Terror unfurled in her belly.
Ysmaine did not know what to expect from real intimacy. Her mother had explained to her what happened abed between man and wife, and she had waited abed twice to experience the truth. Should she touch him first? Would he think her a harlot if she did as much? Should she obediently wait for his command? Ysmaine stood by the pallet and knotted her hands before herself as her husband closed the door with the deliberation she had come to associate with him.
Would this be a beginning of a new life together or yet another ending?
Gaston gave no evidence of having doubts. As soon as the door was secured behind them, he unfastened his belt and laid his weapons aside with care. He shrugged out of his chain mail hauberk with some effort, declining her assistance with a frown.
“It is not the labor of a lady,” he chided, and Ysmaine dropped her hands.
“Why not?”
“It is an implement of war, and as such, not the concern of a noblewoman.”
“It seems to me that war concerns me, especially when it threatens the survival of all of us,” Ysmaine said mildly. She earned herself a very blue glance for that, but did not have the impression that Gaston disapproved of her words.
Indeed, it seemed she had surprised him and perhaps given him food for thought.
She watched as he bent over his own knees and bit back a smile as he wriggled. The mail, though, slid over his shoulders at his move, reminding her of a snake as it spilled to the floor at his feet. He straightened and rolled his shoulders, the only indication he gave of being relieved to be without its weight. His hair was disheveled and he looked large in his aketon, the quilted red garment he wore beneath the mail. He twisted and glanced over his shoulder to the ties that bound it closed, for they were on his back, then turned to her with a slight smile.
“But this I cannot contrive on my own. Would you be of aid, lady mine?”
“Is it not an implement of war?” she teased with a smile, and he had the grace to color.
“Indeed, and as such, it is unfitting to come to a lady while wearing it.”
Ysmaine gestured for him to turn around and quickly untied the laces. It was clear that the aketon had been worn for many years, for there were stains upon its quilted surface. She did not doubt that the darker ones were dried blood and knew it had to be Gaston’s own. There were lines of stitching on the surface, where tears in the garment had been repaired, and Ysmaine could guess what would rend such a garment.
Her husband’s past trade was made most clear by this item of his garb.
She fully expected that his skin would bear a similar tale with marks of his labor.
“I know little of aketons,” she said. “For I have no brothers. Are they passed from father to son, or brother to brother?”
“Some,” Gaston ceded. “This one was made for me as a gift from my uncle and patron when I earned my spurs.”
“At fifteen summers.”
“Aye.”
“So you could not defeat your weaker cousin again, and would be compelled to leave to make your way in the world.” Ysmaine’s tone was tart, for she disliked that Gaston had been so ill treated, but he granted her a smile.
“Aye.”
Ysmaine could not hold back the words. “And so all the blood that stains it must be yours.”
“It is.” He reached for the hem of the garment once she stepped back and hauled it over his head, shaking it before setting it aside. Ysmaine did not fail to note how he laid his gear out in an orderly manner, arranging it so he could garb and armor himself in haste.
She also did not miss the glimpse of a scroll of parchment, much hung with ribbons, that fell out of his aketon. He hid it quickly from view, and she knew she was not to have noticed it.
But Ysmaine recognized that her husband carried a missive. It was one of import, or at least dispatched from an important individual, given the seals and ribbons upon it. She thought again of her impression that Wulfe deferred to her husband, even though Gaston said he had left the order, and wondered what secrets her husband held close.
In the meantime, Gaston shed his boots, then cast aside his chausses, as if he removed his garb in her presence all the time. Ysmaine dared to sneak a glance at him through her lashes and had to admit that he was no less fine in solely his chemise. That garment hung white and loose to his thighs, and he had pushed up the sleeves. There were intriguing shadows beneath the linen, but she could see the tanned skin of his forearms and the muscled strength of his legs.
