***
Lady Sybilla clutched her babe to her breast, where he suckled noisily, blissfully unaware of the threat to his life. She and Oda had heard the commotion in the bailey and known the mob had come for them. Alise Bretel had arrived to tell them her husband was holding them at bay. Oda had fallen to her knees and begun to pray. Then Antoine’s angry voice had rung out. Sybilla thought it was a good thing she was seated or she would have swooned. Something tightened deep in her belly at the sound of his voice.
Minutes later, a knock heralded his arrival. Oda opened the door and as Antoine strode in, Sybilla realized she had never been as glad to see anyone in her life. It was evident he had ridden hard to get there. His black hair was plastered to his head, and the odour of healthy male sweat filled the chamber. She saw him look away when he realized she was suckling her child, and it touched her heart. Here was a gentle warrior, a man who would defend those he loved and the things he believed in to the death, but a man considerate of others.
Oda draped a small blanket over the suckling child.
Antoine took a step back. “Your pardon, Lady Sybilla, I didn’t realize—”
Sybilla smiled at him and held out her hand. “Milord Montbryce. Please. Don’t leave. Once again, we owe you our lives.”
Antoine took her hand and brushed his lips against it. Heat rushed up Sybilla’s thighs and curled into a damp throbbing at the core of her womanhood. Her nipples, already peaked by her child’s suckling, tingled more. Involuntarily, she arched her back slightly, thrusting her swollen breasts. She saw Antoine’s face redden as he glanced briefly at his groin.
He wants to be sure the gambeson covers him. Oda was right. He desires me.
Sybilla applied a small amount of pressure to Antoine’s fingers and saw his green eyes flash. She had a momentary notion to let the blanket concealing her breast slide accidentally to the floor. Confused emotions rushed through her. This warrior had killed her husband, but it had been an act of war—not of murder. And Denis de Sancerre had never treated her as a nobleman should. But, Antoine was a Norman. There could be no future, especially with Denis’ deformity. No man, noble or not, would want to take on that burden. It was hers alone to bear. Yet, she was drawn to him.
Antoine cleared his throat. She saw his eyes move from hers to the concealing blanket, then back to hers. He ran his fingers gently along the babe’s stunted little foot protruding from the edge of the blanket. “I’m ashamed of my villagers,” he growled. “They are ignorant, superstitious folk.”
For long minutes, the only sound in the room was the happy noise of a baby at his mother’s breast. It was as though time had stopped, and nothing existed outside of that one natural happening. Sybilla thought she had fallen asleep and was dreaming. She felt the urge to reach up and pull Antoine’s rapt face to her breast. She wanted to feel his full, sensuous lips tugging on her nipples.
“I’ll take the babe, milady.” Oda’s voice broke the spell. Sybilla lowered her languid gaze and saw that Denis had fallen asleep.
“Oh, oui—I didn’t realize—he’s asleep,” she stammered. Then she looked up at Antoine. Oda had gathered up the child and the blanket and Sybilla’s breast lay bare to his gaze. She thought for a moment he might reach out and touch her, and she discovered she longed for him to do exactly that. But he seemed suddenly to realize what he was doing and stepped back, away from her. She felt her face flush as she pulled her chemise to cover her breasts. She had never felt so aroused by a man’s presence.
“Sybilla,” he rasped. “I mean—Lady Sybilla. Forgive me. I was so rapt—watching the child—”
Sybilla thought she heard a snort from where Oda was tending the baby. Antoine straightened and squared his shoulders. He coughed, then in a stern voice said, “We need to speak about the matter of Renouf de Maubadon.”
Sybilla sensed a coldness come over him as he stood before her. Whatever she replied now could have an impact on her future. She would need to be wary. Antoine had indicated this matter touched on his brother’s survival. Members of a proud noble family such as the Montbryces would do anything to protect their own. “I thought we had completed our discussion of the man. I barely knew him, and was unaware of his relationship with my husband.”
“Unfortunately, we aren’t done with it. You’ll have to testify to what you knew of the man.”
