“I was remarking, milord, that I’m afraid there will always be someone in the village anxious to harm Lady Sybilla and her poor infant.”
He climbed into the bathtub and eased his body into the soothing water. What Osmont had said was lamentably true, and he would not always be there to protect her, to be her champion—unless…
His gut clenched at the thought that occurred to him. If Sybilla was to become his wife, none in the village would dare to attack her or her child. But—his wife? He had assumed he would marry a respected Norman noblewoman, with a large dowry—there were many such—but not one had fired his blood like Sybilla.
If she were his wife she would have no choice but to obey his command to go to the curia regis. To all intents and purposes she would become a Norman if she married him and thus be protected from the judgement of the court.
Then Denis would become his stepson. Denis, a child whose life had the potential to be full of hatred and misery. A child who would be a burden. To his surprise, he realized he wanted to help Sybilla with that burden.
Would she agree? How could he convince her? Did he want to marry her?
Of course you do, idiot.
He remembered a time, it seemed long ago now, just before the Battle of Hastings, when he had called Ram an idiot for not marrying Mabelle, who was so obviously his soul mate.
He recognized deep in his heart that Sybilla was his destiny, just as Hugh had known Devona was his. “Osmont, fetch the ewer and rinse my hair quickly. Then go to the kitchens and tell them I wish to have supper brought here to my solar, sufficient food for two. Instruct Bretel to convey an invitation to Lady Sybilla to attend me here for the evening meal—without her maidservant.”
Osmont arched his brows, but said nothing. After he scurried off to do his lord’s bidding, Antoine leapt out of the tub, and wrapped a linen drying cloth around his waist, feeling better than he had for a while.
He had made a decision. Now he had to convince Sybilla of its merits. He had proven experience charming women, but none of them had ever mattered as much as this proud Angevin woman. He suddenly felt like a green lad.
Oda closed the door after Bretel left.
Sybilla’s knees trembled. “What does this mean? I cannot sup alone with Antoine de Montbryce in his solar. How can he expect that of me?”
Her maid shrugged. “You have no choice, milady. Montbryce is an honorable man. And he is master here. It will do you good to get out of this chamber.”
Sybilla hugged her arms to her breast. “But what is the purpose of inviting me to his solar?”
“I told you before, and you must be blind not to see it, he’s attracted to you. Perhaps he wants to make you a proposition you cannot refuse?”
Sybilla’s eyes widened. “I won’t become his mistress, his leman.”
Oda was pensive. “I don’t think that’s what he has in mind. He could have any number of those at his beck and call.”
Reality suddenly struck. “He will ask me to be his wife.”
Oda nodded. “Think carefully before you say anything. You are in a precarious position here, your son more so.”
Sybilla sat on the edge of the bed. “I suppose I have no choice. He obviously wants us to marry so he can force me to go to Caen with him, to testify for his brother. I stupidly dreamed that if I ever did marry again, it would be to a man who loved me desperately.”
“Do you feel nothing for Montbryce?”
Sybilla blushed. There was no point lying to the maid who had known her all her life. “I am—drawn to him.”
Oda smiled. “Then let me comb your hair before you go. I think milord Antoine likes red hair.”
A short time later, Bretel arrived and escorted Sybilla to his master’s solar, tapped on the door and ushered her in. “Will you need anything further, milord?”
Antoine walked toward his guest. “Non, Bretel, merci.”
Sybilla’s mouth dropped open. He had bathed and his hair was still damp. He wore an ivory linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal well muscled forearms. His leggings clung to his hips and thighs. He was barefoot. She fisted her hands in the folds of her skirts, desperately needing something to hold on to.
He bowed. “Welcome to my solar.”
Sybilla could not trust her voice. She merely inclined her head and walked with him to the two chairs by the hearth. She noticed a trestle table laden with food off to one side of the hearth.
How many is he expecting?
