“Shall we continue, milady?”
They toured the kitchens, the smithy, the chapel, the stores, the larder, the smokehouse, the herb garden, and even the chicken coop, though Bonhomme carefully avoided the manure pile. In the stables she found her mare.
“Sibell will love her own clean stable,” she confided to the steward, who was also stroking the horse. “I used to bring her morsels from the tables. She’ll be well taken care of here.”
“Oui, milady. The Montbryces take good care of their horses.”
He assisted her to ascend the stone steps to the ramparts, from where they looked down on the vast stretches of land surrounding the castle. “This is the Montbryce demesne,” he declared, spreading out both his arms expansively. “As far as the eye can see.”
Mabelle smiled. “You’re proud of it.”
“Milady, I’ve been the trusted steward of the Montbryce estate for many years, taking over from my father before me. One of my sons will succeed me when the time comes.”
“Oh, look!” she exclaimed, pointing out to the west. “Over there—a patch of bluebells, at the edge of the forest.” She closed her eyes, remembering the warm springs and summers of Alensonne, tucked away in the south west corner of Normandie, on the river Sarthe. She heard again her mother’s tinkling laughter as they gathered armfuls of bluebells in the open fields surrounding the castle. Now the bluebells were a dim and distant memory, like her mother. “Is it safe to go there?”
“Oui, milady. Provided you don’t go too far into the forest. There are wild boar.”
“I’ll be careful. Has there been any word from my betrothed?”
Bonhomme shook his head. “Not that I know of, milady. But don’t worry, he’s very punctual.”
Punctual? I suppose that’s a good thing. Unless he expects it of me!
Fernand took her hand and helped her descend the steps.
“Merci, Fernand. I appreciate your taking the time to show me everything. It’s a big castle, and you run it well.”
Now came his turn to blush. “Merci, milady. My pleasure,” he gushed as his wife joined them. She bowed to Mabelle. “Milady, the seamstresses are waiting for you in your chamber.”
Madame Bonhomme accompanied her to the fitting. The servant seemed friendly as she chattered on. “The dressmakers have never worked so hard. They’ve been plying their needles from morning till night, preparing shifts, nightgowns, wimples, hose, chemises and dresses for you. The pièce de resistance will be the gown for the ceremony itself.”
Madame Bonhomme was seemingly unable to take small strides, and Mabelle had to run to keep up with her.
“I’ve never worn anything as fine. There have been so many fittings, pinnings, twirlings, and adjustments, I’m beginning to feel like a pincushion. Is there word from my betrothed?” It bothered her she seemed driven to ask about him.
“Not that I’m aware, but milord Rambaud is always—”
“I know—punctual. But what is he like?”
“Oh, he’s a handsome devil. A great soldier, counsellor to Duke William, despite his youth.”
Was he kind, thoughtful, or a tyrant? She couldn’t voice these questions aloud to this loyal Montbryce servant.
When they reached the chamber, Mabelle submitted once more to the ministrations of the dressmakers, and the steward’s wife took her leave. Mabelle looked down at the peasant woman adjusting her gown. Again, curiosity got the better of her. “Tell me, Bette, what is my betrothed like?”
Bette blushed and giggled. “Oh, milady, forgive me for saying, but milord Rambaud has eyes that could make women do foolish things.”
“Ouch!”
“Sorry, milady, just a pin.”
The pit in Mabelle’s stomach widened further. She’d been chewing her nails—a new habit. She hastily curled her fingertips into her palms. Doing foolish things with a man was something beyond her comprehension. Such a man would want to dominate her. Would she grow to love him? She had to meet him first.
CHAPTER FIVE
The day before the wedding, a message had come from Ram with assurances to his father he was on his way home, and would arrive in time for the ceremony.
“He expresses frustration at being delayed in Alensonne. He wanted to ensure all was as it should be, now those lands and titles will be part of your dowry, Mabelle,” Comte Bernard told her as they dined together in the Great Hall. “He received the message of the betrothal two days after we signed the document. He needed to investigate any lingering threat from the Giroux family but has heard no rumours of this. He sends you greetings.”
