Читать книгу Bride for a Knight - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 9

Chapter One

England, 1214

Surrounded by wooden chests packed with dower goods, two young women faced each other in the chamber they once shared. One was dark-haired and dressed in soft, doe-brown wool. The other, fair and lovely, wore her finest gown of green silk, for this was her wedding day.

“You don’t have to marry him, Mavis,” Tamsin said to her beloved cousin. “Whatever your father’s told you, or however he’s threatened you, you have the right to refuse. Neither he, nor the church, nor the law can force you to marry against your will. Rheged and I will be happy to offer you sanctuary or take you anywhere—”

“No, please, that won’t be necessary,” Mavis interrupted, smiling as she shook her head. Tamsin hadn’t been in the solar when her father had proposed the marriage between his daughter and Sir Roland of Dunborough. Because she had, Mavis spoke with confidence. “I gave my consent to marry freely, Tamsin, and was pleased to do so. I think you’re wrong about Sir Roland. I know what his father and brother were like, but he’s not the same.”

“How can you be certain?” Tamsin asked. “You’ve only just met him.”

“When we were in the solar with my father, Sir Roland asked me if I would marry him. He gave me the choice, Tamsin, and I’m certain he would have released me from any agreement my father had made if I had requested it. More than that, he wasn’t looking at me like a merchant wondering if he’d made a good bargain, or with triumph, as if he’d won a prize. He was almost...wistful.”

“Wistful?” Tamsin repeated warily. “Sir Roland?”

“Whatever one chooses to call it, I saw something that makes me certain he’s not like any other man I’ve ever met, and that we can be happy. Oh, Tamsin, I realize that to most people he appears hard and cold and arrogant, but when we were in Father’s solar, he wasn’t arrogant or vain. He was kind, even gentle—very different from the way he is in the hall and vastly different from his father and brother.”

“Have you ever been alone with him?”

Mavis couldn’t meet her cousin’s unwavering gaze. “No, we’ve never been alone.”

That wasn’t precisely true, but the one time she had been alone with Roland, he hadn’t seen her. He’d been in the stable, talking to his horse in a low, soothing voice, and she’d been hiding.

She had never told anyone about that early morning when she’d been preparing to flee rather than marry at her father’s command. That memory was a sweet thing, a secret only she knew, and she didn’t want to share it. Nor, did she think, would Sir Roland be pleased if he learned that she’d told anyone he talked to his horse.

Tamsin took her cousin’s hands in hers and held them tight as her gaze searched Mavis’s face. “You met Roland’s father twice and elder brother only once, and here, where they were on what passed for their best behavior. My husband’s spent time at their castle. He knows them better, Mavis, and he told me how cruel Sir Blane was to everyone, including his sons. He laughed when Broderick and Gerrard mocked Roland, and called Roland a host of terrible names when he wouldn’t strike back.”

“But he didn’t strike back.”

“That’s why Rheged considers him the best of the family. But he can fight, too. Rheged saw him in a melee, and while his twin brother fought boldly, almost joyfully, Roland fights to win.”

“Surely there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Not in battle, I suppose. Yet there is more to consider. Sir Blane openly encouraged the rivalries between his sons, and their animosity. He wouldn’t even say which one of the twins, Roland or Gerrard, was born first. That way they would never know who would have the right to inherit should something happen to Broderick.” Tamsin looked down a moment before continuing, obviously still dismayed by what she’d done, even though she’d acted to save the man she loved. “As it did.”

“Someone must have known, though,” Mavis protested, and hopefully, turning her cousin’s thoughts from Broderick’s death. “A secret like that couldn’t be kept in a large household.”

“In that one it could, for their mother died in childbirth and the midwife slipped on the steps after attending to her. She died of a broken neck. Some say Sir Blane killed her just to keep the secret, and there are plenty who believe it. Even if it was an accident, if people can believe such a rumor, what does that tell you about the family?”

Mavis pulled her hands free. “There are always rumors about noblemen, and I’m well aware that Sir Blane could be cruel.”

“Cruel and lustful. You saw for yourself how Sir Blane and Broderick treated women. What if Roland is the same?”

