As she climbed the stairs, the echo of wine-filled laughter faded behind her. After she dismissed the serving girl, she lay naked beneath the sheets, staring up at the wooden ceiling, unsure if he would come to her this night at all.
Light still lingered and, as she watched it wane, she thought of the ways she should have prepared.
I could have perfumed myself. Put powder on my cheeks. Used sage and salt to sweeten my mouth...
Dear God, do not let me fail again.
She knew what must come. It was the wedding night. The man would have what was his right. With her first husband, that had never been a pleasant experience.
And yet, Gil’s kiss had been different...
The unfamiliar spark of desire fluttered within her again, there, between her legs, the place that must accept him. Was this what some women felt for their lovers? Could it be that way with a husband?
Could it be that way with her husband?
Tempted by another man? No. But by Gil? Tempted, indeed.
Yet when the door opened, every muscle clenched in protest. She had not realised, until that moment, how much fear her body carried. Fear stronger and more powerful than her hope.
‘Valerie? Are you ill?’
The light had dimmed. She could not see his face clearly, but he did not sound irritated, as Scargill always had when interrupted from his own amusements. Still, his last words to her had been sharp ones. She could not know his mood.
She sat up, keeping the bedclothes before her. ‘Forgive me. Gil.’ She must remember to say it. ‘I did not think anyone would miss me.’
‘Of course I would miss you.’ Said without the annoyance she had expected. ‘You are my wife.’
‘Had I known you needed me beside you, I would have stayed. Next time I will ask your permission first.’
The vows complete. Once again, she must remember to obey her husband, to understand his wishes in all things.
And tonight? She must appease him, entice him to bed, cajole and please him, start the marriage by slaking his lust or things would go badly from this point on.
Just as they had before.
Keeping the sheets over her nakedness, she threw back the covers on his side of the bed, making room for him. And yet, even covered, her breasts seemed to sense his nearness, to ache for him to come closer...
She shifted her bare shoulders, uncomfortable, waiting, aware of his eyes looking at her naked arms. One hand clutched the sheet before her, the other, clenched against what was to come, was hidden in her lap.
Her body at war with itself, wanting, fearing, waiting.
Instead, he looked away, moving towards the window, not the bed. ‘I will not lie with you tonight.’
‘But we are wed.’ She tried to remember the calendar of church days for abstinence. Was this one that even married people must avoid? Then, another thought seized her. ‘Is it because I am a widow?’ Did he not want the leavings of another man? Yet he had known that from the first.
He looked at her, puzzled, and then smiled. ‘You will not be the only woman I have lain with who knew another man.’
A moment’s relief. She had even wondered whether he might be untested.
But still, he did not approach the bed.
She must have made him more angry than she knew.
Or, perhaps, he was only tired. If so, it was not her place to force him to his duty. The day had been long, the wine plentiful. Perhaps he was in a mood to rest. ‘If you want to sleep...’ She shrugged and shifted to the other side of the bed. ‘You need only wake me when you are ready.’
‘Why are you like this?’ he said, abruptly. The softness had left his voice.
‘Like what?’
‘Pretending you have no opinions, no desires of your own.’
What a strange man she had been given. ‘I am your wife. Your wishes are now my own.’
And yet he did not smile to hear it. ‘But still, you have wants, needs, hopes, opinions. Lady Cecily, Queen Constanza, even Lady Katherine let their thoughts be known.’
Women with more power than she would ever know.
She did not know what to make of him. Was this some kind of test? ‘And my earnest wish is to be a good wife to you. To bear the son you want.’
‘Are you certain?’
She had thought Gil to be a stern man with a soft side and some pain of his own. She had never thought him witless. ‘Of course I am.’
He approached the bed, pulled a stool closer, and sat. ‘No. I mean do you truly understand and agree? My son, our son, will carry the blood of the Brewens, even though he does not carry the name.’
‘You told me, yes.’ A confession over and done. Why would he belabour it tonight?
‘And I asked if you wanted to be relieved of the burden of this betrothal. You did not.’
She remembered the conversation, vaguely, but so unused to being allowed to have an opinion, let alone make a decision about her own life, it had never occurred to her that he might be serious. ‘No. I did not.’ No woman refused a marriage ordered for her by the son of the King.
‘But although we are wed, bearing such a child is not a decision to be made lightly.’
As if bearing a child was a decision of any kind. She almost laughed. She could barely say how much she wanted a child. If she had been given a choice, she would have chosen yes, long, long ago. She wanted, needed a child. Her land, the land she thought would always be hers, was gone. Without a child, what would be left to her if she again became a widow? She wanted a child so badly that she would not have objected to a babe with horns and a tail.
But his expression was serious, as if the very thought was a burden he was carrying. And he sat, hands clasped, elbows on knees, looking as if he might be praying. Waiting to hear her answer.
Astonished, she simply looked at him for a moment. What sort of marriage might this be?
