His butler was probably right. The dining room had been cleared and returned to its original purpose as the Great Hall. He wasn’t sure where Michael had unearthed all the large floor candelabra that lined the walls and added a warm candlelit glow to the normally cold room.
He had been introduced to so many of Anne’s relatives his head was spinning. They’d flown in from various parts of France, England, Germany, Spain, Denmark, even Canada. Every five-star hotel within twenty-five miles of the house was full.
However, he had more pressing things on his mind as he waited anxiously for his bride to arrive in the crowded hall. “True, but do you have the rings?”
Michael produced the gold wedding bands from his waistcoat pocket. “Of course, and may I say once again what an honor it is to serve as your best man, sir.”
He rolled his eyes in feigned annoyance. “I’ll give the job to someone else if you don’t start calling me Blaise.”
“Yes, er, Blaise, sir.”
The pleasant background music faded away. The string quartet shuffled their music sheets and began to play the familiar strains of Greensleeves. Every smiling face swiveled to the doorway. Blaise flexed his fingers.
As a salute to Gaetan de Wolfe and his Mercian bride, they had decided to wear authentic medieval attire for their wedding. He thought he cut a dashing figure in a black tunic and leggings trimmed with silver brocade, but his mouth fell open and his cock saluted in appreciation when Anne entered, smiling radiantly—at him!
In the ankle-length ivory gown she looked like she’d stepped right out of the eleventh century. The pearl beading, the brocade, the long, long sleeves, the square neckline cut just low enough to display the glorious swell of her breasts, it was all perfect to the last detail. He swallowed the lump in his throat. This vision of perfection was his wife. His Anne.
An Irish cousin, whose name he couldn’t at the moment recall, gave her away. He was a pompous chap who’d gone on and on at their first meeting about selkies, whatever they were. Some Celtic fairy-tale, he supposed.
Apparently the fellow was the other administrator of the trust, so Blaise shot him a quick smile as he passed Anne’s hand into his.
The Registrar from Weybridge had been only too happy to officiate at the social event of the year. The gossip in local pubs had apparently centered on the upcoming nuptials for three weeks.
Someone had mentioned to Blaise there was also a small item about them in The Times, but he doubted it.
None of that mattered now as he squeezed Anne’s hand. “You are magnificent, my lady.”
“You look quite impressive yourself, sir knight.”
As the day of the wedding drew nearer, Anne had feared she might be overly nervous. As soon as she saw Blaise waiting in the hall, a peaceful certainty calmed her heart. She was marrying the right man—this time.
She knew exactly how the Mercian princess felt when she set eyes on the great warrior Gaetan de Wolfe standing at the door of some medieval church.
Blaise too had fought against almost insurmountable odds to save his family’s heritage, and she was happy to have joined the fight—a warrior princess like Ghislaine who came to the aid of Gaetan in his victory at the Battle of Wellesbourne. Her appreciation for Sylvia’s translation of the entire document written by Antillius knew no bounds.
De Wolfe Hall had been spruced up for the wedding, and preliminary discussions with the cousins who ran the hospitality side of the Montbryce holdings had been positive. They supported her vision of converting the house to an exclusive resort spa, while keeping one wing for private use.
“Are you ready, Mrs. Smith?” the Registrar asked in hushed tones, jolting her from her daydream.
She took a deep breath, aware this would be the last time anyone would address her by that name, and glad of it. “Yes.”
He turned to Blaise. “Are you, Blaise Emery Quentin de Wolfe free lawfully to marry Anne Bryce Smith?”
“I am,” he replied.
She could hardly wait to answer in the affirmative when asked the same question.
They each obeyed when the official asked them to repeat the declaration that they were accepting each other as man and wife.
“I understand you’ve each prepared promises,” he said.
Anne held her lover’s hands and looked into his mesmerizing eyes. “I, Anne Bryce Smith, give to you, Blaise Emery Quentin de Wolfe, my pledge of loyalty and love. I promise to respect and honor you, sharing your plans and interests, through all the trials and tribulations of life, as well as the joyous times, caring for you in lifelong commitment. I will be your confidante, always ready to share your hopes, dreams and secrets.”
