Juliana Garnett (22 page)

“Not as entertaining as it could have been had you come to my chamber, but it will do for now, Luc.” She laughed. “If only you could have seen your face when your lady wife railed at you so meanly. I see that marriage will not always be agreeable for you, my love.”

Still laughing, she accepted Robert’s arm, and the three of them returned to the hall. Loud music and the acrid smell of smoke greeted them when the doors opened, and Luc blinked at the stinging haze. Tumblers were performing, leaping and rolling about the middle of the hall floor to capture the interest of the guests.

Yet Luc was well aware of interest diverting to him, from the king as well as Ceara. It did not help that he felt guilty, and it angered him that he should. He had done nothing wrong. He should not be made to feel as if he had. Nor would he, not even by William.

But the king said nothing beyond a courteous remark that
the acrobats were quite amazing, and Luc agreed. Ceara sat rigidly in her chair, eyes riveted on the rope dancer that balanced precariously on the narrow width of cord stretched high over the castle floor.

In that moment, Luc felt much the same as the rope dancer must, balanced high above hazards that awaited him. If he swayed too far to either side, he would plummet to the cold stone.

Ceara shot him a narrowed glance from beneath her lashes, and he was suddenly impatient to have it all behind him. The night, the consummation that would legalize their wedding—all of it weighed heavily. He wanted it done, so that he could leave York.

Rising to his feet, Luc signaled the king that he was ready to end his participation in the wedding feast, and William smiled assent.

“Ah, it is time for the wedding night to begin, I see. You have our blessing, Lord Louvat, you and the lady.”

William rose to his feet and offered a toast to the bride and groom, and England’s blessing upon them. The toast was echoed by many others, finally ending with a jocular toast from Robert de Brionne, who wished them healthy sons and beautiful daughters to grace their old age.

“And may they all look like the lady, instead of their homely sire,” he ended to the accompaniment of much laughter from the guests.

But when Luc turned to Ceara, he was surprised by the stricken panic in her wide blue eyes as she realized the moment was at hand. Curse her, the worst had been done. What could she possibly fear from him now?

A
DRAFT STIRRED
the wall hangings and made the candle flames dance. Shadows undulated across the walls and over the high, wide bed against the far wall. Ceara did not move. She would break into pieces if she dared move a muscle. All about were smiling faces, the Saxon and Norman barons who had come to witness the ceremonial bedding of the newly married couple.

It was a formality only, a ritual intended to complete the legal binding of the newly wedded couple. As she was widowed—and the events preceding the marriage were dubious—there would be no humiliating rite of public undressing and showing of the sheets afterward. All that was, thankfully, unnecessary.

Yet still, even this, the crowding into the chamber by barons and king, was fraught with tension for her. She did not want to look at Luc, much less lie beside him in the huge bed heavy with draperies. Nor did she wish to suffer the excited attentions of the giggling serving women who had removed her wedding garments and now garbed her in a soft flowing gown of fine linen embroidered with delicate stitchery and tiny pearls. It was a travesty. A mockery of all it should have been. Did no one else
see it? Was she the only one to recognize that the king’s efforts to gently bind Saxon and Norman were for naught?

Yes, and yes. Luc was aware of it. It was in his eyes, in his voice and his taut posture. How did he speak with their well-wishers as if they would soon return to Wulfridge and marital harmony? Yet she had heard him plainly, the regret in his voice when he told Lady Amélie:
“My liege lord bade me wed, and that I have done … I will make the best of it, just as you made the best of your lot when your father wed you to Lord de Vescy. Now let us go inside, each to our own lives.…”

Her fingernails dug into her palms, but she allowed two serving women to guide her to the bed, where she stepped up the wooden assist to the high, thick mattress. Amid much laughter and bawdy jokes—she blushed to hear them and for once truly wished she did not understand their language—she was tucked beneath the coverings and her gown duly removed. A brief spurt of rebellion flared, but the image of being forcibly parted from her garments rose up to taunt her and she submitted silently. The lovely gown was laid over the end of the bed as she held the bedclothes up to her chin and waited in a stew of apprehension.

Luc was escorted to the bed by a much rowdier pair of gentlemen, one of them being Sir Robert. She averted her eyes when Luc was stripped of his clothing with none of the restraint that had been given her, then fairly tossed into the bed. More jests were made, then the king demanded that all depart and leave the couple in peace to begin their married lives.

A candle was placed atop a table near the bed, and in a few moments the chamber was empty of all save Luc and Ceara. As the door slammed shut, the echoes sounded much too loud in the sudden stillness.

It was cool, even beneath the warm coverings, and the bed hangings shifted in the room’s drafts. Ceara shivered. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as Luc turned toward her, and his voice betrayed nothing of what he felt.

“We are to consummate in order to be bound legally.”

“I know that.”

Silence fell again, thick and freighted with tension. Luc’s breathing seemed overloud, and the heat of his body seemed much too close though there was a good foot of empty space between them. He lay back upon the fat feather pillows and stared up at the canopy overhead.

“This is of your own making, Ceara,” he said into the thick silence.“If you did not want this, you should not have provoked William. I tried to warn you. As seems usual for you, you did not listen to wiser heads.”

She turned toward him angrily. “I wanted to go home. To
my
home. Wulfridge is mine, not yours, no matter how many dead Saxons you had to walk over to get it.”

He sat up again, the covers falling down from his chest as he faced her, tension scoring grooves on each side of his mouth. “Pray tell me, gentle mistress, how many dead men do you think your father walked over to keep Wulfridge? And his father before him? And before him? How many were slain to take the lands from those who held them first? That castle is Roman in origin. Do you not think that your ancestors took it by force? Do you think the only blood spilled there is innocent? Nay, do not prate to me of such foolish things, for I know the ways of war far better than do you.”

