He met Amele’s amused glance and said, “Congratulate me, my friend; I am soon to be wed to the lovely Lady Elena.”
Chapter Twenty
Elena decided the fortnight she was allotted was not nearly enough time for the thousand and one arrangements Michel so casually tossed in her direction the night of their official betrothal. An ordinary wedding required a masterly amount of intricate planning. A royal wedding, the first in more than half a century in Calei, when King Nathaniel married his first wife, required almost an act of divine intervention for things to go off as planned while at the same time making it appear as though no great effort was mustered to achieve it. Between the planning for the additional guests the keep would need to house for the event, ensuring there was enough food to feed the equivalent of an army of people at the wedding feast, not to mention seeing to the details of her gown and making certain there was sufficient quantities of freshly brewed ale to quench the thirsts of their guests, Elena was near exhaustion by the time her actual wedding day arose.
Despite the demands of the event, she could not be sorry about the aura of celebration that hung over the city. It was in such sharp contrast to the grief of the previous long weeks and months since her uncle had fallen ill. Everywhere she went she was greeted with smiling congratulations and comments expressing the people’s pride and pleasure in their new king. It was clear to Elena at least, that Michel had not needed to marry her in order to gain the people’s affections. He’d accomplished that on his own long before the highly anticipated announcement of their official betrothal.
While she was able to take in stride her fellow Caleinians best wishes for a happy future, she was uncertain how to deflect the well-meaning matrons’ offers to instruct her as to the more intimate side of her wifely duties. Her cheeks flamed just at the memory of some of those conversations, which invariably began with one of the fine ladies drawing her aside and whispering in her ear,
‘Elena dear, we really must talk. I know you must be nervous about what the king will expect from you in your bridal chambers after the ceremony, but it would not do to for you to approach such intimacies completely unprepared lest you offend the king…’
Somehow Elena had escaped Lady Madeline’s intent to instruct her, only to be cornered the following afternoon by Lady Emily,
‘Elena dear, do you have a moment? I really must speak to you. I know you have no mother to instruct you else I would never consider broaching such a delicate topic with you. It is completely natural for a young virgin to approach her wedding night with some small degree of trepidation, but it really would not due for you to give into your terror. The king might be offended by a bout of hysteria from his bride on his wedding night…”
As she stood at the entrance to the cathedral and waited silently for her attendants to make the final adjustments to her gown, the sound of all of the helpful, feminine, invariably older voices, echoed through her head.
‘Elena dear, I am loath to intrude on your privacy, but with no mother to instruct you, I consider it my duty to offer my instruction in your duties as a wife to the king…such a virile young king at that. I’m certain you must be aware dear, the king will have certain expectations of you…of an intimate, physical nature…’
‘Elena dear, my advice to you is to indulge in a few goblets of ale at the wedding feast. No one will remark on it. Of course it wouldn’t do for you to become drunk. Such ill-advised behavior would be a disaster of no small making…’
‘Elena dear…’
‘Elena dear…’
‘Elena dear…’
“Elena, my dear, are you ready?”
“What?” she answered with a start.
Baron Timothy smiled gently down into her pale face and reached for her hand to place it on his arm. At the lingering confusion he read in her expression, he gave her hand a fatherly squeeze and said, “It’s time, Elena dear. You do wish to marry the king do you not? I realize it’s a little late to be asking you your inclination in the matter, but I was one of your uncle’s closest friends. I feel it is my duty to stand in his stead. He would not want you to wed King Michel only because he wished it. You do understand he only sought to protect you.”
The baron’s kindly manner was enough for Elena to gather her composure. “Thank you, Baron, for your concern and for standing in for both my uncle and my father this night. Please do not concern yourself. I am quite content with Uncle Barnabas’ choice of a husband for me.”
