“A woman does not need to love a man for her to be married to him. Especially not one such as Lord Matheus. What he wants, he takes.”
It tasted awfully bad in his mouth the way she said that. “Well, he’s not going to bother you anymore, is he?” She didn’t mirror his smile.
Why was he wasting saliva trying to convince a damn-fine actress she wasn’t in real trouble? This wasn’t a real medieval castle. Only a fair, a show. These weren’t real people, just characters. Yet he was beginning to feel a weird attachment to them, even Hugo the Barbarian. Talk about a good concussion! He must have been bonked on the head pretty damn hard to think of anything there as real. The only truth in the otherwise fishy affair was somewhere close by a Learjet with two pilots on board crash-landed. No, something else was true. A.J. had begun to develop quite the crush on “Lady Marion”.
* * * * *
Marion shook her head as she replayed the scene in her mind. What had she done? Panic had squeezed her throat, clammed her palms. With the added weight of her husband’s family tentative agreement, she hadn’t felt as if she had had any choice but to use something radical and shocking to buy herself at least a few days. Pretending to marry more than qualified as radical and shocking. Especially when she didn’t know her future husband. Lord be blessed, Sir Ayjay had looked perfect, even acted the part. Oh she owed him. She did. And she’d been so brusque with him back in the kitchen. Poor man had probably been attacked on the road, left for dead, to find himself in a humble castle lost in the mountains, surrounded by even plainer folks and a châtelaine who lacked even the most basic manners.
But the look on Matheus’ face. Ha!
As much as the idea had just burst out of her mouth like the harebrained creation it was, Marion couldn’t help the thought of Sir Ayjay’s long hands on her body, his lips, his fine…
Good Lord! Restrain yourself.
She had at least until the day of the Lord, two nights from now, until she was forced to find another lie to cover the first. Despair choked her and Marion found she couldn’t face Sir Ayjay, who obviously had no clue as to the gravity of the situation. He looked amused, of all things.
“I am deeply indebted to you, Sir Ayjay. I—”
He waved his hand in front of him in a dismissive manner. “It was my pleasure, believe me. Bullies like him plagued me long enough when I was a shrimpy little kid that I take shots at them every chance I get. Plus, I can’t believe he actually touched you.” He snarled another string of words where the mentions of “fok” were plentiful and tagged with other syllables as well. Sitting on a stool by her side, he patted her knee.
The familiarity of his gesture shocked her. She barely knew him yet he touched her? Heat wafted from her collar and as much as she tried to ignore the hand on her knee, she couldn’t for it stirred her long-dormant emotions. Emotions such as desire, a deep, almost desperate longing for intimacy, for the body of a man next to hers. It’d been such a long time since she’d been intimate with a man. She’d slept alone for so many years.
“Sir Ayjay…”
“Sorry,” he replied, snatching it away. “Got carried away with the whole husband thing.” A roguish grin pulled his lips to one side. “Not that I would mind. I’m sure every man here would give his right—er, his right hand for a date with you. It’s just I have to go back home. They’ll be here any moment to take me back. Someone’s bound to have a missing plane somewhere.”
Missing plain?
He spoke in riddles again. “Before you woke in my home, do you remember where you were?”
He nodded. “Somewhere over the Alps, an hour away from Geneva. A storm hit suddenly, lightning strikes, everything. Then I couldn’t see in front of my face. Apart from Viscount Tightass, waking up here has been a riot so far. But I have to go. Someone is waiting for me in Geneva.”
Jeneva? An our? The words sounded foreign and peculiar, but the last part, she understood perfectly. He was already married. Her heart gave a painful thud. “I understand. I would not want to deprive her of your presence.”
“Her?” he replied, an eyebrow cocked. Then understanding dawned on his face. He shook his head. “There’s no ‘her’ waiting for me. I meant my work is waiting for me.”
She tried to keep the relief from showing but knew she’d failed for he leaned forward in a conspiratorial way. He looked delighted with himself.