Sybilla’s mouth fell open. “Testify?”
Antoine’s arms were rigid at his sides, and he clenched his fists. “At the curia regis.”
Sybilla felt cold fear raise the hair at her nape. What had the Montbryces got themselves involved in? “Testify that the man was a traitor—at King William’s court? You must think I have a death wish, milord. Besides, it was Oda’s knowledge that was imparted to you, not mine.”
“The court won’t accept the testimony of a peasant,” Antoine spat back, running his hand distractedly through his hair. “You know that. My brother’s life and that of his lady may depend on you, Lady Sybilla. I could force you to go.”
Another shiver of fear raced up her spine. She wouldn’t be surprised if her flaming red hair had turned white. “You could force me to go, but you cannot force me to speak against my will. Even the bastard’s court would not permit that.”
Antoine’s anger at her disparaging remark about his King was evident, and she saw him struggle to control his temper. As they glared at each other, something he had said penetrated. “His lady?” she asked.
Antoine slumped into a chair. “Oui,” he rasped. “His Devona.”
A memory tickled the back of Sybilla’s mind. She glanced at Oda, who had the same surprised expression on her face.
“Devona? That’s the name of Renouf’s wife.”
Antoine seemed to have lost control of one leg as it twitched nervously up and down. He put his hand on his knee, as though to still the trembling. Sybilla was beginning to see where the story was going. “I think you had best tell me the whole narrative.”
Antoine rose to his feet and paced for a while. Sybilla felt an inexplicable need to comfort him in his trouble—but her honour—
He stopped pacing and came to stand before her. “I lay our family’s future survival at your feet, Lady Sybilla.” He recounted the story. Denis had started to fuss, but Oda appeared so engrossed in what Antoine was telling them that she barely noticed as she absentmindedly rocked his cradle with one hand. When Antoine had finished, he went down on one knee in front of Sybilla and took her hand. “I know it’s a great deal to ask of you, Sybilla, but—”
Denis had by now started to scream loudly, and Sybilla was clearly distracted as Oda carried the child to her. “I’ll leave you to tend to your child. Hopefully, when I return we can plan for our journey.”
He bowed to her and left to go to his solar. The journey, the mob, and the confrontation with Sybilla had exhausted him. He called for a servant to bring a bath, and his valet, Osmont, came to help him strip off his armour and clothing. His groin still ached with the intense memory of watching Sybilla nurse her child. How he had longed to press his lips to those dark nipples he had glimpsed, to twirl his tongue—
He didn’t know what the options were if she refused. It was true he couldn’t force her to testify. He realized his valet had been talking all the while.
“What did you just say?”
“I was remarking, milord, that I’m afraid there will always be someone in the village anxious to harm Lady Sybilla and her poor infant.”
Antoine climbed into the bathtub and eased his body into the soothing water. What Osmont had said was lamentably true, and Antoine would not always be there to protect her, to be her champion—unless—
His gut clenched at the thought that had just occurred to him. If Sybilla was to become his wife, none in the village would dare to attack her or her child. But—his wife? He had assumed he would marry a respected Norman noblewoman, with a large dowry—there were many such—but none of them fired his blood like Sybilla. And if she were his wife
she would have no choice but to obey his command to go to the curia regis. As his wife she would be protected from the wrath of the court. To all intents and purposes she would become a Norman if she married him.
Then Denis would become his stepson. Denis—a child whose life had the potential to be full of hatred and misery. A child who would be a burden. To his surprise, Antoine found he wanted to help Sybilla with that burden.
Would she agree? How could he convince her? Did he want to marry her?
Of course you do, idiot.
He remembered a time, it seemed long ago now, just before the Battle of Hastings, when he had called Ram an idiot for not marrying Mabelle, who was so obviously his soul mate. Antoine knew deep in his heart that Sybilla was his soul mate, just as Hugh had recognized Devona as his.
“Osmont, fetch the ewer and rinse my hair quickly. Then go to the kitchens and tell them I wish to have supper brought here to my solar, sufficient food for two. Tell Bretel to convey an invitation to Lady Sybilla to attend me here for the evening meal—without her maidservant.”
