The Maiden Bride

by Becnel, Rexanne

  The gown was exquisite, but one Linnea had not been allowed to work on. It had been intended for Beatrix’s eventual wedding, and both Lady Harriet and Dagmar, the head seamstress, had deemed it bad luck for the second twin to even touch it.

  Linnea stared down at the aqua flurt-silke, falling as gently as a waterfall, clinging to her waist, flowing over her hips, and pooling in luxurious waves around her ankles. She fingered the heavily embroidered hem of the left sleeve. She’d sewn every seed pearl on that hem herself. Beatrix had insisted on it. By moonlight she’d sat in the window and sewed them on, not caring that her back ached and her eyes burned. Beatrix had known how deeply hurt Linnea had been by her grandmother’s orders, and so, in the quietly determined manner she had, Beatrix had found a way to oppose Lady Harriet.

  Linnea swallowed the lump in her throat. Oh, Beatrix. You and you alone have cared for me. I will not fail you in this. I will wed this man, and bed him, and deceive him as long as is necessary for you to find a husband to challenge his rights to Maidenstone Castle.

  And when the truth was finally revealed, Beatrix and her husband would take their place as lord and lady of Maidenstone, and they would honor Linnea for what she’d done. Everyone would finally accept her, and life would be good.

  “Turn, milady, if you please,” the maid who’d been weeping asked in a soft voice. She placed a white silk girdle around Linnea’s hips, looping it twice, then fastening it with a heavy gold brooch encrusted with amethysts and aquamarines.

  “Your bridegroom has sent you a key, Beatrix.”

  Linnea looked over at her grandmother, perched in the chair like a gaunt, black bird, dressed more for mourning than for a wedding. Linnea wished she could wear black so blamelessly. She’d attended funerals with more enthusiasm than this marriage ceremony that awaited her. But she could not dress for mourning, not and please her husband as was her duty.

  “Here.” Lady Harriet tossed the key carelessly to her, then cackled with laughter when Linnea made no move to catch it. “’Tis the key to his heart, methinks.”

  With a grunt of effort Norma bent her great bulk down to retrieve the key, then offered it to Linnea. “’Tis for the end of your girdle,” she explained. “A symbol of the power you shall wield as wife to the lord. As lady of the castle.”

  Lady of the castle.

  Linnea reached out a hand, taking the cold bit of metal in her palm without being conscious of her action. Lady of the castle. Her grandmother had ever held that position, even when their father married—or so castle talk would have it. But the new lord was not likely to allow that to continue. No, with this marriage, Linnea would assume that role.

  She lifted her gaze slowly to her grandmother, her mind spinning with this new realization. She felt again the same unfamiliar sense of power she’d had when she threatened that boy, and later, when she stood over Maynard and realized her ability to either heal him, or allow him to die. It was wonderful and terrifying. A sense of independence and freedom, but also of responsibility.

  If she were lady of the castle, her grandmother would no longer exert a power over her; it would be the other way around.

  As if she read Linnea’s very thoughts, Lady Harriet’s grim expression tightened into a warning scowl. “Leave us,” she snapped to the serving women, though her hard stare never left Linnea’s face. Once the five maids were gone, she raised her walking stick and pointed it at her granddaughter.

  “Beware any foolish temptation to forget your place, girl.” The stick wavered in her skinny hand, but still it managed to pin Linnea to her spot. “Beware any foolish thoughts of remaining Beatrix de Valcourt—of remaining lady of Maidenstone. That title is mine and mine alone—until such time as I relinquish it to either Beatrix or a suitable wife for Maynard. You—” She lowered the stick with a threatening crack of its metal tip against the unadorned plank floor. “You are your sister’s proxy only, until such time as the charade is no longer necessary. ’Tis a way for you to earn your family’s respect—if indeed you can.”

