A Promise of Tomorrow

by Aston, Alexa

  She sneezed.

  She sneezed again.

  The third time capped the series. Rarely did they come in less than a trio. She dreaded what she would hear next.

  “My God, Marielle! Do you have to bellow so before you sneeze? An ass sneezes more delicately than you. I am surprised the walls of Monteville have not come crashing down from the strain of holding up against one of your sneezes. France would do well to take you into battle next time against England. One sneeze and all the pretty little English soldiers would run for their lives.”

  Marielle glared at Marc through watery eyes. They always teared up after one of her gargantuan sneezes. Yes, she knew they were unseemly, especially for a female, but she had no control over when they came, much less their intense volume. If she had a small gold coin for every time Marc berated her after one, her treasury would far outweigh that of the king’s.

  She chose to ignore Marc’s cutting comments and returned her attention to the game. Ashby’s eyes remained fixed upon the board, his face deep in concentration. It was almost if he hadn’t heard the exchange. She knew that to be impossible but what a gentleman he was for casually continuing the game, not missing a beat.

  He made a few moves before softly calling out, “Check.”

  Oh, how had she gotten into such a bad situation? She usually did so well at chess.

  Ashby lifted his arms high above his head in a stretch. “I am afraid I tire, Marielle. Mayhap we could finish this game at a later time? Or even start afresh tomorrow?”

  His face was full of concern and his tone was kind. She understood he was trying to help her save face. “A guest is always accommodated at Monteville, sir.”

  She rose. “Would you care to rest before we sup? I could show you back to your room.”

  “Only if I have a book to read. Does Jean-Paul have a library I might peruse?”

  Thank Sweet Jesu for Ashby’s perceptiveness. She knew he realized how badly she must want out of this room.

  “It’s a small one but adequate. Let me take you there.”

  She stood. Marc stepped into her path. “A word, Marielle?”

  She looked over his shoulder at Ashby. She could think of no gracious way out of his request. Ashby came to her rescue again.

  “I shall await you in the corridor, Marielle. I fear I would never find this library since Monteville is so grand.”

  “Grander than Stanbury?” Marc inquired, his tone sarcastic.

  “I find both houses to be majestic. Fortunately, I have lived at Stanbury for more than a score, so even in my follies, I have actually learned the library from the great hall and can distinguish solar from privy.”

  He bowed to them. “I leave you to your privacy.”

  The minute the door closed behind him, Marielle turned on Marc. “Do you wish to alienate our guest? You have been rude for so long that you no longer know when you speak thus.”

  Marc moved menacingly toward her. She held her ground but her legs shook. She locked her knees, hoping that would still the trembling. Marielle raised her chin defiantly and glared up at him.

  He gave her a sardonic smile. “You seem quite taken with this Englishman, dear sister. Mayhap I should share that with Jean-Paul.”

  “That I am doing my duty as hostess to his guest? You have nothing else to say, Marc. I have only done what my husband wished in his absence.”

  He took her chin roughly. “You play with fire, Marielle. If you want to be burned, why not let me singe you?”

  She jerked away from him and he gave a malevolent chuckle.

  “You want Monteville and will more than likely possess it one day, Marc. If we have no son, then I will gladly vacate the premises and leave it to you.”

  His gaze roamed over her face and dipped lower to her breasts, a lascivious smile lighting his face. Suddenly, he reached out and snagged her wrists, yanking her toward him. Marielle stumbled into his chest and then tried to jerk away but his fingers only tightened until she feared he might crush her bones. She quit struggling, hoping he would come to his senses and release her.

  Looming above her, he licked his lips, as if he were ready to feast upon her. Fear filled Marielle. Marc had never gone this far before. She longed to call out to Ashby, who waited for her just the other side of the door, but found her throat tight with fright. No sound would come out.

  Marc continued to look at her, his gaze intense. She could see the longing on his face and feared he might try to kiss her.

  Or more.

  She hadn’t liked Marc from the moment she met him. He was ill-tempered and volatile. Spoiled for a grown man. Disrespectful of Jean-Paul and everyone around him. Her way of handling her brother-in-law had been to avoid him as much as possible. Now, though, she truly feared him for the first time.

