Striding wordlessly to the wooden dresser, Guy snatched up a jug of water and started drinking it straight from the pitcher. She watched water trickling down his chin and onto his bare chest. He seemed to have a raging thirst, and her eyes opened wide to see it. Then her eyes dipped down further and she gave an involuntary exclamation. His tented braies did not hide the fact he was hard. For her. She stared, rapt. Perhaps she wasn’t so hopeless after all.
Once again, it was Old Helga’s words that sprang into her mind. “You’ll need to learn some new tricks,” she had said. New tricks. “Are you sure you’re up to it?” she had asked shrewdly. Mathilde nodded slowly. But she needed help. Where was that book Old Helga had given her for guidance? In truth, it had not looked promising, but she was desperate enough to try anything.
The jug thunked down on the dresser, and Lord Martindale dragged his forearm across his mouth. He stood there panting a moment. When he spoke his voice was gravelly and deep. “I’ll not believe it,” he said gruffly, not quite meeting her eyes. “I’ve never broken a vow in my life.”
What vow? Wondered Mathilde, then inspiration struck. She had once seen Queen Armenal yawn elegantly at some edict the king had made. Somehow, even a little goose like her had recognized instinctively that the queen had done it purposely, in order to needle her spouse. King Wymer had turned quite purple with chagrin at the time.
“As you wish, husband,” Mathilde said as nonchalantly as she could manage and faked a yawn, stretching back languorously into the pillows. When she glanced up through her lashes, to see how he had taken that, she saw it wasn’t her face he was staring at. Glancing down, Mathilde found her full body stretch had exposed her naked breasts to his view. Snatching at the sheets, she covered her front, hoping she hadn’t ruined the sophisticated tone she had been trying to set.
Her husband raked his face with his hand. “You’d better call me by my given name,” he said, his voice husky and deep.
Her eyes flew to meet his, startled. “Very well, Guy.” Speaking his name made her breathless. It felt dangerously like progress. Was she getting somewhere?
“You still want me to call you Mathilde?” he asked in a pointed tone.
What else would he call her? She frowned. “Of course, Guy.”
He snorted, cast a rather cynical look her way and started pulling on the rest of his clothes. “I’ll get a bath sent up for you.”
“Thank you.”
By the time she’d bathed and dressed, he had already left.
Right, thought Mathilde grimly. I’ve had enough of this. Where was that book?
XV
Guy was a sweating, roiling mess. Only part of this, he thought, his hands trembling as he threw his horse’s reins to one of the grooms, could be attributed to the quantity of strong drink he’d swallowed the night before. The rest was all down to her. Seductive little minx! What the devil did she mean by arching her back like that? Displaying herself to him, and giving him a flash of her perfect tits. True, he’d seen her naked before, but both those times her nudity had brought out his protective streak, not his lust. This time though … he swallowed convulsively. This time, it had been different.
The setting alone, gave it an altogether different flavor. She had been on a bed in front of him. And she had not been shy. He groaned, remembering how she had patted the bed, invited him to join her in it, and closed his eyes. But when he did that, his mind’s eye presented him with the image again. That exquisite little body. The one she had assured him was ripe to give him an heir. He caught his breath. Could she… could she possibly be his wife?
Mounting the steps up to the main entrance, he turned over what he knew about that lady in his mind. Precious little, in truth. He had not wanted to commit to memory, anything that dark-eyed devil had said to him, as he had coolly laid out the terms of his capitulation and disgrace. He had wanted to blank the entire shameful episode from his mind completely. The dishonor of being forced to take a southern bride to wife.
His cheeks flushed even now as he thought of it. He knew she was a widow though, no blushing virgin for him. As he had scanned the documents that Vawdrey bastard had placed before him with his bland smile, he had caught sight of the fact he was not her second, but her third husband. He remembered neither name nor rank of those that came before him. But for both to have died before she even reached twenty, they must have been elderly, he thought with a curl of his lip. Old and infirm, like the man Julia had broken their betrothal to marry. Old and rich. Unless, he thought with a start, they had been killed in the war.
