Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “I do not believe that shall be necessary,” she said after a moment.

  His brow furrowed. “Why not?”

  She wouldn’t look at him as she rubbed her belly. She seemed to find interest in everything else in the room but him, unable to meet his eye. It took her some time to reply and when she did, her tone was laced with hesitance.

  “Because…,” she tried again. “Because I do believe your mother can already expect a grandchild in the winter.”

  Davyss stared at her a moment as the words sank in. His smile vanished completely and the hazel eyes widened.

  “What?” he couldn’t keep his jaw from dropping. “Are you serious?”

  She sighed heavily, nodding. Then she tipped over sideways and ended up supine on the bed. Exhaustion and apprehension gave way to teary eyes which she quickly wiped away.

  “Aye,” she murmured, her hand still on her belly. “I have not been feeling my best the past few weeks and it is only growing worse. I thought it was the shock of our marriage, or the travel, but I cannot deny that I was feeling poorly before you returned to Thetford. Right now, all I want to do is sleep and that is not like me. I am exhausted, my head throbs and my belly aches constantly, which leads me to believe that I may be with child.”

  He was suddenly on his knees beside the bed, his face a mask of shock. “So that is why you have been retching?”

  “I believe so.”

  “But… but we have only… not more than a few times, and….”

  She met his eye, then. “It only takes once, Davyss,” she couldn’t help but smile at the expression on his face. “It would seem that your virgin bride conceived on that day we do not like to speak of. Perhaps something good came out of that day, after all.”

  Davyss was stunned. He remained on his knees beside the bed, trying to reconcile her news in his own mind. Eventually, a massive hand came up and began gently stroking her arm. For several long moments, he couldn’t seem to manage anything else. He really didn’t know what to say.

  “Do you truly believe this is the case?” he asked softly.

  She couldn’t figure out if he was appalled or thrilled by the news. “I do,” she acknowledged. “My cycle has not come since that day, either. I am therefore fairly certain.”

  That bit of information seemed to seal his thoughts. He pulled her towards him, kissing her mouth with gentle passion. His hands were on her face, in her hair, as he gently and tenderly kissed her.

  “I honestly do not know what to say to all of this,” he whispered against her lips. “I had not imagined that we would be so soon blessed.”

  Her eyes were open, watching him as he kissed her. “Are you pleased, then?”

  He stopped kissing her, fixing her in the eye with his intense gaze. For a long moment, he didn’t answer her. He just stared at her.

  “Aye,” he finally whispered. “I am utterly overjoyed. Stunned, but overjoyed.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  She offered him a timid smile and he resumed his kisses, now more passionate and lusty. In little time, his hands were fondling her breasts and she flinched. He froze in his onslaught.

  “Did I hurt you?” he demanded softly, looking at his hand still covering her breast. “I did not mean to.”

  She put her small hands on his face and kissed his cheek. “I am a bit tender,” she admitted.

  “You did not say anything two days ago when I disrupted your bath.”

  “That is because the tenderness is bearable.”

  He watched her expression a moment just to make sure she was telling the truth. Then a slow smile spread across his face.

  “That is good,” he pointed out. “You should know that I do not intend to keep my hands off you for the next several months. It would be an impossible task.”

  She giggled softly, not knowing what to say to his bold declaration. She was still too new to love games to concoct a smooth reply. He saw her uncertainty and laughed softly.

  “But I will leave you to your rest if I must,” he said softly, his eyes drifting over her lovely face. “I should not want to do anything to jeopardize the health of my son. Even as I say it, I still cannot believe it.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “Nor can I,” she admitted. “I am sorry I did not tell you sooner. I suppose I have suspected for some time now but I did not want to admit it.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged, averting her gaze, watching his enormous hands caress her arms. “Must you truly ask that?” she murmured. “Until a few days ago, I was bound to a marriage I did not want and to a man I did not….”

