Embroidered into the back of the mantle, Elise noted bitterly, was the new coat-of-arms that now belonged to him: a shield, comprised of four sections. The falcon—an insignia bestowed upon him by Henry; the crossed swords of Montoui; the flying hawk that indicated his new holdings, which spread along the Welsh border; and the charging stallion of his counties in Cornwall.
He watched her in return. She had taken great care to avoid him until this day, and now she wished that she hadn’t. She had forgotten how his eyes could fall upon her, so deeply blue that they seemed to match the black of his mantle; fathomless and compelling, piercing into her as if they could possess her soul . . . warning . . . threatening.
“Elise?” It was Richard who spoke; all else seemed suspended in motionless time. His hand stretched out to her. The candles, the incense, the silence of those around her seemed to envelop her. It was a misty dream, she convinced herself—one that must be endured so that she might awaken elsewhere . . .
She stepped forward and accepted Richard’s hand. He nodded to the monk and pressed her hand in Bryan Stede’s.
She wanted to wrench free, to disclaim the possession she felt in his firm touch. Her eyes met his and found them blue again, filled with mockery and triumph. The monk began speaking; Elise did not hear him. She felt the force of Bryan’s hand as he pulled her down beside him so that they were on their knees together, facing the monk. Still, she didn’t hear the words. She watched Bryan’s chest as it rose and fell with the easy rhythm of his breathing; she felt the warmth of his body emanating about her. He was newly shaven, and a fresh scent of soap lingered about him, and something else, something very faint, and masculine. A pleasant scent that was his alone as a man: clean, but as unique as he. A halting reminder that although time had taken them apart so that they met now almost as strangers, she had known him, and would never forget the night in which they had met.
“Elise de Bois?”
The monk was uncomfortably prodding her with his stern voice. She was supposed to speak. He told her the words again, and she forced her lips to move, to repeat them.
And then Bryan was speaking. His words did not falter, as did hers; they were strong and clear.
The glowing light of the candles seemed to mesh together; it was too hot. She was being engulfed by a swirling darkness that threatened to plunge her into a senseless void. The heat and the powerful, innate tension that belonged to the man beside her became oppressive.
Elise clenched her teeth tightly together. She would not pass out; she would not give way to either fear or hatred . . .
The monk was speaking quickly, very quickly, relieved that his task was almost done. He offered mass with nervously trembling fingers, then muttered a last blessing in Latin, and sighed loudly.
Stede was pulling her to her feet. Then his hand was upon the small of her back; the touch was firm; as calculated and coolly victorious as the narrowed indigo eyes that turned to her.
“’Tis done!” Richard cried jovially. But his impatience was apparent. He stepped forward, clapped Bryan upon the back, and kissed Elise upon the cheek. “We’ve time for no more than to raise a cup to this union, so let it be done! Elise, my mother awaits the assistance of yourself and Lady Isabel at Westchester Palace. Bryan, I am sorry to offer you such a bride and demand that you leave her, but there is still much to be done before tomorrow.”
“Such is life, Your Grace,” Bryan replied cordially, his tone belying the unease he was feeling. The wedding ceremony had gone too smoothly; it was true that she had faltered and whispered her vows, but Elise had spoken them without a knife at her throat. When he looked into her eyes, he knew that she was anything but reconciled to the situation. She is my wife now, he reminded himself. As Richard had said, it was done. Elise was his, as were all the titles, lands, and wealth that she brought him.
Still, he did not like the look in her wide, turquoise eyes. They were calmly defiant when they met his. The hostility he expected to find within them was tempered, as if . . .
As if she didn’t at all accept what had happened.
Richard was leading them out to the portico of the chapel, where one of his retainers had appeared to offer them wine; there should have been a feast for a wedding, but the soon-to-be monarch had warned them previously that they should have to dispense with the customary meal. Bryan knew that Richard was already chaffing with impatience, determined to be back at work planning the morrow and his reign to follow. “’Tis to Trefallen Castle I suggest you give the most care,” Richard told Bryan as they drank the wine. “I cannot allow you leave to go until things are settled here, but it is your wealthiest holding, and falling to disrepair since the death of the old lord.”
