by Jo Beverley
She had not expected to marry a slightly built boy.
"I'm a full two months older than you," was virtually the first thing she said to him.
He had sisters and knew how to handle that. "Then you'll doubtless die sooner." But his voice had cracked on it, and he would have given his right hand that it not, because she wasn't his sister. She was that frightening creature, the woman who would one day be his wife.
They'd already made the vows and signed the documents, witnessed by thirty or so men of standing in the north. Now they'd been sent to sit together at the opposite end of the hall while the contented men drank their health. They were both dressed in the finest silks and bullion, but Jehanne wore hers as if accustomed, and Galeran had never had such fine clothes in his life.
His dark hair was neatly trimmed. Hers had clearly never been cut. It rippled in a shimmering fall of pale gold silk down to her slender hips. Coming from a dark-haired family, it seemed a marvel to him, but a marvel like lightning, or dragon-fire, or flood.
Dangerous rather than desirable.
His skin was dusky, for his family came not long ago from southern France, where the sun was hot. Jehanne's bloodlines were more northern. Her translucent skin, smooth as fine, polished horn, lay neatly over delicate bones. Her red lips promised warmth, but her clear blue eyes were winter-cold.
She tossed her head, causing the golden silk to undulate like a live thing. "I wanted to marry a man. Even your brother would be better than you."
"My brother preferred the Church." He hoped she caught the silent rider that it was now clear why.
Her lips tightened and she looked him over. "I'd think the Church would appeal to you too. You don't have the build of a fighting man."
That remark was enough to double Galeran's devotion to his military training. He knew he was small, but he had every faith that he would grow. Perhaps he would never be as big as his father or older brothers, but he would grow. Surely he would soon be bigger than his wife. Despite his size, he already had considerable skill in swordplay and riding, and though scarcely acknowledging it, he set out to show Jehanne that she was not marrying a priest.
He enjoyed such exercise too, except when his bride-to-be came to observe.
She watched his sword work one day, then commented, "Your left arm is weaker than your right."
He turned, shaking sweat from his hair. "Everyone's is, including yours."
She smirked. "No, it isn't. I'm left-handed."
"Cursed, you mean," he retorted, referring to a common superstition.
She tossed her head. "Only by you, sirrah."
But as she walked away he turned back to his work, satisfied that he'd scored in that bout.
Perhaps that was why she changed tactics and waylaid him in the quiet of the stables. "Since we're to be married, Galeran, you had better kiss me."
He moved uneasily away. "I don't want to kiss you."
"Of course you do." She cocked her head and studied him with a slight smile. "Or is it that you don't know how to kiss?"
He felt the red rise in his face, "I know, but you shouldn't."
She laughed. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Then I'd never know if you did it right." Chameleon-like, she turned sultry and moved forward to lay a hand on his chest. "If you learn to kiss properly, Galeran, I might let you do more.... Or is that what you're afraid of?"
She'd used perfume—something flowery, but spicy too—and it rose off her like a warning.
This new territory terrified him so much, he dodged away from her. "You speak wickedness. One day, Jehanne, I will beat you."
She laughed. "You'll have to grow a bit first."
When he lunged for her, she danced away, still laughing at him. He could have caught her, but he came to his senses.
He might be her promised husband, but that didn't mean he had a husband's rights.
Yet.
The thought of husbandly rights led him to thoughts of husbandly duties. The wedding was but four months away and Jehanne was right—he didn't know what to do. At least, he knew the facts, and had seen his brothers with a maid now and then, but he had no practical knowledge. He hadn't been much interested in women before his betrothal, and since then he'd been at Heywood. It didn't seem right, somehow, to dally with the maids in his wife's home.
But he did need some practice, and so he overcame his scruples and started to kiss the wenches who appealed to him. He found the business pleasant enough. It also introduced him to other joys—the soft feel of a woman's body, especially her breasts; the warm glow in her eyes when she was pleased; the sultry smell of a woman—so different from that of a sweaty man; the feelings in his own body, demanding more.
He didn't act on those demands—that still didn't seem right—but he often thought of visiting Brome, where he knew the names of some willing women.
Then, one day, Jehanne came upon him with his favorite dairy maid in his lap. Though stung by guilt, he was heartened by the naked fury in his betrothed wife's eyes. He knew then that he had wanted Jehanne to catch him, wanted to see her angry over it. He pushed the maid off his knees and gave her a playful swat on the rear to send her on her way.
Jehanne, of course, swiftly controlled herself. "I suppose you're practicing," she said with a dismissive air. "Are you hoping to get it right before we're wed?"
"Why would I care as long as I broach you and get you with child?"
She virtually snarled at him. "So I won't laugh at you."
"If you don't laugh at me, I won't laugh at you."
And he scored that time too, for she stormed off with angry color in her cheeks.
But perhaps, after all, she won that bout, for he found he didn't like to upset her and gave up his games with the maids. More than ever, though, he wanted to visit Brome so he could truly practice for his wedding night.
Broaching was all very well in theory, for he knew what bit went where, but many things that seemed simple in theory proved to be quite difficult when arrived at—like aiming a ballista so that the rock it threw actually did some damage. He remembered his first attempt at that exercise, and the way his rock had thumped into the ground far short of the target.
