Conquering Passion

by Anna Markland

  ***

  Frantic, angry and breathless, Mabelle paused, listening. How far had she run in her panic? There were no sounds of pursuit. She gasped when she looked down at her chemise. She threw on the dress, hands fumbling with her belt, fervent prayers falling from her lips, mind racing. She wound the wimple round her head and tossed the ends over her shoulders.

  She’d known as soon as she’d uttered Antoine’s name she was mistaken. The strapping athlete before her was older and taller than Antoine. Antoine’s eyes were green, not ice blue like the ones burning into her.

  Dread and embarrassment had crept up her spine as she’d felt her face redden. She groaned as she remembered how she’d stared open-mouthed at the broad-shouldered, black-haired giant who’d leapt to his feet to stand before her, like a purebred stallion. He wasn’t naked, but he might as well have been.

  This was Ram. This ruggedly handsome knight was her future husband. The reality seemed to hold far more promise than she could have hoped for. She’d done nothing wrong. She could have explained, but he hadn’t given her a chance.

  His angry voice had rumbled over her like thunder, raising the hair on her nape. She’d never felt the least frisson when approached by men before, yet had quivered like a wanton in his presence. The storm of desire had swept over her, and for the first time in her life, she knew what it was to want a man. But then lightning had struck, and she’d known in a blinding moment of clarity that this proud, arrogant male she’d angered and embarrassed was her betrothed. She wanted to weep when she thought how furious he would be about his sword.

  What an astounding sight he was, water dripping from his hair, running in rivulets down his broad chest, wet braies moulded to his very male body, his eyes burning with disbelief as she threw the weapon.

  No wonder they call him Rambaud le Noir. But he thought I had a tryst with Antoine.

  She cursed aloud and made the Sign of the Cross. “It’s a spell I’ve brought on by picking the Fairies’ Thimbles. God save me!”

  She made for the wall, half running, half walking, biting her nails.

  “Milady, we’ve been looking everywhere for you. Are you ill?” asked Madame Bonhomme, eyeing the peasant garb when she saw Mabelle stumble into the bailey.

  “Non,” she gasped. “I’m well. All is well. I fell asleep in the meadow, and now I’m late. I’ll go to dress—for the ceremony.”

  She felt the eyes of the steward’s wife on her back as she walked away unsteadily.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mabelle’s head was full of thoughts of her betrothed when she came at last to her chamber, where the sound of an excited voice startled her.

  “Enfin,” cried her maid, Giselle. “Finally, you’re here, milady.”

  Despite the frenzied preparations for the celebration, curious eyes had followed her from the bailey and she’d hoped to find a moment of quiet in the sanctuary of her chamber.

  “It’s not to be,” she sighed, trying to calm her breathing.

  The maid immediately got busy undressing Mabelle, who could see in Giselle’s eyes a hint of disdain for the peasant clothing.

  “I’m proud to have been chosen as your personal maid. I’m a widow, milady. My husband died many years ago in a skirmish, fighting for the Duke.”

  Mabelle nodded, only half listening, grateful the maid had said nothing about her attire or her tardy arrival. Once undressed, she leapt into the wooden tub, which had been filled earlier by the servants.

  Giselle dipped her fingers in the water. “I was worried. Your bath water is cooling.”

  This diminutive woman, her red hair flecked with grey, was respected by the whole household. It would be wise not to alarm her.

  “I’ve two grown sons, milady. People say I talk about them too much, but they are soldiers in the Duke’s service, and I rarely see them. Let me help you. You’ve got weeds in your hair.”

  Soon the scented water and Giselle’s soft chattering about her sons and their exploits calmed Mabelle and one certainty emerged from her jumbled thoughts. No one must ever find out what had happened by the lake. She would keep the truth hidden and was confidant Ram would too. Yet, her agitated heart was in turmoil. They might never have trust, or friendship, between them. Anger, something she’d lived with for too long, wasn’t a good beginning. Ram wanted obedience. She craved love and acceptance.

  Giselle helped her from the tub, grasped the drying cloth with her tiny hands, and dried her new mistress briskly and efficiently. The little maid was spry, despite her thickening waistline.

