“I asked you not to ride, Mabelle.”
She looked at the ground. “You did.”
“Yet here you are, wilfully disobeying me.”
She shrugged then looked right at him. “I am wilful, as you’ve often said. I’m not suited to be a comtesse. You should free me from our betrothal so I can seek another husband who will think my dowry is suitable.”
My father was right. She’s wily and knows her worth.
He strode towards her. She still looked nervous but obviously determined not to let it show. She raised her hand and tucked the errant strand behind her ear again, never averting her eyes from his. Her courage excited him. He wanted to touch her, to gather her up in his arms but that might alarm her. He put his hands on her shoulders and felt her shudder. Her lashes fluttered and she closed her eyes but didn’t pull away as he’d feared.
“Mabelle, you infuriate me, yet I find myself longing for your company, for the touch of your hand in mine. I want to know how your lips will feel as they open to me.” Her face reddened and the heat rolled through his own body. He could feel her trembling.
“Please don’t make fun of me, milord.”
“My name is Ram,” he breathed, pulling her body to his. Her spine went rigid. Her sensuous mouth enticed him. Would her lips be warm or cold? How would she taste?
“You rouse me, Mabelle. You are my betrothed, yet we’ve never kissed.”
He brushed his lips over hers. The moist warmth made his skin tingle. She moved her mouth away from his lips, but he held her against him, his arms now around her shoulders.
“Please don’t tease me—Ram.”
She seemed more afraid now than when she thought he was angry. He held her away from his body and rasped, “Are you wishing it was Antoine and not me kissing you?”
“Non,” she murmured, shaking her head, tears welling. “Why do you torment me with this?”
He kissed her again, more deeply, his tongue coaxing her to open to him. He sucked her lower lip, bit it gently, then darted his tongue once more over her lips, whispering, “Open your sweet mouth for me.”
The fight seemed to go out of her. She opened her mouth and twirled her tongue around his. A deep groan escaped her that reverberated through his body. His hand went to the back of her head and he raked his fingers along her scalp. She groaned again and then sucked his tongue into her mouth.
“Mabelle!” he rasped when he could breathe again, “You certainly know how to kiss a man.” As soon as the words were spoken he regretted them.
She stiffened. “Of course I do. Have you forgotten? I’m a whore.”
His grip on her shoulders tightened. “Don’t utter that word. You’re not a whore. I didn’t mean—aagh!—by the saints, Mabelle, why is it that when I’m with you—?”
He shook his head, and moved away from her. He paced, running his hand through his hair, unsuccessfully willing his arousal to abate. “I’m a decorated cavalry commander, a counselor to the Duke. One day I’ll be the Comte de Montbryce. I’ve faced many dangers, and yet I can’t say or do the right thing when I’m with you.”
She swayed and leaned against Sibell, her eyes closed. “It’s the same for me. I’ve survived all manner of trials and tribulations but you—make me—quiver. I’ve—never—I’ve never kissed a man before.”
His mind struggled to reconcile the idea he was the first to kiss her with what he suspected to be true—that she was no longer a maid. But, the taste of her had excited him. She looked vulnerable, leaning dejectedly against her horse. What had happened to the spirited woman he’d seen ride out from the castle? He liked the idea of the feisty Mabelle better. He wanted to reignite that flame.
He strode towards her, captured her mouth again and kissed her deeply, his hand at her throat, his thumb caressing her neck. He swirled his tongue around the inside of her mouth, feeling the warmth, the textures. Then she drew his tongue into her mouth, welcoming him. He felt her breasts rise and fall as her breathing became more rapid. His hand moved down slowly until he cupped her breast, lifting it, feeling the weight of it.
“I’ve wanted to hold your lovely breasts from the moment I first saw you,” he whispered. “You fill my hand.”
“Ram—” she breathed, as his thumb and forefinger fondled her nipple through the fabric and he felt it harden. Were her nipples pale or dark, their haloes large or small? He shook his head and gently pushed her body away from his. He would soon lose control of his arousal.
