by Lori Snow
“Innkeeper, another posset and add more wine to it. This weather is enough to drive a man to his grave.”
Arneau entered and shook himself like a dog. Simon flicked his wrist toward Arneau. “Order food and wine and a room for the night. I’ll not go out into the weather again this day.” Turning to the angled corner near the fire, Simon pulled out a bench and slouched down.
Arneau joined Simon with fresh drinks. In moments a buxom wench carried out the first wooden platters of food. The food was no better than the posset but at least it was hot. They ate in silence as steam rolled off their shoulders. A disturbance turned their attention to the door.
Forrester and three knights filled the opening. Kirney’s man glanced around the darkened room and signaled his men to the opposite corner.
The innkeeper rushed forward to welcome these new guests. He practically touched the floor in his greeting. “My lord, welcome.”
Ignoring the man, Forrester stepped to Simon’s table, “Olivet.”
“Lord Olivet, to you. What word do you bring from Kirney?” Lifting his mug, Simon drank deep.
Forrester stared at Arneau.
Arneau took the hint and moved across the room to join the other men.
Forrester sat in Arneau’s place and pushed the dirty utensils aside. “My Lord Kirney is not happy. There are rumors that the Lady Isabeau is now betrothed to d’Allyonshire and no longer at Olivet.”
Simon slammed down his mug. “All is under control. Bennington took me by surprise. I have a plan. D’Allyonshire’s marriage will not take place. I’ll have my sister back by the end of the week. Tell our mutual friend that all will end as he wishes.”
“The final outcome will determine your alliance.” Standing, Forrester said, “I leave you now. My lord awaits your resolution. We spend this night with Lord William.”
“You wish to visit the solar, milady?” Caitlin’s cheeks bloomed. Isabeau hoped the color came more from happiness than embarrassment. Did the maid know what they would find there?
The meal was over. Isabeau gave Caitlin’s sleeve a playful tug towards the doorway. “Let’s make haste before we are spied by yet another. I suddenly have a cat’s curiosity to discover what comprised our seats in the wagon yesterday. By the by, just where is the solar?”
“This way, milady.” With a youthful spurt of energy, Caitlin nipped around Isabeau to lead the way. “I thought to help with your ladyship’s things but Carstairs said I was to be with you.”
This time, when Caitlin raced up the stairs with Isabeau following, she was not attempting avoidance. She paused at the landing to be sure Isabeau kept up with her. Shadows filled the cool corridor and Isabeau was grateful for the occasional lit sconces. Just as her eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness, Caitlin pushed open a door and blinding light flooded Isabeau’s vision.
The spacious room was a solar in every sense of the word and purpose. Windows allowed the sun’s rays to reach every corner. Wooden shutters were ready to cover the openings in inclement weather. A fire was laid, if not set, in the large fireplace as a silent testament that the room would be a comfortable haven year round. Beautiful rugs scattered the floor and tapestries covered much of the stone walls.
Isabeau knew she would take pleasure in every moment she could visit this sanctuary. She could read, sew and embroider without the necessity of burning precious tapers or straining her eyes.
But what captured Isabeau’s immediate attention were the chests and bundles stacked in piles in the center of the floor.
“Oh my,” she let out a puff of breath that had nothing to do with the climb up the steep stairs. She turned to Caitlin. “All of this came from Olivet?”
Caitlin nodded.
“Oh my,” Isabeau repeated. “I had no thought. Was anything left behind?”
Caitlin shrugged absently.
Isabeau put her hands on her hips and surveyed the parcels. Though mounded high, she could see care had been given to the placement. “We’ll need a wax tablet and stylus. I would appreciate it if you keep the list while I open the bundles. I would not know where to put things just yet but the floor needs cleared. I think this will be a wonderful place for us to occasionally escape the chaos of the castle. We must fight the temptation to spend too much time here.”
“Milady?” Caitlin had edged away and little pleasure remained on her white face.