  The seamstress arrived to help Mabelle into the wedding gown. The sleeves of the fitted white undertunic were made too long, so they could be pushed up, to give a wrinkled effect, which was prettily revealed by the shorter sleeves of the dress itself. The hem, the edges of the shorter sleeves and the neckline, were embroidered with ornamental bands of blue flowers. A blue embroidered silk girdle hugged her above the hips falling in a V to her mons. Fastened with a thin golden thread, the beautiful satin gown emphasised her curves.

  “Milord Rambaud is a lucky man,” Giselle whispered with a smile.

  Once the gown was fitted, Giselle combed the tangles from Mabelle’s long hair, and Bette pinned the finely wrought opaque veil on her mistress’s head, drawing it over her face. The veil cascaded to the floor behind her. Satin slippers were placed upon her slender feet. She felt beautiful and giddy.

  “What’s milord Rambaud like?” she asked Giselle nervously, aware the woman had watched Ram grow up in the castle. She’d been a loyal servant to the Montbryce family for many years, having served Ram’s mother until her death.

  “Ah, milady, those blue eyes.” Then she giggled. “Just like my own boys.”

  Mabelle took another big gulp from the goblet of dark red wine Giselle had brought to steady her nerves. She remembered the anger she’d seen in those blue eyes.

  ***

  It had taken Ram several frustrating minutes of diving and resurfacing to find his treasured sword. Its weight and the distance his betrothed had managed to throw it had embedded it into the muddy bottom of the lake. He didn’t want to step on the sharp blade. Cursing when he found it, he carried it to shore and dressed hurriedly, his hands fumbling with the points as he tried to reattach his hose to his wet braies. Running to his horse, he shoved his helmet back on his wet hair, mounted and rode at a gallop to the castle, his mind preoccupied with the vision of the angry beauty throwing the sword.

  “Milord,” shouted the stable boy, as Ram careened over the stone bridge and into the bailey. The boy reached for the reins, grabbing the sword as Ram thrust the hilt at him.

  “Dry my sword at once. I don’t want it to rust. Then lay on the oiled leather—not too much.”

  “Oui, milord,” the boy replied. The boy’s expression betrayed his curiosity as to how the magnificent sword had become wet and muddied.

  Ram took the steps to his chamber two at a time. The vision he’d stumbled upon filled his head. He’d lost his temper, angered by her mention of Antoine’s name and his own embarrassment. She wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d envisioned a waif, a stray. His future wife was a woman of incredible beauty and perhaps deep passion. He had indeed been bewitched, more or less accusing her of being a whore. No wonder she’d been angry. But she would have to learn obedience. That was just the way of it. He didn’t want a wife who would stare back at him defiantly, did he? A woman brave enough to shove him into the water? Perhaps this whole thing was a big mistake.

  His valet had laid out his clothing. He arched his brows when Ram stripped off his wet braies and jumped into the bath Vaillon had prepared. He scrubbed his body quickly, then vaulted out and dried himself vigorously. He hoped the rubbing would help dry his hair. When he was ready to be dressed, Vaillon picked up the wet braies and looked at him curiously.

  “Milord?”

  “I went for a swim,” he mumbled.

  Soon, clad in pale hose with a long black doublet edged with gold worn
over his cream linen shirt, he thought he looked presentable. Vaillon laced up his good black leather boots.

  “Hmm—” Ram mused, running his hand over the crest embroidered on the doublet. His finger traced the Latin motto. “Fide et Virtute. It’s a good motto. Fidelity and Valour. I hope I’ll do nothing to dishonour it today.”

  Vaillon adjusted a short black cloak around Ram’s shoulders, fastened it at his neck, and drew a wooden comb through his black hair. He brushed off Ram’s shoulders and then stepped back. After his inspection, he announced his satisfaction with his Lord’s appearance.

  But Ram had made a decision. There were too many things bothering him about this arrangement. He would need to speak to his father.

  The breathless stable boy came with his refurbished sword. Ram had just sheathed the weapon when a soft tap at the door heralded Hugh and his father.

