When she returned to her room there was a garment laid out on her bed, and she gasped in delight as she went over to it. Maggie had been right in describing the costumes as romantic, but she had not suggested they were also revealing, suggestive, and utterly sensual. Considering the theme of the festival, Dawn supposed, as she lifted it delicately and pressed it to her, it was only fitting.
It was fashioned in a medieval style out of layers of azure gauze with a wide silver cincture at the waist. It was scooped low over the shoulders and flowed to floor-length caftan sleeves, each layer of the shimmering gauze so thin it was practically translucent in itself, placed together it formed the illusion of billowing fullness over unmistakable nudity. Dawn was glad it would be dark.
Then she noticed that the colours—silver and azure—were those of the Boyd standard. She wondered if that were significant.
By the time she dried her hair and applied a minimum of make-up it was already dark, and she could hear in the distance the musical chanting of hundreds of voices. Intrigued, she went to the window in her robe and watched the small trail of winding torches grow closer and more brilliant, along with the feral rhythm of the chant—basses like the pounding of drums, sopranos and tenors blending into wild counterpoint, and its chords touched something untamed and basic in her, set her blood to racing hotly, sent a shiver down her spine. She turned quickly from the window to finish dressing.
It was apparent that the costume was not meant to be worn over a bra, slip, or chemisette, and she wondered in alarm if anything at all was supposed to be worn under it. When she slipped it on she blushed at her own reflection. Nothing whatsoever was left to the imagination. It was cut so low that it barely covered the rosy tips of her nipples, so wide that white shoulders and most of her back were exposed, and so tight across the bodice that her firm, rounded breasts were pressed together beneath a shockingly deep cleavage, and thrust forward in such a provocative manner that it put her immediately in mind of old movies reflecting the lascivious lives of medieval lords and ladies. She wondered perversely if Byron had not deliberately left out some essential part of the costume, and rummaged through her closet for a shawl.
Because the costume, even with its demure white shawl, seemed to require it, she left her hair loose, braiding a few strands on either side of her face and allowing the remainder to cascade down her back. She whirled around once in the room, loving the way the gauze billowed and floated about her body, and then there was a knock on the door.
She tugged once more at the unco-operative neckline, drew the shawl more closely about her, and went to answer it.
Byron was there, looking so much like the handsome prince every girl dreams about that Dawn drew her breath in surprise and appreciation. His costume was a loose-fitting garment of a white homespun material which fell just below the thighs, open to the waist where it was the perfect frame for the broad chest with its alluringly masculine cushion of dark, curly hair. A width of soft azure wool was thrown over one shoulder and fastened at the waist with a silver cincture similar to the one she wore. His arms were bare, offering her the first glimpse she had ever had of firmly-muscled biceps. His knees and thighs were swathed in dark stockings, accenting their sturdy shape and alluring masculinity much more effectively than if they had been bare, and he wore leather boots laced to the knee.
He swept her a courtly bow. ‘My lady,’ he drawled.
Dawn responded, somewhat timorously, because her heart was pounding in her throat, ‘My lord,’ and knelt in a curtsey.
He bent to lift her to her feet and as he did he swept the shawl from her shoulders. The movement revealed the dark tuft of hair under each arm which was both intimate and somehow exciting, and her blush deepened as he gazed at her with frank approval. ‘This is no time for modesty, my dear,’ he said, and opening her door, he tossed the shawl inside. ‘You wouldn’t want to draw attention to yourself by being overdressed.’
‘I hardly think there’s any chance of that,’ she murmured, and because she could no longer endure his unabashed examination of her bosom, she turned towards the lift. ‘Which reminds me,’ she continued to direct the conversation away from a possible dangerous turn, ‘of something I’ve always meant to ask you. Are you really a lord? I mean, should I call you that? What is your title?’
‘Mister,’ he replied, though there was amusement in his eyes as he pushed the lift button which suggested he read her motives for changing the subject, and would humour her—for a time. ‘The title died out centuries ago, for all the difference it makes.’
