Hearts and Crowns (8 page)

He would maim Montbryce, but leave him alive to grieve his loss.

Peri and Gallien were afforded the honor of sitting in the intricately carved lord and lady’s chairs on the dais. A dull ache throbbed behind Peri’s eyes as she watched liveried servants enter the hall bearing platter after platter laden with roasted fowl—chicken, pheasant, swan. Everything looked and smelled delicious.

She was near faint with hunger, but her belly rebelled when her husband offered a choice piece of pheasant. She avoided his gaze, confused by the wanton urges that had surged through her body at their first kiss.

She did not know how to kiss a man, but the warmth of Gallien’s lips and the coaxing of his tongue had ignited a fire in her veins. The lovely gown she wore had suddenly felt confining, tight around her breasts. Heat had pooled low in her belly and moisture flooded between her legs. A strange sound had emerged of its own volition from her throat.

Gallien had seemed as surprised as she by the kiss.

She wanted to be a good wife, but if she enjoyed her husband’s touch would it be a betrayal of Geoffrey?

Her beloved had ridden off with his entourage immediately after the ceremony, leaving her feeling both bereft and relieved. He had taken his leave in a courtly manner, though his lips had lingered a little too long on her knuckles. The indiscretion had not gone unnoticed by her scowling husband, but she doubted he suspected her affection for Geoffrey.

Townsfolk and castle folk joined in the feast, the raucous noise as they ate and drank evidence of their happiness at the occasion. They cheered the appearance of each new hearty dish.

Ale flowed freely with many a tankard raised to the health of the newlyweds. Musicians played shawms, nakers and rebecs, accompanying
jongleurs
who sang and danced to entertain the crowd.

Her husband’s husky voice penetrated the din, interrupting her reverie. “You must eat something. It’s our wedding feast. At least try the pheasant. Cook knows it’s my favourite dish.”

His words held no censure, yet there was no enthusiasm either. It was the first inkling of anything personal he had shared with her. In other circumstances she might have laughed and confided that her favourite food was venison because it was a rare treat in Pontrouge, but now it seemed inappropriate. He had shown no interest in getting to know her. She pressed her fingertips to the back of her neck, lifting her head to relieve the ache. She closed her eyes as the room tilted. “Mayhap bread.”

His warm palm touched her forehead. “Are you ill?”

Her eyes flew open. His heat sent soothing shivers down her spine. Had she groaned with relief at the touch? “A headache,
milord
, nothing more. The excitement of the day.”

To her surprise, he turned his head to speak to his mother, but his hand remained on her forehead. “
Maman
, Peridotte’s head pains her. A tisane perhaps?”

The Countess smiled, summoned a servant, and sent the girl off on an errand.

Gallien frowned, studying his wife’s face. “It’s rumored some women feign a headache to avoid the duties of the marriage bed.”

She gritted her teeth. She had never spat upon another person, but was sorely tempted now. The ache sharpened as her body heated. She gathered spittle in her dry mouth.

He smiled. “But those green eyes tell me your pain is real.”

Had there existed a more infuriating man?

He moved his hand to finger her elaborate braids. “Small wonder your head aches with your hair tightly bound up. I am anxious to undo it.”

They were the first words of intimacy he had spoken to her. A fledgling hope he might grow to like her rose in her breast. She averted her eyes from his intense gaze. “
Milord
,” she whispered.

He leaned closer. “My name is Gallien. You are my wife and I do not intend to call you Milady. I shall call you by your name—Peridotte.”

Her name on his lips echoed in her belly. “Gallien,” she murmured, glad again of the sachet of potpourri. “My parents call me Peri.”

