Time seemed to stand still as she entered the hall.
It was as though ten thousand eyes were focused upon her and all of a sudden Chrestien wished she could sink into the ground. But she squared her shoulders, and walked directly to the dais, taking her usual seat at the lord’s table.
Michel sat beside her, Weston to his left.
She could feel his eyes upon her, but didn’t dare look to see whether he was watching. She knew he was, for the hall had never been so silent. The hush made her skin tingle—nerves, she reasoned, for she felt this way every time she was in his presence.
It seemed everyone was afraid to speak. Sweet Jesu, the silence was maddening!
Weston could scarcely believe his eyes.
Every time he saw the woman, she seemed to grow more exquisite. She was possessed of a stunning quality—something mysteriously beguiling, beyond the obvious physical beauty. She had the allure of a pagan goddess.
His eyes feasted upon the gentle sway of her hips as she glided across the hall. Her waist was so tiny, he was certain he could encircle it with his hands.
And then his eyes fell upon her gown and he found himself gritting his teeth. The nearly sheer cloth clung to the curves of her slender body, accentuating her proud bosom and delicate hips.
Was there no end to her wickedness?
Did she intend to seduce every man in the hall this eve? No doubt she enjoyed the way everyone watched her.
He knew instinctively that all eyes were upon her, but when he looked about the room, he was shocked to find that everyone was watching him instead, with a most protective gleam in their eyes. It was almost as though they would pounce on him did he say the wrong word to the wench. For certain, she had bewitched them all—himself included, because he couldn’t take his eyes off her even for a moment.
The meal proceeded in deafening silence.
Chrestien thought she would die from the strain. Not once did she dare look in Weston’s direction—whether out of fear or some other emotion was not immediately evident. What was evident, however, was the beating of her heart. It pounded wildly against her breast—and when, by the by, had she ceased to think of him as the odious Wolf and begun to think of him as Weston?
Her thoughts confused her, but no more so than the ache in her heart to know he would simply not look upon her kindly.
When finally she could take no more, she rose from the table, squared her shoulders proudly, and left the hall for the sanctuary of the garden.
The tiny garden was a favorite place of hers. Whenever she craved solitude, it was here she escaped. Adelaine had had her own place as well—the donjon tower. But unlike her sister, Chrestien could not bear to go up there.
Tonight the brisk night air was refreshing after the stifling atmosphere of the hall. Out here, inside the rose alcove, no eyes could prick her soul, she reasoned. But then she sighed, for it was not simply any eyes she sought refuge from, only his, if the truth be known.
She plucked a rose and snuggled beneath the alcove to enjoy its sweet, heady fragrance.
They were her mother’s favorite flower, Adelaine’s as well. Her father had once told her that her lady mother had brought the original cuttings from her father’s home in faraway England. Her thoughts were muddled when she thought about her grandsire. She’d oft wondered what he was like as her father had never spoken of him overmuch... save to say that he had allowed Chrestien’s mother a love match. But it was only so because lady Elizabeth Grey had been a fourth daughter, who, without better prospects, hadn’t been expected to marry better. This one good deed did not, however, excuse her grandsire for his lack of care toward his granddaughters, and she would never forgive him for it. Not that it should matter overmuch, for he most assuredly did not care. Baron Geoffrey Grey had never possessed an inkling of concern for the children of his youngest daughter. It might have saved Chrestien so much misery after her father’s death if she could have relied upon her mother’s family, but as it was, she knew naught of them, save for the name.
Now, it seemed, her family would be the good sisters of La Trinite... and she was beginning to fear she may never see Adelaine again. The thought made her eyes moist with tears.
Watching the door, Weston rose from his seat at the dais, intending to retire to the lord’s chamber, but curiosity got the better of him and he went instead in the direction of the garden. The hall had all but emptied after her departure, and he suspected she must be meeting someone in the garden. What he didn’t know... was who. From her entourage of suitors, it could be anyone: James, William, John, Ned, even Michel.