Mavis flushed, for she’d more than seen how Sir Blane and Broderick treated women. The memory of Broderick’s lewd, leering threats were fresh, and the mention of his name alone was enough to fill her with disgust. Nevertheless, she held to her first impression of his brother Roland. “I’m sure Roland’s a better man than his father and brothers. You fell in love with your husband quickly, didn’t you? Just as you thought you could be happy with Rheged shortly after meeting him, I believe I can be happy with Roland. Otherwise, I would have refused the betrothal, no matter what my father ordered, or any threats he made.”

“Then I suppose I must trust your judgment,” Tamsin said with a wry, yet sorrowful, little smile, “but if—”

A furious pounding rattled the chamber door. “My lady!” young Charlie called on the other side. “They’re waiting for you in the chapel!”

“We’re coming!” Tamsin replied before she hurriedly embraced her cousin. “Promise me that if you’re wrong about Roland, if he makes you unhappy or hurts you in any way, you’ll come to us at Cwm Bron. There’ll be no recriminations, no censure, from me or anyone else.”

“I will,” Mavis vowed, telling herself she was right about Sir Roland of Dunborough, so there would be no need.

* * *

Sir Roland stood straight as a lance as he awaited his bride in the chapel of Castle DeLac. He kept his expression stoic and impassive, although he had never been so anxious in his life. He could all too easily believe that the bride might not appear. He was, after all, his father’s son, and that alone would be enough to scare a woman away, even if she’d agreed when the marriage had first been proposed.

Indeed, he’d more than half expected her to refuse. Yet she’d readily accepted, and, even more surprising, had looked at him not as if considering only his title and his wealth, but as if she’d like to be his friend.

Never in all his life had anyone, male or female, sought his friendship. Nor had he sought anyone else’s, not since he was a small boy. He had learned early that to seek affection from any creature was to make himself open to loss and pain, and might cause suffering for the object of his affection. He had found and nursed a sick black-and-white kitten back to health, keeping it hidden in the barn, until Broderick had found it and tormented the poor thing. He had pleaded with his older brother to stop, to leave Shadow alone. Broderick had responded by beating Roland until his nose bled and his eye was swollen shut. Shadow had fled the barn and never been again.

After that, he had never outwardly and publicly shown any affection for any person or animal. He hadn’t even spoken to the lads of the village, or the sons of the servants, lest they suffer, too.

Gerrard’s teasing and mockery hurt far worse than any beating and lingered longer. “Is the little baby going to cry?” he’d said then, and many times after. “Is Rolly going to sob like a girl? Better fetch him a dress!”

And there had been more. “No woman of any worth will ever want a cold stick like you. No woman will ever love you unless she’s paid. You have no wit, no charm, nothing to recommend you to anybody except our father’s wealth and title.”

Now he nearly smiled, envisioning Gerrard’s surprise when he returned to Dunborough with his beautiful bride, especially if a woman of such worth wanted him for more than wealth or power. That would truly be a triumph and the fulfillment of a dream he’d scarcely allowed himself to harbor.

“What’s keeping the wench?” Lord DeLac muttered, leaning his bulky body against Roland and reeking of wine. Not even his expensive, long blue tunic and gold-linked belt sitting below his belly, or the equally thick gold chain about his neck, could hide the man’s coarse nature.

No doubt the lady would be glad to be out of her father’s household and it was tempting to think of himself as a hero from a ballad who had come to save a lovely damsel from a monster.

“Women!” DeLac grumbled, a frown creasing his wide, bearded face. “Nuisances, the lot of them.”

“Even your own daughter, my lord?”

“Well, she’s a woman, isn’t she?”

Yes, she was very much a woman, Roland thought as he scanned the chapel without moving his head. Although hastily assembled, given that it had been less than a sennight since he’d arrived and the marriage agreed upon, there was the usual assortment of guests one could expect at the union of two powerful families, including the nobles and hangers-on who’d come to any feast. Also among them would be those who wanted to be noticed and those who would be noticed regardless of their station, like Sir Rheged of Cwm Bron, the husband of his bride’s cousin. Few men were as tall as Roland, but he was. Fewer men wore their hair to their shoulders, as they both did. Even fewer were Welshmen, or had that aura of power and command Rheged possessed. Such a man could be a valuable ally, or a dangerous enemy.

