Arucard (Brethren Origins Book 1) (7 page)

Thy loving father, Lord Rochester

Her
loving
father?  Had he been drunk when he composed the letter, because never had he made such a declaration?  At once, everything inside her railed against her father’s claims, and a wave of nausea rocked her belly, as Isolde believed the worst of him.  And despite her brief association with Arucard, she doubted him not.  Yet Father presented a threat she could neither ignore nor suppress.

Searching the area, as her first instinct was to inform her husband of the dubious request, she frowned when she could not locate her knight.  Soldiers and servants scattered in all directions, setting up tents and lighting fires to service the encampment.  Then she spotted her spouse standing amid his friends, and she steered for him, determined to disclose the entire contents of the malevolent message and seek counsel.

“My lady, I found the ingredients thou dost require, and the chickens art almost ready.”  Stepping into Isolde’s path, Margery wiped her hands on a cloth.  “For the best flavor, thou should pound the breasts whilst they art fresh.  After all, thou dost not want to give thy husband any reason to regret wedding thee.”

When the significance of Margery’s hapless warning struck Isolde, she halted and reconsidered her course of action.  Father’s correspondence marked her as a collaborator of the worst sort, and thither was no guarantee Arucard would believe her an innocent, given their brief association, despite sincere protestations of blamelessness.  A wise woman would soften her husband’s mood before relaying bad news.

“Help me, Margery.”  Isolde thrust the offensive dispatch into her fitchet, grabbed an apron, laced it behind her, and snatched a heavy dowel, which she used to mash the meat.  “Tonight, it is imperative I serve the best blancmange Sir Arucard hath ever tasted.  And send one of the manservants to station a barrel of ale, as my husband prefers it to wine.”

“Yes, my lady.”  The housekeeper half-curtseyed as Isolde poured milk into a pan.  “Shall I set the special table for the two of thee, mayhap, in thy tent?”

“What a wonderful idea—wait.”  Then Isolde snapped her fingers.  “Disregard that order, as I would do something else, entirely.  I want a position of distinction, but not for us, and not in private.  Rather, I would have thee situate enough seating for Sir Arucard and his knights, in a place of honor and prominence, as I would have him know I esteem him and his men.  And I will dine with thee and Anne.”

“But thy place is at Sir Arucard’s side.”  In the makeshift outdoor kitchen, Margery untied a bag, which she handed to Isolde.  “Careful not to burn the milk, my lady.”

“I will take care of this, and thou should secure additional assistance, as we must feed everyone in our traveling party.”  She added rice to the pan and stirred the contents with a wooden spoon.  “And can thou find Anne and have her search out the bread?”

“Now whither did I pack the trenchers?”  With arms folded, Margery furrowed her brow and inspected the various trunks filled with cooking implements.  “Oh, never mind.  Let me see to the dining area, and then I will return to forage for the utensils.”

The despicable petition weighed heavy on her heart and mind, as Isolde tarried, and while her thoughts raced, she could seize upon no clear solution to her quandary.  No matter how she sliced it, the ignoble entreaty put her at odds with her new spouse, when she sought accord.  Wherefore could Father not leave her in peace?

Closing her eyes, she slipped beyond the present and traveled back to her last day at home.  Amid lash after brutal lash, Father made no secret of his utter contempt for her.  Bereft of breath from the exertion necessary to deliver the blows, he sputtered and laughed at her sharp inhalations, which kept rhythm with his beating as she braced for the strike and accompanying pain.  At one point, he professed a deep-seated hatred of Isolde, and she bore his ire to spite him, which seemed to further incite his fury and abuse.

Yea, she could have relented, could have collapsed in a heap of tears and begged him to stop, but she refused to grant him the satisfaction of victory.  Instead, she persevered as she always had, and he thrashed her until he buckled, presumably from exhaustion, and could deliver no more punishment.  And should Sir Arucard develop the same penchant for her flesh and blood, she would respond in similar fashion, even if it killed her, because she knew no other way.

After the small army of servants set up camp, Isolde’s pudding firmed, and Anne assisted in making enough food for everyone else, Margery summoned the group to supper.  As was tradition, the women in the party distributed ample portions to the men and then served themselves.  It was only when Isolde perched on a bench that she chanced a glance at her husband.

