Her eyes glowed from within. Her hair fell to her knees and covered her slight form like a priceless golden cloak. The thin linen shift she wore hid nothing of her form, particularly since the orange light of the fire was at her back. Her breasts were heaving as if she had run a great distance, and they pressed against the light fabric. The dark outline of her nipples was plainly visible. The desire he had felt for her during the meal was magnified a hundredfold.
She read his desire as clearly as if he had spoken of it.
"The conqueror comes to claim his final victory," she said, her tension and bitterness unmistakable. "The easiest one yet."
William stopped for a moment at her words, then threw his mantle over the chest with intentional carelessness.
"The conqueror called William has already made his mark on this isle," he answered softly. "I am the William known as the Fog, and I am here as a husband newly made." He took a step closer. "I do not come to conquer."
"But to claim," she finished for him, not moving from her place by the hearth.
William continued to stare into her face, trying to read the torture he heard in her words but seeing only dark eyes and the faint trace of a scar. With careful movements, he unbuckled his belt and laid it on the foot of the bed. His words were as slow and careful as his motion.
"'Tis the way of things for a husband to claim his wife, especially on the day they have been wed."
He removed his tunic and placed it atop his belt, revealing wide shoulders and narrow hips and the space between the two covered with black and curling hair. Her breath had been coming in deep gulps before; it now came in erratic gasps. He was ringed with muscle, from shoulders to arms to chest to belly. To name such a man "the Fog" was ridiculous in the extreme; everything about him was as solid as stone. And his beauty, for beautiful he truly was, escalated her fear to new heights.
"And if I reject this 'claiming'?" she spit out. "For to me it seems more of a final conquest, and you have had your share of victories this day."
He had promised to be gentle with her. It was a promise made with the best intentions and for a noble purpose: to soothe a frightened maiden about to lose her maidenhead. But the woman who faced him now, speaking in riddles of conquest and victory and claiming, was pushing him beyond reason.
He thought of Margret in that instant, the memory of her delicate beauty tempering his impatience; William took a breath to steady his raging emotions. He was determined to show his bride nothing but chivalric gentleness. He would treat Cathryn with the tenderness a new bride deserved.
She was a new bride, but was he not a new husband? Was he not to look forward to his lawful rights with the woman he had pledged his life to? She knew what was to come, knew what was wanting to make this marriage complete. And with the thought came fresh suspicion.
He had not been completely at ease regarding her and her calm acceptance of him as lord of Greneforde, not since she had stood in solitary welcome in the yard. If he understood her, she did not intend to consummate the marriage, whereupon it would be invalidated. It was a devious and bloodless way to have his claim on Greneforde annulled, as she would have the marriage annulled. He would lose Greneforde—and her—in one stroke. But it would not be.
And with that thought, he found himself quite certain that Father Godfrey had not told him all he knew in regard to Cathryn.
"Nay, Cathryn," he said with quiet force, the way clear in his own mind. "There is one victory left to me this day, if that is what you choose to call it, and it will not be denied me."
As he spoke, he removed what little remained of his bridal finery. He stood now before her at the hearth, as naked as the day his mother first beheld him—with one difference. His shaft, engorged and full, pumped rhythmically in her direction as a sword sought to find the weakness in an opponent.
Staring first at his throbbing sword and then into his steely eyes, Cathryn began to laugh the hysterical laughter of the deranged.
"I doubted it not." She laughed, the sound crashing against the ceiling. "Nay, I but hoped; but you have battled and won against greater odds than I could offer you." Flinging her arms wide, she stepped back. "Have you not won Greneforde? And since Greneforde is already won, then so am I, but this last victory will not taste sweet to you. Perhaps because I am not as sweet a prize as Greneforde!"
He reached for her and grabbed her arms, pinning them to her sides and holding her still. With gentle force, he pulled her up against him so that his pulsing member was embraced by her curves.
"Not taste sweet?" he said harshly. "Nay, Cathryn, this will taste the sweetest yet."
