Betrothed (15 page)

Donovan
suppressed his pleasure when he heard Lady Isabeau’s steps in the hall. She had
haunted his dreams the night before. He left the fireplace and returned to the
chair behind his worktable. Twice this day, the old witch Granya had put
herself in his path spewing poisonous words and dire predictions about an
ill-fated choice of bride. He would never take Granya’s word for anything, but
could a grain of truth have spilled with the cascade of horse dung?

Come the dawn,
he would have answers. Had Isabeau already made her vows to God? A reluctant
bride led to a hellish existence. Could Isabeau find satisfaction in his arms?
He remembered Syllba. How could the vile contagion at Olivet not have tainted
Isabeau, too?

He watched
Isabeau enter his strongroom. The air about her thrummed with a mixture of
trepidation and anticipation. Pink stained her creamy cheeks. Had she raced
through the corridors in order to arrive with such
punctuality.
Would that eagerness remain when he told her what he expected?

She made a
small curtsey and greeted him with the smile which had charmed him at Olivet.
“My lord, you wished to see me?”

His body
reacted. Her shapely form was so feminine, without touching her, he knew she
would be soft and warm. He wanted to trace the curve of her jaw—to sweep his
fingers down her throat to cup her lush breast.

Again, he
wondered how he could have mistaken her for a boy even for a second.
    

Could
Carstairs be right in his speculation?  Am I already bound to my
betrothed?  Had Isabeau bewitched him? Desire curled deep in his belly. He
hoped the emotion
was
just simple lust. Lust was controllable and easily
sated. Desire could grab a man’s soul and lead him down a path best not
traveled. After Marta, he thought no other woman could tempt him beyond his
natural masculine need. He shifted in his chair to be more comfortable.

Isabeau’s hazel
eyes gazed at him through her thick lashes. “Sir, please allow me to express my
gratitude.”

“For what?”
Donovan felt his brows draw together.     

“Why, for all
of my father’s treasures,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

“You will
never return to Olivet. I thought you should have a few remembrances.”

“But you were
too generous.” Her smile revealed a small dimple in her left cheek. “I chose
only four volumes and two pictures from Papa’s solar. I swear his entire
library must have been loaded into the wagons and much more besides.”

“I’ve no
notion…” He trailed off as he remembered Carstairs’ antics when he had returned
from retrieving Isabeau’s jewels from the serpent, Syllba. “I’m sure you can
thank Carstairs for your bridal gifts.”

“Oh,” she bit
her lower lip. A little of her brightness dimmed. “I will.”

Restlessness
gnawed at him, pulling him from his chair behind the worktable. He paced
towards the low fire burning in the hearth—a fire lit to burn off the dampness
of the previous day’s downpour. It brought neither warmth for his cold soul nor
relief from the hunger to taste Isabeau’s soft lips.

He stared into
the flames and commanded, “This night, the hour before matins, you will take a
carafe of wine to my chambers. You will be discreet.”

Her head tilted
to the side as she gave him a questioning look.

“Do you
comprehend?” he demanded gruffly, stepping in front of her. A waft of flowers
mixed with her warm womanly scent nearly drowned his determination. With a
forefinger, he lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him without the filter
of her lashes. Even such a small surface of contact proved her skin as soft as
petals.

Her cheeks
blossomed with color. Her hands clasped before her, she did not move a muscle.
“I am your betrothed,” she whispered. Whether she was trying to remind him or
herself, he didn’t know.

“You will take
the wine to my chambers,” he repeated, ignoring her stiffness.

“As you wish,
my lord.” She would have nodded but he still held her in place as he searched
her face. The green flashed in her eyes, overpowering the brown.

He battled to
keep his voice even. “You will wait for me in my chair.”

Would she be
there—waiting for him when he retired this night?  He turned and walked to
the window. The fields of Bennington stretched before him as he fingered his
scar. He would not suffer another reluctant bride.

“Yes, my
lord,” her voice trembled.

“Have you ever
lain with a man?” he asked in an icy voice.

“No one but
you, my lord.”

The pitch of
her voice was so low, had he not been waiting for her reply he might not have
heard her. Dumbfounded, he watched her throat work. Her answer made no sense.
His latent arousal dissolved. “What swill is this! I have not taken you.” He
crossed the room in two long strides, towering over her.

A tremor betrayed
both fear and confusion she answered. “On the journey from my brother’s keep,
the night by the campfire, my pallet lay next to yours. You are the only man
with whom I have lain.”
             

Could the lady
be so innocent? He hoped he did not hear truth only because he wished it.

“You mistake
my words, my lady. Are you yet a virgin?”

“Aye, my
lord.” Her color deepened.

“This night
our future will be decided. Life is fragile. It is imperative that I have an
heir. I must be certain you will accept me. Marta did her duty. I wish for more
that duty.”

“I understand,
my lord.”

“What know you
of the marriage bed?”

“Blanche told
me the way of things.”

“The old crone
who bade you farewell with such a dour face?” he scoffed. “She looked to have
the bile of Granya.”

“
'Twas
only her look.”
Isabeau ‘s
voice gathered strength. “Blanche is not normally
filled with gloom. She has been as much a mother to me as my own and she feared
tears upon our goodbyes.”

Donovan returned
to his seat behind the desk. Leaning forward he asked, “What words of wisdom
did she bestow upon you?”

“She said that
above all, I should go where my husband bids.”

“A wise woman.
What else?”

“Most husbands
are the same. They have certain expectations of their wives. A wife should
position herself on her back upon the marriage bed and spread her legs.”

Curious and
titillated by the image of Isabeau waiting for him just so, Donovan hid his
smile. “And?”

