A maid was assigned to her. Why not try to discover something of Otuel d’Avranches? While the girl was combing her hair, she remarked casually, “I’m anxious to meet the comte’s son.”
The servant eyed her strangely. “Which one, milady?”
Dorianne cleared her throat, trying not to let her voice betray her emotions. “Otuel.”
The maid faltered in her combing, then recovered and shrugged. “The bastard? He’s a boy.”
Dorianne waited, fiddling with a ribbon. “What kind of boy?”
She winced as the girl pulled her hair tightly into the braid. “Otuel d’Avranches is a boy with older sisters who tease him mercilessly. He hates girls.”
This was not good news and Dorianne’s dismay deepened as the servant finished her tasks in silence. She dismissed the girl once she was ready, pleased with her dress of maroon velvet, lovingly sewn by her mother. It showed off her slender figure, with the right amount of décolletage for a young maiden. The wimple was short enough that an appropriate glimpse of her dark braid could be seen.
Her joy was fleeting. These things were of no importance. She was to be married to a child.
Sitting on the bed, plucking up courage to speak her mind about the betrothal, she became aware she was biting her nails.
Stop that!
When her father and brother arrived, François de Giroux was indignant they had not been given a warmer welcome. “We’re not one of the great Norman families, and we’ve had our troubles in the past, but d’Avranches could at least have arranged for his son to be there to greet us. We’re supposed to be discussing a betrothal.”
“He’s probably preoccupied at the moment with the Grand Council,” Pierre offered. “Perhaps Dorianne will have a chance to meet the comte’s son in the hall during the feast? I believe my sister is ready. We should go. We don’t want to be late.”
D’Avranches greeted them at the arched entrance to the hall. “Ah, Giroux. Welcome. You’ve brought your son and your beautiful daughter.”
Dorianne avoided eye contact with the pouting, pudgy boy standing beside the comte’s chair, hoping against hope this wasn’t Otuel.
François affected a bow. “Oui, milord d’Avranches, may I present to you my son, Pierre, and my daughter, Dorianne,” he said, pushing his daughter forward. She curtseyed as she had been shown to do a thousand times by her mother.
“Welcome to you all,” the comte replied, taking Dorianne’s hand. “And I present to you my son, Otuel.”
He transferred her hand into that of the fat child. She curtseyed to the scowling lad. His hand was sweaty and he barely came up to her shoulders, his eyes on a level with her breasts. For some reason this struck her as amusing and she tittered nervously.
Otuel glowered, his lips tightly drawn.
Her father clenched his jaw, but the comte seemed not to have noticed anything amiss. He turned to greet other arrivals, passing them off to the steward for seating.
The cavernous hall was crowded, filled with loud conversation and laughter, the air redolent with appetizing aromas. Embroidered banners wafted high in the beams. Tapestries warmed the white walls.
Her father apparently forgot about chastising her when he saw where they were seated. “We should be closer to the salt.”
Dorianne took her place on one of the benches. Rolling her eyes, she murmured to Pierre, “Why can’t he enjoy the experience? This is wondrous.”
Pierre gave her a look similar to the one she had received from Otuel d’Avranches. “Respect is important, Dori. Remember that.”
He strode off, tagging behind her father who was evidently intent on engaging some other baron in conversation. She fidgeted with her wimple for a few minutes, then tucked her hands under her thighs. She risked a glance around, eyeing the nobles and ladies in their colorful finery. She had never seen such a gathering and felt conspicuously alone at the table. What had become of her father and brother?
A peculiar dizziness assailed her when she glanced over to one of the entrances. A tall knight stood there, easily the most striking man in the whole assembly. His handsome face was gentle and his lively eyes searched the chamber expectantly. His long, dark hair, tanned complexion and self-assured stance bespoke a man it would not be wise to challenge. Various people greeted him and he acknowledged each with a nod. He was the epitome of everything she had ever dreamed of in a noble knight.
