The Dumont Bride (15 page)

H
e watched her leave for her chambers after she fell asleep the second time. Knowing how worn-out she must be from the traveling and her reunion, he thought she would have retired on her own. The stubborn streak he saw this night, he had glimpsed several times in past weeks. Emalie stayed at the betrothal celebration much longer than he had expected.

Finally she had given in to Fayth’s request and accompanied her above stairs. The two women walked off, arm in arm, whispering like children. He relaxed now that he knew she would not end up facedown in the platter of tarts and cakes that was served last.

Sooner than he thought, he, too, was feeling the call of sleep. His host noticed and asked one of the servants to guide him to his chambers. His steps slowed as he followed behind. After a few minutes, he stood outside the room assigned to him. Pushing the door open, he was surprised to see Emalie sitting on a stool near the bed.

“There is a shortage of rooms because of all the wedding guests, my lord.”

“Since Durwyn’s manor is not half the size of Greystone, I am not surprised.”

“As his liege lord, he has given you, given us, the largest chamber to use.”

She was nervous. They had to share this room and that bed for their stay here and she was nervous about it.

And as the tightness in his stomach told him, so was he.

“At least we do not have to share the room with Geoffrey. He snores loud enough to wake the cattle in old Foster’s pens.”

She laughed and stood. “I think we can manage this, my lord.” She shrugged her robe from her shoulders and laid it on the stool. Lifting the bedcovers, she slid beneath them.

He usually slept naked. Deciding that some discretion was needed, he unlaced and removed his tunic and the shirt underneath it, but left on the breeches below those. Although her eyes were closed when he looked over at her, he sensed that she was watching him. Christian waited only a moment before climbing in with her.

They were not going to manage this. After admitting to himself just today that he wanted her, this was poor timing indeed. Christian shifted, trying to find a spot on the mattress without getting too close.

He settled on his side, facing away from Emalie, and tried to fall asleep. Even the silence of the room and his fatigue did not help. She had not made a sound and he hoped she was successful when he had not been. Turning carefully, to not disturb her, he found himself looking into Emalie’s eyes.

She lay on her back, with the covers pulled up to
her neck. And she was wide-awake. He watched as the low flames in the hearth lit her face. The urge to kiss her was overwhelming him.

He reached up and traced the contours of her cheeks and her nose. She held her breath with every touch, but did not naysay him or move from him.

“I fear this is not going to work, Emalie,” he whispered to her. He slid his fingers down onto her neck, running them along the edge of the covers she held and her gown. He smiled when he heard her breath catch again.

“My lord?”

“I want you, my lady,” he said, moving his hand ever lower. He did not bother to move the covers yet, for he did not want to startle her into objection. Christian rested his hand on the swell of her breasts and waited for her reaction. ’Twas not long in coming.

They were fuller against his hand than the last time, and he laughed at how he even remembered the difference. But the tips puckered the same when touched.

“My lord,” she said, placing her hand on his.

“Emalie?” he said softly.

“You do not have to do this.”

“I do not?”

“Nay, my lord. I am certain that a willing maid could be found to accommodate your needs.”

He lifted his hand from her and sat up, pushing the covers back. Getting out of bed, he was dazed by her words.

“A willing maid, Emalie? Is that what you think I want?”

Emalie sat up now and watched him move around the bed toward her. Her hair tumbled over her shoulder and framed her face and neck in firelit waves of bur
nished gold. The itch in his hands to wrap it around him grew until he could not control it—and he did not want to.

Did she now fear what they had come so close to once before? He knew she had gained pleasure from it. Did this also change now?

“Are you afraid of me, Emalie?”

She shook her head. “Nay, my lord.”

“Are you afraid of what will happen between us if we continue?”

“I do not think so, my lord.”

“Then why do you suggest that I find someone else instead of pleasuring my wife?”

He received the blush he had hoped for. She stammered getting the words out.

“I thought that, since you had sought out Lyssa and Belle over these past months, you would prefer someone else, my lord.”

If she had not been serious, he would have laughed out loud. Prefer serving wenches to her? She had no idea that his attempts to substitute them for her had been such a dismal failure. Should he tell her?

He sat on the edge of the bed, forcing her to move toward the center.

“I want
you,
Emalie, as much now as I have since I saw you for the first time, standing over me in my bath.”

“I have heard that a man can content himself with any woman when the urge is upon him.”

He did laugh, then. “Who has told you such words of wisdom?”

She hesitated before answering him, but finally revealed her source. “The lady Fatin.”