Bryan nodded. He had inspected the deeds and ledgers of all his new holdings since Richard had given him the complete list, and he knew that his wealth lay at Trefallen. Elise, he was certain, assumed that Montoui would be their main residence. She would have to accept the fact that she was to live in Cornwall. It was better, he decided. Kinder, in the long run, to her. At Montoui, she would feel her own power, and try to fight him. Taken from her home and those who thronged to serve her, she would better accept her role as wife.
“I shall make Trefallen my first concern, as soon as it is convenient,” Bryan promised Richard.
Richard finished his wine. “We must leave, and adhere to business,” he said, beckoning a guard to dispose of his cup. Bryan made a pretense of finishing his wine while he watched Elise. She was speaking with Isabel as she sipped her wine, but as if she felt his eyes upon her, she turned to him.
It was almost as if she smiled.
He didn’t like it.
She had taken the proper pains with her appearance for the day; indeed, he had never seen her look more beautiful. The youth and perfection of her form were accented by the soft material of her clinging gown; the sapphires that crowned her golden headdress caught the gemstone quality of her eyes and made them dazzling. Her hair was loose beneath the headdress, flowing in thick, lustrous waves that beguiled a man’s fingers to caress those tresses. A straying tendril swept and curled over the provocative fullness of her breasts, and he found himself imagining her disrobed, allowing his hands to entangle freely in that lock of hair, and cup around the feminine softness beneath.
Would she fight him still? he wondered bitterly. Or, as she had warned, would she endure him, and dream of Percy with his every touch upon her?
A flash of heat as intense as a blacksmith’s fire swept through him; he wanted to take her now. He did not trust her, and he railed silently against Richard for arranging his wedding this way. An hour would have been enough—enough to take that secretive smile from her lips, and convince her that what had been done was real. She was his wife, his property—his to possess. Perhaps it would take time to wipe all thoughts of Percy Montagu from her heart and mind, but in just an hour, he could have made a damned good beginning. He did not want to hurt her, just teach her that he was all the male she ever possibly could hope to handle, and exhaust her so with his imprint that she would tire of her hostility and bow to the inevitable.
Bryan compressed his lips. He did not dare to dream yet of a future when she would greet him with pleasure and curve her lips into a winning smile that was meant to welcome and seduce. But he was older and wiser than she was, and aware that, whether she begrudged him or not, she was blessed with youth, vibrant health—and an inherent sensuality. She might well revile him; but, by God, she would accept him, and she would not be able to deny herself.
“Bryan,” Richard repeated impatiently. “The lords from Normandy await my council, and the sheriff of London is eager to finalize the guard arrangements for tomorrow night’s banquet.” He lowered his voice to a comradely whisper. “You may leave the banquet early, and claim your bride then, and I shall give you a royal promise not to disturb your privacy for three full days. Enough time, I should warrant, for any man to satisfy his lust!”
It is the now that is so
important, Bryan thought fleetingly, noting again that calmly defiant look in his bride’s eyes. But Richard had granted him great wealth, greater than he had ever imagined. He had bestowed upon him a high place within the nobility. He had no right to dispute the Lion-Heart. What, after all, was one more day? He had upheld his agreement and stayed away from Elise until this day. Tomorrow night, Richard would be indisputably king, and he could give his full attention to his private affairs.
Still . . .
“One minute more, Your Grace,” Bryan said to Richard. “I’ve yet to kiss my bride.”
Elise, pretending an interest in Isabel’s conversation, yet longing to be away, could not hide her alarm when Bryan took a sudden, and very deliberate, step toward her. She saw the cool determination in his eyes, and she almost panicked, stepping away from him when he stood near her, towering over her, forcing her chin to tilt back to continue to meet his eyes. He smiled as his arms came sweeping around her, and she felt the hardness of his body. He bent low, enfolding her full against him, and claiming her lips with a slow deliberation. Something, as always, filled her with his touch. Something that was sweet, seeping to stain her soul as wine spread its stain over cloth. Something that was fire, invading her, enveloping her. Something that stunned her against her will, and left her bereft of all reason to fight . . .