  She trailed off, unwilling to risk upsetting him, but he knew that. He smiled faintly, his grip on her tightening. “I know,” he whispered. “I was beastly and selfish. I have tried to right things with us. I hope that I have at least made some progress.”

  She met his gaze again, smiling gratefully. “You have made a world of progress,” she said. “And I am deeply appreciative for all you have done.”

  He eyed her; it was his turn to avert his gaze, looking pensive as he studied the shape of her neck and shoulders. “I will make you a promise, Devereux,” he said softly, sincerely. “I will do my very best to make an excellent husband and father. I want to do this very much.”

  She squeezed his big fingers. “You are well on your way.”

  He glanced at her, grinning reluctantly. “Am I?”

  She nodded with certainty. “Aye,” she replied. “You do not seem like the same man I married in Thetford.”

  He wriggled his eyebrows sheepishly. “I am the same man,” he assured her. “But perhaps… perhaps that man has matured a bit. Perhaps he realized that the lovely woman he married was the path to something in life he never imagined to exist.”

  She smiled, cocking her head sweetly. “And what is that?”

  He lifted his big shoulders. “Heaven and happiness,” he said frankly, grinning when their eyes met. “I cannot explain it any more than that.”

  Devereux smiled sweetly at him, stroking a rough cheek. Davyss lowered his head and kissed her again, with extreme gentleness, as his hand resumed very carefully fondling her breast. As he moved to climb onto the bed next to her, there was a loud knock at the door.

  Leaping to his feet, he adjusted his arousal as he made his way to the door and opened it. Several men were in the hall with Devereux’s trunks and he directed them to put them in the chamber across the hall. When they were done slamming the trunks to the floor and generally creating a ruckus, he returned to his chamber and once again shut the door. But the moment he turned to the bed, he stopped in his tracks.

  Devereux was dead asleep, an arm over her forehead as she lay on her back and snored very, very softly. Davyss stood there a moment, hands on his hips, smiling as he gazed down at her. He was still having a difficult time believing the news. Six weeks ago, he thought his life had taken a turn for the worse. Never had he imagined that he would be seeing an entirely new, joyful side of life that was beyond his imagination.

  He had never been the emotional type when it came to women. He’d spent the majority of his adult life with women throwing themselves at him, well-insulated against the female emotions. More than one woman had fallen in love with him and he hadn’t cared in the least, not even for the baron’s daughter who had borne him twins. Love was a fool’s emotion, or so he thought. He had never fallen in love with a woman, not once. But as he gazed down at his sleeping wife, he knew that particular fact was about to change.

  It already had.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Tower of London

  Henry the Third, King of England, was a fairly tall man with reddish-gold hair and a droopy eyelid. He wasn’t feeble by any means, having been a warrior most of his life, and even in his advancing years managed to be tough and agile. Devereux was quivering so badly when Davyss introduced her to the king that she nearly fell over when she curtsied. But she managed to hold her balance, holding
it further when she was introduced to Prince Edward, the king’s eldest son and heir to the throne. Edward was tall and lanky, a big man with a crown of blonde hair and a big booming voice.

  Although the pair was polite, it was clear that their attention was on Davyss. Edward joked with him like a brother and Henry seemed almost eager to communicate with him. Although Devereux knew that Davyss was the king’s champion and had known that from the onset of their association, it was still difficult to believe. Davyss handled them both with cool respect.

  A few minutes into their introductions, it was obvious that Henry and Edward had more important things to speak to Davyss of, and without the company of his wife. But Edward’s wife, Eleanor of Castile, unexpectedly joined them, belaying the opportunity to speak to Davyss alone. Eleanor was a very pregnant woman who, by all accounts, had a reputation of being aloof and disinterested in her husband’s English subjects. Born in Spain, she was rather frail-looking with dark hair and pale skin. Married to Prince Edward, a tall, blonde and intimidating man, they made an unusual looking pair. She chatted amiably and delayed the war conference even longer, but Edward didn’t seem to mind.