To save face, she plowed through and ignored the unsaid. “I shall do my best to return you to your people of course. But could I ask for just one thing in return? Even if I am in no place to ask anything more of you.”
“You can ask me anything you want.”
His suddenly fiery gaze settled on her mouth and Marion couldn’t repress the tremor shaking her body. He must have seen her reaction for a perfect eyebrow quivered. His thumb rubbed a small circle on the stool right by her thigh and sent her skin into a fever. So skilled. Wherever he was from, ladies must have stood in line for a mere look. The woman who would call Sir Ayjay husband would be blessed indeed.
“I would ask you not tell my people of my lie. I would prefer to be the one to tell them. I would be much obliged to you, Sir Ayjay.”
“It’s not my place to get involved in your show, Lady Marion. I’m just waiting for a ride back home. You do what you have to and I’ll try to stay out of your way.”
A peculiar answer for sure, but at least he’d given her his assurances he wouldn’t publicly shame her.
He rose, put his hands in his strange front pockets and cocked his head at her. “Meanwhile, I guess I’ll have to use the bathroom after all.”
His impish grin made her want to roll her eyes.
* * * * *
Word had spread around the castle about Sir Ayjay’s action toward Lord Matheus and her shocking declaration. Though he could have on several occasions, her visitor stayed true to his word and did nothing to convince anyone otherwise as her people hesitantly came to him and offered their thanks and congratulations. Cook even gave the man a bone-crushing hug, to the shock of everyone present! Sir Ayjay accepted everything graciously, with only an occasional twitch of suppressed mirth on his ambrosial lips. What had she done? Her shame would surely melt her whole.
While they sat for dinner, she at the head table with Hugo to her left and her “husband-to-be” to her right, she tried to come up with an honorable way to tell the truth. If he’d earlier acted in an irascible and snappish way, had been bent on leaving, Sir Ayjay presently looked at ease as he carved himself a piece of meat—after nearly forcing him to accept her gift of a utility knife…what man would refuse to wear a knife? How would he eat? He placed it on the trencher they shared and began to eat with all the refinement she’d come to expect from him. He’d become the talk of the entire castle by then and maids fought for the privilege of serving him or tending to his chamber. Gossip about his “endowment” had reached ludicrous proportions. She wished she could end the charade she’d started. Matheus had always made her so uneasy, even when Johannes had been alive. She’d always loathed his lewd glances and furtive hands.
“When shall you tell them, my lady?” Hugo asked as he leaned over, pretending to get a piece of cheese from the communal platter in front of her.
She looked around at her people, their smiling faces and lively talk. They’d had so little to celebrate in the years following their master’s death. Although they’d showed all the expected staunchness and loyalty to her and never once voiced their wish she’d just marry Matheus so the levies would be lightened, she had no doubt news of their lady finally marrying—even a foreign lord—was cause to celebrate. She didn’t have the heart to rob them of this precious little boon. Not yet.
“I don’t know.”
They shared a glance. At least she had Hugo. He’d often said he would’ve married her himself had he been of noble blood and not already happily married to another. Because Matheus had such a long arm, any nobleman who could have represented a good prospect had been quickly scared a
way or bought or both, which had kept her widowed. In his largesse, Matheus had offered to marry her, as though he were sacrificing himself for a noble cause. Some said he’d had his own cousin killed so he could do just that. She paid little heed to these nasty rumors. He may be a sly one but she doubted he would’ve killed his own cousin over a woman when he could have any he wished. Lord Matheus may have been a vile man, but he’d also been gifted with exterior beauty and grace of movement. Though not as much as Sir Ayjay…
“What’s in this thing?” Sir Ayjay suddenly asked, pointing to his mug. A flush had appeared on his cheeks. He looked relaxed and jovial. How handsome he was with his fine hair raked back in shiny waves. Despite the bruise on his high forehead, he was stunning.
“It’s mead, honeyed wine,” she replied, grinned when he downed his mug and expectantly looked around for a servant to fill it once more.
“I usually don’t drink alcohol but this is good.”