His warm hands were moist, tears welled in his beloved eyes. He knew her promises were true.
Blaise was humbled by the love shining in Anne’s green eyes. He called upon the warrior spirit of Gaetan de Wolfe to help him be worthy of her trust, took a deep breath and made his promises to the incredible woman whose hand he held and who had brought light to his darkness.
“I, Blaise Emery Quentin de Wolfe, swear to you, Anne Bryce Smith, that I will be your faithful lover, companion and friend, your partner in parenthood, your ally in conflict, your greatest fan.
“I’ll be your comrade in adventure, your student and your teacher, your consolation in disappointment, your accomplice in mischief.
“This is my sacred vow to you, my equal in all things.”
She squeezed his hand and smiled, letting him know she recognized his deep sincerity.
“The rings, please,” the registrar said softly. He held out a silver salver onto which Michael placed the wedding bands Blaise and Anne had chosen the day he’d given her his mother’s sapphires.
He could hardly wait for her to see the surprise he’d prepared. He picked up her ring and held it so the candlelight flickered on the inscription engraved on the inside before he slipped it onto her finger. “Fortis in arduis,” he whispered.
“Strength in times of trouble,” she echoed, her chin trembling. “The de Wolfe family motto.”
Blaise’s thoughtful gesture was all the more meaningful for Anne. It confirmed she’d done the right thing. Smiling, she retrieved Blaise’s ring from the salver and couldn’t resist a giggle as she showed him the inscription.
He frowned as he read, “Fide et Virtute”.
“Fidelity and valor,” she translated as she slipped the ring on his finger. “The Montbryce credo.”
He nodded in understanding.
“I now pronounce you are man and wife,” the registrar declared. “You may kiss the bride.”
Though the hall was filled with cheering and applauding relatives and well-wishers, for Anne there was only Blaise, the man who had shattered her cocoon of loneliness and despair simply by being who he was. She’d never be able to get enough of the taste of him, the warmth of his lips, the strength of his embrace, the life-giving breath he breathed into her.
HONEYMOON
The concierge who carried their suitcases into the suite at Château Montbryce refused the generous tip Blaise offered with a Gallic shake of the head and a simple, “Famille,” before bowing out of the opulent chamber.
Blaise put his hands on Anne’s bottom and drew her to his body. “We won’t tell him you’re part of the de Wolfe family now.”
She laughed, content to feel his need pressed against her. “I’m sure he knows we are married. Why else would we be in the honeymoon suite?”
He imitated the concierge’s shrug and wiggled his eyebrows. “Zis ees France, you know, madame.”
She put her arms around his neck and scanned the opulent suite of rooms. “I’ve been here many times, but never occupied the honeymoon suite.”
He frowned. “Not even with Geoff?”
She broke away. “No. His regiment hosted a reunion just after we married so we put off our honeymoon until later.”
Blaise sat on the edge of the mattress, testing its firmness. “And later never came.�
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She sat beside him. “Exactly.”
He lay back on the bed and pulled her down. “Wow! Check out the ceiling.”
She traced the pattern of the ceiling’s gold-leaf filigree in the air. “That’s modern of course—part of the refurbishments when it was converted into a hotel. My ancestors would probably have looked up at rafters as they lay in bed.”
He must have sensed the pride in her voice. He took her hand and kissed it. “I know how you feel. For all its problems, De Wolfe Hall has always filled me with awe. To know my ancestors slept there since Elizabethan times…well.”
She rolled onto her side and twirled a finger in his hair, understanding the emotion that choked off what he wanted to say. However, she couldn’t resist teasing. “So you appreciate my pride in ancestors who’ve lived in this location since before the Conquest. Unlike the de Wolfes, the Montbryces can prove they are descended from Vikings.”
He grasped her wrists and pulled her on top of him. “How so?”
