Betrothed (16 page)

By then, his
visits were few. He found more and more reasons to go journeying. He accepted
more and more missions for the king
.

Bennington
castle ceased to be home. On his last visit, Marta could not even maintain the
illusion of welcome. When he entered her chamber, she put a pillow beneath her
hips, spread her legs and informed him she was prepared.

Coldly he had
turned on his heel and stalked from the room. The next morn, he was on the road
again. Would he have bidden her farewell, had he known he would not see her
again? Marta had fallen on one of her daily tramps in the woods. He had not
even known she made a habit of treks in the castle forest.

His grief lay
in that he had failed his son. Donovan had allowed bitterness to chase him away
from three-year-old Christian.

Nearly a year
passed before he returned to Bennington. He could barely recall the boy’s face.
Christian had succumbed to a fever some months before. All of Bennington knew
he grieved, but none knew that he mourned only for his son.

Isabeau had
not rejected his touch. Her untutored reaction intrigued him. She was nothing
like Marta. She had shown more passion in this room than Marta had in five
years.

Could Isabeau
give Bennington an heir? He would be here to watch her belly grow. He would be
the first to hold his babe when he came from her womb. Never again would he
allow a woman or his pride to come between him and his child.

Syllba’s
hateful words came to mind. Marta saved her passion for a woman. Not for him.

Caitlin
passed the afternoon helping her mistress arranging the treasurers brought from
Olivet. From an oiled bundle, Isabeau fingered an ornate knife her father had
given her.

“Why
do you have so many weapons?” Caitlin asked.

“These
are not weapons; these are throwing knives” chuckled Isabeau. “It is a skill my
father taught Simon and me. They remind me of my father.”

 After
vespers, Caitlin helped Isabeau prepare for bed. When all was quiet, Isabeau
made her way across the cold corridor. She trembled in her simple linen nightgown
when she finally closed the door on Donavon’s private sanctuary.  

The
smoke, mixed with the aroma of armour's oil brought the unique essence of the
earl alive. Donovan’s gray stone hearth matched the one in her room. Shadows
battled with the flickering light from the fireplace and the two charcoal
braziers. The orange aura of illumination fought valiantly but gained no ground
against the night.

Isabeau’s
hand trembled as she lit two candles. Her shallow breaths gave a true clue to
her state of mind. What would Lord Donovan ask of her this night? The fire
would keep the chill away until well after dawn. Isabeau steadied herself with
a lengthy exhale.

She
had secured the carafe of wine from the cask marked for Donovan’s exclusive
use. She placed it on the bedside stand with two goblets.

Carefully
avoiding the bed, she slid into the chair. Her nervous fingers rubbed the arm.
Rich brocade decorated the plump cushion. The dark wood reflected the
flickering light.

Although
she’d tried to concentrate elsewhere, her gaze was drawn to the massive bed’s
carved posts and thick curtains. How soft the pillows and the luxuriant fur
throw appeared.

Sighing,
she hoped Donovan would come soon. The longer she waited the more apprehensive
she became. She kept reminding herself that he was her liege lord – more
importantly, her betrothed. She must not forget he was due her obedience.

Her
life had changed so drastically. Three days ago she had been bound for the
convent, dressed as a boy. Now, marriage contracts had been signed. They had
shared vows before Father Fredrich. Donovan d'Allyonshire had the right to her
loyalty and to her body. Never had she felt so vulnerable. Not even under her
brother’s whip. While she acknowledged the precariousness of her situation in her
brother’s household, she had never felt like this. Scared and yet attracted.

She
was conflicted about Donovan’s imminent arrival. She concentrated instead on
their parting in his solar. The endless moment when his lips covered hers. The shelter
created by Donovan’s embrace bound her solidly.

Her
right hand rose and traced her lips. Warmth suffused her torso and pooled in
the core of her lower body. Gasping at the unfamiliar sensations, she dropped
her hands to her lap and prayed she would not shame herself or her betrothed.

