Читать книгу The Bride Thief - Susan Paul Spencer - Страница 12

The marriage took place as soon as Isabelle had been given a chance to eat and clothe herself. Surrounded by men—Sir Christian and several silent, solemn monks—she stood beside Sir Justin Baldwin in the monastery’s small chapel and agreed to be his wife. It should have been, she thought afterward, a moment that carried a certain amount of weight, joy or fear or some life-changing impact. But it had been nothing more than a very simple matter. Sir Justin repeated his vows, put a plain gold ring on her finger and, having received it from his brother, passed the kiss of peace along to her by setting his lips briefly against her cheek. And so, in a matter of a few minutes, they were married. At least in the eyes of the Church. What her uncle would think about it, Isabelle wasn’t able to imagine.

Father Hugo heartily hugged and kissed her when it was over, as did Sir Christian, who said, “You are a kind and beautiful lady, Isabelle Baldwin. Justin is a fortunate man, indeed. I pray God I will be as blessed someday.”

Congratulatory cups of wine were passed and drunk, and then, too soon, Justin was taking hold of her elbow and saying, “There is not much time before daylight. We will bid you all good-night”

Isabelle had never felt so embarrassed in all her life, standing before a roomful of holy men who surely realized Sir Justin’s intent to consummate the marriage.

Father Hugo, setting a reassuring hand on Isabelle’s shoulder, said, “Go and tend to this final matter, then, knowing that God has blessed your union. We will send no witnesses with you, for Lady Isabelle should not suffer further distress this night, when she has already so generously done all that has been asked of her.” He must have heard the breath of relief that she released, for he smiled warmly and kissed her cheek. “God be with you, daughter. Go now with your husband.” To Justin, he added, “I trust you will take every care with your good lady, brother.”

“Aye,” Justin replied simply, pulling Isabelle toward the door and not seeming to notice how stiffly she went.

“Well,” she said as they walked side by side down the darkened hall. “Well.”

He chuckled and said, “Indeed.”

When he suddenly put his hand on her waist, she nearly jumped into a wall.

“Forgive me,” she murmured. “I fear that I’m a little… unused to this.” Which was, she thought, a rather weak way of saying that she’d never so much as kissed a man.

His hand pressed against her with light warmth. “There is no need to ask forgiveness, Isabelle. You have never known a man and are afraid. ‘Tis understandable, i’ faith.”

He stopped before the chamber door, which he opened, stepping back to allow her to enter. A simple room had never looked so awful to Isabelle before. She cast a glance at the bed and imagined herself there, beneath this man, her husband, as he made her his wife.

“Come, Isabelle.” He took her hand and drew her farther in, closing the door. “Let us have an understanding.” Turning her unresisting body by the shoulders as if she were a powerless puppet, he drew her near. “We are all but strangers, you and I, and yet we are also man and wife. I would have you strive to trust me in all things, just as I will strive to trust you.” He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, gently. “But such as that will take time, and I would not repay the kindness you have done me this night by forcing you to lie with me before you are willing. When I make you my wife complete, ‘twill be because you wish it, and because you have come to trust me. Is this as you would have it, Isabelle?”

“Oh, aye,” she said with open relief, thankful for a reprieve. “You are kind, Sir Justin, and I am more than grateful.”

He nodded. “We will wait until we have achieved Talwar, then, and when you are ready to become my wife in every way, you will let me know. Only promise that it will not be long, for make no mistake—I mean us to be man and wife in every way, and for that I will suffer impatience.”

Isabelle swallowed loudly. “’Twill not be long,” she promised.

“Then we must now make an agreement between us. I abhor falseness in any form, but even more would I abhor forcing you to an intimacy you do not yet desire. Your uncle will demand proof of our union. You understand this, do you not?”

“Aye.”

“Then, if you wish to have time to know your husband better before you share his bed, you must be prepared to answer accordingly. This thing will be between the two of us only.”

Stepping back, he rolled up the long sleeve of his tunic, uncovering his muscular forearm, then strode to the bed and pulled the covers away to expose the stark whiteness of the sheets beneath.

He paused a moment and looked at Isabelle, who stared at him in incomprehension until he pulled a small dagger from a sheath at his belt.

