He smiled and crouched down to touch them, but then his brow creased as his warrior instinct warned of a possible threat; he had let his guard down.
Merde! My sword is with my clothing.
He stood, listening, but then the smile returned as the notion struck him only girls picked flowers. His spine tingled at the recollection of floating on his back, naked. Had a woman watched him?
Surely I would have sensed?
He crept forward and his mouth fell open when he caught sight of a scantily clad maiden, half-hidden by the long grass. She had covered her body with a chemise, and appeared to be sleeping, but her arms and legs had escaped the garment’s folds. He licked his lips at the sight of her glorious golden hair and white shoulders. One long arm lay outstretched at her side. The other was bent, hand tucked into the side of her face. The steady rise and fall of the wildflowers covering her chest drew his eye. Her bare feet were slender. He could see only part of her thigh, but her legs were long. They had fallen open, the chemise bunched between them. Were the curls of the triangle at the top the same golden color as her tresses? Rosy cheeks and open lips, curved into a trace of a smile, gave her the face of an angel at rest. He inhaled sharply as his body responded fiercely.
Was she a vision? He squeezed his eyes shut, then looked again, taking in another ragged breath. Long eyelashes fluttered at the slight sound. She rubbed her nose and stretched, arching her back and bending her knees. The chemise came tantalizingly close to slipping off her breasts.
Icy heat rushed through Ram’s body. The fearless Rambaud le Noir felt something tighten in his chest. He had never seen a more desirable woman. Crouched like a cat, he had an urge to spring up and pounce on her. Swallowing hard, he clenched his fists, struggling for the cool control that had made him a decorated cavalry commander. In the blink of an eye, a maelstrom of thoughts flew through his head.
He was to be married this afternoon. The clothing he now caught sight of indicated the woman was a servant. Having his way with her before going to the altar to meet his betrothed would not be suitable behavior for a Montbryce. He intended to be faithful to his new wife, and though his lust for the vision argued fidelity could come after the vows were spoken, he knew he would not take advantage of this woman.
He wasn’t married yet, didn’t want to marry. This was not the right time to be marrying. However, he was not a ravisher of women. This stunning wench had aroused him, but he didn’t intend to take her against her will. His legs were starting to cramp. He should move away before she—
Her eyelashes fluttered again. At first she didn’t see him. Then she sat up, clutched the chemise to her body and exclaimed with a gasp, “Antoine! What are you doing here?”
The fruity huskiness of her voice startled him, and the taste and aroma of apple brandy suddenly filled his senses. He stood quickly, gooseflesh marching up and down his spine, his mind whirling. She stared at him, eyes wide, mouth agape, obviously nervous, but not afraid.
She struggled to her feet, clasping her arms over her breasts, and glanced down, then back at him. He groaned inwardly when the long golden tresses fell forward across her shivering shoulders. Embarrassment turned her body pink. He imagined her nipples hardening beneath the chemise she clutched. His already rigid arousal throbbed.
Striving to cover herself without revealing any more of her body, she looked vulnerable, in need of a champion. He wanted to be that man. No wonder his philandering brother was bedding this delectable woman—the devil. Thank goodness he had donned his braies, but they were not adequate to conceal his arousal, and the wench’s gaze seemed fixated on his groin. His clothes were with his sword. He resisted the urge to move his hands to cover his erection and looking down would make matters worse.
He put his hand on his chest and shook his head. “I’m not Antoine. You’re waiting for my brother?” he rasped.
“Your brother? You’re—”
“I’m Rambaud de Montbryce. Who are you? I thought I knew all the servants. You must be new?”
“Ram?” she gasped.
He was on the point of remonstrating with a servant for using his given name, and the familiar form at that, but then she stammered, “I’m Mabelle.”
A cold chill swept over him. He was speechless for a moment then exclaimed, “Mabelle de Valtesse? My betrothed? What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing here, lying naked in the woods? Are you waiting for Antoine?”
Would my brother betray me thus?
