Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love (14 page)

Farah and Alfonso may have knelt shoulder to shoulder before the sarcophagus of Sancho Ramírez for an hour, or ten. Neither spoke. Farah felt the presence of the powerful father she had never met. She imagined he resembled the giant at her side.

Her thoughts wandered as the sanctifying incense that burned perpetually in the chamber filled her nostrils. She thanked her father’s spirit for the gift of Isembart de Montbryce, for the love Sancho had borne her mother, for the kindness of the warrior king, her half-brother, for Georges de Giroux, and even for Berthold de Quincy.

She wondered if her father’s intercession had brought about the miracle aboard ad-Daula’s vessel that had enabled her to remain untouched.

Her life had changed in unforeseen ways. There had been many blessings, trials, losses, and triumphs. She remembered the difficult journeys that had brought her to this holy place. She had followed routes trodden by many pilgrims, men and women full of hope, many of them seeking miracles. She had much to be thankful for, but she had one more miracle to beg—for Izzy.

A barely perceptible breeze wafted through the Pantheon. Candle flames flickered. Clouds of incense drifted. Alfonso raised his head in apparent surprise. They were well within the monastery.

Farah squeezed her eyes tight shut and gripped the iron railing, afraid she might swoon. “Please,” she mouthed silently. “Please, father.”

Confused images and sounds assailed her thoughts. “I am not a saint,” an inner voice whispered. “You must seek the help of a saint.”

She opened her eyes slowly. Alfonso was staring at her, frowning. He took her hand. “You heard him? He spoke to you?
Sí
?”

She blinked as tears trickled down her face. “
Sí
,” she rasped.

He squeezed her hand and let out a long breath. “I often come here when I am troubled. My father never fails to help me. I am elated you feel his presence.”

“I asked for a miracle,” she whispered shyly.

Alfonso touched his hand to her scar. “For this?”

She no longer gave much thought to her disfigurement, thanks to the man who loved her and made her feel she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She shook her head. “No. For Izzy.”

Alfonso arched his brows. “And what was my father’s message?”

Farah felt foolish, fearing she had imagined the whole thing. “He told me to seek the help of a saint. I did not understand.”

Alfonso leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You have already travelled far on the Pilgrims’ Path to a saint. Perhaps you and Izzy are meant to go all the way to Santiago de Compostela.”

~~~

Izzy awaited his bride at the door of the chapel, resplendent in a tunic emblazoned with the devise of the King of Aragón. He had discovered one of Alfonso’s servants outside his cell on his return from the Pantheon. “
Su
Majestad
sent these clothes with his compliments. He does you great honour.”

Izzy would have preferred to be wed with the Montbryce devise on his chest, but his own clothes were not fit for a man about to wed a princess. He accepted and allowed the servant to help him dress.

Passing the door to Farah’s cell, he heard soft female voices. Alfonso had doubtless provided suitable clothing and servants for her also. It was not an everyday occurrence for a king to marry off his sister!

Amadour had arrived at the chapel before him and now stood proudly at Izzy’s side, also clad in Aragonese clothing. “It’s not every day a man’s friend marries a princess,” he quipped, elbowing Izzy in the ribs.

Within the chapel, a cantor led monks in a chant, the like of which Izzy had never heard before. They chanted in Aragonese, not Latin. Their deep, sonorous voices touched his soul. He took a deep breath, peacefully certain that fate had brought him to the right time and place, to the right woman, his soulmate. He had been stricken with the Montbryce curse after all!

When Farah came into view on the arm of her brother, Izzy’s mouth fell open.
Suitable clothing
was definitely inadequate. She was a queen in a jewel encrusted gown, its rubies and sapphires twinkling in the light cast by the torches held high by Alfonso’s attendants. Her long hair was piled atop her head in an elaborate arrangement. He itched to get his hands on it and pull out the pins that held it in place, one by one. He wanted to wrap his body in her thick black curls. He closed his mouth, suddenly aware he was drooling.

A delicate circlet of gold nestled atop the glorious creation, and a black lace
mantilla
covered her face, its edges brushing the swell of her breasts, emphasizing their promise. It was fortunate the foreign tunic reached to his knees. His shaft was rock hard. He brushed away the sweat from his upper lip.

Farah’s unfathomable expression when she had emerged from the Pantheon had caused him concern. She had kept her eyes downcast. Had Alfonso tried to talk her out of the marriage? She had gone off to her cell and Alfonso had invited him to enter the Pantheon, but had said nothing as the two men knelt briefly before the tomb. Izzy had the strangest feeling he had been there before, but dismissed it. Crypts tended to give him odd thoughts.

It amazed him that the incredibly beautiful, talented, and generous woman smiling at him as the priest intoned the words of the marriage rite was agreeing to share her life with him. Aragonese was not his language, but it somehow seemed more fitting than the Latin rite a Norman priest would have used.

When her hand was placed in his, she swirled her thumb in his palm and smiled. It struck him how right their hands looked together.