No one from Roland’s family or household was there, of course. Even if he had wanted his twin brother in attendance, there hadn’t been enough time.

His gaze drifted to Sir Rheged again.

He well recalled Sir Rheged’s prowess in tournaments. Nobody had been more delighted than he when Rheged defeated his boastful braggart of an older brother, and nobody was more grateful that Rheged’s wife, that slender slip of a woman, had rid the world of Broderick. After Broderick had disgracefully attacked and killed an old man, he had then fought and nearly killed Rheged, even though the man was so sick he could barely stand. Tamsin had killed him in the struggle to save her wounded husband.

Rheged had surely spoken of him to Mavis. Perhaps he also owed Rheged for her good opinion.

“If I have to send someone to fetch her again,” her father muttered, “she’ll regret it!”

“If someone needs to fetch her, I will go,” Roland said. And if he found she’d changed her mind, he would leave DeLac at once.

Fortunately, and to his vast relief, the sound of the crowd of villagers, soldiers and servants gathered outside in the courtyard began to grow louder, like the dull roar of ocean waves in the distance. Everyone in the chapel turned expectantly toward the opening doors—and there was Mavis, her white veil not quite covering her golden hair that shimmered in the autumn sunlight, a smile on her beautiful face.

A fierce hunger that was more than lust seized him as his bride walked toward him with slow deliberate steps, her head high, a smile on her luscious lips, her shining, bright blue eyes holding his. Friendship, much as he desired it, suddenly seemed a weak and feeble thing compared to what her smile promised.

“Thank God,” Lord DeLac said under his breath.

Roland didn’t reply. His happiness had diminished, for he saw that despite her smile, his bride’s lips trembled, making him fear she wasn’t as confident and happy as she was trying to appear.

That was probably so of every bride, he told himself, and given his family, some trepidation should surely be expected. Once they were wed, though, he would do all he could to make her see that he was not like the rest of his family. He was the dutiful, honorable son of Sir Blane of Dunborough, not the cruel, greedy Broderick or a wastrel like Gerrard.

Joining them at the altar, Mavis stood between Roland and her father as Father Bryan appeared from the sacristy and began to bless their union.

Roland scarcely breathed throughout the entire ceremony. He dreaded someone suddenly objecting or Gerrard bursting through the doors. Mercifully nothing untoward occurred before he put the ring on the bride’s finger and the priest spoke of sealing their vows, then looked at him expectantly.

The kiss. He was supposed to kiss his bride.

No woman of any worth will ever want a cold stick like you.

Roland was no novice, no lad about to kiss a lass for the first time. He had been with women, albeit only when natural urges threatened to distract him from his duties, and even then, the coupling had been a simple transaction, money for service provided.

This was his wife. His beautiful, desirable wife, who could make the gods jealous, let alone Gerrard, and—best of all—who had agreed to the marriage.

He took Mavis in his arms and kissed her, and it was no perfunctory, public kiss. It was a kiss to show them all—including Mavis—that he knew how to love a woman.

Until she slid her arms around him and parted her lips. Thrilled, excited, he forgot everything except her and deepened the kiss. He would have kept kissing her had not Lord DeLac loudly cleared his throat and muttered that he was starving.

Roland drew back and was even more delighted when he saw that although Mavis, blushing with suitable maidenly modesty, looked down at the floor, there was a little smile playing about her lips that made him wish the wedding feast was over, so they could be alone.

And in the bridal bed.

* * *

Mavis could hardly look anybody in the eye as she left the chapel, not even Tamsin. She had known that there would be a kiss at the end of the ceremony, nor had Roland’s been her first. A few bold young nobles had cornered her in the shadows at feasts and put their lips over hers.

