* * *
At first light, Weston propped himself upon an elbow to stare into Chrestien's sleeping face. With her eyes closed, her thick lashes were like strands of silk upon her rosy cheeks. Her mouth was so lush and ripe, and of a sudden he remembered that he had not even kissed her last night and it sickened him that he would have taken her maidenhead without a single show of tenderness.
He rarely kissed the women he slept with, preferring to keep the lovemaking simple and to the point. After all, it was naught but a means to satisfy his body, and never had he felt the urge to shower adoring kisses upon a lady friend. But... Chrestien was different.
He recalled having her pinned to her bed at Lontaine, and wanting so desperately to taste of her then—despite that he had thought her defiled—aye, he had wanted her even then.
Suddenly angry with himself, he rose and prepared the horse for the day’s ride.
When Chrestien awoke and readied herself, he placed her upon his destrier without a word, taking great care not to look into those smoky eyes of hers, for fear that he would see the loathing there.
Chrestien chewed her lip.
Something had happened last night—something either very terrible or very beautiful.
She watched him prepare the horses for the ride, wanting desperately for him to say anything that would tell her he cared for her—if only a little—but he said naught and kept his eyes averted.
Did he think her a wanton?
Once he finished securing the saddlebags, he finally glanced at her, but Chrestien turned her face as though seared by his gaze. She could not bear to look at him now and have him know what was in her heart. His power over her was frightening, and she’d never been so deeply affected by a man in all her life.
An hour from the monastery, Weston stopped in the shelter of the woods and dismounted. Retrieving a pile of material from the burlap sack he’d placed within his saddlebags, he unfolded it to reveal a modest sendal bliaut—the muted rose color was accentuated by a border of ivory thread. He handed it to Chrestien.
She looked at him in confusion. “For me? How?”
His voice was full of remorse. “I bought it at the inn. It belonged to the innkeeper’s wife. Do you like it?”
It was the plainest gown she had ever seen—certainly nothing like the new gowns Adelaine wore—but in that instant it could have been the lushest velvet in her hands. “Aye, my lord! ’Tis lovely!”
Weston’s guilt was eased by her radiant smile. “I’d not have you taking your nuptials in your undergarment,” he said, deciding it was best to tell her of Henry’s mandate. It would neither be fair nor kind to let her discover it at the altar.
Her brow furrowed and her smile faded. “I do not understand... you were to take me to Caen?”
“And I shall, but not to cloister you at La Trinite, Chrestien. We go instead to St. Etienne, where I will wed you myself.”
He thought he saw a hint of a smile in her eyes, but her lips did not follow suit. Still, she did not protest, so he decided not to tell her it had been Henry’s mandate, for she was obviously not displeased, albeit a little bewildered.
“You would wed me, my lord?”
Her surprise amused him and he chuckled low. “Aye, Chrestien, I would wed you. Now go put on the gown,” he said gently.
A tentative smile returned to her lips and his blue eyes danced with a sudden merriment as she nodded her head in acquiescence and slipped into the brush.
Unbidden, Chrestien’s smile widened as she turned her back to Weston.
Only weeks ago she would have scoffed at the idea of marriage—a fate worse than death, she would have said! And she would have avoided it at all costs.
Now? Well, after having witnessed Adelaine’s beautiful wedding, she had had all manner of regrets over her own future. But of a sudden it was what she wanted most—children, a home of her own, the love of a good man.
Nay, she wasn’t fool enough to believe Weston loved her as yet, but surely he did want her. Had he not shown her gentleness last eve? And guilty conscience or nay, he would not have needed to wed her over her lost maidenhead. Nay, but love would come with time, she decided. He’d held her tenderly in his arms for long hours and comforted her though their sinful embrace was as much her fault as it was his.
As she drew the rose-colored bliaut over her head, her mind flew back to the intimate moments spent with him. She had shamefully enjoyed everything he had done to her, but somehow she’d felt so unfulfilled.
