Betrothed

by Lori Snow

  He mustered the will to step back one pace, then another.

  She stood and stared at him, her eyes wide, her breath coming in short gasps.

  “Until tonight,” he growled.

  Shaking off her daze, she scampered to the door. Her hand lifted the latch when he reminded her in a husky tone. “No one is to know of your visit.”

  Isabeau bobbed her head and fled.

  Leaning against the strong-room door, Donovan watched Isabeau’s escape. Her skirts swayed as she hurried down the hall. Donovan let out a rushed breath. He withdrew into the room. Her response to a lover’s touch captivated him.

  Marta had never responded to him. Frowning, he returned to his desk. Donovan remembered little of his first wedding night, only the white of his bride’s silken body—the slowness of her movements. In his eagerness to bed his beautiful new wife, he had mistaken her jerky motions for modesty. He had acquired a modicum of practice with experienced woman but none with virginity. Nevertheless, he had tried to guide Marta gently across the threshold of womanhood

  Later, he was dismayed to discover Marta had been an unwilling participant. Her kinfolk had dragged her to the wedding chamber, stripped her and poured a concoction down her throat. The vile potion had not rendered Marta unconsciousness, but had put her in a languorous state causing her to accept his advances.

  The next morning, when she had cried over the blood on the sheets, he attempted to console her. He acted the noble husband as he soothed and petted and soothed some more. Then to prove she would never again feel a virgin’s pain, he had taken her once more. Marta found no consolation in his touch nor did she ever seek out her groom’s chamber. The only intimacy in his marriage consisted of his knock on Marta’s chamber closed door.

  Though she never refused him, always accepted him into her bed, he had never brought her to passion. The only whispers filling his ears were her stringent voice begging him to be quick.

  He broke a quill in half and tossed aside. The whole business left the taste of ashes in his mouth, for even a whore’s feigned welcome had held more emotion than his wife’s. Now he knew the reason for Marta’s distaste for the marriage bed. Presumably, she would have felt the same towards any male, but the thought gave him no comfort.

  Once Donovan thought his marriage would change for the better. Shortly after Christian’s birth, Marta volunteered that her body was well-healed. He could resume his conjugal visits, but passion remained absent in her bed. She confessed she only wanted another child—not her husband.

  By then, his visits were few. He found more and more reasons to go journeying. He accepted more and more missions for the king.

  Bennington castle ceased to be home. On his last visit, Marta could not even maintain the illusion of welcome. When he entered her chamber, she put a pillow beneath her hips, spread her legs and informed him she was prepared.

  Coldly he had turned on his heel and stalked from the room. The next morn, he was on the road again. Would he have bidden her farewell, had he known he would not see her again? Marta had fallen on one of her daily tramps in the woods. He had not even known she made a habit of treks in the castle forest.

  His grief lay in that he had failed his son. Donovan had allowed bitterness to chase him away from three-year-old Christian.

  Nearly a year passed before he returned to Bennington. He could barely recall the boy’s face. Christian had succumbed to a fever some months before. All of Bennington knew he grieved, but none knew that he mourned only for his son.

  Isabeau had not rejected his touch. Her untutored reaction intrigued him. She was nothing like Marta. She had shown more passion in this room than Marta had in five years.

  Could Isabeau give Bennington an heir? He would be here to watch her belly grow. He would be the first to hold his babe when he came from her womb. Never again would he allow a woman or his pride to come between him and his child.

  Syllba’s hateful words came to mind. Marta saved her passion for a woman. Not for him.

  C hapter 21

  Caitlin passed the afternoon helping her mistress arranging the treasurers brought from Olivet. From an oiled bundle, Isabeau fingered an ornate knife her father had given her.

  “Why do you have so many weapons?” Caitlin asked.

  “These are not weapons; these are throwing knives” chuckled Isabeau. “It is a skill my father taught Simon and me. They remind me of my father.”

