Read The Maiden Bride Online

Authors: Rexanne Becnel

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Medieval

The Maiden Bride (7 page)

BOOK: The Maiden Bride
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“He may want to see you naked, or even to touch you all over,” her grandmother continued, a distasteful expression pulling her lips down. “Especially your breasts.”
Linnea hunched over at that, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. Her breasts? She couldn’t imagine letting him touch her there—or do the other thing either.
As if she sensed Linnea’s resistance, Lady Harriet leaned closer and caught Linnea’s chin in her hand. “You
will
let him do that, and more, girl. That and anything else he asks. Nor will you consider yourself ill-used for it either. ’Tis our lot in life as women. He may think you are Beatrix, and you may yet consider avoiding this night’s events by revealing the truth to him. But remember you this. Whether him or another, you will someday be wed. Fail us tonight, girl, and I promise by everything I hold dear that I will then see you wed to the vilest, cruelest man I can find.
“You will not fail us tonight, Linnea. You will wed him and bed him and make him content. Or you will be sorry I did not drown you on the day of your birth!”
 
T
he few bites Linnea had eaten settled now like a cold stone in her stomach. Her grandmother had departed after her brief and terrifying description of what faced Linnea this evening, stomping away with the shuffle and click of leather shoes and metal-tipped walking stick so unique to her. But Linnea had not been able to move. She could not, for fear made her legs weak. Fear made her stomach rebel and shut down the workings of her mind.
But even with that fear, she still would have tried to flee the dreadful future that awaited her. Shame, however, was her ultimate undoing. If she ran, then Beatrix would suffer. If she ran, she would confirm all their beliefs about her.
If she ran, they would be right.
She closed her eyes and bowed her head, sinking into the shudder that rippled through her. Would he treat her cruelly, or kindly? Would he want her to cringe and weep, or to cry out in passion?
Which would be worse?
At least she would not have to pretend to fear. But passion … She would not be able to pretend she felt passion!
Consumed as she was by utter misery, she did not hear the noisy entrance of several men. Her brow was creased in worry as she tried to determine which saint she should direct her desperate prayers to. Sebastian? No, he was the patron saint of archers. Paula? No, she was widows. Not Bartholomew or St. Lucy either.
St. Jude. His name came to her at once. St. Jude, patron saint to the hopeless and to lost causes. If ever a poor soul was hopeless, she prayed with eyes tightly closed and hands clenched in her lap, it was she.
Please, St. Jude. Hear my prayer and rescue me
. Please, she silently beseeched.
Save me.
“Lady Beatrix?”
Linnea jumped in alarm. St. Jude had heard her prayer? He was answering her—
Even before her startled gaze met with that of Axton de la Manse, she realized her mistake. Stupid girl, to think a saint would speak directly to her!
Stupid girl, to sit alone in the hall where Axton de la Manse himself could find her!
Never had Linnea felt so vulnerable as she did in that moment. Never had she felt so alone.
She looked up at him, up the towering length of this forbidding man who meant to take her to wife, and the last of her paltry courage fled. He was immense and he held total control over her and everyone else in this castle. He had all the power, both physical and political, and they had none at all.
Her eyes locked with his, unable to pull away, even though she would rather look any place but at him. In just such a manner did the snake mesmerize the rodent, the vague thought tumbled through her head. So did the owl hypnotize the hare.
“Lady Beatrix.” He spoke the name again without any hint of emotion. “I would have you join me at the lord’s table.”
This time he held a hand out to her as if it were not a cold command he’d given her, but a courtly request. And perhaps to him it was. For Linnea, however, he might as well have asked her to leap from between the crenels into the fetid water of the moat. To take his hand—the hand of her enemy who would be her husband—was to put it all into motion, right here and now. Never mind that the vows would not be said until after vespers. Never mind that she would not be prepared even then. He was here now. Unexpectedly. And he held out his hand, with no reason to believe she would not do whatever he should ask of her.
“Do you refuse me?”
Linnea swallowed hard and felt again the cold lump in her stomach. “I … I have other duties—”