He smiled at the answer. If anyone knew about men,
it would be Fatin. How shocked his wife and everyone who met Luc’s wife would be to discover that she had spent years as a bed slave to a very wealthy merchant near Jerusalem who shared her favors with his favorite customers. ’Twas how Luc had met her the first time.

He could not help but wonder what other bits of wisdom Fatin had shared with Emalie. “You discussed this with Fatin?” She nodded. “Why would you ask her about such things?”

“I know of her past, my lord. I could think of no other who I could ask, as you say, such things.”

It was his turn to be amazed; once again Emalie had surprised him. “You know of her life before Luc and you still accept her presence? You sit at table with her and protect her within your women?”

“Some would say that there is no difference between Fatin and I, my lord.”

Her words hit him like a blow. She was correct—a woman who took a man unto her outside the bonds of marriage was a whore; whether she was paid for her actions was of no import. Somehow though, assigning that name to her was not possible. And if she told the truth, the circumstances had been different for Emalie. To this day, his wife gave no indication of seeking a man’s attention. Not even, to his regret, his.

“Do you think of yourself in that way?”

“I have found, my lord, that those who would call me such, if the truth was known, would care not for what I think.”

He frowned at her truth. It hit him too close to the mark, for he did think like that. If a noblewoman lost her virtue, she lost all. He shook his head, for he could not honestly say that of Emalie.

In spite of her dishonor, she remained kind and gra
cious and caring. In spite of losing her virtue, the good qualities she carried within were still there and anyone with eyes could see it. Anyone who thought less of her for her mistake…

He thought less of her.

He had not accepted the good within her.

He could not accept and act on the honor that was within him.

Standing, he reached for his shirt and tunic. He needed to think on this. He could not make this marriage a true one until he understood the truth within each of them.

“In truth, Emalie, I came here with seduction on my mind.” He wrapped his belt around his hips and tugged it tightly into place. “But your words have disturbed me and I would think on them.”

“Please, my lord. Stay.” Her voice trembled now. He could tell that she was worried that he was angry.

“Fear not, Emalie. I will not sleep with another woman and have not since our marriage.” Her expression hardened as he watched. “Although I tried to replace you with others in my bed, I failed miserably.”

“Lyssa? Belle?” Again he could see that she had to force out the names that were so distasteful to her.

“The intent was there on my part—I confess to that. But even with wine to help my efforts, I could not take another when ’twas you I wanted all along.”

He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. He swore they softened under his in welcome, but he pulled away and walked to the door. “I will return anon. I just need some air.”

Leaving the chamber quietly, he made his way down to the hall, then out to the courtyard and toward the one storage barn within the wall. Durwyn was using
every inch of space for guests and those who accompanied and served them. Christian knew that Luc was sleeping there. Although he never stopped, several guards nodded their greetings to him as he passed.

Pulling open the side door, Christian stepped inside and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light given off by only a few small lanterns. The sounds of deep snores filled the large open space and were interspersed with other sounds that could only be from a certain type of activity. Seeing a loft raised on one side of the barn, he knew that it was the origination for the noises of coupling that echoed through the building.

Moving among the rows of sleeping men, he finally located Luc and shook him awake. They met outside a few minutes later and walked away from the building; Christian preferred that their words not be overheard.

“I had thought I would get some good sleep without Fatin here to keep me awake through the night,” Luc complained dryly.

“Do not begrudge your friend a few moments of your precious sleeping time. Come,” he said, nodding toward the courtyard, “walk with me.”

Luc yawned constantly as they began to circle the manor house. Christian pondered how to ask the question that haunted him the most. After they passed the same guards for the third time, Luc stopped.

“Now. Ask it now or I am back to that miserable pallet in the barn.” Luc crossed his arms over his chest and moved no farther.

He had no choice now. If he wanted to understand the feelings that raged within him, he needed his friend’s advice.

“How can you keep her as your wife knowing that she has had so many before you?”

Luc’s face turned beet-red and he reached out and cuffed Christian on the head. Not enough to hurt, but Christian got the message that he had annoyed his friend. They had never discussed this, even on Luc’s return from the Holy Lands with a wife in tow. Luc had matter-of-factly informed his liege lord of his marriage and introduced the exotic beauty who was his wife. It was not until one drunken night when things were very difficult for them that the truth had been revealed.

“Because, you imbecile, I am content in knowing that no matter who came before me, I am the last man she will have.”

“It does not bother you that she has—” He did not finish because Luc grabbed his tunic and twisted it around his neck, making words impossible.