  Then she stood, and though she leaned heavily on her stick to rise, her physical infirmity in no wise lessened the aura of cruel power she exuded. “Remember, girl, that I can expose your true identity at any time. Think you that de la Manse will condone such a deception? To be rid of the wrong wife—you,” she emphasized. “He might elect murder over the slower process of annulment. Then he would have Beatrix and all of this would be for naught. Think on it, girl. Best that you play your part and keep your silence. And never think, e’en for a moment, that you could wield power at Maidenstone Castle. I would as lief let him kill you as let that come to pass!”

  Then the old woman gestured to the door. “’Tis time. Your bridegroom awaits, and I would see my plan underway.”

  Linnea had stood still, with her head bowed under the onslaught of the old woman’s hateful words. Now she started forward on wooden limbs. It was an automatic response, for all her life she’d obeyed her grandmother’s orders, whether terrified, furious, or sick at heart, as she now was. When she reached the door, however, Lady Harriet stayed her, blocking her path with the stick that seemed an extension of her arm. “You know your duty, girl. Do it.”

  Linnea nodded, steeling herself against any display of emotion, especially tears. She would do her duty though it meant submitting to her enemy—though it meant allowing him to rape her and use her as he willed. But she did not do it because of her grandmother’s threat, nor even as duty to her family. No, she did this for Beatrix, no one else. Only for Beatrix.

  It was hardly the way she’d imagined approaching her marriage, not that she’d thought much on that subject. Maynard’s marriage had always been important to the family, and Beatrix’s. But hers had never been discussed. Not once.

  When she’d thought about her future, she’d always imagined life with an ordinary man, a tradesman or foot soldier who would marry her for herself, not because he expected to gain anything from the match. There would be no gain from marrying the second twin of Maidenstone, neither dowry nor even goodwill. Only herself would she bring to the marriage bed of her husband.

  But even that was denied her now.

  She took the stairs slowly, descending behind her grandmother, one halting step at a time. She was marrying as Beatrix, giving her enemy her body, but as Beatrix’s body. The only thing of value she possessed—her purity—was to be sacrificed this day and she would be left with nothing of value to give to her real husband. Nothing whatsoever.

  The stair hall was dark, but light crept along its curving outer wall as they neared the hall. Light and sound as well. In truth, the warm, well-lit hall should seem a merry respite from the storm that battered the world outside the stout walls. But Linnea shivered as if from a bitter wind, and the torches that cast golden flickering light to the very rafters seemed to illuminate the dark passageway to hell.

  When Lady Harriet entered, the hum of voices altered. When Linnea came into view, the voices stopped altogether. She stood on the last step, staring at the sea of faces, frozen somewhere between going forward and fleeing. Someone shifted near her—it was her father, dressed in the sapphire and argent of de Valcourt, his finest attire. But he looked an imitation of a great lord, she vaguely noticed. His rich garments proclaimed him a man of consequence. His posture and his expression revealed a man defeated. Even this sacrifice she made to gain them time to mount a counterattack was not enough to restore his courage.

  Linnea closed her eyes, not wanting to see or acknowledge that fact. Then someone stepped forward—she sensed it, somehow—and she opened her eyes to him.

  Axton de la Manse dressed not so finely as her father. At least the colors did not shout so boldly. But everything about him announced his dominance. He was lord here. Only a fool would deny it. And only a fool would oppose him, Linnea admitted, trying to swallow past the painful lump in her throat.

  He crossed half the distance between them, then stopped. He was the very picture of masculine virility and
confidence. Strong of body, well-formed, and beautiful in the harsh manner of a man, he waited there, forcing her to come the rest of the way to him.

  How she willed herself to it she could not say. But she took the last step down, then proceeded, one slow pace at a time toward him.

  His head was bare and his close-cropped hair, though black as his ebony tunic, yet gleamed in the brilliant light. His brows were two dark slashes; his eyes a pale color in his sun-browned face.

