Rebellious Love

by Maura Seger

  "Obviously not, since you don't even know who to ask!" Tears scalding her eyes, Verony jumped up. "I won't listen to this ... I can't ..." She turned to flee, but Curran, having come this far, could not let her go without at least making her realize he was serious. Catching her around the waist, he set the angry young girl firmly on his lap.

  "You will listen, whether you want to or not. This is far too important to both of us for you to just run off." Tightening his grip on the squirming bundle of delicious femininity, his voice softened. "First, let's get one point clear. I am absolutely sincere about this. I've given it a great deal of thought, in fact I've hardly been able to think of-anything else all week. Certainly an argument could be made against our marriage, but there are far more compelling reasons why we should wed. And soon," he added huskily.

  "What reasons?" Verony demanded, trying hard to control the devastating effect of his nearness. Held so closely, it was impossible to ignore the sun-warmed scent of him mingling with the aroma of horses and leather, the heat radiating from his lean, powerful body, the iron strength of his arms clasping her so fiercely. She had no doubt he could feel her pounding heartbeat, perhaps even sense the growing

  languor of her body as she yearned to yield to him utterly.

  Curran took a deep breath, fighting to bring his raging passion under control. He knew he had to speak clearly and reasonably if he was to have any hope of convincing her.

  "You will agree," he began slowly, "that I am rightly expected to marry now that I hold so much land?"

  Verony nodded grudgingly. She didn't really want to talk, but since her true desires could hardly be fulfilled in the chapel, she was willing to listen.

  "Would you inflict some whey-faced court lady on me?" he demanded, only half mockingly. "Some pretty but brainless twit who will care for nothing but her own comforts? How many months do you think it would take for such a wife to destroy all the good you have done here? Why, the manor would be falling down around our very ears before my first heir was born."

  Mention of Curran's child made Verony stiffen. The thought of another woman bearing his son or daughter was acutely painful to her. Upset by her own vulnerability, she sought refuge in dissembling. "Many young ladies are well trained in estate management. Your concern on that score is quite unnecessary."

  Curran sighed. This was going to be even harder than he had thought. She was the most stubborn woman! A faint smile curved his mouth as he considered how, after marriage, he would woo her to greater docility.

  "Perhaps you are right," he allowed, pleased by the glare that provocation earned. Soothingly he added: "But you have something to give which no other lady can claim: a dowry I consider vitally important to the welfare of this estate."

  "Dowry?" Verony exclaimed, struggling to sit upright in his arms. "I don't understand what you mean. I have no dowry."

  "Yes, you do, sweetling. Not property or wealth, but something just as important that can make my life pleasant or difficult according to your whim."

  Now thoroughly bewildered, Verony stared at him. The gray-green eyes were as light as the sea on a calm summer day, which she already knew to mean he was in a good mood. The mouth she longed to touch with her own curved in a gentle smile that gave no hint of duplicity. His hands on her were firm but gentle, and the hard, male body pressed to hers showed only desire that was very much returned. Nothing about him suggested he was mocking her, or seeking to trap her in some way. Yet his words made no sense at all.

  So absorbed was she by Curran's strange behavior that Verony did not notice when he reached into his tunic to withdraw a small package. He handed it to her, urging that she look inside. "Perhaps if you see what the peasants gave me today, you will understand why I speak of your dowry."

  No nearer to understanding him, she nonetheless did as he said. A small gasp escaped her as she studied the statue. The loving care with which it was made brought tears to her eyes. "I am not worthy of this," she murmured brokenly.

  "You are worth far more," Curran insisted. "The statue is only a symbol of something far greater." Gently he raised her head, compelling her to meet his loving gaze. "You hold the loyalty and trust of your people. They would do anything for you, even to risking their own lives. That is the dowry I wish from you." Tenderly his tanned finger stroked her cheek, finding its way to the tiny mole beside her lips. "What will it be, my heart? If you will not wed me, I must send you away lest I dishonor us both. How do you imagine your people will react to that? Surely they have too much sense to rise against me directly, but they can oppose me at every turn, break the forest laws, betray me in a thousand small ways. I will have no choice then but to rule harshly, hanging the worst offenders and hacking off the hands or arms of the others. Is that what you wish?"

