But worse than that, he’d ignited a distressing little flame inside her. She’d heard enough sermons on the sin of lust to know what this feeling must be, and the very idea that he could inspire it in her was terrifying! Dear God. Mother Mary. Please, St. Jude, but this cannot be true!
But it was. When he’d kissed her, some deep and sinful part of her had felt the tiniest burst of wicked lust. And somehow he knew it, for he smiled then, the first true smile he’d given her.
Linnea could not withstand the searing probe of his eyes, so she dropped her gaze. But it landed upon his mouth, and that brought a rush of shameful heat into her cheeks. That mouth … What feelings he managed to conjure in her with that mouth. Strong white teeth. Soft mobile lips. Clever, knowing tongue.
As if he knew the direction of her thoughts, he chuckled. That made things even worse, for Linnea could feel the rumbling movement of his chest against her breasts, and it managed to further fuel the wicked fire within her. “Sweet, sweet tasting wife. Your father promised me that you are an innocent, and your kiss would seem to proclaim it. But your reaction … If you heat so swiftly from just one kiss, I wonder what other delights await me in our marriage bed this evening.”
Someone nearby who’d overheard his comment guffawed. The hum began once more, carrying the new lord’s remarks on his wife’s reaction to their kiss. But Linnea had no time for so paltry a reaction as anger. Shame was the greater of her emotions at that moment, greater even than fear.
What other delights indeed—and how wantonly would she react?
He turned her then, and with a hand at her waist, drew her close against his side. “My wife, the Lady Beatrix,” he announced to one and all.
But I am Linnea, she thought as she searched in rising confusion for a glimpse of her sister amidst the cheering throng. I am the wicked sister who can lust after a man who is my mortal enemy and who I am sworn to bring to defeat. She was sick at heart to discover such an awful truth about herself, and needed just the touch of her sister’s eyes upon her to reassure herself and give her strength.
Beatrix was not there, however. And she never would be again, Linnea admitted as panic flooded her. She was alone now, with this man as her husband, and with the first cruel realization that perhaps her grandmother had been right about the blackness of her soul.
He guided her to the dais, still holding her close. She was conscious of his heavy arm, his powerful chest, and the strength of his muscular legs, for they rubbed against her with every step.
“Let us be swift in our meal,” he said, his words a hot, disturbing breath against her ear as he seated her.
Her startled gaze flew to his to see that hungry look again, as if a great black bear prepared to feast upon her.
“Yes,” he said, reading her expression again, as if her very thoughts were written there for him to see. He traced her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “I’ve the same hunger as you, though not for swan or dumplings. You, my sweet bird. ’Tis you I would feast on this evening, and all the hours until dawn. And I will.”
Chapter 7
Linnea ate too little and drank too much. Her father and grandmother sat at the high table, though not in the lord and lady’s chairs as had been their place before. Linnea and her husband—her husband!—occupied those exalted positions, while Sir Edgar and Lady Harriet sat farther down the table. Linnea could see them only if she bent to peer past her husband’s large form, which she refused to do. She would not seek comfort from them for that would reveal weakness to the new lord—something she would not do. Besides, what comfort could they give her?
At first the wedding feast was subdued. To have the new lord as well as the old one seated before them just one day after the surrender was confusing for both the people of Maidenstone and the victorious army. But as both the wine and ale began to flow, the tone of the gathering altered. Voices grew louder, laughter erupted, and the coarse jesting common to a wedding feast began to reach the high table.
“Shall she surrender as easily as her sire?” a soldier of de la Manse laughed.
“Methinks e’en faster.”
“No, no. Sir Axton will at least break into a sweat in the mastering of the daughter. ’Twas not the case in the mastering of the father!”
Linnea gulped red wine from the goblet she shared with Axton de la Manse, then set the vessel down with a thud. How dare they speak so boldly of her father’s defeat? This time she did lean forward to see if her father had heard. But her husband moved deliberately to block her view.
“He is a man—or so ’tis said of him. Let his mother protect him if he cannot protect himself. He is no longer your concern.”
She met his taunting gaze with murder in her eyes. “He is my father, no matter that I am forced to wed with you. And he is your father-by-marriage now,” she added. “Had you even a shred of honor in you, you would not allow him to be insulted so!”
“And had you a shred of sense in your head, you would not defend him to me,” he replied with a fierceness that caught her unaware.
Linnea recoiled in alarm, then caught herself before she could further succumb to fear. “What a fine marriage we shall make then. You without honor, and me without sense.”
That last was spoken in a room gone silent save for her shrill voice. Her chest heaved with emotion, both anger and a sick dread of how he must respond to her insult. She waited, as did the rest of the watching company.
For a moment he was still, and so quiet she began to hope he might let it pass. Then he reached forward and caressed her lower lip with the back of one of his knuckles. “I will see this reckless temper of yours exhausted another way, Beatrix.”
Her head was all the way against the back of her chair, so she could not avoid his touch. Though it was light, it was worse than an angry slap would have been. By his very control, Axton de la Manse managed to threaten her more effectively than if he had erupted in fury.
“Have more of the venison frumenty,” he offered, watching her with his predator’s gaze.