  After vespers, Caitlin helped Isabeau prepare for bed. When all was quiet, Isabeau made her way across the cold corridor. She trembled in her simple linen nightgown when she finally closed the door on Donavon’s private sanctuary.

  The smoke, mixed with the aroma of armour's oil brought the unique essence of the earl alive. Donovan’s gray stone hearth matched the one in her room. Shadows battled with the flickering light from the fireplace and the two charcoal braziers. The orange aura of illumination fought valiantly but gained no ground against the night.

  Isabeau’s hand trembled as she lit two candles. Her shallow breaths gave a true clue to her state of mind. What would Lord Donovan ask of her this night? The fire would keep the chill away until well after dawn. Isabeau steadied herself with a lengthy exhale.

  She had secured the carafe of wine from the cask marked for Donovan’s exclusive use. She placed it on the bedside stand with two goblets.

  Carefully avoiding the bed, she slid into the chair. Her nervous fingers rubbed the arm. Rich brocade decorated the plump cushion. The dark wood reflected the flickering light.

  Although she’d tried to concentrate elsewhere, her gaze was drawn to the massive bed’s carved posts and thick curtains. How soft the pillows and the luxuriant fur throw appeared.

  Sighing, she hoped Donovan would come soon. The longer she waited the more apprehensive she became. She kept reminding herself that he was her liege lord – more importantly, her betrothed. She must not forget he was due her obedience.

  Her life had changed so drastically. Three days ago she had been bound for the convent, dressed as a boy. Now, marriage contracts had been signed. They had shared vows before Father Fredrich. Donovan d'Allyonshire had the right to her loyalty and to her body. Never had she felt so vulnerable. Not even under her brother’s whip. While she acknowledged the precariousness of her situation in her brother’s household, she had never felt like this. Scared and yet attracted.

  She was conflicted about Donovan’s imminent arrival. She concentrated instead on their parting in his solar. The endless moment when his lips covered hers. The shelter created by Donovan’s embrace bound her solidly.

  Her right hand rose and traced her lips. Warmth suffused her torso and pooled in the core of her lower body. Gasping at the unfamiliar sensations, she dropped her hands to her lap and prayed she would not shame herself or her betrothed.

  Following the evening meal, Donovan returned to his strong room, but the pile of lists left by Eldred remained a puzzle as his thoughts reviewed the last three days.

  The chapel bell interrupted Donovan’s agitation. Standing, he wiped his sweaty hands on his tunic. The night sounds of the castle escorted him on the way to his bed chamber. Would Isabeau be in his room, or had she run again?

  Why did he feel like a thief in the night? He was going to his own bed. But the memory of Isabeau’s warm lips stirred his imagination. In his mind, he saw her spread before him; her white skin revealed for his eyes and his touch. But, he would remain in control tonight. He was a man of honor. Isabeau was more than a tool for revenge; she had become a possible key to his future.

  Donovan stepped into his chamber and closed the door. With exquisite care, he let the latch fall. If she was not already in the room, the decision had been made. At last, he lifted his candle higher and turned.

  C hapter 22

  Isabeau watched as Donovan entered. She heard the clunk of the latch; as the wooden bar slid into place. Did he think she would try to run?

  She could not move—how could she run? Her gaze flickered
to his face when he carefully placed his candle on a nearby stand.

  The crackle of the fire was loud in the silent room. Her heart thudded in her chest. Taking a deep breath, Isabeau gathered her courage. “Do you wish me to pour your wine?”

  “No.”

  He watched her with an intensity that froze her muscles. Why did he not tell her what to do next? She licked her lips and strove to remain still. Just a heartbeat longer, she coaxed herself.

  “Do you want me to go to your bed and lie on my back now?” Where had her voice come from?

  “No!”

  The anger in his single word fortified her fears. Why was he angry? She only wanted to please him. Why would he not tell what he wished? How was she to guess? This was her biggest fear. She had never been married.