  Linnea swallowed again, hard. He was to be her husband, this expressionless man who watched her as if he saw all the way through her. She wanted to look away, so unnerving was his relentless stare. Like a predator’s. But as if he compelled her, she could not turn her head nor avert her eyes. She moved forward, conscious of everything, the silence, the movement of her heavy skirt against her thighs, the patterns of air in the drafty hall, first cool on her hot cheeks, then warm. Even the smell, smoky with pitch, pungent with ale, fragrant with a whole roasted boar, imprinted itself on her mind.

  But mostly it was him, so dark, so unknown, so threatening, that filled her senses. When she halted before him, a mere arm’s length away, she feared she had exhausted the last of her strength. She feared she would faint before him, crumple to the floor. He would defeat her before the struggle between them had fairly begun.

  “Was ever a man so fortunate as I,” he said in a tone she might have taken for sincere, had his mouth not curved up on one side in a mocking half-smile. All the company leaned forward, straining to hear what word he had uttered to his reluctant bride. “I am in my own home again, after eighteen long and difficult years, and I am to be wed to as beautiful a maiden as a man’s eye could ever hope to behold.”

  Now he mocked her outright! Linnea stiffened in opposition to him, but he paid her no mind. He took hold of her hand and tucked it firmly into the crook of his elbow. When she tried to tug it free, he only looked down into her face, a warning expression in his frosty stare.

  “Let us greet our guests, Lady Beatrix, all those who would wish us well in our union.”

  Then, as if her resistance were of no consequence at all, he steered her in a slow parade around the hall, displaying her to the people—his people now.

  What did he hope to gain by making such an insincere compliment to her, she fumed as she was forced to accompany him in their farcical promenade. Bad enough that her arm must rest in his, that she must endure the disturbing heat and threatening strength of so intimate a touch. But he also made her pause before various of the retainers. His captain, Sir Reynold, and again before Sir John and Sir Maurice.

  “My bride, Lady Beatrix of Maidenstone.” He made the formal introduction in each case. “May I present my brother, Peter de la Manse,” he said when they halted before the stripling lad she’d despised on sight.

  “Welcome to the family,” the boy said, a properly solemn expression on his imp’s face.

  Though he was every bit her height, Linnea lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him, determined that he would know her disdain and believe her threat.

  “Come give your new sister a kiss,” Axton demanded of his brother, drawing him nearer with an arm on the lad’s shoulder.

  Linnea saw the resistance spark in the boy’s blue eyes, and she took a perverse pleasure in his reluctance. She had frightened him. Good.

  It was easy to make her expression cold and threatening when she faced him. “Let us bury our animosity,” she said to the boy with deliberate emphasis. She turned her cheek to accept his hasty kiss. “Perhaps you will introduce me to your pet on the morrow. I’ll bring him a tasty morsel to tempt his friendship.”

  The boy stepped away from her as if stung, but anger showed through his fear. He would not take her threats easily, she recognized. He would fight back. But Linnea actually welcomed him as a foe. Him she could compete with. Him she could defeat. His brother, however …

  Her bridegroom’s hand moved to the small of her back, a touch far too possessive for Linnea’s peace of mind. She tried to step away faster, enough to make his condescending guidance unnecessary. But then she spied a familiar face lurking in the shadows of the pantler’s cabinet, a familiar, dirty face partially hidden by a deep cowl, and she stopped.

  Beatrix had come!

  . “The priest awaits.” Her bridegroom’s voice was close enough that his breath moved her hair. His hand once again circled her waist, and this time rested on the upper swell of her opposite hip.

  But Linnea’s panic was less this time, for Beatrix’s gaze held with hers, imparting love and giving strength. She stared at her sister just a moment longer. Then, though it killed her to do so, she tore her eyes away. She dared not alert de la Manse or any of his men to the importance of that slight figure in the shadows.

  Still, Beatrix was there, and Linnea felt infinitely restored.

  She turned toward the priest and accompanied her enemy to the clearing outlined in the center of the hall by a scattering of rose petals and dried herbs. The time had come. She’d made her decision, and though terrified of the consequences, she would not turn back. She would not betray her sister or her family name.

  “Introibo ad altare Dei,” Father Martin began, facing the marrying couple.

