Love's Captive Heart (Author's Cut Edition)

by Phoebe Conn

  "Were you given no food all week?" He placed his hands upon his slender hips; fascinated by her keen appreciation of a soup he had tasted and thought quite ordinary.

  Stopping only briefly to glance up at him, she responded truthfully, "Marcela brought me one meal, then Jaret provided some apples and nuts once. He brought only bread and water when he came each night, but I wasn't hungry by then."

  Shocked that she had been treated so badly, he now thought her hunger only natural, and forgetting his anger inquired in a solicitous tone, "Is that enough? I will find something more if you'd like."

  "No, this is fine, thank you, it is plenty." She attempted to eat more slowly, but Mylan's expression did not change. He stared at her with rapt interest until she had finished the last drop.

  "Now if you'll but remove your cloak and dress, I will help you with the other." Easing her from her chair, Mylan attempted to untie the ribbon at her throat but found himself too clumsy and stepped back.

  "I know you think I behave childishly, Mylan, but I am at least able to dress myself." She smiled at him for the first time that day, but the tension between them had eased considerably, although she was uncertain as to why.

  "Michael, you must remember to call me Michael now." When she had unfastened the ties to her cloak he took it from her and replaced it in the wardrobe. "Now give me your dress." He tried not to look at her, to focus his attention at something else in the room, but she was far too pretty a sight not to enjoy, and he could not turn away. She was wearing a chemise, at least, but its silken folds hid none of her beauty, and he knew they would never reach the chapel on time if she did not hurry.

  "Michael is a very nice name, but what will it matter if I call you Mylan?" She tossed him the silk dress, then lifted the brocade gown from the chair and struggled to put it on by herself. A deep rose in hue, it made her pale skin glow with a becoming soft tinge of peach, but only Mylan could appreciate that subtle effect.

  "This gown is not nearly so comfortable nor so practical as Olgrethe's. Must I wear it?"

  "Yes! Now hurry and brush your hair. We have kept Father Bernard waiting all morning, and his patience should not be abused so badly." Mylan paced near the door, wanting only to take Celiese to bed when that was the last place he could afford to be that morning. She was the most seductive of creatures, her every pose impossibly alluring, and she was doing no more than brushing her hair!

  He cursed his own weakness, which had led him into one of the most dangerous situations he had ever faced, and for what? For a young woman who would leave him at her first opportunity; leave him with no regard for how greatly he might suffer in her absence. When she laid the brush aside and turned to face him with a sad, sweet smile brightening the confusion in her gaze, he wanted only to take her in his arms and hold her so tightly she would never escape him. Instead he reached out and took her hand in a firm grasp.

  "Finally! Now let us hope the priest has not been called away, so that we may get this over with quickly."

  "Surely this is the most ill-advised match ever made, Mylan, for neither of us is happy with it." She implored him to wait just a moment, to seek other solutions to their dilemma, but he was in no mood to converse. Sweeping her along beside him, he hurried down the stairs to again enter the chapel from the small door in the sacristy.

  Father Bernard was kneeling, deep in prayer. He was badly startled when Mylan and Celiese appeared so suddenly at his side. Leaping to his feet, he attempted to regain his composure, but he was a nervous individual, still fearful his existence in a house filled with Danes was a precarious one, and he stuttered as he greeted them. "This, this young woman is to be your bride, Michael?"

  His knowledge of the Danish language was barely adequate, but all his converts were learning French so slowly he hardly dared hope any would ever be able to converse with him in that tongue. When Celiese replied in flawless French he was not only astonished but also delighted. "My dear, I hope you are again feeling your best, for marriage is one of life's most important events, and today will always live in your memory as a most blessed one."

  Celiese glanced up at Mylan, wondering just what he had told Father Bernard, for she had no wish to shock him, but apparently the priest did not realize this was not to be their first wedding. While she considered it an important point, it was clear Mylan had not. Not wishing to create another bitter scene that morning, however, she kept still. "I am so pleased to meet you, Father Bernard."

