“Dead and buried,” the earl declared, grinning from ear to ear. “Our boys are on the way home. My brother, Robert, is ecstatic.”
She gaped at her father-by-marriage.
The countess hastened into the chamber. “Is it true? Clito dead?”
The earl brandished a parchment. “I just received the message. He was wounded during some siege. The wound putrefied. They buried him a fortnight ago. Louis the Fat has endorsed Thierry as Count.”
Peri sank back into her chair, gripping the edges as the babe in her womb kicked wildly.
The earl and his wife clung to each other. It was the first time she had seen either of them cry.
The countess broke the embrace. “A fortnight? That means Gallien and Étienne are probably well on their way here. I must speak with Cook about procuring pheasant.”
As she scurried away, a dull ache settled behind Peri’s eyes. A pulse throbbed wildly in her throat. She envied Carys de Montbryce’s strength, born no doubt from her certainty of her husband’s love. The Ellesmere household had expected the return of its warrior sons after the fall of Bruges, but the campaign in Flandres had dragged on and the last news had been dire. Clito had come within a hair’s breadth of retaking Bruges.
In Peri’s darkest moments, her mother-by-marriage had been there to give solace, encouragement, and reassurance when her own heart must have been breaking.
At last Gallien was on his way home. She patted her swollen belly. “Your papa might be home soon. He will love you as much as I do.”
She hoped she was not lying to her unborn child.
* * *
Atop the rampart surrounding Ellesmere Castle, two weary warriors reined their horses to a halt by tacit agreement.
“I don’t know about you, brother, but I was never happier to see this castle,” Étienne beamed.
Gallien stared at the imposing edifice built by his grandfather and expanded and refurbished by his father. He had known great happiness within its walls, but also unbearable torment. Had he destroyed his one chance to exorcise Felicité? He longed to spur his horse to a gallop and rush to take his wife in his arms again. But fear held him in its thrall. “I’m nervous,” he admitted.
Étienne patted his snorting horse’s neck. “Don’t be. I’ll wager when Peri sees how handsome you are with your sun-bronzed skin, she’ll swoon with passion.”
Gallien thumped his brother’s arm. “It is more likely the stink of my body will make her swoon. I reek of horse and sweat. I wish we’d had the opportunity to bathe.”
Étienne looked to the sky. “Gallien, Gallien, Gallien. When will you get it through your head the woman is in love with you? She will not care how you smell.”
Gallien doubted it. “But I left without a word of farewell, and she probably has no idea why.”
The smile left Étienne’s face. “I didn’t say you wouldn’t have to do some groveling. You have to decide whether you want happiness or grief, for both of you.”
Gallien put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “How can you have grown up without my noticing it, brother?”
Étienne smirked. “You were lost in your own misery.” He spurred his horse forward. “Race you to the bailey.”
Gallien’s heart lifted as he urged his horse to a gallop.
Stable boys rushed to take the reins of their horses as they dismounted. Steward Pascal Bonhomme strode out of the Keep. “I espied you on the rampart, mes seigneurs, welcome home.”
Gallien’s father followed on Bonhomme’s heels. He put his arms around the shoulders of both sons, and they embraced for long minutes. Gallien had rarely seen his father show such emotion. “It’s good to be home, Papa,” he rasped.
His father’s mouth remained a tight line. He kissed Gallien’s cheek, then Étienne’s.
They broke apart. Their mother stood a few feet away, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “I shame you with my tears,” she murmured. “You are no longer little boys, but I am relieved to have you home.”
Gallien embraced her. “You could never do anything to shame me, maman.”
Étienne shoved him playfully. “I want a hug, too.”
Their mother laughed, hugging them both. “You’re so brown.”
Étienne grimaced. “It was deuced hot in Flandres for the last months.”
Fleurie and Isabelle appeared, shrieking and giggling as they hurled themselves at their brothers.