  From the onset, Devereux could see that Edward was very affectionate towards his wife, which caused Devereux to see the man in a completely different light. She had come into the meeting at the dark and foreboding Tower of London thinking on her hatred for what she had once called the tyrannical king, but the politeness of Henry and the devotion of Edward had swiftly caused her to rethink her opinion. Perhaps she had been ignorant as Lady Katharine had once accused her of being; perhaps there was more to Henry, Edward and Davyss than blood-thirsty men. She was starting to see it.

  Davyss eventually left his wife in the company of Eleanor and her ladies, all Spanish women with dark Spanish eyes. They spoke in a language that Devereux did not understand, eyeing her suspiciously. She kept hearing the words puta inglesa but had no idea what they meant. She suspected, from the way they were looking at her, that it could not be good.

  They had moved into the small ladies’ solar on the fourth floor of the White Tower that was luxurious and pretty, but Devereux was uncomfortable with the women from the onset. They appeared haughty and arrogant, and made no attempt to speak with her in her own language. They whispered among themselves and pointed. Eleanor spent the first several minutes of their association being made comfortable by her snobbish women; she was a little woman with a very big belly and her discomfort was clear. But she eventually settled down, turning her dark-eyed, pale-faced attention to Devereux.

  “Mi señora encantadora,” she smiled at Devereux. “Sir Davyss has been a friend of my husband for many years. We are pleased that he has finally married.”

  Devereux smiled faintly. “Thank you,” she replied. “It seems to be an agreeable arrangement for us both.”

  Eleanor lifted a dark eyebrow. “Is this true?” she asked. “I do not mean to make offense, but I did not think that Sir Davyss would find any marriage agreeable.”

  Devereux’s smile faded. “Perhaps that was true before we were married,” she replied steadily. “But I assure you that his opinion has changed. I believe he is quite content.”

  One of the princess’ women, hovering behind the princess, suddenly thrust herself forward and began jabbering at the princess in Spanish. It appeared to be an angry exchange until the princess harshly shushed the woman. When she refocused her attention on Devereux, it was almost apologetic.

  “As I was saying,” she continued. “I did not know that Sir Davyss was the marriageable kind. I have known him for years and he seemed… well, most devoted to the knighthood.”

  Devereux sensed cattiness in what the woman was saying and the manner in which she said it. She suspected she would eventually run up against this type of attitude regarding her husband but was surprised to find it coming from the princess. Her husband’s past was about to rear its ugly head; she could feel it. She struggled not to show any hostility or disrespect as she replied.

  “You are putting it most kindly, my lady, but I know the truth of my husband just as you do,” she answered. “He has been completely honest with me so there is nothing regarding his past I do not know. But we do not speak of it; we only speak of our future together and of happy things. There is no use lingering on that which we cannot change.”

  Eleanor nodded her head, appraising Devereux as if not quite sure she believed her. “You are quite pretty,” she said. “I am not surprised that Davyss selected you as his mate. He always preferred the prettiest girls.”

  It was evident that the princess was going to push the subject of Davyss’ wandering eye and Devereux was feeling rather ill about the entire conversation. She didn’t want to delve into an undoubtedly uncomfortable topic so she attempted to shift the focus.

  “I have not yet heard of a man who prefers ugly ones,” she said lightly, changing the course of the conversation. “I understand you are from Castile, my lady. Is your home so different from England? I would be interested to know.”

  Eleanor’s women were jabbering again and the princess flicked a wrist at them to shut them up. “There are many mountains where I come from,” she replied politely. “But we were speaking of your husband. I understand that his brother likes to chase women as well; the de Winters are well-known for their conquests. Do you suppose Sir Hugh will settle down someday also?”