Osmont arched his brows, but said nothing. After assisting Antoine with his hair he scurried off to do his lord’s bidding. Antoine leapt out of the tub, and wrapped a large linen drying cloth around his waist, feeling better than he had for a while. He’d made a decision. Now he just had to convince Sybilla of its merits. He had proven experience charming women, but none of them had ever mattered as much as this proud Angevin woman did. He felt suddenly like a green lad.
***
Oda closed the door after Bretel left and Sybilla’s knees went weak. “Oda, what does this mean? I cannot sup alone with Antoine de Montbryce in his solar. How can he expect that of me?”
“You have no choice, milady. Montbryce is an honourable man. And he is master here. It will do you good to get out of this chamber.”
Sybilla hugged her arms to her breast. “But what is the purpose of inviting me to his solar?”
“I told you before, and you must be blind not to see it, he’s attracted to you. Perhaps he wants to make you a proposition you cannot refuse?”
Sybilla’s eyes widened. “I won’t become his mistress, his leman.”
“I don’t think that’s what he has in mind,” Oda said cryptically. “He could have any number of those at his beck and call.”
Sybilla was about to ask what Oda thought Antoine did have in mind, when the reality suddenly struck her. “He will ask me to be his wife,” she murmured.
Oda nodded. “Think carefully before you say anything. You are in a precarious position here, your son more so.”
Sybilla sat on the edge of the bed. “I suppose I have no choice. He obviously wants us to marry so he can force me to go to Caen with him, to testify for his brother. I stupidly dreamed that if I ever did marry again, it would be to a man who loved me desperately.”
“Do you feel nothing for Antoine de Montbryce?” Oda wheedled.
Sybilla blushed. There was no point lying to the maid who had known her all her life. “I am—drawn to him,” she admitted.
Oda smiled. “Then let me comb your hair before you go. I think milord Antoine likes red hair.”
A short time later, Bretel arrived and escorted Sybilla to his master’s solar, tapped on the door and ushered her in. “Will you need anything further, milord?” he asked.
“Non, Bretel, merci,” Antoine said as he walked towards his guest.
Sybilla’s mouth dropped open when she saw Antoine. He had bathed and his hair was still damp. She had only ever seen him with his hair shorn for battle, and wondered if he let it grow when not in combat. He wore an ivory linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal well muscled forearms. His leggings clung to his hips and thighs. He was barefoot. She wished there was something nearby she could hold on to.
He took her hand, brushed a kiss on it and bowed. “Lady Sybilla, welcome to my solar.”
Sybilla couldn’t trust her voice. She merely inclined her head and walked with him to the two chairs by the hearth. She noticed a trestle table laden with food off to one side of the hearth,.
How many is he expecting?
She cleared her throat as he helped her sit in one of the massive wooden chairs. She waved her hand at the groaning board. “You seem to have planned a feast,” she murmured nervously, feeling at a disadvantage with her feet swinging in the air.
Antoine sat in the other chair, a smile on his face. “I’m hungry—after my journey,” he quipped. “Would you like wine?”
Sybilla shook her head. “I’ve never drunk wine.”
Antoine sat on the edge of his chair. “Never? Your husband didn’t serve wine?”
Sybilla shifted nervously, pushing back with her hands on the arms of the chair, fingering the carving. “Oh, oui, wine was served, but I wasn’t—allowed—”
Antoine spluttered in disbelief. “Not allowed? You’re a grown woman.”
Sybilla looked at her lap and intensified her grip on the chair arms. “My husband didn’t think it appropriate.”
Antoine rose to his feet. “Well, I think it’s entirely appropriate now, and I will serve you a goblet of wine.”
“You will serve me? But you are master here. Where are the servants?”
“I’ve dismissed them this evening. I’ll be your servant,” he whispered seductively as he handed her the goblet of wine. “Drink it slowly, for the first time.”
