“I will marry you.” She moved close and touched his sleeve. “I am grateful for your help, but surprised at your decision. When we spoke at your castle, you seemed most set against marriage.”
“There is no other way. De Bellemare is surrounded by his personal guard. It will take time, planning, and luck to find an opportunity to strike at him.” Haydn’s eyes flashed with emotion. “However, I shall stay only until he is destroyed and you are free from his tryanny. No longer. Do you understand?”
Bethan pulled her hand back and frowned. “Once he is dead, you expect me to leave here, to live with you in your castle in the north?”
“No! I will be here but a brief time. And when I leave, I will never return. I will never see you again.”
“Oh.” Bethan bit her bottom lip as a confusing riot of emotions turned over in her heart.
“Is there a way for you to dissolve the marriage after I have gone?” he asked.
Bethan exhaled sharply. “Divorce? Is that what you demand?”
He raked a hand through his dark hair. “I will not be here as a husband to you, Bethan. In fairness, you should have the chance to choose another.”
The image of spending the rest of her life alone, without the joy of a good husband and the comfort of children, brought a lump of anguish to her throat. But she willed it away. She had to be strong, had to accept that this was her destiny.
“A second husband is the very least of my concerns. However, there is something else I must tell you.” Bethan’s gaze shifted away for a second, her mind searching for the right words. “My stepfather will not be easy to destroy. There is true evil in him, something…unnatural.”
A cold grin stole across Haydn’s handsome features. “I can handle de Bellemare.”
“Does this revelation not disturb you?” she asked, surprised at the complacent expression on his face, worried he did not understand the magnitude of this problem. “His powers give him a great advantage.”
“I am not afraid. All things can be destroyed, Bethan, including evil.”
His harsh, arrogant tone sent a shiver done her spine. His attitude was confusing, for he did not seem to be dismissing her warning, but rather embracing it. She had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling he was keeping something from her, something very important.
“Has my stepfather announced our marriage?”
“Not yet. I think he plans to do so in the morning. I advise you to look none too pleased when you are given the news. I believe it will give de Bellemare great joy to see you miserable.”
“Aye.”
Haydn lingered in her chamber for another moment, his keen gaze rooted on hers. “There is still time to change your mind. If you do so, send word to me through Sir Colwyn.”
Bethan nodded, but she knew there was no going back. He bowed his head, then left. Slowly, she closed the door, then leaned against it. She had orchestrated this entire chain of events. It was what she wanted, and yet Bethan admitted a part of her was afraid of Haydn. The darkness, the violence, the isolation that seemed to cling to him like a shroud was fearful and disturbing.
But another part made her want to hope. To dream. To dare to believe that he was the one man who could defeat her stepfather and set them all free.
But at what price? Bethan shuddered. Wearily, she lifted her hand to her brow. God help her, what had she done?
Bethan stood beside Haydn outside the church doors. Feeling too nervous to look at her groom, she instead glanced down at the royal-blue gown she wore. The dress had been a surprise gift from her mother, the long cuffs lovingly embroidered with golden flowers and vines, the shade matching the silken lining of the garment. Tight-fitting, it was fastened around her waist with an intricately twisted gold belt. In addition, she wore a long, finely woven veil that had belonged to her grandmother. It covered her shoulders and hung down to her feet, concealing her hair, which had been plaited and decorated with pearls.
She felt pretty in her bridal finery, pleased that she had gone to the effort, especially after a quick glimpse of her groom. His strong legs were encased in dark hose, his feet in soft leather boots. His scarlet surcoat was made from the finest material and his coat-of-arms, a mighty griffin with its wings outstretched, was embroidered upon it with precious stones, leaving no question as to his wealth.
In keeping with tradition, the bride and groom exchanged their vows outside the church doors. The chapel at Lampeter was squat and round and crafted of simple stone. Not as pretty or grand as the churches that boasted stained glass, high steeples, and beautiful statues, it was nevertheless a place of true sanctuary for Bethan, for it was seldom used by her stepfather.
