by The Vow
“Would that I could howl my displeasure as do you,” he murmured in English. Sheba put her great head between her paws and moaned. Luc put out a hand to stroke the head. But after a few moments he felt foolish for talking to a wolf, and left before someone found him. It would do him no good to have it said around the castle that he consorted with wolves on moonlit nights.
The next day, he went to visit Ceara. She watched him just as warily as Sheba had, though there was no welcome in any form, only a silent detachment that grated on his temper.
“We are to be wed in a sennight, Ceara.”
“So I understand.” She did not rise from the bed, but sat still and stiff. “Have you come to kill me?”
Unwillingly, he smiled a little at that. “No. Not that the thought has not occurred to me. I fear the king would disapprove.”
She shrugged. “He may want you to wait until after the wedding, so there is no outcry. I have no relatives alive, no one will take it amiss if I die after we are wed.”
There was an odd monotony to her words that made him frown. “I do not slay unarmed females. You are safe enough for now.”
Looking up, a faint smile curved her mouth, and for a moment he glimpsed the spirit that had first intrigued him. Then she shrugged again, and looked down at her lap where her hands toyed with a length of frayed material. He realized it was a crude rosary, the prayer beads knotted into the strip of linen.
“Do you pray for release from the marriage, my lady? You should have thought of that before you went to such lengths to arrange it.”
“It was your king who arranged it, not I. And no, I do not pray for release, for after all, I will get what I want from it.” A strange smile played about her lips. “Wulfridge has been my home all my life. It will be my home when I die, and I can expect no more.”
“A melancholy mood, my lady?” He caught her hand in his and held it, not harshly, but hard enough to crush the rosary in her fist. “Pray you that it is worth it to you, for I shall not make it easy.”
He meant it, and he saw that she understood. Her face paled a little, but her chin remained stubbornly lifted with defiance. Prompted by the same obscure emotion that had brought him to her room, he pulled her to him abruptly, his hand moving to tangle in her hair, his mouth seeking hers. Her hands were caught between them, pushing at him with steady resistance, but he ignored her efforts. Curse her, did she think to taunt him this way and escape? She would not … she haunted his waking moments, even his dreams, and he was weary of the struggle.
Forcing her backward until the edge of the cot was against her legs, he used his weight as leverage and pushed her down to the hard surface of the bed. She twisted in his grip, but he held her fast, driven by need and anger and the constant thrum of desire. Jésu, she was so soft, so warm, her skin heated ivory beneath his hands, tempting him to pull away her tunic and caress the smooth globes beneath, tease the taut peaks of her nipples into rosettes with his tongue … there was the sound of rending cloth, soft gasps, and his own harsh pants for air, but no protests other than the mute resistance of her hands against his chest.
Aching from the pressure of his need, Luc wedged his body between her thighs, heedless of the ominous creaking of the rope cot, lacing his hands in hers to pull them up and over her head. Her breath came in swift inhalations that lifted her chest, and her lips were drawn back from her small white teeth in a faint wolfish snarl.
“Is this how Normans woo their ladies to wife, my lord? What it lacks in charm, it makes up for in impatience.”
Angry, he stared down at her, at the blue eyes filled with golden glints of mockery. “A rough wooing, to be certain, but one of your own making. I did not set out to pursue you, but find that this plight is of your doing. Am I to yield? I think not. Yielding to William is one matter, to a woman is quite another.”
“Yet you expect me to yield to you.”
“Aye, my fine lady, I do. You have yielded once for your own gain. The next yielding will be for mine.”
Transferring her wrists to one hand, he held her while he moved his other hand with slow deliberation over her bared breasts, caressing, teasing, watching her through his lashes as she bit her lower lip between her teeth and closed her eyes. Yet her body betrayed her with small tremors, with the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, and the thrumming of the pulse in the hollow of her pale throat. He bent to kiss the shadowed dip, then moved lower, his tongue tracing tiny circles over her quivering flesh while his own need grew to aching tension.
