Heather Graham (25 page)

With that thought in mind, he came to the keep, leaving the great hall to the bustle of servants who prepared for the wedding feast to follow the ceremony, and walked up the stairs. He stopped by his own room briefly for a package sent by Joan, Prince Edward’s wife, as a gift to his bride. He knew its contents—a sheer white nightdress of the softest spun silk. Hardly useful under the circumstances, but …

He strode the distance to her door, the door to the master’s chambers, at the end of the hallway. Somewhat immersed in thought, he didn’t knock, but pressed open the door before calling her name. “Danielle—”

He broke off. She was seated in a wooden hip tub, elegantly carved, secured with gold-plated steel bands. It stood close to her fire, and she had apparently been quite comfortable in it. Her hair had been washed, and she had combed it out wet, and it now lay with its great length damp and falling back over the rim of the tub and onto the white fur pelt that stretched out behind it.

She was outraged to see him, hugging her knees quickly to her chest as her green eyes sizzled a gemlike stare upon him. “I had not thought Scotland to rival Gascony in many matters of courtesy, but I had believed that men all across the Christian world were chivalrous enough to knock before opening doors to the domains of others.”

“The domain is mine,” he informed her curtly.

“Mine—”

“Mine. I am letting you borrow it—for the
time
being,” he reminded her.

She was hugging her knees more tightly to her, but she couldn’t hide the long elegance of her legs, or the full swell of her breasts.

He wished he’d knocked. His groin ached; he was rising like a banner.

And he had promised her time …

“Adrien, please, what are you doing here?” she cried out, and he was perversely pleased to have her as unnerved as he was.

He walked to her bed with its rich canopy and tapestried spread. He drew open the leather satchel, displaying the beautiful, sheer garment beneath. Her eyes lit upon it, her breath caught.

“A gift from the Princess of Wales, Edward’s wife Joan, Fair Maid of Kent,” he told her curtly. Then he tossed a small glass vial of dark fluid upon the bed. “A
gift
from me as well.”

“Which is … ?” she questioned warily.

“Chicken blood.”

She stared at him blankly.

“To be dotted upon the bed,” he told her, “before morning comes.”

Crimson flooded every visible inch of her, enhancing the emerald of her eyes and shimmering blue-black beauty of her hair. “Thank you,” she managed to say coolly. “Now, my laird, if you please? My water grows cold.”

He meant to walk out of the door; he didn’t quite manage to do so. He strode to the tub, and down upon one knee by her side. The ache to reach out and stroke the ivory clarity of her flesh was almost unbearable.

The ache in his groin was worse. In God’s name, if he didn’t get the hell out quickly …

“Adrien, get out!” The tension in his features must have been a warning to her, for she amended the command quickly. “Please, get out!”

But he didn’t. He reached out, stroking a drop of water from her upper arm, becoming aware that she was trembling where she sat like a cornered rabbit. “I promised to give you time. I never promised to stay out of the master’s chambers, or to pretend that I didn’t gain a wife along with Aville.”

Despite her discomfort and unease, her eyes narrowed sharply. “Aville remains, mine.”

“You gain more than I do as it is, Countess. I become count here, but you, milady, are now marrying an earl.”

She stared at him boldly. “You are only an earl because Edward gave you the title when
I
agreed to become betrothed to you.”

“Countess, anything I have gained from you, I have earned! I fear that I have had a much easier time of it dealing with armed enemies!”

She swallowed suddenly, eyes closing briefly, and he was stricken with the misery that seemed to fill her. “Adrien, I am not stone, not a wall, not a fortress or a keep! You have spun my world around in a matter of hours, and now you taunt me here. You find fault with me, while considering me to be nothing more than the woman who came along with the fortress. Well, sir, quite bluntly, it was my understanding that while you were mourning Joanna, you bedded half the women in England, Scotland, and the Continent. Forgive me if I—who have done nothing but listen to poets and musicians—bear a certain reticence regarding you!”

