Once a Bride (32 page)

“I believe we can deal well enough together.”

“Then you consent.”

“Aye.”

His relief was immediate—a blowing out of breath, slumping of shoulders, and light laughter.

“I should rather face a troop of Scottish pikemen than have to go through that again.”

She squeezed his hands. “You were afraid?”

“You have no notion. Convincing your father was less trying on the nerves.”

Her father.
Mon Dieu,
he’d agreed! She wouldn’t have thought it possible. And knowing how her father’s mind worked, Eloise realized his consent must have come with a price.

“In return for his agreement, what does he demand of you?”

“That if the worst comes to pass, I must arm the manor in Durham and defend it at all cost against Kenworth.” He let go her hands and gathered her in his arms, hers naturally sliding around his waist as if they’d embraced hundreds of times, not so few. “You are not to worry over that however. We will deal with all as needs be. Right now I just want to hold you and allow my mind to become used to the notion that we are to wed.”

“I will strive not to make you regret marrying me.”

His kiss was warm, tender, arousing. And to think she would soon have wifely rights to his mouth, his body.

“No regrets,” he said on a sigh. “Well, perhaps just one. We must allow Geoffrey back in to draw up the agreement.”

She smiled at his disgruntlement, hearing a promise for later, to which she added her own vow. “Only for a bit, then we can toss him back out.”

Eloise sat back down on the mattress while Roland opened the door. Geoffrey entered grinning, parchment, quill, ink bottle, and jar of sand in hand. His smug confidence deserved a swipe.

“I refused.”

His grin froze, and he juggled the items in his hands.

“Have pity, Eloise,” Roland admonished her, barely holding back a laugh.

“Must I?”

“Punish him later. He has work to do.”

“Oh, very well.” Eloise smiled sweetly. “He has much to answer for.”

Geoffrey leaned toward Roland. “She did accept, did she not?”

Roland burst out laughing.

For the next little while, Geoffrey wrote furiously to complete the agreement that bound her to Roland. For life. As his wife. All through her telling of what came to him with this marriage, Roland either paced the floor or stared out the window.

The list was long, beginning with the two manors and their location and what knight’s fees they owed and the income he could expect. Furniture, jewelry, plates and platters, flagons and knives, tablecloths and bedding.

He raised an eyebrow at the sum she named in gold coin.

Geoffrey never batted an eyelash or asked if she remembered correctly.

“I also want Mother’s loom and two dozen sheep. And a milk cow and a maid. Isolde goes with me, if she so chooses.”

Geoffrey stopped writing. “Those are not a part of your dowry.”

“They are now. If Father expects Roland to defend the manor in Durham, we shall need those items.”

“Sounds practical to me. Anything else?”

“Those should be enough.”

Geoffrey added the items, sanded the parchment, then rolled it up. He handed it over to Roland.

“All that is required is your and my father’s signatures. Be sure to have it witnessed by at least two people. Edgar and Oswald should do.”

Roland tapped the scroll against his palm, but what disturbed him he didn’t say. He rolled back his shoulders and addressed Geoffrey.

“Were you able to find a priest who is not fussy about having the bans read?”

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach.

Geoffrey nodded. “A cousin of Mistress Green’s serves at Westminster Abbey. We have only to send for him, she says.”

“Then do it.”

They’d said she should marry with haste, but so fast?

“Should we not wait until morning? ’Tis getting late, and the priest may not be able to come immediately.”

Roland bowed his head and slowly approached her. He cupped her cheek. “You deserve better,
much
better, but I fear we must wed tonight. On the morn I must leave for Evesham. Your father believes that if Brother Walter is still alive, we will find him at the monastery there.”

She grabbed hold of his wrist, torn between excitement at this new development and sadness that they’d have only this one night before he must leave her.

“Oh, Roland.” She wanted to say more, but words failed. How could she beg him to stay when her father’s life might depend upon his success?

Roland bent over, kissed her cheek, and whispered, “You may still withdraw. Be sure, Eloise.”

She looked into his hazel eyes, saw her future, her love, and his worry.

“I am content.”