  "Well, come then, let us enter the church so the ceremony can begin at once. Michael told me of his desire to marry a Christian woman, but it did not occur to me that you would be French. From what city do you come?" The priest turned to smile as he led the way into the chapel.

  "I am Lady Celiese d'Loganville, Father. If Rouen is your home then you will have heard the name," she responded proudly.

  "Oh, indeed I have." Startled, he wondered why a young woman from so fine a family had chosen to marry a Dane, even one as handsome as Michael, then thought he would be smart to avoid such a question. He was doing his best to bring the word of God to men who in his opinion could only be described as the most barbaric of pagans. Finding little pleasure or success in his task, he thought himself fortunate to have so intelligent a convert as Michael and hoped he would attract more.

  "I will summon two witnesses and then we will begin. I will be only a moment."

  The priest returned all too quickly, and when he began the ceremony in a soft, low voice Celiese found it easier to focus her attention upon the candles bright flame, or upon the sweet fragrance of incense or upon any distraction the chapel contained other than the taunting smile of the handsome man who knelt by her side.

  Mylan seemed to regard her consent to their marriage as a victory of sorts, when she could not even recall agreeing to it. She wondered how much of his new religion he understood, for as one of the sacraments marriage was considered a lasting bond, one severed only by death. The thought sent a chill up her spine she could not suppress, for perhaps he realized only too well that her life was unlikely to be a long one and so had no qualms about going through a ceremony to form a permanent tie. She repeated her vows in a steady, soft tone, but her heart was heavy, filled with none of the joy the priest had alluded to as creating lasting memories.

  Mylan simply wanted the ceremony to be finished, but the priest seemed to continue speaking for hours, each successive prayer growing longer until he despaired of ever leaving the chapel before sundown. As the wife of a man who had pledged his loyalty to Robert, Celiese would have a measure of safety she had lacked before, and he hoped it would be enough to protect her. He had found the duke to be a volatile man, fond of pleasure but swift to anger, a man who demanded his way in all things, and most definitely not a man who would tolerate the interference in his affairs by a young woman so high-spirited and defiant as Celiese had become.

  With a touch of sadness he recalled the first time he had taken her for his wife, surrounded by family and friends. She had seemed the dearest of young women. Soft spoken and sweet, she had changed his outlook on life from despair to optimism with no more than the brightness of her smile. That day was months in the past now, but he remembered it clearly, and looking down at the pretty woman he was surprised as always by the innocence of her expression, as if she shared an angel's purity of heart. But he had learned through far too many bitter lessons just what treachery the astonishing beauty of her delicate features concealed.

  Chapter 24

  Mylan thanked Father Bernard graciously for performing so beautiful a wedding ceremony, but he had sensed from the moment he had first broached the subject with the French cleric that the man would not dare to refuse him. He had spoken no threats, but the balding priest had been apprehensive throughout all their conversations, his brown eyes darting nervously about as he had pleated the fabric of his woolen robe with long, bony fingers that were never still.

  "May God bless you both," Father Bernard responded with an anxious smile,
relieved he had apparently pleased the tall blond man. He did not know what else to say as the striking couple moved down the aisle toward the chapel door. He wanted to wish them an abundance of earthly blessings, yet they both seemed preoccupied, and, unlike most newly married couples, not with each other. Shaking his head with puzzlement he watched them depart, a most unusual pair in every respect, but still he hoped he might see them again, for he sensed an intriguing depth to their characters.

  Once they had left the sanctity of the duke's chapel, Mylan drew Celiese aside. "We must find Robert now, and I'll caution you to remember just one thing."

  That those were the first words her husband wished to speak to her did not surprise her, but she would have much preferred some sweet compliment and a tender kiss. Looking up at his intense expression, she saw the wedding ceremony had made little difference in his mood. They had gone through the formality of exchanging vows, but clearly his only emotion was still an anger he could barely contain.

