“Yes, but Eva—your daughter—does not love Stefano. Doesn’t even like him, from what she told me.”
She saw Philip wince again at the mention of his relation to the girl, before she forged on. “Eva has fallen in love with our ostler. There isn’t much anyone can do to change that.”
Philip snorted again. “Especially not now! God’s bones, he’s probably already bedded the maiden by now. She wouldn’t do for a bride in Arnolfini’s eyes, even if Knape’s men do find her.”
Isabella patted Philip’s arm, noticing how the clarity was returning, but slowly. He’d been deep in his cups when he and the other two men arrived in the hall. “Where were you tonight, by the way? You, Knape, and Stefano?”
Usually Philip would have leapt to his feet, reminding his wife his goings on were none of her affair. Tonight, though, she knew he needed her help with this Arnolfini situation. He met her gaze. “Stefano wanted to buy his bride some gifts. We shopped in Brussels, then stopped at the Lady’s Raven on the way back to celebrate the Italian’s upcoming betrothal.” He scratched his head and yawned. “We might have gotten a little carried away.”
Isabella cocked an eyebrow. “You might say that. How angry do you think the Italian will be over this change in plans?”
Philip yawned again, and Isabella knew she had worn him down sufficiently. “Not a clue. I don’t think he loved the girl, that’s fairly apparent. He just wanted the right to say his bride was of royal descent.”
Isabella rose and returned the wash bowl and bloodied cloth to the sideboard. With her back turned to him, she murmured, “It shouldn’t be too much of an issue to find him another bride of royal descent. Should it?”
She didn’t have to see Philip’s wince. His groan said it all. She heard the chair legs scrape along the stone floor and felt his arms close around her from behind.
Shock pulsed through her. Tenderness from her husband? She’d rarely seen it, at least, not when there wasn’t a clear need to spawn a male heir over their heads.
But Charles was nearly three years old now, and seemed a strong, if not willful, undeniably spoiled child. No, there was no immediate need to spawn another male heir. Besides, Isabella was at an age when that event was all but impossible.
Still, she could not stifle the sigh that escaped when his lips pressed warm beneath her ear and trailed down her neck.
“Surely, dear wife, there must be some other young lady here at Coudenburg who might serve as a suitable replacement for the tailor’s girl?” he whispered.
Isabella’s mind sifted through the girls she’d gathered for the festival. Many would be returning to their own homes soon. Only Alys, and now Eva, would remain. And many were far too young to even consider for betrothal. Except for . . .
“There is Beverielle. She’s almost the same age as Eva. Only a few months younger, I believe.” A dark chuckle rumbled deep in her chest. “You didn’t waste much time between those two liaisons, did you?”
She felt Philip stiffen, but reached up to run her fingers through his short-cropped hair before he could pull away. “It’s alright. ’Tis all in the past. Nothing to be done to change it now.” She turned toward him, lacing her fingers around his neck. “Would the Italian have a problem accepting a Scot for a wife?” she asked, her voice honey sweet.
Philip was busy dismantling the pins holding Isabella’s headdress in place, his fingers fumbling at the task. “She’s a comely lass, is she not?”
“She is. Many men are enchanted by a woman with the red hair of the Scots. Beverielle has yards of it,” she said as she slipped off her wimple and shook free her own dark tresses. They cascaded down over her shoulders, and Philip groaned.
“You may be my wife, Isabella of Portugal, but that does not lessen my craving for you.”
Isabella blinked, then laughed out loud. “Why don’t we pretend we’re not wed this night, Philip. Let’s engage in a little role-playing.”
With those words, Isabella stepped away from him and pulled the ribbons holding her surcoat closed. The heavy velvet dropped to the floor. “I can play the temptress as well as any tavern maid.” She slipped her rich, burgundy tunic over her head, leaving only her thin chemise. Quickly, she turned and extinguished all the candles on the table and the windowsill, along with the torch on the wall. The one candle remaining lit was beside Philip’s regally appointed canopy bed—behind her.