Was that all there was to it? Confusion muddled her thoughts, until she could think on it no longer, and she waved her hand as though to swat away the pestering thoughts.
When she came from behind the brush, Chrestien sensed he was pleased, although his face showed not a trace of emotion, save for the eyes—they were smoldering with open desire. Jesu, but his look was penetrating! She lowered her eyes to escape his knowing gaze, but could sense his scrutiny still.
Without a word, he came to her suddenly, his arms coming around to enfold her. Chrestien's eyes flew open to meet his and this time, though she desperately wanted to turn away to hide her confused emotions, she kept her gaze affixed to his. Without warning his lips covered hers, and in that instant Chrestien knew she was his to do with as he would.
Weston groaned deep in the back of this throat. She tasted sweet, like honey-spiced mead. His tongue flicked across the smoothness of her lips, willing them to part.
She seemed uncertain what he wanted her to do, and initially confusion prompted her to tighten her lips, rousing a throaty chuckle from him. Her bewilderment pleased him, aroused him further, and the gentle pressure he exerted coaxed her lips to part softly. Immediately, his kiss deepened, his pleasure immense as he took the part of her she’d willingly given him.
Drawing away, he watched the changing emotions that registered upon her face and felt a moment of gratitude that Henry had willed this after all.
Suddenly, he could think of nothing more lovely than to return to her arms each night and he was in a hurry to have her speak the words that would bind her to him forever.
Without warning, Chrestien found herself raised into the air as he lifted her nearly effortlessly. And for a moment, before he placed her into the saddle, she could feel the heat of his breath upon the back of her neck and it sent a chill down her spine.
“You are mine,” he said huskily.
Jesu! What did he do to her? It was as though every gaze, every touch sent her senses into turmoil. Her body betrayed her at his slightest touch—no matter how innocent the contact. And his words thrilled her to the core.
Once they were both mounted, Weston encircled her waist with a sinewy arm, holding her firmly against his chest, and his whispered words in her ear made her shiver in his arms. “I will bind myself to you and keep you safe… always.” And once having imparted that, he placed a firm but gentle kiss upon the back of her head and moved to cradle his cheek upon her crown.
God’s Bones, but how did this happen?
Weston had been prepared to loathe her—or had he? He reflected back to the first time he’d truly seen her... in the tub. He’d left Lontaine in a rage—not because he was angry with her. If he could be honest with himself, his desire had confused him enough to make him flee. But while at Montagneaux, he could hardly keep from comparing the two sisters, and without having known Chrestien he’d felt a bond with her, despite that he did not know her. She was an angel sent to claim his heart.
Had she truly done that?
Aye, she had.
Mayhap it happened when she’d floated into the hall last eve, dressed so prettily, coming into the room almost as though on gilded wings. Or mayhap it was in the garden when he could not see her... only feel her sweet presence... hear her daring spirit.
He chuckled to himself as he thought of his lovesick knights at Lontaine. How many of them had asked themselves these very same questions of themselves?
The obvious answer brought a frown, as a powe
rful wave of protectiveness came over him. In that instant he knew he would kill any man who dared to touch her. She was his, by God!
In fact, he vowed he would keep her away from men altogether. Her effect on them was much too disconcerting. Had she not come close to turning him into a mindless, covetous fool? Aye, whether he was willing to own the truth of it or nay, she had... very nearly.
He was startled to see her smoky eyes watching him so intently over her shoulder. “You have not said where we will live, my lord.”
Mayhap because he did not know.
The question brought an instant frown to his lips. Could she be happy with a landless knight? Suddenly the vision he had of coming home to his wife seemed muddled and uncertain.
“Do you have holdings in Normandy?” she persisted.
The furrow in Weston’s brow deepened. “Nay, I do not.”
‘Tell me about your home in England, my lord.”