“Yes?” Isabeau answered distractedly as she picked up a cloth wrapped bundle tied in twine.
“I don’na know…”
“Eldred will be sure to have a tablet. I’ll begin here.” She tackled the knot while she absorbed Caitlin’s sidling towards the door. She sighed when she revealed the contents of the bundle to be several of her father’s books.
“I canna help ya.” Caitlin whimpered as if struck.
Isabeau straightened, turning all her attention towards the girl. “What is the matter? Is your back paining you? I should have changed the bandages before the mid-day meal.”
“Nay.” Bright pink splotches formed on the ashen cheeks. “No pain.”
“Then what troubles you?”
“I knew I could'na help a countess!” Caitlin wailed.
“Goodness, of course you can help me. I thought we were done with this.”
“I canna keep yer lists, milady. I canna write nair read.”
Isabeau blinked in surprise. She should have thought of the probability. Learning
to read and write would have been an unnecessary luxury for a farmer’s daughter. “We will just have to teach you to read and write. In the meantime, I will keep the lists while you open the parcels.”
This time Caitlin blinked as she tried to hold back the tears glistening in her blue eyes. “Truly? I can still be in your service? But will the earl wish me to waste time learnin’?”
Isabeau shook her head. “Donovan would not think it a waste. Malak learned at Donovan’s instigation.”
“But Malak is the earl’s messenger -- and a male.”
“The earl will see the value of having another able to keep accounts and write communications.” Isabeau sounded more positive than she actually felt but she was not about to reveal any doubts to the girl. She waved her hands at Caitlin to shoo her to the door. “Go get the wax tablet and stylus so we can begin. This inventory may last till the evening bells.”
Caitlin had barely crossed the threshold when Isabeau heard a familiar thump echo from the corridor. She felt her lashes flicker with renewed anger when Caitlin gave a noticeable gasp of surprise.
“Dame Granya, I dinna see you.”
“Is she in the countess’ room?” The old woman punctuated her demand with another thump of her cane.
“Aye.” Caitlin moved back over the door sill. “I will just inform her ladyship you wish to see her.”
Isabeau clamped her lips between her teeth to prevent a blasphemous retort. She had spent enough time on the woman’s vitriol. Curling her fingers in her skirts, she sighed before calling out in false welcome. “Do come in, Granya.”
“I bring a message from the earl.” She declared haughtily. “The earl be wantin’ you in his strong room. You best hurry.” The condensation in the woman’s voice bordered on contempt and chilled Isabeau to the bone.
“Thank you for delivering the message.” Isabeau tilted her chin. “I was just about to find my way to my betrothed, as it happens. He wishes to be wed in Bennington’s chapel. We have much to discuss. I will just be on my way.”
She followed the old woman into the corridor and closed the solar door. While Granya slowly hobbled down the hall, Isabeau made her own path. She prayed she headed in the correct direction. The vindictive woman would not be so bold as to lead her future mistress astray, but neither would she correct Isabeau should she take the wrong path on her own.
C hapter 20
Donovan suppressed his pleasure when he heard Lady Isabeau’s steps in the hall. She had haunted his dreams the night before. He left the fireplace and returne
d to the chair behind his worktable. Twice this day, the old witch Granya had put herself in his path spewing poisonous words and dire predictions about an ill-fated choice of bride. He would never take Granya’s word for anything, but could a grain of truth have spilled with the cascade of horse dung?
Come the dawn, he would have answers. Had Isabeau already made her vows to God? A reluctant bride led to a hellish existence. Could Isabeau find satisfaction in his arms? He remembered Syllba. How could the vile contagion at Olivet not have tainted Isabeau, too?
He watched Isabeau enter his strongroom. The air about her thrummed with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation. Pink stained her creamy cheeks. Had she raced through the corridors in order to arrive with such punctuality. Would that eagerness remain when he told her what he expected?