Gallien looked around the bailey. Many of the castle folk had come to greet them, but where was Peri? Perhaps she had fled to Anjou after his cruel departure.
His mother took him aside. “She’s in her solar,” she whispered. “She was afraid to come.”
Once again, his mother had guessed what was in his mind. “I left without farewell,” was all he could say, but relief swept over him that his wife had stayed.
He made his way to her solar and tapped on the door. He held his breath, willing his heartbeat to slow. There was no response from within. A chill marched up his spine. A pulse throbbed at his temple. Had he alienated his wife so badly she would not grant him entry? His behavior merited her disdain.
He knocked again, harder, his knuckles white. “C’est moi, Peri. Gallien.”
He turned away, but then heard a faint, “Oui.”
He pushed open the door, hesitating on the threshold. She stood at the window with her back to him, her shoulders rigid. “May I enter?” he asked.
She nodded.
He closed the door softly, but remained on the threshold, his back pressed against the wood. He inhaled the familiar perfume he had longed to savor again. There were many things he wanted to say, but what if the words were not the right ones? His brain had turned to mush. “It’s good to be home.”
She did not turn around. He should kick himself in the arse. If his brother were present he would do exactly that. Why was it difficult to utter what was in his heart? “I missed you.”
She gasped, but still did not turn. The silence carried faint sobs to his ears. He strode quickly to put his hands on her trembling shoulders. “Don’t cry, Peri. I’m sorry I left without farewell. I—”
She turned slowly to face him.
His eyes widened. “You’re with child.”
She looked into his eyes, waiting.
His mind whirled. He licked his lips, thirsting to tell her he loved her, that he was ecstatic she was pregnant, that he had been cruel, that he begged her forgiveness—but Felicité’s mocking face rose up behind his eyes, and a cold chill seized his limbs. “Is it mine?” he asked.
Not Perfect
Peri averted her gaze. Hearing Gallien’s husky voice outside her door had confirmed what she already knew—she loved him. Looking into his eyes had only compounded the certainty. She thought for a moment love flickered in those blue depths, but then his cruel question tore her heart asunder.
Fists clenched, teeth gritted, she resolved not to cry any more tears. The unborn child in her belly suddenly seemed twice as heavy. Her back ached, her limbs trembled. But she was tired of his disdain. She had done everything in her power to be a good wife. Without the help and reassurance of her mother-by-marriage, she would have been left alone to navigate the uncertainties and fears of her first pregnancy.
How dare he accuse her of infidelity? If Gallien did not want her love, she would give it to the child she carried. “Welcome home, my lord,” she said coldly, careful not to touch him as she sidled past. “I trust you had an uneventful journey?”
She reached for the latch, hoping he had not detected the tremor in her voice. But he moved swiftly to the door, holding it closed with his hand. “Forgive me, Peri. I am a brute. I know the child is mine.”
She feared her heart might break if she looked at him. He begged forgiveness, but had offered no words of love. She stared at his long fingers, dismayed by the sudden urge to place his elegant hand on her breasts.
When he touched her shoulder his heat burned her to the core and sent wild things fluttering i
n her belly.
“Do you have a kiss of welcome for your pig-headed husband?”
Here was the Gallien of their marriage bed. The Gallien whose husky voice sent ripples of desire from her toes to the top of her head. The gentle and considerate man whose touch she had ached for through the long, lonely months.
She inhaled the smell of healthy male sweat, of leather, of horse. If she looked at his weather-bronzed face she would be lost.
He put both hands on her shoulders and turned her.
She closed her eyes.
He fell to his knees, put his arms around her hips and pulled her to him, his head cradled atop the swelling of her belly. “My child,” he whispered.
She twirled her fingers through his hair, afraid he might hear the erratic beating of her heart. Her most intimate place throbbed with desire, her breasts ached.
After long minutes, he picked her up, cradling her against his chest. “Come to my chamber,” he murmured.
She had no will to resist. He did not love her, but life without him had been unbearable. For the moment his demons had left him. She would accept whatever affection he had to offer.