  Would he dare take what belonged to his brother?

  She prayed he would not.

  He lowered his face until his nose almost touched hers. Marielle held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t try and kiss her. It was bad enough having to endure Jean-Paul’s touch. The thought of Marc was even more repulsive.

  Just as he moved as if to kiss her, she swallowed and managed to say, “I warn you. I will tell Jean-Paul if you dare touch me,” hoping that thought might scare him away.

  It didn’t.

  Marc’s mouth slammed down onto hers in a punishing kiss. Marielle tightened her lips, trying to withstand the ugly, unwanted assault. She struggled to free her wrists but saw that only enflamed him so she stilled. Held her ground. Waited for him to cease.

  When he raised his head, he also dropped her wrists. Immediately, Marielle stepped back and began rubbing them, trying to get feeling back into them She knew they would be bruised—and she would have to hide this from her husband and the world.

  “I cautioned you not to touch me,” she told him, her voice shaking with emotion.

  “You think you will dare to tell Jean-Paul about this?” he asked lazily. “I think not. If anything, I would make sure he blamed you. That you were the one who tried to entice me. You were the one to break your marital vows and force yourself upon me, his loyal and faithful brother. Who might Jean-Paul believe? Me—or you?”

  Marc chuckled. “That is if you think that husband of yours truly cares what you do.”

  His cruel words stung. Most likely, Marc was right. Marielle didn’t believe Jean-Paul cared for her. If he did, it was more like a once-prized possession which at one time he had valued and still wouldn’t want broken or defaced.

  Loathing for Marc filled her and she said, “You may have Monteville. But you will never, ever have me. Do you understand?”

  “Believe whatever you wish, Marielle,” he told her. “Time will tell.”

  Chapter Six

  The hunt was on. Ashby was ready to smell the outdoors once again and move his legs after the day of rain yesterday kept him cooped up inside the chateau. He’d tried to read some from the book Marielle loaned him but reading French was infinitely more difficult than speaking it. It made so much more sense to hear the musical words. The worst part was the difficult spelling. He swore that half of the letters in each word were not pronounced, a good three or four dangling from the end for show.

  Last night’s entertainment had gone well. Rennier, the same minstrel, performed, followed by a trio of mimes. Those gathered enjoyed watching the group and imitating some of the gestures from their seats. The leader even pulled Ashby up and he good-naturedly pantomimed alongside them.

  After breaking his fast this morning, he spent a few hours cloistered with Donatien, looking at drawings of various vines and discussing different vintages. The vineyard manager freely shared his knowledge, which Ashby appreciated. He had much to tell Garrett upon his return. Ashby had decided that Garrett should make a return trip to France himself and initiate some of the practices at Monteville in his own Bordeaux vineyards. Pierre, though a thorough and dedicated manager, was very set in his ways. Ashby knew any suggestions he made to the French
man to alter anything would be ignored. It would take Garrett’s specific orders—in person—before anything changed at Chateau Branais.

  Ashby saddled his horse. He was most comfortable when performing his own tasks, especially when it involved a horse. Several years before, a squire had readied Ashby’s horse for battle when he took too long telling a lovely maiden goodbye. The fool hadn’t fastened the saddle properly and Ashby found himself unseated during the first charge. It bruised his pride more than his body although he’d broken a rib as he fell unexpectedly. That same rib gave him a twinge every now and then, which was a good reminder to him. He’d always looked after his own horse ever since.

  He mounted the horse he’d borrowed from the Bouchards and followed the stable master and his assistants as they led the other horses from the stables. He saw Marc de la Tresse and three other men whom he’d seen in the great hall at meals. He cantered toward them.

  Instead of properly introducing him, Marc gave Ashby a surly look and remained silent. An awkward moment passed before Ashby filled the gap.

  “I am Ashby fitz Waryn, come from Stanbury in England. My liege lord, the Earl of Montayne, owns the vineyards at Chateau Branais. I have come to Monteville to learn more about vineyards and the process of winemaking.”

