Linnea clutched the bearskin to her chin, feeling for all the world as if she were a pagan from the far-gone past. The fur slid like rough silk against her flesh, rousing a faint blush on her sensitive skin. He’d touched her in all those same places. He’d kissed her there and licked her there too, and tasted every portion of her body, it had seemed.
And she’d reveled in it.
She’d been so afraid at first—and so angry she thought she’d explode from it. He’d been angry too, though why she could not fathom. He’d been the one to humiliate her out there on the wall-walk where anyone might see them. The fact that no one had seen was no solace at all. They might have. But when he’d come to their chamber he’d been angry nonetheless, and she had expected the worst. That was why she’d done as he’d ordered, hoping to appease him in some small way.
Once she’d sent Peter away she’d torn off her clothes and lain facedown on the bearskin. She’d prepared herself to be beaten. She could have withstood it too, for she’d long ago taught herself not to react to pain. It gave the person who inflicted it too much pleasure. So she’d steeled herself for the weight of his angry hand on her vulnerable flesh.
That hand that had fallen on her had not inflicted pain, though. He’d been rough, but he’d not hurt her.
But he had made it clear that he possessed her, that he owned her and that she was his. Just as he’d defeated the bear and now took his pleasure of its silken fur, so had he defeated her. Then he’d taken his pleasure of her in ways that still boggled her mind.
He’d lain on top of her that first time, kissing and biting her, from the bottoms of her feet, up the tender backs of her legs, to her derriere and waist and back and neck. Then he’d raised her to her knees, spread her legs, and entered her that way.
And she had cried out from the pleasure of it.
“St. Jude,” she whispered now to the cool night air. She had loved every moment of it, every touch and every stroke.
They’d slept afterward, a violent, collapsed sort of exhaustion. He’d roused first and found new ways to excite her. He’d kissed the chain he’d given her, following it wherever it lay against her skin, and then other places too. It was the ultimate kiss of intimacy, he’d told her when she’d started to object.
She’d been scandalized at his boldness. She’d even tried to stop him. But he had prevailed. He was stronger and older, and he knew what he was doing, he’d told her. She would like it very much.
He’d been right, of course. It had been an unthinkable act, and yet when she’d yielded, it had been exquisite beyond the telling. Even now she quivered to remember. Her very insides seemed to purr like a contented cat—an obscenely satiated cat.
But even that had not been an end of it. They’d slept again and this time she’d been the first one to awaken. She should have taken that opportunity to escape from him, at least for a little while. Instead, she’d studied him, sprawled upon the bed in his naked, masculine glory.
He was a magnificent specimen of a man. She might be naive and innocent of men, but she knew that much. Long and strong of limb. Solid and thick in the chest; stomach flat and rippling with muscles. And everywhere dusted with dark hair.
She’d touched him then, marveling at the different textures of him. Hard; soft. Rough with hair; smooth. Her fingers had explored lightly. Stroking and investigating.
That’s when he had awakened. That’s when he had discovered that she was ticklish and tortured her almost to tears. Then without warning he had entered her, and within a matter of seconds he’d brought her to stunning completion. She’d almost died in that moment. At least it had seemed so at the time. Now Linnea didn’t know what to think.
At least he was not here now, and she had time to clear her head and try to reason things out. But a part of her would rather have not needed to think. It was easier simply to react, to surrender and go where he would take her.
But he was not here and Linnea knew she should be glad of it.
With a heavy sigh she threw back the pelt and lay there, allowing the chill of night to settle upon her. She was hungry. Starving. Had she gone the whole day through without eating? Had he? Or was he in the kitchen this very moment gathering a feast for them, that they might regain their strength and continue on in this mad orgy of physical pleasure?
It was that thought which pushed her to her feet. She could not spend every moment of her wedded life in bed with him, even if he was her husband. She needed to … needed to … She needed to do something else, but she was not sure what.