He certainly didn't want to fall short in the marriage bed.
Did she know any more than he, though? Surely not. She was a high-spirited girl, for her mother had died years before and her father had been somewhat neglectful in her rearing, but Fulk was not the sort of man to tolerate a wanton daughter. She couldn't have dallied with other men. Could she?
He did wonder uneasily about Raymond of Lowick, who visited Heywood too often for Galeran's comfort. Ostensibly, he came to pay respects to his old master, but he flirted with Jehanne. She did not appear to encourage him, but she didn't reject him either.
In fact, to Galeran Jehanne was a tangled mystery.
She didn't walk delicately, but strode about, skirts swinging. Yet she looked as graceful as other women. She didn't bend her neck and lower her gaze, but looked men straight in the eye, whether it was her father, Galeran, or Lowick. Yet it was not unbecoming. She rode out to the hunt as fast and fierce as any man, and liked to be in at the kill. Galeran had quickly learned that any impression of delicacy was an illusion. She was a dead shot with her bow, could wield a light sword with skill, and lift a sack of grain without difficulty.
He found he didn't mind this at all since she was just as skillful in women's matters. She could spin fine thread and weave sound cloth, and her embroidery was a marvel to him. More important, she could organize others to spin and weave and embroider, so Heywood prospered under her rule. She knew just how everything should be done, and seemed to have her eye everywhere. Swift with punishment for those who failed in their duties, she was never cruel, but simply drew the best work out of everyone.
The people of Heywood were proud of their lady, and so was Galeran. He admired her, sharp tongue and all, and though she still made him nervous, he learned how to handle her. He learned military matters
from the master-at-arms, and more personal fighting from Jehanne.
And he enjoyed both.
And at last he was growing. One day he realized he was taller than she, and in the next little while he put on even more height and weight, so that by two months before the wedding he topped her by half a head. Perhaps in response to this, Jehanne taunted less. Now she watched him with a different light in her eyes and she never accosted him alone.
But then, when their wedding day was but a month ahead, she trapped him in a deserted corridor. "Are you ready to kiss me yet, husband-to-be?" She had to look up at him.
Yes, he was ready, and more than ready. He immediately caught her wrist, then trapped her waist with his other arm. She stiffened, blue eyes wide. With shock? Anger? Excitement? He still couldn't read her, and at that moment he didn't much care.
He put his lips against hers, then stopped, wondering what she would do. She did nothing, but disconcertingly, still stared at him, unblinking.
"Don't you know what to do?" he taunted against her lips.
"I'm waiting to see if you do." But the words moved her lips against his, and brought a hint of her warm breath to play. His body reacted instantly and he froze, frightened of himself.
He saw the glint in her eye, and the next moment she stuck out her tongue and licked at his lips.
He pushed her away, but not far. "Who's taught you tricks like that?"
She smiled in the way that infuriated him. "Who's taught you to recognize them?"
"It's different for men and women."
"Is it?"
Infuriated, he dragged her back and kissed her, hard and rough, not caring if she was impressed or not, just intent on showing her who was master. She stayed stiff in his arms for a moment, but then suddenly relaxed and kissed him back, tongue playing, body curving in closer to his.
He enjoyed it thoroughly until he realized what was happening. Then he jerked back with shock and let her go. "You have kissed before!"
She cocked her hip. "Have I?"
"Who?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
"Yes, so I could kill him."
She laughed. "You?"
He hit her.
She cried out, hand to her red cheek. Then she hissed with rage and went for him with her fists, her nails, with every part of her slender, strong body. He tried to control her and found it impossible, so they ended up in an all-out fight, a tangled wrestling match, scraped, scratched, bruised, and with fine clothing torn to rags. They had to be pulled apart, snarling like wild dogs, and he'd been sent home to face his father's wrath.
Chapter 3
"Heywood's talking of annulling the betrothal, you numbskull!"
"She drives me mad!"
"So you hit her?" Lord William's hand cracked against Galeran's face with the full force of his mighty arm behind it, knocking Galeran to his knees and loosening a couple of teeth. "Can't you think of another way of handling a delicate maid?"
"Delicate? That she-wolf?"
That got him hauled to his feet and slammed on the other side of his face. For all his gruff manner, Lord William hated to see a woman hurt. His father whipped him, and when he'd finished said, "Keep out of my way, and when you're healed, get back to Heywood and put it right."
It had taken three weeks for the sores to heal and the bruises to fade, three weeks of wishing the torments of hell on Jehanne of Heywood but strangely, of missing her too. It had never occurred to him to complete his sexual education.
When Galeran returned to Heywood he had been very uncertain of his welcome from Fulk or his daughter, but certain that he wanted forgiveness. The thought of losing Jehanne was like acid.
Anyway, he reasoned, his father was right. It should not be necessary for a man to hit a woman to control her, even a woman like Jehanne. He was prepared to apologize to her, though he hoped she didn't gloat or his tolerance would be stretched thin.