Following
the evening meal, Donovan returned to his strong room, but the pile of lists
left by Eldred remained a puzzle as his thoughts reviewed the last three days.

The
chapel bell interrupted Donovan’s agitation. Standing, he wiped his sweaty
hands on his tunic. The night sounds of the castle escorted him on the way to
his bed chamber. Would Isabeau be in his room, or had she run again? 

Why
did he feel like a thief in the night? He was going to his own bed. But the
memory of Isabeau’s warm lips stirred his imagination. In his mind, he saw her
spread before him; her white skin revealed for his eyes and his touch. But, he
would remain in control tonight. He was a man of honor. Isabeau was more than a
tool for revenge; she had become a possible key to his future.

Donovan
stepped into his chamber and closed the door. With exquisite care, he let the
latch fall. If she was not already in the room, the decision had been made. At
last, he lifted his candle higher and turned.

Isabeau
watched as Donovan entered. She heard the clunk of the latch; as the wooden bar
slid into place. Did he think she would try to run?

She
could not move—how could she run? Her gaze flickered to his face when he
carefully placed his candle on a nearby stand.

The
crackle of the fire was loud in the silent room. Her heart thudded in her
chest. Taking a deep breath, Isabeau gathered her courage. “Do you wish me to
pour your wine?”

“No.”

He
watched her with an intensity that froze her muscles. Why did he not tell her
what to do next
?
She licked her lips and strove to remain still. Just a
heartbeat longer, she coaxed herself.

“Do
you want me to go to your bed and lie on my back now?” Where had her voice come
from?

“No!”

The
anger in his single word fortified her fears. Why was he angry?  She only
wanted to please him. Why would he not tell what he wished?  How was she
to guess?  This was her biggest fear. She had never been married.

She
raised her gaze back to his shadowed face. Resolution molded his expression.
Did he find her so displeasing that he needed fortification to take her? 
He stalked into the shadows, his back to her. In the dim light, she could just
see his movements as he unfastened the belt that held his weapons. Was he about
to undress?

Should
she remove her nightgown? Blanche had not mentioned such a thing. She had only
told Isabeau about the wife’s duty.

What
did Donovan look like beneath his tunic?  When he shed his breeches? 
She suddenly felt she had swallowed an apple—whole—and it stuck in her throat.

She
imagined touching Donovan’s bare skin. To be skin to skin to him?  Her
heart stopped.

She
minded each of his motions.    

He
hung his belt on the posts protruding from the wood paneling. His shoulders
seemed broader, his height greater as he stood there in the half light, his
back to her. She waited to see what he would remove next.

She
was unprepared for his abrupt turn. His movement so startled her that she fell
into the back of the chair. Using her death-grip on the chair-arms, she tried
to recapture a modicum of poise.

Donovan
stepped towards the hearth to hunker down in front of the flames. He jabbed at
the coals with the poker, unnecessarily in Isabeau’s mind. She had already seen
to the fire—at his behest.

 
Rising to his feet, he placed the poker in its stand with great precision. “Are
you warm enough?”

“Pardonez?”
Isabeau wanted to giggle.

Donovan
explained as he turned to face her. “After spending so much time billeting on
some God-forsaken battlefield, I forget how cold and damp these old walls stay
even at the height of summer.”

She
would have waved away his concerns but she was too busy holding tight to the
chair. “I am warm enough, my lord.”

“Are
you frightened?”

She
swallowed as she tried to find an honest answer while not showing herself to be
a ninny. “I am unnerved.”

“Unnerved?”
He cocked a brow just a bit. “Is it my face which unnerves you? My scar?”

“Your
scar?” She felt like an idiot, repeating everything he said.

“Are
you bloody blind, woman?” He waved his hand emphatically towards his face. “Can
you not see it?”

“Of
course, I can see it.” She leaned forward as she looked closer. “The mark
saddens me.”

“Saddens
you?” She heard confusion in his gruff tone.

