Hearts and Crowns

by Anna Markland

She sniffled, blinking away welling tears—what color were her eyes exactly? Green, flecked with brown. In this light, they reminded him of the amber necklace his mother’s brother, Rhys, wore—a family heirloom passed down through generations of the Welsh side of his ancestry.

  He tore his gaze away. What did he care what color her eyes were? Her dismay at being bound to him had gone unanswered. He cast about for something more pleasant to say. “But we might learn to tolerate one another.”

  She swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on a point faraway. “I had foolishly hoped for a marriage of more than tolerance.”

  The wistful melancholy in her voice caught him off guard, but he supposed most maidens’ heads were filled with the notion of finding a great love. He had once entertained similar fancies. “You dreamed of marrying a handsome prince,” he said with more sarcasm than he intended.

  She swiveled her head and glanced up at him sharply, her cheeks reddening. “Non, non,” she stammered, “not yet a prince, a—”

  She clamped a hand over her mouth, her green eyes widening in apprehension.

  Cold fury swept over Gallien. The woman was in love with someone else.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alys took a step back from her mistress, sniffling. “My lady, you are beautiful. If only your Maman and Papa were here to see you.”

  Peri pursed her lips, determined not to shed more tears. She had done enough of that throughout the long sleepless night, wishing her parents had come to her wedding. Perhaps their presence would fill the lonely void where her heart used to be.

  The Earl and Countess had deemed it wise to hold the ceremony soon after the betrothal since Peri was far from home. A sennight had passed during which she had seen little of her betrothed. Étienne had paid her more attention. Now she stood in her chamber, dressed in a gown of white silk that was finer than anything she had ever worn before. The Countess had recommended the unusual color and, after innumerable fittings, the castle seamstresses had finished the garment in record time.

  Alys divided the hair on one side of her mistress’s head into two sections. Instead of a third strand of hair, she used hairpins to secure a white ribbon. Peri winced as Alys plaited the hair tightly with the ribbon, then rolled the braid into a bun, secured with more pins. She repeated the process on the other side.

  Peri smiled weakly, her eyes watering. “At least you are here with me, Alys. Whether I look beautiful or not will be of no consequence to my betrothed. He hates me.”

  The maidservant opened her mouth to respond, but a commotion in the outer hallway caught their attention. Jovial male voices. One struck a chord of memory, but it was impossible he would be here.

  She clutched the fabric of her skirts. The Earl was to escort her to the door of the church, but she had thought there was time yet to calm herself.

  Someone rapped loudly.

  Feeling light headed, she nodded to Alys. “See to it.”

  The Earl strode into the chamber, smiling too broadly. “We have a surprise visitor.”

  Peri’s knees buckled when a grinning Geoffrey Plantagenet sauntered through the door. No wonder they called him Geoffrey the Handsome. The jaunty cap with his signature sprig of broom matched his doublet and hose perfectly—all of forest green wool—her favour color.

  She sank into a full curtsey, gripped with a fear she would be unable to rise when he gave her leave. “Milord Geoffrey,” she rasped, surprised to hear any sound come from her dry throat.

  He bent to take her hand. “Rise, Peridotte de Pontrouge. I am not king yet.”

  Peri hazarded a glance at the Earl. The smile had left his face.

  Geoffrey gripped her hand and helped her rise. “I hoped I would arrive in time for the nuptials of my favorite Angevin.”

  This could not be happening. Geoffrey had come for her wedding?

  The Earl stepped forward. “Milord Geoffrey has requested the honor of escorting you to the door of the church.”

  Peri’s heart raced. She blinked rapidly, the breath stolen from her lungs. The man she loved was here to give her away to a man she feared and loathed. What game did he play? She had dreamed of his coming, riding to her rescue on a white steed, not to help seal her fate. She swallowed the thickness in her throat, willing the chamber to stop spinning. “I—”

  Geoffrey held up his hand. “It is my duty to represent your father and mine today.”

  His tone was serious, but only she and Alys saw his wink. Her heart skipped a beat. It was a ruse. He intended to step in at the last moment to claim her. But how could that be? He was betrothed to Maud. There would be a war, or at the very least a skirmish within the walls of Ellesmere Castle. Geoffrey might be killed.

  “Are you well, daughter?”

  It came to her then that she was leaning heavily on the Earl who gripped one hand tightly while supporting her by the elbow. This kind man whose son she was to marry must not see her love for Geoffrey. “I feel faint,” she whispered.