To his surprise, Fulk made no difficulty over the matter at all, merely remarking that he hoped that the next time Jehanne displeased him, Galeran would beat her properly instead of getting into a brawl over it.
The mere idea was daunting unless six strong men tied her up first, but Galeran said all the right things and went in search of his wife-to-be.
He found her in the garden, subdued and radiating grievance rather than satisfaction. She listened to his carefully phrased apology, then said, "You got me whipped."
"I got you whipped!"
Her eyes brightened. "If you were punished, you deserved it."
"If you were punished, so did you."
"I did nothing!"
"You dedicate your life to spoiling mine!"
"I, my Lord Galeran, have better things to do with my life than plan misfortunes for you."
"Then apply yourself to them as a proper maiden should."
But even as they squabbled, their eyes tangled in a new kind of awareness.
"Did he really whip you?" Galeran asked.
Her lids hid her eyes. "He had me whipped."
"Ah, is that the secret of it?"
Her lids rose, revealing fire. "Whip me or have me whipped, Galeran, and you'll rue it."
As he retreated to the relative safety of swords and horses and grappling irons, Galeran knew it was true. He could enforce his will, yes. He was a man with strength, power, and the weight of the law on his side. But if he ever pushed matters that far, Jehanne would die before submitting.
On the other hand, she was still a thorn in his flesh and had to be handled somehow. The way he'd most like to handle her was not yet blessed, and so he did his best to avoid her for the remaining week.
It wasn't easy when he was heated by the mere sight of her, and maddened by the brush of her arm against his at dinner, or the trace of her subtle perfume in the air.
Perhaps she had no idea of the effect she was having, or the power of lust in a young, healthy male. If she had, surely she wouldn't keep teasing him.
He tried to stay out of her way, but she became diabolically good at turning up wherever he was. He grew clever at evading her touch, but she seemed to be always trying to touch him. Then she found ways to dress and move that made him not want to evade her at all.
But by prayer and will he held out.
Until he awoke one morning two days before the wedding to find her sitting cross-legged on his bed.
"Hell's flames, Jehanne. What are you doing here?"
"You've been avoiding me, Galeran." Her hair hung loose, and she wore only a light kirtle in a bewitching shade of pink.
Galeran fought the need to drag her beneath the sheets. "That means I don't want to see you. Go away."
"No."
"Then I'll leave."
As he pushed back the covers, she said, "I've thrown all your clothes out the window."
"What? " He saw his chest standing open and empty, and laughed at her. "Do you think I'm shy, you silly girl?" He leaped out of bed and faced her naked.
Then froze.
What in the name of the Savior did he think he was doing? Now she'd shriek and they'd have the whole castle down on them.
He should have known better. She showed no alarm, but looked him over, eyes a little wide, cheeks as pink as her kirtle, but otherwise composed. "Not bad. You're growing."
And he was stuck there, exposed to her scrutiny. He couldn't lose face by dashing back beneath the covers, but he had no clothes to put on. So he did the only thing he could and looked her over in turn. "I suppose you're growing too, but it's hard to tell when you're covered."
Her eyes widened a little more, then she began to pull up her skirt.
He lunged forward and grabbed her hand. "No!"
"No? You dared me."
"I did not."
"It sounded like a dare to me. I won't refuse a dare."
"Then, by the Cross, I dare you to jump out of the window after my clothes!"
She met his eyes. "Only if you do too. Hand in hand into eternity, Galeran..."
/> And he'd known, terrifyingly, that she would do it.
He was still gripping her, and she turned his hand in hers, shifting it so he brushed her breast, her small, high breast, with the nipple clearly felt through the fine cloth. "You see. I am growing." Then she looked down and smiled. "And so are you."
He knew he was. For the first time, lust was hitting him hard and with immediate purpose. He'd lusted before, but never with a woman—a special woman—so close, so available, so hot beneath his hand.
He began to tremble. "We can't..."
"Of course we can't. But we can kiss. You owe me a kiss."
"Jehanne, no. I can't..." He couldn't find the words to explain the danger, the danger that he would lose control of this ravening beast.
But perhaps she understood. She sucked in a breath and slid swiftly away. "If you can't, you can't," she said, as if nothing had happened. "I'll send your clothes up." She slipped out of the room, leaving only a trace of perfume and a raging erection to torment him.
Though she didn't tease him again, her presence was enough to stretch him to the limit. By their wedding day, he was ready to ignite like a dead tree at the first touch of flame, and the long hours of ceremony and feasting were endless torment.
When they were finally left alone in the marriage bed, however,; Galeran found himself frozen—frozen a little by fear that she knew more of this than he and would laugh, but frozen mainly by the terror of unleashing the force that raged through him—a force he neither understood nor controlled—and hurting her.
After a while, she touched his chest. "Galeran...?"
He shuddered quite involuntarily, fighting to control everything even though he was terrified that if he succeeded in controlling things well enough, he'd never actually claim his bride at all.
"You were right," he whispered. "You should have married someone older."
"Why?" She sounded amused. "He'd only have died the sooner."
Galeran stared at the ceiling, fists clenched. "He'd have known what to do. I don't, Jehanne. I've never done this before."