“What is the enticing perfume you wear, Peri?” he asked suddenly.

~~~

It was driving him out of his wits. He did not want to like this woman he had been forced to marry, but his arousal spiked when she was near him. Felicité had never roused him to such a degree, and after her betrayal he could not bear to touch her. He had not bedded her again after their wedding night. Indeed, no woman had stirred his interest since—until Peri.

His new wife was ailing and he wanted to soothe away the discomfort. Later, in their bedchamber, she would bring relief to his ache.

Dieu
! Was it her perfume intoxicating him? And that kiss. He would warrant by the look of shock in her eyes it was the first time she had kissed a man. And she had enjoyed it. Was she wanton, or did she find him attractive?

“Potpourri.”

Gallien winced at the hint of fear in her voice. He intimidated her. Now he had the name of the perfume he was no wiser. He’d never heard of potpourri.

One of his mother’s apprentices came to the dais with a tisane, offering it to his wife. “Milady Countess’s cure for an aching head,” she explained.

Peri accepted the steaming cup, inhaled deeply and smiled. “It smells wonderful.”

His erection turned to granite. Her smile sparkled in her green eyes, lighting up her face and his heart.

She sipped the brew, licking her lips. He fancied those full red lips sucking intimate parts of his body. Liquid fire raced through his veins.

Hope that this woman would not be another Felicité curled its warm tendrils around his frozen heart. But then he remembered she loved another and caution stomped the fledgling hopes into submission.

Peri’s headache had disappeared by the time her chair was hoisted onto the shoulders of two brawny men. She clutched the carved wooden arms, not daring to look down at her dangling feet. “I hope you have not imbibed too much ale,” she chided her bearers.

They laughed, winking at each other.

Gallien was lifted onto broad shoulders, his chair left behind. The scowl that often marred his beauty was gone, and he seemed to be enjoying the bawdy comments of the boisterous crowd bearing them to bed. “Wait until it’s your turn,” he called to his brother.

Her heart lurched. Soon she would lie naked with this tall, well-muscled warrior. He would touch intimate parts of her body, places even she had never touched. Fermentine had told of things men did to their wives in the bedchamber, but Peri had covered her ears in disbelief. Her body heated now at the memory. What if Fermentine had spoken the truth about bodies joining? How was such a thing possible?

She had no brothers and only a vague notion of what Fermentine referred to as her husband’s
shaft
. Was it the bulge Geoffrey seemed swaggeringly proud of?

But her sister had claimed there was no pleasure for the woman in a man’s bed. It was a wife’s duty to submit.

For some reason the throbbing in Peri’s head had moved to between her legs, though it was a different, more pleasurable ache.

She caught Gallien’s eye. He smiled at her briefly, but his half-hooded eyes betrayed his uncertainty.

He is as nervous as I!

Her heart was beating too fast. She tightened her grip on the arms of the chair, fearing she might tumble from the swaying conveyance. Surely Gallien de Montbryce had bedded women before? What young handsome knight had not?

Perhaps he preferred men. She had heard whispers of such at Westminster and had encountered men who might well be mistaken for women but for the clothes they wore. Mayhap therein lay his reluctance to marry.

Her belly roiled at the thought and she dismissed it quickly. As her chair was lowered clumsily to the floor in the bridal chamber, she said a silent prayer to Mary Magdalene. “Help me be a good wife. Let my husband not hate me.”

~~~

Gallien endured the good natured ribbing patiently, and the pushing and shoving as his friends disrobed him, but his eyes darted furtively around his chamber.

No trace remained of Felicité. She had slept here only one night. Her belongings had been burned, the room blessed by the bishop after her death. He had filled the chamber with manly things. Trophies of war and hunting decorated the walls.

Yet when he looked at the bed, his dead wife’s mocking sneer loomed up—she flaunted her naked body, the body another man had claimed before him. Was he so hateful that a woman would spurn him cruelly?

He hazarded a glance to where his mother and sisters prepared his wife behind an improvised screen. She feared him, and no wonder. He had done nothing to inspire her love. To what purpose? She loved another.

Étienne taunted him with his bed robe, obliging Gallien to stand naked, arms folded, tolerating the giggles and bawdy comments about his aroused state. He was proud of his body, but Felicité’s rejection had cut deep. She had evidently found nothing attractive about him. His prematurely white hair made him feel older. Peri too would likely be repulsed.

A hush fell as his bride appeared from behind the screen. Her beauty awed him. The fine muslin nightrail did little to hide her ripe breasts and shapely hips. Disappointment flared that her hair had already been unpinned. But the glowing red locks cascading in flowing ripples down her back to below her
derrière
made him weak at the knees. A man could forget all his troubles wrapped in such tresses.