She toed off her high heel shoes and lay her head on his chest. “You saw the orchard we drove through when we arrived. Rodrick de Montbryce documented that the seeds and cuttings for the original orchard were brought from Norway by Bryk Kriger, my Viking ancestor. He came with Rollo.”
“Impressive,” he rasped, kissing the top of her head.
“But that orchard was destroyed by soldiers of Geoffrey of Anjou when Alexandre was Comte de Montbryce. They set fire to the trees during the one and only siege the castle ever experienced.”
He stroked her hair. “Geoffrey as in the father of King Henry II?”
“Yes. I imagine it was a devastating blow for Alexandre. The estate’s apple brandy had been famous for centuries.”
Blaise chuckled. “I remember it well from our wedding banquet.”
She looked up at him. “You should. You imbibed enough of it!”
He gave her a playful smack on the bottom. “Saucy wench. Didn’t stop me from satisfying my horny wife, though, did it?”
She wriggled against him. “Speaking of which, we should make a start on being the next in a long line of proud Normans to make love in this chamber.”
That was all the encouragement Blaise needed. He eased Anne off his body. “Remove your clothes, wife, so I can stake my claim to be the first de Wolfe to have sex here. Montbryce’s second siege, and you will capitulate.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and peeled off his trousers, boxers, shirt and college tie. She removed her skirt and panties, but not the suspender belt and stockings, much to his delight.
He lay back on the bed, growling his euphoria when she straddled him and nestled her warm sheath around his needy cock.
She sank down, taking all of his length, then leaned forward. “You can’t prove that,” she whispered, her lips tantalizingly close to his.
He’d lost his train of thought. “Prove what?” he rasped.
She rose up and sank down slowly again. “That you’re the first de Wolfe to ever sleep here. It’s likely Ram de Montbryce and Gaetan de Wolfe knew each other. Maybe Gaetan brought Ghislaine here for their honeymoon.”
From somewhere he dredged up the wherewithal to put his hands on her hips and stop her rhythmic movements. “Fascinating as all this talk of the past is…”
She smiled and pressed a fingertip to his lips. “I know. Live for the present.”
He grinned. “Exactly. Now take off your top and your bra and let me play with those lovely breasts.”
She laughed. “I forgot I had them on.”
He chuckled. “They do say history repeats itself.”
VICTORY
August 2008
Blaise sat in the comfortable leather armchair in Anne’s office on the fourth floor of their Georgian mansion in Pimlico. He bounced fifteen-month-old Gaetan on his knee, chatting away in an effort to distract his red-faced son from the pain of teething.
“And this is the room where Mummy and Daddy first met. She thought I was a pompous ass, which was true.”
Gaetan smiled briefly as if he understood, then stuck his fist back in his mouth.
“But soon she fell hopelessly in love with me, and we got married.”
“Mamma,” Gaetan wailed.
Blaise stood and lifted his son. “I know, I know, it hurts,” he soothed, walking back and forth, “but did you know we decided not to name you Blaise de Wolfe the Fourth? We christened you Gaetan after my ancestor who fought at the Battle of Hastings.
“As for your middle name, Bryce, well that’s more complicated. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
Chin trembling, the child looked at him, then at the door.
“She’ll be home soon,” he assured Gaetan, hoping any minute to hear his wife’s footsteps in the hall. “She’ll be tired. All day in a meeting with William Maltravers and the board of SOC.” He tickled his son’s tummy. “And she’s carrying a baby brother or sister for you in her womb.”
“Wooom,” Gaetan replied, eyelids drooping.
Blaise chuckled. “A lot is riding on Mummy’s meeting, but I don’t want to worry you. How about we try beddy bye?”
It would be nothing short of a miracle if the child settled in his cot without his mother kissing him goodnight, but Blaise carried him down to the nursery on the third floor and gave it a try.
His curly-haired son gazed up at the musical mobile that often lulled him to sleep. Blaise hoped the sound of his voice might do the trick. “So you see, if Mummy’s meeting didn’t go well, the whole issue will go to court, and Daddy will be the barrister arguing the case against Maltravers. Good thing I don’t work for him any more, isn’t it.”
