Rose Bride (33 page)

Someone had dressed the end pews in white silk roses, like those in her hair, and trailed ivy in and out between the ornate fretwork of the pew gates. Kate, she guessed, but did not dare pause to admire the beauty and elegance of the floral decoration. She was too busy not catching anyone’s eye, in case she lost her nerve and dashed from the chapel still unwed, and also remembering to breathe, which was harder than she could have imagined.

Her heart was thudding and she was astonished her legs carried her the last few feet without buckling. No doubt Wolf’s steadying presence at her side had some influence over that, she thought, and was immensely grateful to him, his past sins against her suddenly insignificant compared to his great service to her these past dreadful days.

Kate Langley slipped into the pew beside Mistress Carew, who smiled and whispered, ‘You look so comely, Margerie!’

Wolf relinquished her with a bow, then stood to one side. Virgil Elton was already on his knees before the priest, very stiff, staring straight ahead.

He did not glance at her as she sank to her knees beside him. But it was not hard to read his mood, she thought wearily. Resentment burnt in every line of his body. The king’s physician had been forced into this marriage, instructed to marry a nobleman’s mistress to conceal her shame, and he wanted everyone in the chapel to know it.

Margerie studied his rigid profile as the priest addressed them, looking hurriedly away when he turned as though sensing her gaze.

She felt sick, and swayed there on her hard little kneeler, horribly light-headed, the chapel darkening around them as though the sun had gone in. For what felt like hours, she fought against a very strong inclination to faint, and remained upright on her knees, listening to the priest droning on in Latin at times, and occasionally in English, and the congregation shifting uncomfortably on their buttocks, and even Virgil beside her as he muttered his responses, his voice deep and abrupt.

Her own voice sounded thin and breathless, like that of a young girl, barely audible even to those in the pews directly behind them, she was sure. But the priest, though he looked at her intently at one point, seemed satisfied that her vows were sincere.

Then they were standing, his hand helping her up after the long time spent on her knees, and they were married, it seemed.

He tipped her chin up and brushed his mouth against hers as though they were strangers.

‘Now into Kent,’ Virgil muttered, and she said nothing.

He drew her along out of the chapel and into a rain of white blossom. The early spring had furnished the congregation with fresh petals, and they showered both bride and groom as they ducked under the archway, cheering lightly as Virgil lifted her in his arms like a true husband, carrying her across the cobbled yard to the horse-drawn litter that would take them to his home in Kent.

Her home too, now.

Kate gripped her cold hand as Margerie leant down out of the litter, staring at her friend, suddenly desperate not to go. She did not even realise she was weeping until Kate tried to comfort her.

‘Do not cry, dearest. I will see you when you are allowed to return to court,’ Kate promised her, smiling. ‘Or send for me when you are confined, whichever comes sooner. The queen may consent to release me for a few weeks.’

Virgil had been talking to Lord Wolf, a little apart from the others. Now he climbed into the litter beside her, grim-faced, and signalled the driver to depart. The juddering cart swayed along the narrow path to the palace gates, and within a few minutes they had passed beyond the high palace walls and begun lumbering south.

She sat tensely, the litter curtains flapping loosely in the wind. Now they were safely on the open road, she half-expected him to kiss her properly, not just brush her lips with his own as he had done at the chapel.

The driver would not know if he kissed her, not with the curtains drawn about them. Besides, it was his right now, and she could not deny him under the law. Virgil Elton could do whatever he wished with her body, chastise her at his will, force her to serve him, to couple with him whenever he wished. For he was her husband now, and she belonged to him outright. It was her duty to obey him, and she knew his carnal appetite. He would enforce that duty with his hand if need be.

To be possessed without love, day after day, year after year, until death parted them, seemed the most terrible thing to her.

So why was she trembling in the hope that he would kiss her? Wanton fool!

Virgil did not even look at her though, settling back against the hard bench with his eyes closed and his cap drawn down to hide his face.

The space was narrow. She could feel the heat of his thigh against hers like a fire, scorching through the green gown she had worn for her wedding. There was still a scattering of white blossom on his shoulder, she noticed, and almost lifted her hand to brush it off. Then froze, stopping herself just in time.

She must not touch him. It was too bold for this confined space, too open to being misread as an invitation to intimacy.

Heat flooded her cheeks as she imagined them coupling passionately on this bench, their bodies swaying to the jerking rhythm of the litter. Of course, she would have to kneel and ride on top . . .

‘Who gave you that necklace?’ he suddenly demanded, interrupting her lewd and heated thoughts. His eyes narrowed on the blush in her cheeks. ‘Munro?’

She nodded, her mouth too dry to speak.

‘Take it off.’

She obeyed, her hands trembling, and he watched her without speaking.

‘Get some sleep while you can,’ he said curtly. ‘We will stop for the night at the Green Man, just beyond Redhill, and should reach Applegate after noon tomorrow.’

They were the first words he had spoken to her since leaving the chapel, she realised, quickly hiding the unwelcome necklace in the folds of her skirt. Judging by his refusal even to look at her, their wedding night at the Green Man would not be a joyous occasion. Yet she doubted he would spurn her body once night fell and they were in bed. They had not lain together in months, and he was too physical a man for abstinence, even when wielded as a punishment.

Applegate.

His home in Kent sounded like a goodly place, a vision of rich fertile greensward and long-established orchards, rather like the delightful estate in Sussex that Munro had promised her – and never delivered. It certainly did not sound like a prison. Yet it would become
her
prison.

She should never have agreed to marry him. Not when he so clearly resented having to abandon his betrothed for her. There had been no other choice though, not with his child inside her.