Those kisses had been almost childish, like playacting. Roland’s kiss was completely, wonderfully different. She had never felt anything like the rush of burning need that seemed to leap from his lips to hers, not even in her daydreams. She’d been completely unprepared for the reality of Roland’s embrace and her own passionate response, or the way desire lingered after he let her go.

Until her father pushed past them to lead the way to the hall.

Together she and Roland entered the larger chamber decorated with white linen on the tables, fresh rushes on the floors and new candles in the stands and on the tables. Garlands of evergreen hung from the sconces—Tamsin’s doing, no doubt. Their scent filled the air, along with that of the food coming from the kitchen.

“Where’s the wine?” her father demanded.

A servant hurried forward with a goblet, and her father couldn’t even wait for Father Bryan to say grace before downing the contents in a gulp. His amen was more of a belch.

The rest of the guests, clearly not troubled by any thoughts other than the food, the company and the entertainment to come, ate and drank with gusto, tossing bones and bits of meat to the hounds wandering among the tables. The servants were kept busy bringing more ale and wine, along with soups, roasted meat, pottages and bread, pastries and sweetmeats. As miserly as her father could be, he spared no expense when it came to food and drink, or her dowry, either, to ensure the alliance he craved.

Sitting beside her as stiff as a soldier on parade, Roland ate sparingly and drank less. He barely touched the dainties she’d prepared with her own hands. Thankfully, his manners were impeccable—a pleasant surprise, for his father and older brother had been distinctly lacking in that regard.

Unfortunately, Roland rarely spoke. She had already learned he wasn’t a talkative man, but she wished he would say something more in response to her comments and queries than a simple yes or no, especially with Tamsin and Rheged looking on.

Because they were, and because other guests also occasionally glanced their way, she made no sign that she was at all disturbed. She kept up a string of observations about the guests, the harvest, trade, the weather—anything she could think of. She took comfort from the fact that if Roland didn’t answer, at least he didn’t silence her.

Her father paid no heed to her at all, his attention focused on the food, and especially the wine.

At last the meal was finished. At about the same time her father began to nod off in his chair, in spite of the presence of the guests and his new son-in-law. She glanced at her husband, but if he noticed her father’s state, he mercifully made no sign.

She surreptitiously gestured for Denly, one of the senior household servants, to draw near. “Have two of the men assist my father to his bedchamber,” she said quietly. “And it’s time for the entertainment, so the tables should be cleared and removed.”

Denly nodded and hurried to summon Arnhelm and Verdan, two soldiers who’d served in the household in one way or another since boyhood, while a minstrel with curly hair and a weak chin struck up a merry tune. Once an open space was cleared for dancing, several couples moved to take their places facing one another.

Mavis turned expectantly to her husband. “Will you dance with me, Roland?”

“I regret, my lady, that I do not dance,” he gravely replied, his expression inscrutable. “You may dance if you wish.”

“No, it’s all right,” she assured him, although her toe began to tap in time to the music. She had always enjoyed dancing, but she was a married woman now, with a husband to please, and please him she would, for if the feelings inspired by that kiss were anything to judge by, he would please her, too. “Perhaps you would rather retire, my lord?”

He turned to her with an expression in his dark eyes that made her heart race. “I would indeed,” he said as he rose and held out his hand to help her to her feet. The moment she grasped it, she could feel his strength. Excitement and anticipation began to surge within her.

Every head swiveled in their direction. Suddenly, without warning, without a word, he swept her into his arms and started toward the stairs as if she were one of the Sabines and he an ancient Roman warrior claiming her for his own.

Gasps, whispers and a few chuckles followed her, but she didn’t care. Nor was she afraid. She had seen the gentle man residing beneath that stern warrior’s visage, and all that she could think of was the night to come and the promise of the bedchamber.

So she wrapped her arms about his neck and laid her head upon his shoulder. Neither spoke, not even when he took the stairs two at a time, or shouldered open her chamber door and carried her across the threshold into the room dimly lit with a candle. He set her slowly down amid the boxes and chests ready for their journey tomorrow.

Still without speaking, he drew her into his arms and kissed her as if he’d waited long years to hold her in his arms and his ardor could no longer be restrained.