Once inside, he started for his own rooms. “Send me up fresh drinking water and a bath,” he barked to a passing servant, then started up the stairs. His heart gave a slow, steady thud as it occurred to him, that he might have done his wife a disservice all this time, to think her mercenary and grasping. Maybe, just maybe, she had been as much a pawn in this, as he. If this female really was who she said she was, it was hard to imagine that pretty little face hiding any guile or cunning. He thought of the way she’d bawled her eyes out the preceding day. All over the return of some horse she’d lost her heart to, and barely even owned! Even the way she cried seemed honest and whole-hearted. By way of contrast, he thought of Julia when she had rejected him so prettily, dabbing her eyes with a kerchief and making a great play with her damp lashes. Even at the time, he had a sneaking suspicion that Julia was enjoying her role and play-acting to the hilt. And he had thought himself in love with her at that point.
Throwing back the door to his bedchamber, he flung himself across the room, staring down out of the window at the courtyard below. Could this woman truly be who she said she was? And if so… if so, would that be so very terrible after all? If she had been as much a victim as he, then blaming her was unjust. After all, she could not help in which part of the kingdom she had been born.
Could she have married at seventeen and then lost her first husband on the battlefield? If so, who was he to judge her for remarrying? He was not naive enough to imagine that most noblewomen were given much choice when it came to matrimony. She was young and beautiful. His throat was suddenly dry at the thought of how lovely. Even her hacked off, chin-length hair could not obscure her loveliness.
He rubbed his stubble, wondering how she would look in clothes that actually fit her. Not a fraction as good as she did naked, he’d wager.
Could he really have spent the night in a bed next to her? There had not been so much as a stitch of clothing between them. He cursed his drunkenness for his lack of recall. But if he’d been sober, a little voice whispered in his ear, he would never have climbed into the bed beside her at all. And never seen that little catlike stretch when she’d arched her back and bared her lovely bosom to him. That really didn’t bear thinking about, he reflected, as a servant entered with water pitcher and goblet. She set it down and scurried back out again. He poured himself a cup and tossed it back. He was parched, a sure sign of the way he’d spent the previous evening.
“I did not force you into my bed,” she’d flung at him. Then he winced, remembering his own crude words. She had gone very pale at that, then very flushed. He wondered if that blush had covered even more of that sweet little body. What would he have done if she had bared even more of it to his devouring eyes? He shook slightly as he refilled his glass. Would he have fallen on her like a starving man? He groaned and pinched his eyelids. He couldn’t possibly have had her. Life could not be that cruel. To have possessed something that delectable and then forgotten it completely. But didn’t you do that already, the same cool voice whispered within? When he’d married her by proxy that cold February morning. He’d secured his release from Wymer’s dungeon, and then ridden away back home to lick his wounds, without even a thought for the bride he’d left behind. If she was his bride in truth, then he’d owned her for the last four years and never laid claim to what was rightfully his.
A knock on the door made him jump. “Your bath m’lord.”
A troop of
servants carried in the tub and started filling it with jugs of water. He remembered that was how he’d left her that morning, to bathe. If she’d told the truth about their night together, then right now she’d be washing away the evidence of his pleasure between her legs. He turned back to the window. Could she have spoken the truth? Could he have had her, when his defenses were lowered? When drink had swept away his reservations, resentments and suspicions? Had his resolve been weakened to such an extent that his needs and wants had come to the fore? He wouldn’t be the first man to be weak to temptations of the flesh.
He was going round in bloody circles. Then a fresh thought struck him. If he had, then that meant the decision had been taken out of his hands. What was the point in crying over spilt milk? If he’d succumbed, then so be it. What was the point in holding himself aloof from an unwanted wife if he’d shown that deep down, he actually did want her? His breathing quickened. After all, what was there left to agonize over now?