  It was much like a mass in many ways, save that it was not in the chapel. Norma had told her the new lord wished to marry in view of as many of his people as possible. Had the weather permitted, they would have wed on the outside steps of the chapel. Instead, all of the castle folk and many of the villagers crowded into the hall to witness the ceremony.

  It was not until the priest began the epistle that Linnea began actually to listen to his words. “ … let wives be subject to their husbands as to the Lord: because a husband is head of the wife just as Christ is head of the Church. And the two shall become as one flesh joined …”

  One flesh joined.

  Marriage was a holy sacrament, blessed by God. Even the joining of the flesh which would occur later tonight, was blessed by the Lord. Yet Linnea felt an unholy fear of what was to come. Bad enough the deception she played with this man, this great dark bear of a man to whom she would now. be subject. But she made this vow before God—and God knew she lied.

  “Oh, St. Jude,” she prayed, bowing her head as the enormity of her sin began to sink in.

  “St. Jude cannot help you.”

  Linnea jerked her head around and met Axton de la Manse’s taunting face. Father Martin stumbled over his words at the charged exchange between the two, but he quickly recovered.

  “Do you, Beatrix de Valcourt, take this man to be your lawful husband …”

  Linnea’s eyes were trapped by her tormentor’s vivid gaze. She did not notice when the good priest paused, waiting for her response.

  “Your answer, Beatrix,” de la Manse prompted her. “Do you agree to marry me, to pledge yourself to me before God and this company?”

  In the unearthly silence of the great hall his voice was not loud, and yet she knew they all could hear his every word. Linnea’s heart thumped so violently under his piercing stare that she was certain the watching multitude heard it too.

  “My lady?” Father Martin whispered, a worried look on his lined face.

  Abruptly Linnea came out of her frozen state. She had no real choice, she reminded herself. She must do this. “I will,” she muttered softly, though those two simple words burned like gall in her throat.

  The priest heaved a sharp sigh of relief. “And do you, Axton de la Manse, Lord of Maidenstone, take this woman to be your wife …”

  “I will,” he answered, his eyes still fixed upon hers. The remainder of the service she did not hear. Not the closing prayer nor the final blessing. When they knelt side by side, the only words that registered were, “By the grace of God the Father, I pronounce you man and wife.”

  Then she was hauled up from her knees and drawn against a chest solid and broad, until she had no place to look but up into her husband’s ice gray eyes.

  “We
ll enough, wife. Give us a kiss.”

  A hum began just behind them, then raced like a living thing from one end of the hall to the other. A kiss.

  A kiss.

  He demands a kiss.

  So it must be, Linnea told herself. A kiss now, but much more to come later, she feared. His face hovered just above hers. His hands, strong and with long fingers, were wrapped around her arms, holding her steady before him.

  “A wedding kiss for my … for my husband,” Linnea murmured, though where she found the words she could not say. She met his hard gaze and saw none of the emotions a newly married man should have. Then again, perhaps triumph and possessiveness and a smugness about the mouth were precisely what men felt when they wed.

  She closed her eyes. It was the only way she could manage it. Then she pressed up on her toes until her mouth touched his.

  For a moment it was not so very bad. His lips were softer than she would have thought, given how hard the rest of him was, and he smelled clean and fresh.

  Then his hands tightened and without warning she was crushed against him. She gasped in surprise and at once the kiss changed. His lips forced hers apart and she felt the heat of his breath.

  And of his tongue.

  Mother Mary, but it was like nothing she could have foreseen. His tongue plunged deeply into her mouth, rubbing the inside of her lips in the most disturbing manner, touching her tongue and stealing her senses completely away! He kissed her as if he meant to consume her, and for a dizzying moment she thought she would faint.

  Then he broke off the kiss as abruptly as he’d begun it, and drew back just far enough to stare into her face again. He wore an expression she’d never seen before, and yet instinctively she understood it. He hungered for her. He lusted after her. His eyes burned with an unholy light.