  Ashen-faced, Verony shook her head quickly. Such subversion and consequent brutality were just what she wanted to avoid.

  "Then it need not happen," Curran assured her. "With you at my side, I can keep the peace gently. The people here will accept my rule and, in turn, I will be able to treat them well. It wants only your agreement."

  Verony knew he exaggerated the case. The thought of having to leave her land and people was a cold stone in her heart, but before she went she could talk privately with those peasants most respected by their peers. Some understanding might be reached whereby opposition to Curran was minimized. But there was still a chance that some of the horrors he predicted could happen. Desperately wanting to believe him, she whispered, "You truly mean this? You really think I have something of worth to give you?"

  "Something no one else can ever give me," Curran agreed vehemently. Sensing victory, he allowed himself to tenderly nuzzle her throat as he muttered: "Marry me, Verony. For both our sakes and the sake of all the people on this land. Be my wife."

  His throaty plea and the fire his caresses unleashed within her sent hope surging through Verony. She turned to him lovingly, meeting his passion with her own. "Oh, Curran, I do so wish to share your life. I thought . . . since you seemed to want me ... I thought I would be your mistress. Never did I let myself dream we could marry."

  "Mistress? Did you think I would be satisfied to have only your body? I want all of you. Your spirit, your intelligence, your courage that could put any man to shame." A teasing glint darkened the eyes that caressed her gently. "Besides, I wish our children to be my heirs. No doubt we shall have remarkable sons, my lady, fiercely proud and independent."

  Through tears of relief and happiness greater than any she had ever known, Verony still managed to answer him provocatively. "And what about our daughters, my lord? Do you count them worth any less?"

  "On the contrary," Curran assured her hastily, "I shall value them all the more, especially if they have red-gold hair and their mother's astonishing eyes. But," he added as his hands moved up to cup her breasts, "I will need sons first, to help me protect our lovely girls." Lean, skilled fingers teased her nipples as he murmured: "Does all this talk of children mean you agree to wed me, my lady?"

  Shivers of delight darting through her drove Verony's final doubts from her mind. "Y-yes . . ." she gasped, "oh, yes!"

  A triumphant growl broke from him as his mouth closed on hers. In the dimly lit sanctuary, they came to each other joyfully, giving some slight release to their ardor as they counted the hours until they could be fully satisfied.

  CHAPTER 6

  How long did it actually take to arrange a wedding, Verony wondered two days later as she watched Hilda put the final touches on her marriage robes. Surely few had been organized more quickly? Barely had she and Curran left the chapel than their intentions seemed known to everyone. From the lowliest scullery maid right up to Sir Lyle, the entire manor threw itself into fervid preparations for the marriage.

  Since there would be no family present on either side, the ceremony itself would be fairly simple. Father Dermond had already drawn up the nuptial agreement, which Curran—in his position as both groom and Verony's de facto guardia
n—signed for them both. With his signature in place, he had insisted she read the terms. Verony paled at the memory of all he had ceded as her bridal gift; large tracts of land, the taxes on two ports within his holdings, a mill and even a house in London he promised they would shortly visit.

  She had tried to argue him out of it, saying his gifts were far too much, but Curran was adamant. He understood too well how she must have felt to be stripped of all property and wanted to make sure she would never again know such vulnerability.

  For her part, Verony had spent the last two days laboriously stitching a shirt for Curran from the finest linen woven on the estate, intricately embroidering the cuffs and collar with ancient symbols of good fortune. Watching the slender form bent hour after hour over the meticulous sewing, Hilda had bitten her tongue to keep from suggesting a bride might be wiser to get more rest or spend her energies on her own apparel. But the clear pleasure Verony took in her task convinced the old nurse to keep silent. She only smiled fondly and thanked God for the mercy of love.