“Mabelle, I want to possess you, but not here, not like this. I’m an honourable man. When our bodies join, it will be in our marriage bed. The wait will be purgatory, but it’ll be worth it.”
It’s a purgatory I’ve brought on myself. We could have been married by now.
“If Harold of England hadn’t stolen our Duke’s throne, things would have been much simpler. Duke William will be here within a sennight to discuss the coming invasion of England. I must stop touching you, or my proud words will be for nothing, and I’ll take you right here. I’m close to the point of no return. You inflame me.”
She gasped and swayed slightly, her mouth, swollen with his kisses, still open. She looked dazed.
Sibell ambled over and nudged Ram.
“She likes you,” Mabelle whispered.
“I like her too,” he smiled, “and I know you love her.”
It would be a simple thing to grant her this happiness.
“I’ll allow you to ride her—provided you never ride alone.”
At first she seemed upset, but then murmured, “Astride?”
He hesitated. “If you wish.”
She kissed his palm, held it to her face and smiled at him. “Merci, Ram. That means so much to me.”
Waves of heat radiated up and down his spine. “Perhaps sometimes you and I can ride together.”
Have I ever ridden with a woman?
“I would enjoy that, Ram. Sibell will love it. She likes Fortis.”
For the first time since he’d met her, Mabelle’s face blossomed into a smile. She was beautiful. He wanted that smile bestowed on him every day of his life. Something tightened in his chest and he coughed to conceal the tumult that had coursed from his heart, down through his belly and into his groin. “This talk of riding is—stimulating, Mabelle. We should go back.”
They rode back in silence as far as the meadow, where Ram reined in his horse. “I lost my temper concerning Alensonne. I wasn’t thinking about how important it is to you, to your childhood. This castle, my home, means everything to me. I should have understood.”
“Merci, Ram. I’m sometimes impatient. I didn’t mean to question your decisions.”
“I want us to be friends, Mabelle.” He reached over and tucked the curl, his finger lightly touching the edge of her ear. It sent another jolt of desire through him.
“We can be friends—if there’s trust,” she replied, then urged Sibell to a gallop. He sat atop Fortis, watching her disappear into the bailey, shaking his head, wishing it was him she rode.
Mabelle trembled from head to foot when she arrived in the bailey. She could barely dismount and had to lean her head against Sibell while she regained her balance. The feelings Ram’s touch had aroused in her were so intense she was afraid she might swoon.
If he hadn’t been honourable, if he’d wanted to make love to her in the woods, would she have given herself to him? She was inexplicably drawn to him, but what made her giddy was the notion he wanted her.
As she’d grown to womanhood, she’d seen men lust for her. She knew the signals and had learned to be wary of them. Ram’s every gesture had spoken of desire and when his thick, glossy hair sprang free from the thong and fell to his shoulders, she was lost.
The heat of his hands on her had travelled down to her toes. She’d never been kissed, and the intimacy of Ram’s tongue shocked her. But she’d suddenly understood what kissing was all about as the ache grew between her legs, and her own tongue became a thing beyond control. She wanted to s
uck him right into her mouth, to join their bodies in some way. He tasted of apple brandy, the unique scent of his maleness on the stubble of his morning beard, excitingly rough against her face.
What came over me?
When he’d withdrawn and forced her body away from his, she’d felt bereft, cold. It wasn’t lost on her that this proud man had been willing to concede to her wishes concerning her horse and her childhood home. But William was to arrive soon, and above all, Ram was a warrior, sworn to his Duke.
She looked up and watched him ride in. Sweat beaded along her upper lip and she breathed heavily as chills chased down her spine. He’d looked at her as if he wanted to eat her. The touch of his hand cupping her breast, the playful squeeze of her nipple—when our bodies join—dizziness overwhelmed her again at the persistent memory, still tugging deep in her belly.
He desires me. Me, the unsuitable comtesse!
