“Is Dorcas well away from here?”
“Father Martin journeys to Romsey Abbey tomorrow. The maid will accompany him,” Lady Harriet confirmed.
“Thanks be to God,” Linnea breathed.
“Yes, and thanks be to me for devising such an escape for her.”
“’Tis a very good plan,” Linnea agreed. That her grandmother did not give Linnea credit for the idea galled her, but she buried any resentment beneath her relief that her sister was safe.
“Now,” Lady Harriet said. “We must be agreed. Should word of another daughter of de Valcourt be raised, we will say she has deserted her family during the attack. That Linnea has ever been a curse upon this family and has abandoned us. They must believe that you are Beatrix.” She fixed Linnea with her stony stare. “He may not hear of the second sister, but happens that he does, we must all of us adhere to the same tale. Linnea has ever been wild and uncontrollable. None among us is surprised that she has gone off on her own.”
Linnea tried to be as hard and callous as her grandmother, as thick-skinned and insensitive. But in the face of such cruelty she could not remain firm. Must she paint her own self as disloyal to her family? A coward who would run from duty? A woman who would abandon her family at the first sign of trouble?
Aching inside, she sought her father’s support. But when she met his gaze it was to find him already staring at her, a wrinkle of bewilderment on his weary face.
“You are Linnea?” he asked disbelievingly. “I can hardly credit it—”
“Don’t be a fool, Edgar!” Lady Harriet cowed him with her vicious tone, and even the several servants across the hall looked up in alarm. “Don’t be a fool,” she repeated more quietly. “Speak not that name out loud. Never. She is Beatrix now, until such time as we decide to expose our deception. Beatrix, I say.”
He nodded and wiped a hand across his brow. Again the thought occurred to Linnea that he looked even older than his mother, and much less able to cope with the abrupt change in their circumstances.
But she was given no time to contemplate her father’s quick decline, for her grandmother pinched her arm, demanding her complete attention.
“How fares Maynard?”
Linnea sighed. “Much the same. Once I have eaten I will return to him. Do you think there is any hope that he will allow Maynard to be brought into the keep?”
Lady Harriet’s fingers drummed restlessly on the tabletop. There was no need explaining to her which he Linnea referred to. “Mayhap … mayhap if he is well pleased with you this evening, he would grant that favor to you.”
“Well pleased?” Linnea asked, unaccountably remembering that quick, appraising look he’d sent her this morning. “How am I to please him tonight?”
Lady Harriet gave her a shrewd look. “He will wed you this very evening. He reasons that there is no cause for delay. Methinks he finds you comely in that garb of Beatrix. So if you behave with him as a loving and dutiful wife would—”
“Loving! Dutiful!”
Once more the several people in the hall glanced over at them. But Linnea did not care. It was bad enough to marry the man and suffer the groping that surely must follow. But to appear to relish it—for that was clearly her grandmother’s implication. To appear to relish it was simply too much to ask!
She rose from the bench—or tried to. But Lady Harriet grabbed her trailing sleeve and jerked her back down.
“You said unto me that you would save your sister,” the old woman hissed, her faded eyes slitted with fiery emotion. “You said you would save your family. But I ken what truly you wish, wretched girl. You wish only to prove me wrong. You wish to prove your miserable existence of some worth. Well, this is your chance. This is the only chance you ever will have. Do it, and do it well. Else, tell me now that you be unequal to the task—and that I have been right about you these seventeen years and more!”
She let go of Linnea’s arm as if it disgusted her to even touch so loathsome a creature. But though Linnea was free to run away from the bitter old woman and her hateful words, she found that she could not do so.
That was her goal: to prove her grandmother wrong. To prove them all wrong, but especially her grandmother. If she were as pure of heart as Beatrix, she would only care about saving her loved ones. But she was selfish and she’d let herself become caught up in the glory she might gain for herself.
She bowed her head, ashamed of herself. She must do this for her family—and for the right reasons. If she must wed this man … if she must subjugate herself to him, though it degrade her body beyond imagination, then that was what she would do. After all, hadn’t Maynard done as much? He’d used his body in defense of his family, and suffered terribly for it. But he’d done it just the same. Could she do any less?