“Greetings,” she mumbled, struggling to control her disappointment that she wouldn’t meet him until their wedding. These nagging doubts hadn’t left her as the interminable night dragged on, and she woke from a fitful sleep before dawn on her wedding day, feeling tired and irritable, bemoaning the state of her fingernails.
She needed fresh air. Suddenly, she remembered the field of bluebells espied from the battlements. Bonhomme had assured her it was safe. Perhaps that was what she needed—an hour alone to recall happier days.
She leapt to her feet and dressed quickly, as she’d done for years, in a homespun chemise and sage green surcoat, with ample skirts down to her feet. She tied the braided woollen belt at her waist, pinned up her hair and stole out of the bailey, carrying a basket from the kitchens. Peasant garb had proven to be the surest way to pass unnoticed among servants already up and busy around a castle. They’d be looking for her soon enough to prepare for the ceremony.
She followed the path across the meadow. The fragrance of the apple blossom from the nearby orchard filled the air. Tension melted from her body as her bare feet touched the dew-laden grass. Turning to face the rising sun, she caught a glimpse of a lark high in the sky, filling the air with its tribute to the dawn, and shielded her eyes. Then, in a whirl of feathers, the bird had disappeared, snatched from the air by a sudden silent hawk. A chill swept over her, and her shoulders tensed. She blinked rapidly and hurried on.
She reached the carpet of blue and stooped to pluck the squeaky, hollow stems of the wildflowers, humming as the bunch grew in her basket. She tried in vain to think of something other than her impending marriage. Wandering in penury, she’d longed to be free to make her own decisions. Now that seemed unlikely, but at least she would no longer be sleeping on stone floors or working in kitchens.
Bees buzzed busily among the bluebells. She became flushed as the unseasonably warm April sun rose higher, and soon sought the shade of the white-barked birch trees at the edge of the forest, lured by the cooling sound of the warm gentle breeze rustling the leaves.
The basket became unwieldy. She set it down and bent to resume her gathering. She’d strayed far into the forest and was on the point of turning back when a glint of sunlight caught her eye. Venturing a few steps further, she smiled at the sight of a shimmering lake.
It was private and inviting, surrounded on three sides by sheer, moss-covered rocks. The clear water didn’t appear to be deep. She was hot. Unable to see the castle, she felt secure no one could see her. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d bathed in a lake or stream.
Glancing around nervously, she removed the belt and dress, setting them down on a small rock. The distant chirping and warbling of birds, newly hatched hungry nestlings, brought a smile to her face. She could hear no other sounds. The air here was still. The chemise quickly followed the dress, and she waded gingerly into the refreshing water, gasping as the chill assailed her body.
Not a strong swimmer, she waded, moving her arms to and fro, her breasts bobbing on the surface, nipples hardened from the initial shock of the cold water. A tingle snaked through her as she modestly cupped her breasts.
Before this day is out, I’ll be married. Rambaud will expect his rights as a husband. Will he be gentle? Will he want me to call him Ram? Will he like me? Everyone says he looks like his handsome brother, Antoine, who has been kind to me since I came here.
<
br /> The long night and early rising caught up with her, and she yawned.
I must make my way back. It will take a while for the sun to dry my skin.
She lay down in the grass, unpinning her hair to let it flow over her shoulders, easing her feeling of exposure. She spread the chemise over her body and gathered up a bunch of bluebells to clutch at her breast. The water had calmed her. With a smile on her face, she drifted off, dreaming of what it might be like to be kissed.
***
After riding at a steady pace for several hours, Ram was confident he would arrive home in plenty of time for the wedding, punctuality being one of the things he prided himself on. His muscles ached. He’d been riding with his body tense, preoccupied with the frustration of this unwanted marriage. The duty chafed. He had his immediate future planned, and this would interfere. He decided he’d take time to stop at his favourite lake to swim, not wanting his betrothed’s first impression of him to be the unpleasant odour of horse and rider after a two day ride.