“You should. You wage it often enough.” She drew a deep, painful breath, shaking with emotion. Honesty demanded that she recognize the truth of his claim. Sorrow reminded her that he wanted another woman in his bed.

“Yea,” Luc said softly, “I do wage war often. It is the only life I have known since I was but a lad. Unlike you, who took it up as a caprice, war is my profession. I was trained to it from the time I was old enough to heft a wooden sword in my hands, since I was old enough to learn that one does not suffer blows without striking back. Do not think to lesson me on war, milady, for you are a poor pupil trying to teach a master.”

“And yet—”

“Do not say it.”

His soft warning held a wealth of menace, and she paused. To remind him again of how she had bested him might provoke him too greatly. After a moment, she looked away, brushing angrily at the tears in her eyes. It was all so hopeless, and any tenderness she had once thought to find in him was only an illusion. She had gravely erred if she thought this man felt any kindness toward her. He was just as he seemed—savage and warlike. A true Norman.

And she had seen him hold another woman in his arms, a woman he had freely chosen. How he must hate her for coming between them.

They lay there quietly for a time, staring up at the bed canopy and listening to the muffled noise of merriment that drifted from the great hall. York castle was unfinished yet, so sound traveled through the thin walls easily. She could hear the melodies of lute and lyre, accompanied by the thin sweet tune of a flute. It was a Saxon ballad like those she had heard as a child, and she closed her eyes, suddenly grieving for all that had been lost to her.

“It will do you no good to weep, Ceara,” Luc said after a time. “What is done is done.”

“What would you know of it?” Her throat ached from holding back sobs, and her eyes were hot and scratchy with suppressed tears. “You have won all. It is not your home that is lost to you.”

“Yet I know that grief.”

Opening her eyes, she turned her head to glare at him. “Do not think to ply me with empty words when you know nothing of what I feel!”

Luc turned on his side, propping his head on his palm to gaze at her with narrowed eyes. “Do you think you are the only one to ever lose your home? At least it was through no fault save that of greater arms.”

“I suppose you want me to be grateful that my home was lost to you instead of to the Scots or the Danes. I see little difference between you. You are all predators, rapacious and greedy. Why should I care if Wulfridge is lost through war or wit? Do not make light of it.”

“I do not make light of it. But you should think for a moment. You are not the only one to suffer loss. Is the world to stand still for you, Ceara de Wulfridge?” His voice was angry, and the hand he placed on the mattress between them was fisted. “No, do not talk to me of your loss when you have your life and honor left to you.”

“Honor? To be forced to wed you to keep my home from being ravaged by Normans?” Her laugh sounded brittle even to her own ears. “I have no honor left. It is all over York and most likely England by now that I gave myself to a Norman on the old Roman road.”

“That was your choice and your trick. Do not complain if it is not as you wished. What did you expect? That the king would deed you Wulfridge for the loss of your maidenhead? As I told you before, you put too great a value on it, Ceara. Maidens all over England have lost much more than you.”

He was right, and she knew it, but it did not make her loss any easier to bear. Holding the covers to her chin, she sat up. In the shadows, he looked lean and predatory, almost wolfish. She closed her eyes briefly, then steeled herself.

“I cannot restore the losses of others. I must deal with my loss as best I can. If I have deceived you, it was a deception you happily submitted to. I have not yet heard of a woman being able to force a man to come to her bed. As I recall, you did not need much coaxing from me, for you had already made up your mind what you desired. Am I right, my lord? Or do you wish to call me liar on that as well as everything else? You did not listen when I told you I was virgin—why would you listen now?”

Breathless from her tirade, Ceara paused, trembling. Luc had not spoken, nor had he taken his eyes from her.

“No, I will not call you liar on that. It is true. I wanted you. I still want you. Whether you tempted me or not, my acts were of my own free will. I do not deny that. But you cannot deny that you did not loathe my touch, Ceara. I am not inexperienced. I can tell when a woman responds.”

She flushed with indignant denial. “I only pretended interest so that you—”

“No.” He reached out to cup her chin in his palm.“ Do not bother with a lie that is so easily seen. You did not invent your response when I touched you here … and here.” His hand shifted to move downward, gently shoving away the covers to caress her breast and the tight peak of her nipple. She shuddered, despite her best efforts not to react, and he smiled. “Nor can you hide your feelings now, though they are not as obvious as mine. It is a man’s lot to always have his desire known, while a woman may yet hide hers. But there are ways to tell the truth of it, Ceara, and you cannot deny that your flesh likes my touch even if your heart will not admit it.”

“Leave my heart out of this … and stop that.”

She tried to push his hand away from her breast, but stopped with her fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist. He held still, his fingers warm and gentle against her skin. His voice lowered, becoming thick and husky.

“You have won what you desired,
ma belle
. Now yield me my desire.”

Quivering beneath his caress and the warm, intimate tone of his voice, she tried not to let him see how he affected her. “I … cannot.”

“Yea, you can. And you will, though you may not know why.”

The enigmatic remark spurred her resistance, and she edged away from him. “You speak foolishly.”

“And you,
ma chérie
, lightly ply a maiden’s fancy if you think I will be stayed this night. You wanted to be my wife and
lady of Wulfridge, and so you are. I wanted you in my bed—and so you are.”

“Does it not matter to you that I do not want you?”

“Should it?” He took hold of her wrist as she let go of him, turning her arm over and lifting it to his mouth. His lips pressed against the thin skin of her wrist, her inner elbow, then higher, his mouth hot and soft and demanding, sending shivers through her entire body. “Did it not matter to you that I did not want to wed,
chérie?
I do not think so. Yet we are wed, and I want you, and for me, it is enough waiting.”