She cleared her throat as he helped her sit in one of the massive wooden chairs. She waved her hand nervously at the groaning board, feeling at a disadvantage with her feet dangling in the air. “You seem to have planned a feast.”
Antoine sat in the other chair, a smile on his face. “I’m hungry after my journey. Would you like wine?”
Sybilla shook her head. “I’ve never drunk wine.”
His startling green eyes widened. “Your husband didn’t serve wine?”
Sybilla shifted nervously, pushing back with her hands on the arms, fingering the carving. “Oh, oui, wine was served, but I was not permitted to drink it.”
He spluttered in disbelief. “You’re a grown woman.”
Sybilla looked at her lap and intensified her grip on the chair arms. “My husband didn’t think it appropriate.”
He rose to his feet. “Well, I think it’s entirely appropriate now, and I will serve you a goblet of wine.”
“You will serve me? But you are master here. Where are the servants?”
He handed her a goblet, mischief in his green eyes. “I’ve dismissed them this evening. I’ll be your servant. Drink it slowly, for the first time.”
His eyes bored into her as she sipped the dark red wine; they flashed when she licked her lips, savoring the unfamiliar taste. The warmth of the wine and his heated gaze flowed through her. “It’s good. I like it.”
He arched his brows. “Did you not drink wine in your father’s home?”
How to tell him her father had treated her little better than a servant? He had wanted another boy, not a scrawny girl with mismatched eyes. To her father she was just as much a curse as Denis was to the villagers.
“Never. Watered ale, usually.”
Antoine sat back down in his chair, crossing his long legs at the ankles. Her eyes darted from his bare feet to his face and back. He watched her over the rim of his goblet as he drank. Had she ever seen such long dark lashes?
Her heart was pounding with the growing certainty that Oda had been right. Antoine intended to seduce her this night. To do what? Become his leman—his whore? Or was the perceptive maid correct, that he wanted her for wife?
She had been a wife. The experience was one she did not want to repeat, though she had a feeling being married to Antoine would be different. He was a far cry from Denis de Sancerre. He was more like—well, the kind of handsome knight she had dreamed of marrying.
But he was a Norman, an enemy whose sword had ended the life of her husband. And why did he want to marry her and become encumbered with a deformed child?
To save his brother’s life.
“Are you hungry?”
She licked her lips. Had she drooled while lost in thought? “Oui, I hunger—I mean—I’m hungry.”
Antoine smiled and proffered his hand. As she struggled out of the massive chair, he put his hand on her waist. His warmth seeped through her clothing into her grateful body.
He escorted her to the small table where they took their places across from each other. She noticed there was only one trencher.
He waved his hand across the mouth-watering display. “We’ll have to share a trencher. Such a small table, and so much food.”
“I understand,” she whispered.
Yes, she understood perfectly the unsubtle inference. Only a man and his wife shared a trencher. It was too intimate. A tic pulsed at the base of her throat. It was becoming increasingly difficult to swallow. The wine had gone to her head. Was that part of hi
s plan?
He tore apart a chicken roasted with rosemary, placing the pieces on their trencher. “I’m starving.”
He cut off a succulent portion of breast meat and handed it to her. “Do you like the breast? Or do you prefer the wing?”
She looked into the green depths. “I prefer the breast.”
He laughed. “Me too. I’m a breast man.”
She gaped despite herself, but he was tucking into his food and she thought perhaps he had not meant anything other than that he liked to eat chicken breast.
This was all so overwhelming. She had no experience socializing on an equal footing with men, especially one as ruggedly handsome and self assured as Antoine. She licked the grease from her fingers. He coughed and poured her another goblet of wine.
“I shouldn’t drink too much, milord.”
“You’re right. But please, call me Antoine.”
She nodded in acknowledgment. “Antoine.”
“And, with your permission, I will call you Sybilla.”
She had never heard her name spoken with such sensuality. Ssy-bill-ah. Gooseflesh marched all over her body. She took another unladylike swig of the wine, hoping to ward off the chill of excited fear.