“’Tis not much to speak of,” he said, an almost bored tone to his voice. “’Tis wild terrain—not the place for a wellborn lady—cold and full of strife.”
Her tone changed at once, as though suddenly he had pricked her temper. “Think you I have never dealt with cold, or that Normandy is free of strife? Nay, my lord. I am no stranger to aught you mention.”
A smile curved his lips, and he decided that no matter where he lay his head at night, he could think of it as home if only she were near. And he would do everything within his power to be sure she never regretted laying beside him.
Chapter Eleven
The ceremony was over quickly, as there was little need to celebrate with but the two of them present. The priest spoke the holy words, witnessed by the monks, and then it was over and they were once again in the saddle.
The sobriety of the occasion hung heavily in the air, mingling with the dark gray clouds overhead, their swollen bellies threatening to regurgitate their overflow. It was not long after they left Caen that those clouds made good on their threat, drenching both riders and animal in the tumultuous downpour.
For Chrestien, the feeling of despair had begun immediately upon entering the cathedral of St. Etienne. Its enormous rib-vaulted ceiling made her feel minuscule, unimportant... a thorn in Weston’s side. She had no idea why she felt herself such a burden, but she worried now that he had wed her out of guilt—because he had taken her virginity. She didn't want him to have wed her for that reason.
The rain went on for miles, sometimes slowing to a drizzle, but never ceasing, and Chrestien noted late in the afternoon that they were near the spot where Weston had first captured her on that horrible day.
“There's a shelter nearby that should keep us from the rain,” he said and they made their way toward it, seeking refuge in the dense woodland.
Reining in his destrier, Weston dismounted and aided Chrestien in doing the same. On foot, he led her through the thick underbrush and into a natural shelter of sorts—a canopy of trees that shielded the forest floor from the rain so well that very little light pierced the foliage. Upon entering the shelter, her eyes widened—like a sweet little girl—a complete contrast to the vixen he’d thought her to be when he'd first met her. Her hair hung in wet ringlets, and her cheeks were rosy against her ivory skin. But it was her wet gown that assured him she was no child. The sopping fabric hugged every curve of her body and he noted that her nipples stood proud and erect against the now faded bliaut. She was soaked to the bone but had complained not once. His heart went out to her and it pained him that he had nothing finer to clothe her in. She deserved coffers of silk and velvet cloaks. As soon as he was able, he would dress her in the finery she deserved, but his task at this moment was to remove her sodden clothing and warm her bones. Taking the blanket from his saddlebag, he spread it upon the ground and dropped his mantle atop it. Then he motioned for Chrestien to come to him.
Taking tiny rigid steps, she made her way toward him, teeth chattering.
Weston frowned, knowing that if he did not take the wet gown from her chilled body soon, she could take ill. Impatient to see her dry, he swept her into his arms and dropped her beside the blanket. He helped her remove the dripping gown, and she sat nearly naked but for her chainse and her shoes upon the dry homespun coverlet he’d set out. Shivering, she pulled his mantle over her shoulders. Her kid-leather slippers were ruined, he noted as he bent to remove them from her feet. She was too numb to protest when he helped her off with her chainse as well.
His breath caught as he set eyes upon her nude form. She was more lovely than he’d remembered, and he reasoned that the soapy bathwater had hidden her far better than he’d realized. Desire ignited within his loins, but he willed his mind to govern it and replaced his mantle about her shoulders.
He would not touch her tonight, he swore. She was cold and miserable and he would wait until she could gift him with the fire she had shown him last eve.
“Feel better?”
Her teeth chattered away in protest of the cold, but she nodded her head.
“Do you realize, Chrestien, this is the very spot we first met?”
She had not.
Raising her head, Chrestien took a long look about. Flashes of that day accosted her and a shiver of recollection swept through her. “Somehow it seems different,” she said finally, her teeth chattering still.
“In fact, our blanket sits on the very spot where my tent was erected. I well and truly thought you a boy,” he confessed.