Linnea thought of Maynard lying near to death. She would keep that image of him tucked away in her mind as the source of her courage. If cruel, mean-spirited Maynard could be so noble, surely she could do as much.
“I will do it,” she said, then took a slow, shaky breath. She raised her head and met her grandmother’s narrowed stare. “I will do it, but …”
“But what?”
“But I …” She swallowed hard and shot an embarrassed glance toward her silent father. “But I do not know what … what … how to be a loving and … dutiful wife.”
Her father cleared his throat and looked away. But Lady Harriet, far from becoming uncomfortable with Linnea’s question, began instead to laugh. “You do not know the way of it? All the time you have stolen away to the village and your coarse friends, ’twould seem you would know all there is to know of it by now.”
Linnea drew back, aghast that her grandmother could think such a thing. Her outrage, however, was met with equal portions of pain. No matter what she did, somehow her grandmother always made it look wrong. Even her innocence—something that should prove she was not so sinful as everyone believed—appeared a shortcoming now.
“Leave us, Edgar.” Lady Harriet waved him away with her bony hand. “I would speak with your daughter, to make certain she plays her part well tonight.”
He needed no more encouragement than that. But as he made his slow way up to his chamber, Linnea saw a guard follow behind.
They were but prisoners in their own home, free to move about, but only under the watchful eye of their captors. And so would she be a prisoner of her husband, at least until the truth could be revealed.
“Now then, listen close, girl,” her grandmother began. “When he takes you upstairs this evening, you must needs be attentive to his mood. Some men want a woman afraid. Cowed. They would take her roughly and relish her tears as fuel for their lust. Since he sees you as his enemy, he is very likely to use you thus. ’Tis rape, plain and simple, but within the bounds of marriage, and so permissible.”
Lady Harriet’s mouth thinned in distaste, and despite Linnea’s anger at her, and horror at the picture she painted, she felt a faint connection between them. Not that of grandmother to granddaughter, but of woman to woman. Women were too often misused by men. Though Linnea had never considered it before, now she wondered about her grandfather who’d died long before she’d been born. Maybe he’d used his lady wife roughly too.
“On the other hand,” the old woman continued, “some men there are who want a woman eager for them and willing to partake eagerly in their bed sport.”
“But how will I know which he is?” Linnea asked when her grandmother did not elaborate.
“If he throws you down, lifts your skirts, and begins to rut like some randy destrier, you will know. If that is the case, you need not hide your fear nor withhold your tears, for he will want to see them. To enjoy them.
“But should he woo you with kisses and soft touches, that will be your sign that he wants as much of you. ’Tis very simple. If he be cruel, then you may crumple. If he be gentle, then you must appear well pleased and willing.”
But it was not simple to Linnea. “How … how do I appear willing?
” she whispered.
Lady Harriet shifted on the hard bench. It was plain that they’d gone deeper into this subject than she was comfortable with. “Simpleton! Just do whatever he asks of you—and smile! Keep your eyes half-closed, your lips half-parted, and smile. And be certain to act impressed when he reveals himself to you,” she added.
“Reveals himself?”
“His manroot,” she hissed impatiently. “His arousal. He will want to push it inside you. That’s the whole point, girl. He will grow it long and hard, then will he push it inside you so that he can spill his seed. Have you never seen the hounds?”
Linnea pulled back in disbelief. Like the hounds? Dear God! He meant to do that to her?
“He may want to see you naked, or even to touch you all over,” her grandmother continued, a distasteful expression pulling her lips down. “Especially your breasts.”
Linnea hunched over at that, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. Her breasts? She couldn’t imagine letting him touch her there—or do the other thing either.
As if she sensed Linnea’s resistance, Lady Harriet leaned closer and caught Linnea’s chin in her hand. “You will let him do that, and more, girl. That and anything else he asks. Nor will you consider yourself ill-used for it either. ’Tis our lot in life as women. He may think you are Beatrix, and you may yet consider avoiding this night’s events by revealing the truth to him. But remember you this. Whether him or another, you will someday be wed. Fail us tonight, girl, and I promise by everything I hold dear that I will then see you wed to the vilest, cruelest man I can find.
