“Seems we have no choice if Our Lord commanded it,” Baptiste said with a wink.
“Agreed,” Constant echoed.
Georges rubbed his hands together. “Me too.”
Adrian brightened. “Please come with us, my lady,” he pleaded.
To refuse would seem churlish, but she doubted her guardian would join the expedition. “Will you go?” she asked him.
He raked the hair off his face with one hand, clearly surprised when he pulled out the straw. “I will have no choice if you agree,” he replied.
“Then I will go,” she whispered, watching him twirl the straw between his elegant fingers as a curious tingling hardened her nipples.
~~~
Adrian emerged from the stables carrying several poles at least six feet long. “It’s but a short walk to the Medway,” he explained, thrusting a pole at each of his friends.
When he offered one to Victorine she eyed it like a venomous snake. “You expect me to walk carrying that?”
Dervenn doubted Adrian had any sisters since he seemed to have no idea how to treat a woman. He took the pole from the youth. “I will carry it for her.”
His gesture earned him a genuine smile, but she fisted her hands in the skirts of her gown. “How can I trudge through fields in this?”
Adrian scratched his head as if she’d spoken in Greek.
Anxious for another sign of her approval, Dervenn rode to the rescue. “I will take you on Haritz.”
Uncertainty flickered in the green depths, and he wanted it gone. “Don’t be concerned. He’s a gentle giant.”
“That’s settled then,” Adrian announced. “I’ll carry your pole, Sir Dervenn.”
“I won’t be needing one,” he replied, handing Victorine’s pole to her. “You gentlemen go ahead while I saddle Haritz.”
As he strode away to the stables it occurred to him he’d let himself in for more sexual frustration. It was unlikely his tarse would behave itself with Victorine sitting on his lap.
~~~
Winged creatures fluttered in Victorine’s belly when Dervenn scooped her up as if she weighed nothing, mounted Haritz and sat her on his lap. “He’s a gentle beast at heart,” he soothed.
The same might be said of him. The gruff, disfigured warrior was a thoughtful gentleman, a true knight. When he set the beast in motion, her fishing pole tucked under his arm like a lance, she imagined herself in one of the ballads the troubadours sang about courtly love.
Adrian’s short walk turned out to be a slow ride of at least a mile. She inhaled the pleasing aromas of dew-laden grass, leather harness, horse and man. She felt safe in his strong arms. “I thought I would be nervous atop this mighty steed,” she admitted, “but I’m not.”
He chuckled. “And I thought it was me you were afraid of.”
It was true she’d found him intimidating at first, but now…
“You have given me no reason to fear you,” she replied, aware of his warm breath tickling her ear.
“Nor will I ever.”
~~~
Dervenn clenched his jaw. She would be afraid if she understood the hard need pressing against her derrière. The dragon breathing fire at his groin urged him to set her down in the deep grass and fall on her like a raving beast.
But when he took her—and he was more resolved than ever that she would be his—it would be in a sweet-smelling bed.
He was almost relieved when he caught sight of the quartet a few yards ahead, standing atop the steep bank of a wide river.
He dismounted, lifted her down and handed her the pole. She clung to it with both hands, gazing at the brown water, clearly afraid. He smiled in an attempt to allay her dismay. “Good luck.”
Legs braced on the muddy ground, pole in one hand, Adrian extended his other hand to her. “The boat’s just down the bank.”
Dervenn’s hackles rose. “Boat?”
Victorine shook her head. “I refuse to get in a boat.”
“It looks quite safe,” Baptiste called from out of sight. “Clinker built.”
“Unsinkable,” Adrian declared.
Dervenn had to see for himself. He sidestepped down the steep bank. The rowboat was large, plenty big enough for five fishers. It was indeed clinker built, the hull constructed from overlapping planks fastened with iron nails.
With Adrian’s help and using the long pole as a staff, Victorine arrived at the bottom of the bank, clearly distressed by the mud on her shoes and skirts. “Is it safe?”