As the castle came in sight, he signalled his men to go ahead and veered off to take the familiar path into the forest, slowing his horse, then stopping and dismounting a little way away from the lake. He tied his stallion to a nearby birch tree and propped his helmet on the pommel of the saddle. “Fortis, old friend, you’ll soon be back in your own stable, where you can have a rub down, some delicious hay and a well-deserved rest.”
He walked briskly towards the inviting water, unsheathing his sword, eagerly stripping off his boots, padded chausses, surcoat, hose, undershirt and braies. He tossed them into a pile, placed his sword carefully on top, then slipped soundlessly into the water. It was bracing, but felt good against his skin. He swam lazily for several minutes, then floated on his back looking up at the clear blue sky, listening to the sounds of chirping birds, inhaling the fragrant apple blossom.
I love this place. Maman used to bring us there when we were boys.
The mysteries and frustrations of Alensonne melted away, and he looked forward to his marriage. He’d never bedded a virgin. Considering the life she’d led, was Mabelle untouched?
Reluctantly deciding he’d better make his way home, he strode from the water and perched on a flat rock, rubbing his hands through his hair, waiting for the sun to dry his body. After a few minutes, he wandered over to his clothing and pulled on his linen braies. Catching sight of a mound of blue in the grass nearby, he wondered idly what it might be. He sauntered over, fiddling with the ties of his braies. He discovered a basket of freshly picked bluebells.
He smiled and crouched down to touch them, but then his brow creased as his warrior instinct warned of a possible threat, angry he’d let his guard down.
Merde! My sword is with my clothing.
He stood, listening, but then the smile returned to his face as the notion struck him only girls picked flowers. His spine tingled at the recollection of floating on his back, naked. Had a woman watched him?
Surely I would have sensed?
He crept forward and his mouth fell open when he caught sight of a scantily clad maiden, asleep, half-hidden by the long grass. She’d covered her body with a chemise, but her arms and legs had escaped its folds. He licked his lips at the sight of her glorious golden hair and white shoulders. One long arm lay outstretched at her side. The other was bent, hand tucked into the side of her face. The steady rise and fall of the bluebells covering her chest drew his eye. Her bare feet were slender. He could see only part of her thigh, but her legs were long. They’d fallen open, the chemise bunched between them. Were the curls of the triangle at the top the same golden colour? Rosy cheeks and open lips, curved into the trace of a smile, gave her the face of an angel at rest. His body responded fiercely and he inhaled sharply.
Was she a vision? He squeezed his eyes shut, then looked again. He took in a ragged breath. Her long, brown eyelashes fluttered at the slight sound. She rubbed her nose and stretched, arching her back and bending her knees. The chemise came tantalizingly close to slipping off her breasts.
Icy heat rushed through Ram’s body. He, the fearless Rambaud le Noir, felt something tighten in his chest. He’d never seen a more desirable woman. Crouched like a cat, he had an urge to spring up and pounce on her. Swallowing hard, he clenched his fists, struggling for the cool control that had made him a decorated cavalry commander. In the blink of an eye, a maelstrom of thoughts flew through his head.
He was to be married this afternoon. The clothing he now caught sight of indicated the woman was a servant. Having his way with her before going to the altar to meet his betrothed wouldn’t be suitable behaviour for a Montbryce. He intended to try to be faithful to his new wife, and though his lust for the vision argued fidelity could come after the vows were spoken, he knew he wouldn’t take advantage of this woman.
He wasn’t married yet, didn’t want to marry. This wasn’t the right time to be marrying. However, he wasn’t a ravisher of women. This stunning wench had aroused him, but he didn’t intend to take her against her will. His legs were starting to cramp. He should move away before she—
Her eyelashes fluttered again. At first she didn’t see him. Then she sat up, clutched the chemise to her body and exclaimed with a gasp, “Antoine! What are you doing here?”