Gaetan laughed, then sat up when the front door slammed. “Mamma.”
“Yoo hoo!” Anne called from the front hallway. “I’m home.”
Blaise picked up his son and carried him to the landing. He’d expected a shout of victory. “I’ll come down.”
When he got to the kitchen Anne was sitting at the table, sipping a glass of water. Even in a state of near exhaustion she was beautiful. Gaetan squirmed, reaching for her. She held out her arms to take him and kissed his swollen cheeks. “Poor baby with those teeth.”
“Teef,” Gaetan agreed, resting his blonde head on her shoulder.
“You look done in, love,” Blaise whispered, kissing her softly on the lips.
“I am,” she confirmed.
Then she grinned. “But we won!” Her shout of victory startled the baby who stared wide-eyed at his mother, then at his father.
Blaise pounded his fist into his palm. “I knew you would succeed. They didn’t have a leg to stand on.”
“The board were very cordial and voted unanimously to change the name to Sons and Daughters of the Conquest, and to accept women as full members if they qualify.”
Blaise raised an eyebrow. “Cordial? Unanimously?”
Gaetan sipped from the glass Anne held to his lips.
“Well, yes, after Maltravers left in a huff. He resigned as president and chairman of the board.”
“Ha!”
She lifted Gaetan back to him. “There’s more. They offered to fast-track my membership and give me a seat on the board.”
“Congratulations! Ironic isn’t it? I can’t be a member but you will be.”
“Not a chance.”
He sat next to her, jiggling Gaetan on his lap. “Why not? You must apply. It’s your opportunity to make sure they become something more than an old boys’ club.”
She shrugged. “I can influence that with the Trust. Look what Montbryce money has done for De Wolfe Hall. Magnificent suites, a state-of-the-art gym and spa, long waiting lists.”
“You’re just going to step away?”
She exhaled, stretching out her enticing long legs.
He put his hand on the baby bump, still awed by the reality he’d created another child with the woman he loved.
She smiled. “I plan to do my research here during the week and vegetate at De
Wolfe Hall on the weekends, where I intend to take full advantage of all the spa has to offer. I’m going to be a great mother to Gaetan…” she put her hand atop his… “and the bun-in-the-oven, and a wonderful and inventive lover to my amazing husband. How do you like the sound of that, Mr. Blaise de Wolfe the Third?”
“You’re already a superlative lover,” he replied with a grin, though her promise had stirred a pleasant arousal.
Gaetan rubbed his eyes and yawned, then cupped Blaise’s face in his little hands. “Hungree, mummy…daddy.”
Anne laughed. “Out of the mouths of babes…”
EPILOGUE
University of Birmingham, Present Day
Anne felt privileged to be part of a select audience allowed to listen in on Abigail Devlin’s defense of the dissertation for her Ph.D. in medieval history. She squirmed in her cushioned seat and leaned her elbows on the too-bright white writing desk that ran the length of the row. “At least the new seats are comfortable,” she whispered to Blaise as they watched some of the world’s foremost experts in medieval studies assemble at the front of the refurbished lecture theatre. “But why have they lowered the screen? Abigail doesn’t have a Powerpoint presentation.”
He eased her back and put his arm around her shoulders. “Relax. Everything will go fine.”
Inwardly, she knew he was right. She’d spent the better part of a year assisting Abigail with her research into William the Conqueror’s anges de guerre, thrilled to find a person as immersed in the history of Gaetan de Wolfe as she was. Yet, the winged creatures fluttering in her tummy refused to be still. “But what if they don’t accept the authenticity of the Book of Battle? I myself was skeptical for a while when Abigail first told me about it.”
“That’s not going to happen,” he reassured her.
Her nervousness increased when she recognized one of the seven members of the adjudicating panel. “Good heavens, they’ve even seconded Dr. Sorkin from the Sorbonne in Paris. He’s the world’s leading expert in medieval battles. Abigail’s getting nervous. How is she to convince a man who thinks he knows everything there is to know about Hastings that he doesn’t?”
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