The anger blazed in her eyes. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I wasn’t naked. I came to pick flowers. I bathed,” she cried. “I fell asleep, dreaming.”
“Dreaming of Antoine, no doubt,” he spat, not sure why anger had taken hold of him and why he wanted to hold on to such a preposterous idea.
“I dreamt of—”
“Clothe yourself, woman!” He turned his back to her. “You’re supposed to be a future comtesse. I’ve said repeatedly your behavior would be suspect.”
She struggled breathlessly to hide her nudity, then her voice broke into his confused thoughts. “And what, pray, are you doing here, almost naked, watching a girl you don’t know? On your way to wed me, you intended to bed a whore.”
He wanted to turn back to her, to explain how her beauty had bewitched him, but his anger and confusion held him in its thrall. His state of undress and obvious arousal left him feeling vulnerable. It was not a feeling Rambaud le Noir was used to. He was offended she thought so little of his honor. The word whore on her lovely lips sounded like an obscenity. It was a word a comtesse would never utter. What’s more, it was unacceptable for a woman to argue with him. “You must learn to be more obedient, and not answer me back,” he spluttered, crouching in an effort to conceal his arousal.
“Obedient?”
She pushed him then with all her might. Her strength took him off guard. He lost his balance, staggering into the water, falling full length with a great splash, cursing as he resurfaced.
Grabbing the rest of her clothes, she ran, but stumbled over his sword. Her belongings fell to the ground as she picked up the long, heavy weapon with both hands, straining to hold it out in front of her. He stopped a few yards away and raised his hand to calm her, unsure as to what she might have in mind for his beloved sword. His heart raced at the incredible sight of this desirable woman, the thin chemise clinging to the curves of her body, bluebells tangled in her hair.
He had to admire the way her heaving breasts thrust forward as she braced her feet, turned, and tightened her buttocks, gathering strength to heave the weapon. Through the thin fabric, he saw the outline of her bottom.
“Non! Arrête!” he yelled as she hurled the blade into the water.
She retrieved her clothing and fled. He watched her disappear into the forest, blonde hair flowing like a cloak behind her, wanting to pursue her but knowing he could not leave Honneur where she lay.
“She’s stronger than she looks,” he said to the trees.
Swearing a silent curse, he waded into the water and began searching the muddy bottom for his weapon, shaking his head.
This is not how I envisioned our first meeting.
Frantic, angry and breathless, Mabelle paused, listening. How far had she run in her panic? There were no sounds of pursuit. She gasped when she looked down at her soiled chemise. She shrugged on the dress, hands fumbling with her belt, fervent prayers falling from her lips, mind racing. She wound the wimple round her head and tossed the ends over her shoulders.
She had known as soon as Antoine’s name was out of her mouth that she was mistaken. The strapping athlete before her was older and taller than Antoine. Antoine’s eyes were green, not ice blue like the ones burning into her.
Dread and heated embarrassment crept up her spine. She groaned, remembering how she had stared open-mouthed at the broad-shouldered, black-haired giant who had leapt to his feet to stand before her, like a purebred stallion. He wasn’t naked, but he might as well have been.
This was Ram. This ruggedly handsome knight was her future husband. The reality seemed to hold far more promise than she could have hoped for. She had done nothing wrong. She could have explained, but he hadn’t given her a chance.
His angry voice had rumbled over her like thunder, raising the hair on her nape. She had never felt the least frisson when approached by men before, yet had quivered like a wanton in his presence. The storm of desire had swept over her, and for the first time in her life, she knew what it was to want a man. But then lightning had struck, and she had known in a blinding moment of clarity that this proud, arrogant male she had angered and embarrassed was her betrothed. She wanted to weep when she thought how furious he would be about his sword.
What an astounding sight he was, water dripping from his hair, running in rivulets down his broad chest, wet braies moulded to his very male body, his eyes burning with disbelief as she threw the weapon.
No wonder they call him Rambaud le Noir. But he thought I had a tryst with Antoine.