They stepped into the lift, and once again she was overwhelmingly aware of his masculinity and nearness. Perhaps now it was more powerful than ever because the trappings of civilisation—the carefully styled hair, the tailored suits, the scent of cologne—were gone, leaving only the basic, rugged man, all the more exciting for its simplicity. ‘Are you aware,’ he began conversationally, as the lift made its silent descent, ‘that in medieval times, right up through the eighteenth century, the bosom was the focal point of a man’s attraction to a woman? Frontal nudity was quite the fashion then, and some of the literature of the era in praise of that particular portion of a woman’s anatomy is quite shocking by today’s standards. We tend to think of our ancestors as stodgy and puritanical, as though they were all born under Queen Victoria, when in fact quite the opposite is true. In my father’s day the costumes were much more authentic—and daring. It was the high point of every little boy’s life when he got to attend his first festival.’
She commented, trying not to tug too obviously at the neckline, ‘I can’t imagine anything more daring.’
But Byron noticed the gesture and caught her hand, his fingers like a brush of flame for just the briefest instant across her bare skin. ‘If I showed you the photographs of one of my father’s festivals,’ he assured her, his eyes laughing, ‘you’d think they’re pornographic.’
They emerged into the foyer, where the open door already revealed a party in full swing, the torches in the trees bathing the lawn in a vibrant orange light, dancing off the garlands of wild flowers, the flowing garments of dancers whirling madly in a circle, flickering on the long tables already piled high with food. The music was loud and untamed, occasionally punctuated by high laughter or a girlish squeal, and as they stepped out on to the portico Dawn could see the flame dancing in Byron’s eyes, could feel the excitement course through him which was the essence of this place, this time. Although already she could sense his attention straying from her, his last words of advice were, ‘Let go. Give it a chance. Enjoy yourself,’ before he left her, taking the steps in majestic bounds, like a little boy let out of school for the day.
There was a group of women gathered on the steps, and she made her way absently towards them, feeling left out and rather slighted. How, she wondered morosely, could she enjoy herself if he was not there? For the first time she realised she had forgotten her camera, and she turned to go back upstairs for it.
Then her eyes fell on Byron—standing in the centre of the lawn, arms outstretched for a buxom young girl with flowers in her hair who was running towards him. He caught her up, whirled her around, and kissed her. Setting her feet on the ground, he caught another girl, tilted her backwards with one arm, and kissed her. He had not even released her before he caught the hand of another. Dawn watched, stunned, then heard Maggie’s laughter and felt her arm slip through hers.
‘It’s traditional,’ she explained. ‘The lord of the castle is expected to kiss every unmarried girl present before the stroke of midnight, at risk of losing his virility and his harvest the next year.’
‘Of course,’ drawled a low feminine voice in her other ear, ‘the rule used to be that he must kiss only virgins, but they’ve become so hard to find, you know.’
Dawn turned to face Hilary, her red lips upturned in her usual mocking smile, her glittering eyes narrowed seductively. She seemed to have an uncanny knack for matching her outfits to her environment, as though
purposely requiring her clothing to take a back seat to her own striking beauty. The amber gown she wore blended into f the flickering torchlight so that she seemed herself an extension of the flame, her gold collar its core, her red hair its tip. The filmy material did not billow gracefully about her as did Dawn’s, but fell in a single clinging layer from the scooped neckline to her bare ankles. It was deliberately provocative in its construction, suiting a woman such as Hilary to perfection, and, although she may have worn a low underskirt, it was patently translucent from bosom to navel, and Dawn found herself looking away in embarrassment. Only Hilary could get away with that!
Hilary touched her arm lightly. ‘One piece of advice, if I may, Miss—I do beg your pardon, dear, I can’t seem to recall your name.’
‘Morrison,’ returned Dawn shortly. ‘Dawn Morrison.’