The fruity huskiness of her voice startled him, and the taste and aroma of apple brandy suddenly filled his senses. He stood quickly, goosebumps marching up and down his spine, his mind whirling. She stared at him, eyes wide, mouth agape, obviously nervous, but not afraid.
She struggled to her feet, clasping her arms over her breasts, and glanced down, then back at him. He groaned inwardly when the long golden tresses fell forward across her shivering shoulders. The heat of embarrassment turn her body pink. He imagined her nipples hardening beneath the chemise she clutched against her. It made his already rigid arousal throb.
Striving to cover herself without revealing any more of her body, she looked vulnerable, in need of a champion. He wanted to be that man. No wonder his philandering brother was bedding this delectable woman—the devil. Thank goodness he’d donned his braies, but they weren’t adequate to conceal his arousal, and the wench’s gaze seemed fixated on his groin. His clothes were with his sword. He resisted the urge to move his hands to cover his erection and looking down would make matters worse.
He put his hand on his chest and shook his head. “I’m not Antoine. You’re waiting for my brother?” he rasped.
“Your brother? You’re—”
“I’m Rambaud de Montbryce. Who are you? I thought I knew all the servants. You must be new?”
“Ram?” she gasped.
He was on the point of remonstrating with a servant for using his given name, and the familiar form at that, but then she stammered, “I’m Mabelle.”
A cold chill swept over him. He was speechless for a moment then exclaimed, “Mabelle de Valtesse? My betrothed? What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing here, lying naked in the woods? Are you waiting for Antoine?”
Would my brother betray me thus?
The anger blazed in her eyes. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I wasn’t naked. I came to pick flowers. I bathed,” she cried. “I fell asleep, dreaming.”
“Dreaming of Antoine, no doubt,” he spat, not sure why anger had taken hold of him and why he wanted to hold on to such a preposterous idea.
“I dreamt of—”
“Clothe yourself, woman!” He turned his back to her. “You’re supposed to be a future Comtesse. I’ve said repeatedly your behavior would be suspect.
She struggled breathlessly to hide her nudity, then her voice broke into his confused thoughts. “And what, pray, are you doing here, almost naked, watching a girl you don’t know? You thought I was a whore. On your way to wed me, you intended to bed a whore.”
He wanted to turn back to her, to explain how her beauty had bewitched him, but his anger and confusion held him in its thrall. His state of undress and obvious arousal left him feeling vulnerab
le. It wasn’t a feeling Rambaud le Noir was used to. He was offended she thought so little of his honour. The word whore on her lovely lips sounded like an obscenity. It was a word a Comtesse would never utter. What’s more, it was unacceptable for a woman to argue with him. “You must learn to be more obedient, and not answer me back,” he spluttered.
“Obedient?”
She pushed him then with all her might as he crouched to conceal his arousal. Her strength took him off guard. He lost his balance, staggering into the water, falling full length with a great splash, cursing as he resurfaced.
Grabbing the rest of her clothes, she ran and stumbled over his sword. Her belongings fell to the ground as she picked up the long, heavy weapon with both hands, straining to hold it out in front of her as he advanced. He stopped a few yards away and raised his hand to calm her, unsure as to what she might have in mind for his beloved sword. His heart raced at the incredible sight of this desirable woman, the thin chemise clinging to the curves of her body, bluebells tangled in her hair.
He had to admire the way her heaving breasts thrust forward as she braced her feet, turned, and tightened her buttocks, gathering strength to heave the weapon. Through the thin fabric, he saw the outline of her bottom.
“Non! Arrête!” he yelled as she threw the blade as far as she could, into the water. She retrieved her clothing and fled. He watched her disappear into the forest, blonde hair flowing like a cloak behind her, wanting to pursue her but knowing he couldn’t leave Honneur where she lay.
“She’s stronger than she looks,” he said to the trees.
Swearing a silent curse, he turned back to the water and began searching the muddy bottom for his weapon, shaking his head.
This isn’t how I envisioned our first meeting.
Conquering Passion Page 4