  She raised her gaze back to his shadowed face. Resolution molded his expression. Did he find her so displeasing that he needed fortification to take her? He stalked into the shadows, his back to her. In the dim light, she could just see his movements as he unfastened the belt that held his weapons. Was he about to undress?

  Should she remove her nightgown? Blanche had not mentioned such a thing. She had only told Isabeau about the wife’s duty.

  What did Donovan look like beneath his tunic? When he shed his breeches? She suddenly felt she had swallowed an apple—whole—and it stuck in her throat.

  She imagined touching Donovan’s bare skin. To be skin to skin to him? Her heart stopped.

  She minded each of his motions.

  He hung his belt on the posts protruding from the wood paneling. His shoulders seemed broader, his height greater as he stood there in the half light, his back to her. She waited to see what he would remove next.

  She was unprepared for his abrupt turn. His movement so startled her that she fell into the back of the chair. Using her death-grip on the chair-arms, she tried to recapture a modicum of poise.

  Donovan stepped towards the hearth to hunker down in front of the flames. He jabbed at the coals with the poker, unnecessarily in Isabeau’s mind. She had already seen to the fire—at his behest.

  Rising to his feet, he placed the poker in its stand with great precision. “Are you warm enough?”

  “Pardonez?” Isabeau wanted to giggle.

  Donovan explained as he turned to face her. “After spending so much time billeting on some God-forsaken battlefield, I forget how cold and damp these old walls stay even at the height of summer.”

  She would have waved away his concerns but she was too busy holding tight to the chair. “I am warm enough, my lord.”

  “Are you frightened?”

  She swallowed as she tried to find an honest answer while not showing herself to be a ninny. “I am unnerved.”

  “Unnerved?” He cocked a brow just a bit. “Is it my face which unnerves you? My scar?”

  “Your scar?” She felt like an idiot, repeating everything he said.

  “Are you bloody blind, woman?” He waved his hand emphatically towards his face. “Can you not see it?”

  “Of course, I can see it.” She leaned forward as she looked closer. “The mark saddens me.”

  “Saddens you?” She heard confusion in his gruff tone.

  “Yes, my lord.” She nodded once slowly, and then tilted her head slightly to the right as she thoroughly examined the underside of his chin. “I regret the wound which caused it. The pain you must have endured. I wonder who bandaged it. Most of all, I worry of what would have happened had the blow been a little deeper—a little lower.”

  “It does not repulse you?” he asked disbelievingly. “Marta…” his voice trailed off.

  “Why should your scar repulse me?”

  “Because it is ugly. My skin puckers in places. My face is not perfect, but the scar marks me. It is a constant reminder of violence. A reminder that I have killed, will kill again.”

  “Who told you that?” she asked with disbelief. “You do not believe such—such swill?”

  “Do I not?”

  “No,” she repeated with more calm. “No, you do not. Your face is free of whiskers. If the scar brought you shame, a beard would cover most of it easily enough.”

  “There are more. I have many more scars. Some not as faded as this one. Marta thought them grotesque.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” he repeated impatiently. “Because they are.”

  “No. Why do you have so many wounds? Do you not take care to defend yourself?” she scolded. “Are you trying to die?”

  “Would that matter to you?”

  “Pah!” she scoffed. “I have no wish to be a widow.”

  “And a wife? Do you wish to be a wife?”

  She sat back a little and answered quietly. “I am here.”

  “You were reluctant enough to comply with your brother’s wishes to become a wife. You ran away. How do things differ now?”

  “Those were completely different circumstances,” she declared emphatically.

  “How?”

  “You are a different manner of man than Kirney.”

  “Because I am a earl?”

  “By the Saints, no! If you were the son of a farmer and he a king, you would still be a man, whereas Kirney is a beast. No amount of frippery or finery will disguise the difference.”

  “You make this bold declaration though I have placed you in a vulnerable position.” His tone was heavy with sarcasm.” I made only the betrothal vows of Per Verba de Futuro. Do you understand what that means?”

  “Yes,” she nodded stiffly, but he explained anyway.