  "And what might that be?" she asked softly, certain she already knew.

  "Whatever you wish to accomplish for yourself and your people, you must be alive to do so. Give Robert no cause to think the benefits of your death outweigh those of giving you your freedom. No matter how he might insult you, do not give him the satisfaction of making you lose your temper, for you'll forfeit your life, as well," he warned sternly.

  Celiese nodded, her expression as serious as his. "He already knows what I think of him, Mylan, how can I make him forget that?"

  "You need do no more than smile to make him forget the sound of his own name!" he whispered fiercely. "Now come, dear wife, let us do our best to win his blessing for our marriage, and then we'll depart Rouen with all possible haste."

  Appalled by the prospect of receiving any sort of good wishes from Robert, Celiese opened her mouth to remind him just what she thought of the scoundrel and how little she valued his blessing, but then, knowing he would not appreciate a repetition of her opinion, she kept still. "Why was he so insistent that I speak with him before dawn?"

  "Merely to frighten you out of your wits, and I'd say the ploy was a success," Mylan commented tersely and led the way through the large manor, finally locating the duke at the rear of the garden. He was practicing his skill with the broad sword, using several of his men as sparring partners. When he saw Mylan approaching he tossed him a weapon and invited him to join in their sport, giving Celiese no more than a stilted nod.

  A request from the duke was never refused; Mylan gripped the hilt of the finely balanced steel sword with a confident grasp. Turning to direct Celiese to a nearby bench, he gave her a warning glance to insure her silence, and she sat down to observe as if they were about to provide a spectacle solely for her amusement. After unbuckling his belt and pulling his bliaud off over his head, Mylan laid them upon the bench next to his bride. He did not discard his chainse, however, for the lightweight linen shirt covered the scars he had no wish to display.

  Turning to Robert he responded readily, "I am not dressed for games, but I will accept your challenge."

  Robert's ample mouth curved into the slow smile of a spoiled and lazy tomcat who had just cornered a tasty mouse. He nodded slightly, ready to begin, then raised his sword and leaped forward, his eagerness for the warm, sweet smell of blood shockingly clear.

  When the duke came after him immediately, as though they were embattled in a duel to the death, Mylan had no illusions as to who was the more skilled with a sword, but he had no intention of quitting without putting forth his best effort. The older man was heavier, but agile still, a veteran of many years of armed combat. But Mylan outthought his every move and escaped his brutal blows with a grace that made his evasive actions seem effortless, when indeed they required every ounce of his newly regained strength to accomplish.

  He had little choice. He could not wound Robert and escape his wrath, neither could he throw down his weapon and risk being branded a coward. He had simply to continue to defend himself as best he could and hope the man had already been practicing for a sufficient length of time to become quickly exhausted and call off the match himself. At least the sword he had been given was a fine one; for he could block Robert's blows without fear the steel blade would snap under the intensity of the man's assault.

  Celiese sat upon the edge of the wooden bench, her heart beating wildly as Robert swung his sword again and again in a powerful downward arc. When they had first entered the garden he had seemed in a playful mood, but when he had realized that Mylan was going to be so wily an opponent his face had contorted in a vicious snarl, all thought of sport gone as the battle became a real one in his mind.

  She was ready to scream, for she could see what Mylan could not—that Robert had expected an easy victory over his young friend, and each second the match continued he was growing more irate at the unexpected difficulty he had encountered. Surely the rest of his men let him win easily, so he was unused to having to apply his skill in so vigorous a manner and did not enjoy in the slightest having to do so now.

  The staged battle took on so vicious a tone both men were soon drenched with sweat. Celiese could hardly bear to watch, and yet she could not turn away while Mylan's life remained in jeopardy. A keen observer, she noticed the moment he began to favor his right leg and if Robert sensed his opponent had any weakness he would play on it unmercifully.