“Of course it is,” Adrian protested. “Our Viking ancestors sailed from Norway in clinker built boats.”
Despite his misgivings, Dervenn had to agree. “It is well built, and such boats are almost impossible to tip. It’s not a swift-flowing river. I’ll stand watch.”
He held the boat steady for the four young knights to climb aboard, then lifted Victorine over the side. Once she was safely settled on one of the benches, he shoved them off as Constant and Georges plied the oars.
They rowed to the middle of the sluggish river, where Adrian showed them how to drop the lines into the water after attaching what Dervenn supposed were flies to the end.
Satisfied all was well, he climbed to the top of the bank, and found a grassy spot from where he watched the tableau.
Victorine seemed more relaxed as she stared at the line in the water.
He had to agree it was an idyllic spot and could almost understand the appeal of spending an hour or two floating in a lazy river, far from the challenges of taming a newly conquered land.
Mayhap when he and Victorine married they might take up fishing, although he had a more pleasurable sport in mind. He’d never thought of making love in a rowboat.
Newly leafed weeping willows hung over the opposite bank. The sun was already warm on his back. Birds chirped, one or two flying by with twigs.
Soon they’d be feeding babies. He closed his eyes, conjuring a pleasing vision of Victorine’s belly round with his child.
He blinked them open when he heard Adrian’s triumphant shout. “Got one.”
An icy hand gripped his gut when Victorine’s panicked voice reached his ears. “Sit down, fool.”
GONE FISHING
Victorine’s belly lurched as Adrian struggled to bring in the fish he’d caught. He stood with legs braced, his efforts causing the boat to wobble alarmingly.
She let go of her pole and gripped the sides. It floated for a second or two, then sank quickly.
“Sit down, Adrian,” Baptiste shouted.
“Just another few seconds,” he replied. “It’s a big one.”
The more he tugged, the more the boat rocked.
“Stop that,” Dervenn yelled from the shallows. She hadn’t noticed he’d come down the bank, but he still seemed miles away.
“You’re making me nervous,” Georges complained.
Adrian clenched his jaw. “One last heave, and…”
She stopped breathing when the line broke and he tumbled backwards into the water, arms flailing. The resulting splash soaked them all.
When he resurfaced, the frantic fear in his eyes struck dread into her heart.
“I can’t swim,” he spluttered, thrusting out his chin.
Baptiste came to his knees and leaned over the side, his hand held out to his friend. “Take hold,” he shouted.
The pulse constricting her throat eased when Baptiste managed to grab him by the scruff of the neck. He heaved mightily to haul the wretch into the boat, causing it to capsize. They were all thrown into the river.
“Dervenn,” she screamed, seconds before the icy water sucked greedily at her skirts and she sank into the muddy depths.
~~~
Thankful he’d already shucked his cloak, Dervenn removed his gambeson, all the while toeing off his boots. He strode into the water, then fell into the familiar strokes when his feet no longer touched bottom. He cursed loudly that he hadn’t taken into consideration Adrian might be a complete idiot. As a result the woman he loved
was in danger of drowning.
When he reached the overturned boat, Baptiste had his arm around Adrian’s neck. He would beg forgiveness later for the unchristian wish the river had claimed the fool.
Georges and Constant were swimming for shore.
There was no sign of Victorine.
He held his breath and dove under, searching the murky water. He almost missed her. A few feet below him she struggled to surface, hampered by her gown.
Tangled tresses swirled around her head and face. When he put his arms on her waist and clamped their bodies together, there was no mistaking the terror in her eyes.
He bent his knees and kicked off the bottom with all his strength, carrying her to the surface, where they both filled their lungs. Still in the grip of fear, she flailed her arms. He forced her onto her back and put his arm around her ribs. “Don’t fight me,” he rasped.
Gulping air, she obeyed and he struck out for the bank, uttering a silent prayer of thanks that he was a child of coastal Bretagne.