He hadn’t wanted to smile, and certainly did not give in, for at that moment, he would have traded every title and all the land he owned just to possess her. But though she quivered beneath his eyes, she hadn’t lost a bit of her own fire, and though he was determined not to retreat quickly and at her command, he had decided that he would leave. He arched a brow to her. “
Half
of the women in all Scotland, England, and the Continent? Surely not!” He rose then and walked to the door. He frowned as he turned back to her. “Surely, it was not more than … a
third?”
He exited, closing the door behind him quickly. Just as he had suspected, something slammed against it. The soap, he imagined. He opened the door again quickly, just peeking his head in. “Be ready with those vows, Countess. Dusk falls within the hour. I will await you in the hall, and we’ll go to the chapel together.”

She swore, and threw a shoe next. It had lain a little distance from the tub and she’d had to reach to get it, displaying the full, firm, roundness of her breasts. Her nipples were tantalizingly large, rouge, and pebble-tipped. From the water growing cold, he wondered?

He closed the door again before the shoe could hit him and he leaned against it, listening to her swear at him.

Ah, well, she could curse him no more than he could curse himself. She still had her time.

And he had a raw, hungry agony twisting through him, haunting him, tormenting him.

He left the doorway and hurried downstairs, staring into the fire there. Rem came upon him, offering him another goblet of their finest wine. He thanked Rem, and drank deeply.

A while later, he was aware that she had come down the stairs. She had dressed in elegant blue for the night. The soft sleeves of her undergown fell in long folds down her arms; the royal blue of her tunic, richly embroidered with blue thread at the bodice, hugged her breasts, then fell in a soft flow as well. A veil of blue mist swept down over her hair from a gold filigree headpiece, beautiful in its simplicity.

She didn’t look his way, but strode toward the table—where the wine waited. She poured herself a goblet, drank down the contents quickly, and poured another. He watched as she swallowed that one down and began to pour a third. He strode across the room to her, taking the carafe and the goblet from her and setting them down firmly.

“Just how drunk, milady, do you feel you need to be to take these vows?”

“Very,” she assured him solemnly, reaching for her goblet again. He held it away from her.

“Alas! I’m afraid I cannot allow you to fall flat on your face in the middle of the proceedings.”

“One more!” she whispered, and added with both dignity and disdain, “I have been drinking this wine all my life. I fear that I could not possibly drink enough to fall flat on my face.”

“Let’s take no chances, eh?” he suggested. Holding her arm, he spun her around, walking with her from the hall.

“Most brides demand some ceremony with such an affair. A gown, a jewel, flowers.”

“Most brides intend to sleep with their husbands,” he reminded her politely.

“Who will act as my guardian here?” she asked quickly, swiftly veering from the dangerous path she had taken.

“Doctor Coutin, in the name of Edward III.”

They had come out of the hall. Out of the courtyard, Danielle’s people waited—carpenters, masons, farmers, maids, men-at-arms and their ladies. A cheer went up, and flowers were thrown.

All the flowers Danielle might have wanted.

She had been bred and raised to her station, Adrien was glad to see, for she instinctively responded to those who had given her their fealty, taking flowers from little barefoot girls, thanking her well-wishers sincerely. They reached the chapel where Doctor Coutin took her hand to walk her to the altar where Father Josef waited. The wine, he thought, had helped her; her eyes were glazed. When they fell upon her cousin Simon, who stood as tense as steel in a side pew with Lady Jeanette, Monteine, and others of the household, her lashes fell.

But not before Adrien had seen her gaze of abject misery. A scalding streak of jealousy ripped through him. Simon would quickly come to his reckoning. As to Danielle, if she had betrayed him …

Father Josef was droning on. Doctor Coutin said all the proper words on the king’s behalf. Adrien gave his vows quickly.

Danielle seemed to choke over each word she said.

But it didn’t matter; she spoke her vows, and without coercion, and in front of a goodly number of witnesses. The ceremony ended; Father Josef instructed him to take his bride in a kiss.

It was all that he was going to get. And Simon was watching. Adrien wanted the Frenchman to see that he was well aware of his wife’s attributes.