“Your duty is to me.” His eyes, hard as the pale stone walls that encircled the castle, bored into hers. Then he seemed almost to force himself to a gentler mien. “Come, Lady Beatrix. I will not bite you.”
Yet.
He had left off yet, Linnea thought as bitterness lent her strength. He would not bite her yet, but if she balked any longer he would.
Using every bit of her willpower, she lifted her trembling hand to him. It would not be forever, she told herself, as if it were an incantation against him. It would not be forever. Just long enough for Beatrix to escape. Just long enough for her family to raise a legitimate challenge to this man. She could survive until the day came when she could reveal her true identity.
Then his hand closed over hers, and even that faint hope began to unravel. For Axton de la Manse’s hands were large and strong, and in enveloping hers, seemed to signal a greater strength than merely the physical.
He gave off some power, almost like a heat, that she felt in every portion of her. He touched only her fingers, yet her arm and chest and even her legs felt the shock of it. The shock of him.
“St. Jude,” she whispered. “Be with me now.”
Axton heard that involuntary plea and knew at once its meaning. She was resigned to her fate. But she was desperately hopeful just the same, that St. Jude might still intercede on her behalf.
Grim satisfaction settled over him. Yes, let her be reduced to prayers alone for her salvation. He knew from bitter experience how unreliable was the answer prayers would give. Hadn’t he prayed ten years and more for the chance to right the wrong done his family? Hadn’t he prayed for the means to restore his family to property and power? It was only when he’d stopped praying and begun to fight that the tide had begun to shift in their favor.
The deaths of his father and brothers in the defense of Matilda had brought the de la Manse family an estate near Caen. Now he was here, in his rightful home, with his bride beside him, trembling as lief to faint—and no saints to be thanked for it either. Yes, let her pray to her St. Jude, for it would change nothing at all. He would wed her this very evening, and bed her promptly thereafter—and repeat the act daily until she was safely with child. He would hold his home against all claims, even if it meant joining with his worst enemy’s daughter. And perhaps he would have from her the satisfaction he had yet to receive from either her father or her brother.
He guided her from the rough trestle table and bench toward the low dais, acutely aware of her nearness. She was taller than average for a woman, and slender of build. But she appeared shapely beneath her rumpled gown. No perfumes clung to her, save perhaps a medicinal fragrance, as of shepherd’s knot, and of soft, boiled soap. No powder on her face either, and no jewels, save the few upon her girdle. Was she not vain, or did de Valcourt not gift his daughter with the rings and bracelets and other jewels more common to women of her station?
“Had you another to whom you were betrothed?” he inquired as he pulled back the lady’s chair for her and gestured for her to sit.
She did not meet his gaze, but she sat as he indicated, though warily. “I turned down the suit of Sir Clarence of Mercer,” she stated after a lengthy pause.
He stared intently at her profile as he seated himself. Her features were as perfect as a man could hope for: straight, slender nose; full, curving lips; small chin and skin that looked as soft as a child’s. The unwarranted desire to see her eyes again caught him by surprise. But why? To see if they were as deep an aqua-green as they’d seemed in the brief moment she’d looked up at him. That was all.
Or maybe it was more. Lust? He gave a mental shrug. What if it was? And not only her eyes, he wanted to see her hair unbound, to test its length and feel its texture.
“Why did you turn him down? Why did your father allow you such an indulgence?”
He watched her full lips tighten, but still she kept her face averted. “He was a pig of a man. He still is.”
Axton laughed out loud al that unexpectedly candid remark, and as a reward had her wide-set eyes turned finally upon him. Ah, yes. Aqua-green, and turbulent as the sea in a storm. He seized on the moment. “A pig of a man? Pray tell why you call him that. Does he like his dinner too well? Or is it that he has insufficient wealth to tempt you?”
Anger roiled in her stormy gaze. “He had wealth enough to decide he needed nothing else to satisfy a wife. Neither cleanliness, nor manners, nor good humor.”
And neither do you, the silent accusation rose between them.
Once more he laughed. Particular little wench, wasn’t she? Spoiled by a father who’d stolen everything he’d ever given her. It occurred to Axton that he now owned everything she thought
she
possessed, including her gown and girdle and veil.