CHAPTER TEN
“Everyone in this castle is in a state of nervous apprehension,” Ram exclaimed to his brothers with exasperation, watching the flurry of activity in the Great Hall. “Just because Duke William is coming to pay an official visit. He’s been here before.”
“But never on an official visit and never at such a turbulent time in Normandie’s history,” Hugh retorted.
Antoine put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Worry not, Ram. La Cuisinière is in full command, bellowing orders to the scullery maids and serving wenches, making sure everything is in preparation for the finest meals ever concocted in her kitchen.
Madame Bonhomme has an army of maids and houseboys cleaning every last nook and cranny. Chambers are being swept, rugs and tapestries beaten, draperies and bedding aired, cobblestones scoured.
Fernand is making sure the stables are spotless, the horses immaculately groomed, the men-at-arms properly uniformed and equipped, new enseignes run up the flagpoles and overseeing everything else about the preparations. He even has boys up in the oak beams of this great hall, sweeping out the cobwebs.” He took a deep breath, pointing to the urchins perched precariously above them.
Antoine was right and Ram had been pleasantly surprised at the way Mabelle assisted in any way she could. She seemed to enjoy the work and was friendly to everyone, though she still maintained aloofness towards him.
He dragged his thoughts back to the business at hand. “William is coming to speak to us specifically about the future. He’ll no doubt be commanding us to accompany him to England for the invasion to oust Harold. Father has pledged all of us to his service.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Ram,” Hugh replied, helping himself to a tankard of ale from the servery. “But I expect it’s you he wants as his right hand man during the invasion. Your rewards could be rich.”
“Whatever honour and rewards we earn are for the advancement and glory of the Montbryce name,” Ram replied, aware Hugh’s observations were probably correct.
I must get Mabelle off my mind and concentrate on what’s important.
The sun was high in the sky when William, proud descendant of the Viking Rollo, first ruler of the Normans, rode to within sight of the castle Montbryce at the head of an impressive force of one thousand well-armed men. Sixth Duke of the Normans, he had held that title since the age of seven. In the stiff breeze, the deafening noise of the green and gold gonfanons, emblazoned with the Papal cross, was music to his ears. His square face, furrowed brow and determined jaw bespoke a man on a mission.
The steeds of the mounted knights behind William snorted and pranced. The spears and shields of the infantry clattered. The archers moved as one, longbows over their shoulders, newly fletched arrows rattling in their quivers. He knew it was an awesome sight and the leonine features of his face showed it.
He left the bulk of his troops to pitch camp in the freshly scythed meadows, knights under canvas, men-at-arms out in the open. Riding majestically into the bailey with a handful of knights and servants, he was greeted by all the men of the Montbryce family down on one knee, and the women of the castle in deep curtseys, their wimpled heads bowed.
“Not bad for the bastard son of a Duke and a tanner’s daughter,” he chuckled as he dismounted. “And Ram’s betrothed. What a beauty! Why hasn’t he married her yet?”
He’d been gladdened by the news of their betrothal. It would bring a great deal of strategic land in both Normandie and Le Maine under Montbryce control.
“Non, rise, Comte Bernard de Montbryce. Your family has served me, and Normandie, well. You need not bend the knee to me. Let’s enter and enjoy your hospitality and discuss how we’ll teach Harold a lesson he won’t soon forget.”
“Please, your Grace, enter,” replied Comte Bernard, rising stiffly with Hugh’s help. “You do us great honour. Ram will show you to the chambers we’ve prepared for you. I trust they’ll meet with your approval.”
Later, when the Duke’s trunks had been taken to his chambers and his servants had bathed and dressed him, he descended the stone steps in the company of his senior knights to the Great Hall. A feast was served that he suspected was more sumptuous than any other meal eaten there before.