Curving his hand around her breast, he blew softly on the beaded nipple, then took it gently into his mouth, hot and cold, sweet skin and rousing solicitude lavished on first one, then the other. He rocked forward, pressing his hard length into the vee of her thighs so that she would know the full range of his desire, watching her as she moaned softly and shuddered involuntarily. There was something intensely erotic about lying with her like this, his clothes a barrier between them, yet caressing the bare skin of her breasts and thighs.
It was arousing and unnerving that he could lose himself like this in her, to the point of forgetting everything but being inside her. The memory of the night on the old Roman road was etched sharply in his mind. Yet if he took her now, it would tell her that little mattered but the easing of his need for her. It was too risky. That knowledge would be far too powerful a weapon for her to use against him.
Lifting his body from hers, he gazed down at her flushed face and moist mouth, struggling for the strength to refrain from taking her. He released her hands and pushed up from the bed, leaving her lying in a half-clothed sprawl on the thin mattress. She did not move to cover herself, but lay as he had left her, pale white thighs gleaming with sweet temptation in the dim light, her bared breasts still bearing the faint prints of his hands on her.
Luc straightened his tunic, then turned away to stride to the door and pull it open. Pausing in the opening, he surveyed her slender form. “You are not the first woman to betray me, but I swear that you will not do so again. I will give you no quarter. Think on that whilst you make your wedding preparations, my lady.”
He slammed the door hard behind him, ignoring the wary scuttling of the guard to one side as he stalked down the dimly lit corridor. Never had he thought to be so unsettled by one small maid. She had done to him what none other had yet managed, and he had somehow allowed it to happen. But not again, as he had told her. She would not fool him again.
• • •
MUSIC FILLED THE air, and a festive atmosphere pervaded York and the castle. Streets were crowded with those come to the wedding of England’s newest earl and his Saxon bride. The service held on the steps of St. Peter church for all to see was over. The workmen had paused in their rebuilding as the priest performed the ceremony.
With William observing the proceedings, Luc helped Ceara onto a white palfrey, then mounted his own steed. Someone had woven garlands of dried flowers in the manes and tails of both animals, and Drago snorted at the indignity as they wound through the city streets.
Despite the cold, spectators lined the narrow roads to see the Saxon lady who had become a Norman baron’s wife. One would think no Norman had ever wed a Saxon before, Luc thought grimly. But perhaps it was because of the rumors that flew thick as crows through York that this marriage was one of Saxon benefit instead of Norman. After all, Ceara of Wulfridge was one of their own, and the king had bade his earl wed her to remedy the wrong that had been done her.
It was not a situation likely to improve Luc’s temper. By all rights, he should have told William the truth, but he had not. It would have been too embarrassing to admit that a mere maid had managed to tempt him as she had done, then use that very seduction against him. Ceara had planned well.
A banquet was held in the great hall. Unfinished walls were covered with woven tapestries, and hundreds of candles gave off a bright, warm light. As guests of honor, Luc and Ceara were seated at the table dormant, a heavy oaken slab that stretched almost entirely
across the dais at the head of the hall, reserved for use of the king and important barons. Trestle tables had been set up perpendicular to the dais, with benches for knights and guests. Delicate dishes were served: appulmoy, curlews in sauce, and exotic fish baked in pasties or stewed in pungent spices, jellies dyed with the juice of crushed columbine flowers. Marchpane subtleties garnished with feathers and leaves were borne proudly into the hall by pages, supervised by anxious cooks awaiting the king’s praise. Silver nefs filled with condiments decorated even the lower tables, with gold-gilded cellars of salt set in the center of each table. Carved chairs had been set up for the honored guests, and cloths of fine embroidered linen from Ypres draped the tables. Even utensils were provided, wrought-silver handles decorating the spoons at the high table.