“If you were not my liege, I would pound you into the ground right here at my feet for the insult you offer my wife.” Luc released him with a push and it took Christian a few moments to regain his breath.

“I mean no insult, Luc. I seek to understand.”

“I saved her from the massacre because of the pleasure she offered, but she accepted my offer to marry because we have so much more than that.”

He knew he should stop, but the answer that he needed had not been given yet.

“But how do you accept the dishonor of what she did before you?”

He knew he was in trouble, for he saw the glare of Luc’s eyes as his friend threw the punch at him. Landing hard in the dirt, he waved Luc off.

“Dishonor? Where is there dishonor?” Luc growled
with the words. “I do not profess to understand or accept the infidel’s ways, but Fatin was raised to be what she became. There was no dishonor in it. She is a good person, a caring person, a forgiving person. That is all that matters to me.” Luc tightened and opened his fists as he spoke.

From his place on the ground, Christian thought about his words. His friend was right—honor was more about how a person lived their life than a title regained through coin or service. Emalie had never lost her honor, because she was still the good woman who put her people’s needs first. No night of shame could take away what she really was.

Just as no declaration by the king would restore his honor. If he had not lost it by his own behavior and deeds, then it was still his own. His lack of acceptance of Emalie did indeed threaten that which he pursued with such effort, for he could not treat the woman he had taken as his wife so dishonorably without losing it in reality.

“My thanks,” he said, climbing back to his feet. “Your words have made me see the error in my thinking and in my ways.” Swiping the dirt from his tunic, Christian offered Luc his hand.

Luc hesitated before reaching out his own hand. “I thought you had made peace with your lady?”

“We have, on many issues, save one.”

“Come here and let me knock some sense into that thick head of yours.” Luc reached out and tried to grab his tunic again. “Go, make peace with her, Christian, before you lose all she brings to you.”

When he started to reply, Luc continued. “And I do not refer to titles or lands or wealth. See past that to the treasure you’ve received. Now go. I wish to sleep
and dream of the treasure I’ve left behind at Greystone.”

Without another word or argument, Luc turned and left him standing in the yard.

His friend’s words had made a great deal of sense to him—they felt right. They spoke to the heart of the problem for him in his marriage to Emalie. And now it was up to him to take action and make things right.

H
e was somehow different today.

Emalie was awake when Christian returned to the room after leaving so precipitously, but they exchanged no more words. He had undressed quickly and quietly and climbed into bed next to her. After waiting and waiting for something to happen between them, for some touch or word, she had been greeted by his soft snoring. It had been hours before sleep claimed her.

This morn, she awoke wrapped in his arms and almost covered by his body. She had no memory of moving toward him in the bed or of him taking her into his embrace, but it was definitely a pleasurable feeling to be so close to him.

There. There it was again.

She looked over at him and found him deep in conversation with Lady Hertha. His leg, however, was brushing against hers. And she knew it was being done deliberately. Once, earlier in the meal, he had even laid his hand in her lap as he asked a question about Fayth.

She swore that the place he touched on her thigh still bore the heat of his hand there. And her neck tingled from his breath as he whispered private questions to
only her. The subject of his queries were not personal, but the manner he used was. Sometimes he simply leaned toward her until his mouth was so close to her ear that she felt his breath there. Other times, he lifted her hair away from her ear and almost touched his lips to it as he spoke.

Then she realized that he had continued to touch her at every possible moment and opportunity since this morn when she left his embrace. A kiss on the hand. His hand on her waist as they walked. His thigh against hers. The heated whispering in her ear.

And then there was the dance.

Christian surprised her by asking her to join him as the musicians played a lively tune. As they moved through the intricate steps of the dance, she realized that she had never seen him dance before. When she mentioned it, he replied that since fighting was simply a dance, his trainers had insisted he master the art of dance.

But his touches throughout were not part of the dance she’d learned. His arm brushed her breasts several times as he turned her. And he had held her much closer than necessary during the lift, causing her body to slide down his as he placed her back on her feet. With her hands bracing on his shoulders, she looked down into his eyes and a most disturbing desire raced through her. She wanted him to hold her like this when they were both naked. She wanted to feel his heated skin against hers.

Emalie shook her head, trying to break the reverie. Although she could break out of the scandalous thoughts, her body had reacted to them already. Her increasingly sensitive breasts swelled against the constraints of her clothing and sweat trickled between
them, and down her back. Tiny tremors moved through her and settled deep, making an unfamiliar ache begin and strengthen.

Her attempts to be discreet in her discomfort were unsuccessful, for Christian turned back to her with his full attentions.