She knew, at her age and having borne three children, revealing her body with intention to seduce him was better off in muted light. Finally, she slipped her filmy, silk chemise over her head and stood before him, nude. His arousal was apparent by the tent he’d formed in his braies. Still, however, he did not touch her. Although she could see the fire in his eyes, his arms remained at his sides.
Tossing her long, dark hair back over her shoulders to expose her breasts, she crossed her arms to lift them as she cocked her head coyly.
“Shall ye like to bed the wench, your lordship? I can make ye wildest fantasies come true. Nary a soul shall be the wiser.”
An hour later, as Isabella lay staring into the darkness with Philip snoring beside her, she wondered how on earth she would break the news to Beverielle. Poor child, she was not yet even of age, and her future husband had already been chosen for her.
A fate the duchess herself had lived. Not one she wished on any other.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Lady’s Raven wasn’t the nicest inn in which Mathieu had lain his head, nor was it the worst. In truth, he’d only seen it from the exterior, never even having ventured into its tavern for a pint. According to Keegan, it was the better of the two in the small village on the outskirts of Brussels. The bedclothes, he claimed, were changed weekly, and there were fewer of the tavern wenches who plied their business within its walls.
Still, he wished it could be finer for Eva. This was her wedding night, for heaven’s sake. But between what he wished for his bride and what he would be able to provide her lay a chasm so wide, Mathieu wondered if he’d ever cross it.
As they slipped through the heavy oak door, Eva clung to Mathieu’s arm as if her life depended on it. Her eyes were wide with worry, darting quickly from one person’s face to the next as they crossed the tavern. It wasn’t until the keeper had directed them to the room Keegan and Gaspard had paid for, and they traveled down a hallway off the main room, that she relaxed her nearly painful grip on his arm.
“They won’t find us here?” she asked, her voice breathy and haunted.
Mathieu shook his head and lifted a strand of her hair off her forehead. “Nay. They’ve already looked for us here. They believe we headed clear through to Brussels, mayhap beyond.”
The room was a surprise, and Mathieu blinked as the door sighed open. This was no transient’s bedchamber. It was an elegantly appointed suite.
Eva gasped and held her hand over her mouth. “Oh, this must have cost them many, many coins.”
Again, Mathieu felt the twinge of guilt in his chest for the way he’d thought of—and treated—Gaspard. Keegan, he knew, was his friend. But renting a room of this caliber went above and beyond a friendly gesture, even from the closest of comrades.
The dark wood walls had been whitewashed, making the space appear even larger and brighter than it was. The broad window, though tightly shuttered, was draped with colorful fabrics that cascaded to the floor. A small table with two chairs bore a single, fat candle, beside which had been laid a pitcher with two metal cups. In the center of the room, an oversized bed reigned—one that made Mathieu’s narrow pallet seem like something meant for the animals to sleep on, not a man.
A man and his wife. Mathieu cringed inside to think that after this one night of pampered bliss, he’d be bringing Eva into his meager quarters. She would feel like the fledgling that falls from its cozy nest into the manure pile. He sucked in a breath.
“This is wonderful, Mathieu,” she said, running her fingers along the hand-stitched quilt covering the bed. She turned to him
with wonder in her eyes. “I’ve never slept in a bed like this one.”
Nor will you again, at least not for quite a while. Not after this one night.
But he wouldn’t spoil it for her. Not yet. Let her live the dream of a princess for this one night. They would deal with the realities of tomorrow when the day dawned.
Now, Mathieu had an even more important task on his mind. To make his bride’s wedding night as memorable, and as pleasurable, as was humanly possible.
He bent to kiss her, brushing his lips softly across hers as he drew her body to him. She was soft and warm and willing, but he also knew how innocent she was. Did she know what would happen between them tonight? Kissing was one thing, but bedding her . . . for a virgin, ’twould not be without its pain, no matter how inevitable.
He drew back and lifted her chin with two fingers. “Do you know what happens between a man and his wife, Eva? Has your maman ever explained—”
Her wide eyes and quick shake of the head were his answer. “I’ve seen the dogs couple, but surely it can’t be as crude and violent as that . . . can it?”
