The Maiden Bride

by Becnel, Rexanne

  The truth was, she wanted to pretend that he loved her, because she … Once more she stiffened, though this time it was shock. She wanted to pretend that he loved her, because she was beginning to love him.

  Sweet Mary, but she was more foolish than even her grandmother could have imagined!

  A sudden sting of tears made her avert her eyes to the partially tamed path. Beneath her feet string-of-pearls fern swept the hem of her gown. Beatrix’s gown.

  Go away, Beatrix! Leave me be, for just a little while!

  “Yes,” she mumbled, hoping she sounded coherent. “Yes, I would … I would leave those troubles behind us for now.”

  So saying, she bent and plucked a stalk of rue, then lifted the bright yellow flower to him. “Herb-of-grace. ’Tis good to expel worms.”

  He met her gaze with a face devoid of expression. “Are there any among these weeds that erase memory?”

  Linnea’s heart went out to him. “Valerian is said to ease bad dreams. But memories …” Her eyes searched his face as if she’d never truly seen him before. “I think only time can ease that sort of pain.”

  “What of hunger?”

  “Hunger? Well, if you are hungry, there may be wild strawberries or blueberries. Perhaps fiddle ferns—”

  “Not that sort of hunger, Beatrix.”

  Linnea firmly blotted out her sister’s name and focused instead on his other words. A physical hunger, but not for food. The chain burned against her tender flesh as the hunger grew inside her too.

  “There are those herbs which can curb that .. that sort of hunger.”

  “I would not curb it, but rather would assuage it.” He moved nearer. She backed farther into the shaded place. “Is there anything within this sheltered woodland upon which I might feast? My need is great,” he added, following her ever deeper in the stand of sycamores and beech trees.

  A shiver of longing and anticipation swelled to encompass Linnea’s entire being. She’d often thought of him as some great, dark predator, the bear that adorned his coat of arms and his bed. Their bed. At those times, though, she’d always considered herself his hapless prey, and she’d feared for herself. Now, though, she found a thrilling excitement in it.

  She backed into the deep shade of the towering beeches and the understory of fern and holly. The castle walls were blocked from view by the forest’s mantle of spring greenery. Scolding squirrels and a pair of competing jayhawks drowned out any sounds from the nearby village. She was truly alone with him as he stalked her toward the river’s edge.

  Her heart began to pound with anticipation. Surely she could not want that to happen between them. Not here! But she kept backing away, all the while hoping he would catch her soon, for she felt very much like kindling must, smoldering and about to burst into flame.

  Axton trapped his pretty, flushed wife against a yew tree, an ancient, gnarled specimen that must have seen a thousand lovers pass beneath its heavy limbs. But never had it seen a man so powerfully driven as was he, he vowed. Whether a lad giddy with his first love, or a hale fellow intent on wooing his lady fair with well-rehearsed words and knowing caresses, none among them could match the depths of his feelings for this woman before him, neither his desire for her nor his love.

  Love.

  As Axton pressed her against the yew with a hand on either side of her—as he stared into the depthless green of her wide eyes, and drowned in the fiery sea of her emotions—he could not quite trust his own emotions.

  Love? No, only an understandable lust, combined with a new need for peace in his life. He wanted the joy and comfort of a sweet and willing wife. That was all.

  And as he took her against the sturdy, patient tree, as he filled himself with her taste and scent, and even the sounds of her as she found her own pleasure, he told himself it was no more than that. She offered him a new sort of peace while at the same time letting him exhaust his body upon her. Any man in his right mind would feel the same. Love had nothing to do with anything, most especially not with him and de Valcourt’s daughter.

  But as he spilled himself deep inside her, he admitted that he could learn to care for her. If she proved her loyalty to him, if she behaved as a good wife should … If she gave him a child and continued to please him …

  Maybe he could someday come to love her. Maybe.

  They returned as dusk settled gray and purple over Maidenstone. An early moon floated low on the horizon, huge and luminous. A good sign, Linnea hoped.