“I have had enough,” she snapped, though her voice had lost much of its vehemence.
“Good.” He sat back, a smile on his face, while everyone else strained forward in their seats, trying to hear their exchange. “Peter,” he called to his brother whom she now knew served as his squire. “Escort my bride to the lord’s chamber.”
A murmur began at the lower tables, but Linnea heard only the rush of blood in her ears. No, not yet. Not yet! He smiled. “I will be up directly, my dear. Do not worry yourself on that score.”
She wasn’t sure how she came to be on her feet. The boy had pulled back her chair while her husband just lolled back in his, studying her with the smug, possessive expression he might bestow on a newly acquired falcon or steed. Or wench.
“Come along,” the boy demanded in an impatient tone.
With an effort Linnea tore her eyes away from the mocking grin of the man who was now her husband. Her gaze swept the hall, searching for help anywhere she could find it. But her father was staring past her, above her head toward the wall hanging that displayed the two bears of de la Manse. Her grandmother was glaring at the new lord, hatred and a trace of dread on her ancient face. They could neither of them help her now.
In desperation, Linnea turned a stricken face toward the boy.
His dislike was plainly written on his youthful countenance. But faced with her obvious distress, he did not gloat as she might have expected. “Come along,” he repeated, but more civilly. “’Twill do you no good to oppose him.”
“Heed him, wife.” The new lord stood, lifting his goblet, and the rest of the company scrambled to their feet as well.
“To my wife, Beatrix de la Manse.”
“To Lady Beatrix—”
“—Beatrix de la Manse.”
“Hear, hear.”
The toasts echoed in her ears, but there was no reassurance in them. Instead, they started a panic that raced throughout her body.
The
boy took her hand and would have led her away. But they were both stopped by her new husband.
“No need of a maid for us this evening. I will see to you without aid of maids or relatives, or any others within our private chambers. No one,” he added, sweeping the rest of his people, and especially his knights, with a warning gaze. “No need of a guard either, save for two men at the bottom of the stairs. All the other chambers above floors shall remain empty this night.” Then he stared straight into Linnea’s eyes, and though he lowered his voice, it yet carried clearly throughout the hall. “We may well have need of all those chambers during the next few days.”
Linnea fled after that. There was no other way to describe her graceless exit. The boy did not lead her; she led him. She fled up the stairs, even though it led only to her doom. What other choice did she have? Only when she reached the second level and was faced with the solid door to the lord’s chamber awaiting her across the antechamber, did she freeze in indecision.
“Go on in. He’ll be up soon enough.”
Linnea swallowed hard. She could not do it. Though she knew she must, she simply could not.
“Go on,” the boy repeated, giving her a slight shove.
“Don’t touch me!” she snapped, reacting to him as she should have reacted to his hulking older brother. But that could have done her no good, she told herself. Still, it felt good to release her fury on the boy; and he was, after all, a de la Manse.
He scowled at her. “’Tis more than glad I am not to touch you, witch that you be. When I wed—if I wed—’twill be to a gentlewoman, not to one as lief to scratch your eyes out as anything else.”
They stared at one another a long, distrustful moment. “Go away,” Linnea ordered him, though morosely, as hopelessness descended over her. “Just go away and leave me be.”
He started to do just that. But then he paused and studied her with renewed interest. “He will not hurt you, if that’s what you fear. He won’t hurt you—unless, of course, you fight him, which only a fool would do.”
Linnea’s chin came up a notch. “I scarcely think you knowledgeable about the pains men inflict on women—especially women they consider their enemy. You are still a boy, after all.”
He bristled at that, as she knew he would. But instead of trading insults with her, he gave her an arch look. “You are not entirely hideous, you know. To my mind, were you to smile and greet my brother with welcome instead of hatred, you would find him a fair-minded man. He would not hurt you,” he reiterated.
“And you tell me this to ease my mind, am I right?” she sneered, wrapping her arms around her.
The look he gave her was almost as cold as his brother’s. “Be a fool and ignore my words. It matters nothing to me.” Then he turned on his heel and crossed to the stairs.
Linnea did not stop him, although she dearly wanted to call him back. But she couldn’t, despite the fact that his company was preferable to being left alone. The clatter of his steps on the stairs faded away. Now she was alone with nothing to do but fear what was to come. Arguing with Peter de la Manse had at least been a diversion.
She took a deep breath, then another, trying to calm herself. But it was a futile effort. To avoid panicking, she removed the circlet on her brow, then looked around. The antechamber was much as it had always been, save that the de Valcourt coat of arms above the door to the lord’s chamber was gone. A pale shadow in the shape of a shield showed where it had hung for as long as Linnea could remember.
Nervously she approached the stout door she hadn’t passed through since the day her mother had died, eight years previously. It scarcely squeaked when she pushed it open. Inside all was neat and orderly. The big bed with its heavy curtains still dominated the room. A fire burned low and steady in the hearth, throwing off just enough heat to keep any chill at bay. Two braces of candles sitting on a pair of narrow tables flanking the door bathed the room in a soft golden light. Did he think to set the scene for her seduction so easily?