* * *
Though Peri was pregnant, she was not a burden to Gallien. Why had he acted cruelly? Like a mythical sea monster, Felicité had wound her tentacles around his heart. Would he ever be free of her spell?
He carried Peri to their chamber, her head resting on his chest, her arms around his neck. Her anger at his cruel question had been obvious, but it had softened. Did she feel affection for him, in spite of his unkindness? The warmth of her body penetrated his clothing. His legs trembled as the aroma of potpourri intoxicated his wits. He put her down gently on the bed, nuzzling between her breasts. “I missed your perfume,” he admitted.
Her seductive smile fired his blood and sent rivers of heat flowing from the base of his spine into his loins. He reached into his doublet for the sachet he had carried with him.
Her eyes widened. “You took it with you?”
“Oui, but it has lost its aroma.” He nuzzled her again, inhaling deeply. “I need to refill my senses.”
He cupped the sides of her breasts. They were fuller, he supposed because she was with child. His shaft ached pleasurably. He thanked the saints that the bodice of her gown fastened at the front. He kissed her earlobe, sucking on it briefly while his hand sought to untie the bow of the criss-crossed laces. She moaned as the bodice eased apart, freeing her breasts. Now only the fine linen chemise she wore stood in his way. Her dark nipples pouted at the confining fabric.
She arched her neck as he trailed kisses the length of her jaw.
He accepted the invitation and planted kisses on her throat, sucking, licking and nipping.
“Gallien,” she whispered, digging her fingernails into his scalp.
He pushed the opening of the bodice wider, then lowered his head to suckle the hardened pebble of her nipple through the linen.
She writhed. Being with child had evidently not dulled her passion. Her hunger elated him, but he did not want to harm her or the babe. “I know naught of women who are enceinte. Is it safe?”
She reddened. “Your maman says it is not only safe, but desirable.”
His body warmed as his arousal intensified. He shifted his attentions to her other nipple. Impatiently, she tugged down the neckline of the chemise. Her breasts surged out of their confinement. “I have ached for the touch of your lips on my breasts,” she breathed, reddening further.
His innocent Peri had turned into a sensuous woman. Was it being without his touch for many months that had heightened her need, or had some other stoked the fires in his absence?
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the insidious image of Devlin de Villiers out of his mind. He had to trust she had remained faithful, or he might go mad.
He suckled one nipple noisily, rolling the hardened tip of the other between his thumb and forefinger.
She groaned his name when he tugged the nipple gently.
Having coaxed her to her feet, he unlaced her gown completely, easing it off her shoulders then over her hips. It pooled on the floor with a swish. He helped her step out of it, then kicked it away as he peeled the chemise from her body. When she was naked, he pushed her back gently onto the mattress, admiring the swell of her belly while he quickly disrobed. The blush spread across her breasts. Her beauty awed him.
She motioned him to sit beside her, then took his hands and pressed his fingers firmly to her belly. “Can you feel it?”
His babe moved beneath his touch. He kissed her there. “My babe,” he whispered, his heart full of wonder. “When will he be born?”
She smoothed his hair off his face. “September.”
He lay back for a moment, calculating on his fingers as he gazed into the rafters. “Yuletide,” he asserted with a grin. He had felt remorseful at not giving her a gift, but evidently he had.
He raked his gaze over her again. Alarm tugged at him. “You are already swollen. September seems a long way away.”
She wriggled further onto the bed, opening her legs as her derrière slid over the linens. “Shall we talk all day, or are you going to make love to me?”
* * *
Peri held her breath. Shock registered on Gallien’s face as he stared at her most intimate place. Perhaps she had gone too far, but she was tired of being the mouse. His thick erection betrayed his need for her. She had been without him too long.
Then he grinned and her concerns melted away.
“You have become saucy in my absence, wench.”
His blue eyes darkened as he took hold of the root of his heavy shaft, guiding it to her opening.