This time it was no kiss of peace he offered her, but a kiss of war—a war he would win; neither of them had any doubt of that. But it was a war against her resistance that caught her unprepared, for he did not deal harshly with her, no matter that he had been sorely prodded. Nay, he did not move directly against her mouth—did he fear she would bite?—but instead set his mouth against the tender spot near her ear. His hands moved from her arms to capture her breasts in a gentle and beguiling embrace, and as his thumbs teased her nipples to reluctant life, his mouth, warmer now than before, traced a path along the line of her chin. She stirred against him, against the onslaught of touch and emotion, pressing her locked arms against the width of his chest and pushing hard. He did not move. She had not really thought that he would, but it was all that was left to her. And she kept her eyes wide open. He would not win her. She would not lose herself in the sensations he was striving to tap. She was Cathryn of Greneforde and she would not melt for him.
His mouth, moving constantly, reached hers, and now he did take that strategic point. His effort was valiant in its persuasion and perseverance, but she kept her lips closed against his, no matter what wiles of tongue and breath he used. There would be no sweet taste there for him to savor, just the bitter gall that filled her own mouth.
At last he understood that there would be no winning her, that she would not yield to his touch and grow soft and warm for him. He had the small satisfaction of knowing that this, at least, was the Cathryn he recognized. There would be no parley, no compromise; she would be breached tonight. She would be wife in full measure, no matter her distaste for the act, for he would be lord of Greneforde. Besides, with practice, she might grow to like it.
He pressed his hips fully against hers and rubbed against her. She arched her back so violently away from him that he wondered if she would do herself an injury before submitting quietly to his touch. But she was quiet, as was he. Their battle, for it was nothing else, was waged in silence. Desperate silence.
He could do naught else. The time for him to penetrate her had come. It would be best to get it over with as quickly as he could; pleasure would come with subsequent beddings.
Pushing her onto the bed, he fell atop her, keeping the bulk of his weight off of her with his raised arms. Trying once again to coax pleasure from her, he kissed her, feeling gently with his fingertip for the small slit that would receive him. She was as dry as bone and as stiff. And still she watched him with eyes wide and panic-filled. In truth, he found he had the compassion to pity her.
With his pity, and those eyes staring in such horror at him, he felt himself grow soft.
Muttering a curse, he yanked up her shift, tearing it in the process, and stared at the delicate beauty of her golden nakedness, carefully keeping his eyes from hers lest she unman him again.
She was a beauty of fine proportion and fashionably slim—too slim, in fact. More food and less wine would serve her better. But her breasts were perfectly round mounds surmounted by dusky pink peaks of generous size. Her nipples were large and greatly extended, despite her apparent lack of response; perhaps she was not as unmoved as he had feared. Feasting his eyes upon her, he felt his m
anhood grow until it pressed against the soft skin of her inner thigh. It was time.
"The first time there is fear and pain," he said softly, his voice low and gentle. "Let us get the first time behind us, Cat."
And she went wild beneath him, clawing and twisting so that he knew she meant to draw his blood before he drew hers. So great was the strength of her panic, she almost succeeded in tossing him from the bed. The rest of her shift was ripped away as she battled him. But he had had enough. The marriage would be consummated. Greneforde would be his without any doubt—and so would Cathryn.
"This marriage will be consummated!" William thundered, positioning himself between her legs, pressing his weight against her so that she could not shift position. When one of her fists rocked against his face, he held her hands above her head in one gigantic fist, while with the other he spread wide one leg. She was helpless.
With one thrust he breached her and he roared out, his voice rebounding off the walls of the room. But his cry was not in ecstasy or in victory.
Cathryn of Greneforde was no virgin.
* * *
She lay still beneath him, as unmoving now as she had been volatile before. Eyes wide, she looked straight up with an unseeing, unblinking stare. Her legs were splayed out across the disheveled bed. Her hands clenched even as they were held in William's fist. She felt nothing, except that perhaps this was what it was to be dead.
William felt much, much more. His manhood was again gone, and this time he did not care; the marriage had been consummated, if just. He slid out of her and escaped the bed, hastily arranging his clothing. He did not look at her. He thought that if he did, he just might kill her.
She had known a man before him.
A tidal thrust of betrayal and fury rose to choke him. He had been on the mark when he suspected her of betrayal. His instincts were never wrong, but how he wished—and not for the first time—that they could be more specific.
She had lain with a man. At least one man. If she had soiled herself with one, she could have been with many, for how was a man to know when once the wall had been breached how many poured through the gap?