God’s teeth, but they were all hopelessly besotted with her!
Outside, the garden was dark and shadowy, illuminated only by the light of a silvery moon, and Weston stood in the archway a long moment so his eyes would adjust to the darkness. Once the shadows lifted, he scanned the wall-enclosed garden. He could see naught—hear naught. The garden was empty but for the herbs.
He walked forward a pace or two, nearly tripping over the side of a small raised compartment and a giggle floated sweetly to his ears. His eyes instinctively focused in the direction of its origin and he could barely discern a glow from within a black hole in the far right wall. He immediately made his way toward it.
If anyone deserved to fall flat on his face, it was that odious man!
Chrestien held her breath as Weston came to stand directly in front of her, his looming form outlined by the moonlight. She placed her hand to her breast, willing her heartbeat to still, nearly certain it was beating so loudly he must hear it as well.
For the longest moment, there was silence between them.
“Are you not cold?” he asked finally, his voice far more gentle than it had ever been.
Chrestien blinked at the silly question. The night was cool, but hardly cold and there was nary a breeze to be had. Her lips moved to answer, but she could not find her voice. She liked him better when he was angry—at least then he was predictably infuriating. For that she was never at a loss for words. In fact, not only was this the first time he had spoken to her since his return from Montagneaux, he had never spoken to her in kindness before now. “Nay,” she replied at last.
Her voice was calm, though it was hardly how she felt.
“What are you doing outside at this late hour?” he asked, and his tone now was accusatory.
Apparently, his concern was short-lived. Chrestien bit back a sharp retort, and said instead, “I come here when I need to think, my lord.”
“And when, prithee, do you need to think, demoiselle?” he asked, as though it were a novel concept.
Chrestien noted the sarcasm in his voice and it fired her temper. She sprang to her feet, aching to feel her palm across his too comely face. By now she had had more than enough of his insolence and his sour tone. “And where is it written that thinking is a man’s prerogative, my lord?”
Weston could barely see her through the shadows. She sounded breathless—as in the throes of passion—or at least that was how he imagined her—and he forced himself to quell the sudden urge to taste her lips, remembering that he would not be the first. The blood in his veins simmered, but not with anger, if the truth be known.
He wasn’t entirely certain why it mattered that she wasn’t chaste. Had he ever known a chaste woman in his life? And more, had he ever refused one on that pretext? “Forgive me,” he said. “But I forget you are no lady.”
He accurately predicted her response, and when her hand flew to the shadow of his face to issue a slap, he caught her wrist and held it firmly within his fist, momentarily appeased to feel the heat of her skin against his hand. It was all he could do not to drag her into his arms and kiss those lips that seemed so ready to speak out against him.
A sweet, heady fragrance reached his senses, making him loosen his grip. And involuntarily he moved closer until he could feel the softness of her breast against his chest. Catching the back of her neck in his grip, he forced her face closer to his, until he could feel h
er breath upon his face.
“Unhand me!” she demanded.
Without thinking, he bore his lips down upon hers, bruising them with a vicious kiss, but she fought him.
Weston groaned deep in his throat and his eyes closed as he savored the silky feel of her mouth. The sweet taste of her nearly drove him over the edge. His breath labored now, and his nostrils flaring with the scent of her, he pressed himself into her trembling body, seeking her warm curves.
The instant his kiss softened, she cried out, moaning softly as his tongue slid between her lips, moist and hot. With each stab of his tongue, black rage filtered through his mind as he acknowledged the fact that she was no longer fighting him, but clinging wantonly.
Did she give so willingly to everyone? he wondered irately.
His anger mounting, he whispered into her mouth, his voice both a velvet caress and a threat all at once. “Who were you meeting here this eve? Michel?” he asked thickly. “James?”
She tried to pull away, to slap him again, and once again, he caught her wrist.
She glared at him through the shadows.