She found her kirtle, twisted and slightly ripped, but still serviceable. Her sister’s clothes had been moved into the chamber, so she hastily donned the first gown she laid hands on. It was a simple teal-blue fitted tunic, with narrow sleeves laced tight at the wrist, and a strip of sheared white rabbit fur edging the neckline. She knotted a pair of plain wool stockings above her knees and stepped into a pair of everyday leather slippers.
Her hopeless hair she caught in one hand and after tying it back with a bit of cording, covered it with a wispy length of gauze veiling, anchored in place with a carved, bone hairpin.
It would have to do, she decided, tucking the slackened wrist cords up into the sleeves. Her girdle—the one with the key Axton had given her—went around her hips. Then she hurried from the empty room and into the antechamber.
She listened at the door to the stairwell. A voice or two sounded quietly from the hall, just murmurs that she could not put a name to. She did not want to run into Axton, but she would have to go down the stairs and take her chances if she was to find something to eat.
But with every step she knew she did but delude herself to think she was somehow escaping him. There was no escape from him. The chain that burned against her inner thighs was a constant reminder of that fact, as was the damp soreness that went much deeper.
The hall was dark. All the torches had burned down save the one beside the door to the bailey. Opposite that the fire that softly hissed in the big hearth cast a small half-circle of light, an eerie, red glow in the dark cavern of the empty hall. A brace of candles flickered at one end of the table that had not been put away, and it was there a few men gathered still.
One of them lay on his back upon the bench beside the table, his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed to be asleep, and his snores rose in a soft, regular rhythm. Another man sat head down, his elbows bent on the table, studying his heavy mug of ale—or else asleep sitting up, she speculated. It was the man with the red beard, she realized. Axton’s man, Sir Reynold.
But where was Axton?
“I would be better rid of them.”
Linnea nearly leaped out of her skin. Though not loud, the words caught her unaware, and she pressed a hand to her chest, above her pounding heart. The man at the table lifted his head and looked to his right. Linnea followed his gaze only to find precisely what she’d not wanted to find. Her new husband sat in the lord’s chair. She’d not spied him before because the chair was turned to face the fire. But only the lord of Maidenstone would dare sit in that chair.
Her heart did an odd sort of dance, a thumping response to him that she would prefer to think was caused of agitation rather than anticipation. She could not possibly want to do any of that again. Only a complete wanton could desire even more of such shameful behavior!
“I would like to be rid of them all,” he repeated. “Father, son, and crone, as well.”
“But you would keep the daughter.” It was not a question, Sir Reynold made, but a statement.
Axton let out a snort that sounded like derision. But he did not answer.
That seemed to goad Sir Reynold on, however. “I take it the minx suits you. ’Tis the talk of the castle, how you have bedded her the whole day long.” He laughed. “Was the wedding night inadequate, that you needed the entire day to prove you could do better? Or is she simply a slow learner?”
Linnea’s ears turned hot with shame. Axton de la Manse had no need to prove his prow
ess. But she … she knew nothing. Did he consider her a slow learner? Was he disappointed in her?
Axton pushed himself out of the chair and moved to stand before the fire. He’d donned plain braies and a loose chainse. He wore neither weapon nor even a girdle. Even his boots were low and ordinary. But there was nothing ordinary about him, she saw at once. Even garbed little better than a squire, he was every inch the lord. It should have angered her to no end, but instead Linnea felt a foolish prickle of pride. This was her husband. She was married to him.
“The son and father will remain my prisoners until Henry orders otherwise. The old crone, however, can go to Romsey Abbey,” Axton said.
“Romsey Abbey, you say. Well, then, it is too bad you did not decide this sooner. The priest has already departed for there. She might have accompanied him, had I known that was your intent.”
Axton turned toward his captain. “The priest is gone from the castle? Why? And why there? Who authorized his travel?”
“You did.” A slow grin broke over the other man’s face. “As I recall, however, you were staring at your bride when we spoke on it. Never say you were distracted at the time?” he added, laughter in his voice.