He was wrought so differently from she, and the sight drove all other thought from her mind other than what they would soon do. She would have liked to have looked upon him fully, but his hands landed upon her shoulders. She noted now the minute scars upon his knuckles, the work-roughened strength of his hands, and wondered how many other scars he bore. Her grandfather had placed great measure in a warrior’s scars. One hand fell to her unbound hair, and Gaston touched it with a reverence that surprised and touched Ysmaine.
“Like spun gold,” he murmured, his voice a deep rumble close to her back. He flicked a glance her way, and she was snared by the bright blue of his eyes. “We had a cook when I was a boy who told tales of straw being spun by a fairy into strands of gold.” The corner of his mouth lifted and his voice changed, as if he mimicked that cook. “And so it was that the straw was spun before their astonished gazes, the spindle spinning so fast that it could not clearly be seen. In the morn, when the fairy was gone and the bowl of milk emptied, the spindle was left filled with thread as fine as gossamer but wrought of finest gold.”
Ysmaine smiled despite herself. “We had a nurse who told a similar tale.”
He entwined their fingers. “It is not the sole thing we have in common, lady mine.”
“Nay, sir, it is not.”
“I would have you call me by my name.”
Ysmaine swallowed the lump in her throat. She appreciated that he was trying to ease her trepidation and tried to meet him partway. “Aye, Gaston.”
He smiled fully then and turned her in his embrace so that they faced each other fully. Ysmaine spared a quick downward glance and saw that he was more prepared for this than she.
God in heaven, she hoped the deed did not hurt so much as she had heard.
“It will be done quickly enough,” Gaston murmured, which she supposed was meant to be reassuring. He tipped her chin with a fingertip and gave her a kiss.
It was the kiss that restored her confidence, its sweet languor giving her the strength to face what must be. She chose to believe that he would survive this night, for he was hale and young.
And truly Mary could not have interceded, only to abandon her again.
Chapter Seven
Ysmaine returned Gaston’s caress with growing enthusiasm, recalling well enough how alluring she found him and how their kiss in Jerusalem had fueled her desire. Her body responded as it had before, a most encouraging sign, and she relaxed ever so slightly.
Gaston swept her into his arms and deepened his kiss, holding her fast against his chest with one arm. His other hand speared through her hair, the feel of his hand at her nape most enticing. Ysmaine put her arms around his neck, showing him that his touch was welcome, then found herself abruptly on her back on the pallet.
She supposed he had warned her that it would be quick, although truly, she could have savored that kiss a little longer. Gaston’s dark hair fell over his brow as he smiled down at her, and clearly they did not share that desire to linger over the deed. Ysmaine smiled back at him, though she guessed her expression was tremulous, for he granted her another slow kiss.
If he intended to coax her pleasure, his kiss certainly aided in that. There was much to be said for having his strength stretched out beside her, his hand roving over her from breast to knee, his other hand cupping her head as he kissed her thoroughly. His manhood pressed against her hip, and she wished to see him fully, but his chemise hid him from view and his kiss nigh made her swoon
.
Ysmaine felt that heat build, a curious pleasure sliding through her body. She had a sense that there was more to be found abed than she had yet experienced—indeed, she heartily hoped as much, and Gaston’s purposeful progress was most encouraging.
As was the fire he conjured beneath her skin.
Just when she was certain she could have kissed him all the night long, Gaston slipped his hand beneath the hem of her chemise. Ysmaine’s eyes widened at the warm weight of his palm against her thigh. It felt wicked to have his skin against hers there, wicked and wonderful. Her anticipation rose, redoubling as his hand moved, sliding slowly upwards. Indeed, Ysmaine’s heart skipped. She felt a most delicious desire for her spouse. She felt her skin flush, and she yearned for…something.
Gaston’s strong fingers eased between her thighs then, his sure touch making her gasp, first with surprise and then with delight. The feel of his fingertip on her was beguiling indeed, and she broke their kiss, shocked by so intimate a touch.
