Oh yes. She definitely feels the passion.
“Mabelle,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful.”
“Milord Ram,” she faltered. “Milord, you are—oh what a beautiful weapon!” she giggled, pointing to his sword, a naughty grin on her face. “Is it a family heirloom?”
The Bishop looked at her curiously. Ram suppressed a chuckle at the look of confused perplexity on the cleric’s face. L’évêque wasn’t a man who usually showed any emotion. Ram doubted the Bishop had ever known a new bride openly admire her husband’s weapon. He bent to whisper in her ear. “Oui, Mabelle, my weapon is a family treasure,” he replied with a smile. “It’s always ready to be of service.”
She reddened and averted her eyes.
None of the guests had heard the exchange. Ram and Mabelle signed the book of records and walked out of the chapel to the Great Hall. Ram gripped her hand, momentarily nervous she might loudly denounce him. Or perhaps he should accuse her, cast her off? But that would mean never experiencing the fulfillment of the passion she aroused in him. No, the die was cast. These were the confused ravings of a newly married man.
Hugh embraced him and took Mabelle’s hand in his, bowing slightly to her as he bestowed a kiss upon it. “Welcome to our family, Mabelle. I’m confident you’ll make Ram very happy.”
“Patience, dear sister. You will need lots of patience,” Antoine teased.
His remark warmed Mabelle’s heart. She’d never had a brother who cared.
Her father shook Ram’s hand vigorously, and then gave his daughter a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
“I depart for Alensonne on the morrow,” he informed her.
Soon the invited guests were pressing around, congratulating the newlywed couple. Ram and Mabelle became separated.
She lost track of him, until she saw him a while later, beckoning to her from the dais, a hint of uncertainty in his blue eyes. She had to admit grudgingly she was happy to find him again, having felt strangely bereft without him at her side. A jolt had passed through her when their fingers had touched at the beginning of the ceremony. Determined not to look up, she’d stolen a glance at him and felt her throat go dry. During the long nuptial ritual she’d lapsed into a daydream. A tall, dark, naked man rose from the shimmering depths of a pool to possess her, his manhood erect—
“Arrête! ” she chided herself then, opening her eyes, trying to get back a sense of what was next in the sacred ceremony, not sure of how long she’d been distracted.
She breathed a sigh of relief when Ram spoke his vows. She wouldn’t need the dagger concealed in the sleeve of her gown, ready to thrust into him if he betrayed her again.
She’d felt his hand twitch and close tightly around hers when she spoke. By the time the rest of the ceremony was over, the vows completed and the ring blessed and placed by Ram’s large, firm hand on her trembling finger, she was worried that when he lifted her veil, she would be withered by his look of mistrust.
Was that indeed what she saw as his smile turned to a frown? When he kissed her, she tried not to respond, but the wanton, aching feelings returned. She couldn’t help herself when he darted his tongue into her mouth. Then the courage which had helped her survive for many years came to her rescue, bolstered by the wine she’d drunk rather rapidly a short time before, and she made the remark about his weapon, shocking the bishop.
This man had accused her of inappropriate behaviour, and yet, on his way to his own wedding, he’d hidden in the woods, watching a scantily clad maiden. That she’d felt aroused by him was immaterial. It was a betrayal. Then he’d abandoned her at the chapel door. He’d called her his talisman—but could he be trusted? She steeled her emotions as he approached her.
“The servants are ready to serve the feast, milady. Please come and take your place by my side.” She allowed him to lead her to the head table, saying nothing. The touch of his hand made her incapable of speech. This would never do. She would need to be wary.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The festivities began. The servants brought out massive plates of food from the kitchens. Two liveried serving lads appeared, carrying on their shoulders a large iron pan with the traditional boar’s head. There was crusty fresh bread. La Cuisinière had spared no effort to provide a sumptuous spread for the wedding of their Comte.