  “It means, with just a word, I am free to sever our alliance. You could be set adrift to once again face your brother’s ambitious whims. You are here, in this room, apparently ready to accept my seed into your body. What if I plunder your body then cast you aside? I could deny knowing you even should you birth a child. No one would naysay me. Even the church would hesitate to take the word of the daughter of a dead baron over that of a earl.”

  “You are not a beast,” Isabeau argued, albeit through a tight throat. Why was he making such threats? “You would not get me with child and then abandon me.”

  “How do you know?” he pressed.

  “No man who kissed me this day with such fire would treat me so badly. Besides, you said yourself that you need a son—an heir.”

  “Fire,” he murmured, and shifted slightly as if to approach her. With a deep sigh, he said instead, “And if there is no child? I will have taken your maidenhead—your matrimonial value will be gone. No other man will have you.”

  “If I am barren, I will retire to the convent. I am prepared to join the Sisters of Saint Agatha if I cannot to conceive,” she added proudly. “I will not deny you an heir. You will be free to make another alliance.”

  From the moment he entered the room to see her waiting in his chair, he knew he would not be able to surrender her to the convent. He watched Isabeau’s pulse flutter in her throat. His own blood thrummed in his ears to the same rhythm. By the saints, she was beautiful! He wanted to touch her—to feel the soft silk of her skin. He yearned to take her in his arms—to soothe her fears. Never before had he experienced a desire so intense as to be painful. His body was ready to take her at that moment.

  His eyes flicked from Isabeau to the fireplace, to the candles, to the braziers, back to his wife. Her eyes had followed his gaze. “I propose this night we create another type of fire.” Donovan stepped in front of the chair, her knees no distance from his, and extended his hand. Her fingers trembled as she reached to clasp his palm.

  “Come share wine with me.”

  It was vital he maintain his control. They would wed on the morn and he would no longer have to rein in all of his lusts. But still a flutter of anxiety touched his heart. For his own peace of mind, he had to know they would share passion as well as his seed.

  He led Isabeau across the room and putting his hands about her tiny waist, lifted her onto the bed. He poured the wine and handed it to her, saying, “Don
’t be frightened.” He tried to assure her as he smoothed back her hair against her temple with his other hand.

  Isabeau gulped her wine and asked, “Are you going to stuff your rod in me now? Blanche said you would do it on the bed.”

  He trailed his finger along her jaw until he reached her chin. His forefinger tilted her head. “Let us forget about Blanche and her lessons. We will go our own way.”

  She quivered against his delicate touch.

  “Do you dislike my hand on you?”

  “Nay. Your touch is not unpleasant.” She licked her lips and he wanted to lean in and kiss them. “The sensation when your fingers glide over me-my skin…” She swallowed before continuing. “I do not comprehend how they make me feel or why I want…”

  “What? Want what?” he coaxed urgently.

  “I do not know. More?”

  Donovan surrendered to his craving, his lips caressed hers. “More? Tell me,” he whispered then. “What do you want?” He reached for the ribbons on her bed robe and slowly pulled the top bow open. His heart began to race. He leaned in to explore the newly exposed white skin. The second ribbon slipped loose and his tongue traced her fluttering pulse above her collar bone. Red wine trickled onto the coverlet as the goblet escaped her fingers.

  Her hands came to rest against his chest. Tension coursed through him, was she going to push him away? The breath rushed from his lungs as her fingers began to softly knead his shirt.

  The last stubborn loop yielded to his tugs. The bed robe fell open revealing her chemise. He slid the heavy night robe from her shoulders, dislodging her hands from his chest. The firelight outlined her slender body beneath her thin shift. Donovan’s eyes traveled from the wonder on her face, to her alabaster shoulders, to her perfect breasts. His lips followed the path of his fingers.

  Gasping, she attempted to move away, but he cupped the back of her head with one hand, holding her fast. “Trust me,” his voice was husky as he dredged the sound from the depths of his control.