~~~

María Sancha Tarazona gazed at the hand of the courageous man she was marrying, feeling his warmth spread through her body. She longed to heal his pain, but he would not allow it. Should she tell him of her vision, if that’s what it had been, or would he believe she abhorred his infirmity when in truth she ached to feel his loving hands on her breasts, her thighs, her secret place?

She heard the priest’s words spoken in a language learned from her mother, whispered in secret. Though her mother’s remains lay buried in far-off Jerusalem, Farah believed her spirit travelled with her, wherever she went. Was María Catalina at long last content to rest in the place where her lover’s body lay entombed?

Alfonso had assured Farah that he would provide a token dowry for her. At the appropriate moment in the ceremony, the king stepped forward and placed a parchment scroll into the hands of the priest, who then presented it to Izzy.

A knight appeared with a gold salver and Izzy placed the scroll on it, nodding in acknowledgement to Alfonso. Farah smiled at her brother, disappointed when he remained stony-faced!

What was he up to?

She had no time to worry further when Izzy put his hands on her waist and claimed his husband’s kiss. His body drew hers like a lodestone and she felt the ridge of his hard arousal pressed against the place that throbbed for him. His lips were warm, his kiss full of love and desire. His tongue flicked into her mouth for only an instant, a promise of things to come. His smile when they broke apart filled her heart with gratitude.

Berthold led the knights in a round of cheers. Izzy and Farah looked up when another melodious chant sounded from the gallery.

Farah stole a glance at her new husband. Many difficulties lay ahead, but they would face them together now.

When they left the chapel, servants dressed in Alfonso’s livery ushered them away from the refectory. Farah’s puzzled expression told Izzy she too did not know where they were going.

They came to a corridor they had not visited before. Two Aragonese soldiers stood guard before a set of elaborately carved doors embossed with gold curlicues. They opened the doors with great flourish.

Alfonso awaited them, seated at the head of a well-laden table in the centre of a chamber that was unlike any other they had seen. While not opulent, the hearty fire in the hearth, the rich tapestries and wolf skin rugs clearly distinguished it from the monastic austerity that characterized the rest of the edifice.

Alfonso opened both arms wide, grinning. “Welcome to my royal apartments,” he declared.

He indicated two chairs at his side and bade the newlyweds to be seated. Izzy escorted Farah to her place, then sat beside her. Their hands remained joined.

Alfonso chuckled. “You will have difficulty enjoying the food if you remain clasped together.”

Izzy held Farah’s hand to his lips, then placed it in her lap with a gentle pat. Her eyes betrayed regret at the separation, sending shivers down his spine despite the warmth of the room. Impressive as this banquet room was, he wanted to be in a big, warm bed with his wife, but he worried that he still did not know where that bed was!

Alfonso waved a regal hand, his eyes fixed on Izzy. “My apartments are at your disposal for your wedding night.”

He winked! “Once we are done feasting, you will be escorted to the royal bedchamber.”

Farah’s face reddened. Izzy’s shaft swelled as relief surged through him. His princess would lose her maidenhead in a chamber befitting her rank, in a king’s bed.

