Infidelity

by Markland, Anna

  When her turn came, she had difficulty speaking. Her throat became as dry as the dusty eastern plains Crusaders told of. No sound emerged until she swallowed and began again. She feared the wrath of God and eternal damnation if she uttered untruths. She yearned for a marriage of love, truly wanted to honor and obey this man she was marrying. She was drawn to him, despite his coldness. His silver hair only added to his attractiveness. His broad shoulders and well-muscled arms and legs bespoke a man of action and power. A protector.

  She had been disappointed not to see much of him in the sennight since their betrothal. The warm smiles he bestowed on others when he was unaware she watched him filled her with a strange longing.

  Why did he harbor such anger? Was it only for her and the marriage he had been forced into? Or had something else rendered him cold and cruel? Did he too love another? Perhaps if she proved to be a good wife, his unhappiness might lessen.

  She loved Geoffrey, but it was a forbidden love, a love destined never to come to fruition. She was marrying another man and she would commit to him body and soul. She would hold fast to the vows she made this day.

  * * *

  As Gallien spoke the vows that would bind him to Peridotte, he felt Geoffrey Plantagenet’s presence behind him. Did the Angevin know of her love? Doubtless, else why would he be here?

  It was evident now why Maud had arranged this marriage. She too was aware of Geoffrey’s love for Peridotte de Pontrouge.

  Had his bride and Plantagenet conspired to make him look the fool? The fear of again being cuckolded burned in his gut. He remembered with grim satisfaction the horror on de Villiers’ face as he stared at the blood gushing forth from his severed hand. He itched now to whirl around and chop off Geoffrey’s head with one swipe of his sword. Then the Angevin wouldn’t look so handsome. He would henceforth be known as Geoffrey the Headless.

  Peridotte’s trembling voice pulled him back to the moment. She was repeating her vows with conviction. Her grip on his hand had tightened.

  He suspected from their brief encounters over the past sennight that she wore some sort of herb on her body. He knew the moment she entered a room and felt strangely bereft when she left and the subtle perfume faded with her going.

  He inhaled deeply of it now. It calmed and aroused him at the same time. He brushed the back of his hand over his brow, wiping away the beads of sweat.

  Why was he sweating? He had naught to fear. He would do his duty and get his bride with child as quickly as possible. But he would never give her any opportunity to make a fool of him.

  The bishop gave him leave to kiss his bride. He licked his lips. How would she taste? She looked like an angel in her shimmering gown. He gazed into her green eyes, unnerved by the uncertainty he saw there. They were not the eyes of a calculating woman. Had he been mistaken? Was it possible she might grow to love him? He bent his head. Her lips parted slightly as she angled her face to receive his kiss. His heart and his shaft leapt as their mouths touched. She was frowning, staring wide eyed like a frightened doe. Then she closed her eyes and groaned, so deep in her throat, no one but Gallien could have heard it. Desire heated his body. He nibbled her lower lip, then coaxed with his tongue. To his surprise she opened. Her eyes flew wide as his tongue touched hers. They stared at each other.

  Her elusive perfume invaded his nostrils. He glanced down at her breasts, confident he had guessed the hiding place of whatever aromatic mystery she wore. His mouth went dry with anticipation. Tonight he would find it.

  The bishop coughed loudly, striking the cobblestoned entryway with his crosier. “Let us proceed into the church to celebrate the Nuptial Mass.”

  Gallien stepped away from his bride. Her face had reddened and she was breathing rapidly. His own heart was beating too fast. He was sure she had felt the astonishing spark of desire that had flared between them. He offered his arm. She accepted, and they processed into the church built by his grandfather. The people of Ellesmere filled the place. As Gallien and his bride made their way to the altar, loud cheers welcomed the son of their lord and his lady.

  * * *

  Devlin de Villiers had taken great pains not to be recognized. Standing in the shadows at the back of the crowded church, he doubted anyone would give him a second glance, dressed as he was in peasant garb, his odious stump hidden beneath his rough cloak.