Bethan was proud that her voice did not waver as she spoke her vows, nor did Haydn’s. She meant every word as she vowed to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death did them part, if the holy church would ordain it. She reasoned God would forgive the prior agreement she had made with Haydn if she kept those promises to remain a true wife.
Entering a marriage when she knew her husband had no intention of living with her for any length of time might be considered dishonest by some, but Bethan had every intention of honoring her commitment to be faithful and true to him for the rest of her life. She hoped fervently that God would understand.
With the vows exchanged, the newly married couple bowed their heads for the priest’s blessing. At that moment, a thick fog rolled in, encircling them in an eerie, mystical cocoon, separating them from the rest of the guests.
She heard murmuring behind her that this was a sign, an omen of sorts. Good or bad? Bethan could not hear the determination, but she chose to believe it was a good sign.
Father William efficiently calmed the crowd and invited everyone inside the church to celebrate the nuptial mass. Though she tried, Bethan had difficulty concentrating. Her mind wandered as she twisted the ring she now wore on her finger, a gold band with a dark jewel of bloodred that shimmered with fire.
At the conclusion of the Mass, Father William invited the groom to kiss his new bride. Haydn took her face in his hands, framing the delicate bones of her cheeks. He angled his head and swiftly kissed her closed lips. Bethan barely had time to savor the sensation because it was over so fast. Swallowing back her disappointment, she smiled at her groom, then turned to face the crowd.
They retired to the great hall, to indulge in the feast that had been prepared. For the first time since the day began, Bethan risked a glance at her stepfather. He sat in his chair on the dais, his arms crossed, frowning with displeasure.
Her mother had mentioned that de Bellemare was annoyed with the expense of the wedding feast, but faced with her groom’s obvious wealth had little choice but to provide a suitable celebratory meal. The servants had been thrilled to have the opportunity to show their love and gratitude toward Bethan, and their efforts were much appreciated by her.
Fresh herbs and bunches of wildflowers had been hung from the rafters of the great hall above the rows and rows of trestle tables. On the dais the table was set with a white linen cloth, and gold plates and goblets had been placed in front of every chair. Rose petals were strewn along the edge, adding a touch of color and a pleasing scent.
The tables fairly groaned under the vast array of food that was hot and ready to eat. Platters of veal dressed with vinegar, baked trout, tarts filled with spicy pork, stuffed roasted boar, goose in a sauce of grapes and garlic, stewed cabbage flavored with cinnamon and cloves, and thick crusty bread flavored with ale were soon emptied and fresh food brought out.
Ewers of ale, mead, and spiced wine were quickly emptied and refilled as various toasts of goodwill and happiness were offered to the bride and groom. Minstrels filled the air with the sounds of harp and lute, which blended with the tinkling sounds of laughter. Bethan could not remember a time when the great hall had been filled with so much boisterous life and merriment.
Midway through the meal t
he contingency of soldiers seated below them started pounding on the wooden trestle tables with the edges of their swords. Within minutes, the sound grew deafening. Bethan stole a glance at her husband. His brow was furrowed in confusion.
“They want you to kiss me,” she whispered as she leaned closer. “For luck.”
His silver eyes narrowed. “If they demand it, then I suppose we must.”
Bethan licked her lips in preparation, expecting another quick, almost impersonal kiss similar to the one he had bestowed upon her at the church. But just as Haydn was about to lower his head, a deep voice rang out from the crowd.
“Kiss her like you mean it, my lord!”
The words stopped him cold. A new determination ignited a glint in his eyes as a salacious, challenging smile curved his mouth.
One large hand slipped behind Bethan’s neck at the same moment the other curled around her waist. Haydn pulled her off her feet and into his arms, holding her so tightly she almost couldn’t breathe. Bethan’s heart began to race as she felt her breasts crush against the solid wall of Haydn’s chest, but she ignored the rush of embarrassment, concentrating instead on the tingling anticipation. This was her second kiss and despite the audience she intended to make it a private moment.