His smile reached his eyes for once. Marion was again reminded of her blatant lie and his willingness to follow through with it instead of the public humiliation that would surely be her lot should he decide to stop the charade. He winked at her, which caused a shameful stitch of thrill in her sex. She’d almost forgotten how it felt to be desired.
Of its own accord, her mind played tricks on her and painted an image as vivid as it was wicked. She imagined Sir Ayjay’s supple hands on her, his decadent mouth kissing her everywhere…how good it would feel to have a man such as him make love to her.
Marion shook the vision away to concentrate on her meal. But thoughts of food quickly escaped her when she caught Sir Ayjay’s ardent gaze on her. Shockingly, he angled his knee so it’d touch hers, unseen under the table, and proceeded to rub it very, very slowly and gently.
Goodness…
The heat of his touch produced a wave of frissons down her spine. As much as it wounded her pride to admit it, should he make advances to her, she would do nothing to stop him, may even encourage him. Perhaps her lie about their coming union had turned on her and now the man wanted to claim what was due him? She could think of many things worse than bedding Sir Ayjay.
As he kept rubbing his knee against hers, heat spread from her belly to her thighs, embarrassing heat that left her feeling flushed and…vulnerable. For the first time since Johannes’ death, she was finding the sight of another man arousing. The sudden realization left her feeling lightheaded. Intellectually, she knew that after close to five years, she was allowed—even expected—to find another man and remarry. No one would demand she forsake the rest of her years. But to again feel desire and desired, made Marion want to rush about, lose herself in work, run and ignore the liquid heat gathering between her trembling thighs.
She rose so suddenly both Hugo and Sir Ayjay started.
“I am terribly weary,” she announced in a voice sounding anything but. “I shall take my leave.”
After bidding both men goodnight, she was perplexed to see their visitor standing as well then sitting back down when she’d taken a few steps away. Such an unusual man. She remembered his attempt to clean the mess he’d caused in his chamber after he’d spilled the pot, how he’d pulled Hannah to her feet and after having failed to take the cloth from her hands, how he’d stood around looking highly apologetic while the young woman cleaned him. No man she knew would react this way.
No man she knew made her pant with longing either. The awkward chain of thoughts that had made her practically flee from the great hall plagued her still. Sir Ayjay’s hands must be so skilled and that wicked mouth…
Her hunger reached alarming proportions. Walking only accentuated the pressure coiling between her legs, tightening her lower belly and making her breasts ache with need.
As soon as she reached her own chamber, Marion ordered a bath, quickly dismissed Hannah for the night then undressed by herself. Steam rose in thin ribbons when the lads brought it up and a long, contented sigh escaped Marion when she sat in the copper basin. Matheus’ slap still stung her cheek. The brute. She’d let him unnerve her again. How she loathed the man.
Her predicament—of her own making—loomed over her. How would she extirpate herself from such dire consequences? She’d lied to Matheus, but more importantly, she’d lied to her people. And if Hugo had already forgiven her, she doubted the rest would. She wasn’t sure she forgave herself for dragging an innocent man into her schemes, for lying and being such a coward. Yet the alternative to marrying Sir Ayjay—which she couldn’t do because he would leave soon—meant Matheus. She couldn’t bring herself to even think of sharing the same roof, let alone the same bed.
Marion knelt in the bathtub as she ran the washcloth over her belly, realizing what she was doing only after a few leisurely passes forced a long sigh from her.
“What have you done to me, my foreign lord?” she murmured, gripping the edge of the tub with a hand while the other lingered on her belly still.
The warmth from the water didn’t manage to relax her, on the contrary, it only accentuated the pressure threatening to make her a lusting madwoman. Her hand shaking, Marion ran the washcloth along her inner thigh, higher so she could press her palm against her sex, which throbbed its need at her. Parting her knees slightly, she closed her eyes.
Images of Sir Ayjay promptly filled her mind’s canvas with his body and hers, entwined and woven together in a tapestry of carnal knots, each more vivid and decadent than the next. That she could envision such endeavors—with a man known to her—shocked Marion. It also thrilled her. She was a widow but still a woman, by Lord, and had needs.