Several Saxon barons had been invited to witness the ceremony and partake of the sumptuous banquet afterward. The king had decided to display his willingness to be lenient to those who swore to him, as well as a warning of his intentions to bind Norman and Saxon into one nation. For most, it was a point well taken.
Knights from Luc’s troop feted him with toasts and merriment, the men he had ridden with for a dozen years making ribald jests at his expense and not seeming to notice his forced courtesy. Ceara sat stiffly at his side without looking at him, her posture tense and wary, as if she expected him to take his dagger to her at any moment.
On his other side sat William, the monarch appearing serene and satisfied with the day’s work, oblivious to the undercurrents between the bride and groom. Indeed, the king commented on how happy the new couple seemed.
“A new title and a new bride all in the same month, Louvat. You are fortunate indeed, to be so blessed.”
“Yes, sire.” Luc forced a smile. “I had not thought to be so fortunate.”
“No doubt.” William’s dry words earned a sharp glance from Luc, but the king’s face revealed nothing. He lifted his silver cup in a silent toast to Luc, then indicated the lady at his side. “Tell her that she makes a very beautiful countess, Louvat. And that her people will be most pleased to have her home again. A wise move, I think, to allow her to return to her father’s land. See you, that yon Saxon barons have accepted this gesture most happily.”
It was to be a gentle reminder to Ceara that her marriage to Luc was not of her choosing, but the king’s. Luc repeated the king’s words as he had said them.
Ceara looked up, a small frown knitting her brows, and Luc clenched his teeth. By all that was holy, if she provoked the king again, there would be no need for William to respond, for he would castigate her unmercifully himself.
“Sire,” she said softly, “while once I would not have chosen this manner in which to return to my people, I am grateful that your justice has prevailed. But I pray you temper your decrees with mercy, so that more of my people will accept the edicts you force upon them.”
Luc glared at her. William’s gaze bent to him, then back to Ceara when Luc repeated her words through clenched teeth. The king stroked his chin, and displeasure darkened his eyes.
“Tell your lady wife that her people answer only to you in matters of judgment, for my northern barons are distant and must rule their lands absolutely in order to keep them. For myself, I do not give justice or mercy where it is not earned. If order is not kept in Wulfridge, she may yet find herself without a home.”
Keeping his temper in check, Luc repeated William’s words, adding his own harshly: “If you have anything else to say to the king, you had best think long and hard on the content, for you may find that your husband has no scruples about beating an errant wife.”
Ceara looked full at him for the first time that day. He’d forgotten how blue her eyes were, with tiny gold flecks in them, and long lashes that curved in a graceful sweep. She lifted those lashes now as if amazed.
“My lord husband, I am at your mercy.”
“Yea,” he said softly, “you are. ’tis best you remember that before you speak unwisely again.”
Lowering her lashes, Ceara studied the untouched goblet in her hands, spinning it between her fingers steadily. The jewels around the cup glittered in the candlelight. “It is not possible for me to forget for even a moment how my very life depends upon the idle whim of another.” She lifted the goblet and her voice. “Nay, I am not like to forget how you so graciously spared my life, only to dangle it before me like a hard-won prize. Was it so hard for you, my lord, to best a mere women in combat? Will you e’er forgive me for holding your life in my hands? Or do you dare admit how close you came to having a Saxon blade in your throat that day—”
“Enough,” Luc warned.
Defiant, she tilted the goblet in her mouth and drained the wine, then set the jewel-encrusted vessel on the table with a thud. “Yea, my lord husband, ’tis quite enough, I think. Should you ever lay a harsh hand on me, you will have to kill me, for I will not suffer it idly.”
Beyond her, Robert de Brionne sat with his mouth open, his eyes riveted on them both when Luc did not react.
But in truth, short of dragging her from the hall, there was little Luc could do at that moment unless he wanted to translate her comments to the king. The Saxon barons were ever watchful, and would take it amiss if he dealt harshly with his new wife at their wedding banquet. It might destroy William’s efforts to consolidate Norman and Saxon.