Fight. She could not fight. she was standing before Richard, and she was Bryan’s wife. So the kiss went on; her mouth gave way to Bryan’s, her lips molded pliantly to his. She felt his tongue upon her teeth, finding hers, ensweeping it, caressing it. Strength seemed to fail her; the muted glow of the candles spun and dimmed and began to mist again. His left hand was strong upon the small of her back; his right cupped and supported her head. She could barely breathe; and she became aware of only his dizzying scent, and the sweet taste of the wine that lingered upon his tongue.
A ribald jolt of laughter at last interrupted the kiss. “Come, Stede, the girl is yours for a lifetime!” Richard exclaimed impatiently.
Bryan drew away from Elise; he smiled as he saw that he needed to steady her. But his smile faded as he saw the seething anger fill her eyes again, and he bowed low to her, mocking her with his own gaze.
Richard stepped forward to kiss her quickly on the cheek once again, and at that moment, Elise hated him as thoroughly as she did Stede. “Girl,” he had called her. She was his blood, and he might care for her, but only when it was convenient. It had been convenient to fulfill propriety, and still richly reward Bryan Stede with her. But Bryan was the more important individual to Richard; Elise saw that clearly now. Brother, king—traitor . . . was all that she could think and feel.
She was still steadying her wobbling knees as Bryan gave her a final glance—as full of promise and warning as his kiss—and followed the bellowing Richard out of the chapel.
Tears sprang to Elise’s eyes; she blinked them away impatiently as she instinctively raised her fingers to her mouth, as if she could brush away the taste of Bryan’s lips. She caught Will Marshal’s eyes upon her, and they were pitying. Was it because he knew the man who had married her? But Will was Bryan’s friend. Maybe it was because he knew how the man who had married her felt about her . . .
She straightened her back, fighting to regain the strength Bryan had somehow managed to rob from her. She smiled at Isabel, and then Will. “Shall we go ourselves? We mustn’t keep the queen waiting.”
Will exhaled as if he had been holding his breath for a long time; he slipped one arm around his wife, and one around Elise, then proceeded to escort them to the street, where guards flanked around them. He delivered the two women to Westminster Palace, where they would attend Eleanor, and then hurried off to join Richard.
Elise endured the queen’s congratulations and good wishes, and sat to discuss the proprieties for the next day’s coronation. She listened carefully to the queen’s words regarding her obligations in greeting the guests, and noted with great relief that she had planned well; she would be free in plenty of time to make good her disappearance. Bryan Stede would never rob her of her strength and reason again. The marriage kiss was the last he would take from her.
As dusk fell, she was relieved of service, and allowed to return to Mistress Wells’s town house. Her hostess—who had generously offered the town house to the young couple for “those days of bliss following a wedding!”—had already departed for a sister’s residence.
Elise, feeling a bit guilty since she had grown extremely fond of Mistress Wells, was nevertheless relieved that she was gone. She was alone with only a houseful of discreet servants, and, of course, Jeanne.
The latter was to cause Elise more difficulty than Elise had expected.
“I’m sure,” Jeanne told her as she carefully helped her out of the elegant blue gown, “that you haven’t eaten a thing all day. I’m going to the kitchen myself to see to a full meal, and then I’m going to put you to bed. You’ll have need of a good night’s sleep before the ceremonies tomorrow, and then tomorrow night . . .”
Elise clenched her jaw tightly as Jeanne’s voice trailed away uncertainly. She spoke impatiently. “I’m not at all hungry, Jeanne. Nor am I ready for bed. I’ve a letter to write, and then we must sit down together to talk.”