Chuckling with his knights, he scooped a bite with his fingers and brought the fare to his mouth.  To her amusement, he paused, sniffed the morsel, and sampled the dish.  When he snapped to attention, peered left and then right, spied her, and waved, she gulped.  Just as quick, he elbowed Demetrius, who scooted to one end, and then Arucard again motioned for her to join him.

Nervous, her fingers shook as she collected her meal and goblet of wine.  With cautious strides, she navigated the sea of travellers until she loomed before her mate and curtseyed.  “My lord.”

“My lady.”  He stood, rounded the table, took her trencher, grasped her hand, and led her to a spot at his side.  “Wherefore dost thou hide with the maids?”

“I did no such thing.”  Too late, she reminded herself not to argue with him, as the husband was always right.  And she had yet to share Father’s diabolical letter.  “I merely show deference, as a good and dutiful wife.”

The knight called Aristide snorted, and Demetrius snickered, but the remaining warriors all but ignored her.

“As a good and dutiful wife, thou should know thy place is with me.”  For a scarce second, Arucard appeared vexed, and then he smiled, which put her at ease, as he settled himself.  “This blancmange is outstanding.  And I must beg my mother’s forbearance, as never have I tasted its equal.  Is that not right, brothers?”

“The pudding is sufficient—
ouch
.”  Aristide flinched and grimaced.  “I mean, yes.  By God’s bones, the food is delicious.”

“The lady Isolde is a fine cook.”  Shifting his weight, Demetrius shot a wicked scowl at Arucard.  “So thou mayest spare my shins, brother.”

“I know not of what thou speak.”  Pounding his fist atop the table, which gave her a start, Arucard narrowed his stare.  “And is that the sum of adulation and gratitude my bride earned for her labors?”

In unison, Geoffrey and Morgan muttered almost incomprehensible compliments.

“Praise, indeed.”  Bowing her head, she bit her tongue to stave off laughter.  To Arucard, she whispered, “Dost thou verily like it?”

To wit he leaned close, winked, and replied, “I would have married thee for thy blancmange, alone.”

#

It was late when Arucard shuffled into the tent he would share with Isolde.  When he drew back the interior panel, he discovered Pellier sitting on a stool near the huge ancere, a wedding present from the King, created to accommodate Arucard’s large frame.

“Whither is Lady Isolde?”  Glancing about the sizable temporary abode, Arucard suspected she remained with the servants, because it had not taken long to discern his wife possessed an admirable work ethic.  “Has she returned from the night’s feast?”

“I would not know, sir.”  The marshalsea carried a towel from the washstand.  “Shall I help thee disrobe and bathe?”

“Do not take insult, old friend.”  After unfastening his belt and stripping off his tunic, Arucard sat on the hastily erected bed and doffed his boots, as he selected his words with care, because he would not incite discord between his bride and his manservant.  “Methinks, mayhap, now I am married, thou should no longer tend my personal needs.  At least, not until I negotiate such details with Lady Isolde.  In future, we shall confine thy services to battle preparation and maintenance of my armor and weapons, unless I command otherwise.”

“A very shrewd decision, my lord.  And I would not ruffle that haughty maid Margery, given her quick temper.”  With a grin, Pellier bowed.  “By thy leave, I wish thee a pleasant rest.”

“And I bid thee the same.”  Heaving a sigh, Arucard stood, walked to the back corner, and opened his trunk.  In pursuit of fresh braies and a clean linen shirt, he flipped through his belongings, secured the necessary items, and then removed his remaining clothing.  Naked, he eased into the ancere, reclined, sank beneath the surface of the hot water, and closed his lids.

In a flash, visions of a green-eyed angel with lush black hair danced in his thoughts.  He had known her for two days, yet she was his woman, and that singular realization inspired all manner of naughty notions and foreign sensations.  Then again, as she was his bride, was it not natural to desire her?

Minutes later, a frolicsome hum snared his attention, and he peeked through his lashes just as Isolde entered the tent.  In the faint light of a single brazier, she had not noticed him, and he sat mesmerized as she stepped from her shoes, lifted her skirts, removed her garters and hosiery, and unbuttoned her cotehardie.  Without warning, his unusually exuberant nether dragon breathed fire.  When she turned, she gazed straight at him and shrieked.

“My lord Arucard, I did not see thee when first I entered our tent.”  In an instant, she averted her stare, and he would wager she blushed, which amused him for some odd reason.  “Let me restore my clothing, and I will wait outside whilst thou dost wash.”