  He had taken a considerable risk but, at last, Gallien de Montbryce had wed again and he had to see it for himself.

  Devlin narrowed his eyes, sneering as the silver-haired heir to Ellesmere made his arrogant way to the altar with his bride. She was a beauty. Debauching her while Montbryce watched, powerless to prevent it, would be sweet revenge. His cock swelled at the prospect. She would beg for mercy. He would give none. Then he would kill her. It was the least he could do for Felicité.

  He would maim Montbryce, but leave him alive to grieve his loss.

  Banquet

  Peri and Gallien were afforded the honor of sitting in the intricately carved lord and lady’s chairs on the dais. A dull ache throbbed behind Peri’s eyes as she watched liveried servants enter the hall bearing platter after platter laden with roasted fowl—chicken, pheasant, swan. Everything looked and smelled delicious.

  She was near faint with hunger, but her belly rebelled when her husband offered a choice piece of pheasant. She avoided his gaze, confused by the wanton urges that had surged through her body at their first kiss.

  She did not know how to kiss a man, but the warmth of Gallien’s lips and the coaxing of his tongue had ignited a fire in her veins. The lovely gown she wore had suddenly felt confining, tight around her breasts. Heat had pooled low in her belly and moisture flooded between her legs. A strange sound had emerged of its own volition from her throat.

  Gallien seemed as surprised as she by the kiss.

  She wanted to be a good wife but, if she enjoyed her husband’s touch, would it be a betrayal of Geoffrey?

  Her prince had ridden off with his entourage immediately after the ceremony, leaving her feeling both bereft and relieved. He had taken his leave in a courtly manner, though his lips had lingered a little too long on her knuckles. The indiscretion had not gone unnoticed by her scowling husband, but she doubted he suspected her affection for Geoffrey.

  Townsfolk and castle folk joined in the feast, the raucous noise as they ate and drank evidence of their happiness at the occasion. They cheered the appearance of each new hearty dish.

  Ale flowed freely with many a tankard raised to the health of the newlyweds. Musicians played shawms, nakers and rebecs, accompanying jongleurs who sang and danced to entertain the crowd.

  Her husband’s husky voice penetrated the din, interrupting her reverie. “You must eat something. It’s our wedding feast. At least try the pheasant. Cook knows it’s my favorite dish.”

  His words held no censure, yet there was no enthusiasm either. It was the first inkling of anything personal he had shared with her. In other circumstances, she might have laughed and confided that her favorite food was venison because it was a rare treat in Pontrouge, but now it seemed inappropriate. He had shown no interest in getting to know her. She pressed her fingertips to her nape, lifting her head to relieve the ache. She closed her eyes as the room tilted. “Mayhap bread.”

  His warm palm touched her forehead. “Are you ill?”

  Her eyes flew open. His heat sent soothing shivers down her spine. Had she groaned with relief at the touch? “A headache, milord, nothing more. The excitement of the day.”

  To her surprise, he turned his head to speak to his mother, but his hand remained on her forehead. “Maman, Peridotte’s head pains her. A tisane perhaps?”

  The countess smiled, summoned a servant, and sent the girl off on an errand.

  Gallien frowned, studying his wife’s face. “It’s rumored some women feign a headache to avoid the duties of the marriage bed.”

  She gritted her teeth. She had never spat upon another person, but was sorely tempted now. The ach
e sharpened as her body heated. She gathered spittle in her dry mouth.

  He smiled. “But those green eyes tell me your pain is real.”

  Had there existed a more infuriating man?

  He moved his hand to finger her elaborate braids. “Small wonder your head aches with your hair tightly bound up. I am anxious to undo it.”

  They were the first words of intimacy. A fledgling hope he might grow to like her rose in her breast. She averted her eyes from his intense gaze. “Milord,” she whispered.

  He leaned closer. “My name is Gallien. You are my wife and I do not intend to call you Milady. I shall call you by your name—Peridotte.”

  Her name on his lips echoed in her womb. “Gallien,” she murmured, glad again of the sachet of potpourri. “My parents call me Peri.”