This man could be stern and angry, but then, the disgrace of his family weighed on him still, as if he doubted whether he was enough, just as he was.
That, she could understand.
She laid her hands on top of his. ‘I do not make the decision lightly. I am willing to be a dutiful wife, to carry your name and, God willing, your child.’
His duty given. And hers. She expected nothing more than that.
And yet, she wanted to give him comfort. And his eyes spoke of something beyond obligation.
He reached for her shoulder, but instead of pushing her down on to the bed, he let his forefinger glide across her collar bone, drift over her shoulder, and float down her inner arm.
‘Marriage can be more,’ he whispered, covering her hand with his, ‘than duty.’
She pulled her hand away. ‘Can it?’
She wanted no more than duty. As his wife she would attend to him, meet all his needs and demands, but to care for him with her heart, not just her hands? To truly mourn the loss of love, when he found another?
That, she could not bear.
‘Yes.’ He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her to him and pressed his lips to the bare skin at the curve of her shoulder. ‘I have seen it.’
‘In truth?’ She barely knew what she spoke, only that words were safer than his touch. And yet she felt it building, that desire he wanted, that desire she thought she could never feel.
‘Yes.’ His lips moved against her throat now. ‘Between a man and his wife.’
Ah, what a chivalrous fool she had for a husband. For a moment, she wondered, even wished she could give him what he wanted.
She could not.
She wanted no such passion with her husband. Nor with any man.
So as he lit a candle and tossed aside his tunic and shoes, she lay on the bed, ready for him to pull the sheet away until she was bare to
his gaze and to the night air.
And she squeezed her eyes shut, ready to submit to whatever he wanted, wise enough to expect nothing beyond than duty and telling herself she would be content with that.
And knowing she lied.
Chapter Thirteen
Gil forced himself to go slowly.
He wanted her to think of no other man, of no other world than the one he would build for them. So he took long, slow moments to caress her skin with his fingers, with his lips.
But he had waited so long, wondering what lay beneath her mourning weeds, that it was hard to hold back.
He had thought to discover her gradually, the curve of her shoulder, the delicate arch of her back, the colour of her skin untouched by the sun. But she had bared herself already, though still hiding behind the sheet, so that if he wanted, he had only to reach and he could take all of her. More temptation than a man could resist, especially on his wedding night.
But he tried.
Concentrating on her pleasure helped him subdue his own. He let his fingers explore her skin, every inch of it, as if it were the terrain of battle. Not to wage war, but to wage love, to know where a light touch might please and where it might tickle.
She lay with her back to him, too enticing otherwise, while he trailed his fingers lightly across her skin, from her shoulders down her arms, across her wrists, on to her palms, and then his fingers stroking hers and moving on. One side. The other. Alert to any change in her breath, to any involuntary movement, hoping for a shudder of anticipation, a moan of pleasure, for anything that would prove she enjoyed his touch.
Instead, she lay, bare and unmoving beneath his hands. Relaxed? Tired? He could not say.
So he started again. Pulling the sheet down to bare her to the waist, pushing her dark hair to the side, then kneading the tight muscles of her shoulders before beginning with a light descent again, down the back of her neck, down her spine, wanting to let his fingers slip between her legs...
She tensed.
He stopped.
Too soon? He did not know what this woman wanted. It could take nights, weeks, to learn what might give her pleasure. Perhaps she was a woman who would be roused by a kiss.
He touched her shoulder, whispering for her to turn. And then, as she rolled on to her back, everything he had dreamed to see, everything that had been hidden was open to him.
The candlelight glowed across the pale skin of her breasts, small and perfectly formed as he had dreamed. Below the curve of her waist, her hips flared, wide enough to carry their children with ease. And between her legs, a thicket of dark curls, both concealing and beckoning.
He widened his eyes, taking in the vision of her, uncertain where to begin. Uncertain he could hold back. Below the waist, his skin, still imprisoned in linen and wool, was crying out to meet hers, but he was reluctant to let her go so that he could pull off the braies and wrestle with the hose.
It was her pleasure he wanted first, so he held back his own desire. Stretching out beside her, he let his hand roam again, from the tip of her chin, down to the tip of one breast, the place, finally, that brought a gasp to her lips. As if without thought, she offered them to him more fully.
His lips, soft, but hungry, followed his fingers across her skin. He touched his lips softly to her shoulders, to the base of her throat. Not a kiss. Something much more delicate. A promise.
Her breathing quickened. And his.
But before he claimed her lips, he stopped and leaned on an elbow, to study her face. Her eyes were closed, not in languid desire, but squeezed shut, tightly.
‘Valerie, open your eyes.’
Obedient, she did, but without meeting his.
‘Valerie, look at me.’
Dark eyes unfathomable. Was she ready? Had he kindled her desire? But he could no longer hold back. Pulling her to him, he took her lips, desire in his kiss. Her lips, taking, then giving to his. Yes. Now. Hesitation forgotten, he rolled on top of her, reaching to part her legs, expecting to find her ready...
