by Anita Mills
“ ’Twas a pleasant journey?” he asked, his voice carrying upward.
“Well enough. Mine enemies were elsewhere.”
“Nay, ye grow too great for enemies,” Nigel said smoothly. “There’s nae a man as dares face ye in the field.”
“And many who do not fear my back. But it does not matter, for we are safely arrived.” The Butcher turned to the redhaired giant, beckoning him forward. “My lord of Byrum, I give you William of Dunashie, my brother. He now holds Blackleith of me.”
“Aye. I bid ye both welcome for myself and my daughter. ’Tis not every day a father celebrates the betrothal of his eldest girl, my lords.” His eyes moved upward to the Bastard’s face. “She is most pleased with the match.”
“I see her not.”
“Ah, she orders supper fer ye. Would ye see her now, or when ye sit down to the meal?”
The big man looked up to the wall where she hid, then back to her father. And again his face was grim. “Now. I’d see her ere I sup.”
“Oh… aye. She is all I have told your brother, and so ye’ll see. Come inside that I may send for her. ’Tis pleased ye’ll be with her, I promise ye,” Nigel added emphatically. “Comely and biddable, and what more could a man ask?” he added when William’s expression did not lighten.
“She is a widow?”
“Aye, and if she seems overquiet ter ye, ’tis that she has mourned Elias of Woolford overlong. ’Tis time and more that she wed again,” Arabella heard Nigel say as he guided them through the tower door. “Ye’ll be pleased wi’ her,” he repeated, “for she has been schooled to meekness.”
“Still, I’d see her with mine own eyes.”
Her stomach knotted, and she had to close her eyes against the awful nausea she felt. Mother Mary, but she’d not go to this man. She leaned her head against the cool stone and waited for her father’s summons. For a moment she considered taking Jamie down with her in defiance of Nigel, but she knew if the Bastard refused her when he saw her son, then her father would send the boy to Woolford. Nay, but she had to please William of Dunashie.
It was not long ere a serving boy appeared behind her on the wall. “My lady … He waited until she turned to him to deliver his unwelcome message.
“Lord Nigel would have you come to him in the solar.”
There was no help for it, and she knew it. She rose with effort, still hoping against hope that somehow the Bastard would discover a reason not to take her, and smoothed the skirt of her best gown. Following the boy down the dark, winding inner stairs, she prayed silently, fervently: Let him find me unpleasing. Let him decide I am not what he would have. Sweet Jesu, let him refuse to take me. And let Nigel not blame me for it.
The room that had once been her mother’s work place as well as bedchamber was well furnished by Scottish standards, with cushioned benches and low tables along one wall. As she entered it, all three men rose from where they drank of her father’s mead to face her, but it was Nigel who came to get her. His fingers closed tightly over her arm as though to warn her, and he thrust her forward, saying, “Behold Arabella of Byrum, my lords.”
The Butcher smiled pleasantly, but his brother drained his mead and placed the cup on the table ere he acknowledged the presentation with a nod. Then both walked closer. Nigel dropped her arm and caught her chin, forcing it upward.
“Did I not promise she is comely?” he demanded of them.
To cover his nervousness, William studied her silently for a moment, astonished. The smell of roses wafted upward as he stared. Comely? Nay, she was more than that—she was prettier than he’d imagined possible. Her hair was more than fair—it was somewhere between silver and gold—and her eyes were a clear, ringed grey, making them the most unusual he’d seen. And she was possessed of fine, straight features set within an oval face. She was not as tall as he had hoped, but neither was she overly short, for her head would come high against his breast.
She was regarding him much as a hare might look at the man who had trapped it, and he knew at that moment that she was far too beautiful for the likes of him. His heart pounded even as he stared.
She wanted to look away from beneath his gaze but her father’s fingers held her chin still, and she had no choice but to meet the hazel eyes of the man before her. As big as he’d seemed on the great horse he appeared even larger now, seeming to tower over her as he regarded her intently with those fine hazel eyes. A thin white scar crossed one cheek, ending where his helm must have stopped the blow. The thought crossed her mind that although he would never be mistaken for anything but a fighting man, there was a rugged handsomeness about his face. If only he would smile, if only he would give her some hope … but he did not.