Chrestien shivered. “You cannot know how frightened I was that you’d discover the truth.” She laughed softly. “I believed you a fate worse than death.”
He lifted a brow. “That was not how you looked at me. In truth, I thought you a femme you ogled me so thoroughly. You are cold,” he said, when she shivered once more. “I mean to keep you warm.” Removing his own wet clothes, and placing his tunic, and gambeson onto a low-lying limb, he began to undo his laces and crossbands.
Chrestien’s eyes widened suddenly as Weston's breeches fell to the ground, unhampered by the loosed cross-bands.
Sweet Mary! She did not remember that!
For the first time since last eve she wondered if in fact, she remained a virgin, because she most assuredly would have felt that monstrosity. Indeed, that was not how she recalled his manhood.
A slow, arrogant smile turned Weston's lips as he watched her reaction.
It was the response he’d hoped to gain from her, and he was certain now that she was completely innocent of all he had silently charged her with.
She was his and his alone.
Sitting again upon the blanket, he pulled the coverlet about their nude bodies, seeking the warmth their wet garb could no longer afford them. He pulled her gently into his arms, rubbing her tenderly with his hands, warming her.
There was silence between them as he listened to her teeth chattering.
Instinctively, she buried her face in his chest, and he pulled her against him to cradle her within his arms, whispering softly into her wet hair.
“You are lovely,” he said and meant it.
After awhile, her shivers abated a little. But darkness fell as he sat next to her, feeling her tremble through the blanket that covered them.
Chrestien could not stop trembling, but she was cold no longer, in truth. She was afire with the feel of him beside her. The memory of his gentle touch lingered in her thoughts, and her body yearned for some unknown thing she knew instinctively only her husband could give her.
Already her breasts were anticipating the caresses he’d given her last eve, and when he brought his warm fingers to the tips of them, she shivered in response. And yet no sooner did his fingertips alight there than her body craved his touch elsewhere.
His lips took the place of his fingers, suckling and probing the hardened nubs, and it seemed he spent an eternity savoring one breast and then the other, until she nearly went mad from the intense pleasure it gave her. She wanted to scream—wanted to plead that he help her find a release from the tortur
ous state he had put her in. She wanted him to stop... wanted him to go on... in truth, she didn’t know what she wanted.
Was it possible to die from so much pleasure?
His fingers glided across her skin, stopping to play in her forbidden region, and she thought to tell him to cease, but as his fingers danced their magic dance, her protests died in her throat, replaced instead by tiny pleading whimpers. She wasn’t certain what she wanted from him, only knew that she would have it. Whatever it was, by God, she would have it. God’s Mercy, she would have it. The fire that was growing in her belly was no longer exquisite, but agonizing instead. It grew so intense that she could barely endure it—tried to tell him so, but only his name rolled from her parched lips.
Weston reveled in the sound of his name as it slid from her tongue. Never in his life had he been so thoroughly enchanted by the Norman accent. He knew he brought her desire to near madness, but the sweet torture was his to endure as well. He traced one nipple with his knowing tongue, then dipped to the valley between her breasts, coming finally to her lips again, his tongue following the outline of them, exerting the most gentle pressure, until she opened to his tender coaxing.
He traced the shapes of her teeth, enjoying the feel of the tiny ridges against his tongue. When his tongue slid deeper into her softly parted mouth, she daringly brought her tongue to meet his, equaling his passion without temperance. He groaned his pleasure.
The night air was cold, belying the sweat that beaded upon his brow. God, but he burned as though immersed in flames, and the sensual cries Chrestien rewarded him with increased his desire tenfold. But he was desperate to retain the control he would need to make her first time less painful. He had thought to leave her be, but he knew in his heart that he could not wait.
Laying her down, and parting her thighs tenderly, his hands trembled as they fought the urge to take her with the force of his passion. His fingers reveled in the wetness that gave evidence to her desire.
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