“That I seem to be fulfilling,” she whispered, smiling to herself.
With the heat from the water and her rising excitement flowing through her tired frame, Marion allowed herself the rare luxury of a private, sexual diversion, something she used to indulge in much more regularly than she had of late.
Her knees shoulders’ width, her free hand tight around the tub’s rim, Marion brought the washcloth fully onto her sex, let the heat soak for a moment before she began a slow, circuitous route from one inner thigh to the other. Each pass over her nether lips brought her closer. Imagining Sir Ayjay’s long hands, she lingered over her cleft, readily found that special place, which ached with urgency, and used her middle finger to rub it. Slowly at first then with more insistence and vigor, she circled her pearl. When the first cramp heralded her impending release, Marion arched her backside. With a partly stifled moan, she let go of the last few days’ events, the tension and turmoil her guest had caused, the confusion and razor-sharp desire he evoked in her. Signing, her eyes closed, Marion climaxed.
As usual, she regrettably couldn’t hold on to the mental fugue that had allowed for a quick escape from her worries.
And they’re accumulating.
A shiver forced her to wash quickly and slip into her chemise. Perhaps her husband’s family’s offer of finding a nearby convent would be the least offensive solution. But ending her days cloistered among other destitute and useless women didn’t appeal to her. With her sex still happily pulsating, Marion unbraided her hair and raked her hands through it.
Despite the punishing levies, she’d managed the castle’s affairs relatively well, had handled the wool trade beyond anyone’s expectations. She suspected Lord Matheus’ real intent was to get his hands on the wool and not her. Her husband’s family had shown much patience and allowed her to keep the reins on at least this, if everything else had passed to Matheus. Perhaps they realized she’d become quite skilled at it and were afraid they’d lose precious coins should she leave Sargans. But they had offered her a convent. Perhaps she wasn’t as prized as she’d imagined.
A convent would kill her. She was a woman of action.
Yet what actions were there to be taken? What could she do aside from holding on for dear life as she’d done for the past few years? Nothing had changed, no new options would be forthcoming.
Not true. Something has changed.
; An image of Sir Ayjay flashed in her mind.
What if…?
The sudden thought shocked her. It was so outrageous… She couldn’t. What would he think of her? What would she think of herself? Still…
“But what if Sir Ayjay were to stay?”
Should Sir Ayjay decide to stay, her troubles would be all but solved. He was obviously waiting, expecting, for someone to come for him. Among the many strange words, she’d garnered at least this much. But what if meanwhile he decided he enjoyed life in Sargans? Could she perhaps aid in his change of heart? Should he find something, someone, in Sargans worth staying for…
She had to convince him to stay. If the smiles and the winks were any indication, he already had a penchant for her. Perhaps she could harvest that field while sowing the seeds for the next crop. Could she do this? For the first time in years, Marion felt hopeful.
“I can do this,” she said to the ends of her unbraided hair.
While they waited for his people—however long it would take—Marion had to make sure by the time they arrived, Sir Ayjay would’ve decided to make his life at Sargans.
She wouldn’t lie to him again, wouldn’t twist truths either. The shame still burned her cheeks. But she would do anything in her power to keep him at Sargans. Should Sir Ayjay leave, he’d take with him any hope of salvaging her people’s future…and her own.
Needled into action, Marion slipped her robe over her chemise, her shoes on her feet and silently padded to the door. She should turn back and hide in bed. A fever must have taken hold of her without her realizing it. She wasn’t about to try to seduce a stranger she’d met that day, even if he’d been at Sargans for two days prior to his awakening. She couldn’t be doing this.
But she was.
Heart beating madly, she pressed her ear to her door and waited. Judging by the low-burning candle, the meal must have ended a while back. Her lips firmly pressed, she pulled the door inward, poked her head out and mentally chastised her lack of courage. But should people discover she visited Sir Ayjay ahead of the official “ceremony”—how her lie shamed her—they might think less of her and of him, which was much worse. Cook might take the cleaver to his head instead of hugging him.
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