The immaculately groomed servers were resplendent in their green tabards with the Montbryce crest. The mutton meatballs were excellent and the roast chicken glazed with eggs delectable. So many multicoloured boars’ heads made an appearance, the iron pans in which they reposed held aloft by brawny lads, William wondered if there could be any boar left in the Montbryce forests. La Cuisinière’s signature dish of rainbow trout was the pièce de resistance, and everyone sighed as the succulent juices of the golden baked apple flesh of the pommes d’orées dripped from their mouths.
The famous Montbryce apple brandy was a favourite of William’s and he savoured it as he watched Ram and Mabelle. Leaning over to his trusted commander, he jested, “Ram, mon ami, I’m heartily pleased for you that your upcoming nuptials have been welcomed, a far cry from the torment my own marriage to my tiny wife Matilda caused.”
“Merci, your Grace,” Ram responded.
The Duke had regaled Ram many times with the story but appreciated his friend would humour him as he retold it.
“I wanted the union because, with a princess of Flanders as my wife, I would have the Flemish as my allies. She at first refused me, saying she would rather become a nun than marry a bastard? Hah!”
He took a sip of apple brandy before continuing. “However, once I went swiftly to her side, I rapidly convinced her to change her mind.” He winked knowingly. “But—Pope Leo was enraged by the marriage and excommunicated us both, as well as the whole of Normandie, when I refused to annul it.”
Ram interjected, “I recall it took the persuasive powers of our staunch friend and ally Lanfranc, the prior of Bec, to convince a new Pope that returning Matilda to her father, Comte Baduin of Flandres, would be seen as a gross insult, and Nicolas relented.”
William chuckled. “Oui, but it cost me a pretty penny because the Pope insisted I build a monastery and a nunnery in return, which I built in Caen, not to mention the hospitals I had to construct. That reminds me, I’ll have to repay Lanfranc in some way once I get rid of the scheming King Harold in England. Perhaps Archbishop of Canterbury might suit our friend?”
William enjoyed the feasting and suspected he would eat no such fare in England. He so relished the food, he sent his compliments to the kitchen, particularly regarding the trout dish.
Watching Ram and Mabelle, he saw the fire in their eyes when they looked at each other. Did they recognize they were in love? He regretted the coming war would mean separation for them but was gladdened his friend Ram had found his perfect mate, even if he didn’t know it yet.
“Why haven’t you married her yet, Ram? I thought the nuptials were—”
His question was interrupted by the voice of Comte Bernard. “Your Grace, on behalf of our family, my eldest son will propose the toast.”
Ram stood, goblet in hand. “Your Grace,” he began, “You have done us a great honour b
y visiting our humble castle. You are the pride of Normandie and we salute you. We wish God’s blessings on your voyage to fight the Saxons in England, where you will take your rightful place as the King. Every Montbryce knight will do what he can to further your cause.”
He turned to the assembly and raised his goblet. “Fellow knights of Montbryce, rise and join me in a toast to our beloved Duc de Normandie, soon to be William the Conqueror.”
“Duke William the Conqueror.” The toast echoed around the huge room, followed by a resounding cheer and loud banging of tankards and goblets on tables.
The Duke stood to reply. “Thank you, Ram. It’s only because of families such as yours that Normandie is a great power. With your family’s help, though we’re his vassals, we drove out Henry the King of France when he dared to invade our borders.”
With a wave of his hand William indicated Comte Bernard. “Your father distinguished himself at the great victory which decimated our enemies at Mortemer, and though you were a mere lad at the battle of Varaville, you both helped us soundly defeat the Angevin dogs. We will similarly punish these puny sons of Danes, who have usurped the throne promised to me by my cousin. Our legacy wherever we conquer will last forever. You have pledged many knights and your brothers to our campaign and they will cover themselves with honour and glory.”
Applause and cheering broke out.
“However—” William raised his hand, and the cheering stopped, as he’d known it would, and he paused to make sure his words had the desired effect. “However, there is one Montbryce for whom I have a special honour and responsibility.”
A hush fell over the large hall. William loved theatrics and knew how desperately Ram wanted to accompany him on his campaign. He was aware of the pride his courageous and capable friend took in being his counsellor.
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