  Most certainly it had presaged a very good day.

  She pushed back a loose tendril of her hopelessly tangled hair. Her feet were damp, as was her hem, and no doubt twigs and bracken and green stains on her skirt would proclaim to all precisely how she and Axton had spent the last several hours.

  But she was content, and so was he, if his tender considerations were any indication. His arm circled her waist and his hand rested comfortably on her hip. As they came out of the woods and onto the road that led to the castle, and spied the twin torches that marked the gate, she impulsively slipped her arm around his waist too.

  “Are you afraid to return?” he asked her.

  “Afraid?” she echoed. Afraid did not begin to describe her feelings about their return to the castle and all the troubles, deception, and responsibilities it harbored. “I wish … I wish that for once there could be peace at Maidenstone.”

  “For once? Was there not peace there before I arrived?” He stopped and turned her to face him. “What was life like here before I came?”

  Empty, she wanted to say. Before you came into my life it was empty, hollow, and lonely.

  But that was not entirely true. She hadn’t felt those things then, because she hadn’t known what else there could be for her. Now, though, she knew. Thanks to him and the way her heart was filled with only him, she knew exactly how terrible her life used to be. How aimless and without purpose.

  “It was simple and uneventful,” she finally answered.

  “But not peaceful?”

  When she only shrugged, he went on. “The day will come, Beatrix, when it shall be simple and peaceful again.”

  “But not uneventful,” she said, only because, as always, her sister’s name had jolted her and she could think of nothing else to say.

  He cupped her face in both his hands then, and kissed her. His mouth met hers, parting her lips and devouring her whole, it seemed. But not so much with passion as with … as with something else, her dizzied mind vaguely noted.

  He’d kissed her very seldom, she realized when he slowly drew back from her. At the wedding ceremony, but not otherwise. Not even when they’d made love before.

  But he’d kissed her today up against that tree, and when he’d laid her down in the bed of ferns.

  And now again.

  Something had altered between them today. Did he sense it? Did he realize she loved him? Had she revealed that in something she’d said or done?

  She searched his face, fearful and hopeful all in the same moment. Then a cry drew his attention away and, to her dismay, she saw a trio of riders bearing down on them, followed by a dog. Peter’s dog, she saw as they drew nearer. It was Peter and Sir Maurice and another knight.

  “What ho, brother?” Peter’s horse danced an excited circle around them. While the other men held back, Peter continued. “We did begin to think some wood ogre had made mischief with you. I see, however, that it was no ogre, but rather a wood nymph who has distracted you so long.”

  “Perhaps,” Axton replied, pulling Linnea closer into the shelter of his arms. “I am touched by your concern,” he added dryly.

  “’Twas the Lady Mildred who did bid us—” Sir Maurice broke off when Linnea stiffened and Axton frowned. “She feared the evening meal would be delayed,” the man finished lamely.

  “Would you ride?” Peter offered a hand to Linnea. He stared at her curiously, as if to ask how she had dealt with Axton’s terrible temper. In answer she leaned her head against Axton’s shoulder, though she wo
rried it was too bold a gesture.

  But Axton did not shrug her off, and Peter’s face lit with an unsubtle grin.

  “We will walk,” Axton stated. “Be off with you and allow us to return at our own pace. We will arrive in sufficient time to dine as ever.”

  Sir Maurice and the other knight nodded, wheeled their anxious beasts, and rode off at once. But Peter circled them once more, handling his massive steed with an admirable ease while Moor scratched his ear, chasing some unseen pest.

  “Shall I announce to your men that they should no longer fear being summoned by you to practice with sword or lance, or any other weapon?”

  Axton eyed his younger brother warningly. “Tell them this. Should I desire to strike anyone low this evening, ’tis my promise that the first one I summon shall be you.”

  But Axton’s threat had little effect on the boy’s exuberant mood, for he laughed then spun his spirited animal and charged back toward the gate with Moor behind him, sprinting through the lowering light like a dark and silent wraith.