She hesitated when the cheers and congratulations broke out again, swaying as she clutched her maidservant’s arm. She stared at the floor, averting her gaze from his nakedness.

He wanted to stride across the chamber and take her in his arms. He clenched his fists at his sides, itching to sweep the gawkers from the chamber. He thirsted to rip the nightrail from her body, nestle his nose in the potpourri’s hiding place, and plunge into the ripeness her body promised.

But his fear held him in its thrall. Felicité had presented such a vision on their wedding night. He had rushed to claim her body and spilled his seed, only to discover her treachery.

The memory came rushing back. “Remove your nightrail,” he rasped.

The crowd fell silent. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his father’s face redden in anger. Étienne clutched the pilfered bed robe to his chest, his head bowed.

His mother, standing behind Peri, glared, shaking her head at him.

Peri gasped. She glanced up at him sharply, then looked away quickly, but he had to finish what he had started. “We must be assured you are without blemish.”

~~~

Peri lifted her chin to stare at the rafters. Her husband wanted to humiliate her. She had hoped he was starting to have a fondness for her, but now she recognized the depth of his hatred and resentment. He stood brazenly naked before her. Despite her determination not to look at the flesh jutting from between his legs, her chin dropped and her gaze wandered there. A fleeting memory of Terak’s carthorse appeared behind her eyes. This was a shaft?

Shame, embarrassment, and curiosity warred within her. Perhaps men were proud to display their nakedness, but surely he recognized the humiliation this would cause her?

Gritting her teeth, she nodded to Alys.

Her maidservant stepped forward, bowed, and brushed away the welling tears with her thumbs. Carefully she pulled loose the bow at Peri’s shoulder. The fabric fell forward, exposing one breast.

Peri held her breath.

Feet shifted, the only sound in the chamber.

“’Twill be only for a moment,” Alys whispered.

Once the second bow was untied, the nightrail slipped silently to the floor.

Peri felt Gallien’s eyes burn into her skin as the uncomfortable silence grew.

After an eternity, a bed robe was slipped around her shoulders. She clutched it to her body. Warm arms cradled her. Shivering despite the hearty fire in the hearth, she turned her face to her mother-by-marriage’s breast, determined not to cry. She would not give her husband the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt her. Perhaps this was something expected of brides. Fermentine had not mentioned it.

“Are you satisfied?” the Countess spat at her son, as she helped Peri into the bed. “
Milord
husband, let us invite our guests to leave this chamber forthwith.”

Baudoin ushered out the now silent well-wishers.

Peri was left alone with her naked husband.

Gallien stood in the silent chamber, eyes tightly closed, conjuring a vision of his wife’s perfect body gleaming in the glow cast by the fire. For a moment, he had believed he stared at a sprite born of the flames, her red hair a blazing banner around her delicate shoulders.

Her beauty stunned him. But his fear had caused him to humiliate her. She would never come to love him now. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

Wrapped in the robe, she lay huddled on the edge of the bed, her face buried in the bolster, her shoulders hunched. He pulled back the linens and eased onto the other side of the bed. He wanted to make amends. This was not a good beginning, but what to say to repair the damage he had wrought?

He put his hand on her shoulder.
“
Je m’excuse
, Peri. I’m sorry.
My first wife—”

She whirled her head to look at him, her eyes wide.

Why in the name of all that was holy had he mentioned Felicité? It was the last thing he wanted to discuss this night.

“You were married before?”

He pursed his lips. “
Oui
. She died.”

~~~

Everything became clear instantly. His beloved wife had died, leaving him bereft and heartbroken. His heart belonged to a dead woman. “I did not know,” she murmured. “I am sorry.”

He shrugged. “That is in the past. You and I must face a future together.”

It was not a declaration of undying love, but it warmed her. He had slept with his first wife in this same bed, yet now seemed resigned to this marriage. She would try her best to make him happy, but his enduring love for his first wife gave validity to her
tendresse
for Geoffrey.

Their bodies might join, but their hearts never could.

She savoured his male scent. Her husband lay inches away, his heat warming her though his hand no longer rested on her shoulder. She wanted him to touch her again. She liked the strange sensations his caress brought to her belly and other unmentionable parts of her body. She had an urge to trace a finger along the appendage she had glimpsed.