  Hoping she might stop the fight before such a disaster occurred, she called out in a cheerful tone, "I beg you, sir, to remember this is our wedding day, and I'd like Mylan to save most of his energy for me."

  At that teasing comment Robert let out a roar of laughter, apparently grateful for an excuse to end a match he must sorely regret beginning. He stepped back and lowered his sword to his side. "I had forgotten the significance of the day, Michael, but I will leave you with whatever stamina you have remaining."

  Bowing slightly, Mylan handed the weapon he had borrowed to one of the bystanders and joined in the laughter as if he were greatly amused by his bride's request. "Thank you, sir, as I do not want to disappoint the lady."

  "Have you ever?" Robert asked in his usual booming tone, his blue eyes alight with mischief.

  "You will have to ask Celiese, for I'll not speak for her." Mylan feared he had disappointed her in more ways than the duke would ever consider, but he kept those failures to himself.

  Wiping the beads of sweat from his brow, Robert turned his attention to Celiese. She was smiling still, the delight in her expression far different from the usual cool disdain she had once turned upon him. Her fair curls fell about her shoulders in a fair cascade, framing her exquisite features with a glorious silver haze. Perhaps the ice she had appeared to have running through her veins could be warmed with a little effort, and he regretted his haste in setting her free before he had sampled her favors to the fullest.

  She and Michael were in no position to refuse him any request, and he still might have the time to enjoy the charms of her shapely figure if he delayed the meeting he had demanded she attend to a more opportune time. With that thought in mind he gestured at his soiled clothing and said, "I had planned to talk with you earlier in the day, and as you can readily see my appearance is now unsuited for a discussion on any topic with a lady. You will be here for supper, of course, as we all want to celebrate your marriage, so I will talk with you before we dine."

  Celiese looked up at Mylan, knowing he wanted to leave immediately, but he did no more than narrow his eyes in the slightest of frowns, and she saw he expected her to agree. "Thank you, I will look forward to speaking with you then." Picking up Mylan's cast-off clothing, she walked ahead of him up the path toward the imposing home. "What shall we do? I thought he knew you wished to leave immediately," she whispered anxiously.

  "I said only that I wanted to leave as soon as you were free to go. Perhaps he did not think we'd wish to spend our wedding night on board the Falcon."

  She frowned impatiently. "This is not our wedding night. Why didn't you tell
Father Bernard this was our second wedding?"

  "That we were married in what he considers a pagan rite would not have mattered to him. In his view we were not married, and now we are. Did you not feel the same way?" They had reached their room and he held the door open for her to enter.

  She walked to the bed and folded his bliaud neatly upon it before she turned to face him. "I had spent five years in your country, and while I did not fully understand your beliefs, I thought the fact that you held them to be true gave them value. I have always considered us to be married, it was only you who continually said we were not."

  He could do no more than stare at the bewitching creature who stood so proudly before him. He could detect not the slightest bit of hope or happiness in her emerald gaze. She was regarding him as though they were strangers discussing a topic of only slight interest, and he found her cool detachment impossible to return.

  "Well, Lady d'Loganville, you are now truly my wife in the opinion of those who matter most to you, your beloved countrymen. Regardless of what I now call myself, or to whom I choose to pray, they will forever see me as a Dane and distrust me, but at least whatever sons I give you will be legitimate and free. That was your greatest worry at one time, or at least that was what you gave me to believe." His amber gaze had a mocking shine, taunting her again with the unspoken accusation that her words had been lies.

  Startled by the unexpected turn of the conversation, she swallowed nervously. "I not only said that, but I meant it. Perhaps you do not prize your freedom as highly as I do, because you have never lost it."

  "Have you forgotten the brief time I spent as Raktor's prisoner? Before then, I had been too badly injured to enjoy most of life's privileges that freedom affords. Perhaps that was the same desperate feeling of helpless rage you felt at being my slave."

  "Your slave?" she responded bitterly. "I have never been your slave, never! In every way I was a wife to you."