  The oldest introduced them all. “Bienvenue, Ashby. I am Gaudin.” He motioned to the two men standing next to him. “This is Gregory and Jacques. We are knights of the comte and are pleased you have come to Monteville.”

  Marielle trotted over on a white palfrey to join the assembled group. “I see you have met our fellow hunters. Are you gentlemen ready?” Her eyes shined with eagerness.

  He looked from her to the other soldiers. “Do you three have any advice? From the looks of the comtesse, I fear we are in for an invigorating ride.”

  Jacques laughed aloud. “La comtesse is fearless in the saddle. She had never ridden before she came to Monteville but she took to it like dew upon a flower.”

  Ashby noted the look of scorn Marc tossed Jacques’ way.

  Marielle flashed Jacques a smile. “You’re very kind, Jacques. I must thank you, as my teacher, for all your patience in our riding lessons.”

  She whirled her horse around and galloped across the bailey. Ashby assumed that was the sign the hunt had begun. The men followed her through the gates of the chateau and down the open road next to the vineyard. He wondered where they headed.

  Marielle turned over her shoulder and waved them on. Ashby spurred his mount to catch her. He pulled alongside her, noticing how well she sat in the saddle. He found himself sitting taller, wanting to impress her, though God knew why. She was a married noblewoman, but one of the most desirable women he’d met. She was intelligent, quick-witted, and had a playful nature. He could imagine her as a girl, giving the sisters at the convent fits.

  They turned off the main path into a wood and slowed their horses considerably due to the denseness of the forest. Marc pulled up next to them. Ashby longed to knock some sense into the man, especially after his diatribe on Marielle’s sneezes the day before. What an inconsiderate oaf. He dare not imagine what would next come out of the man’s mouth.

  “The way you ride that horse, Marielle, people will think you are the spawn of the Devil himself. You might think to ride in a more seemly fashion, especially in sight of guests.”

  “Oh, I admire Marielle’s riding, Marc,” Ashby said easily, coming to her defense. “It’s not often a lady can ride so admirably. I know this visitor is in awe of her skill.”

  Marc frowned. He had to fall behind them as the path narrowed even further. Ashby despised the Frenchman’s critical manner. He couldn’t remember a single pleasantry coming from de la Tresse.

  “There!” Marielle cried. Ashby caught sight of a medium-sized fox racing away and took off after it. He could hear the others behind him. He really didn’t want the fox caught. That’s why he’d put himself between the poor creature and the riding party. Ashby never understood the fun in chasing a small, defenseless animal. It was different to place food on your table but killing for sport had never appealed to him.

  As the fox shot across the ground like a bolt of lightning, Ashby veered off to the left. He led the group in the opposite direction the fox had taken. Eventually, they slowed and circled their horses around.

  “We were within striking distance,” Gregory said. “I wonder where the creature disappeared to.”

  Gaudin pointed over his shoulder. “He could have turned that way. Anyone game?”

  Both Gregory and Jacques nodded. The three knights took off in the other direction. Ashby thought the fox had had plenty of time to hide from its hunters with the head start it’d been given. Marc hesitated, looking at the riders as they headed away.

  As Marc stared after them, Ashby caught a smile playing about Marielle’s lips, coupled with a wicked gleam in her eyes. He knew to be prepared for what would come next.

  “I think he’s this way!” she cried and took off at breakneck speed. Ashby, knowing something was afoot, easily followed. It took a moment for Marc to react, though, since Marielle’s words caught him off-guard. He started after the pair but soon fell behind.

  Marielle led them on a good chase, as they dodged tree limbs and old stumps, bushes, and the carcass of a dead wolf. She finally slowed her horse and looked around.

  Seeing only Ashby, she sighed. “Thank the heavens we are rid of him.” She slid from her horse and took its reins in her hands as she patted its flank affectionately. Pulling an apple from her pocket, she offered it to the horse, who snapped it up and munched noisily.

  He dismounted and asked, “So do you often run away from your brother-in-law? Is he so great a threat?”