‘Yes, of course. As I was saying ...’ Hilary nodded towards the scene before them, in which Byron was the centre of attention from every silly, squealing girl present, ‘Byron reserves the right of jealousy exclusively to himself. Don’t let on to him that this sort of thing bothers you. He despises a mistrustful woman.’
She moved gracefully down the steps, and Dawn stared after her in shock and indignation. Of all people to be giving her advice on how to handle Byron—speaking so impudently of loyalty and mistrust! As though ... as though she was graciously abdicating her territory to a lesser woman!
Maggie patted her arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t mind Hilary,’ she said. ‘There’s not a woman here who wouldn’t like to claw her eyes out.’ Maggie’s tone indicated that she might like to be one of them. Then, urging her down the steps. ‘Come along, have some fun.’ There was a suggestive twinkle in her eyes. ‘Don’t forget—you’re an unmarried woman!’
Dawn thought belligerently, descending the steps proudly, As though I would want—or accept—his kiss on those cheap terms!
‘I’ve been saving this for you.’ She turned in surprise and then some pleasure to meet Vernon, who was shyly offering her a garland of flowers. ‘Your costume is incomplete without it.’
She allowed him to place it on her head, then stepped back for his approval.
‘Beautiful,’ he said, his eyes glowing like those of a worshipful schoolboy. ‘I mean it, Dawn. You look—incredible tonight. Like one of those paintings you see of castle life.’
She laughed, revelling in his appreciation. Never mind that it was not his praise she sought.
He gestured around him to include the lights, the costumes, the music, the dancing and the laughter. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s all so—wild, and primitive,’ she replied, then smiled. ‘I think I like it.’
‘Will you dance with me?’
She eyed the other dancers executing the intricate, weaving patterns of a folk dance, and demurred, ‘I don’t know the steps.’
‘All you have to do is follow me. It’s more instinct than anything.’ He had taken her hand. ‘I’ll show you.’
Her eyes had fallen at that moment on Byron, and it was Hilary standing before him, Hilary’s arms gently encircling his neck. His back was to her, so that Dawn could not see the expression on his face, but she did see him bend his neck, his hands on her shoulders, and kiss her. And it seemed to her his lips lingered longer than they had with any of the other girls.
She said brightly, turning back to Vernon, ‘Sure—all right. I’ll give it a try.’
Happily, he tucked her arm through his and led her towards a group which was just assembling into formation for another set. ‘There’s nothing to it, really. It’s not something you can learn, you just have to follow the music
He was interrupted by a mild voice behind him, and a hand light upon his shoulder.
‘This is my dance, I believe,’ said Byron.
Vernon looked uncertainly from him to Dawn, and then agreed, dropping his arm, ‘Yes, I believe it is. Sorry, I didn’t notice.’
Dawn said angrily, as he left them, ‘What do you mean—your dance? You didn’t ask me!’
He replied blandly, ‘You’re wearing my colours. It means you’re not allowed to dance with any other man but me.’
‘Which means,’ she retorted bitterly, ‘that I don’t get to dance at all!’
‘That’s up to you,’ he replied, unruffled. ‘I can always find someone else.’
She stared at him. ‘Why is there one rule for you and another for me?’
‘Because,’ he answered, securely anchoring her arm in his, ‘you’re a woman. Now, do you want to dance or not?’
‘It seems to me,’ she muttered discontentedly, ‘that you have this whole thing rigged to suit you very well!’
He laughed. ‘The French have a phrase for it—droit du seigneur. It means—’
‘I know what it means,’ she retorted. ‘It means that the lord of the castle must have everything he wants—’
‘And every woman,’ he added, and they had reached the formation as the first notes were being struck. ‘Shall I ask you one more time or merely take you whether you like it or not? It is my right.’ For a moment she was shocked, not understanding his meaning, and his eyes caught her confusion and danced madly. Then she cried angrily above the rising chords of the music, ‘Yes, I want to dance!’