  “All is in readiness, my son. You should be at the door of the chapel before your betrothed arrives. I haven’t had a chance to speak to you until now. I hope you’ll be as happy as your mother and I were together. Mabelle has had a difficult life but I’m confident you can erase the memory of those years for her. Come.”

  They embraced. Ram marvelled his father would share anything intimate concerning his relationship with his dead mother, saddened by the knowledge of how much his father missed her. He’d never heard such words from his sire, and wondered how Mabelle had managed to reach his father’s heart.

  Hugh clasped his hand and smiled as he gave him a brief embrace. “This is it, brother. No turning back now.”

  “About that, mon père—a word please. Hugh, find Antoine.”

  “But he’s waiting for you at the door of the chapel.”

  “Find Antoine and bring him here.”

  ***

  Mabelle’s heart beat wildly. Her face was flushed. She felt lovely in her wedding finery. She hoped it would impress her betrothed and make up for—

  Don’t bite your nails.

  Her father’s unmistakable gruff, impatient voice echoed off the stone walls as he hurried his daughter and her attendants to their place by the chapel door.

  There was no turning back now, though she’d been tempted to call the whole thing off, convinced discord was not a good beginning. She was to be married to an arrogant man she’d angered, a man who’d aroused feelings in her she’d never known before, a beautiful man.

  Her breath caught in her dry throat as she rounded the corner. Her eyes fell on the unexpected sight of the Comte de Montbryce standing stony-faced, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his three sons behind him.

  Perhaps they’re upset because I’m tardy?

  Antoine’s face showed his anger as he chewed his bottom lip. Hugh was scratching his head, studying his feet.

  Ram looked stunning in his black doublet and cape, but his expression was unreadable. His legs were braced, shoulders squared, ready for action, eyes fixed on Guillaume de Valtesse. She heard her father swear loudly as he reached for his sword.

  She didn’t hear exactly what Comte Bernard said, didn’t need to. The only sounds that came to her ears were the thin metallic wail of swords drawn from scabbards, and her own anguished cry, “Non, Papa! Don’t kill him, please don’t kill him.”

  Then she fainted.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Comte Bernard de Montbryce felt older than his years. He was angered by his eldest son’s unexpected behaviour. The usually decisive Ram seemed confused. He felt in his heart Mabelle was the right woman for Ram, and sensed that, despite his son’s protestations about the marriage, he’d been drawn to Mabelle de Valtesse in the few moments of their first meeting outside the chapel. Ram had been adamant he be the one to carry the girl to her chamber. He’d rushed to catch her before her limp body crumpled to the hard tiled floor.

  However, Comte Bernard had just left a confrontational meeting between himself, his son and a livid Guillaume de Valtesse.

  “You’ve shamed my daughter, Rambaud de Montbryce,” Valtesse screamed, so close to Ram his spittle sprayed across the younger man’s face. “I’ve killed men for less. Jilted at the chapel door. I’ll have to send her to a nunnery.”

  Ram wiped his face, obviously trying to keep his anger in check. “I haven’t jilted her. I’m requesting a postponement, a time for us to prepare for this momentous step. I’ll soon be going off to war and it isn’t fair—”

  Guillaume threw his hands in the air. “Rubbish! Many women will be sending their men off to fight for the Duke.”

  Ram ran his hand through his hair, the other still on the hilt of his sword. “But, Mabelle and I only met today.”

  Guillaume made a derisive sound. “Many noblemen meet their wives for the first time at the chapel door.”

  Ram took his hand off his sword and opened his hands in a gesture of conciliation. “I need more time. Will you not grant that?”

  “Non, the betrothal will be cancelled and she must go to a nunnery.” Guillaume strode off towards the door.

  Ram’s father felt he had to intervene if a solution was to be found. Ram tensed when the nunnery was mentioned. Bernard de Montbryce looked at his heir as he spoke. “My dear Valtesse, we all, including my son, are aware this marriage will benefit the Montbryces, the Valtesses and Normandie. Does it matter if it takes place now or in the future, as long as it takes place? We’re on the brink of war. Ram is one of the Duke’s closest counsellors. He’s perhaps right that he shouldn’t be distracted at this juncture by a new bride. It wouldn’t be fair to Mabelle, or to our Duke. And if you send her to a nunnery, the Church will inherit your lands.”