Her body seemed to melt with need and, leaning into him, she gave herself up to the yearning coursing through her.

His hand slid up her body toward her breast, cupping it gently, then kneading it, the action unfamiliar and surprisingly arousing, and oh, so different from those other fumbling hands that once or twice had tried to touch her there.

Her need increased yet more when he began to untie the knot of the lacing of her gown and, succeeding, slipped his hand into her bodice. The pads of his fingertips brushed across her taut nipple and a sudden flood of heated longing ran through her, and down, to where the blood began to throb.

She must do something, too. Breaking the kiss, she lifted his hand away and his expression turned to wonder as she kissed his fingertips one by one. Then she reached for the knot at the neck of his dark tunic, untying it swiftly so she could pull the tunic and the shirt beneath over his head to reveal his naked torso.

She ran her fingers over the raised ridges of several scars. “You’ve had so many wounds,” she murmured with awe, and pity, too. “Have you been in many battles?”

“Most were not the sort you mean,” he answered, his voice husky.

She bent to press her lips upon the scar nearest his shoulder. “Tournaments and training, too, I suppose.”

“Some,” he gasped, pushing her gown and the shift beneath lower, exposing her bare shoulders.

There were a hundred other things she wanted to ask, to learn about this man she’d married, but as his lips grazed the bare and rounded curve of her shoulder, she forgot them. All she wanted now was more of his lips and touch. With bold encouragement, she shoved her gown and shift lower, stepping out of them to stand before him as naked as Eve in the garden. She tugged the ribbons from her hair, letting it fall down around her.

She had never seen such a look in any man’s eyes as the one in Roland’s as he stared at her. It was more than admiration or lustful anticipation. Again she saw the expression that set him apart from every other man she had ever met—a yearning wistfulness that tugged at her heart.

Reaching out, she took his hand and led him toward the bed.

She was a virgin, and he was from a family not noted for gentleness, yet she still felt no fear when she climbed into the bed and held out her arms to him.

He swiftly tugged off his boots and now the wistfulness was gone, replaced with an ardent desire that matched her own.

She turned away when he began to take off his breeches. She had seen him half naked. To see him completely naked seemed...unseemly.

He put out the candle and the chamber went dark. Then the bed creaked as Roland got in beside her.

He began to stroke her hair. “I won’t hurt you, Mavis,” he crooned in the same soft, gentle voice he had used the first time she had ever heard him, in the stable when he was talking to his horse. She had been fascinated by it then, and she was fascinated—and soothed—by it now. No man she’d met before had sounded like that, as if his throat was made of honey.

Relaxing, she lay still while his hand moved to her cheek, down her jaw and throat, to her shoulder, her arm, her hip, her thigh and back again, the motion teasing and as seductive as his voice, his fingertips barely grazing her warm skin.

She felt the urge to do the same with him, beginning with his hair that curled over his shoulders, to his strong jaw and throat, his powerful shoulders, muscular arm, slender waist and the length of his thigh.

He shifted ever so slightly closer. His hand brushed over her breast and across her belly. Lower. And lower still.

Biting her lip, she slid her hand across his chest, realizing with some surprise that his nipples, too, were taut. Perhaps her attention there could be just as arousing for him.

She lowered her head to flick her tongue across his chest and he moaned softly, proving that he enjoyed that, too. Eager to learn more, she pressed her whole body against him and kissed him deeply. Yes, he was as aroused as she.

He continued to kiss and caress her until she was so full of need, she was ready to beg him to take her.

She didn’t have to, for just when the excited anticipation became almost unbearable, he maneuvered her beneath him and then, with almost agonizing slowness, pushed inside her.

She had known there would be pain, and there was—a twinge, quickly forgotten, as he began to thrust inside her. Every motion increased her longing and excitement. Made her feel as if she was seeking some unknown realm of pleasure and passion...seeking...seeking...

Suddenly, abruptly, as surprising as falling from a cliff she hadn’t seen, she was there, a place where only sensation existed and all else fell away. She cried out, her body arching with throbbing release, a sensation so powerful that only when the pulsing ebbed and Roland laid his head upon her breasts did she recall that he had groaned at nearly the same moment.