  “What is the enticing perfume you wear, Peri?” he asked suddenly.

  * * *

  It was driving him out of his wits. He did not want to like this woman he had been forced to marry, but his arousal spiked when she was near him. Felicité had never roused him to such a degree, and after her betrayal he could not bear to touch her. He had not bedded her again after their wedding night. Indeed, no woman had stirred his interest since—until Peri.

  His new wife was ailing and he wanted to soothe away the discomfort. Later, in their bedchamber, she would bring relief to his ache.

  Dieu! Was it her perfume intoxicating him? And that kiss. He would warrant by the look of shock in her eyes it was the first time she had kissed a man. And she had enjoyed it. Was she wanton, or did she find him attractive?

  “Potpourri.”

  Gallien winced at the hint of fear in her voice. He intimidated her. Now he had learned the name of the perfume he was no wiser. He’d never heard of potpourri.

  One of his mother’s apprentices came to the dais with a tisane, offering it to his wife. “Milady Countess’s cure for an aching head,” she explained.

  Peri accepted the steaming cup, inhaled deeply and smiled. “It smells wonderful.”

  His erection turned to granite. Her smile sparkled in her green eyes, lighting up her face and his heart.

  She sipped the brew, licking her lips. He fancied those full lips sucking intimate parts of his body. Liquid fire raced through his veins.

  Hope that this woman would not be another Felicité curled its warm tendrils around his frozen heart. But then he remembered she loved another and caution stomped the fledgling hopes into submission.

  * * *

  Peridotte’s constant frowning alerted Carys. She suspected only the nagging pain of a headache could erase the girl’s normally sunny disposition. It boded well that Gallien sensed his bride’s discomfort and wanted to relieve it. He’d even touched her forehead voluntarily.

  She instructed Mavis to prepare a simple oxymellus; honey and vinegar would be sufficient to calm Peridotte’s nerves without the risk of drugging her. Gallien had already endured one disastrous wedding night. He didn’t need his new bride to lapse into a stupor.

  If the newly-married couple’s first kiss was any indication, there was an alchemy between them that promised to flare into an all-consuming passion. She continued to pray it might be so. When her son inherited his father’s title, he would be more likely to make sound decisions aided by the good counsel of a loving wife.

  Humiliation

  Peri’s headache had disappeared by the time her chair was hoisted onto the shoulders of two brawny men. She clutched the carved wooden arms, not daring to look down at her dangling feet. “I hope you’ve not imbibed too much ale,” she chided her bearers.

  They laughed, winking at each other.

  Gallien was lifted onto broad shoulders, his chair left behind. The scowl that often marred his beauty was gone, and he seemed to be enjoying the bawdy comments of the boisterous crowd bearing them to bed. “Wait until it’s your turn,” he called to his brother.

  Her heart lurched. Soon she would lie naked with this tall, well-muscled warrior. He would touch intimate parts of her body, places even she had never touched. Fermentine had told of things men did to their wives in the bedchamber, but Peri had covered her ears in disbelief. Her body heated now at the memory. What if Fermentine had spoken the truth about bodies joining? How was such a thing possible?

  She had no brothers and only a vague notion of what Fermentine referred to as her husband’s shaft. Was it the bulge Geoffrey seemed swaggeringly proud of?

  But her sister had claimed there was no pleasure for the woman in a man’s bed. It was a wife’s duty to submit.

  For some reason the throbbing in Peri’s head had moved to between her legs, though it was a different, more pleasurable ache.

  She caught Gallien’s eye. He smiled at her briefly, but his half-hooded eyes betrayed his uncertainty.

  He is as nervous as I.

  Her heart was beating too fast. She tightened her grip on the arms of the chair, fearing she might tumble from the swaying conveyance. Surely Gallien de Montbryce had bedded women before? What young handsome knight had not?

  Perhaps he preferred men. She had heard whispers of such at Westminster and had encountered men who might well be mistaken for women but for the clothes they wore. Mayhap, therein lay his reluctance to marry.