He suddenly felt like a king himself.

~~~

The venison was superb, the suckling lamb the best Farah had ever tasted, but she was too nervous to eat much. She laughed at Izzy’s bemused expression when the king told him what the
fardeles
were that he was munching.

“Pig’s livers,” Alfonso explained, biting into one. “Spiced, then wrapped in kidney skins.”

Izzy stopped chewing and looked at his wife. Then he shrugged and resumed his enjoyment of them. “Delicious!”

Many of the dishes served by Alfonso’s servants brought back memories of things whispered in secret in the harem.

“My mother missed the foods of her homeland and told me of these mouth watering
tortas de alma
,” Farah told Izzy as they relished the fried pastries stuffed with pumpkin preserves. “She did not exaggerate how wonderful they are!”

Berthold came to his feet, with Alfonso’s permission, and proposed a toast to Izzy and Farah. “It gladdens my unworthy heart to see these two young people join in matrimony. I regret any part I played in keeping them apart. It is evident they belong together. Long life and happiness.”

Izzy raised his goblet again in thanks once the toast was complete.

Next came Amadour, who cleared his throat nervously. “I am not a Montbryce. However, I have served that noble family for many years, and I hope Izzy will not be offended if I say that I represent the Montbryce family here.”

Izzy raised his goblet in acknowledgement.

“Gerwint Isembart de Montbryce is a credit to his family, one with a long and glorious history in Normandie and England. He is a courageous man, worthy of a princess.”

Farah’s heart was bursting with pride. Izzy was clearly uncomfortable with Amadour’s words of praise, but she knew he appreciated them.

Amadour coughed again. “And Farah. Though I have known her only a short time, her beauty, of face and figure—”

He paused to wink at Izzy and a cheer resounded from the Hospitaller Knights. Izzy grinned, but his face reddened.

“—her grace, her bearing, all have rendered me dumbfounded at the luck of my friend in capturing her heart.”

Laughter rang out.

“Raise your goblets and drink to the health of
Milord
and
Milady
de Montbryce.”

The toast was repeated, goblets drained, then banged heartily on the table.

A hush fell over the gathering when Alfonso rose. Everyone came to their feet, but he indicated they should regain their seats. He looked at Farah. “I did not know until a short time ago that I had a sister.”

Farah wiped away a tear that trickled down her cheek. Izzy handed her a kerchief and put his arm around her shoulder.

“The news elated me. As you may know, my older half-brother, Pedro, who was king before me, died tragically. He was a great and mighty warrior. Alas his beautiful children, Isabela and Pedro, died in infancy. My brother, Ferdinand, is also dead and gone, and my younger brother, Ramiro, is a monk whom I rarely see. The idea of a sister pleased me greatly.”

Farah was struck then by the sacrifice Alfonso had made in allowing her to be free to marry Izzy. She was his only family, apart from his scheming mother.

“No matter where life takes you, sister, never forget that you are Aragonese. I wish good health and happiness to Gerwint Isembart and to María Sancha.”

Everyone echoed the king’s toast and rose when he resumed his seat.

The festivities, the fire and the wine had conspired to make the room uncomfortably warm. Farah felt the weight of the elaborate dress she wore. Soon, Izzy would free her of it. She felt breathless and lightheaded. Tonight she would sleep in a king’s bed, with the man who ruled her heart.

Alfonso brought his goblet down hard on the table, shocking everyone into silence. Farah gripped Izzy’s arm and leaned into him. He ached to put her hand on the persistent arousal that bucked whenever he looked at her.

“
Basta
!” Alfonso shouted. Izzy thought the king may have imbibed too much of the deep red
pacharán
served with the pastries. Its fruity taste was appealing, almost as good as Montbryce apple brandy, but Izzy had drunk it sparingly, suspecting it could quickly render a man witless. He wanted to have his wits about him this night.

Alfonso laboured to his feet. Again, everyone rose. He waved unsteadily towards another set of doors Izzy had not noticed before. “It is time for my little sister and her new husband to proceed to their bedchamber.”

Loud cheers followed his pronouncement. Amadour and a Hospitaller came forward and hoisted Izzy to their shoulders, teasing him good-naturedly. Berthold and another knight beckoned Farah to a chair. They lifted her and led the procession through the now open doors to the bedchamber.

Izzy was dropped unceremoniously onto the enormous bed. Berthold scooped up Farah and placed her next to Izzy. A surge of unreasonable jealousy jolted Izzy at the sight of his wife in another man’s arms, especially Berthold.

The king swaggered into the chamber, followed by the priest who had married them. At a nod from Alfonso, the holy man intoned a prayer of blessing in Aragonese.

Izzy and Farah made the sign of the crucifixion across their bodies, the king shouted, “Everyone, out!” and then they were alone in the suddenly silent chamber, holding hands, lying on the bed, fully clothed.

Farah made an unsuccessful attempt to tamp down the voluminous skirts of her gown and started to giggle. Before long they were both laughing hard until it seemed they could laugh no more. Izzy raised up on one elbow to look at his bride. Her cheeks were flushed, the gold circlet sat askew and her hair was coming down from its elaborate arrangement. Her eyes betrayed her desire for him. She licked her lips nervously, inhaling deeply.

Carefully he took the circlet from her head and placed it on the table beside the bed. He noticed the salver with the scroll had also been left there, but had more pressing things to take care of before he looked at Alfonso’s dowry gift.

He sat cross-legged beside her, putting a hand under her shoulder to help her sit up. He pulled her back against him and proceeded to unpin her hair. He combed his fingers through the thick black curls as they fell loose over her shoulders, inhaling the scent that was Farah—exotic, spicy, intoxicating.

She lay back against him as he nuzzled her neck. He cupped his hands under her breasts and she raised her arms to clasp the back of his neck. “I have ached to hold your breasts since the night you fell asleep in my chamber, Farah.”

She giggled again. “I was too smart for my own good. I brought the spikenard to soothe you, but it put me to sleep.”