A large serving dish of roasted chicken was placed between the newly-weds on the head table, a symbolic shared first meal. Ram broke off a piece and offered it to her. She accepted with a nod, eyelashes fluttering, and bit into it, the succulent juices dripping on to her trencher. She licked her lips and fingers, savouring it.
“I’ve eaten nothing all day,” she whispered.
Ram was aroused and pressed his thigh against hers. He wished it was his fingers she licked. She seemed to sense his arousal as she stole a blushing glance at the tight bulge in his hose. He wondered how he would get through the next few hours of food, wine, ale, ribaldry, jongleurs, toasts and speeches without ripping the clothes from her body and making love to her on the tables.
It was a heady thought he’d married a passionate woman. He could stir her with his kisses, his touches. But she harboured resentments, and it sobered him. He had some grovelling to do, but she too had things to explain.
There was a sudden flurry of activity. Antoine and Hugh were up on their feet, indicating to the diners in the hall something was about to happen. People were being ushered into lines.
“What is it, Ram?” Mabelle asked nervously.
“We’re going to have a ceremony,” he replied, rising from his seat.
She frowned. “Ceremony? We just—”
“Allegiance. Everyone will swear their allegiance to me, as their new Comte. And to you.”
“To me?”
Ram turned to her. “Mabelle, you’re now the Comtesse de Montbryce. I would expect my people to honour and respect and serve you. They’re your people now.”
It’s the first time he has acknowledged I can be a good Comtesse.
She quickly wiped her greasy hands and lips with a napkin. Vaillon came forward to refasten the short cloak Ram had shed during the meal. Her husband took her hand and led her to stand at the front of the dais. He drew his sword, braced his legs, pushed the cloak further back on his shoulders and took up a stance with his sword pointing down, his left hand on the hilt.
He looked at his wife. “Place your right hand on top of mine.”
She obeyed, her knees turning to water. He put his right hand on top of hers. His hands were warm, and soon those hands—
Ram gestured to Antoine. “Begin.”
Antoine came first, followed by Hugh. Each brother bent the knee, placed his hand atop Ram’s, and pledged, “In the name of our Lord, and in the presence of all gathered here, I acknowledge that you, Rambaud de Montbryce, are my Comte, and my liege lord, and I am your loyal man, and I acknowledge that you, Mabelle de Montbryce, are my Comtesse, and I am your loyal man.”
The knights and men-at-arms followed suit. When all had pledged themselves, Ram turned to Mabelle and declared in a loud and authoritative voice, “I’ll accept your pledge now, Comtesse.”
Something inside her rebelled at the notion. Ram wanted to use the occasion to demonstrate his dominance. But what choice did she have? Kneeling before him, she placed both hands on his, looked into his eyes, and made her pledge, hoping her voice didn’t betray her nervousness. “In the name of the Lord, and in the presence of all here gathered, I acknowledge that you, Rambaud de Montbryce, are my Comte and my liege lord, and I am your loyal woman.”
I am your woman!
The words echoed in her head, and her mouth went dry. She was this man’s woman. This baron she barely knew was her future, her forever. Ram bowed to her slightly, and she saw a smile tug at the edges of his mouth. He took her hand and helped her to rise, and she silently thanked God for the strength she felt in his grip. She assumed he would lead her back to her place, having established his superior position.
Instead, he handed her the sword, placed her hands on the hilt, covered them with his own, and knelt on one knee before her. Staring at her intently, he gave his oath. “I, Comte Rambaud de Montbryce, in the name of the Lord, and in the presence of all here gathered, acknowledge that you, Mabelle de Montbryce, and de Valtesse, and d’Alensonne, and de Domfort and de Belisle, are my Comtesse, and I am your loyal man.”
The room filled with loud cheering as everyone resumed their places, and the feasting recommenced. Ram rose, took Mabelle’s hand and returned her to her place, never taking his eyes from hers.
Her tears had started as soon as he knelt before her. She knew what that gesture cost him. Perhaps there was more to this man? He reached over as he took his own seat and, with a smile, wiped away her tears with his thumb.