  Her belly roiled at the thought and she dismissed it quickly. As her chair was lowered clumsily to the floor in the bridal chamber, she offered a silent prayer to Mary Magdalene. “Help me be a good wife. Let my husband not hate me.”

  * * *

  Gallien endured the good natured ribbing patiently, and the pushing and shoving as his friends disrobed him, but his eyes darted furtively around his chamber.

  No trace remained of Felicité. She had slept here only one night. Her belongings had been burned, the room blessed by the bishop after her death. He had filled the chamber with manly things. Trophies of war and hunting decorated the walls.

  Yet when he looked at the bed, his dead wife’s mocking sneer loomed up—she flaunted her naked body, the body another man had claimed before him. Was he so hateful that a woman would spurn him cruelly?

  He hazarded a glance to where his mother and sisters were preparing his wife behind an improvised screen. Peri feared him, and no wonder. He had done nothing to inspire her love. To what purpose? She loved another.

  Étienne taunted him with his bed robe, obliging Gallien to stand naked, arms folded, tolerating the giggles and bawdy comments about his aroused state. He was proud of his body, but Felicité’s rejection had cut deep. She had evidently found nothing attractive about him. His prematurely white hair made him feel older. Peri would likely be repulsed.

  A hush fell as his bride appeared from behind the screen. Her beauty awed him. The fine muslin nightrail did little to hide her ripe breasts and shapely hips. Disappointment flared that her hair had already been unpinned, but the glowing red locks cascading in flowing ripples down her back to below her derrière made him weak at the knees. A man could forget all his troubles wrapped in such tresses.

  She hesitated when the cheers and congratulations broke out again, swaying as she clutched her maidservant’s arm. She stared at the floor, averting her gaze from his nakedness.

  The urge to stride across the chamber and take her in his arms was powerful. He clenched his fists at his sides, itching to sweep the gawkers from the chamber. He thirsted to rip the nightrail from her body, nestle his nose in the potpourri’s hiding place, and plunge into the ripeness her body promised.

  But fear held him in its thrall. Felicité had presented such a vision on their wedding night. He had rushed to claim her body and spilled his seed, only to discover her treachery. The memory came thundering back. “Remove your nightrail,” he rasped.

  The crowd fell silent. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his father’s face redden in anger. Head bowed, Étienne clutched the pilfered bed robe to his chest.

  Behind Peri, his mother glared, shaking her head at him.

  Peri gasped. She glanced up at him sharply
, then looked away quickly, but he had to finish what he had started. “We must be assured you are without blemish.”

  * * *

  Peri lifted her chin to stare at the rafters. Her husband’s goal was humiliation. She had hoped he was developing a fondness for her, but now she recognized the depth of his hatred and resentment. He stood brazenly naked before her. Despite her determination not to look at the flesh jutting from between his legs, her chin dropped and her gaze wandered there. A fleeting memory of Terak’s carthorse appeared behind her eyes. This was a shaft?

  Shame, embarrassment, and curiosity warred within her. Perhaps men were proud to display their nakedness, but surely he recognized the embarrassment this would cause her?

  Gritting her teeth, she nodded to Alys.

  Her maidservant stepped forward, bowed, and brushed away the welling tears with her thumbs. Gently, she pulled loose the bow at Peri’s shoulder. The fabric fell forward, exposing one breast.

  Peri held her breath.

  Feet shifted, the only sound in the chamber.

  “’Twill be only for a moment,” Alys whispered.

  When the second bow was untied, the nightrail slipped silently to the floor.

  Peri felt Gallien’s eyes burn into her skin as the uncomfortable silence grew.

  After an eternity, a bed robe was slipped around her shoulders. She clutched it to her body. Warm arms cradled her. Shivering despite the hearty fire in the hearth, she turned her face to her mother-by-marriage’s breast, determined not to cry. She would not give her husband the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt her. Perhaps this was something expected of brides. Fermentine had not mentioned it.