“You will not fail us tonight, Linnea. You will wed him and bed him and make him content. Or you will be sorry I did not drown you on the day of your birth!”
Chapter 5
The few bites Linnea had eaten settled now like a cold stone in her stomach. Her grandmother had departed after her brief and terrifying description of what faced Linnea this evening, stomping away with the shuffle and click of leather shoes and metal-tipped walking stick so unique to her. But Linnea had not been able to move. She could not, for fear made her legs weak. Fear made her stomach rebel and shut down the workings of her mind.
But even with that fear, she still would have tried to flee the dreadful future that awaited her. Shame, however, was her ultimate undoing. If she ran, then Beatrix would suffer. If she ran, she would confirm all their beliefs about her.
If she ran, they would be right.
She closed her eyes and bowed her head, sinking into the shudder that rippled through her. Would he treat her cruelly, or kindly? Would he want her to cringe and weep, or to cry out in passion?
Which would be worse?
At least she would not have to pretend to fear. But passion … She would not be able to pretend she felt passion!
Consumed as she was by utter misery, she did not hear the noisy entrance of several men. Her brow was creased in worry as she tried to determine which saint she should direct her desperate prayers to. Sebastian? No, he was the patron saint of archers. Paula? No, she was widows. Not Bartholomew or St. Lucy either.
St. Jude. His name came to her at once. St. Jude, patron saint to the hopeless and to lost causes. If ever a poor soul was hopeless, she prayed with eyes tightly closed and hands clenched in her lap, it was she. Please, St. Jude. Hear my prayer and rescue me. Please, she silently beseeched. Save me.
“Lady Beatrix?”
Linnea jumped in alarm. St. Jude had heard her prayer? He was answering her—
Even before her startled gaze met with that of Axton de la Manse, she realized her mistake. Stupid girl, to think a saint would speak directly to her!
Stupid girl, to sit alone in the hall where Axton de la Manse himself could find her!
Never had Linnea felt so vulnerable as she did in that moment. Never had she felt so alone.
She looked up at him, up the towering length of this forbidding man who meant to take her to wife, and the last of her paltry courage fled. He was immense and he held total control over her and everyone else in this castle. He had all the power, both physical and political, and they had none at all.
Her eyes locked with his, unable to pull away, even though she would rather look any place but at him. In just such a manner did the snake mesmerize the rodent, the vague thought tumbled through her head. So did the owl hypnotize the hare.
“Lady Beatrix.” He spoke the name again without any hint of emotion. “I would have you join me at the lord’s table.”
This time he held a hand out to her as if it were not a cold command he’d given her, but a courtly request. And perhaps to him it was. For Linnea, however, he might as well have asked her to leap from between the crenels into the fetid water of the moat. To take his hand—the hand of her enemy who would be her husband—was to put it all into motion, right here and now. Never mind that the vows would not be said until after vespers. Never mind that she would not be prepared even then. He was here now. Unexpectedly. And he held out his hand, with no reason to believe she would not do whatever he should ask of her.
“Do you refuse me?”
Linnea swallowed hard and felt again the cold lump in her stomach. “I … I have other duties—”
“Your duty is to me.” His eyes, hard as the pale stone walls that encircled the castle, bored into hers. Then he seemed almost to force himself to a gentler mien. “Come, Lady Beatrix. I will not bite you.”
Yet.
He had left off yet, Linnea thought as bitterness lent her strength. He would not bite her yet, but if she balked any longer he would.
Using every bit of her willpower, she lifted her trembling hand to him. It would not be forever, she told herself, as if it were an incantation against him. It would not be forever. Just long enough for Beatrix to escape. Just long enough for her family to raise a legitimate challenge to this man. She could survive until the day came when she could reveal her true identity.