He bathed, redressed in a clean set of clothes and spent an hour going over estate business in his study. A welcome sense of calm had overtaken him. He may have acted rashly, even ignobly, but at least he could now stop torturing himself. It was almost a relief. And she had made it clear that he was more than welcome in her bed. For some reason, that was the fact that stayed uppermost in his consideration. If she was his wife, then he had accepted a former enemy into his life. If she was not his wife, then he had broken his vows and taken a mistress. A mistress who was possibly working against him in some plot. Either way, he had chosen which bed he wanted to lie in, and it was hers. Whoever the hells she was.
**
Mathilde settled herself into the window seat, pulling a warm woolen mantle tight around her shoulders, and tucking her feet up under her. She settled the book in her lap and took a deep breath. Right, there had to be some hidden meaning amongst this flowery set of knightly tales, she thought grimly, and she was going to find it out! Turning the book over in her hands, she noticed what a handsomely bound copy it was with its red leather cover and gold clasp. It seemed a little funny that Old Helga should have such an expensive-looking book in her keeping when she didn’t read. With a shrug, Mathilde let the book fall open at a random page.
Glancing down, she noticed it was an illustrated page and then froze. Wait one moment. Is that … a naked woman? Mathilde’s eyes nearly fell out of her head, as she beheld the image of a female figure flaunting her nudity before a knight reclining nearby on a bed. She appeared before him arrayed in a gown so thin, that it hid nothing of her feminine splendor, she read in astonishment. Indeed, in the picture, the lady’s shift was entirely see-through.
Mathilde blinked. She certainly did not remember this episode from Sir Maurency’s tales! Gazing at the picture, Mathilde’s scandalized eyes could clearly the see the female’s nipples and the feminine hair between her legs! What manner of book is this? She flipped back to the beginning of the book, seeking the title page. “The Tales of Sir Maurency of Jorde,” she read. So her eyes had not deceived her yesterday. Mathilde frowned. From what she could remember Sir Maurency was a saintly individual whose dealings with women had been blameless in the extreme.
Perhaps, she thought, in this version there is an additional tale, where some wicked woman tries to tempt the pure knight? If so, whispered a little voice in her head, maybe she could learn some new tricks from this book. Mathilde caught her breath at the thought of it. Then her face fell. But Sir Maurency was bound to resist. He was such a moral paragon. With a sigh, she flipped to the first page, anticipating what she remembered of Sir Maurency’s exemplary childhood. From what she could recall, it involved much gentle persuasion to all and sundry to see the error of their ways through his own shining example. Mathilde’s nurse had been very fond of stories of saintly children. She had hammered them home to the infant Mathilde on a regular basis.
The Seduction of a Virtuous Knight by a Lusty Wanton Widow, she read for the first line and stopped abruptly. What? Her heart thudding, she scanned the rest of the page. Even from the first few paragraphs, she could see this was not the tales of Sir Maurency of Jorde. It was a different story altogether. Clearly, the binding cunningly concealed an entirely different book beneath its cover! The title page was to mislead people as to its contents. She exhaled a pent up breath and thought back to Old Helga’s query if she was equal to her task, and blushed vividly. Had Helga deduced, correctly, that she was entirely clueless in womanly wiles? Or had she guessed that Lord Martindale might need some enticement to perform his duties? Either way, it was a little embarrassing. She bit her finger. Still, she was right; there was no point in being proud. She needed all the help she could get!
Glancing around furtively, Mathilde opened the book again and flipped the pages to find another illustration. This one made her mouth fall open in astonishment. The virtuous knight had been surprised in his bathtub and the wicked widow was straddling him with her sturdy thighs. Sir Pelomon tried in vain to resist her lures, she read. But alas! The weakness of the flesh overcame him once more and he was lost to the sinful pleasure.