The older man nodded, and Elena was touched by the relief that spread over his face at her words. “I admit I believed that was the case. You have always seemed quite fond of our new king, but fondness alone should not make you feel compelled to make this commitment if you are not ready to do so. I realize now I should have spoken up sooner, but if you should wish to consider the matter of your future more fully, you are always a welcome guest in my home.”
Touched beyond words, Elena reached up on tiptoe and placed a gentle kiss on the older man’s cheek. “Thank you, Baron. You cannot know what a comfort your words are to me, but I have no need to consider further my decision to marry the king. I am not merely fond of him, as I am certain is obvious to all. I am in love with him. To marry him is a dream come true for me. I would imagine every young lady in Calei feels the same,” she tacked on ruefully.
“Perhaps my dear, but it is you the king has chosen to be his wife. All of the other young ladies will have to make do with your leavings.”
Elena giggled at the older man’s teasing. Giving her hand a final squeeze, he added, “Shall we go? I imagine your groom is growing anxious over his bride’s delay in coming to him.”
Smiling, Elena nodded and the two of them took their place at the head of the long aisle. Elena’s hand shook noticeably where it rested on Baron Timothy’s arm as he escorted her down the long aisle of the ornately appointed cathedral where Michel awaited her with Bishop Maren in front of the candlelit altar. She knew it was typical for the bride to be the center of attention at her own wedding. Though she knew she looked her best in the jeweled and pearl gown in the purest white signifying her bridal virginity, in her mind, it was Michel who would receive her vote for the most beautiful member of the bridal party. He awaited her in a crisp white shirt, with the royal crest embroidered in gold threads over his heart and tight fitting black breeches that accented his muscular thighs. His black, shoulder length hair was tied back away from his face, but it was the look in his bluer than blue eyes as he watched her approach that quickened her breath and left her mesmerized and unable to draw her gaze from his.
She decided it was safe as they reached the front of the church and Baron Timothy placed her cold hand in Michel’s warm one, to stop fighting her attraction to this man. He was, after all, about to become her husband. An unreasonable fear suddenly gripped her when Michel gave her hand a gentle squeeze and they turned to climb the marble stair leading to the altar where the young bishop awaited them. For a moment she was convinced she must be dreaming.
How could this be happening? How could her most dearly held dream actually be coming true? Everyone she loved left her. She’d been deathly afraid that Michel would leave her too when she saw him lying in his bed, so deathly pale, after a betrayer ran his blade through his back and chest. Then she thought she would lose him to the weight of the expectations surrounding them and to the demands of the kingship. But here she was about to become his wife. Here he was staring down at her as they turned to repeat their vows to each other binding their futures for the length of their remaining lives. He looked like he was pleased to claim her for his wife, even though he could have his pick of any of the fair maidens of Calei.
Ironically, it was Michel whose voice rang with certainty when he recited his vows before God to honor and protect her until the day death parted them. Despite her certainty this was the man she would love to the grave and beyond, her voice was barely audible in the hushed silence of the holy church when she repeated her own vows. When the b
ishop spoke the final blessing and asked if Michel would seal their vows with a kiss for his bride, Elena lifted anxious, surprised eyes to her new husband’s face.
Without turning his glance away from her face, he responded to the bishop’s query with an easy, amused assurance. “I’ve waited long enough to do so, Your Excellency.”
Elena felt her cheeks heat up at the bishop’s amused chuckle, but her eyes never strayed from Michel’s intense blue gaze as he bent his head towards hers and his warm, probing mouth covered her own. Loud cheers erupted from their guests at the kiss exchanged by the newlywed couple, but Elena was too dazed to pay any attention to the noise. Her complete attention was absorbed in the feel of Michel’s lips on hers, his strong hands sliding along her sides and around her back and pulling her close into his embrace. When her lips parted beneath his insistent pressure, he drew back with obvious reluctance and his lips trailed along her skin to whisper in her ear, “I will definitely no longer be thinking of you as a child in another hour or two.”
He grinned at Elena’s embarrassed blush, and then turned her in his arms to meet their waiting guests.