Hours later, taking her hand, he whispered, “It will soon be time for the bedding ceremony, Mabelle. I’ve tried, throughout this interminable evening, not to recall the vision of you lying in the grass, your legs half open—inviting.” He pressed his thigh against hers again. She felt her nipples tingle and a warmth flood between her legs. Feverish heat washed over her.
I must be ailing for something?
They listened to the toasts given by Antoine, then by her father, who, to her embarrassment, rambled on about traitors and rights and redemption. Then Ram raised his goblet and toasted his bride. “I drink to the health of my beautiful wife, Mabelle de Montbryce. I’m confidant she’ll be a good and willing wife.”
He winked at her, and she thought he’d probably drunk too much wine.
Such arrogance! Good and willing? We’re back to that.
She rose to her feet to return the toast, hoping her trembling legs would hold her up. She too had imbibed more of the excellent wine, not to mention a sip of the fine apple brandy brought from the cellars. She felt somewhat unsteady. She was also nervous about the journey they would undertake on the morrow to England, having never sailed before.
“I thank you, mon seigneur, and I drink to your health also.” She sat down but not until she’d winked at him, or at least tried to. Winking didn’t seem to be a skill she possessed at that moment.
He looks disappointed. Good!
She’d heard gossip in many castles about bedding ceremonies, but had never attended one, being an unmarried woman. They could be affairs bordering on mass hysteria, where the bride and groom were both stripped naked and forced to copulate in front of the whole assembly. Bloodied sheets were then hoisted from the flagpole.
Or, they might be polite and discreet occasions. The bride’s maids dressed her in her nightgown, the groom’s men undressed him, and then the bishop blessed the marriage bed, the gathering tucked the happy couple up in bed, and left. She fervently hoped something along the lines of the latter would be the case now.
Ram reassured her, “Don’t worry, Mabelle, there’ll be no running sheets up flagpoles in this castle.”
He’d understood her concern, and tried to make her feel better. Or was it that he’d made sure there would be no public display, because he suspected she was no longer a virgin, and there would be no bloodied sheets?
He still thinks me unchaste.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The assembled gathering was merry but not bawdy, as they lifted a broadly grinning Ram, and a blushing Mabelle, and carried them to the bridal bedchamber. It was the first time Mabelle had been in this room since she’d left her letter of farewell. A carved wooden screen had been placed at one end, and she and Giselle stepped behind it so the maidservant could help remove her gown, chemise, shoes and hose. The veil had long since fallen away.
She gasped at the flimsy nightgown that a gleeful Giselle carefully fastened around her. Ram, and everyone else in the chamber, would see through it. But Giselle wrapped a warm bed gown around her, and pulled the belt tight.
“Only for milord’s eyes, in my opinion. Not those who want to ogle,” whispered the feisty maid.
Thank God for the loyalty and common sense of this serving woman.
Ram’s friends and brothers were divesting him of his clothing, tossing it here and there, and he eased into a black silk bed robe held out for him by Vaillon, cinching it lightly around his waist. Smiling and waving to the jeering and cheering crowd, he strode proudly across the room and joined a blushing Mabelle. The robe barely came to his knees, and she inadvertently caught a glimpse of his muscled thighs as he walked. She looked away quickly. Had he noticed? She was propped up on a large pillow, having been tucked into the bed by Giselle, after the maid had combed out her hair. The Bishop intoned a brief prayer of blessing, and sprinkled the bed with holy water. Then, despite ribald urgings from the guests to “Get on with it”, Ram ushered them out with an imperious wave of the hand, and gradually they left.
“Allez, tous!” he commanded, trying to appear serious. “Be gone, all of you.”
Their eventual leaving, urged out by Vaillon and Giselle, created an overwhelming silence in the big chamber. Ram slipped off his bed robe. Mabelle averted her eyes as he raised his hips to free the silk from under his body. He threw it nonchalantly to the floor. Turning onto his back, he stretched out his arm to the table for one of the two goblets of mead. She stole a glance at his well-muscled chest and the trail of black hair leading down to his navel and—he turned back to her and offered a goblet.