Eloise paced the small open space at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for Roland. ’Twas already getting dark. He should be back by now.

Trying not to worry, she adjusted the small wreath of greenery Mistress Green fashioned for her to wear as a circlet over her veil. Within the strands of ivy—commonly known as an amulet for marriage—the apothecary had woven marjoram for happiness and sage for wisdom. Lovely sentiments. ’Twas the saffron, which Mistress Green claimed a powerful love potion, that made Eloise blush.

The dear widow now stood with her cousin the priest, Geoffrey, and Timothy, discussing the latest affairs in the city, to which Eloise paid no heed.

She’d given thought to changing her gown, but the only other she’d brought along was her crimson velvet. Worn twice. Once on a wedding day gone horribly wrong, the other on the day Kenworth arrived at Lelle-ford. Bad omens, a little voice had whispered, so she left it hanging on the peg.

What takes him so long?

Had Roland been attacked? Had he changed his mind? Or did her father refuse to sign the document because of the items she added?

She rubbed her hands together, worried that perhaps in a small show of spirit, she’d botched the bargain altogether.

When at last the bell over the door rang, Roland walked in, smiling and waving the scroll. “Sir John balked at the cow, but he relented and signed.”

Then he reached for her hand, placed the scroll on Mistress Green’s worktable, and guided her over to the priest. Eloise forgot the haste and all of her worries, and concentrated on repeating words of love, honor, and obedience to Roland.

Then the priest turned to Roland, and as her groom began to say the vows that bound them, he raised her hands to his chest. She felt his heartbeat, fast-paced but strong, beat after beat.

This time her groom would live through the ceremony, and she realized Roland sought to reassure her. When tears welled up, she blinked them away, though a couple escaped down her cheeks before she could stop them.

Sweet mercy, she was, most definitely, content.

She is truly mine, now.

The phrase repeated over and over in Roland’s head. If he gave himself time, repeated the phrase enough, perhaps he would begin to believe.

His palms sweated. His stomach flipped. ’Twas all he could do to keep his knees from melting.

What had he done to deserve such a prize? ’Struth, he wasn’t worthy of Eloise at all. Yet here she stood, smiling with tears in her eyes.

He would never, ever, understand the way of a woman’s tears, and could barely keep from brushing the glistening drops from her cheeks. But holding her hands where she could feel his heartbeat seemed more important.

Ah, Hugh. I am sorry you are gone, but do not ask me to feel remorse that Eloise is now mine. I cannot do it. Now I understand what you felt when you looked at her. I was wrong, Hugh. Forgive me.

And in his heart, Roland knew Hugh wouldn’t ask, nor would he hesitate to forgive.

They would make a good marriage, he and his bride. He would settle for nothing less. He’d make her happy, he vowed silently, as aloud he pledged to love, honor, and protect.

Nor could he help a smile when ordered to be fruitful and multiply.

“Have you a ring?” the priest asked.

“Aye,” he answered, and let go Eloise’s hands to fetch a ring from his money pouch. He held up a ring of gold set with rubies, and watched her eyes go wide with recognition. “Your father could not be here, but wanted to be with you in spirit. He loans us this until we can get you a proper ring of your own.”

This time Roland understood the tears. He’d damn near shed them himself when Sir John pressed the ring into his hand.

With the overlarge ring on Eloise’s finger, the priest wound a strip of linen around their clasped hands, blessed them, and bade them share a kiss of peace.

Peace. Hah! His entire body went riot at the taste of his bride’s lips.

“Go in peace and love, my children. May God light and bless your path all your days.”

And it was done. Their lives irrevocably entwined.

Ale was passed. Hugs and handshakes exchanged. Roland unrolled the scroll far enough to allow all to see the approving signatures, and for the witnesses to the marriage to add their names and marks to the end. Sanded and dry, he tucked the proof of his union to Eloise into his tunic, his to hold safe against anyone who might question the marriage’s validity.

The wedding supper consisted of savory beef stew and brown bread, and Roland made a mental note to pay Mistress Green extra for all her kindnesses, especially in light of the trouble he’d brought to her doorstep.