He drew her into his arms, cupped her nape with his hand, and forced her mouth to surrender to his. His mouth crushed down upon her lips and parted them. His tongue thrust within and he tasted the sweet mint she had chewed. Her fingers clasped the loose sleeves of the shirt he wore beneath his tunic, hard, protesting. He didn’t ease his hold, or his kiss, raking her mouth again and again with his tongue, exploring, delving deeper and deeper into the sweet, seductive warmth of the kiss she had not chosen to give. She was fire in his arms, angry, and wild, agonizingly sweet to touch and taste, to hold and crush against him. To feel. Her hair cascaded like black silk over his fingers, entangling them, like the softest ebony webs …

When he released her, she staggered and nearly fell. Her eyes were brilliantly green as they clashed with his, offering a furious reproach as he steadied her. She gasped for breath; her lips were damp, swollen.

He wanted her all the more …

But the two of them were suddenly parted as well-wishers sprang forward. Monteine and Lady Jeanette kissed him, his men rushed forward to pummel his back or shake his hand. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Danielle fared much the same—his knights, her men-at-arms. Others rushed forward, all offering brief kisses on the cheeks, a few on the lips.

Then there was Simon. The crush in the church had taken Adrien far from Danielle, but he was close enough to see Simon take her into his arms. And he saw the way Simon kissed her …

It wasn’t as long as his first kiss for his bride, perhaps not as dramatic or passionate, but it was too damned intimate. Adrien felt as if all the fires of hell arose within him. He wanted to kill the Frenchman.

Before he could reach Danielle again, the two had parted. But he had seen them talking, whispering words they had not wanted others to hear.

Just what were they planning?

Simon disappeared into the crowded courtyard when Adrien came to claim his bride, pale now as she accepted the hand he offered her to return to the hall. She didn’t glance his way as they walked together.

The great table had been set to accommodate the crowd, with an ell added to each side. He took his place with Danielle at the head of it while his men and her ladies were seated according to their rank and position. A musician already played a lute in the center created by the ells of the two added tables. Food, elegantly displayed, was set out in abundance—peacocks with their feathers spread, pheasant and other fowl, a huge boar with his lips formed into a snarl, a multitude of fish, fresh water eels, deer.

At his side, Danielle sat, pale and still. She didn’t touch a bite; she barely sipped her wine. She seemed glad not to have to speak to him since they were continually approached by those who wished them God’s blessing and a fertile union.

The hour grew late. Danielle leapt up at last, spinning around to tell him softly, “My lord, this contest, like all others, has been yours. I am in agony. My head is splitting. I must go to bed. To—to sleep.”

He rose with her. “I have not taken this contest, my lady. It is scarcely a draw. Since you are intending to go to bed—to sleep.” She ignored him and turned to leave. Apparently, she hadn’t attended many weddings because she seemed truly stunned when she discovered that her ladies had been waiting for her to rise. They captured her arms to lead her, laughing and shouting, up the stairs. A few moments later he found himself so taken by his men, and brought upstairs to his guest chamber where they stripped him and decked him in a fur-lined robe before rushing him on to the master’s chamber to meet his bride.

Her flesh seemed as white as the sheer fabric that barely covered her. The nightdress was elegant in itself but upon her, it all but had life of its own. Sweeping, soft, hugging her breasts, clinging to her hips, leaving just a hint of the rouge of her nipples, the raven’s silk of the black triangle at the apex of her thighs. Her hair was free, brushed to an exotic gloss, spilling over the snow white gown and her own ashen countenance.

She had surely brought an ache to the groin of every able-bodied man in the room.

Including Simon. Indeed, the wretch was there, in the crowd, a forced smile upon his lips, anger in his eyes.

A wild cheer went up as Adrien and Danielle were thrown together. He swept his cumbersome robe around them both, fighting the intoxication of the feel of her soft flesh and the fullness of her breasts as he shouted out, “Enough, friends! Leave us be now!”

“To bed, to bed!” called a drunken knight.

“Out!” he commanded again, and good-naturedly, the knight gave way, turning with a groan to exit the bedchamber. The others began to follow him, until one by one, the merrymakers were gone.

The door shut behind them.

Danielle slipped from his hold instantly, hurrying across the room to hug her arms against her chest as she stared back at him with wild eyes. “I fulfilled my part of this!” she whispered huskily. “Please, Adrien, now you keep your promise. Go!”