She thought she was ready, yet Bethan felt a startling shock as he brought his mouth down on hers. His lips were supple but insistent, almost commanding. Warm, firm, and expertly sensual, his kiss awakened a sudden yearning deep within her soul. At the urging of his tongue, pressing boldly against the seam of her lips, she opened to him.
The nature of their kiss changed. He was no longer gentle, and oddly that pleased her. Haydn tilted his head and pressed a little harder, his mouth hot and hungry as it captured hers. She breathed in and smelled his skin, spicy and inviting.
Her knees wanted to give way, her heart pounded harder and faster. He stroked her lower lip with his tongue and the desire within her shot into flame. Bethan raised her hand and wrapped her arm around the back of his neck. Haydn responded by pulling her closer. Now their bodies touched. Everywhere.
Heated arousal swirled down her spine. The rumbling noise of tankards being banged on the wooden tables, hoots, hollers, and whistles gradually penetrated her mind. Slowly Bethan opened her eyes. A blush of embarrassment colored her cheeks as he let her slide slowly down to her feet. She buried her face in his neck for a few seconds, struggling for composure, then lifted herself away and looked at him.
Haydn appeared as stunned as she felt. His touch lingered on her face for a moment longer, firm and warm. She parted her lips, but could not catch her breath to speak.
The noise in the hall grew louder. Haydn flashed a wicked smile at her, then exhaled sharply through his teeth. Turning toward the frenzied crowd of screaming men, he lifted his goblet of wine skyward and shouted loudly, “A toast. To my bride, whose beauty and courage are beyond compare.”
Four
The wedding celebration went on into the wee hours of the morning, but at midnight Lady Caryn, along with two older serving women, escorted Bethan from the hall. She was grateful that Haydn had refused to allow a formal bedding ceremony, reasoning it would be easier if they were alone.
When she entered her room, she hardly recognized the chamber. Her small, narrow bed had been replaced with an enormous canopied one. Against the far wall stood a wooden wardrobe, large enough to house clothing for her and Haydn. Candles had been lit and placed on a trestle table; dried herbs and scented flowers had been mixed into the clean rushes strewn about on the floors.
Bethan deliberately kept her mind and expression blank as the women helped prepare her for her bridal bed. Carefully they undressed her, reverently folding the fine garments of her wedding outfit. After a brief wash, Lady Caryn herself pulled the simple night rail of white linen over her daughter’s head. Then taking a comb, she brushed Bethan’s golden hair to a fine sheen, placing a wreath of wildflowers on the crown of her head when she was done.
“For luck,” she whispered in Bethan’s ear. “And fertility.”
The room was eerily quiet after they left. Bethan wondered if she should leave the privacy provided by the dressing screen her mother had thoughtfully provided and await her husband in bed. Nervously, she twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she considered her predicament.
The door opened, then closed. The butterflies in Bethan’s stomach fluttered so violently she thought she might become ill. She waited a long moment, unsure of what she would find when she stepped from behind the screen. Would he be standing there, waiting? Unclothed, perhaps? Or would he already be in the bed?
Taking a deep breath, Bethan emerged. Haydn was seated on the only chair at the small table near the fire, a goblet of wine in his hand. He silently offered her a drink, but she declined by shaking her head, fearing her voice would tremble.
Biting her lower lip, Bethan turned her gaze upon him. He smiled, though he said nothing, watching her expectantly as he drank from a goblet of wine. He had removed his tunic and shirt, but still wore his hose and boots. The firelight danced on the naked flesh of his upper torso, illuminating an impressive expanse of hard muscle and lean lines. A dusting of dark hair spread across the planes of his wide chest, tapering to a single line across his corded belly.
“Goodness, wife, you look pale as a ghost. Do you fear that I shall ravish you on the spot?”
She attempted a smile. And failed.