Luc contented himself with putting a hand on her arm as if to caress her, but his fingers dug deeply into the tender skin of her wrist until she flinched.
“I told you once that I weary of hearing how you held your sword at my throat. I do not make a habit of repeating myself, but this one time I will—do not speak of it again, Ceara. ’tis done. It would be your mistake to think that I will misjudge you again. By now, I know full well how capable you are of any word or deed.”
Into the silence that fell between them, Sir Robert interjected in his rough English: “Is it true that Wulfridge lies on the northern coast? I understand it is lovely there.”
Emotion flickered in Ceara’s eyes, and it was she who answered Robert. “Yea, Sir Robert, it is a most lovely and fertile land, with fresh water and broad moors, and forests abounding with game. You would be welcome should you decide to visit, as you are my lord’s companion and friend.”
Neatly done, Luc thought grimly, as if she had every right to extend invitations in his name. He released her wrist. “Sir Robert is well aware that he is welcome in my home.”
It sounded churlish even to his ears, and he saw that it did not pass Robert’s notice as his friend grinned.
“There have been times in our past, Luc, that I was not so certain of a welcome at your hands, you may recall.”
“I recall.”
Another abrupt, surly reply that this time engaged the king’s interest. Luc felt foolish as William asked if all was well.
“Yes, sire. A surfeit of natural strain from the day’s events, is all.”
“Then perhaps you should ease your strain with merry-making instead of serious discussion. The minstrels play. Do you ask your lady to dance, Louvat. It will set the mood for us all.”
Luc had his doubts about that. Those who were inclined were well on their way to being merry, and those who were sullen would not be cheered. But there was no use in saying that to the king, so he stood and held out his hand.
“My lady, do me the honor of a dance, if you will.”
Ceara flashed him a quick upward glance. Consternation replaced defiance as she lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “My lord, I do not know your Norman dances.”
“Then the minstrels will play a Saxon melody. That should please you, as I am certain you will dance better than I, and thus shame me in front of all present.”
It was apparently just the promise to convince her, for a smile curved her mouth and she placed her fingers in his outstretched palm. “Then of course I accept.”
“I thought you might not be able to resist a challenge like this.”
“I am dismayed
that you know me so well, my lord.” Her smile deepened, and she swung gracefully into the space cleared for the dancers, allowing him to continue holding her hand. Then she surprised him by affecting a deep, charming gesture of courtesy, bowing slightly with one foot forward and knees bending, the movement so effortless that one could see she had been born to it.
“When you are ready, my lord husband.”
Fey creature, a changeling that swept him from anger to admiration with the blink of an eye, a woman as lovely to look at as she was capricious. Luc expelled a deep breath, and glanced toward the musicians.
Robert stood at the alcove where they played. He intercepted Luc’s signal, and the musicians began to play a lively Saxon tune, the melody a bit halting as they were unfamiliar with it, but recognizable enough that some of the Saxon barons rose to join the dancers.
The mood in the hall grew gay and lively, as even some Normans joined in the unaccustomed steps of the Saxon dance. Ceara moved effortlessly, her skirts swinging about her slim ankles, her steps precise as she taught Luc. He did not tell her that as a boy he had been familiar with these dances, but allowed her to tutor him as if he had never pranced around the fire on a midsummer night.
“You learn quickly, my lord,” she said once, glancing up at him, and he accepted her compliment with a shrug.
“All dances are similar.”
“ ’Yea, so I have heard.” She swung past him to the next partner, then skipped down the line before passing him again.
Robert had joined the dancers, and he grinned as he took Ceara’s hands in his, obviously enjoying the moment. Sweeping her past Luc, he whispered loudly in English, “No need to look so black, my lord. She’ll be returned to you soon enough.”
Luc scowled. Even in jest, Robert need not foster any hope in Ceara that her husband cared for her. For he did not. He had wed her because his king requested it. If he desired her at all, it was not for any reason other than the usual reason a man desired a woman.