Mathilde’s fascinated gaze returned to the seated position of the lovers. She had no notion that coupling could be achieved this way! Sir Pelomon’s head was flung back and his eyes closed as though in ecstasy. His cheeks were tinted a ruddy red. She could well believe he was lost to some mysterious pleasure between the widow’s thighs, but it was the idea that it was the female who took the lead in their encounter that was both thrilling and shocking to Mathilde. I am a widow, she thought faintly. A widow twice over! What would Guy think if she approached him while he was in his bath? Her cheeks burned bright red at the notion. She would never have the nerve to clamber over the side and lower herself onto his lap! Would she?
Unbidden, an image rose in her mind of Lord Martindale’s head flung back in ecstasy, his cheeks flushed, his eyes sparkling. How would that feel? she wondered, biting her lip. To know that she was the cause of so much pleasure? She daydreamed breathlessly a moment, though she could not get a clear enough picture in her mind’s eye. Too much of it was an unknown entity to her, she mused sadly. She may well be a widow, but she had never actually been a wife! She looked back at the image doubtfully. Would it really work that way? When nurse had reluctantly described procreation to her all those years ago, it had involved a darkened bedchamber, a lawfully wedded couple and a husband’s rights. When Mathilde’s subsequent marriages had involved elderly and absent husbands, Nurse had been greatly relieved on her behalf that she was to be spared such unpleasantness. But this widow was actively seeking out the act. Perhaps she, too, wished for a baby, pondered Mathilde. After all, the text had not mentioned her motivation thus far.
She leafed back toward the beginning of the story. “Sir Pelomon was the fairest knight in all the kingdom, with fine white limbs and curling locks of pure spun gold.” Mathilde automatically substituted this for strong muscular limbs, and dark brown hair and continued reading. “Many was the maiden who sighed for his favor, and tried in vain to catch his eye. Sir Pelomon was not to be swayed from his chosen path. He was dedicated to the higher pursuit of knightly virtues of chivalry and valor.” Sir Pelomon was a little dull, thought Mathilde, but even this piqued her interest. After all, usually it was the female characters who were consumed with virtues.
Another few pages followed regarding Sir Pelomon’s purity of heart and single-mindedness. When does the widow come into it? Wondered Mathilde. She dutifully turned the pages until Sir Pelomon’s quest took him to an enchanted forest where he challenged a wicked giant and defeated him in honorable battle. With his dying breath, the giant bade him to return his sword to the widow of a man he had mercilessly slain some years previously. “She awaits a husband who will never return to her,” the giant confessed and then expired. Aha, enter the widow, thought Mathilde.
Of course, Pelomon considered himself honor-bound to return the sword. As soon as the lonely widow clapped eyes on the fair Pelomon, she was over
taken by illicit desire for the fair youth. She must have reconciled herself to the fact her husband had been dead for a while, thought Mathilde, somewhat taken aback. For she had barely batted an eyelid on learning her absent husband’s fate!
The widow set about seducing innocent Sir Pelomon at once, but was astonished at his unworldliness and purity. Her propositions barely seemed to register with him, and as such she was forced to take increasingly drastic action to spark his interest.
Mathilde sat up. This was the point at which she needed to pay special attention. This morning she had intimated to Lord Martindale that the deed had already been done, but that was far from true. She needed to make it fact as soon as possible. Maybe she should take notes? She glanced about, but could see no writing paper in the room. Impatiently, she dismissed the idea, vowing to commit the tips to memory instead.
The widow started out by wearing her gowns cut indecently low, revealing her abundant charms to the chivalrous knight, hoping to incite his lust. She sat at meals with him, spilling out of her gowns, with her hair loose, “…shooting him many lascivious stares, until he could not fail to notice the whiteness of her bosom or the redness of her pouting lips.” Mathilde pondered this a moment. Her bosom was more pink than white, and it certainly wasn’t abundant. It had never spilled out of any gown she’d worn, and she doubted it ever would, even with the lacings half undone. As for her lips, they weren’t red either, but more of a middling color. She sighed. Unluckily for the widow, Pelomon was so dense he did not pick up on these cues either, so the lusty widow was forced to step up her campaign to another level.
Wed By Proxy (Brides of Karadok Book 1) Page 12