She stiffened and her hands met his shoulders, as if to push him away.
Dazed, he paused, unsure what was happening.
He moved, struggling to open his eyes, passion and frustration muddling his brain. She had said she did not fear him. So how could her passion change to resistance?
He raised his hands to Heaven. ‘What’s wrong?’ The words, not spoken gently.
And when he looked down at her, she was curled inward, hands covering her head, as if to avoid his fist.
* * *
‘What’s wrong?’ he had shouted.
And Valerie had braced for the blow. For a hailstorm of words and a punch, a slap, even a kick.
Instead, silence.
‘Valerie?’
She opened her eyes, realising where she was and whom she was with. Not Scargill. Not any more.
She sat up, pulling the sheet before her. She must make this right, reassure him, please and pleasure him again. A man expected no less, especially on his wedding night.
‘Nothing.’ Said quickly, eagerly, with an adoring gaze. ‘I did not mean...please, forgive me.’ In the darkening room, it was difficult to read his face. Did she see a flash of irritation, or was it confusion, in his eyes?
He stood, stepping away from the bed, but still watching her, as if studying her long enough would allow him to see all she kept hidden.
‘Was it that bad?’ he said, finally. ‘With him?’
‘What? No. What do you mean?’
‘You are not a good liar.’
But she had been, once. Scargill had never known the difference. Or perhaps he had not cared.
She sighed and braved his eyes. ‘I don’t know what you think I am lying about.’
‘Every time I have touched you, you have flinched. And just now, you looked as if you thought I was going to hit you. I can only assume that your time with your husband was unpleasant.’
‘No more than most.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Because my mother told me so. She shrugged.
‘Did he hurt you?’
She blinked against the tears. ‘He was my husband.’ There was no more to say. That meant he had the right to do whatever he pleased and she, no right to gainsay him.
Gil sank on to the stool by the bed, so he no longer towered above her. ‘I am your husband, but I am not the same man he was.’
She had thought, hoped, that was true, but her body’s memories were strong.
He took her hands in his and squeezed them. ‘I would have you take joy in our joining.’
‘God does not want us to join unless we mean for children, so it should not be pleasant.’ Not for a woman. Men, she had noticed, always seemed to take pleasure in the act.
But then, men did not bear the children.
‘All women do not feel as you do.’
She was beginning to learn that. From the way that Katherine looked at John, she suspected they both took great joy in each other. ‘I will do my best to be a good wife to you.’
He dropped her hands. ‘With gritted teeth?’ There was an angry edge to his voice.
Now she must undo the damage. Her previous husband had been so, from time to time. Coming home with a frown. Stomping about the room. But once he had slaked his lust with her body, calmer. Even with a smile for her.
She wondered whether he had been the same with the woman whose silk he had carried.
She stretched out her hand. ‘Forgive me.’ Her fault. Always. That was the way to begin. ‘That is not the way I meant it. Just because something is a duty does not make it unpleasant.’
‘Valerie, don’t lie to me. Not any more.’
She swallowed, afraid she might choke on her words. ‘I do not lie
to you.’
‘You just did. With those words.’
‘Why is it wrong to please you? To say what you want to hear?’ The question sounded more desperate than she had hoped. ‘That is the way of the world.’
‘That is what is wrong with it!’ The words exploded and set him to pacing the room. ‘The King says he is still the greatest warrior in Europe. The Duke says he is King of Castile. And I say we will reach Seville by Yuletide.’ A sad, self-aware smile. ‘When I come home to my own bed, I want to sleep in truth.’
‘But aren’t there times when all you want is a willing wife?’ Or one you believe to be so.
He creased his brow, as if considering her words. ‘When I do, I will say so.’
She considered saying that now he was the one who lied, but she did not.
What a strange marriage she had fallen into. She had thought she could do as she had done before. Give him her body, as one would throw a bone to a dog to keep him busy, and keep her thoughts her own. He wanted both. And more.
‘And if you are not willing,’ he said, when the silence had grown long, ‘will you tell me?’
Yes—that was her first thought. But that was a lie so she did not speak it. ‘I don’t know. I have not been expected to be, to do, as you ask before. Have you been so honest with all your women?’
‘I have not had so many,’ he said. ‘And I have not had a wife.’
‘Ah, well, a wife is different from other women.’
A wife, she thought, must be the keeper of the lies. Her husband’s and her own.
* * *
Gil stood, deliberately far enough that he could not reach her. Any closer and he might do as she expected, simply grab and take her.
He did want a willing wife, but what had happened to the ferocious woman who refused the scarf he had offered? That was a woman who might make a partnership of their union, not this meek and humble impostor who thought of marriage as an exchange of bodies as mercenary as Constanza and Lancaster’s. He wanted to give her, and himself, something more than that.
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