This then was the husband her father would give her: this big, silent man. Even as she stared upward into his face she could not entirely hide her panic.
“Well?” Nigel asked impatiently. “What say ye?”
Finally, William of Dunashie nodded. “Aye, she is comely,” he answered, in a voice that sounded strange to his ears.
“Do ye take her?”
Arabella sucked in her breath and held it, afraid to breathe as she awaited his answer. The blood pounded in her temples, yet her hands were as ice.
As uneasy as he felt before her, William forced himself to look at her again. Would he take her? Only a fool would refuse such a wife. He exhaled fully, then nodded. “And she is willing, I am satisfied. But I’d hear it of her. What say ye, mistress: Would ye have me also?”
“She is willing,” Nigel answered for her. He released her chin and grasped her arm again. “She is well pleased with the marriage.”
“Nay, I’d hear her say it.”
She wanted to cry out that she had no wish to wed him or any, that she was not willing, but even as she hesitated her father’s grip tensed. And she knew that if she answered truthfully, Jamie would be lost to her forever. She closed her eyes briefly and swallowed.
“Aye.”
Her answer was barely loud enough to be heard. When she dared to look at him again, William of Dunashie’s eyes had narrowed. “I’d take none as would nae have me,” he told Nigel.
“Aye,” she answered again, this time more audibly.
He stepped back, apparently satisfied, and her father eased his hold on her, saying, “She is as meek and obedient as I can make her, my lord.” Before she knew what Nigel meant to do his hand had moved to the girdle at her waist, loosening it. Panicked, she wanted to flee.
“Nay, Papa …”
“Would you see that she is whole, my lords? The women tell me she’s as slender as a girl half her age.”
Will saw the blood drain from her face, and he felt sorry for her. He shook his head. “Nay, I accept she is whole and unblemished, for there is a child, I am told.”
“She gave Elias of Woolford one son.”
“It doesna matter then, for she isna barren. D’ye have the boy here, or is he at Woolford?” Even as he asked he turned to pick up his empty cup, holding it out with shaking hand to the lad who still held the pitcher of mead.
It was then that she found her voice. “I pray you, my lord—I’d take my son to Blackleith also. I’d not be parted from him.” Ignoring Nigel’s frown, she blurted out, “He’s but a wee boy, and—”
Will swung around. “How old is he?”
She bit her lip, afraid that he would deny her, afraid that he would say Jamie ought to be sent away. “He has but six years, my lord, and is small.” Behind her, Nigel snorted. “But he is possessed of a sweet nature, and he’ll not trouble you, I swear. I pray you—”
The desperation in her voice was not lost on Will. Nodding, he interrupted her. “And his sire’s family doesna wish to have him, he is welcome in mine house, Lady Arabella.”
She lowered her gaze, staring at the heavy boots he wore. “Elias had other sons, and they’ve no love for Jamie, my lord. They’ve not seen him since I returned to my father’s keep while he was yet a small b
abe.”
“Fie on them, then. A good man doesna turn away from his blood.”
When she dared to look up she thought she saw kindness in his eyes but then it passed. He turned to his brother, saying, “And the dowry satisfies ye, ’tis settled.” Then, thinking he ought to say something beyond that, he looked to her again. “Aye, mistress, and ye can stomach me, ’tis pleased enough I am with ye.”
“Two hundred silver pennies,” Nigel promised. “There isna land. …”
“ ’Tis enough,” Giles answered. “He’ll have the greater need of the money.”
She looked from one to the other of them, aware that her life had been settled between them. She was going to Blackleith with this giant of a man. She would lie with him, she would bear his children, and she would submit to his will in all things. Despite the air of unreality, something in her chest tightened until she could scarce breathe.