“Yes,
my lord.” She nodded once slowly, and then tilted her head slightly to the
right as she thoroughly examined the underside of his chin. “I regret the wound
which caused it. The pain you must have endured. I wonder who bandaged it. Most
of all, I worry of what would have happened had the blow been a little deeper—a
little lower.”

“It
does not repulse you?” he asked disbelievingly. “Marta…” his voice trailed off.

“Why
should your scar repulse me?”

“Because
it is ugly. My skin puckers in places. My face is not perfect, but the scar
marks me. It is a constant reminder of violence. A reminder that I have killed,
will kill again.”

“Who
told you that?” she asked with disbelief. “You do not believe such—such swill?”

“Do
I not?”

“No,”
she repeated with more calm. “No, you do not. Your face is free of whiskers. If
the scar brought you shame, a beard would cover most of it easily enough.”

“There
are more. I have many more scars. Some not as faded as this one. Marta thought
them grotesque.”

“Why?”

“Why?”
he repeated impatiently. “Because they are.”

“No.
Why do you have so many wounds?  Do you not take care to defend yourself?”
she scolded. “Are you trying to die?”

 “Would
that matter to you?”

“Pah!”
she scoffed. “I have no wish to be a widow.”

“And
a wife?  Do you wish to be a wife?”

She
sat back a little and answered quietly. “I am here.”

“You
were reluctant enough to comply with your brother’s wishes to become a wife.
You ran away. How do things differ now?”

“Those
were completely different circumstances,” she declared emphatically.

“How?”

“You
are a different manner of man than Kirney.”

“Because
I am
a
earl?”

“By
the Saints, no!  If you were the son of a farmer and
he
a king, you would still be a man, whereas Kirney is a beast. No amount of
frippery or finery will disguise the difference.”

“You
make this bold declaration though I have placed you in a vulnerable position.”
His tone was heavy with sarcasm.” I made only the betrothal vows of
Per
Verba de Futuro
. Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes,”
she nodded stiffly, but he explained anyway.

“It
means, with just a word, I am free to sever our alliance. You could be set
adrift to once again face your brother’s ambitious whims. You are here, in this
room, apparently ready to accept my seed into your body. What if I plunder your
body then cast you aside?  I could deny knowing you even should you birth
a child. No one would naysay me. Even the church would hesitate to take the
word of the daughter of a dead baron over that of
a
earl.”

“You
are not a beast,” Isabeau argued, albeit through a tight throat. Why was he
making such threats?  “You would not get me with child and then abandon
me.”

“How
do you know?” he pressed.

“No
man who kissed me this day with such fire would treat me so badly. Besides, you
said yourself that you need a son—an heir.”

“Fire,”
he murmured, and shifted slightly as if to approach her. With a deep sigh, he
said instead, “And if there is no child?  I will have taken your
maidenhead—your matrimonial value will be gone. No other man will have you.”

“If
I am barren, I will retire to the convent. I am prepared to join the Sisters of
Saint Agatha if I cannot to conceive,” she added proudly. “I will not deny you
an heir. You will be free to make another alliance.”

From
the moment he entered the room to see her waiting in his chair, he knew he
would not be able to surrender her to the convent. He watched Isabeau’s pulse
flutter in her throat. His own blood thrummed in his ears to the same rhythm.
By the saints, she was beautiful! He wanted to touch her—to feel the soft silk
of her skin. He yearned to take her in his arms—to soothe her fears. Never
before had he experienced a desire so intense as to be painful. His body was
ready         to take her at that
moment.

His
eyes flicked from Isabeau to the fireplace, to the candles, to the braziers,
back to his wife. Her eyes had followed his gaze. “I propose this night we create
another type of fire.” Donovan stepped in front of the chair, her knees no
distance from his, and extended his hand. Her fingers trembled as she reached
to clasp his palm.

“Come
share wine with me.”

It
was vital he maintain his control. They would wed on the morn and he would no
longer have to rein in all of his lusts. But still a flutter of anxiety touched
his heart. For his own peace of mind, he had to know they would share passion
as well as his seed.