For the first time this day he felt a glimmer of real satisfaction for his victory. What father and son could not supply him, she might. Beneath her fair appearance Beatrix de Valcourt had spirit. No doubt on that. Despite her trembling fear which she could not bury beneath her show of bravado, no matter how she tried, she was no coward. Perhaps the fury that yet twisted in his gut could be exhausted upon her. After all, she would be his wife. She was comely, easy to look upon and designed to fit a man’s hand—and other portions of him too.
Of a sudden he was eager for this evening’s sport and glad he’d not spent himself on castle wenches this night just past.
“Had your father no other swains to tempt you with?” he prodded, wanting to test her mettle further.
She looked away. “He negotiated with others,” she answered in a cool, detached voice. “Until your Henry thought to attack us. Of late my father has had other concerns,” she pointed out, a trace of sarcasm rising in her voice.
“Yes, no doubt he has,” Axton commented dryly. He lolled back in the lord’s chair, conscious of the fact that she had probably never seen anyone sit in it save her father. But he was lord now, and she’d come to understand very soon everything that implied. “You’ve been told that we wed this evening?”
Her chin quivered—or at least he thought it did. But she nodded once, and he was not entirely sure. He decided to find out. “No doubt you see me as a pig of a man—or worse.” Then he leaned nearer her and his voice lowered to a husky, intimate whisper. “I trust, my fair bride, that e’er morning next arrives, you will feel more kindly disposed toward me.”
She swallowed this time. Hard. There was no hiding her reaction or the fear it revealed to him. That served, however, only to urge him on. He needed to see her completely vulnerable to him. “Since there is none to commend me save myself, I say to you, fair Beatrix, that I take to heart the knightly code. I keep myself clean, maintain an even temperament, and enjoy a great good humor—unless angered by one unwise enough to provoke me.”
When she did not respond, but only held herself stiff and kept her eyes averted, he reached out a hand to finger the braided edge of her nearest trailing sleeve. “And I am robust in the manly arts. You need not fear that I will not satisfy my husbandly duties to you, Beatrix.”
She flinched, as he knew she would. But this time when her eyes darted fearfully to him, he caught her chin in his hand and held her face steady.
Such a pretty face, with flawless skin and high color. Loose tendrils of reddish gold hair curled astray beyond the confines of her veil, and he had a momentary vision of that selfsame hair loose and cascading around her. Around
him
.
“Deuce take me,” he muttered, then sat back, releasing her as an unseemly urge gripped him. Time enough for that this coming night. He was no randy lad, unable to control the beast residing in his braies. A comely wife was a welcome thing, but he would not forget that she was de Valcourt’s spawn. He would not forget that she had lived at Maidenstone these eighteen years past and that every one of her luxuries had been bought at the cost of his father’s and his brothers’ lives.
And he would
not
be led around by his unruly cods.
A boisterous call drew his attention momentarily away from her, and he welcomed the interruption.
Linnea too welcomed the interruption and she could not escape fast enough from his presence. He’d taken much pleasure in tormenting her, and she, fool that she was, had granted him the right, speaking of the suitors her sister had declined.
But she’d been so afraid, especially when he’d spoken of his husbandly duties to her.
She pushed back her chair now, as quietly as she could manage, all the while keeping a careful watch on him. St. Jude had heard her prayer and interceded on her behalf when he’d sent a pair of knights into the hall. One of them, a muscular fellow with dark red whiskers, had glanced uneasily at her before speaking, then turned his steady gaze back upon his liege lord. De la Manse had understood his hesitation at once. So had Linnea. The other men did not wish their conversation to be held within the full hearing of their enemy, even if that very enemy was to be settled in the lord’s bed within a matter of hours.
De la Manse had made some pretty excuse as he left her side, as if he thought she dreaded his departure. Vainglorious fool! Now his attention was wholly absorbed by the other men’s words and she had her opportunity. But although she silently mocked him, Linnea was nonetheless mindful of the terrible chance she took deceiving a man like him. When he eventually learned who she
really
was … A cold shiver ran down her spine. She did not want to think about that right now.
BOOK: The Maiden Bride
13.33Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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