Consumed by desire, desperate to quench his thirst so that he could free himself of this terrible yearning, Weston gave her no more opportunity to respond, but took her mouth in another searing kiss, scalding her lips with his own. His hands slid firmly down her curves, releasing her wrist as his palms sought out her waist, pressing her to him.
Chrestien cried out, shoving him resolutely away, but his body was unyielding, hard like stone. “How dare you abuse me as though I were no more than a common harlot!”
He raised a dark brow. “Common?” His tone was velvety smooth. “Common is the one thing you are not... demoiselle.”
With a wicked grin he stepped away from her, releasing her at last. The second she was given the opportunity she shoved him angrily aside and bolted away, flying into the great hall and dropping the white rose in her haste to be away from him.
Weston watched as she made her way through the dark maze of raised beds without err. When she was gone, he followed her into the hall, and once he stepped inside, he noticed the white rose lying amid the rushes. Stooping to pick it up, he placed the snowy blossom to his nostrils, inhaling deeply of its fragrance, recognizing it easily as the scent from the garden. She’d been holding the rose in her hand when she tried to slap him, he mused. No doubt she would have been pleased to leave a thorn or two in his face.
As he stood there staring at the perfect bloom, Michel sauntered into the hall with Roger, the messenger he’d sent to Henry, grinning broadly as he led the lad to Weston.
At the sight of the messenger, Weston felt an odd sense of regret when he should feel elated that he would finally be rid of his tormentor.
With trembling hands, the lad handed Weston the parchment bearing Henry’s seal, and Weston accepted the missive, dismissing the messenger with a brisk wave of his hand. Baffled when the youth fled the room so quickly, he eyed the retreating form and then raised a brow at Michel. “Where have you been?”
Michel gave him a wily smile and shrugged.
“Never mind,” Weston said. “I know what you’ve been about—with half the castle wenches no doubt.” But he was relieved by the knowledge that Michel had not been with Chrestien.
Carefully, so as not to damage the delicate parchment, Weston broke the seal. He went about the procedure leisurely, confident of the message enclosed. He knew Henry well, could predict easily what he might do, so there was no hurry to know what news it conveyed. A flick of his wrist righted the parchment enough to read from it, but as he read the dictum, his jaw dropped.
It took him an instant to regain his composure, and when he did, his jaw turned taut and his eyes narrowed as he waved the parchment before Michel’s face. “Have you aught to do with this?”
Michel’s brows lifted. “How am I supposed to know when the letter was sealed?”
Weston shoved the missive into Michel’s hand and turned toward the tower steps, intending to tell Chrestien the news—but more, to reassure her that it would never come to pass. Surely, Henry had misunderstood!
Watching him go, Michel straightened the parchment to read from it and initially his expression mirrored that of Weston’s, but it was soon replaced with a grin.
The mandate stated simply that Weston and the Lady Chrestien were to wed at once and to send proof of the union to Henry forthwith.
Chrestien started as her chamber door burst open.
Weston's massive form filled the doorway and it seemed his eyes were as turbulent as a violent summer storm. But she had no care to discover the cause of his anger. Instinct told her she’d best guard herself well, and her eyes scanned the room for a weapon of defense. Realizing there was none within reach, she blanched, for he had taken her poniard from her after the incident with his men and she possessed in her hand naught but a wooden comb. “What are you doing unbidden in my bower?”
She stood frozen in the middle of her room, holding her comb in her hand.
He did not answer, merely stared back at her and the loathing in his eyes was more than she could bear. “My lord, I have asked why you are here!”
He advanced upon her suddenly.
Her heart racing madly, Chrestien moved backward and fell upon the bed that crept up behind her. Her bedrobe flew open and she gasped as his gaze settled on her exposed breast, but she made no move to cover herself, so stunned was she by his dark look.
Aye, he’d come to tell her of Henry’s mandate... to assure her it would never come to pass—but of a sudden Weston had a change of heart. If a man must take a wife, then this one was as good as any and he would indeed take her to Caen, to wed her this very night! After all, Henry would have good reason to issue such an edict.