Panting, he moved away from her and lay on his back while Mavis reached for the coverings that had been kicked or pushed away and drew them over their naked bodies. Amazed, delighted, relieved and happy, she lay still awhile, then wondered what was expected of her now. To speak? To remain silent and wait for him to say something? To roll over and go to sleep, or try to?

“Roland?” she said softly.

His only answer was his slow, even breathing. The groom had fallen asleep.

* * *

What was that sound? Roland vaguely wondered as he began to wake.

Opening his eyes, he realized at once that he was not at Dunborough. His chamber there was larger than this, and more barren. At home there were no candles on his bedside table, and no chests of clothing save the one...and no beautiful woman wrapped in a cloak standing at the window looking out at the dawn sky.

Mavis. His wife. The woman who had loved him with such passion, such excitement, although they had barely met. Who gave herself so freely, in spite of how this marriage had come about.

He had not come here expecting to find a bride. He had come here to tell Lord DeLac that any plans for an alliance between their two households had died with his father and brother. He’d been about to refuse DeLac’s proposal that he marry the man’s daughter instead.

And then Mavis had come into the solar.

The moment he had seen her, he had wanted to have her for his wife more than he’d wanted anything in his life, including his family’s estate.

Smiling, he was about to get out of bed when he caught that strange sound again, a sort of gasp. It was Mavis, and now he saw that her shoulders were shaking.

She was weeping.

The sudden sharp shock of realization was worse than a blow from a mace or sword. Worse than anything he had felt before. Worse than the beatings he had endured at his father’s and older brother’s hands. Worse than the worst of Gerrard’s mocking torment.

No woman will ever love you unless she’s paid. You have no wit, no charm, nothing to recommend you except our father’s wealth and title.

Wealth and title and an alliance that her father so clearly desired, now purchased with his daughter’s maidenhead?

He was a fool. A simpleton, like the most green country lad come to an unfamiliar town. Despite her blushes and smiles, she must have been forced to marry him, or why else would she be weeping? Shame and humiliation, hot, strong and agonizing, tore apart his joy and hope.

Long ago he had learned to hide his pain. To mask his shame. To pretend he felt nothing, that nothing could touch and wound him, and he would do so again. But first, he had to get away from her, as a wounded beast goes to ground to nurse its wounds in private.

Rising from the bed, he yanked on his breeches, then sat and tugged on his boots.

“Did you sleep well, Roland?” she asked.

He glanced up to see her watching him, her eyes red rimmed and puffy from crying, but a bright and bogus smile on her lips.

Even now, and despite the tears, he wanted to believe she had chosen him for himself alone.

Fool!

If she had been coerced or threatened, he hadn’t been aware of it, and it had been done without his consent. But the wedding was over and consummated. He and Mavis were bound to each other by the church and the law, and nothing could be done.

Their marriage still meant a valuable alliance and a considerable dowry, although his father-in-law was a drunken oaf who would likely never heed a call for help. And Mavis was also Simon DeLac’s only child, so he would gain more when the man died, while DeLac had the powerful ally in the north he wanted.

Roland reached for his shirt and drew it over his head. “I trust you can be ready to travel as soon as you’ve broken the fast,” he said, speaking as he would to any underling.

“Yes, I think so.”

“I expect so,” he replied. He put on his tunic and belted it around his waist with his sword belt.

She hadn’t moved, but when he raised his eyes again, he noticed that her feet were bare. So were her ankles.

Was she naked under that cloak?

Desire, hot and strong and vital, surged through him. Memories of the night they’d shared rose up, vivid and exciting.

He must not betray this weakness, for that would give her a hold over him and the power to shame and humiliate him. He had to ignore the feelings she aroused. He must put a distance between them. She must be ever and only just a woman who ran his household and sometimes shared his bed when the need grew too strong to ignore.

His hand on the latch, he spoke without looking back at her. “Since the necessary consummation has taken place, I shall leave it up to you, my lady, to invite me to your bed in future. Otherwise, I shall leave you in peace.”