She was being seduced, had come prepared for it, but it was turning out to be a much more pleasant experience than she had imagined. She was becoming intoxicated by Antoine de Montbryce. If only he truly loved her.
“Sybilla, I have a proposal for you. A way out of our dilemma.”
Ah. Here it was.
“A proposal?”
“I wish to take you to wife.”
Antoine cringed. What kind of marriage proposal was that? He was the great philanderer and that was the best he could come up with?
Why had he not told her he burned for her? The obvious answer churned his innards—because she had loved the husband he had killed. He feared she would never return his love. He was a coward.
Dismay clouded her mismatched eyes. It told him she was not surprised by his offer, but he saw pain there too. Would marrying him be so distasteful to her? Was she resigned to it because it was the only way to protect her son?
Belatedly, he went down on one knee and took hold of her hands. “Lady Sybilla de Sancerre, will you honor me by becoming my wife?”
She closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. He longed to place his hands gently on the sides of her bosom and rest his head on the soft pillow.
She got to her feet and swayed.
He gripped her hands, waiting.
“I presume you would wish to have the ceremony before your departure for Caen, so you can take me with you?”
The ice in her voice cut into his heart. She had judged his proposal to be based on his desire to save his brother. Could the woman not see he loved her, that his love for her had turned him into a blithering nincompoop? But she was right. Haste was imperative. He would make it up to her later.
“I’d like to make the arrangements for the morrow.”
How mercenary he sounded.
He rose from his knees. “Shall we toast our forthcoming union?”
Dieu, could I sound any more callous?
Sybilla shook her head. “Non. I think I’ve had a surfeit of wine this evening. Tomorrow will be an eventful day. I must bid you goodnight, milord.”
As she turned to leave, he caught hold of her shoulders and turned her back to face him. “My name is Antoine.”
He hated the desolation and disappointment on her face. She was to be his bride. He wanted to kiss her. He had imagined it so many times. He pulled her to his body and brushed his lips against hers. The instinct was to coax her mouth open, to deepen the kiss, but didn’t want to alarm her.
But she was a widow. Her husband must have kissed her a hundred times. Would she be thinking of Denis de Sancerre when he kissed her? He was becoming more aroused with her body pressed against him, and his tongue flicked over her lips, savoring the taste of the wine, the heady fragrance of rosemary.
She whimpered and parted her lips. Had her body surrendered some of its stiffness? He let his tongue wander into her mouth. His heart leaped when she sucked on it. He gathered her into his embrace and deepened his kiss.
They broke apart, each taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry—I don’t really know how to kiss.”
Surprised by her remark, he laughed.
She flinched.
“I’m not laughing at you, Sybilla. That was a wonderful kiss.”
She blushed beautifully. “Truly?”
“Truly.” He leaned his forehead against hers and felt her warmth. If he didn’t let her go it was likely he would pick her up, toss her on the bed and make love to her this very night. But that would shame her. She was a woman who had only recently given birth, a woman who had not yet been churched. He would need to see to that as well on the morrow.
He smiled as he proffered his arm. “I’ll escort you to your chamber.”
Curse Of The Montbryces
Devona had lost track of how long she and her mother had been incarcerated in the hellhole. She judged it to be about a fortnight. Her mother was already losing her tenuous grip on reality and wouldn’t last another fortnight.
They were brought food twice a day—stale bread and watered ale. The straw in their cell was filthy. They had not been allowed to bathe. Black rats scurried everywhere. There was a hole in the stone floor, a dark corner for relieving the call of nature. Her mother spent much of her time retching into it. They were provided a bucket of brackish water to swill down it. The stench was overpowering.
I might not last another fortnight either.
Did Hugh know she had been arrested? Where was this castle in which they languished? She and her mother had been bound and blindfolded throughout the long cart ride from Domfort.