Beside him, striking a similar pose, stood a dwarf. The contrast in height between the two might cause many to smile, yet the diminutive man exuded the same vitality, the same aura of power. He pointed to someone in the hall and spoke to his companion.
Dorianne looked back at the tall man and her heart missed a beat. He was staring right at her. Suddenly unable to breathe, she could not look away from his insistent gaze. Sensuous lips curled into a smile as he moved his hips slightly. His eyes widened and she dragged her eyes away, a chill sweeping across her nape.
What are you thinking? Such men aren’t interested in girls like you.
She fidgeted with the edge of her wimple, startled when someone stayed her hand.
“Demoiselle?”
Dorianne looked up into ice blue eyes. The warmth of his skin chased away the chill of loneliness. She struggled to her feet, longing, for some inexplicable reason, to place his warm hand on her breast. Pray God she had not bitten her nails too badly. She felt flushed. His masculine beauty prompted unfamiliar sensations and a peculiar wet warmth in very private places. Her nipples tingled. What was wrong? Had the journey made her ill?
“Milord,” she managed to say, but further speech eluded her. She could not take her eyes off his thick, black hair.
The knight kissed her knuckles. “You are a beautiful woman, ma chère,” he drawled. “I haven’t seen you before.”
His deep voice echoed through her bones. He had called her a woman. “Non, milord,” she said, finding her voice. “It’s the first time my father has allowed me to leave our castle.”
He laughed. “I’m glad of that. Such treasures shouldn’t be hidden away. You’re a ray of sunshine in this place. Permit me to introduce myself, I am Robert de—”
“Montbryce!” It was her father, rushing across the room, Pierre in tow, shouting at the top of his voice and glowering at the man who held her hand, his own on the hilt of his half-drawn sword. “Take your hands off my daughter.”
Dieu, he’s a Montbryce.
It was as if the oaken beams had crashed down on her head.
* * *
When he entered the hall with his half-cousin in search of his uncles and their sons, Robert’s attention was drawn to a lovely young woman in a dark red dress seated at a trestle table. He inhaled deeply, enjoying his shaft’s happy reaction. The end of her dark braid peeking out from beneath the wimple added to her uncommon beauty. Who was she?
She blushed when she noticed him staring at her, obviously uncomfortable sitting alone amid the noise and hubbub. He went over to take her hand and introduce himself. After all, his parents insisted he find a wife. This girl certainly had no trouble arousing his sexual interest, though she was probably too young for him.
Her innocent beauty and shy response took him unawares. He licked his lips, wishing he could swirl his tongue over her enticing breasts. Hazel eyes enthralled him. Touching her hand sent blood rushing to his groin and he toyed with the notion of sucking her fingers into his mouth. He uttered inanities like a lovesick fool until the strident voice threatening him broke the spell.
He let go of her hand and backed away, unsure of what was happening, until he recognized the irate man as François de Giroux. He had only seen him once before, but his likeness to his brother was unmistakable. It was Phillippe who had intended to behead Robert during the Montbryce family’s captivity in Wales. It was a face Robert would never forget. The heat he felt moments ago turned to ice in his veins. The beauty was a Giroux.
A curious crowd gathered. Robert executed a clipped bow and was about to stride
away when he noticed the angry expression François de Giroux fixed on his daughter. He looked directly into the baron’s eyes. “Don’t blame the girl, Giroux. I didn’t know who she was, and she didn’t know me,” he said coldly. “It was a mistake, not to be repeated.”
He glanced back to the young woman whose eyes had filled with tears, bowed and said, “I humbly beg your pardon, Mistress de Giroux. I am Robert de Montbryce. I sought only to comfort you in your loneliness.”
* * *
He walked away and Dorianne’s spirits plummeted. She had fallen under the spell of a Montbryce.
The remainder of the evening passed as a blur. She was aware of where the man who had beguiled her was seated—much closer to the salt than they were—but dared not look at him for fear of upsetting her father.