The evening passed in a confusion of dazed wonder for Elena. She was separated from Michel’s grasp almost from the moment they entered the keep. One of her new husband’s boisterous subjects placed a full glass of ale in his hands then proceeded to toast him, along with his bride, his kingship, his future progeny, his royal ancestors, and any other excuse they could dream up to lift their full glasses with great enthusiasm. At the same time, Elena was drawn aside from the male ritual by the ladies in attendance and given subtle and not so subtle hints about how to please her young and virile groom on this most important of nights. The effect of which meant Elena spent the majority of her wedding feast with flaming cheeks and feeling increasingly insecure as the evening progressed of her ability to please her husband on their wedding night.
By the time Baron Timothy’s wife, Lady Suzanne, and two other high ranking nobles’ wives, led her away from the festivities to prepare the bride and the bridal chamber for the groom’s arrival, Elena was sick with anxiety and fighting tears at the knowing looks the women exchanged between them. A warm bath awaited her and Elena blanched at the thought of disrobing and then bathing in front of the three older women who were virtual strangers to her. She knew they meant well, but their helpful little suggestions were only making Elena more nervous about the night ahead.
Elena was ready to escape her chamber the same way Michel had arrived in it the night he informed her she was going to marry him in a desperate attempt to get away from the well-meaning matrons surrounding her and helping her into the elegant but nearly transparent sleeping gown in preparation for her wedding night. She even approached the window and glanced down to see if the rope Michel used to ascend to her window was still available for her use, before she remembered she was not in her old chambers, but in the king’s.
“Come away from the window, Elena dear. You’ll catch a chill.”
At the sound of Lady Suzanne’s gentle admonition, Elena schooled her expression and turned around to face the three women who were huddled together near the bed, their silence now almost deafening in comparison to the previous wealth of advice they offered her, as if their nerves too were wilting beneath the enormity of the occasion.
“We’ll leave you now, dear. I don’t imagine you will have long to wait before the king joins you.”
“Thank you for your assistance, ladies.” She almost added she would try not to disappoint them, then realized how ridiculous that would sound given the circumstances, and bit her tongue while the three women regarded her sympathetically and then filed silently out of the room.
As soon as she was alone, Elena sank to her knees with her arms wrapped around her stomach and struggled mightily not to lose the contents of her stomach. She couldn’t go through with this. What was she thinking? She would simply explain her feelings to Michel. Surely he would understand. Didn’t he still regard her as a child?
At the sound of the door opening, Elena jumped up off of her knees and urgently chided herself to calm her fears. It didn’t matter how young she was, or if she was raised without the benefit of a mother’s advice. She would still be forced to face this moment and her virgin’s fears alone…well not alone, she added silently, swallowing the terrified lump in her throat as Michel entered the suddenly too-warm chamber and turned to slide the lock into place, before turning back around to face her.
Elena tried silence her panting breaths that were audible in the heavy silence of the room. Michel’s intent blue gaze slid over her where she stood outlined by the moonlight filtering through the open window, his eyes darkening with intense male passion. Elena belatedly realized the moonlight framing her would make the transparent gown she wore appear even more transparent.
She swallowed again and attempted to keep the trembling in her hands from spreading through the rest of her in the chill breeze she suddenly became aware of where she still stood on frozen legs near the opening.
Michel finally broke the silence from where he stood leaning negligently against the door, a slight smile curving his lips. “If I promise not to pounce on you, will you come away from the window before you freeze to death?”
Elena shook her head, denying his too-reasonable request, with terrified tears shimmering in her eyes.
For a moment, Michel almost grinned at her panicked expression, but he managed to control the inclination in time before taking a few, measured steps into the room, his eyes never leaving his terrified bride’s face. Her own glance remained glued to his every move, as if she would leap from the open window to escape his manly passion if he pressed her. He had every intention of doing so, but didn’t think admitting as much to his bride was going to soothe her jittery nerves any.