Who had arrested them? If only Hugh would come. She could face this with him. How had he fared in Le Mans? He had sent word the king had garrisoned him there, but did he still live?
Had he already been punished for his part in her rescue? The men who had come for them had talked of a bishop. Did William hold a curia regis in Normandie as he did in England?
Her heart plummeted at the thought. Might she be hauled before a tribunal of barons and bishops to be judged? Were they to face the wrath of King William?
She heard the faint jangling of keys. Gradually the sound grew louder. The grating rattled. She recognized the jailer’s voice. “Up on your feet. You’ve a visitor.”
At last. Hugh.
She stumbled to the door where she encountered Renouf’s grinning face. She sank back to the floor, feeling no fear, only disgust for this monster who had brought misery to so many.
He gestured to the straw. “How is my fine wife this day? Do you prefer this to the genteel life I offered you?”
She remained silent.
He examined his nails. “And where is your protector now? The great Hugh de Montbryce? Do you think the barons and bishops will condone what you’ve both done?”
She had never been a violent person, but she wanted to kill Renouf. If only she had a weapon. Perhaps she could heave the bucket at him. Did she have the strength? She prayed the jailer wouldn’t be persuaded to open the door.
He continued his harangue for several minutes, but seemed to lose interest when she refused to rise to the bait. Her mother had remained silent throughout, lost in a stupor. Renouf stomped off, muttering about adulterous wives and retribution.
“Has he gone?”
The question shook Devona out of her daze. “Yes, he’s gone.”
Her mother sat up and took hold of her hands. “Hugh will come. We must hold on to that belief. Whatever happens, I’m more content to rot here than in Renouf’s clutches.”
“Pray then our punishment is not to be returned to him.”
They soon fell asleep, clinging to each other until their next meager meal was shoved through the grate.
The jailer crowed. “Lucky ladies. Another visitor.”
&nbs
p; Still half asleep and exhausted by fear, Devona looked up from where she lay on the straw. “Hugh?” she rasped.
“Non, Lady Devona. I’m Ram de Montbryce, Hugh’s brother.”
She struggled to her feet. “The earl?”
How did one behave when meeting an earl, especially in this stinking hole? Grasping hold of the grated door, she peered at the face that looked so much like Hugh’s. “I’m Devona, and may I present my mother—”
She lost her balance when she turned, feeling like a drunkard. “What must you think of me, my lord earl? This is not how I imagined our first meeting. Where is Hugh?”
Ram closed his hand over hers. Its warmth brought her comfort. “He’s safe. He was taken prisoner three days ago. King William has given me leave, because of our longstanding friendship, to see you. I was here in Normandie when the news came. I’ve already made arrangements to get you moved to a different place of incarceration. These conditions are intolerable, and I apologize for the way you have been treated in my country.”
“Hugh is a prisoner?” was all Devona could think to say as tears rolled down her cheeks. “And Antoine?”
Ram nodded. “Safe. Not in prison—yet. Step back while this miserable excuse for a jailer unlocks your cell.”
Devona did not recall much of the journey to the nearby Abbaye aux Dames. Men in uniform carried her and her mother out of hell and took them to the convent, where they were greeted by nuns whose judgmental scowls left no doubt about their feelings. They were allowed to bathe, fed and given clean clothing—novices’ habits. Ram explained they would be kept there until the curia regis was convened.
“How long will that be?”
“Possibly another fortnight. You’ll not be allowed to see Hugh, but I will. He’s confined to the Abbaye aux Hommes nearby. He wanted me to tell you how much he loves you.”
Devona could not speak. “Tell him—tell him we are safe now. Tell him I love him. Tell him I’m sorry to have brought this upon him—upon you and your family.”
“Hugh is my brother. Since Hastings, I’ve watched him struggle with his demons. You have exorcised those demons, and for that I thank you. We are all doing what we can to resolve this situation.”
Defiance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 2) Page 17