  She shivered. “My best advice to you is to keep a fair distance from Marc de la Tresse. He is jealous to his core of all that Jean-Paul has. Fifteen years separate the pair, with a slew of stillborn babes between them. When Marc was only five, his mother died. Jean-Paul had recently wed Agnes, his first wife. They raised Marc as their own child since they had none. I fear Jean-Paul has never come to accept Marc as the grown man he is, much less Marc finding it kind that his brother saw fit to look after him so well.”

  “You said Marc is jealous of all Jean-Paul has. I know Monteville is one thing.” Ashby paused. “Are you another?”

  Marielle frowned, an angry blush staining her smooth, pale skin. “I have repeatedly told Marc to keep his distance from me. He makes me . . . uncomfortable.”

  “Have you shared that with your husband?” he asked softly, wanting more than anything to take her in his arms and give her solace.

  She crossed her arms tightly as if she wanted to protect herself. “No, I would never trouble Jean-Paul about such matters. I can handle Marc.” She turned to stroke her horse’s neck and cooed endearments to the animal. Ashby wished she would do the same to him. Guilt washed over him at the thought.

  He’d had more than enough light o’ loves over his lifetime. His soul now burned for more. He witnessed the looks that passed between Garrett and Madeleine. The happiness they shared. Watching his friends made him desperately want the same joy in his own life. But he’d never come close to acting upon it since the right woman had never come into his life.

  He thought he might go mad because he couldn’t put his arms around Marielle here and now. Stroke those auburn curls. Taste those rose-budded lips. Every bone in his body cried out to him that this amazing woman was the one meant for him. Yet she belonged to another, a man of power and great wealth, with land as far as the eye could see and a lofty title to go with it. Even if Marielle was given a choice, she would never choose someone like him.

  Anger at his foolish longings made him say in a tone more harsh than he intended, “Are you ready to move on?”

  Marielle’s head turned at once. She looked at him oddly. Her violet eyes burned with unshed tears.

  “I’m sorry to bark at you so, Comtesse,” he quickly apologized. “May I aid you in remounting?�
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  She nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. “Yes, please, if you would be so kind.”

  Ashby went to her and placed his hands around her waist. Marielle steadied herself by placing her own hands atop his forearms. He looked deeply into her eyes and caught sight of both fear and longing in them. He hesitated a moment, wanting to steal a kiss but the gentleman in him refused to yield to such temptation.

  He lifted her gently onto her saddle, reluctant to release his grasp on her. He felt a slight tremble run through her and broke his hold. Quickly, he strode to his own horse and mounted but Marielle had already fled the glen they’d stopped in. Ashby took a deep breath and started after her. She knew the terrain, though, and used that knowledge to leave him quickly behind.

  He wished she’d slow down. The ground was still damp from yesterday’s rains, which made it slick in some spots. Twice, his own horse faltered and he adjusted his speed accordingly.

  Not so Marielle. He could see her in the distance simply because of the scarlet and gold surcoat she wore that flashed between the trees. He breathed a sigh of relief as she exited the woods and galloped across the open field.

  Then her horse stumbled, as if it had hit a hole in the soil. It wobbled and veered crazily, trying to regain its balance. She went sailing over the animal’s head and hit the ground hard.

  “Marielle!”

  Ashby pushed his mount and reached her within seconds. He leaped from the saddle and bent down to where she lay still in the grass. Turning her over to face him, he caught sight of a nasty bump already rising on her forehead. He touched it gently. Marielle frowned and a low moan escaped her lips.

  His battlefield instincts kicked in. Ashby immediately checked her for broken bones. At first he remained dispassionate, concentrating on the task at hand. Yet with each passing moment, he became more aware of Marielle not as victim to an accident but as a woman, ripe and sensual.

  Neither her arms nor her shoulders were broken in the fall. He could easily bend the joints at her elbows and wrists. One hand was badly scraped but every finger was intact. He took a deep breath and felt about her midsection, probing for broken ribs. His hand brushed against a full breast, instantly breaking his concentration. He cursed softly and continued, determined to see the task through, grateful she remained unconscious.