The priest paid and on his way, Timothy and Geoffrey went up the stairs to bring down two of the pallets, uttering ribald comments about why they must vacate the upstairs room.

When at last Roland had Eloise all to himself, the night dark and fleeting, by the flickering of candlelight, he slowly, reverently, undid her laces.

She ran a fingertip over his lips, smiling softly. “Husband,” she whispered, as if trying out the title to see if it fit.

“My wife has a request?”

“Not this time. Now I know what you are capable of, and you promised I might take an active part this time. Lead on, Husband. I am most anxious to learn more.”

Her confidence and willingness, which boded very well for the success of this marriage as well as the next hour, shot straight to his head.

“We have a long night ahead of us.”

“Oh, I do hope so!”

He took his time removing her garments, one piece at a time, from her herbal circlet to her hose, worshiping her body with strokes and kisses as he uncovered creamy soft skin.

She returned the favor. Eloise struggled with his boots, but had no problem with the lacing on his tunic. ’Twas endearing when she fumbled with the ties on his breeches, but she forged ahead and pushed them down far enough for him to step out of them.

She stared overlong at his arousal.

’Twas sensuous and appealing and nigh on mind-bending to have a naked woman undress him and stare at his male parts with a degree of admiration bordering on awe. To think the woman standing before him in all her womanly glory was Eloise, his love and lover and now his wife, humbled him.

Then she touched him, the tip of her finger to hood, and he responded with an involuntary jerk.

“Sensitive?” she asked.

He unclenched his teeth. “Aye.”

“Here, too?”

The stroke along the backside of his penis sent shivers through his whole body and brought forth an intolerable ache.

“There most especially.”

She wrapped her hand around him. “So when you place … this inside me, you feel me around you, and—”

Roland pulled away and picked her up. The minx learned too fast.

“Aye, I feel you around me as you feel me inside you.” He landed none too gently on the mattress, rolled them both into the middle of the bed to lay on their sides facing each other. “You are like a velvet glove, a perfect fit. I can feel you pulse when you reach your bliss.”

She pressed against him in blatant invitation. “Show me.”

“I thought you wanted to take an active part.”

“Later. I ache for you, Roland. Perform those husbandly duties I understand I must endure.”

Endure. Hah! He’d show her endure — if he could endure.

He eased down far enough to bring her leg up over his hip, spreading her wide, and slipped inside. Not far. But enough to make her close her eyes, arch her back, and hiss—her woman’s place clenched tight around him.

“Have mercy, Roland.”

Mercy for whom? Him or her? Didn’t matter.

So he stroked, giving her more each time, keeping tight rein on his body’s screams for release.

Sweat beaded on his upper lip. His hand gripped her buttocks, holding her still and tight against him. Buried to the hilt, he gave her all he had to give. Pleasure. Carnal ecstasy. A man’s mating gift to his woman.

Her breath came in pants. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. He took a nipple into his mouth and suckled hard until he heard a throaty moan, her unique passionate plea.

He answered with his body, his heart, driving into her until her moans turned into cries of completion.

Still he endured. Softly stroking, enjoying the pulse of her ecstasy. Finally he stilled, allowing her senses to return, her mind to function. When at last she opened her eyes and looked at him, she gifted him with a smile that bordered on veneration.

“You felt it, all of it,” she said.

“I did.” He kissed the swell of her breast. “Remember the other night, you asked me if I was disappointed?”

“You said you were not.” Her eyes clouded. “Are you now?”

“Nay, not yet, nor will I be. I wanted to show you one thing more — how to know without doubt if you have pleased your husband.”

Once more he set a rhythm, this time loosening his willpower and relinquishing control.

“What need I do?”

“Naught for now, simply allow me … mmmmm.” He came fast and hard, his seed spilling into her with each hardy pound of his magnificent release. This time he felt complete, whole, as he hadn’t the last. This time they were truly one.

“Oh, my.”

“Ah, yes.”

She brushed a hank of hair back from his now wet forehead. “Does that … hurt?”

“As much as yours did.”

She smiled. Sweet mercy how he loved her smile. “That much, hmmm? Perhaps you should show me again just to ensure I understand the way of it correctly.”