A few long strides brought him before the bed, and without a word he stooped to open one of the wooden coffers. Noting with rancor that she did naught to cover her nakedness, he took from the chest the first garment his fingers encountered, a white linen chainse, and threw it to her distastefully. When it seemed she would make no move to gather it, he took it upon himself to dress her.
“Nay! You will not!” she screamed and fell back upon the bed, squirming and bucking against his touch.
Exhausted with the effort, he put the weight of his own body over hers to cease her struggles. But it was the wrong thing to do, he realized much too late. Her body bucking against his did naught but inflame his loins, and he closed his eyes against the exquisite feel of her beneath him. The muscles in his jaw twitched as he strained to control his rising need, as well as his anger. She was not making this easy for him—for the love of Christ, he was but a man.
“Nay, nay!”
Her panicked screams became wails as she gave in to hysterics. Finally, Weston was able to pin her hands above her head, and her lower body was stilled when he sat upon her, restraining her easily between his heavy limbs. His intention was merely to dress her, but hovering near inches from her face, he lost track of his thoughts. Her golden hair fell in silky curls to frame her face. Her lips, rosy and full, beckoned to him.
And once again, the sweet, heady fragrance of roses drifted to his nostrils. Briefly, he wondered whether it was the white rose he’d scented in the garden, or whether it had been Chrestien herself, for it was near impossible to differentiate the two. Instinctively, he leaned closer to brush her lips with his own. “Stop,” she begged. The scent of her was intoxicating, muddling his thoughts. The softness of her lips invited him... teased him... and he could feel her responding by opening to his gentle pressure.
It was more than a shock when her teeth bit down upon his soft inner lip.
“Owwww! Damn you!”
His right hand came up to inspect his throbbing lip, making certain there was no bleeding, while his left hand kept her pinned to the bed, arms secured above her head. His fingers squeezed her wrists without mercy, as he gathered the chainse into his free hand, and with some effort, he drew the filmy linen over h
er head, nearly tearing the cloth as he tugged it down.
It was only then she seemed to realize he intended to dress her. And apparently, she was so stunned that he was not going to defile her that she remained still while he smoothed the material over her body.
He didn't give her a chance to think or ask questions. He picked her up like so much baggage and hauled her unceremoniously through the chamber door.
Chrestien screamed.
It didn’t take a wise man—or woman—to know that whatever his intent, it boded her no good. He set her down and she sank to the floor upon her rump, wishing she could grow roots.
His voice was low and his eyes narrowed as he spoke. “Get up, demoiselle.”
“Nay! I’ll not—not until you tell me where it is precisely you would take me dressed in naught but my chainse!”
He merely glared at her and she gasped with horror as he grabbed her once more and hoisted her over his shoulder, exposing her thighs to all who would see.
Balling her fists, she beat his back until her hands hurt. “You baseborn lout—swine—savage—unhand me!”
She punctuated her expletives with a slam of her fists on the middle of his back, then shut her eyes tightly to stop the flow of tears. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded and drew back to whack his back yet again.
“To Caen.”
Chrestien's hand stilled in mid air.
“La Trinite?”
“Yes!”
On the heels of her shock, an unexpected well of sadness enveloped her. But at least now she could stop worrying about what he intended to do with her.
“You need not carry me like so much baggage,” she protested.
He acknowledged the complaint with a grunt and set her down again. Keeping a firm hold on her left wrist, he carefully led her down the steep stone stairs, never allowing more than a foot's distance between them.
Chrestien was so relieved to be on her feet again that she did not object to his hold on her arm. Nor did she remember that she was clad in aught but a thin undergarment. Her back straight, shoulders squared in an attempt to salvage her dignity, she walked proudly before him, ignoring the curious looks of his men. Eauda crossed herself and gave her a piteous look as they passed. It was not until she was seated upon his black destrier with his warm body burning her flesh, and the chill wind biting into her skin, that it dawned on her what she was wearing—or rather what she was not wearing.
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