  Peter had every right to be jubilant, Linnea thought as she and Axton started forward again along the wide, dusty roadway. The boy thought matters were easing at Maidenstone. The fact was, in spite of the rude reminder of the Lady Mildred and her disapproval of his marriage, even Axton was not nearly so tense and frustrated as he’d been after the confrontation with Sir Edgar. Their interlude in the forest had done much to ease his mood. Peter had been right to send her to him.

  But the new peace between her and Axton, perversely enough, made Linnea’s situation worse than ever. She loved him. There was no longer any doubt in her mind. But she was bound to betray him—she’d betrayed him the moment she’d made her vow before the priest. There was no way for her to undo the lie and the damage it would wreak.

  Loving him only made it that much worse.

  Chapter 16

  The mood surrounding the evening meal was strange. The de la Manse soldiers, led by Peter, did seem to celebrate. Lady Mildred’s return to her home was the culmination of their long struggle and the symbol of their ultimate victory. Lady Mildred herself tried hard to participate in their gaiety. But Linnea was seated near enough to her to see the effort it took. The woman’s smile was forced; her hands trembled; and not once did she look directly at her new daughter-in-law.

  Axton, likewise, did not seem as caught up in the mood. He sat between his mother and his wife, with his predecessor, Sir Edgar, nowhere to be seen. Linnea had made certain her father was kept content in his new quarters tonight, and well out of sight. Still, for all his appearance of calm, Linnea knew that Axton could not be entirely satisfied until Maynard and Sir Edgar were dealt with by the young duke, Henry.

  So the dinner progressed through twelve courses of suckling pig, blackbird pie, stuffed swan, grilled eel, and prodigious amounts of roasted and stewed vegetables and fruits, as well as oysters, meat pasties, and breads. They were entertained by minstrels, musicians, and tumblers, and even a man who ate fire.

  But while the rest of the castle folk ate and drank themselves into a happy oblivion, at the head table a somberness prevailed.

  Lady Mildred retired first, and Axton escorted her to her chamber. Linnea waited for his return before bidding him a good-night. It was Peter who escorted her upstairs, a grinning, drunken Peter who looked more the boy than the man in his foolish state. As ever, his dog followed at his heels.

  “I have told my mother that you and Axton are well suited. After this day, there is none who can doubt it.” He tripped over the edge of the carpet that stretched across the antechamber on the second floor, only catching himself on Moor. He rubbed the dog’s ears affectionately and gave Linnea a sheepish grin. “’Tis a good day to be a de la Manse.”

  Linnea glanced up the stairwell toward the third floor where Peter and Axton’s mother now resided. “I don’t think everyone in your family feels as you do.”

  “She will thaw toward you. You must only give her time. My mother is a good person. The fineth … finest lady I have ever known.” Holding on to Moor’s leather collar with one hand he made a reasonably credible bow. “I bid you good night, milady. I must return now to the hall, for we are laying bets—”

  He broke off with a shame-faced expression that would have been comical had she not immediately suspected that the wager had something to do with her. Her and Axton, she realized with dismay.

  “Peter?” she said warningly. “What sort of bet?”

  He was backing away though, his face red, but his eyes sparkling nonetheless with drunken mischief. “I give him no more than a half-tankard downed before he is back up here with you.”

  “Peter!” she exclaimed again. But he was gone. She heard a clatter, as if he’d stumbled and fallen on the stairs, and she hoped he had. She hoped he’d fallen and dented his thick head!

  But the secret truth was, she too wondered how long it would be before Axton joined her.

  She was ready when he came, and he was ready too. Linnea did not think about the older woman upstairs when she welcomed Axton into their bed. She did not think of her grandmother or father, nor sister or brother, as he and she together sank into that dark, private oblivion. This would not last for long, this blissful feeling of loving someone and receiving his love in return—or at least his affection.

  She had no control over what was to come. But she had some control over now, and she meant to squeeze whatever joy she could from this brief, ill-fated marriage. She meant to take a lifetime’s joy of it. For the memory of their time together was all she would ever have in the empty years to come.