She licked her lips, arching her body when the mere touch of his swollen tip on her throbbing nub sent her over the edge into a blissful tumble.
“Come inside, now, now, now,” she urged.
Supporting his weight on his elbows, he gazed down at her, his eyes full of love as he pushed in, then slowly drew out, in, then out.
Would she ever understand the enigma that was Gallien de Montbryce?
She brushed her thumbs over his male nipples. The muscles in his neck tightened. His thrusts became more urgent. Sweat sheened his beautiful bronzed body.
“Mine,” she thought, as he growled his release. “Not perfect, but mine.”
God's Grace
A fter the revelations of Felicité’s betrayal, Gallien had banished her to a remote chamber in the castle’s east wing. As her time drew near, he fled, traveling a few miles south to visit his half cousin at Shelfhoc Hall.
Edwin FitzRam, five years Gallien’s senior, was a trusted friend. Edwin’s mother and father had drowned in the sinking of the Blanche Nef. His brother, Aidan was married and living in Northumbria. His sisters, Blythe and Ragna were also married, the former living in Germany and the latter in Denmark. Aidan had turned over Shelfhoc, their grandmother’s ancestral home, to Edwin six years before. He had come often to Ellesmere to spend time with his nearest kin. He and Gallien had become good friends.
Edwin had never married. His constant companions were his dogs, Cooper and Keefer, a pair of hovawarts, a gift from his German brother-by-marriage Dieter von Wolfenberg. They were not large dogs, but the breed was known for ferocious loyalty to their master. Dieter’s own hovawart, Vormund, had indeed saved his master’s life on one occasion.
It was Edwin who kept Gallien occupied with male pursuits such as hunting and swordplay while Felicité labored. When news came of her death, it was Edwin who shared his grief and relief. He had stayed another sennight at Shelfhoc, wanting no part in the removal of Felicité’s treacherous body. Playing fetch with the dogs for long hours had been good for his soul.
Listening to Peri’s wails as she labored to bring forth his child, Gallien relived the horror of those days. He sought refuge in the family chapel of the church, but her cries of agony followed him there. He knelt, head bowed, on the worn red cushion of the prie-dieu where his father and grandfather h
ad knelt before him, no doubt offering the same supplication. “Please deliver her safely, Lord. I need her.”
He stiffened his spine as another groan rent the air. They were closer together now, lasting longer. He prayed the hours of torment would soon be over.
Dread sat in his belly like a lead ball. What if she died? His mother had been at death’s door after birthing Fleurie. To this day, his father could not repeat the story without his voice cracking. Only the healing skills of Uncle Rhys had saved Carys de Montbryce.
He praised the saints that his mother tended Peri now. She couldn’t be in better hands.
“I long for a child,” he confessed, then hesitated. God might strike him dead for what he was about to ask. He swallowed hard. “But if one of them must die, I beg you to spare my wife.”
A shuddering sob escaped unbidden from his throat when Peri screamed again—a long, guttural shout.
He rested his forehead on the front of the prie-dieu. “My Angevin has become important to me. Little by little she has wormed her way into my heart—a heart I thought never to trust to another again.” He looked up at the altar. “I thank you for her love.”
He knelt for long minutes, thinking he should also thank the goddess Arianrhod, just in case. His legs trembled when it dawned on him everything had fallen silent.
He was sure his knees would buckle if he stood. He would always bear the scars of Felicité’s perfidy, but Peri’s love had restored his confidence, made him a man again. “I cannot lose her now,” he murmured.
He stood, hands braced on the prie-dieu until the dizziness abated. He made the sign of his Savior across his body and turned to leave the church.
Another throaty scream sent icy shivers racing across his nape. He ran from the church, his dying wife’s name a mantra on his lips.
* * *
Carys de Montbryce patted Peri’s hand. “There now. Didn’t I tell you the second one would be easier?”
Infidelity (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 9) Page 13