“I have been neglecting you, my lady,” he said as he slid closer to her stool. “Here, let me serve you.”

She must be losing her mind. His emphasis on the word “serve” sent more chills through her and she would swear he meant so much more than simply helping with the wine.

He held the goblet to her lips when she sipped and then placed his own mouth where hers had been. Entranced, she watched as he licked his lips to catch an errant drop of wine. Her breath caught when he looked at her mouth as though he would do the same to her lips. She was still reaching for her napkin when he speared a morsel of roasted pigeon from their shared trencher and held it out to her.

Instead of placing it before her, he held it just beyond her mouth. Then he stared into her eyes as he moved it closer and closer. Just when it was about to reach her lips, he slid it over them and then slipped it inside. She closed her eyes against the intensity she saw in his gaze and chewed. With the heat and tension building between them, she found it impossible to swallow.

“Here, my lady. A sip to ease its way.”

The cup’s rim was warm now from both of their mouths and she drank as he offered.

This was insanity. She fought to control the urge to beg for his touch as she had that other night he came to her room with seduction in mind. Was this also a
seduction? Did he deliberately warm her and train her to his touch like a falcon in the mews is trained?

Damn her, it was working. For with each touch or kiss or warm breath against her skin, she wanted more. And damn him, she could tell by his knowing gaze that he was aware of her reactions.

Suddenly he leaned back and held out his arm to her. Standing as she placed her arm on his, he spoke to their hosts.

“My lady and I thank you for your gracious meal and entertainment. Until tomorrow…”

With a nod of his head to Lord Durwyn, and with no other words, he led her away from the table and out of the hall. When Alyce moved to join them, he waved her off.

“I will attend to my lady, Alyce.”

“Aye, my lord,” Alyce answered, curtsying.

“And come not in the morning until I call you,” he added as they passed by her.

Emalie could not argue or question, for anticipation filled her. If her maid said aye or nay, she knew not. Emalie only knew that he would join with her when they reached their room. And that made her even more breathless. Her body was heated and throbbing already, for his deliberate touches and teasing had done that.

She did not think it, but they seemed to race up the stairs and down the hall to their chamber. He let go of her hand only to drop the bar on the door, and then he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her.

It was a kiss that promised, a kiss that teased, a kiss that added only more heat and wetness to her. His tongue touched her lips and slipped in her mouth and she could taste the wine they had shared and she could taste him. His arms encircled her and his hands reached
into her hair, pulling the coif and veils from it. Soon he had slid his fingers into her hair and freed it from the braids Alyce had made so diligently. And his mouth never left hers.

Over and over they kissed until they were both gasping for breath. He lifted his lips only to take a breath and then he plunged inside her mouth again. His hands still played in her hair, holding her close. After minutes or hours or days—she could not tell any longer—he released her mouth and stepped back.

“I will play lady’s maid, Emalie. Let me help with these.”

He reached out and began unlacing her long sleeves from the place they attached to her overtunic. His movements were slow and always he kept his hands on her. Once untied, he slid the sleeves from her shoulders, down her arms until they dropped on the floor. Still touching her, he moved his hands over her arms, onto her shoulders and neck.

“Here now. Turn this way and I will see to your tunic.”

Although she hesitated to turn from him, he guided her until she faced the fire and he was at her back. His hands moved down her back, tugging and loosening the laces until he reached the base of her spine where the dress opened. Before she could reach up to lift the tunic, he slipped his hands in from behind and pushed it from her shoulders. As the tunic fell, he skimmed over her hips and waist, her belly and breasts. Although she still wore her shift, it did nothing to lessen the sensations he caused as he touched her.

He stepped closer behind her and pulled at the laces that closed her shift in the front. His breath against her neck was hot and she felt the muscles of a man, of a
warrior, at her back. All about him was hard, except for his touch. She could not help it when her head dropped back against him. He kissed her neck as he bared her to the fire and to him.

Then he began his tormenting, for he lifted her arms over her head and slid his fingertips down until he reached her shoulders. His path moved lower onto the fullness of her breasts, which ached and swelled, their tips tightened even more by his approach. His fingers moved with a feathery touch, teasing the nipples, tickling the skin and then he moved on, his path ever downward.

The muscles in her stomach tightened as he made his touch heavier, now using his hands to follow the contours of her body. He stopped just as he reached the hair at the juncture of her thighs. She waited for him to feel between them, to find the wetness he had caused, but he did not. Instead she felt his hands on her thighs and she let them open for his touch.

And he did not.