  Baudoin de Montbryce chuckled. “Every bride feels that way. Worry not, you look beautiful. My son is a lucky man.”

  He paused, hesitating as if he wished to say more, but then passed her hand to Geoffrey. “She’s all yours, milord.”

  ~~~

  Gallien shifted his weight nervously as he waited by the door of the church with his brother. He tapped his upper lip with his fisted hand, his gut in knots. He understood now the defiance of the wounded boar cornered by the hunters. At this late hour, when marriage was inevitable, he tried desperately to devise a means of escape.

  There was none.

  He had done his best in the sennight since the betrothal to avoid Peridotte de Pontrouge. It irked that jealousy raised its ugly head when Étienne fawned over her, but his greatest annoyance was the persistent effect she had on his body. She had only to smile at his brother for Gallien’s cock to harden.

  There was no doubt she was lovely, but Felicité had been beautiful too, outwardly.

  To compound his irritation, Geoffrey Plantagenet had arrived unexpectedly, ostensibly to represent all things Angevin.

  Why did he have the feeling there was more to it than that?

  He gripped the edges of his black doublet and straightened his shoulders, flicking off a bit of lint he noticed on the sleeve. He was satisfied the tailor had made the shirt and doublet long enough this time.

  He considered removing the gold chain of square links he had chosen for its simplicity of design. Doubtless it would look meagre compared to whatever Geoffrey wore.

  He was about to ask Étienne to help him unfasten it from his shoulders when his father came up, somewhat out of breath. “Plantagenet is to give away the bride.”

  Gallien smirked. “What an honor! To be given away by the future King of England. Our Angevin must be a more important person than we thought.”

  How he hated this game of politics that had forced on him a woman he did not want. She did not want him either. She loved another. What had she said? Not yet a prince.

  The meaning of her slip of the tongue kicked him in the belly. Dieu! She was in love with Geoffrey the Handsome!

  Rage boiled in Gallien’s gut. His betrothed preferred a vain, immature boy to him. Was there nothing lovable about Gallien de Montbryce?

  “Let the prancing idiot lay a hand on my wife, and he’ll regret it, prince or not,” he muttered. “I’ll stuff the broom down his throat.”

  “What?” Étienne asked innocently. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “Nothing,” Gallien ground out between clenched teeth. “Where is my bride anyway?”

  ~~~

  Geoffrey’s hand felt cold beneath Peri’s as they processed to the church, their gazes fixed straight ahead. She wished they were alone, so she could whisper of her love, but his bodyguards accompanied them, and Gallien’s sisters attended her. The silk of her skirts swished against the stone floor, the only sound, apart from the loud beating of her heart.

  They crossed the deserted bailey. Wh
ere was everyone? Probably driven indoors by the cold wind.

  She caught a whiff of incense. Only a few more steps.

  Without warning, Geoffrey’s finger drew a lazy circle in her palm. She glanced up at him, gasping when he kissed the back of her hand, his tongue swirling over her knuckles. She tried without success to discretely pull her hand away, afraid Fleurie and Isabelle may have seen the flagrant breach of propriety.

  A moment ago she had been shivering with cold. Now heat rushed from her toes to the top of her head.

  Geoffrey laughed as the church came into view. A cold chill once again gripped her belly that had naught to do with the weather. Her betrothed stood in the entryway, frowning. Had he seen Geoffrey’s inappropriate behavior? She feared his anger. She had hoped to see one of his rare smiles as she approached the church. A scowling bridegroom clad entirely in black did not augur well for the future.

  Gallien held out his hand. Something flickered in his blue eyes that made her knees go weak. Geoffrey gave her over to him. “Here is your bride, milord Gallien de Montbryce. Treat her well.”

  To her surprise, Gallien nodded. “I intend to treat her in the manner she deserves.”

  His hand was warm, but his demeanor as they exchanged vows chilled her to the bone. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if he might flee at any moment. It was a habit she had noticed before. He uttered his promises like a meaningless catechism, his voice cold and flat.

  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 Geoffrey’s head off 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, deep in her throat, so deep 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 open 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 spark of desire that had flared between them. It confused him.

  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 Master 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 coming here, but, at last, Gallien de Montbryce had wed again. 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.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  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 had 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 beloved 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 raise
d 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 favourite 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 favourite 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 the back of her neck, 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 ache 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 he had spoken to her. A fledgling hope he might grow to like her rose in her breast. She averted her eyes from his intense gaze. “Milord,” she whispered.