Axton thrust both of his hands through his hair. “Apparently I was. When did he leave?”
“Before first light. Why? Does it matter?”
Linnea held her breath. The real Beatrix had traveled with Father Martin. Did Axton suspect anything? Did he know how they plotted against him? Did he know who she really was?
Axton shrugged. “’Tis in my nature to be suspicious. Arrange a small band to deliver the old woman to the abbey—the sooner the better. Keep two men at watch over de Valcourt, and one on his son.”
“What of the daughter? Who will keep a watch over her?” the bearded fellow asked, not bothering to hide his mirth.
But Axton was not annoyed by the man’s humor. There was a bond between those two, Linnea noted. Axton did not appear the sort to suffer the jesting of just anyone.
“I will manage my wife—”
Axton broke off, and Linnea at once knew why. He’d seen her, though she yet stood in the shadows of the wall. She felt the touch of his eyes and it was like a familiar shock to her system.
“I will manage my wife,” he repeated, but this time the words were spoken directly to her, not to his man. Sir Reynold must have recognized the change in his voice, for he looked around and grinned when he spied her.
“Ho, Maurice. Come greet your mistress, man. Do not offend her with your stinking breath and worse manners.” Sir Reynold kicked the bench that held the third fellow, and with a muffled curse, the man landed on the floor.
“Whoreson bastard!” the fellow sputtered, springing instantly to his feet. His hand went to the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his waist, but he did not draw it. Indeed, he seemed to forget why he’d reached for it and now stood there befuddled. Swaying on his feet.
Drunk.
Was Axton drunk too? Linnea’s eyes darted back to her new husband. Had he been down here, drinking with his friends, telling them every aspect of what had occurred between him and his wife—his wife who was his enemy? Her face flamed with humiliation to even think it. But she would not allow him to dominate her here as he did in their bedchamber. Now was not a time to emulate the yielding Beatrix. She must be more like her grandmother, proud and aggressive. But restrained too.
She stepped forward into the light, her initial hunger forgotten. “If it please you, husband, I would keep my grandmother with me. There is no need to send such an old woman away from her home.”
She broke off when his head jerked up. “Maidenstone is not her home.” He bit the words out, sounding not so much drunk, as angry.
Linnea stifled a groan and gnawed her lower lip. How stupid of her. What a poor choice of words. She should have known that to defend her family would infuriate him. But the damage was done. “She is an old woman,” she repeated, in a soft, pleading voice. “This is the only home she has left.”
She could not see his expression, for the fire was behind him. But she did not miss the tension that wrapped around him like another blanket of darkness. It showed in the slow, loose-limbed way he strolled toward her. It was there in the precise way he set his pewter chalice down as he passed by the plain trestle table. She felt it in the very air she breathed, cold and fiery, like hell must be.
She should not have pressed the point, she realized too late.
“The fate of every de Valcourt lies entirely in my hands.” He leaned forward so that his face was but inches from hers, hard and terrifyingly cold. “They live, die—or sprawl naked upon my bed—as I will it.”
So vicious were his quietly uttered words that Linnea stumbled backward, stunned and scarcely able to believe her ears. This was the man who’d caressed her and aroused her so easily she’d felt herself a wanton. But he could just as easily slash her to pieces, she now saw. He could just as happily crush her like chalk beneath his heel. Why had she ever imagined that he might be different?
She gathered her wits and her courage and bound them to her with fury. She could not bear to look at his two men, for fear she’d see their snickering leers. But him … She glared at him, made brave by her hatred and her utter contempt for him.
“How brave a man is my husband. He bests women and old men and gravely injured ones as well.”
One of his brows raised in black, mocking humor. “He was not gravely injured when first I encountered him.”
Had Linnea been possessed of a weapon, she would have attacked him for that. How dare he boast of so loathsome an act to her! How dare he nearly murder her brother, imprison her father, send her grandmother away, and then bed her as if she should be grateful to him!