Once she had thought they might have a future together, that Virgil was beginning to feel something for her. Now the long years of their marriage stretched ahead without his love, cruel and barren as a desert. Oh, he would take her once he was ready. She knew that. He was her husband; he would not deny himself that pleasure. But without love, his cold possession would feel more like a rape than love-making.

Her womb might bring forth life with Virgil Elton by her side, but her heart would wither and harden to a stone.

Margerie waited over two hours for her husband to return from downstairs in the Green Man, propped up against the generous bolsters in the inn’s best chamber, the curtains drawn discreetly about the tester bed, a fire burning in the grate. She was wearing a beautifully embroidered silk nightgown, given to her as a wedding gift by Kate, and though it seemed a little loose about her breasts and hips, it felt luxurious against her skin. In a sudden moment of daring, she had dabbed a subtle rose scent against the back of each knee and behind her ears.

Everything was ready, everything was prepared for their wedding night. But the groom remained absent.

She thought of that narrow cot at Richmond Palace, with its creaking ropes and straw mattress, or his desk, neither of them comfortable for the lady, while the candlelight lit up her shamelessly naked body.

Tonight Virgil would bed her in this soft darkness, as a husband beds his wife on their wedding night, with clean and lawful propriety. It seemed bloodless.

Would he think it so as well?

Still she waited, listening to the sounds of men carousing drunkenly in the tavern below, and still her husband did not come. At last, overcome by the nervous trials of the past few days and her own physical exhaustion, she fell asleep.

She woke to the bed tipping gently as someone climbed in beside her. The candle was out, and the fire too. But she knew it was Virgil.

‘Margerie?’ he whispered.

She held her breath, not answering. She wanted him inside her, wanted him so badly her body trembled and the physical need was like a knife to her belly. Yet at the same time she could not bear the thought of him touching her, kissing her, making her cry out with pleasure under him – and all the while despising her for a wanton.

‘I know you’re awake,’ he said drily. ‘So stop hiding under the covers, little coward.’

Virgil fumbled for her hand in the darkness, then drew it to him. She gasped, recoiling as she touched bare flesh and realised he was naked. But he would not let her go, his cruel fingers biting into her wrist.

‘Touch me,’ he ordered her.

Her hand closed about his cock, already hard, erect. Her lips parted, and she found herself breathing lightly and quickly, her hand stroking him firmly, back and forth, up and down, pleasuring him just as she had been wont to do as his mistress. His cock was very long and thick tonight, throbbing in her hand, as though his lust had grown as strong as hers after her long absence from his bed.

Margerie longed to set her mouth there too, to moisten him for the ride, but it seemed he had other ideas. ‘Enough!’ Virgil suddenly groaned, and pushed her roughly away. ‘Lie down.’

She obeyed, and felt her husband reach down, lifting the heavy hem of her embroidered nightgown, raising the material to her waist. She lay exposed to him, wet and trembling, eager to be entered and stretched. She could not see his expression but heard his breathing quicken, and guessed he was already at a high pitch of excitement.

‘Open your legs to me, Margerie.’

Again she obeyed at once, thrilling to the dark authority in his tone, and he touched her between her legs, first cupping her mound, stroking the fine curls there, then slipping a finger experimentally inside her wet depths. Another finger joined it, then three, then four, pressing into her tightness as though exploring how ready she was to take his cock.

He did not stroke her with his fingers though, merely held them inside her, rotating his wrist until his thumb was trying to enter her too, stretching her moistening entrance until she could not bear it any longer . . .

She moaned, writhing with pleasure against his hand. ‘Oh yes, Virgil!’

Suddenly his fingers were withdrawn. ‘You are my wife now. Not my whore. You will be silent when we couple. I do not wish to hear such lewd sounds from you.’ He leant close and she could smell wine on his breath. ‘Do I make myself plain, Margerie?’

She licked dry lips. ‘Yes,’ she managed to whisper, smarting from the unexpected reprimand.

‘Yes,
sir
,’ he prompted her.

Her heart felt like it would burst, it was thudding so hard.

‘Yes, sir,’ she repeated, and felt a hot gush of pleasure between her legs at the words, her power given up so submissively, so yieldingly, to the man who now owned her.

He positioned himself at her entrance, then pushed inside, filling her with one hard thrust. He felt impossibly large and she had to bite down on her lip to prevent herself uttering a cry, her whole body jerking in shock.

‘Lie still while I take my pleasure,’ he commanded her.

He was forceful, coupling with intent, his breath rasping in the darkness. She lay still beneath him, and felt his strong lean body move against his, rising and falling, working inside her until she was wet and open, her body responding against his order, against her very will. But it was impossible not to respond.

She had always feared becoming any man’s possession, had run terrified from Wolf when he showed her this force, and from the king when he would have used her too. Yet with Virgil, it was a natural pairing, male and female, earth and water, and his demand for submission was part of that, not a lessening of her self but a completing of it.

He shifted suddenly, breaking his own rhythm, and dragged up her bare legs, bending them, pushing them back and open so he could lie between them. Anchored there, he took his weight on his hands and lowered into her again, driving deep, lying stomach to stomach.

Pumping into her with long hard strokes, he turned his head and sought her mouth in the darkness. She gasped against his mouth, for she had not expected a kiss. Not after his coldness. And it was not a brutal kiss but a subtle one, arousing her still further, showing her that even a kiss could make her womb ache with a sudden raw need.

He licked inside her mouth, not concealing his greed, playing games with her tongue. First he tasted her lips separately, light delicate brushwork that set her trembling. Then he teased her mouth wide and pushed his tongue between her lips, withdrawing slowly only to thrust back inside, each deep wet invasion aping the thrusts of his hips.