  Meanwhile, the kitchens were thrown into turmoil as a great feast was prepared in which everyone on the demesne would share. Thanks to the hunting skill of Curran and his men, and his open-handed generosity, there was no lack of food. Three large pigs and dozens of fowl were slaughtered, fish brought from the freshwater pond, numerous loaves of white and black bread baked, venison and boar dressed, and all manner of other dishes readied.

  The keep was swept throughout, fresh rushes laid on every floor and the chimneys cleaned. The chapel was decorated with fresh flowers. Servants and retainers alike sported their finest clothes. The hall was filled with trestle tables covered with snowy linen, and even the household animals were bathed. Only one item usual to a wedding was apparently overlooked; no effort was made to prepare a bridal chamber within the keep.

  There was some concern that Verony might notice the omission. But she went through the days thinking only of the joy come so suddenly into a life that had known little but danger and struggle. Nothing penetrated the haze of her happiness until the morning of her bridal. Barely had she put the last stitches in Curran's shirt and dispatched it to him than Hilda put aside her own work to admit two serving women carrying a tub. Others followed with ewers of steaming water, fresh towels and a porcelain bottle containing rare attar of roses.

  Watching the elaborate preparations for her bath, the full impact of what she was about to do struck Verony for the first time. She was marrying the powerful, wealthy son of one of the most important families in England, without the knowledge of either his parents or the king himself. For all Curran's talk of her dowry, she brought no tangible addition to his holdings nor could she claim to provide any useful political alliance.

  When he wed her, Curran would be linking himself with a woman who had defied the royal will and flouted all social convention, who had claimed the right to decide her own fate even at the cost of survival. The court would be aghast at such an inappropriate union, the king would be enraged, and the d'Arcy clan . . . The mere thought of their reaction made Verony tremble. It took all her courage to stand silently as Hilda and the serving women removed her clothes and assisted her into the tub.

  The soft, perfumed water lapping against her silken skin relaxed her somewhat. But she was still filled with apprehension as she submitted to a thorough washing of her waist-length hair. The maids' admiring exclamations, likening her glistening curls to burnished copper, barely reached her. When they were finished, she automatically lathered herself with the jasmine-scented soap, giving no thought to the beauty of her slender arms, high, pointed breasts, tiny waist and gently rounded hips. One of the younger girls ventured a teasing comment about the night ahead, only to be cut off by Hilda who sensed her mistress' preoccupation.

  When Verony was thoroughly dried, her alabaster skin rubbed with oil and her hair brushed smooth, the servants were shooed away. The old nurse reserved to herself the privilege of dressing the bride. Lovingly she dropped a cloud-soft chemise of pure white linen over Verony's head, followed by a tunic of indigo silk whose tightly fitted sleeves were fastened at the wrist by tiny pearls. A mantle of saffron velvet trimmed in sable followed.

  The brush of fur against her limbs jolted Verony from her thoughts. She gasped when she recognized the rarest of all pelts brought from the northernmost countries and restricted for use only by the highest nobility. Without having to ask, she knew the sable must have come from Curran, who was already in clear league with Hilda. Between the two of them, she had little choice but to accept what they deemed appropriate for her.

  The mantle was tightly girded around her waist, the belt fastened by a gem-encrusted buckle. A transparent veil went over her hair, to be held in place by a coronet. It was the sight of that ornament that finally wrung a protest from Verony. The circlet of beaten gold was one she had worn before, but now it was transformed almost beyond recognition. Curran had somehow contrived in just two days to get it set with large, polished sapphires whose deep blue matched her eyes. "This is for a queen to wear," Verony insisted, trying to stop Hilda from placing the coronet on her head.

  "Would you disappoint your lord?" the old nurse demanded gruffly. "He was so happy to have it ready on time, so certain it would please you. But if you are churlish enough to refuse his gift..."

  "N-no . . ." Verony relented, knowing she could do nothing to hurt Curran. "I will wear it."

  Hilda grunted her approval and refrained from noting that she had never had any intention of allowing her young mistress to leave the chamber without that symbol of her new rank. It might take Verony some time to get used to being the wife of an earl, but Hilda could adjust to Verony's change in status with no difficulty at all.