“Something sweet for my bride?”
She shook her head. Her face was on fire.
“Too nervous?” he asked.
“Oui,” she whispered, scarcely able to speak. Her insides were churning.
Propped up on one elbow, he took a sip of the honeyed wine and licked his lips. “You should try some, Mabelle. It’s bad luck not to.”
He offered his goblet to her and raised it to her lips. His eyes seemed to darken as he watched her, and he frowned slightly. “More?”
“Non, merci,” she murmured. The mead was still lukewarm and she could feel it trickling down her throat.
He smiled, took another sip, then leaned over to replace the goblet on the table, licking the stickiness off his fingers. Her mouth fell open.
Turning on his side, with his head propped up on his muscular arm, he looked at her and said seductively, “Well, ma belle, will you let me see that irresistible body without my begging?”
“You weren’t going to beg at the lake.” As soon as she uttered the words, she regretted them.
He bristled. “Non, you’re right. Would I have had to beg? I got the feeling you were ready to give yourself up without much protest.”
His words cut into her heart.
But my dream was of you—of your kiss.
“What trick do you have in mind to hide your lost virginity?”
Anger swept over her. “You think I’m not a maid?” she murmured, her eyes filling with tears. She wished he’d choked on his mead.
“Maids don’t lie half-naked in meadows, covered with flowers. But I don’t care. You’ve cast a spell on me, and you’re the one I must have.”
Despite his cruel words, the smoldering need in his ice blue eyes made her heart race. She looked away, afraid her heart might break.
Wiping away a tear with his fingers, he admitted, “My male needs threatened to control me, Mabelle, and I’m not proud of it. That’s what passion seems to do. I’m a Montbryce, an honourable Norman noble. I was tired after my journey. I thought you were a vision.”
As he spoke, he gently tugged away the bed robe and looked at her body, visible through the diaphanous fabric of the nightgown.
“Two perfect circles on two perfect globes,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He lowered his head and twirled his tongue lightly over each hard nipple. It sent molten waves to the core of her being.
She could feel her heart pounding and couldn’t swallow. He kissed her softly, then, as the kiss lengthened and deepened in intensity, she parted her lips and welcomed his tantalizing tongue, warmed by the mead. His lips were sticky and he tasted
of honey. He wrapped his powerful arms around her, accepting the silent invitation, licking the corners of her mouth. He groaned.
Sucking on her lower lip, he trailed one hand down her throat and cupped her breast. It filled his hand and he stroked slowly and rhythmically, his fingers straying closer and closer to the expectant nipple. His scorching touch through the silken fabric aroused feelings unknown to her before, and when he finally pinched the pert point between his thumb and forefinger, a spasm tore through her, and she arched up off the bed, wet heat flooding between her legs.
What is happening to me?
With his other hand, he carefully peeled the nightgown from her trembling body. “I’ve longed to see your glorious body,” he whispered, “And to lose myself in you. You are as lovely as I imagined.”
She moaned softly as his big hands cupped both breasts. He lowered his warm lips to them, suckling and licking as he tenderly squeezed the other needy nipple. She arched her mons and felt his arousal throb against her thigh. She dared not look.
His kiss then was slow and deep. She sucked his tongue into her mouth. Surrendering to an instinct that overcame the inner voice urging modesty, she opened her legs. With a deep grunt she felt in her toes, he used his hand on the top of her thigh to open her wider, pulling her leg over his. She felt the silken tickle of the hair on his legs, and the hardness of his manhood pressing against her thigh. His fingers stroked her most intimate place. The sensations were overwhelming, but she didn’t want him to stop. She couldn’t breathe and had to break away from his kiss. She looked into his eyes, expecting to see censure at her wantonness, but instead saw deep need.
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