She stepped farther into the room. A trunk, two painted chairs, and a tall carved cupboard occupied the far end of the room, and pegs along one wall held several tunics—garments that were not her father’s, and therefore must be Axton’s.
Axton. Was she already thinking of him by his Christian name? No, he would be de la Manse to her. Or my lord. Or husband.
No, not husband either, for in God’s eyes they could not be truly wed, not when she pretended to be Beatrix and he believed her. Not when she took her vows under the guise of a lie.
But Linnea did not want to think about her lie right now, nor of her awful sin. So what was she to think of?
Her eyes swept the room again, restless. Nervous. Then they landed on the folded stack of his warrior’s garb—hauberk, gauntlets, and coif. Surely there would be weapons among his possessions. A dagger or a quetyll which she might easily hide and claim for her own.
She crossed to the cupboard and began to search past clean, folded braies, stockings, and linen shirts. She did not intend to use such a weapon save in self-defense, she told herself. She would submit to his husbandly demands because she must. But if he tried to harm her …
Her hand touched cold steel and she instinctively recoiled. Then her fingers closed over a short-bladed dagger, and she drew it out.
In the light the blade had a dull gleam. But the edge was anything but dull, she realized when she gingerly tested it against her thumb.
Where to hide it? she wondered, staring about the chamber. Someplace near to where she was most likely to need it.
She stared at the huge bed. Someplace within reach of the bed, she decided with a shudder of dread.
As she closed the cupboard and crossed to that threatening item of furniture, however, a voice and the sound of footsteps beyond the door set off alarm bells of panic inside her. He was here!
Without pausing to think, she shoved the dagger down between the pelt-covered mattress and the carved headboard. Then she whirled around just as the door flew open, and came face-to-face with her new husband.
“Well, wife,” he said, just standing in the doorway, filling it and the whole of the chamber with his presence. “We are at last alone.”
Linnea instinctively stepped back, only to come up against the high bed. Her heart pounded so violently that she feared it would burst from the confines of her chest. They were alone. There was no escaping him now.
He stepped into the room, graceful as a predator who knew its prey was well and truly trapped, and closed the door behind him.
He did not latch it, she noticed.
But then, he did not have to.
“Tell me, Beatrix,” he began, moving slowly toward her. “How much has your grandmother explained to you of your wifely duties? ’Tis my experience that English maidens are kept far more ignorant of their duties than are French maidens.” He stopped just before her, waiting for her answer.
Linnea lifted her head, determined to meet his gaze—and somehow hide her fear. “She has explained enough to me.”
“Ah.” His eyes roamed over her face. “Well, then. Let us begin.”
Linnea stood there, waiting. She wanted to close her eyes and thereby shut out what would happen. But their gazes were caught together and she would not be the first of them to look away.
When he made no move, however, she felt a line of nervous perspiration trickle down between her breasts.
“Well?” he demanded. “Begin, wife. Do your duty to your husband.”
Her duty? But how was she to begin? What was she to do first? She had thought her duty was merely to submit but … but she must be wrong. In desperation she searched her mind, nervously licking her lips. When his eyes fixed on that small motion, however, she had the first glimmer of an answer.
Kiss him. Begin with a kiss.
Accordingly, she steeled herself, leaned forward, and stretching up on her toes, arched up to kiss him. He was too tall, though, and he did not lean down as he should have.
Angry at thi
s farce he played with her, Linnea snaked a hand around his neck and angrily pulled his head down to hers.
Their mouths met roughly, but she determinedly pressed her lips against his. Almost at once one of his arms circled her waist and hauled her flat up against him so that she felt the entire imprint of his body against hers. But she also felt his mouth stretched into a smile over hers, and she could not mistake the undeniable shake of his laughter.
He was laughing at her!
As if stung, she twisted her head away. But when she would have pulled free of him, his implacable grip kept her still against him.
“My, you are the eager bride. But have a thought, wife. ’Twould be easier by far if first we removed our clothing. Did your grandmother neglect to tell you that such is usually the first step?”
When he released her she stumbled backward, her face red with shame. She knew he mocked her, yet still it flustered her to think how foolish she must appear to him.
“Perhaps I should instruct you, Beatrix, so that there will be no misunderstanding between us. Come here,” he said, gesturing to her to follow him as he crossed to sit in one of the heavy chairs near the window. He settled in the chair, his legs stretched carelessly before him, his elbows on the chair arms, his hands loosely woven on his stomach.
“I require but three duties of you.” He held up a finger. “First you must care for my clothes personally. Mend them, see them cleaned, and kept in good order.”
He held up another finger. “Second. You and you alone will prepare and minister my bath. See that a large enough tub is kept in here before the fire, and good soaps as well. Third,” he said, and his expression altered. “Third. You will share my bed—or any other surface I would have you upon—willingly, and often.
“These three things and no others, save that you keep yourself clean and sweet smelling. Can you do as I demand? Willingly?” he added, piercing her with his granite-hard gaze.
Some men want a woman willing, her grandmother had warned her. And so it seemed that was to be her lot, Linnea realized. She must pretend to be willing—to convincingly pretend to desire what he would have them do together.
The Maiden Bride Page 10