She turned to face him, aware the unfastened robe had fallen open to reveal more of her breasts than anyone had ever seen. Strangely, she felt no embarrassment. Though covered, her nipples pouted against the flimsy fabric. She looked up at him. His eyes had darkened to a deeper shade of blue.

Without warning, he leaned forward to swirl his tongue over one nipple. When Geoffrey had touched her nipple, her instinct had been to push him away, but now she cautiously entwined her fingers in Gallien’s long hair, holding his head to her breast as he suckled through the fabric. Hot desire pulsated from her breast, down her spine, up the backs of her thighs and thence to her woman’s place. “Husband,” she whispered throatily.

He leaned back, studying her face. Her gaze fell on his broad chest. She had never seen a man’s bare torso before. The light dusting of hair between his nipples was dark. Afraid to look him in the eye, she trailed a fingertip down the narrow line of hair leading from his chest to his belly, but there her courage deserted her. He took hold of her hand and pressed it against his shaft, inhaling sharply when she moved her fingers on him.

“It’s silky,” she whispered, as her most intimate place clenched, heating her from head to toe. She had a wanton urge to touch her lips to the flesh that seemed to grow bigger by the second. “And thick.”

Smiling broadly, he took hold of her hand, pressing it to the bolster behind her head. “Words every man wants to hear. But, there is time yet for that.”

The rare smile was her complete undoing, though she had no idea what he meant. He entwined his fingers with hers, then bent to suckle the other nipple. A growl escaped unbidden from her throat as wet heat erupted between her legs.

He left off suckling. “You like that,” he teased.

She felt her face redden. Fermentine had said there was no pleasure, but the sensations overwhelming her body were beyond pleasure. Perhaps she was not supposed to have these feelings. She could only nod.

He smiled again and her heart lifted at the sight. “Me too,” he rasped, his voice huskier than usual. She felt the sound in her toes.

He pushed the robe from her shoulders. “Take this off.”

~~~

Gallien kicked the linens to the foot of the bed as Peri peeled the bed robe from her body. Blood rushed to his already swollen arousal when she lifted her hips to ease the fabric from beneath her body.

She blushed fiercely when he parted her legs and knelt between them. He leaned forward to cup her breasts, lifting them apart. He pressed his nose into the valley he had created, inhaling deeply. “I knew it,” he exclaimed. “This where you hide your elusive perfume.”

She looked at him as if he had lost his wits, then threw her head back when he brushed his thumbs over the dark nipples.

It would seem he had married a woman of passion. But would she save her passion for him alone? If she loved another, how could she give herself to him? It unnerved him that her love was what he craved. Therein lay madness if she betrayed him. What had happened to his resolve to guard his heart?

He threaded his fingers into the hair framing her face and nibbled her lower lip. She opened to him immediately. Lust roared through his veins as he savoured the warmth of her mouth, tasted apple brandy. She whimpered as her tongue dueled with his, rendering their first kiss at the door of the church chaste in comparison.

He sucked her tongue into his mouth, then trailed his fingertips down her belly to play with the damp curls at her mons. A vision of her standing naked by the fire danced behind his eyes once more. The soft curls were the same flaming red as the hair on her head. The memory fueled his passion as he touched his fingers to her nether lips, certain she would be warm and wet. For him.

She moaned into his mouth as her juices coated his fingers. He found the pouting bud of her desire and stroked, sliding his finger inside after each caress, hoping she would not become alarmed. She writhed, tearing her mouth away from his to catch her breath. Her green eyes glowed with arousal, but there was uncertainty there too. “You’re doing well,” he whispered.

She smiled nervously. It was humbling that she trusted him after his cold cruelty. The intensely pleasurable ache of his arousal urged him to enter her, and soon, but he wanted her to release. He stroked faster, sliding two fingers a little deeper. She arched off the bed, stammering his name over and over, her fingernails digging into his flesh.

He lifted her hips. She gazed into his eyes and locked her legs around him. He guided the head of his shaft into her opening and plunged. She stiffened, clutching him more tightly as he tore through her maidenhead. It came to him he had been holding his breath.