“Though I am far older than most brides, I am still an untouched maid,” Bethan responded, tilting her chin for courage. “My mother has explained the act, though I confess to being unprepared.”
“Preparation is the man’s job. If you desire it.”
“Sir?”
“I have never laid an unwanted hand on a woman before,” he said mildly. “And I most certainly do not intend to start now.”
“I am your wife. ’Twould be a sin for me to refuse you.”
“I give you leave to refuse me, wife.”
He turned from her and slowly poured more wine into his goblet. Bethan’s body began to quake as she realized he meant it. The decision was hers. What did she truly want?
Her heart began to race as she pictured herself kissing him. Not just on the lips, but everywhere. His chiseled jaw, the pulse beating sensually at his throat, against the dark hair on his chest down to the flat stomach below.
No matter what happened tomorrow or the next day, or the day after that, Bethan knew with all her heart that she wanted this to continue. With this man.
“Teach me how to please you, husband.”
Bethan’s voice pulled Haydn into the moment. He lifted his head and turned to face her, and the pleasant speech he had prepared vanished from his mind. He was caught in her stare as though she held him in a spell. Her lanky frame was silhouetted by the orange glow of the fire that blazed behind her. Her long golden hair was unbound and draped about her shoulders like a veil. Somehow he knew it would feel as soft and silky as it looked and he imagined his fingers wandering through that glorious mass.
Images flashed into his mind, each more lurid than the last. He closed his eyes, remembering the kiss they had shared in the hall. The feel of her lips and tongue and soft, supple body had easily shattered his defenses.
She moved closer. Haydn reached out and caught her hand. Holding it to his mouth, he placed a kiss in the cradle of her palm.
“I want there to be no misunderstanding between us,” he declared. “I will stay with you only until I have accomplished my task and freed you all from de Bellemare’s tyranny. If tonight you wish to be my wife in truth, I will gladly accommodate you, but I make no promises beyond our bargain.”
“I expect no more,” she replied.
Haydn barely caught the laugh of irony that formed on his lips. “Mortal…ahh…women are known for changing their minds about this sort of thing.”
The dreamy, faraway cloud of emotion in Bethan’s eyes vanished. “I am a practical woman who knows that my survival, a
nd that of my people, rests on one thing. De Bellemare must be destroyed and I wholly believe you are the man who can accomplish that task. You are my champion and that is all I shall ever demand of you, Haydn.”
Bethan’s gaze bored into him. Unfamiliar emotions he could neither name nor identify assailed him. It took every ounce of discipline he possessed to stop himself from pulling her into his arms and kissing her senseless.
“I will be your champion,” he proclaimed.
He gently placed a sensual kiss on the delicate inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse leap as his lips tasted her flesh.
A sweep of color rose to her cheeks, but she did not lower her eyes. “You are also my husband and I very much want to be your wife. In all things. For as long as you are here with me.”
Hellfire!
Desire, long simmering, rose to the boil. Primal male instinct, no longer in check, assumed control. Haydn shifted forward in his chair and pulled Bethan into his lap. She came to him with a startled yelp.
It had been far too long since he took a woman, Haydn told himself. Or perhaps it was the kiss they had shared in the hall earlier that had stirred his passion to such heights. For an instant he wondered if the intense desire he had felt had been a fluke, an emotion and passion brought on by the heat of the moment.
Haydn bent his head, intending only a gentle kiss. Yet the moment their mouths met, Bethan opened to him with a small gasp, parting her lips and reaching up to him. With a groan, his tongue entered, finding, then stroking hers, darting deeper, then withdrawing.
Lust swept through him like a hot wind. In that moment he admitted the truth, acknowledged that he wanted to lose himself within her. Only her. Only Bethan.
His hard gaze unable to conceal his desire, Haydn let his free hand trace a gentle pattern along her delicate jaw and neck. She trembled under his touch, her breathing shallow.
Nature of the Beast Page 14