Byron whirled her into step, his strong hands gripping hers and swinging her around in rhythm to the music, swaying in motion with the other couples, and it was easy. The music was loud and compulsive, his touch masterful, and her skirts billowed above her knees as she whirled and ducked and abandoned herself completely to the music. As it ended in squeals of laughter and shouts of applause, he caught her at the waist and whirled her around, feet above ground, then pressed his lips fiercely to hers. ‘There!’ he declared, setting her down. ‘I’ve kissed the last single girl and possibly the only virgin present, and my land and my potential for progeny are secure for another year!’
Dawn had time to reflect that, in the eerie light, with his crisp dark hair and lips parted in laughter over gleaming white teeth, he looked incredibly like a satyr. And then he left her.
They sat on low cushions around the table to eat, the women on one side, the men on another, each group separated by about ten yards of lawn and two heavily laden buffet tables. ‘Now this,’ Dawn pointed out laughingly to Maggie, ‘is not very romantic.’
‘Oh, but it’s the best part!’ Maggie insisted. ‘They’re looking us over,’ she confided, nodding at the men who did not appear to be looking at anything but their plates. ‘Choosing their partners. When we’ve finished eating, all the women will go out to prepare the draught—that’s sort of a whisky punch—and while we’re gone different colours straws will be passed out among the men. Finding a broken straw under her napkin when she returns means that a girl has a secret lover—and all she has to do then is find the owner of the other half of the straw! It’s such fun the rest of the evening as the girls run around trying to find their lovers. Long ago,’ she finished, ‘the breaking of straws was part of the marriage ceremony. Some people still take it that seriously ... for others., it’s all in good fun, or a chance for a shy lad to win his lass ... however you look at it, it makes for anything other than a dull evening!’
Dawn concentrated on the rich, spicy food piled high on her plate and did not concern herself much with straws. Except to wonder if Hilary might find one under her napkin, and take it as a token of reconciliation. She could not forget the way he had kissed her, so different from her own kiss, brief and triumphant. It must be hard for a man to taste again the lips he had once loved, especially when they belonged to a woman as beautiful and seductive as Hilary. And she did not believe that Byron could have kissed her at all, not even for the sake of ceremony, if there were not something still there ...
When the women rose to go to the castle kitchen Dawn followed them, although when she learned that they were expected to serve the men, cup by cup, she objected in principle, and she told Maggie so. She laughed it off. ‘It’s all part of the spi
rit, dearie. And,’ she added with a wink, ‘it’s only for one night.’
The draught was a mixture of strong Scotch whisky, milk, beaten eggs and peppery spices, and then women were not allowed to taste. To this Dawn had no objection. They carried it out in huge tubs to the lawn, where it was dipped and served by each girl in a wooden cup. Dawn reflected that if all the mixture were consumed there would be a collection of either very drunk or very ill men before morning, and once again Maggie laughed it off. ‘If a man can’t hold his whisky he’s not a man in these parts, and wouldn’t last very long on the island.’ She placed a cup in her hand and nodded towards the tables where the men were gathered. ‘You must serve Byron,’ she told her. ‘Because you’re wearing his colours, it would be an insult for any other girl to try to do it.’
She thought, damn these colours. Then she remembered that Byron had chosen them, possibly with this very humiliation in mind. ‘What if I don’t?’ she demanded mutinously.
Maggie laughed. ‘Better worry what would happen if he refuses. You would be in disgrace!’
So, thought Dawn, and approached his table with some trepidation. Maybe that was it. To get even with her for the fuss over the dance, or a thousand other things ...
He was lying back on the grass, one arm cradling his head, a leg propped up to reveal an intriguing line of stocking-covered thigh above the boot.
The other girls were getting down on their knees, lifting their cups to the lips of their chosen ones. Dawn stood rigidly above him, the cup held tightly in both hands. ‘I think this is a stupid and demeaning custom,’ she said tightly.
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