  Devereux was struggling to maintain her polite attitude but it was slipping drastically. She finally gave up because it was apparent that the princess wished to speak of nothing more than Davyss’s shortcomings. Devereux couldn’t figure out if she was trying to extract an emotional response from her or simply garner more information for the rumor mill.

  “My lady, if there is something more you wish to say about my husband, I would appreciate it if you would come forth with it rather than ply me with innuendoes and impolite remarks,” her attitude grew clipped. “I grow weary discussing my husband’s past behavior. If you cannot converse on a more suitable subject, then perhaps we should not converse at all.”

  Eleanor’s dark eyes cooled as her women exploded in nervous and outraged chatter. The artificial civility that had existed at the beginning of the exchange was gone completely. Eleanor sat up on her couch as much as her swollen body would allow.

  “Do you believe me impolite?” she asked, outrage evident in her voice. “You foolish girl; do you truly believe that in marrying Davyss de Winter, the man will suddenly cut loose his wandering eye and devote all of his time and attention to you?”

  Devereux didn’t back down. “I do, to both questions.”

  Eleanor’s eyebrows flew up in disbelief. “Is this so?”

  “It is,” she said flatly. “And if you cannot converse about something other than my husband’s past, then I will assume you have nothing more intelligent to discuss and bid you a good day.”

  She rose to her feet as Eleanor’s women began to scream at her. Spanish insults were flying fast and furious. Devereux went into full defensive mode and jabbed a finger at the pack of snarling women.

  “And all of you; shut your mouths,” she roared. “You have been rude and imperious from the start and if this is an example of Spanish hospitality, then I want nothing more to do with that barbaric country or with you.”

  The collection of women was momentarily taken aback, but only briefly. One of them rushed at Devereux with an open hand but Devereux beat her to the punch, literally, and slapped the woman so hard that she toppled over. More women rushed at her and Devereux began swinging at them, knocking off jeweled hair pieces and shoving others back by the face. Spanish bums ended up on the floor as Devereux launched a full offensive, ripping out hair and scratching faces. She was absolutely furious. In the middle of chaos, the princess began screaming and the doors to the solar flew open.

  Knights and soldiers rushed in, putting themselves in the very precarious position of separating the women. Someone grabbed Devereux by the arms and she shrieked, preparing
to fight back when she saw that it was her husband. Davyss had his big arm around her, pulling her from the room.

  In the corridor a safe distance away from the princess’ room, Davyss faced his snarling wife. His hands cupped her cheeks as he visually inspected her.

  “Sweetling,” he sounded frightened. “Are you well? What happened?”

  Devereux was still furious. Her fists were clenched and her lovely mouth was in a flat, tight line, but she was without a scratch in spite of the screaming and slapping that had been going on.

  “All she wanted to talk about was your… your womanizing,” she told him angrily. “I tried to change the subject but she would not speak on anything else. And her women were rude and horrible; they kept calling me puta inglesa. I do not know what that means, but I am sure it was not a compliment. When one of them tried to strike me, I struck her first.”

  Davyss’s fright cooled instantly as he realized what had happened. He stared at Devereux for a long moment, his expression morphing into something deep and regretful. He could still hear the angry Spanish voices in the chamber and the princess’ high-pitched pleas over the commotion. He sighed heavily and hung his head a moment.

  “I am sorry,” he murmured, lifting his face to her. “I should have… I did not think she would be so tactless.”

  Devereux was calming, but not much. She pulled away from Davyss, throwing the dark hair still clutched in her hand onto the floor. He stared at the tangled bundle of long, dark hair as she faced off against him.

  “What does puta inglesa mean?” she demanded.

  He looked at her, his hazel eyes soft with remorse. “You must understand that they are jealous,” he whispered sincerely. “You are by far the most beautiful woman in England, something that has not escaped their notice. You have what they want and being petty, jealous women, they are going to punish you for it.”

  “You did not answer my question.”

  He gazed at her, not wanting to answer. But he found that he could not lie to her. “It means ‘English whore’.”