  "Now sit down," Hilda directed, "carefully. You don't want to get wrinkled."

  Verony obeyed with a rueful smile. For all that it was her wedding day, she had rarely felt more like an uncertain child. The old nurse seemed to understand her need for comfort. After slipping soft leather shoes on her mistress' small feet, she handed her a cup of mulled wine with instructions to drink it all.

  "You're too pale," Hilda noted critically, "but otherwise you'll do." Privately she thought no young woman had ever looked more beautiful. Her sentiment was shared by the small group waiting in the chapel a short time later when Verony entered on Sir Lyle's arm. The sight of her radiant loveliness, made all the more tantalizing by an air of vulnerability, brought a collective indrawing of breath.

  Their admiration left Verony unmoved. She was aware of nothing but the frantic pounding of her heart and the growing fear that her legs would not be strong enough to support her as far as the altar. Only the sight of Curran waiting there gave her the courage to go on.

  Had any man ever looked so breathtakingly handsome and virile, Verony wondered dazedly. His raven hair was freshly trimmed around his well-shaped head, with only a single unruly lock falling across his brow. His rugged features, which could appear so stern, were gently set. Though he was slightly pale beneath his tan, his gray-green eyes glowed with fiercely tender passion.

  Across the broad sweep of his chest, he wore the shirt she had so lovingly stitched beneath a tourmaline silk tunic and surcoat of midnight blue. The hilt of his dress sword, held in place by a richly embroidered baldric, was encrusted with precious gems, as were the gold bands gleaming at his wrists and upper arms. His long, sinewy legs were clad in finely spun chausses ending in boots of etched leather.

  At her first sight of him, radiating unmistakable eagerness deepened by his clearly somber regard for the step they were about to take, Verony lost all consciousness of everyone and everything else. The chapel decorated with freshly cut boughs and pure-white candles, the proud retainers and men-at-arms wearing polished iron and carrying unsheathed swords as a sign of respect, even the gently smiling Father Dermond were all lost to her. She knew only the reassuring touch of Curran's warm hand as he took hers, guiding her the last steps to the altar where they knelt beneath the c
are cloth, a privilege traditionally reserved for virgin brides. Dimly Verony realized the surprise the appearance of that sign of purity must have caused among the congregation, which had presumed she and Curran were already lovers. She did not doubt it was present by his insistence, a clear warning that he would tolerate no speculation about her honor.

  As Father Dermond completed the blessing over them, Curran slipped onto her finger the ring that would normally have been given at betrothal. Staring down at the blood-red ruby surrounded by his family crest, Verony blinked back tears. She met his loving smile with her own as they both sipped from the garlanded bridal cup offered by Sir Lyle.

  With that last ritual observed, the company was free to express its approval of the union. Verony and Curran were surrounded by his beaming men, each eager to outdo the rest in wishing the new couple long life and happiness. Escorted by that raucous bunch, they proceeded to the Center Hall where a great feast waited.

  Surely not even the cooks and bakers of the royal household could have put together a grander celebration in such a short time. Trestle tables set at right angles to the slightly raised High Table ran the length of the hall. They groaned under a multitude of dishes from roast pork and venison to swan and capon cooked in flaky pastry, rabbit and quail stews, polished apples and golden cheeses, breads and rolls, even a cake of dried fruits glazed with honey. Against one wall, kegs of ale, cider and mead were piled high. Servants hurried about, filling goblets and bringing in yet more food. Minstrels tuned their instruments and began the first of what promised to be increasingly bawdy songs. Outside the hall, the last wagons were just returning empty of the largess Curran had sent to the village to ensure that everyone Gft his demesne shared his happiness in the day.

  Before she had taken the slightest sip from her goblet, Verony felt intoxicated. The rush of blazing lights, vivid colors, trilling music, chattering people, laughter, shouts, smells ... all combined to send her mind whirling. Dazzled by that most potent mixture of profound joy and the anticipation of even greater delight to come, she could do little more than pick at the food set before her. The wine she ignored all together, except for the obligatory toasts.