He and Pierre glared at Montbryce. When she was able to steal a glance, she saw he was enjoying the company of two older men who resembled him, both of whom kept glaring back at her father. Soon three younger men joined them, one of them the dwarf.
Will I ever see him again? Is he watching me?
Pierre was upset with her. “What were you thinking, Dori?” he chided.
This censure exasperated her. “You shouldn’t have gone off and left me alone. I didn’t know who he was. How could either of us have known who the other was?”
Her brother gave her a menacing look. “Be more careful in future,” he warned.
Pierre sounded too much like her father. She’d intended to enlist his aid in convincing her sire not to wed her to the scowling child, but now it seemed her only friend had turned against her. Hatred was a destructive force. She felt no hatred for the tall, ruggedly built knight with the dark hair and blue eyes, even when she discovered who he was. She hoped he did not feel hatred for her, though it was of no consequence. She would never be allowed to see him again.
Our Future
Emotions ran high among the noble families of Normandie as conflict loomed between the two surviving sons of William the Conqueror. A great deal of land and power was at stake. Discussions in the Grand Council dragged on as they weighed the merits of supporting each royal claimant to the throne of England and control of the duchy. Some favored Curthose, some Henry.
After listening to the wrangling for several hours, Robert decided to enter the fray. No matter his own views, his father was his liege lord and his uncles would support his father’s decision. He indicated to d’Avranches he wished to address the assembly and was given leave.
He stood. “Mes seigneurs, I would share with you the position taken by my father. You all know him as Rambaud, Comte de Montbryce, Earl of Ellesmere, a hero who fought with the Conqueror at Hastings, a strong supporter of the Dukes of Normandie, and a great Norman.”
He heard a snort of derision he suspected came from François de Giroux, but chose to ignore it. Everyone else nodded in acknowledgment.
“The Conqueror rewarded my father with the earldom of Ellesmere in England, and, as you know, it’s been his life’s work to ensure King William’s legacy lives on in that country. There is no question as to his loyalty to Normandie.”
He paused, studying the faces before he continued. “He has supported Curthose in the past, only to find him lacking.”
He waited again, seeing many nodding heads and hearing murmurs of agreement. “Therefore, it’s the opinion of Rambaud, Comte de Montbryce and Earl of Ellesmere, that Henry will be a better monarch for the combined kingdom of England and Normandie. We can’t go on serving two masters.”
His announcement was greeted with a mixture of murmurs, nods, cheers, stares, thoughtful expressions and scowls. He hoped his father’s decision would sway some Curthose loyalists.
The argument raged on well into the afternoon. The chamber was rank with the odor of too many agitated men. Robert had to get out for a few moments of fresh air. He had not slept well the night before, his dreams filled with visions of a beautiful girl with raven hair and hazel eyes naked beneath him, writhing with pleasure, whispering his name.
He decided to sneak into the kitchens in search of some leftover morsel he could chew on to calm his frayed nerves, maybe an apple. He made a point of making himself known to the cooks in any castle he visited and rarely failed to be rewarded.
As soon as he entered the hot, smoky kitchen he caught sight of the Giroux girl speaking with one of the cooks. Both women looked up. The cook smiled in recognition. Dorianne’s eyes widened and she stole a glance at the door as he approached, but he caught her gently by the wrist before she could flee.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, drawing her to him and into the shadows behind the hearth, reassuring the cook with a wink and a smile. “I may be a Montbryce, but I won’t harm you. I’ve been unable to get you out of my thoughts since we met. What’s your name?”
“Dori—Dorianne,” she faltered. “Milord, please let me go—my father—”
“Dorianne,” he murmured, savoring her name. His body had responded as soon as he’d set eyes on her. Desire flared in his loins. He leaned back against the warm chimney and pulled her closer, pressing her against his need. “Mistress Dorianne, you inflame me.”
He brushed his lips over hers, then coaxed with his tongue.