Jeanne’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Milady, what are you about? I know how you felt about this knight, Stede, but things have surely been righted by this wedding—at Richard’s command. I was so pleased to watch you accept what was surely the best solution under God; and now you are his wife and sworn to obedience—”
The use of the word “obedience” was the final element that caused Elise’s temper to flare. “Jeanne! I can bear no more!”
Elise swept her nightgown from the servant’s hands and slipped it impatiently over her head. “I need parchment and a quill,” she said firmly, her voice brooking no interference.
Jeanne pursed her lips together, but supplied the requested items with no further word. Elise sat on her bed and leaned over a trunk of her clothing with the parchment laid upon it and the quill in her hand. She had mentally composed the note many times; it took her only a second now to refresh the words in her mind.
“Stede,” she addressed it, purposely withholding any of his titles, and most certainly not referring to him as her husband. She began to move the quill quickly over the parchment:
I have recently heard of a problem in my Duchy of Montoui. As not to ruin Richard’s day, or press your mind with further worry, I leave this note, rather than bother you with a discussion. I wish you my best with your Cornish holdings, and I pray God keep you when you depart on the most noble Crusade.
She did not affix her signature to the note; when he found it upon the bed the next night, he would know whom it was from, just as surely as he would know its meaning. Montoui was hers, and she would rule it alone. If he contested such a claim, she would use all her forces against him. He was welcome to everything else that the marriage had brought him.
She was studying her words when Jeanne challenged her again. “Milady, what are—”
“Sit down, Jeanne,” Elise said. She waited until her disgruntled maid sat uneasily upon the foot of the bed, then continued. “I have no intent of becoming nothing more than a useful vassal to Bryan Stede. I—”
“You’re his wife!” Jeanne gasped out.
“As Richard ordered. I did nothing to fight that. But I will not live with him, or be ordered about by him. I have sent messages home, Jeanne, arranging for an escort to meet us at Bruges, and take us safely on to Montoui.”
“You plan to travel through England to the crossing alone? That is madness, Elise!”
“Jeanne, I’ll remind you that I am your duchess,” Elise said primly. “I do not plan on traveling through England—or even to make the crossing—alone. Tomorrow night at ten we are to meet a party of holy sisters at the river Thames. They have come for the coronation, but plan to leave London tomorrow night. We will travel with them, and be entirely safe from wayfarers.
”
“Milady, this is foolhardy. I cannot allow you to walk out on your husband, and to so flagrantly defy Richard!”
“Jeanne—” Elise leaned over and firmly grasped Jeanne about the wrist to draw her full attention. “This is what I will do. And so help me, by Christ, I will see that your tongue is sliced from your mouth if you betray me! If you choose not to come, that is your affair. But I will leave.”
Jeanne was silent for several minutes, meeting Elise’s glare. The girl was dead-fast determined. Jeanne allowed her eyes to fall with a soft sigh. There had been a time when she understood; when she had hated Bryan Stede as much as she loved Elise. But that had been when her lady had been dishonored; she had even taken secret pains to see that Elise’s honor had been avenged. But now, with marriage, honor had been returned. Most ladies of breeding were wed without choice or consent; it was the way of the world. Elise was creating a road of deeper misery for herself to desert and humiliate the man she had married—a man who was not, Jeanne was certain, the type to forget and forgive such treachery.
“Milady,” Jeanne began again, but she saw the stubborn set to Elise’s jaw, and knew that nothing would change her mind. She loved Elise as she might have her own child. She would never leave her.
“What of the banquet?” Jeanne asked.
Elise smiled brilliantly, and laughed with a sound more sweet than Jeanne had heard come from her mistress in a long time. “You shall await me at the rear door of the banqueting hall. You’ll be quite safe; Richard has men stationed all about. You’ll have a cart; I’ve already purchased it; it will be here tomorrow. I’ll leave the banquet as soon as it’s safe to do so, cover myself with the simple wool cloak that you’ll bring, and we’ll be on our way.”
“I don’t like it,” Jeanne murmured.
“We must pack,” Elise said, ignoring the words. “And then it’s true; we will need a good night’s sleep.”
Blue Heaven, Black Night Page 26