Izzy felt her nipples harden, even through the heavy fabric of her gown, when he brushed his thumbs over them. Farah moaned. Izzy shifted his weight. The ache in his male parts was intense. He had to get her out of her clothes. “When I saw you sleeping there, your breast in my hand, I wanted to leap off the bed and press my body on top of yours. I burned to possess you.”

Farah grinned. “I wanted the same thing, but now we will make love for the first time in this grand bed instead of on a cold stone floor.”

His need was becoming unbearable. “I need to see you naked, Farah.”

Her body tensed. “I have no lady’s maid to help me out of this dress. Perhaps Alfonso forgot to send—”

Izzy nibbled her ear. “I will undress you,
mi amor
.”

He shivered, hoping his clumsy hands would be equal to the task.

She put her hands over his and squeezed gently, as if she understood his worry. She slid off the bed and stood, arms raised high above her head, ready for the dance, a gleam in her eyes. “I have never been undressed by a man before.”

Izzy scrambled off the bed, amazed he was not foaming at the mouth like a demented beast. A distant drumbeat pounded in his ears. It was his heart. He stood beside her in the classic gypsy pose, his hip brushing hers, arms raised above his head. He puffed out his chest, arched his back, and raised his chin, responding to her invitation to the dance of love.

She stamped her foot lightly, then kicked off one shoe after the other. They sailed through the air to clatter against the wall. Her mischievous outburst of laughter made his heart and his loins swell. She had obviously not intended they fly so far.

Izzy could never remove his boots with such practised ease, but wanted to dance barefoot with her. He raised his forefinger. “A moment,
señora
de Montbryce, if you please.”

He sat on the edge of the massive bed and struggled to take off his boots. Farah smiled, sinking to her knees to help him. When his boots had followed her shoes, they resumed their pose. “Where were we?’ he quipped.

She raised her chin, flared her nostrils and tossed her head, like a filly that senses the stallion is about to cover her. Tiny winged creatures fluttered in Izzy’s belly.

She whirled to touch her back to his upper arm, clapping her hands together in a slow rhythm that set his feet moving. Then she twirled again to brush her breasts tantalizingly close to his chest. He swallowed hard, dipped his head and slowly turned his hip to touch hers again. He lowered one hand to her waist, she placed a hand on his shoulder, and they turned together in place, slowly, their eyes locked.

She took a step away from him and spread her arms wide like the wings of an elegant bird. He took his lead from her and did the same.

She snaked her arms teasingly in front of his face. He followed suit, grinning.

She raked her hair off her neck and held it atop her head, offering the back of her gown. He fumbled with the laces, then eased the fabric apart, revealing her bare back. He put his hands on her swaying hips and she gasped when he bent to plant kisses along her spine from waist to nape.

She let her hair fall, raised her arms and turned to face him. She touched her forehead to his for an instant, then twirled away. The front of her dress slipped lower and lower as she swayed her shoulders this way and that, until he saw the dusky tops of her areolas. They promised dark, dark nipples. He held his breath when she eased the fabric down to release nipples as brown as nutmeg. They were hard like the nut and as precious and rare as the spice. He thirsted to put his mouth on them.

He helped extricate her arms, which she raised again, swirling away from him, the gown bunched around her waist. She glanced enticingly over her shoulder, her long, elegant fingers doing a dance of their own.

She faced him again, brushing her nipples against his chest, then turned away. He tore off his doublet and shirt so quickly that when she spun back her soft breasts touched his bare chest, and for the briefest moment her mons whispered against his shaft.

He groaned and clasped his arms behind her back, holding her to his body as they danced on, caught up in a rhythm only they could hear. Izzy had never before felt music in his bones.

She pulled away and lifted the hem of her skirts, fisting her hands on her hips. The sight of her bare legs braced in an arrogantly suggestive posture, her beautiful breasts thrust forward in invitation, sent Izzy spiralling out of control. The time for dancing was over. He scooped her up and lay her on the bed, grasped the fabric bunched at her waist and eased it down over her hips. He lifted her bottom and the gown whispered over her legs. He tossed it the way of the shoes.

She blushed under his gaze, but did not cover herself, allowing him to feast his eyes on her nakedness. “Farah,” he rasped. “My joy.”

She put one hand over her scar, but he brushed it away and leaned over to lick the length of ad-Daula’s mark. “You need not cover it for me. It only adds to your beauty. I am your master now.”

Her wide eyes darkened. She took a deep breath and stared at his lips. Her mouth fell open. He slowly touched his lips to hers, once, twice, thrice, nibbling a little harder each time. She moaned and raised her face to his, curling her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts against him. He kissed her hungrily then, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, savouring the warmth, the taste of her. She moaned into his mouth and sucked him, tentatively at first, then with a steady rhythmic pull. Soon their tongues were dancing together and he did not know where he ended and she began.

Though it had been many a year since he had bedded a woman, he had never felt the fire in his veins that consumed him now. He wanted to put his mouth everywhere. He knelt on the bed and swirled his tongue around each rigid nipple in turn. She closed her eyes and pressed her hands to the sides of her breasts.

“
Dieu
, Farah,” he growled, “you are beautiful.”

He took one pouting nipple into his mouth and sucked, gently at first, then harder as his thirst increased. She keened his name, over and over, pressing her breast to his mouth. He changed to the other nipple, rolling the moisture of the first rigid nub between his thumb and forefinger, elated when she stroked his gnarled hand.

“Your touch inflames me, husband,” she whispered. Her passion-filled voice sent more blood rushing to his loins.

He had to get out of his breeches. He climbed off the bed, trailing kisses along her belly as he pulled away, and stood before her. “I want to feel your hands on me again. I have dreamt of it night after night. I promise I won’t fall asleep this time.”

She smiled at his jest.

“Undress me, Farah.”

Now he would lead the dance.