The weight of her sodden skirts made hauling her out of the water difficult. They collapsed together next to the four knights who lay in the mud, panting and coughing.
Georges suddenly sat up and retched, apologizing profusely for his delicate constitution.
“We understand,” Adrian replied hoarsely.
The urge to strangle him was powerful, but Dervenn was concerned for Victorine. She shivered uncontrollably. It was a warm day, for springtime, but a dousing in cold water could quickly lead to fever. “We must get her back to the house, and out of these wet clothes.”
She clung to him as he carried her up the bank. He set her on her feet, retrieved his cloak and furled it around her shoulders. Teeth chattering, she stared at him. “You’re wet,” she murmured.
He feared the shock had momentarily stolen her wits. Adrian scrambled up the bank and abruptly informed them they’d best hurry because a monk was due at the house to discuss drawing up a betrothal agreement.
She glared at him and snarled, “Monseigneur de Caulmont, I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man in christendom.”
It was music to Dervenn’s ears.
COCOONED
Victorine had fallen alarmingly silent and Dervenn babbled incoherent nothings in an effort to keep her awake. He’d seen men wounded at Hastings fall into a deep sleep from which they never awoke.
Confident Haritz would find the way back, he gave all his attention to the woman in his arms. Even soaking wet and bedraggled she was beautiful.
When the house came in sight he shouted for Jumelle. She came running out into the courtyard. “My lady, my lady, my lady,” she sobbed, reaching up to touch Victorine’s wet skirts.
The old retainer hobbled out, tsking loudly and shaking his head. “I feared it would come to this,” he mumbled.
“Light fires in every hearth, beginning with her chamber,” Dervenn ordered as he dismounted and lifted Victorine down. She opened her eyes, but the spark was gone, and she still trembled.
Jumelle hurried along at his side. “There is no hearth in my lady’s chamber. Only a brazier. The old man lit it not long ago. I told him it was too warm but he insisted.”
When Dervenn stepped into the chamber he thought for a moment the maid had opened the wrong door. Praise be to the saints Victorine wouldn’t be spending her life in this meager hovel. He set her down in front of the brazier and removed his cloak. “Get her undressed,” he told Jumelle. “Quickly.”
He tore off his gambeson and wet tunic and shirt then strode over to the bed and began pulling the linens off the mattress, growing more impatient when he noticed Jumelle staring at him. Victorine swayed, water forming a pool around her feet. “Get her clothes off,” he insisted.
“But my lord, you must leave.”
“I’ll leave when I am sure she is warm and on the way to recovery, now do as I say.”
When the maid obeyed, he perched on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots. Tempted to risk a glimpse of Victorine’s nakedness, he nevertheless turned his back and fashioned a Roman toga with one of the linens.
Satisfied the maid was busy rubbing her mistress dry, he removed his leggings and braies, then held out the second linen and the bedspread. “Wrap her in these,” he told her. “Tell me when she is covered.”
She took the linens from him.
He dragged the shabby armchair close to the brazier, and stood behind it, waiting.
“I am—you can…”
Relief flooded him as he turned quickly. At last Victorine had recovered sufficiently to speak, but she was as pale as death. His intention had been to have her sit in the chair until the brazier warmed her, but he had no patience for that now.
She needed heat. He had plenty to spare. He lifted her, sat down in the chair and cradled her to his chest. “Get the cook to make a tisane,” he said to Jumelle who dithered beside the bed, wet drying cloths clutched to her breast, her face blotchy from crying.
She nodded and scurried off, leaving him alone with her mistress. It was highly inappropriate, but he no longer cared. Victorine was destined to be his wife, of that he was certain. She’d come to trust him. Mayhap one day she might learn to love him.
~~~
Cocooned in Dervenn’s strong arms, warmed by the heat of his body seeping into her chilled bones, Victorine had never felt so cared for, so loved.
Gradually, the numbing fear was replaced by a startling realization. Or perhaps her heart had known all along. Only the stubborn pride inherited from her father had prevented her from admitting the truth. She loved Dervenn de Roure.