It was done. The lovely woman before him was going to be his to take. Never again would he have to pay a whore for what he would have of a woman. William’s eyes traveled from her face to the swell of her breasts, then to her slender waist, and his mouth went dry with the realization that Arabella of Byrum, a lady born, would come to him, would lie in his bed. But even as he looked at her, he thought she flinched beneath his all-too-hungry gaze. Reminding himself that she was no free-favored whore, he forced himself to answer, “And it pleases ye, mistress. I’d thought as ye be a widow we’d wed without the banns, but if ye’re not of that mind I’d share betrothal vows now and come back fer ye. Otherwise, I’d take ye with me on the morrow.”
It did not matter, and she knew it. Whether it was now or whether it was next month or even next year, it would happen. And yet she would stall, if she dared.
When she did not answer, Will smiled wryly. “I’d thought to be wed while my brother is here for witness, mistress. Aye, I’d hoped to take ye to Blackleith with me.”
“The Lady Elizabeth …” she began helplessly. “Would you not have her come also?”
“My wife awaits childbed and does not travel now,” Giles responded, disappointing Nigel, who’d hoped to see Rivaux’s daughter at the wedding. “But she has hopes Arabella will come to Dunashie when the babe is born.” He turned to the woman Will would wed. “She is eager for your acquaintance, lady.”
Arabella did not mistake her father’s frown. He wanted the alliance with the Butcher, and he wanted it now. She sucked in her breath, then exhaled slowly. “As you wish, Lord William—it matters not to me.” She held out a hand so cold it was numb.
“Then I’d hear ye bound by yer oath,” Nigel insisted.
Lord William. The words were so new to his mind that it was as though she spoke to another. Nonetheless, knowing now that she did not reject him, Will reached to clasp her fingers between his, nodding as he did so. He cleared his throat.
His voice stronger than he felt, he pledged, “I, William of Dunashie, lord to Blackleith, promise to wed you, Arabella of Byrum, on the morrow, as God, Nigel of Byrum, and Giles of Moray witness.”
It was her turn. Her throat felt almost too tight for speech as she responded low, “And I, Arabella of Byrum, promise to take you, William of Dunashie, for husband on the morrow, before God and witnesses.”
She was betrothed to the Bastard of Dunashie, and there was naught left to be said now. Pulling her hand from his, she managed a quick bob of obeisance. “I pray you will pardon me, but there is much to be done ere you sup, and …” Her eyes darted to Giles of Moray. “Your leave, my lord. Papa.”
“Aye.”
Will followed her into the stairwell, waiting until they were beyond the hearing of the others to speak. “Mistress… Lady Arabella …” He hesitated, wanting her to know he was no great oaf come to take her from her home, even if it meant speaking the stiff Norman tongue.
She stopped, afraid he meant to touch her. “Aye?”
“My brother and I would have a bath ere we sup.” It was not what he’d wanted to say, but the look in her eyes did not encourage him. “If you would order the tub…” His voice trailed off, for want of anything else he could think of to tell her.
“Aye, my lord.” She started again down the stairs, then stopped once more, this time to look back up at him from a safe distance. “My thanks, my lord.”
“For what?”
“For accepting I am whole.”
A smile of understanding warmed his face, and he nodded. “I did not want any other looking on you,” he said simply. “ ’Tis not meet that they do.”
“I will order the tub for you.”
Once again she was going, and still he would speak with her. “Mistress…” He reddened slightly as she turned around again, then blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “You are as lovely as the rosewater you wear, you know. ’Tis pleased I am with the match.”
“My father is pleased also.”
Feeling a clumsy fool, he let her go then and returned to Nigel’s mead. For once in his life he wished he’d paid more attention to Lang Gib, for there was a man who knew how to flatter a woman. Lang Gib would not have stood there like a great foolish bear, prating of rosewater, he was certain.
It was not until she’d reached the bottom of the dark, winding stairs that she realized he could, when he wanted to, speak like a Norman. But that too did not matter: If he’d carried himself like a belted earl, he could not change the fact that he’d been born a border lord’s bastard, nor could he change his size. For a brief moment she recalled his smile, then she forced herself to remember that there had been a time when Elias also had pretended kindness, a time before she’d been delivered into his power. And with that memory she clasped her arms tightly about her, hugging them against her shivering body.