~~~

A tocsin of desire pulsed through Farah’s veins. When she had ministered to Izzy in his chamber at Giroux Castle she had been tempted to tear off his leggings and cast her eyes on his nakedness. She had been overtaken by a peculiar desire to cup his buttocks, press her hand to his male part, massage every tight muscle in his beautiful body.

Now her mouth went dry. Izzy’s suckling had sparked a fire that spiralled from the vee of her thighs to her core. She knew what was to happen between them. Though she had been declared
untouchable
by ad-Daula, women in the harem boasted of their skills in the Governor’s bed. His favourites competed with each other. Farah had often thought many of the things they spoke of were physically impossible.

But she was still an innocent. As a dancer she had been trained to be alluring, taught how to make herself attractive, but she would have to follow Izzy’s lead in learning about intimacy between a man and his wife.

The moment of no return had arrived. She was about to see that most intimate part of him. Her heart was beating wildly. Even she heard it. She had felt Izzy’s hard length pressed against her and suspected that his phallus would be bigger than the withered members nestled atop the thighs of old crusaders brought to the Hospice. Those unexpected glimpses had solidified her disbelief in some of the tales she had heard. With eyes respectfully closed, she had carefully washed and anointed Georges’ limp manhood—but he had been dead, or near to it.

She eased her thumbs into the waist of Izzy’s breeches at his hips. He sucked in his breath and combed her hair back from her face to hold it in a twist at her nape. She looked up at him and he smiled his encouragement, his eyes dark.

She pushed down, baring his buttocks when her fingers slid into the back of the tight garment. But his erection jutted straight out, thwarting her efforts to disrobe him. She looked up at him again, feeling clumsy and unsure.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she murmured.

He smiled. “You’ll have to reach in, and take me out. Don’t worry. You won’t hurt me.”

She knelt at his feet, swallowing hard, tempted to close her eyes as she reached into his breeches. He was hot and heavy, soft and hard, delicate and strong. She pulled carefully and he aided her by pushing his breeches down his legs.

She was glad she had not closed her eyes. Izzy’s manhood was like nothing she had seen before, nor expected to see. When she had heard tell of women putting a man’s male part in their mouths she had been repulsed. Now, she had an overwhelming urge to kiss him, right there on the swollen tip, to swirl her tongue around him, to worship at the altar of this male god she had been fortunate enough to marry. “You are magnificent,” she whispered.

Before she knew it, she had licked him! He tasted sweet, spicy, masculine.

“Farah!” His voice had deepened to a growl.

He cradled her head, moving his hips back and forth in a gentle rhythm. She lessened her grip.

“Is it painful?” she asked.

“Only if you stop,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “Lick me again, Farah, please. Take me in your mouth.”

Farah doubted if she could accept all of him, especially since he seemed to have grown bigger still. How on earth was she supposed to accommodate him inside her body?

She sucked him, swirling her tongue across his tip, pulling on him. The more she sucked and pulled the more urgent became a pulling of her own, deep inside. A flood of warm moisture trickled from between her legs. She pressed her thighs together, partly from embarrassment, partly to ease the urge for him to touch her there.