She felt his eyes on her as she sipped the dark red wine. His eyes flashed as she licked her lips, savouring the unfamiliar taste. She felt the warmth of both the wine and his heated gaze flow through her. “It’s good. I like it.”
“Did you not drink wine in your father’s home?” he asked.
How to tell him her father had treated her little better than a servant? He had wanted another boy, not a scrawny girl with mismatched eyes. To her father she was just as much a curse as Denis was to the villagers.
“Non,” she murmured. “Never. Watered ale, usually.”
Antoine sat back down in his chair. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off his bare feet. He watched her over the rim of his goblet as he drank. Had she ever seen such long dark lashes?
Her heart was pounding now with the growing certainty that Oda had been right. Antoine intended to seduce her this night. To do what? Become his leman—his whore? Or was the perceptive Oda correct, that he wanted her for wife?
She had been one man’s wife. The experience was one she didn’t want to repeat, though she had a feeling being Antoine’s wife would be—different. Antoine de Montbryce was a far cry from Denis de Sancerre. He was more like—well, the kind of handsome knight she’d dreamed of marrying. But he was a Norman, an enemy whose sword had ended the life of her husband. And why did he want to marry her and become encumbered with a deformed child? To save his brother’s life.
“Are you hungry?” Antoine asked.
“Oui,” she murmured dazedly, lost in her thoughts. “I hunger—I mean—I’m hungry.”
Antoine smiled and proffered his hand. As she struggled out of the massive chair, he put his hand on her waist. She felt his warmth seep through her dress into her body.
He escorted her to the small table and they took their places across from each other. She noticed there was only one trencher.
“I know you won’t mind if we share a trencher. Such a small table, and so much food,” he jested, waving his hand across the mouth watering display.
“Non,” she whispered. “I understand.”
Yes, she understood perfectly the unsubtle inference. Only a man and his wife shared a trencher. It was so intimate. She felt a tic pulsing at the base of her throat. It was becoming increasingly difficult to swallow. The wine had gone to her head somewhat. Was that part of his plan?
“I’m starving,” he exclaimed as he tore apart a chicken roasted with rosemary, placing the pieces on their trencher. He cut off a succulent portion of breast meat and handed it to her. “Do you like the breast? Or do you prefer the wing
?”
She looked back at his green eyes. “I prefer the breast,” she murmured.
He laughed. “Me too. I’m a breast man.”
Her mouth fell open, but he was tucking into his food and she thought perhaps he hadn’t meant anything other than that he liked to eat chicken breast. This was all so overwhelming. She had no experience socializing on an equal footing with men—especially one as ruggedly handsome and self assured as Antoine. She licked the grease from her fingers. Antoine coughed and poured her another goblet of wine.
“I shouldn’t drink too much, milord.”
“You’re right. But please, call me Antoine.”
She nodded in acknowledgment. “Antoine.”
“And with your permission I will call you Sybilla.”
She’d never heard her name spoken with such sensuality. Ssy-bill-ah. Gooseflesh marched all over her body. She took another unladylike swig of the wine, hoping to ward off the chill of excited fear.
She was being seduced—had come prepared for it, but it was turning out to be a much more pleasant experience than she had imagined. She was becoming intoxicated by Antoine de Montbryce. If only he truly loved her.
“Sybilla, I have a proposal for you. A way out of our dilemma.”
Ah. Here it was.
“A proposal?”
“I wish to make you my wife.”
Antoine could have kicked himself for his insensitivity. What kind of marriage proposal was that? The great philanderer Antoine de Montbryce and that was the best he could come up with? Why had he not told her he burned for her? Because she had been in love with her husband, a man he had killed. He feared she would never return his love. He was a coward.
He saw the look in her mismatched eyes. It told him she wasn’t surprised by his offer. But he saw pain there too. Would marrying him be so distasteful to her? Was she resigned to it because it was the only way to protect her son?
Belatedly, he pulled her up from her seat and went down on one knee before her, taking hold of both her hands. “Lady Sybilla de Sancerre, will you honour me by becoming my wife?”
If Love Dares Enough Page 16