“Do not be foolish.”  In a show of modesty, he shielded his crotch with a small cloth.  “Thou need not—”

“Actually, it is my duty to assist thee.”  Contrary to her outward behavior, which bespoke internal discomfit, the quick alteration in her manner caught him unaware, but when she dropped her outer garment, leaving naught more than her sheer chemise to cover her enthralling female curves, he came alert.  “As thy wife, I should scrub thy back and whatever else thou dost require.  And if it is no inconvenience, I would use the ancere once thou art finished.”

Whatever he had expected her to say, that was not it, and he sloshed water as he sat upright.  It occurred to him then that he had no real concept of the matrimonial state, and they had yet to determine the rules of engagement.  “Isolde, cleanliness is part of my discipline, it is ingrained in my character, and I do not demand such habits of thee.  But if thou dost wish to share my daily ritual, I would have thee bathe first.”

“Art thou always so gallant?”  She knelt beside the ancere, took the soap from his grasp, lathered his chest, and splayed her sudsy palms across his flesh, which again woke his one-eyed dragon. “How didst thou get this scar?”

“In battle.”  Painfully aroused, he hunkered forward in an attempt to conceal his affliction and vowed to master the volatile protuberance, which had grown evermore unpredictable since Isolde entered his life.  “But the wound has long since healed.”

“Wherefore were thou fighting, and who were thee defending?”  The answers to her seemingly harmless questions revealed more than he dared share, until they consummated their union.  She leaned near to scrub his hair.  “And who won the engagement?”

“We safeguarded our beliefs and stood for those who could not protect themselves.”  At that instant, he noticed the front of her slip had dampened, and the wet fabric hid naught from his scrutiny.  Never had he found female breasts so beguiling, as he had no experience with them, but never had he contemplated the singular womanly feature in such close proximity.  The twin crimson-tipped peaks lured him as a bee to honey, and he ached to caress her.  “And we prevailed, my brothers and I.”  Anticipating additional queries, he ceased ogling her body only to find her studying him.

“Wilt thou not touch me?”  Slowly, she clutched his wrist and brought his hand to her mound of firm flesh.  “Art thou not pleased with me?  Dost thou not want me?”

“Isolde, thou dost please me more than thou dost know, and I long to take thee.”  As he cupped, stroked, and explored her oh-so-mesmerizing endowments, her nipple hardened, and she inhaled a rush of breath.  “Did I injure thee?”

“No.”  She licked her lips.  “It is just that never have I been thus affected, and if thou would claim that which is thine by law and the sacrament, I will not oppose thee.”

“A generous offer from a benevolent lady—
my
lady.”  Through the fine linen undergarment, he teased her taut pebble with the pad of his thumb.  Yea, his anatomy could satisfy her, yet his body had not allied with his mind, and he wanted to know more about her prior to negotiating intimacy.  “But I am unprepared for what thou dost ask of me.”

“Wilt thou not send me away?”  The fear in her countenance altered his stance, as it was clear she required validation, of a sort.  “Wilt thou return me to my father for failure to comply with thy wishes?”

“Ah, thou dost not trust me, when I refuse to take thee as a poxy-cheeked strumpet.  And I would allay thy doubts in regard to the constancy of my devotion in advance of our consummation.”  So what could Arucard do, without violating his promise and her maidenhead, as some barbarian boothaler?  Then he recalled her gift in exchange for the servant wenches.  “Come hither, Isolde.”

Cupping her chin, he tilted her head and set his lips to hers.

As before, molten heat poured through his veins, and she flicked her tongue at his.  When she speared her fingers through his hair and moaned; he teetered on the precipice of some odd strength of sentiment he had not experienced since his youth.  His gut tensed, and he clenched his teeth.  Well nigh dizzy from the force of her enthusiasm, he massaged her pliant breast one more time and then retreated.

“Thither now.”  Resting her forehead to his, she rubbed her nose to his and smiled.  “I am appeased, sir.  And I should complete my chore, as the water grows cold, and I do wish to clean myself without catching a cold.”

Just then, she peered into the tub and snatched the cloth.  To his everlasting shame, his healthy and erect man’s yard caught her attention.  For a minute, she held his stare, then glanced at his mouth, and again met his gaze.