She cursed aloud and made the Sign of the Cross. “It’s a spell I’ve brought on by picking the Fairies’ Thimbles. The lark was an omen. God save me.”
She made for the wall, half running, half walking, chewing her nails. As she stumbled into the bailey she almost collided with Madame Bonhomme.
The woman eyed the peasant garb. “Milady, we’ve been looking everywhere for you. Are you ill?”
“Non,” she gasped. “I’m well. All is well. I fell asleep in the meadow, and now I’m late. I’ll go to dress—for the ceremony.”
She felt the eyes of the steward’s wife on her back as she walked away on unsteady legs.
The Right Decision?
Mabelle’s head was full of thoughts of Ram when she came at last to her chamber. She’d hoped to find a moment of quiet sanctuary, but an excited voice startled her.
“Enfin,” cried her maid. “Finally, you’re here, milady.”
“It’s not to be,” she sighed, gulping air.
Giselle eyed the peasant garb then immediately got busy undressing Mabelle
“I’m proud to have been chosen as your personal maid. I’m a widow, milady. My husband died many years ago in a skirmish, fighting for the duke.”
Mabelle nodded, only half listening, grateful the maid had said nothing about her attire. Once undressed, she stepped into the wooden tub that stood ready.
Giselle dipped her fingers in the hot water. “I was worried your bath water would be too cold.”
This diminutive woman, her red hair flecked with grey, was respected by the whole household. It would be wise not to alarm her.
“I’ve two grown sons, milady. People say I talk about them too much, but they are soldiers in the duke’s service, and I rarely see them. Let me help you. You’ve got weeds in your hair.”
Soon the scented water and Giselle’s soft chattering about her sons and their exploits calmed Mabelle and one certainty emerged from her jumbled thoughts. No one must ever find out what had happened by the lake. She would keep the truth hidden and was confident Ram would too. Yet, her agitated heart was in turmoil. They might never have trust, or friendship, between them. Anger, something she had lived with for too long, was not a good beginning. Ram wanted obedience. She craved love and acceptance.
Giselle helped her from the tub, grasped the drying cloth with tiny hands, and dried her new mistress briskly and efficiently. The little maid was spry, despite a thickening waistline.
The seamstress arrived to help Mabelle into the wedding gown. The sleeves of the fitted white undertunic were made too long, so they could be pushed up, to give a wrinkled effect, which was prettily revealed by the shorter sleeves of the dress itself. The hem, sleeves and neckline were embroidered with ornamental bands of blue flowers. She traced fingertips over the embroidered silk girdle that hugged her hips before falling in a V to her mons.
“The satin emphasizes your curves, milady,” the seamstress observed proudly.
“Milord Rambaud is a lucky man,” Giselle whispered with a smile.
Giselle combed the tangles from Mabelle’s long hair, and Bette pinned the finely wrought opaque veil on her mistress’s head, drawing it over her face. The veil cascaded to the floor. Satin slippers were placed upon her slender feet. She felt beautiful and giddy.
“What’s milord Rambaud like?” she asked Giselle nervously, aware the woman had watched Ram grow up in the castle. She had been a loyal servant to the Montbryce family for many years, having served Ram’s mother until her death.
“Ah, milady, those blue eyes.” Then she giggled. “Just like my own boys.”
Mabelle took another big gulp from the goblet of dark red wine Giselle had brought to steady her nerves. She remembered the anger in those blue eyes.
It had taken Ram several frustrating minutes of diving to find his treasured sword. Its weight and the distance his betrothed had managed to throw it had embedded it into the muddy bottom of the lake. He was anxious not to step on the sharp blade. Cursing, he carried it to shore and dressed hurriedly, his hands fumbling with the points as he tried to reattach his hose to his wet braies. Running to his horse, he shoved his helmet back on his wet hair, mounted and rode at a gallop to the castle, his mind preoccupied with the vision of the angry beauty throwing the sword.