She made a small curtsey and greeted him with the smile which had charmed him at Olivet. “My lord, you wished to see me?”
His body reacted. Her shapely form was so feminine, without touching her, he knew she would be soft and warm. He wanted to trace the curve of her jaw—to sweep his fingers down her throat to cup her lush breast.
Again, he wondered how he could have mistaken her for a boy even for a second.
Could Carstairs be right in his speculation? Am I already bound to my betrothed? Had Isabeau bewitched him? Desire curled deep in his belly. He hoped the emotion was just simple lust. Lust was controllable and easily sated. Desire could grab a man’s soul and lead him down a path best not traveled. After Marta, he thought no other woman could tempt him beyond his natural masculine need. He shifted in his chair to be more comfortable.
Isabeau’s hazel eyes gazed at him through her thick lashes. “Sir, please allow me to express my gratitude.”
“For what?” Donovan felt his brows draw together.
“Why, for all of my father’s treasures,” she said, her eyes sparkling.
“You will never return to Olivet. I thought you should have a few remembrances.”
“But you were too generous.” Her smile revealed a small dimple in her left cheek. “I chose only four volumes and two pictures from Papa’s solar. I swear his entire library must have been loaded into the wagons and much more besides.”
“I’ve no notion…” He trailed off as he remembered Carstairs’ antics when he had returned from retrieving Isabeau’s jewels from the serpent, Syllba. “I’m sure you can thank Carstairs for your bridal gifts.”
“Oh,” she bit her lower lip. A little of her brightness dimmed. “I will.”
Restlessness gnawed at him, pulling him from his chair behind the worktable. He paced towards the low fire burning in the hearth—a fire lit to burn off the dampness of the previous day’s downpour. It brought neither warmth for his cold soul nor relief from the hunger to taste Isabeau’s soft lips.
He stared into the flames and commanded, “This night, the hour before matins, you will take a carafe of wine to my chambers. You will be discreet.”
Her head tilted to the side as she gave him a questioning look.
“Do you comprehend?” he demanded gruffly, stepping in front of her. A waft of flowers mixed with her warm womanly scent nearly drowned his determination. With a forefinger, he lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him without the filter of her lashes. Even such a small surface of contact proved her skin as soft as petals.
Her cheeks blossomed with color. Her hands clasped before her, she did not move a muscle. “I am your betrothed,” she whispered. Whether she was trying to remind him or herself, he didn’t know.
“You will take the wine to my chambers,” he repeated, ignoring her stiffness.
“As you wish, my lord.” She would have nodded but he still held her in place as he searched her face. The green flashed in her eyes, overpowering the brown.
He battled to keep his voice even. “You will wait for me in my chair.”
Would she be there—waiting for him when he retired this night? He turned and walked to the window. The fields of Bennington stretched before him as he fingered his scar. He would not suffer another reluctant bride.
“Yes, my lord,” her voice trembled.
“Have you ever lain with a man?” he asked in an icy voice.
“No one but you, my lord.”
The pitch of her voice was so low, had he not been waiting for her reply he might not have heard her. Dumbfounded, he watched her throat work. Her answer made no sense. His latent arousal dissolved. “What swill is this! I have not taken you.” He crossed the room in two long strides, towering over her.
A tremor betrayed both fear and confusion she answered. “On the journey from my brother’s keep, the night by the campfire, my pallet lay next to yours. You are the only man with whom I have lain.”
Could the lady be so innocent? He hoped he did not hear truth only because he wished it.
“You mistake my words, my lady. Are you yet a virgin?”
“Aye, my lord.” Her color deepened.
“This night our future will be decided. Life is fragile. It is imperative that I have an heir. I must be certain you will accept me. Marta did her duty. I wish for more that duty.”
“I understand, my lord.”
“What know you of the marriage bed?”
“Blanche told me the way of things.”
“The old crone who bade you farewell with such a dour face?” he scoffed. “She looked to have the bile of Granya.”