When her body trembled in readiness and in anticipation and in need, he began his efforts anew. This time, her knees buckled when he grazed the springy hair between her thighs. Taking pity on her, Christian turned her in his arms and took her mouth in searing kisses that claimed her as his own.

The feeling of being naked against him, even clothed as he still was, was intoxicating, but she wanted to feel him.

“My lord,” she whispered when he finally released her mouth. “Your clothes?”

Faster than she could have imagined, he took a step away and undressed himself. He did not bother with laces or finesse, but he accomplished his task in the
shortest amount of time that she thought possible. Then she truly lost her breath at the sight of this man before her, for he in no way resembled the man she remembered from the bath.

He had not only healed, he had added muscle and weight until he now resembled the warrior mentioned by the queen. His shoulders were broad and his chest rippled under her gaze. She looked further and saw that the muscles continued in his arms and, when she finally dared, his thighs. Although she tried not to stare, another part of his anatomy was well formed, too. She looked quickly back at his eyes, which were laughing at her.

“Now we are even, Emalie.”

“Not even, my lord,” she whispered as she glanced once more below his waist. “You appear to be much bigger…”

She never finished her words. He gathered her close and kissed her again. This time, with their skin touching, she felt something within her coil tighter and tighter. She began to imitate his touch and glided her hands over his back and shoulders and down below his hips. He was hard everywhere.

He pulled her toward the bed and they tumbled onto it. Now she could wrap around him as she wanted to, for he had positioned her on top of him. Doing so placed his manhood right under the most heated part of her. It lasted for a few seconds. Christian rolled her under him and then lifted his head.

She was ready to beg him to finish this, but he kissed her gently and then looked into her eyes.

“Be my wife?” he asked gruffly.

“I am your wife, my lord.”

“As you promised? Only mine?”

Then she realized what he wanted. He wanted to consummate their marriage vows.

“Only yours, my lord,” she promised.

“Only mine,” he growled, entering her and joining with her so quickly and completely that she gasped. When he began to pull back, she entwined their legs so he could not leave her.

There was no stopping or slowing after that. Christian’s every movement was a claim on her, as a woman and as his wife. He touched her everywhere as they moved together in the dance of passion. The powerful strokes built the tension within her until wave after wave of pleasure and release was upon her. After a few more thrusts, Christian held himself still within her and groaned out his own release.

After a few moments of quiet, he rolled onto his side, this time keeping himself inside her. She thought mayhap she dozed off to sleep. Soon though, Christian began his efforts again and this time their passion was slower and, if possible, even more agonizingly pleasurable than the first time. The third time felt simply decadent and different once again and finally took them to the edge of sleep.

As she nodded off, she heard him repeat the words he’d said throughout the night and she felt comforted somehow by the claim inherent in them.

“Only mine.”

The next days went too quickly. Although Fayth was the bride, ’twas Emalie who felt like the newly wedded woman, blushing furiously at the bawdy comments and exploring the physical side to marriage. Her husband was her constant companion and they shared many a touch and caress and many, many kisses. He left her
side to go on Durwyn’s hunts and on the various tours, but he always made her feel, well, reclaimed on his return.

After Fayth and Sir Hugh left for his family’s home, Emalie and Christian left for theirs. The trip home was completely different from the one there. She and her husband were so wrapped up in each other that she hardly noticed the passing of time or the miles traveled.

Once back in Greystone, she knew that their behavior was the subject of much discussion from their noble attendants to the servants in the kitchen. One and all noticed the change between them and Emalie was truly glad for it. She thought that he had fulfilled her dreams once he had accepted her back into her duties, but she was wrong. For now that he had staked his claim on her, body and soul, she flourished within their marriage as an equal to him. In only one aspect was there any degree of uncertainty and that was the babe that grew within her.

He was careful of her, whether they were traveling in the village or he was making passionate love to her. Always, he took care of her and made certain of her comfort over his. But he never asked about the babe or discussed it with her.

Christian was not outside the normal bounds with this. Most men never concerned themselves with their offspring; it was the wife’s responsibility. In most marriages when the offspring was of the father, it made sense. In this one, she supposed, it made even more.

The weeks of summer turned to autumn and as the whole of Greystone prepared for the approach of winter, Emalie felt the touch of fear in her soul. Something was coming their way. Something malevolent. Some
thing powerful that could destroy her and the man she knew now she loved and all that they worked for.

She prayed more, in the chapel every morning and evening, and heard the Mass as often as possible. Although most around her thought she worried over the babe’s safe delivery, she did not. She prayed that Christian would forgive her when he discovered the truth about the babe and for drawing him into the Plantagenets’ game.