  The week that followed was peaceable enough. A new routine settled over Maidenstone, though it was not so very different than the routine of before. But it was Linnea who did direct the castle servants now, not her grandmother. It was Linnea who decided on the menu and dispensed the herbs and spices; she who supervised the inside workers and the kitchen staff. She’d expected the Lady Mildred to assert her authority, but she had not done so. Axton’s mother spent most of each day in her solar, accompanied only by her maid, and visited each day by both of her sons.

  She did join the family for the midday meal, and of course for the morning mass. When she and Linnea had occasion to interact, it was cordial, but brief, and usually initiated by Linnea. Was her chamber comfortable? Did she have sufficient candles to sew by? Were the dishes seasoned to her liking?

  To these questions Lady Mildred always gave the answer which least required any further response from Linnea. Yes, her chamber was comfortable. No, she needed no extra candles. Yes, the food was well seasoned.

  If Axton noticed the awkwardness between his mother and his wife, he did not speak of it. Most certainly Linnea did not bring the subject up to him. But she felt a deep sorrow for the aging woman. Lady Mildred was home again, but she could take no true joy from it.

  But Linnea was taking a joy from Maidenstone, despite the dark sword of truth that hung always over her head. Maynard shrank into a pitiful semblance of himself; her father was silent and lost somewhere in his thoughts; and Lady Mildred was a sad specter of a long-ago past. But Linnea had Axton and everything else faded beneath the light he brought into her life.

  Whether it was his hard embrace as he drew her nightly to their bed, or merely the caress of his eyes from across the bailey, the effect he had on her was profound. She lived for those looks, for the casual touches. Even his hand at her elbow set tremors alive deep inside her. Though she knew it would not fast—that it was in fact a fantasy that she lived—the more she had of Axton, the more she wanted.

  Foolish as it was, the idea of bearing his child had begun to obsess her. Not a fortnight had she known the man—a man who’d begun as her enemy—and now she had no more fervent desire than to give him a child that would forge an enduring peace for Maidenstone—and for them.

  Except that, of course, it would not. If anything, it would make matters worse, for the babe would ultimately be termed a bastard—if the Lady Harri
et even allowed it to survive.

  Linnea shivered and pressed a hand to her flat stomach. One thing she knew, she would not let her grandmother near her child. She would fight heaven and earth to protect any child of hers.

  But she tried to put the idea of having Axton’s child out of her mind, for to worry on that would have spoiled what little time she did have with him. She was determined not to do that.

  Then on a Friday, the feast of St. Theodore, Maynard died, and she could no longer ignore reality or the awful implications of her only brother’s death.

  “He is gone,” her father muttered helplessly as he stood in a corner while Linnea supervised the preparations of Maynard’s body for burial. “He is gone. He is gone.”

  “He has been gone all along,” Linnea whispered, though she knew her father was too caught up in his grief to hear her. She shaved Maynard’s cold, shrunken cheeks, while Norma bathed his arms and legs. There was a scent of death about him, though in truth it had permeated the room a week and more. Perhaps it would have been kinder of her to have let him die that very first day.

  Her trembling hand slipped and she nicked his cheek with the razor-sharp knife. He did not bleed, though, and that fact made her hands tremble all the worse.

  “I cannot do this.” She stared helplessly at Norma. “I cannot do it.”

  Norma took the blade from her. “Fetch his clothing. I will finish this task.”

  “He is gone. He is gone,” Sir Edgar mumbled in the background, like a chant he must repeat to hold himself together.

  Somehow they made Maynard ready, though Linnea feared at every moment that she would go mad from her father’s incessant words. Why must he keep reminding her? She knew Maynard was gone, and she knew that it meant everything now fell to her. All the responsibility for her father and sister and grandmother.

  Still, if she thought about that she would fall to pieces, and she didn’t have that luxury. Clasping her arms around herself, she looked at her father. “Pray take him away from here, Norma. Entertain him somewhere else. Frayne can help you.”