“ 'Twas only her look.” Isabeau ‘s voice gathered strength. “Blanche is not normally filled with gloom. She has been as much a mother to me as my own and she feared tears upon our goodbyes.”
Donovan returned to his seat behind the desk. Leaning forward he asked, “What words of wisdom did she bestow upon you?”
“She said that above all, I should go where my husband bids.”
“A wise woman. What else?”
“Most husbands are the same. They have certain expectations of their wives. A wife should position herself on her back upon the marriage bed and spread her legs.”
Curious and titillated by the image of Isabeau waiting for him just so, Donovan hid his smile. “And?”
“A husband has the right to do as he wills.” Covering her burning cheeks, Isabeau continued, “If he chooses, he can touch or put his mouth anywhere. Many men will actually suckle at their wife’s breast.” Her voice faltered as she explained these intimate matters. “Whether it gives him pleasure or it is to prepare his wife for their babe, she did not say.”
“Is that all?” Donovan found himself fascinated with the curve of Isabeau’s breasts. As a distraction he watched her hands curl into fists and then straighten one finger at a tine, “Is that all?” he repeated. He wanted to know more.
“No.” Isabeau shook her head then rushed on. “She said the husband, when properly prepared, would stuff his rod into the woman’s womb and fill her belly with his seed.”
Had nothing been said to the girl of coupling’s pleasures? Donovan’s body hungered for her, even as she stood before him now. But he also saw her apprehension, her unease. So unlike the knowing Syllba. That unwelcome memory quelled his desire. “I assure you, you will survive the marriage bed. Women have through the ages.”
Isabeau swallowed as she gathered courage. “Blanche warned me that often the fit is difficult. There is pain and blood the first time but it will ease with time.” Isabeau looked away. “As your wife, it is my responsibility to encourage you to come inside me at least once a day, preferably more.”
Donovan smiled. His affection for the old besom grew by the minute. Blanche definitely gave different advice than Granya gave to Marta. Leaning back, fascinated with the maid standing before him, he watched the fluttering pulse in her neck.
“The more seed you sow,” she licked her pink lips, making them glisten in the sunlight. “The more seed; the sooner my belly will swell. You’ll not want me then and only then can I rest from my duties.”
Some of his fondness died. A mild frown form across his brow.
“Much of what the old biddy said could be true. I wish our union will be more than duty. Much more—or not at all.”
“My lord?” Isabeau blinked.
“Tonight, we will both begin to see what kind of woman you are. We will both find out how you feel. Tonight, I will see how far the pink goes down when you blush.” This time he could not prevent the smile at her shocked gasp. And why he continued tormenting both of them he could not fathom. When her flush deepened he actually laughed. He thanked the saints she still appeared innocent enough not to check his body for the obvious reactions to their intimate conversation.
He could ease some of her fears. “Come to me.” He held out his hand.
Her slippered footfalls soundless, she obeyed his command. He kept his hand steady as he pulled her soft body to his and slanted his mouth over hers. Her lips were as smooth and sweet as he imagined. They offered little resistance to the penetration of his tongue, but, new to the intimacy of a lover’s kiss, Isabeau clenched her teeth, blocking her mouth to his exploration.
“Open for me,” he whispered. Desire burned in him, making him forget his original intent. Slowly she complied.
Isabeau went rigid at his sudden invasion. He felt her fine tremor as he began a rhythmic stroking of her tongue. His hands slipped over her breast before resting his dampening palm upon the small bump of her burgeoning nipple. Hope arose at the subtle sign of her body’s interest. She was not rejecting his caresses. Her moan knifed through him as he trailed tiny kisses down her throat until his lips sucked the hallow where her throat joined her shoulders. Her soft hands kneaded his shoulders.
Reluctantly, he raised his head. This is not the time or the place.
He needed time to be sure of her acceptance. And he needed time—lots of time—to touch her, to caress her. He needed the time and place when he could be certain they would not be disturbed .