“I would have you prepared,” he said, his caress making her writhe like a wanton. Ysmaine knew from the twinkle in his eye that he realized what sweet torment he inflicted upon her. She flushed more deeply as he continued, and it seemed the room heated. That desire simmered within her and increased to a boil, advancing far beyond the quickening summoned by Gaston’s kiss.
Ysmaine could not name her desire, but she knew Gaston could provide it. She pulled him closer with new hunger and opened her mouth to him, wanting more of whatever he intended to give. Ysmaine arched her back as he lowered himself over her and his kiss demanded more, for she liked both the heat of him and the strength of him. She wanted to rub herself against him, but she didn’t want to move away from those beguiling fingers.
She heard herself moan, and Gaston chuckled against her throat, his satisfaction most clear.
His weight was between his thighs a moment later. To Ysmaine’s relief, he showed no signs of expiring as yet. Indeed, he looked most vital and hale. Nay, he looked uncommonly roguish and alluring, for his dark hair had fallen over his brow, that smile played over his lips and his eyes sparkled like the night sky. She impulsively pushed the hair back from his brow, shoving her fingers into the thick waves, and Gaston’s smile broadened with a satisfaction that thrilled her. He braced himself over her on his elbows, watching her closely as he eased himself inside her.
Ysmaine could not completely suppress her wince at the pain, but he kissed her anew and murmured an apology in her ear. She recalled her mother’s counsel and parted her thighs more widely, welcoming him into her heat instead of locking her knees together as impulse demanded. Gaston shuddered in a most remarkable way and murmured her name with a fervor that thrilled her in turn.
Was it possible that she had some power to influence his desire, as well?
Gaston nuzzled her ear as he eased within her, and Ysmaine gripped his shoulders, awed by the feeling. The pain passed and there was only a strange sensation of being filled, of being surrounded by her husband. Then he was within her fully, and she felt the wild pounding of his heart where his chest pressed against her own. His eyes were that bright blue and his face so close to hers, his gaze intent in his concern.
He would await a sign from her, even when he was so bound in his own pleasure. Even when it was his right to do as he would. Ysmaine lost the last of her reservations at that, for she knew she had wed a man who would treat her well. She embraced him, welcoming him as her mother had once instructed was right and good.
The difference was that Ysmaine did not do as much out of duty, but out of desire.
“You fare well, sir, to my relief,” she murmured and he grinned. He looked young and carefree then and her heart skipped.
“And I mean to finish what is begun,” he whispered with resolve. “With your permission, lady mine.”
Ysmaine nodded once and felt him chuckle, his satisfaction more than clear. She wanted to know where this tingling would take her, what relief would come of the ardor he had aroused, and she kissed his mouth, wanting all he would give.
Gaston moved, making her gasp again at the sensation. His nostrils flared and his eyes gleamed as he moved with greater vigor, his entire body growing taut. Ysmaine did not know what to do, so she held fast to his shoulders, her own breath coming more quickly. Her sense grew steadily that some elusive delight was just beyond reach, tantalizing her with the prospect of a new and wild pleasure she had yet to taste. Her heart pounded, her breath caught. Gaston moved more quickly, his gaze brightening. Desire coiled within her and roared for satisfaction. Her body seemed to stretch for something she could not name.
Gaston knew it. He watched her with a dangerous smile as she whispered his name. She wriggled beneath him, wanting only to be released from this escalating need. She dug her nails into his shoulders, wanting to be claimed by him in truth, and he groaned as if the sound was torn from deep within him.
He moved more and more quickly, then suddenly buried himself within her, a curiously satisfying sensation. He closed his eyes and groaned, then shuddered from head to toe, his entire body taut.
A moment later, he sagged against her, his forehead falling to her shoulder, so still that terror filled Ysmaine.
She had no time to fear his demise, for Gaston took a ragged breath and lifted his head. His eyes, if anything, were an even deeper hue of sapphire and she noted the dark thickness of his lashes. He looked sleepy, pleased, and utterly enticing.
He kissed her cheek, his gesture almost perfunctory, then rose from the pallet. “And so it is done,” he said with a satisfaction Ysmaine did not share.