Mathieu blew out a breath and cupped her face in his hand. “No, sweet Eva. It’s not like that. But ’tis not without pain . . . at least, the first time.”
He expected her to gape at him with fear in her eyes, back away perhaps. But she surprised him by nestling closer, entwining her fingers in the folds of his tunic. “I’m not afraid. ’Twill make us truly man and wife, right?”
He nodded. “’Twill. Then no one can say the marriage is null.”
The smile that lit up her face warmed him to his toes. “I’m ready, then. Make me your wife, Mathieu of Liège.”
Eva was living in a dream world. Here, in this magical room with candles flickering all around them, truly did seem like a fantasy come true. She knew not what was about to happen to her, to her body, but she knew ’twould be something that would change her, forever. She would cross the threshold from child to woman. She would—
Suddenly, she froze and laid a hand on Mathieu’s arm. “Will we . . . I mean to say, can we conceive a child this night?”
Matheiu’s brown eyes waxed softer as he brushed his knuckles on her cheek. “Mayhap. ’Tis not often it happens with just one coupling, but—”
“Is there a way to keep that from happening? I mean to say, is there a way for us to be . . . coupled . . . joined . . . without risk of creating a child?”
She was stammering now, and cold fingers of dread began creeping up her spine. Mathieu tilted his head, studying her in confusion. “Why? We are married now, Eva. Children are a natural product of the union between a man and a woman.”
Abruptly, she turned away from him and crossed the room to lay her fingertips on the windowsill. Although she could not see through the planked shutters, it was as though in her mind she could see glimpses of what the future might bring them. The images she conjured made her shudder.
Another imperfect child. Another babe born with an ugly, twisted foot. Mayhap a disfigurement even worse.
Mathieu was behind her, gripping her with both hands on her trembling arms. “What are you afraid of, Eva? Does childbirth worry you so?”
She spun around and faced him, anger flaring. With her hands fisted at her sides, she glared at him. “No. Not childbirth. What I do fear is producing a babe with my disfigurement, Mathieu. Another misfit. Another creple. ’Tis something can be passed on from mother to child, the healers tell me.”
He folded her into his embrace so quickly she had no chance to resist. Stroking the back of her head gently, he shushed her and rocked her from side to side. “Nay, do not fear this, Eva. What are the chances? Your siblings . . . were they born impaired?”
She shook her head, burying her face into his chest, her tears soaking his tunic. Then, through a muffled sob, she croaked, “But what if I do? What if I bear you a son or a daughter with a disfigurement like mine? Or worse?”
He pushed her from him and held her at arm’s length. With one finger, he tipped up her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Then I shall love the babe as I love its mother. With all of my heart. With all of my soul. In my eyes, Eva of Utrecht, you are not imperfect. You are not maimed, or twisted, or ugly. You are special. The most special and precious person who has ever come into my life.”
Time slowed then until Eva was sure she’d fallen into a coma, like the one after her injury. Mathieu led her to the bed and bid her to sit, then knelt at her feet, sliding off her slippers one at a time. With excruciating gentleness, he proceeded to use his strong fingers to massage her feet, both of them, until little gasps of pleasure escaped with her breath.
She never realized how pleasurable it could be to have someone rub her feet, especially the one crooked and twisted. The muscles ached her sometimes, keeping her awake in the night. As though he knew this, Mathieu spent an extra-long time kneading that ankle and foot until something else—another feeling, entirely new to her—crept up her leg and into other parts of her body.
Her heart began pounding so hard she could hardly hear him when he whispered, “May I undress you?”
Blinking fast, she hesitated only a moment. Mathieu stood, bringing her to her feet as well before him. With nimble fingers, he unlaced the front of her kirtle and unbuckled the belt, letting it drop to the floor. Once the neckline of her dress was loosened, he pushed down one side to expose her shoulder. Eva fought the urge to curl into herself in shame.
No one had ever seen her undressed. Not even her own maman, at least not since she’d been a small girl.