“My lord…” she said, as if she would stop him.

“’Tis the only way,” he said. “Unless you wish to pursue the matter in the more usual manner?”

Without waiting for an answer, he drew the blade across his skin, on the inner arm, beneath his elbow. Red blood welled bright, and when he held his arm over the bed, a few drops fell. He smeared them with his fingers, then stood back and viewed the stain he’d made.

“I’ve no experience with virgins,” he admitted. “I pray that will be sufficient to satisfy your uncle, and any others who may challenge our marriage.”

Isabelle was searching the chamber for a cloth, and at last found a linen napkin. “Here,” she said, taking his bleeding arm. “Let me bind the wound. I pray it will heal readily.”

“It will,” he murmured, smiling as she bent over her work to tie the cloth tightly. “You are a good wife, already,” he said. “Taking care of me so. I like it very much. Isabelle?” She lifted her head, and he took her chin in his free hand. “If you will let me, I shall kiss you as a husband should properly do.” He didn’t wait for permission, but placed his mouth gently over hers and tenderly kissed her, meaning only to give her pleasure and affection. When he lifted his head, he saw, with delight, that she looked dazed.

“Did you like it?” he asked.

She nodded and closed her eyes, and he willingly accepted the offer, lowering his mouth to hers once more, kissing her as chastely as he could, until he felt his body begin to catch fire.

“If we do not stop,” he murmured against her lips, “we will be adding proof to the bedsheet.” With regret, he stepped away from her warmth and softness. “’Tis verily most promising.” He bent and pulled the bedcovers over the stained sheet. “You are full weary, I vow. Lie down and sleep, my lady, and in the morn, if your uncle has not arrived, we will leave for Siere.”

“For Siere?” Isabelle repeated, gratefully sinking down upon the bed.

“Aye.” He rolled the sleeve of his tunic over the binding she’d put on his wound. “I must present you to my brother, the earl, and make certain that my lands are safe.”

She sat up again. “Your brother…when he knows the truth about my father…”

“He will have naught to say on the matter,” Justin replied calmly. He sat on the bed and pushed her down on the pillows. “You are my wife now, Isabelle, and I will not give you up. No man will take you from me, be he your uncle or mine own brother or the duke of Gloucester. In time, you will learn to trust me. It is all that I ask of you.” With his fingertips, he stroked the hair from her brow. “You have been through much this night. Sleep, if you can. All will be well.”

“What of you, my lord? You must be very weary, also.”

“In truth, I am. I will sleep there, by the fire, for a time.”

“If my uncle comes, will you tell him about Senet?”

“Aye. Is there anything you want from your uncle’s home? Any possessions of your own that you value and would have?”

Sadness touched her features, and Justin’s hand, yet stroking the hair at her forehead, fell still.

“What is it?” he asked.

“He will never let me have them. And, in truth, all that once belonged to my parents was made forfeit by the crown. Baron Hersell has more right to them than I.”

His hand began stroking again. “We shall see.”

Weariness made her close her eyes. “I do not wish to cause you trouble.” She yawned. “It is enough to be away from him.”

“’Twill be no trouble. You should have all that is rightfully yours, and though it may be many months in coming, one day you shall.”

But she had already fallen asleep beneath the soothing rhythm of his hand, and didn’t hear his vow. Justin sat beside her for a long while, contemplating his new wife and stroking her silky black hair, which was, he thought, extraordinarily long and beautiful. Her blue eyes, which he also thought beautiful, ever stood out starkly against the frame of her hair. When they first met, he had found it difficult to pull his gaze away from her entrancing face. He was not a man to take anything for granted, and he did not do so now with Isabelle. He had done very well in choosing himself a wife, he thought with pleasure. Far better than his brother Hugh had done. Of a certainty, Hugh would be furious when he discovered the truth, as would Alexander, and Hugo would equally fall victim to their wrath for his part in lending his aid in the marriage. But, although he regretted bringing Hugo grief, Justin didn’t really care. He had the wife he wanted now—a good, fine wife, for whom other men would envy him— and they would make a life together whether his exalted family bade them well or no.