“A husband has
the right to do as he wills.” Covering her burning cheeks, Isabeau continued,
“If he chooses, he can touch or put his mouth anywhere. Many men will actually
suckle at their wife’s breast.” Her voice faltered as she explained these
intimate matters. “Whether it gives him pleasure or it is to prepare his wife
for their babe, she did not say.”

“Is that all?”
Donovan found himself fascinated with the curve of Isabeau’s breasts. As a
distraction he watched her hands curl into fists and then straighten one finger
at a tine, “Is that all?” he repeated. He wanted to know more.

“No.” Isabeau
shook her head then rushed on. “She said the husband, when properly prepared,
would stuff his rod into the woman’s womb and fill her belly with his seed.”

Had nothing
been said to the girl of coupling’s pleasures? Donovan’s body hungered for her,
even as she stood before him now. But he also saw her apprehension, her unease.
So unlike the knowing Syllba. That unwelcome memory quelled his desire. “I
assure you, you will survive the marriage bed. Women have through the ages.”

Isabeau
swallowed as she gathered courage. “Blanche warned me that often the fit is
difficult. There is pain and blood the first time but it will ease with time.”
Isabeau looked away. “As your wife, it is my responsibility to encourage you to
come inside me at least once a day, preferably more.”

Donovan
smiled. His affection for the old besom grew by the minute. Blanche definitely
gave different advice than Granya gave to Marta. Leaning back, fascinated with
the maid standing before him, he watched the fluttering pulse in her neck.

“The more seed
you sow,” she licked her pink lips, making them glisten in the sunlight. “The
more seed; the sooner my belly will swell. You’ll not want me then and only
then can I rest from my duties.”

Some of his fondness
died. A mild frown form across his brow. “Much of what the old biddy said
could
be true. I wish our union will be more than duty. Much more—or not at all.”

“My lord?”
Isabeau blinked.

“Tonight, we
will both begin to see what kind of woman you are. We will both find out how
you feel. Tonight, I will see how far the pink goes down when you blush.” This
time he could not prevent the smile at her shocked gasp. And why he continued
tormenting both of them he could not fathom. When her flush deepened he actually
laughed. He thanked the saints she still appeared innocent enough not to check
his body for the obvious reactions to their intimate conversation.

He could ease
some of her fears. “Come to me.” He held out his hand.

Her slippered
footfalls soundless, she obeyed his command. He kept his hand steady as he
pulled her soft body to his and slanted his mouth over hers. Her lips were as
smooth and sweet as he imagined. They offered little resistance to the
penetration of his tongue, but, new to the intimacy of a lover’s kiss, Isabeau
clenched her teeth, blocking her mouth to his exploration.

“Open for me,”
he whispered. Desire burned in him, making him forget his original intent.
Slowly she complied.

Isabeau went
rigid at his sudden invasion. He felt her fine tremor as he began a rhythmic
stroking of her tongue. His hands slipped over her breast before resting his
dampening palm upon the small bump of her burgeoning nipple. Hope arose at the
subtle sign of her body’s interest. She was not rejecting his caresses. Her
moan knifed through him as he trailed tiny kisses down her throat until his
lips sucked
the hallow
where her throat joined her
shoulders. Her soft hands kneaded his shoulders.

Reluctantly,
he raised his head.
This is not the time or the place.

He needed time
to be sure of her acceptance. And he needed time—lots of time—to touch her, to
caress her. He needed the time and place when he could be certain they would
not be
disturbed .

He mustered
the will to step back one pace, then another.

She stood and
stared at him, her eyes wide,
her
breath coming in
short gasps.

“Until
tonight,” he growled.

Shaking off
her daze, she scampered to the door. Her hand lifted the latch when he reminded
her in a husky tone. “No one is to know of your visit.”

Isabeau bobbed
her head and fled.

Leaning
against the strong-room door, Donovan watched Isabeau’s escape. Her skirts
swayed as she hurried down the hall. Donovan let out a rushed breath. He
withdrew into the room. Her response to a lover’s touch captivated him.

Marta had
never responded to him. Frowning, he returned to his desk. Donovan remembered
little of his first wedding night, only the white of his bride’s silken
body—the slowness of her movements. In his eagerness to bed his beautiful new wife,
he had mistaken her jerky motions for modesty. He had acquired a modicum of
practice with experienced woman but none with virginity. Nevertheless, he had
tried to guide Marta gently across the threshold of
womanhood    

Later, he was
dismayed to discover Marta had been an unwilling participant. Her kinfolk had
dragged her to the wedding chamber, stripped her and poured a concoction down
her throat. The vile potion had not rendered Marta unconsciousness, but had put
her in a languorous state causing her to accept his advances.

The next
morning, when she had cried over the blood on the sheets, he attempted to
console
her. He acted the noble husband as he soothed and petted and soothed some more.
Then to prove she would never again feel a virgin’s pain, he had taken her once
more. Marta found no consolation in his touch nor did she ever seek out her
groom’s chamber. The only intimacy in his marriage consisted of his knock on
Marta’s chamber closed door.

Though she
never refused him, always accepted him into her bed, he had never brought her
to passion. The only whispers filling his ears were her stringent voice begging
him to be quick.

He broke a
quill in half and tossed aside. The whole business left the taste of ashes in
his mouth, for even a whore’s feigned welcome had held more emotion than his
wife’s. Now he knew the reason for Marta’s distaste for the marriage bed.
Presumably, she would have felt the same towards any male, but the thought gave
him no comfort.

Once Donovan
thought his marriage would change for the better. Shortly after Christian’s
birth, Marta volunteered that her body was well-healed. He could resume his
conjugal visits, but passion remained absent in her bed. She confessed she only
wanted another child—not her husband.