He
led Isabeau across the room and putting his hands about her tiny waist, lifted
her onto the bed. He poured the wine and handed it to her, saying, “Don’t be
frightened.” He tried to assure her as he smoothed back her hair against her
temple with his other hand.

Isabeau
gulped her wine and asked, “Are you going to stuff your rod in me now? 
Blanche said you would do it on the bed.”

He
trailed his finger along her jaw until he reached her chin. His forefinger
tilted her head. “Let us forget about Blanche and her lessons. We will go our
own way.”

She
quivered against his delicate touch.

“Do
you dislike my hand on you?”

“Nay.
Your touch is not unpleasant.” She licked her lips and he wanted to lean in and
kiss them. “The sensation when your fingers glide over me-my skin…” She
swallowed before continuing. “I do not comprehend how they make me feel or why
I want…”

“What? 
Want what?” he coaxed urgently.

“I
do not know. More?”

Donovan
surrendered to his craving, his lips caressed hers. “More? Tell me,” he
whispered then. “What do you want?” He reached for the ribbons on her bed robe
and slowly pulled the top bow open. His heart began to race. He leaned in to
explore the newly exposed white skin. The second ribbon slipped loose and his
tongue traced her fluttering pulse above her collar bone. Red wine trickled onto
the coverlet as the goblet escaped her fingers.

Her
hands came to rest against his chest. Tension coursed through him, was she
going to push him away? The breath rushed from his lungs as her fingers began
to softly knead his shirt.

The
last stubborn loop yielded to his tugs. The bed robe fell open revealing her
chemise. He slid the heavy night robe from her shoulders, dislodging her hands
from his chest. The firelight outlined her slender body beneath her thin shift.
Donovan’s eyes traveled from the wonder on her face, to her alabaster
shoulders, to her perfect breasts. His lips followed the path of his fingers.
  

Gasping,
she attempted to move away, but he cupped the back of her head with one hand,
holding her fast. “Trust me,” his voice was husky as he dredged the sound from
the depths of his control.

He
traced his other hand down her white throat into the valley between her
breasts. The temptation to dance a pattern over ripe woman was too strong to
resist. He wondered if desire or embarrassment caused her cheeks to glow as her
nipples hardened.

“Ease,
ease,” he crooned, as to a fractious colt. “Together we will find joy.”

 “What
would you have me do, my lord?”

He
lifted her braid and toyed with the ribbon, pulling it free. His fingers untangled
the long strands. “I have wanted to bury my hands here since I watched the fire
turn it to waves of gold at Olivet.”

Isabeau
leaned forward. Donovan pulled the silky locks over her sensitive breasts.

He
settled his lips on her shoulders and whispered. “I want to see all of you.”
The chemise slid from her shoulders. Her white skin glowed in the firelight. He
saluted each of her breasts with a kiss.      

As
she sighed, he worked the shift over her hips and down her legs. Gently, he stroked
down her belly to her woman’s place. He pulled his head back so he could watch
her face. Her hazel gaze darted to where he touched her.

He
watched emotions flicker over her expressive face as he petted her curls. The
heat of arousal tinted her skin. Fear, curiosity and surprise colored her
cheeks.

He
held her motionless as he lowered his mouth to hers. He teased, tempted. The
tip of his tongue demanded entrance. She opened her mouth as he had taught her.
  

She
went up in flames under his continued stroking, mapping her contours. His hand
cupped her warm curls. She pushed against his probing fingers.

Contrary
to Dame Granya’s predictions, he would not require Isabeau drugged, then
dragged to his bed. No one would need force her to come to his chamber, to do
his bidding.

Her
whimpers were growing in strength. He stretched beside her; his body straining
for relief. Moisture slicked his fingers. He found no surcease in her writhing
against his trapped erection.

“Donovan,”
she moaned, “I feel so strange. What is happening to me?”

He
stroked the hard nubbin again and she exploded in his arms.

Donovan
breathed hard, trying to control his raging body. His pleasure could wait until
the morrow—after they wed.