“Milord,” shouted the groom, when he careened into the bailey. The boy reached for the reins, grabbing the sword as Ram thrust the hilt at him.
“Dry my sword at once. I don’t want it to rust. Then lay on the oiled leather—not too much.”
“Oui, milord,” the lad replied. His frown betrayed his curiosity as to how the magnificent sword had become wet and muddied.
Ram took the steps to his chamber two at a time. Mabelle was not what he expected. The vision he had stumbled upon filled his head. He had lost his temper, angered by her mention of Antoine’s name and his own embarrassment. He’d envisioned a waif, a stray. His future wife was a woman of incredible beauty and perhaps deep passion. He had indeed been bewitched, more or less accusing her of being a whore. No wonder she’d been angry.
But she would have to learn obedience. That was just the way of it. He didn’t want a wife who would stare back at him defiantly, did he? A woman who was brave enough to shove him into the water? The whole thing was a big mistake.
Vaillon had laid out his wedding finery. The valet arched his brows when Ram stripped off his wet braies and jumped into the bath he’d prepared.
He scrubbed his body quickly, then vaulted out and dried himself vigorously. He hoped the rubbing would help dry his hair. When he was ready to be dressed, Vaillon picked up the wet braies and looked at him curiously.
“Milord?”
“I went for a swim,” he mumbled.
Soon, clad in pale hose with a long black doublet edged with gold worn over his cream linen shirt, he thought he looked presentable. Vaillon laced up his best black leather boots.
“Hmm,” Ram mused, running his hand over the crest embroidered on the doublet. His finger traced the Latin motto. “Fide et Virtute. It’s a good motto. Fidelity and Valor. I hope I’ll do nothing to dishonor it today.”
Vaillon adjusted a short black cloak around Ram’s shoulders, fastened it at his neck, and drew a wooden comb through his hair. He brushed off his master’s doublet and then stepped back. After a thorough inspection, he announced his satisfaction with his lord’s appearance.
But Ram had reached a decision. There were too many things bothering him about this arrangement. He needed to speak to his father.
The breathless stable boy came with his refurbished sword. Ram had just sheathed the weapon when a soft tap at the door heralded Hugh and his father.
“All is in readiness, my son. You should be at the door of the chapel before your betrothed arrives. I haven’t had a chance to speak to you until now. I hope you’ll be as happy as your mother and I were together. Mabelle has had a difficult life but I’m confident you can erase the memory of those years for her.
Come.”
They embraced. Ram marveled his father would share anything intimate concerning his relationship with his dead mother, saddened by the knowledge of how much his father missed her. He had never heard such words from his sire, and wondered how Mabelle had managed to reach his father’s heart.
Hugh clasped his hand and smiled as he gave him a brief embrace. “This is it, brother. No turning back now.”
“About that, mon père—a word please. Hugh, find Antoine.”
“But he’s waiting for you at the door of the chapel.”
“Find Antoine and bring him here.”
Mabelle’s heartbeat echoed in her ears. Her face felt flushed. She was confident she looked lovely in her wedding finery and hoped it would impress her betrothed and make up for the incident at the lake.
“Stop biting your nails.” Her father’s gruff, impatient voice echoed off the stone walls as he hurried his daughter to the chapel door.
There was no turning back now, though she’d been tempted to call the whole thing off, convinced discord was not a good beginning. She was to be married to an arrogant man she’d angered, a man who had aroused feelings in her she had never known before, a beautiful man.
Her breath caught in her dry throat as she rounded the corner. Her eyes fell on the unexpected sight of the Comte de Montbryce standing stony-faced, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his three sons behind him.
Perhaps they’re upset because I’m tardy?
Antoine chewed his bottom lip, his face contorted in anger.
Hugh scratched his head, his attention on his feet.
Ram looked stunning in a black doublet and cape, but his expression was unreadable. His legs were braced, shoulders squared, ready for action, eyes fixed on Guillaume de Valtesse. She heard her father swear loudly as he reached for his sword.
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 5