Chapter Four
Her heart pounding, she carried the soap and towels up the stairs to the second-story chamber directly below her father’s. She was being foolish, and she knew it, but she had no wish to bathe either the Butcher or the Bastard. Soon enough she would have to endure William of Dunashie’s giant body over hers, and she would postpone seeing it as long as possible.
The door was slightly ajar. Balancing the drying sheets on one arm, she pushed die heavy iron bar. At the same time someone on the other side pulled, and she nearly lost her balance, stumbling into William of Dunashie. He caught her arms to steady her, then released her and stepped back, seemingly surprised to see her. His hazel eyes took in the folded towels on her arm, and his mouth twisted into a wry smile.
“Fer me, mistress? Nay, but ye are too late, fer I’ve bathed.” She would have babbled out an apology but he stopped her, and the smile broadened into a grin. “ ’Tis daft ye must think me, but I’ve nae been a lord lang enow to expect ye ter do it fer me.” To demonstrate that he had indeed been washed, he combed his wet hair with one hand, spotting the linen undertunic that clung to his still damp body. “And ’tis drapping on ye I am.”
His accent was thicker than before, making her wonder if he’d been drinking. He followed her gaze to the table by the bedstead. “Aye, but nae more than a wee bit o’ mead frae th’ jug.” His hazel eyes twinkled at the lift of her brow. “Well, mayhap more than a drap,” he conceded, “but nae enough to make me a danger to ye.”
The tub still sat before the brazier, its water covered-with a waxy film. “Lord Giles?” she asked, backing away from him.
“Och, but I was second in the water, mistress. Lord Giles is below with yer sire.”
“Oh.”
The sun filtered through the oiled parchment that had been stretched over the arched window, giving the small room a strange, yellowish glow. He watched the light catch her braids, making them nearly gold where they fell forward over her breasts. Comely? Nay, she was beautiful, and she was going to be his. Never again would he have to press a coin into Berta’s hand to get what he would have of a woman. As he looked on Arabella of Byrum desire raced unbidden through his veins, heating his body, making his
mouth dry. He dared to move closer. And once again the scent of roses floated before him, enticing him.
She’d seen that expression in the eyes of other men before, and it had always unsettled her, but in this instance she felt an even greater panic. On the morrow this hulking, ill-bred man would lie with her. Involuntarily, she took another step backward. The soap slipped from her hands, thunking against the planked floor.
“Ye think me nae but an uncouth lout, don’t ye?” he asked.
“Nay,” she lied, running her tongue over her lips nervously. “Uh … as you are bathed, there is naught left to be done. I will see you at supper, my lord.”
But he was loath to see her go. Telling himself that he did but wish to gain her acquaintance ere they were wed, he gestured to the benches that had been drawn close to the tub. “And ye can spare the time, I’d hae ye stay fer speech, mistress…. I’d know of ye.” Again he ran his fingers through his dripping hair. “Aye—and I’d take a towel of ye also.” When she continued to stare as though she would run, he reached for the drying sheet, lifting it from her arm. “Sit a wee bit. I’d nae ask ye to dry my head.”
If she refused she’d anger him, and yet she was afraid to stay. Her heart thudded painfully, and her fingers were icy as she clasped them before her. Finally, she nodded.
“I’d nae devour ye, mistress.” As he spoke he shook out the woolen sheet and began to rub his head vigorously, leaning to keep from spotting the linen undertunic further. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her take a seat on the furthest bench, and, suddenly remembering Giles’ advice, he tried to keep the border dialect from his speech. “Tell me,” he asked her in carefully measured tones, “how is it that you have remained so long unwed?”
As though she could hold her fear of him in check, she clasped her hands more tightly in her lap. “There was none to ask for me.”
“Your father gave you the choice?” He finished rubbing the water from his hair, then dropped the towel onto the closer bench. He smoothed his hair with the palms of his hands, pressing it to lie against his head. “Nay, but I’d not believe none asked.”