He stopped halfway across the distance separating them and saw Elena release a relieved sigh when he halted his approach. “Your turn,” he commented in a feigned casual voice.
Confusion came over his bride’s face. “I don’t understand.”
“I met you halfway. It’s your turn to meet me the rest of the way.”
Elena eyed him warily and took a cautious step in his direction. When he merely raised his brows in askance of her tiny advance, she took another wary step towards where he waited for his reluctant bride. If he hadn’t waited so long to claim his bride, or been so long without the comfort of a woman, he might be able to appreciate the humor of his situation. As it was, he could feel the sweat beading across his forehead from the strain of keeping his masculine passions in check. When his timid bride finally covered the remaining distance separating them, Michel could see her erect nipples pressing against the thin gown she wore. He clamped his jaw shut over the frustrated groan that wanted to erupt through his tightly clenched lips and reached out to lift her chin so she would be forced to look at him.
“Elena, tell me what’s wrong. Surely you know me well enough by now to know I won’t force myself on you.”
A bitter, self-mocking laugh erupted from between her lips. “Don’t be silly. If anyone was forced into this marriage it was you, not me.”
“Could have fooled me,” he remarked in an attempt to lessen the tension holding sway over the room.
“This isn’t funny,” she protested his weak attempt at humor, but Michel counted it a minor victory when she didn’t step away from him.
He resisted the urge to draw her closer, thinking it would likely do little to lessen her maidenly fears if she suddenly found her soft yielding flesh pressed against his rock-hard erection. So he gritted his teeth against the alluring temptation standing so close every breath was a test of his prized self-discipline as he was forced to do battle with her floral scent that still clung to her skin from the bath she enjoyed in anticipation of their wedding night.
“Trust me, I’m not laughing.” Elena’s glance locked with his and then quickly dipped again. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he urged her, and chanced taking her
hand to keep his bride from attempting to put any more distance between them.
Elena felt her cheeks fill with color, but she forced the embarrassing confession through her reluctant lips, “I don’t know what to do. Everyone kept trying to tell me how I am to please you, but I can’t remember their instructions.”
Elena’s gaze was directed at her feet, so Michel thought it safe to smile at her ridiculous, but innocently charming confession. “The good ladies of Calei actually thought to instruct you?” This time he couldn’t suppress an unholy grin at the picture brought to mind of the matronly ladies cornering his innocent bride with their well-meaning advice.
When her only response to his amused query was a dejected nod, he took pity on her, and tugged on her hand to draw her closer. He noticed it was with obvious reluctance, a reluctance he’d never before sensed in her to be comforted in his embrace, that his bride allowed herself to be pulled closer to him. He reached out to cup her chin and lifted her white face for his perusal, wondering with an inward sigh just how much damage the good ladies of Calei had inflicted upon his plans for the remainder of the evening.
”Elena, contrary to the ladies’ erroneous assumptions, it is every man’s very great pleasure and privilege to instruct his bride on their wedding night in regards to her intimate duties as his wife.”
“Truly?”
Elena’s hesitant uncertainty brought a gentle smile to his lips. “Truly,” he confirmed in all honesty then released her hand and slid his fingers up her arm to cup her chin. He held her still while he bent his head and claimed a groom’s rightful kiss from his very reluctant bride. He felt her sigh in response and let his free hand grip her hip and pull her against him. When her flesh brushed against the noticeable bulge in his breeches, she instinctively attempted to retreat away from him, but he tightened his hold on her and kept her close against him. In the meantime, he deepened the kiss, forcing her to focus her scattered attention when he pulled her mouth open by tugging on her chin with his thumb. As soon as her lips parted in response, his tongue swept inside her mouth to taste, to test, to possess. When she moaned softly in response and her hands clutched at his shirt, Michel deepened the kiss, and let his hand drop away from her face to capture her straining breast in his seeking hand. She whimpered in response and pressed herself closer against him.
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