Then his hand closed over hers, and even that faint hope began to unravel. For Axton de la Manse’s hands were large and strong, and in enveloping hers, seemed to signal a greater strength than merely the physical.
He gave off some power, almost like a heat, that she felt in every portion of her. He touched only her fingers, yet her arm and chest and even her legs felt the shock of it. The shock of him.
“St. Jude,” she whispered. “Be with me now.”
Axton heard that involuntary plea and knew at once its meaning. She was resigned to her fate. But she was desperately hopeful just the same, that St. Jude might still intercede on her behalf.
Grim satisfaction settled over him. Yes, let her be reduced to prayers alone for her salvation. He knew from bitter experience how unreliable was the answer prayers would give. Hadn’t he prayed ten years and more for the chance to right the wrong done his family? Hadn’t he prayed for the means to restore his family to property and power? It was only when he’d stopped praying and begun to fight that the tide had begun to shift in their favor.
The deaths of his father and brothers in the defense of Matilda had brought the de la Manse family an estate near Caen. Now he was here, in his rightful home, with his bride beside him, trembling as lief to faint—and no saints to be thanked for it either. Yes, let her pray to her St. Jude, for it would change nothing at all. He would wed her this very evening, and bed her promptly thereafter—and repeat the act daily until she was safely with child. He would hold his home against all claims, even if it meant joining with his worst enemy’s daughter. And perhaps he would have from her the satisfaction he had yet to receive from either her father or her brother.
He guided her from the rough trestle table and bench toward the low dais, acutely aware of her nearness. She was taller than average for a woman, and slender of build. But she appeared shapely beneath her rumpled gown. No perfumes clung to her, save perhaps a medicinal fragrance, as of shepherd’s knot, and of soft, boiled soap. No powder on her face either, and no jewels, save the few upon her girdle. Was she not vai
n, or did de Valcourt not gift his daughter with the rings and bracelets and other jewels more common to women of her station?
“Had you another to whom you were betrothed?” he inquired as he pulled back the lady’s chair for her and gestured for her to sit.
She did not meet his gaze, but she sat as he indicated, though warily. “I turned down the suit of Sir Clarence of Mercer,” she stated after a lengthy pause.
He stared intently at her profile as he seated himself. Her features were as perfect as a man could hope for: straight, slender nose; full, curving lips; small chin and skin that looked as soft as a child’s. The unwarranted desire to see her eyes again caught him by surprise. But why? To see if they were as deep an aqua-green as they’d seemed in the brief moment she’d looked up at him. That was all.
Or maybe it was more. Lust? He gave a mental shrug. What if it was? And not only her eyes, he wanted to see her hair unbound, to test its length and feel its texture.
“Why did you turn him down? Why did your father allow you such an indulgence?”
He watched her full lips tighten, but still she kept her face averted. “He was a pig of a man. He still is.”
Axton laughed out loud al that unexpectedly candid remark, and as a reward had her wide-set eyes turned finally upon him. Ah, yes. Aqua-green, and turbulent as the sea in a storm. He seized on the moment. “A pig of a man? Pray tell why you call him that. Does he like his dinner too well? Or is it that he has insufficient wealth to tempt you?”
Anger roiled in her stormy gaze. “He had wealth enough to decide he needed nothing else to satisfy a wife. Neither cleanliness, nor manners, nor good humor.”
And neither do you, the silent accusation rose between them.
Once more he laughed. Particular little wench, wasn’t she? Spoiled by a father who’d stolen everything he’d ever given her. It occurred to Axton that he now owned everything she thought she possessed, including her gown and girdle and veil.
For the first time this day he felt a glimmer of real satisfaction for his victory. What father and son could not supply him, she might. Beneath her fair appearance Beatrix de Valcourt had spirit. No doubt on that. Despite her trembling fear which she could not bury beneath her show of bravado, no matter how she tried, she was no coward. Perhaps the fury that yet twisted in his gut could be exhausted upon her. After all, she would be his wife. She was comely, easy to look upon and designed to fit a man’s hand—and other portions of him too.
The Maiden Bride Page 7