She resisted and her eyes widened, but then she opened to him. Her reaction and the intensity of his own desire stunned him. He had to have this woman, but not here in the kitchens. “Dorianne, I want to see you again,” he rasped. “I’ll come to you.”
She shook her head and pulled away. “Non, Milord, my father will kill you. There’s nothing but enmity between our families.”
He held her firmly, both hands on her waist. “My name is Robert, and I’ve learned hatred and enmity lead nowhere except to more hatred and enmity. It’s time to put a stop to something my grandfather and yours began. Why should we allow our lives to be poisoned by their actions? I could be as full of hate if I wished to be. Your oncle Phillippe plotted to murder my father and poison my mother. He tried to decapitate me when I was four years old. But my parents have shown me forgiveness is a better path to follow. Can you follow it with me?”
What would his parents’ reaction be if he told them he had fallen in love with a Giroux? If this was love. Could he have stumbled upon that elusive thing his parents had, an all-consuming, passionate love?
By the saints, why did she have to be a Giroux?
Dorianne stared at him, her mouth open. “Decapitate you? My uncle?”
He took a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. He longed to tear off her wimple and loosen her braid. “I know more of it than you suspect,” she whispered, “but I didn’t know my uncle had tried to kill a child.”
They stood locked in each other’s embrace for long minutes. Achingly aware they shared a history that could destroy them, he put his hands on her shoulders and held her away. “I won’t let the past interfere with our future,” he whispered.
She looked him in the eye. “Neither will I.”
He thirsted to bare her tempting breasts, press her against the warmth of the chimney and suckle. He kissed her again, but not as deeply. “Go now. I must return to the assembly. I’ll find you later.”
* * *
Not knowing what to do with her time with her father and brother gone, and anxious to avoid a chance encounter with Otuel d’Avranches, Dorianne wandered into the kitchen out of curiosity. Perhaps she could learn something of use to the cook at home. She hadn’t slept, kept awake by fitful dreams of a black-haired knight kissing her, peeling off her clothes, his blue eyes burning into her. The memory of a seductive voice calling her a woman, saying she was beautiful, had suddenly heightened her awareness of parts of her body she’d never given much thought to before.
Robert de Montbryce appeared in the kitchen and took hold of her wrist, drawing her into the shadows, holding her to his hard body. Was he toying with her? Was she a pawn in the game of hatred between their families?
/> She had never been so close to a man. When she and Pierre were children she had seen her brother’s boy part, but did not recall it being anything like the hard male length she felt pressed against her. She didn’t mean to respond to his kiss, but her lips parted as his tongue teased them open. She closed her eyes as an unfamiliar tingling hardened her nipples. If this was a game, she wanted to play.
The future lay with a sulking brat—better to enjoy a few minutes of passion now. She reached up to sift her fingers through thick hair she had dreamt of touching. The warmth of the chimney bricks he leaned against seeped through his body into hers.
Her reaction plainly stunned him.
It was a shock he had remembered her.
Our future, he said.
* * *
Back in the hall, the arguments raged on.
Robert understood. Though he sympathised with his father’s point of view, his heart told him he should support his duke. Oncle Antoine and Oncle Hugh were of the same mind, but they would back Ram’s decision, and together the Montbryces were a force to be reckoned with.
The presence of Robert’s cousins, Hugh’s son Melton, and Antoine’s boy, Adam, added weight to their position. Both were well regarded and known for their military prowess. Antoine’s stepson, Denis de Sancerre, was another strength. The dwarf was the life and soul of any social gathering with his ready wit. Adam and Denis had played an important role in foiling an assassination plot against King Henry the previous year.
Everyone present acknowledged they faced a political mess. Each Norman baron would have to make his own decision. Robert was saddened that he could soon be at war with many of the men in this very room, fellow Normans. This was no time for love. It would be better not to pursue the bewitching Dorianne. Even as the thought entered his head, he knew he would pay it no mind.
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