  This last ploy seemed to resonate with Valtesse. After pacing for several minutes, he agreed to a postponement. “I’ll take Mabelle with me to Alensonne.”

  “Non, she’ll stay here.”

  Ram’s vehement refusal took his father by surprise, and he was afraid Valtesse would lose his temper again, but his failure to continue the argument seemed to indicate the Seigneur didn’t want to be burdened with his daughter.

  Ram sensed the nobleman’s capitulation. “We can’t come to know each other if she’s in Alensonne. She’ll be chaperoned here. She won’t be shamed. I’ll oversee what she does and whom she sees.”

  Before Guillaume could object, Ram turned and strode out of the chamber, torn by a torrent of conflicting emotions. When Mabelle had come into view outside the chapel, he’d wanted to take back everything he’d told his father concerning the necessity of a postponement. He wasn’t sure in his own mind why he’d asked for such a thing. He remembered how the expression of nervous anticipation on her beautiful face had turned to one of utter dismay. His gut clenched. He’d torn his gaze away from her face to concentrate on her volatile father.

  When Guillaume had drawn his sword, Ram’s brothers had responded, which was just as well because he’d rushed forward to catch Mabelle when she fainted. Gathering her up into his arms, he’d wanted to beg her forgiveness. Glaring at him as if he had two heads, Giselle had picked up the trailing veil and unfastened it from Mabelle’s hair. Her tresses had fallen free, prompting a desire to run his hands through the golden curls. His betrothed had felt light in his arms, her head nestled against his chest, yet his heart was heavy. What he’d done would turn her against him. He wanted her as he’d never wanted a woman, but he pushed the ache aside. Glory and honour beckoned.

  ***

  Mabelle preferred to be in a stupor. Then there were no tears. When she was awake, they came unbidden and she couldn’t cease sobbing, despite Giselle’s best efforts to console her. For two days she couldn’t speak of her humiliation. Then she could only stammer, “He—he—does—doesn’t want me, Giselle.”

  Giselle sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her mistress’s hair. “He’s conflicted, milady, he’s young. Young men don’t like to rush into marriage.”

  Mabelle shook her head. “He—he doesn’t—want me.”

  Giselle sighed. “Milord Rambaud isn’t a cruel man. It’s a po
stponement.”

  Mabelle blew her nose. “He—does—not—want—me.”

  “Soon there’ll be war with Harold of England. Milord Rambaud must concentrate on his duty to his Duke.”

  “But—he doesn’t want me. He doesn’t like me.” A fit of hiccups followed this outburst.

  Giselle continued to stroke her lady’s hair. “Non, that’s not true milady. He’s come several times a day to ask about you. He carried you here when you fainted. I’ve known milord since he was a boy. He cares for you.”

  Mabelle lay back against the bolster. “He abandoned me at the chapel door. I wish my father had killed him.”

  “Hush, milady. You know that’s not true. You must eat something. That will improve your spirits.”

  Mabelle shook her head. “I can’t eat. I’ll be sick.”

  Giselle rose and went to fetch a goblet. “Drink then, a sip of ale.”

  After another day, Mabelle grudgingly accepted broth, but refused to leave her bed. In the years with her father she’d never known such humiliation. She’d allowed herself to hope, to have feelings, and Ram de Montbryce had ground her into the dirt. She’d disgusted him. He would never feel anything for her, and yet she still desired him, couldn’t get the picture of him at the lake out of her head.

  How can I marry him now? Twice he has betrayed me.

  Eventually, Giselle coaxed her into a soothing bath. She felt better with her hair washed, but when the maid searched through her garments for a suitable dress, and Mabelle espied the wedding gown, she said loudly, “I never want to see it again.”

  Giselle took the garment with her and left the chamber, bumping into Ram. His arms were folded across his chest, a frown creased his brow. She bundled the dress more tightly to her body in an effort to conceal what she was carrying.

  He fingered the material. “Don’t worry, Giselle. I understand her hatred of the gown.”

  “You heard, milord?”

  “Oui.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I didn’t think she’d be this upset.”