But wait, that wasn’t quite true. The night she arrived at the castle, the servants had carried in a tub, and she’d stood motionless as they undressed her and bathed her like a small child. She thought that experience was exquisite, but this . . . having Mathieu slowly peel down her clothing to reveal her creamy, sensitive skin turned the embers inside her belly to leaping flames.
He kissed her again, this time more intensely, more invasive. His tongue was hot on hers, and he tasted sweet and tart, like the wine. Of their own accord, her hands reached up to tangle in the long waves of his hair, her fingers combing into them until they clasped at the back of his neck. His scent enveloped her—sweat, and leather, and something else. Something wild and feral. Something that made the place between her legs feel hot and damp and throbbing.
What was happening to her? Whatever it was, she liked it. She liked it very much.
She whimpered when he broke the kiss, until she realized he’d just taken it elsewhere, traveling, down the length of her jaw to the sensitive spot just beneath her ear. When his hot breath tickled her, she shuddered.
“Do you like this?” His words were more of a purr than a question.
“Mmm. Don’t stop.”
His kisses blazed a hot trail down over her shoulder until he reached the fabric of her dress, which he grabbed between his teeth. “Can we take this out of my way?” he rumbled.
One nod and he’d bent to grab the hem of the kirtle, lifting it over her head in one swift movement. The sudden chill raised goosebumps on her skin, standing there as she was in nothing but her linen chemise. But goosebumps weren’t all that stood up as Mathieu stepped back and raked over her form with hungry eyes.
“Our Lord in heaven, you are breathtaking, Eva.”
She felt it then, the sharp tingle of her nipples contracting and stiffening against the cloth of her chemise. Mathieu’s eyes on them made them ache to be touched. Blinking fast, unsure of what she was supposed to do next, she reached out her arms to him.
“Hold me, Mathieu.”
He did, and his strong, warm body pressed against hers made her want to rub against him. Her nipples, her hips, and as she began to oscillate in his arms in an instinctive dance, Mathieu groaned.
It was when she felt something hard pressing against her belly that she paused. Was he wearing a buckle? Nay. Had he not removed his dagger from its sheath? Nay. He’d lain his weapon down on the table next to the
wine when they’d entered. She pulled away and stared at him.
She started to ask a question she wasn’t quite sure how to form when he laid a finger on her lips and shushed her again.
“Sit here, Eva. Look and see what wanting you has done to me.”
He pushed her gently until she plopped onto the gloriously soft bed and clutched the bedclothes in her fingers. Stepping back, Mathieu lifted his tunic over his head, then unlaced his braies. As they fell to the floor, Eva gasped.
She’d never seen a man like this. “Oh, my. Is that what—”
“It’s okay, sweet wife. I will be gentle. I promise, I will try not to hurt you any more than is necessary. Necessary to make you mine.”
Entirely inappropriate. Yet entirely necessary.
“But first, you will discover the pleasure that a man can give a woman. Let me show you.”
Again, he was on his knees before her, but this time his trail of kisses didn’t end at the cloth of her chemise. Unlacing its front, he shoved the linen aside to expose her breast. Before she could draw away or try to cover herself, Mathieu’s hot mouth covered her nipple.
First, shock. Then, indescribable pleasure. Eva raked her fingers into his long hair and pressed him closer, urging him on. She was hurtling toward . . . something. Some sensation, some experience she’d never imagined could be so pleasurable. The only thing she knew was that she didn’t want it to end.
When his fingers began stroking her other nipple through the linen, Eva found she could no longer hold her hips still. They began to move, and the ache between her legs throbbed and pulsed. She felt wet there, and wondered in horror for a moment if she’d wet herself in her frenzied excitement.
It wasn’t until Mathieu’s roughened fingertip slid up the inside of her thigh that she realized ’twas not water there, but something thick and slippery. He groaned against her breast and buried his face between them.
“You are so wet. So wet and ready for me, sweet Eva.”
So, wet was good, then. Ah. She was relieved and relaxed just a moment before his fingers reached the place attached directly to her soul.
The Warrior and the Wildflower Page 23