Done? Ysmaine blinked. Then why did she still yearn? What had she missed? What had not been done?
All of import was finished, by her husband’s reckoning, it was clear. Ysmaine watched him, incredulous. Surely that could not be the sum of it?
Surely she had no idea what to demand of him.
Beyond more.
Gaston whistled under his breath as he washed himself, using the pail of water and cloth that had been provided, then donned his chausses and boots. He fastened his belt with care, checking his weapons in what she guessed was his routine, then returned to the pallet to consider her. “And so you see that I have survived after all,” he said, his voice a teasing rumble.
“Indeed.” Ysmaine, however, felt an unexpected annoyance with him. Surely he knew that she yet yearned for some satisfaction?
Would it be to bold to tell him as much? Even a man who desired a forthright wife might have limited expectations in that regard.
He regarded her, his expression turning quizzical. “Did it hurt overmuch?”
“Less than I had expected,” Ysmaine replied, somewhat irked by his practical tone. They might have been discussing the weather. She much preferred when he overwhelmed her with sweet kisses. Indeed, she could have savored one of those kisses in this moment.
“That bodes well, then,” he said, apparently content. “We shall couple daily until you conceive.” He offered his hand and helped her to her feet. She watched as he removed the linen from the pallet and Ysmaine saw the red blood of her maidenhead upon it.
Of course, he would want evidence of their coupling.
Gaston folded the linen with care, bade her goodnight, gathered his garb and made to depart.
“Do you not mean to sleep here, sir?” Ysmaine asked in surprise.
Her husband looked back, his expression astonished. “I will sleep in the stables, the better to guard Fantôme.”
“Your destrier?”
“And my most precious possession. We should be in a poor situation without the horses, lady mine.” His tone was temperate, his gaze level, then he turned to leave the chamber.
Without so much as a parting kiss.
Ysmaine could no longer hold her tongue.
* * *
“What is it?” his wife demanded with sudden fervor when Gaston’s hand was on the latch of the door.
And he knew.
Gaston froze a heartbeat too long before he glanced back, endeavoring to keep his manner casual. “What do you mean?”
“The missive you carry. The one I was not to glimpse. Who is it from? Who is its intended recipient?” Ysmaine took a step closer, her eyes bright with curiosity. “What does it say?”
Gaston kept his expression was impassive. “I do not know what you mean,” he said with care.
His lady wife, however, rolled her eyes. “You, sir, were the one to insist upon honesty between us. If you cannot tell me, simply say as much.”
“I cannot tell you.”
Ysmaine regarded him. “Me or anyone?”
“Anyone,” he ceded and leaned his back against the door. He folded his arms across his chest and watched her warily.
It seemed he had wed an observant woman.
Would this be his doom or his pride?
“Then you should hide it better than you have,” Ysmaine said crisply. She beckoned to him. “Give me your aketon.”
“Why?”
“Because it is padded and mended and no one will take note of another lump or row of stitches.”
Gaston did as bidden, intrigued.
Ysmaine considered the garment, even as Gaston hovered over her, protective of his gear. “It should be in a place beneath your tabard, where you can be easily ascertained of its security,” she mused. “Here. In the front.” She put out her hand with obvious expectation. “Your blade is sharper than mine.” She wiggled her fingers, beckoning for his blade when he did not immediately comply with her request.
“This is not your concern…” he began, but Ysmaine exhaled with what might have been frustration.
“If you do not believe that a wife can bring more to his advantage than a son, I must simply change your thinking,” she said, her eyes flashing like emeralds in the sun, and beckoned again.
Gaston was curious. Nay, he was fascinated. He surrendered his blade then watched as Ysmaine cut a slit in the garment with care.
“You can slid it in from the top,” she informed him, as if she hid documents all the time. “And it will be hidden against your chest, above your belt so it is not damaged.” She handed him the garment then turned to her own meager possessions, seeking a needle and thread. “I will not look as you put it in its place.”
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