“I despise you!” she swore, shaking from the force of her feelings. “I despise you and …” Her mind searched for a way to cut him as he so easily cut her. “And I cringe to think that I must submit to your disgusting touch—your revolting attentions. You make me want to retch!”
She had the fleeting pleasure of watching the smugness drain from his face. But the fury that replaced it banished her pleasure before it could take hold. She flinched when he raised a knotted fist. He would hit her; he would kill her with the power of one angry blow.
One of his men gasped. The other grabbed for his liege lord’s arm before he could lash out.
“Get away from here.” It was Sir Reynold who growled the order at her.
Linnea did not have to be told twice. She backed up, but all the while her eyes were fastened to her husband’s face. There was murder in his eyes and she felt a slow, sinking fear rise up to swallow her whole. He would kill her now. And even if he should not, her grandmother would. This was not how she was supposed to deal with her husband. It was her role to make him content, to lull him into complacency. Instead she had only fired him to new heights of rage.
Axton threw off Sir Reynold’s hold. The man knew better than to intercede a second time, however. When Axton strode furiously toward Linnea, Sir Reynold watched but did not interfere.
“Whether you despise my touch or ache to feel it, ‘tis no care of mine, madam. You are my wife and you are mine to do with what I please. ’Tis my pleasure that I care for, not yours.” His eyes bored into hers, ice-cold. Granite hard. “Now, get you to my chamber and await my return. Wife,” he added, making of that single word the cruelest slur she’d ever heard.
Linnea wanted to oppose him. After all, what worse punishment would that earn her than whatever he already planned for her? But she could not. She was too afraid to do anything but duck her head, turn, and flee, just as he’d wanted her to do. She hated herself for being such a coward. Maynard was not a coward, nor should she be. But she was, and as she shrank into the shadows of the stairs, she knew she was too afraid to return to the solar and await him and his wrath.
It was not the need to oppose him which made her slink back down the stairs and wait until he faced the fire once more. It was not f
oolish bravery but unadulterated fear. She did not know where her grandmother was housed, but she knew she must find her. Lady Harriet would be furious with her too, but she, at least, would help her figure out what to do. Linnea dreaded facing her grandmother, but she was the only ally she had. Better to deal with the Lady Harriet’s fiery temper, than the ice-cold fury of her husband.
Axton burst into the room, then could hardly believe his eyes. He was drunk; he did not pretend otherwise. But it was not too much red wine that deceived his eyes. She was not here! The coldhearted little bitch was not here!
He strode across the room, flung the bear pelt aside, then ripped the luxurious down mattress from the bed and threw it across the room. A cupboard crashed down, dumping his clothes and personal belongings across the floor. He shoved over her trunk and tore a tapestry from its anchors. She was not here!
He would kill her when he found her. By God and all the saints, he would kill her!
He kicked the heavy bed then, when it did not budge, threw his entire weight against one of the posts, as if he could shove the massive piece of furniture through the very walls of the chamber.
Something cracked, and the bed sagged. But it did not give, and that enraged him further. He spun around, searching for his sword. He would find her and she would be sorry—
The room swam and he grabbed the bedpost. She was a conniving witch and she’d waited until he was drunk to make her move. He clung to the post, blinking hard as he tried to clear his head. She’d waited until he was drunk with the want of her—and drunk from too many toasts on his amazing good fortune to have wed a woman of such a passionate nature. She’d lulled him and then cut him down as surely as if she’d gutted him with his own dagger.
She was revolted by him. Disgusted.
He wanted to howl with fury, to find her and force her to take it back. To prove that she was wrong. But she wasn’t there.
He stared around the solar, at the shambles he’d made of the place, and as quickly as his temper had exploded, so now did it drain away. It was better that she was not here. If he’d burst in and found her here, whether cowed or belligerent, she would only have angered him more. There was something in her that pushed him to extremes. Extremes of passion. Extremes of anger.
The Maiden Bride Page 15