She basked in the glow of that love, and her heart leapt when he began to hum a lullaby. She’d done nothing to merit the regard of the gentle giant who rocked her, but she thanked her patron saint for it.
He smiled when she opened her eyes, but quickly clenched his jaw when she reached up to touch his scar. He grasped her wrist. “Non.”
“Please,” she murmured, “let me touch you.”
He gazed at her and she hoped he saw the love she bore him. “Please.”
He loosed his grip and she traced the jagged flesh from brow to lip, overwhelmed by the trust he placed in her. The reality of how close he had come to losing an eye constricted her throat, but it was pride that surged in her heart, not pity. “My Breton warrior,” she whispered.
His eyes widened as he shifted his weight. Her brothers’ talk of male parts hardening when they were aroused suddenly made sense. “My lady,” he growled, cradling her more tightly.
A need to taste him rushed through her veins. It seemed natural to part her lips. “Kiss me.”
“Gladly,” he growled.
His mouth on hers was demanding, not gentle. His tongue asserted its right to mate with hers. He breathed for her. He tasted of the sun and his skin still carried the tang of the river. His growl of need echoed in her womb as he cupped her breast. Her nipples screamed for his touch and he obliged with a light brush of his thumb that brought blissful delight. She surrendered completely to the euphoria of being loved and needed by this worthy knight.
What a fool she’d been to judge him unkissable. She would remember their first kiss for the rest of her life.
~~~
Dervenn’s instinct was to carry Victorine to the bed and join their bodies, before she recovered her wits and realized what she’d done.
But the passion in her kiss was a reassurance her feelings were genuine. He’d regret not treating this complicated woman with the respect she deserved, so he resolved to stifle his baser urges, much to the disappointment of his rampant cock.
However, he had to be sure. He stood, sat her in the chair and went down on one knee. “I have only my love to offer, Lady Victorine de Toeni, but if you will wed with me, I will dedicate my life to your happiness.”
Tears welled. “You love me?”
He took her hand and kissed it. “I have loved you from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
“I
was an arrogant bitch.”
He chuckled. “That you were, but I like feisty women.”
She cupped his face in her hands. “I have lived in a grand house and enjoyed great wealth, but I was never happy in that life. I love you and consent to our marriage.”
The wounds suffered at Hastings lost their power over him. Victorine had brought light to his darkness, hope to his despair. The playful Celtic spirit of the old Dervenn de Roure bubbled up. He couldn’t resist teasing her. “Mayhap we’ll have to wait until the prophecy is fulfilled.”
She arched her brows. “Prophecy?”
“A maiden who refuses a kiss beneath the kissing bough is fated not to wed for a twelvemonth.”
The linen wrapped around her had fallen open to reveal the swell of her breasts. His blood heated when the blush spread from her face, down her long neck to those tempting globes.
“I was a fool,” she admitted with a smile. “If I’d known you could kiss like that…”
He got to his feet and pulled her up against him, pressing his arousal to her mons. “We’d best leave at the earliest for Westminster. Another minute looking at you in this outfit and I might have to have my way with you. However, I don’t want our union to begin in a cupboard.”
He feared he’d been too blatant, but he’d forgotten he was marrying a woman with spunk. She put her hands on his shoulders and peeled the linen toga down to his waist, then stood on tiptoe and pushed her breasts against him. He cupped her bottom and lifted her, elated when she entwined her legs around him. The heat of her desire penetrated the flimsy linen.
He’d long suspected that beneath her prickly veneer lurked a woman of passion.
His heart stopped when the door slammed.
Jumelle sauntered into the chamber bearing a steaming bowl. “Perhaps you won’t be needing this now,” she said with a grin. “Seems you’ve warmed up.”
Victorine still clung to him. “Cheeky servant,” she replied, though there was no anger in her voice.
“I’m just glad you’ve come to your senses,” the maid replied.
Merry Medieval Christmas Page 32