The Maiden Bride (15 page)

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Authors: Rexanne Becnel

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Medieval

BOOK: The Maiden Bride
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Drunk.
Was Axton drunk too? Linnea’s eyes darted back to her new husband. Had he been down here, drinking with his friends, telling them every aspect of what had occurred between him and his wife—his wife who was his enemy? Her face flamed with humiliation to even think it. But she would not allow him to dominate her here as he did in their bedchamber. Now was not a time to emulate the yielding Beatrix. She must be more like her grandmother, proud and aggressive. But restrained too.
She stepped forward into the light, her initial hunger forgotten. “If it please you, husband, I would keep my grandmother with me. There is no need to send such an old woman away from her home.”
She broke off when his head jerked up. “Maidenstone is not her home.” He bit the words out, sounding not so much drunk, as angry.
Linnea stifled a groan and gnawed her lower lip. How stupid of her. What a poor choice of words. She should have known that to defend her family would infuriate him. But the damage was done. “She is an old woman,” she repeated, in a soft, pleading voice. “This is the only home she has left.”
She could not see his expression, for the fire was behind him. But she did not miss the tension that wrapped around him like another blanket of darkness. It showed in the slow, loose-limbed way he strolled toward her. It was there in the precise way he set his pewter chalice down as he passed by the plain trestle table. She felt it in the very air she breathed, cold and fiery, like hell must be.
She should not have pressed the point, she realized too late.
“The fate of every de Valcourt lies entirely in my hands.” He leaned forward so that his face was but inches from hers, hard and terrifyingly cold. “They live, die—or sprawl naked upon my bed—as I will it.”
So vicious were his quietly uttered words that Linnea stumbled backward, stunned and scarcely able to believe her ears. This was the man who’d caressed her and aroused her so easily she’d felt herself a wanton. But he could just as easily slash her to pieces, she now saw. He could just as happily crush her like chalk beneath his heel. Why had she ever imagined that he might be different?
She gathered her wits and her courage and bound them to her with fury. She could not bear to look at his two men, for fear she’d see their snickering leers. But
him
… She glared at him, made brave by her hatred and her utter contempt for him.
“How brave a man is my husband. He bests women and old men and gravely injured ones as well.”
One of his brows raised in black, mocking humor. “He was not gravely injured when first I encountered him.”
Had Linnea been possessed of a weapon, she would have attacked him for that. How dare he boast of so loathsome an act to her! How dare he nearly murder her brother, imprison her father, send her grandmother away, and then bed her as if she should be grateful to him!
“I despise you!” she swore, shaking from the force of her feelings. “I despise you and …” Her mind searched for a way to cut him as he so easily cut her. “And I
cringe
to think that I must submit to your disgusting touch—your revolting attentions. You make me want to retch!”
She had the fleeting pleasure of watching the smugness drain from his face. But the fury that replaced it banished her pleasure before it could take hold. She flinched when he raised a knotted fist. He would hit her; he would kill her with the power of one angry blow.
One of his men gasped. The other grabbed for his liege lord’s arm before he could lash out.
“Get away from here.” It was Sir Reynold who growled the order at her.
Linnea did not have to be told twice. She backed up, but all the while her eyes were fastened to her husband’s face. There was murder in his eyes and she felt a slow, sinking fear rise up to swallow her whole. He would kill her now. And even if he should not, her grandmother would. This was not how she was supposed to deal with her husband. It was her role to make him content, to lull him into complacency. Instead she had only fired him to new heights of rage.
Axton threw off Sir Reynold’s hold. The man knew better than to intercede a second time, however. When Axton strode furiously toward Linnea, Sir Reynold watched but did not interfere.
“Whether you despise my touch or ache to feel it, ‘tis no care of mine, madam. You are my wife and you are mine to do with what I please. ’Tis
my
pleasure that I care for, not yours.” His eyes bored into hers, ice-cold. Granite hard. “Now, get you to my chamber and await my return. Wife,” he added, making of that single word the cruelest slur she’d ever heard.
Linnea wanted to oppose him. After all, what worse punishment would that earn her than whatever he already planned for her? But she could not. She was too afraid to do anything but duck her head, turn, and flee, just as he’d wanted her to do. She hated herself for being such a coward. Maynard was not a coward, nor should she be. But she was, and as she shrank into the shadows of the stairs, she knew she was too afraid to return to the solar and await him and his wrath.
It was not the need to oppose him which made her slink back down the stairs and wait until he faced the fire once more. It was not foolish bravery but unadulterated fear. She did not know where her grandmother was housed, but she knew she must find her. Lady Harriet would be furious with her too, but she, at least, would help her figure out what to do. Linnea dreaded facing her grandmother, but she was the only ally she had. Better to deal with the Lady Harriet’s fiery temper, than the ice-cold fury of her husband.
 
Axton burst into the room, then could hardly believe his eyes. He was drunk; he did not pretend otherwise. But it was not too much red wine that deceived his eyes. She was not here! The coldhearted little bitch was not here!
He strode across the room, flung the bear pelt aside, then ripped the luxurious down mattress from the bed and threw it across the room. A cupboard crashed down, dumping his clothes and personal belongings across the floor. He shoved over her trunk and tore a tapestry from its anchors. She was not here!
He would kill her when he found her. By God and all the saints, he would kill her!
He kicked the heavy bed then, when it did not budge, threw his entire weight against one of the posts, as if he could shove the massive piece of furniture through the very walls of the chamber.
Something cracked, and the bed sagged. But it did not give, and that enraged him further. He spun around, searching for his sword. He would find her and she would be sorry—
The room swam and he grabbed the bedpost. She was a conniving witch and she’d waited until he was drunk to make her move. He clung to the post, blinking hard as he tried to clear his head. She’d waited until he was drunk with the want of her—and drunk from too many toasts on his amazing good fortune to have wed a woman of such a passionate nature. She’d lulled him and then cut him down as surely as if she’d gutted him with his own dagger.
She was revolted by him. Disgusted.
He wanted to howl with fury, to find her and force her to take it back. To prove that she was wrong. But she wasn’t there.
He stared around the solar, at the shambles he’d made of the place, and as quickly as his temper had exploded, so now did it drain away. It was better that she was not here. If he’d burst in and found her here, whether cowed or belligerent, she would only have angered him more. There was something in her that pushed him to extremes. Extremes of passion. Extremes of anger.
His knees began to fold beneath him and he slid to the floor. She’d inspired him to extremes of passion, but he’d inspired only disgust in her.
And now everyone knew.
He groaned and his head fell forward into his hands. He had his home back. He held his enemies in his hands. But his wife spurned him. She said he made her want to retch.
His stomach knotted and roiled. At the moment
he
wanted to retch. But he would not. He was no woman to gnash his teeth and become sick from his emotions. She was his wife. He was her husband. She would obey him and conform to his wishes whether she retched the whole night long from it.
Tomorrow he would tell her that very thing. But right now … right now he would just lie down and think how best to proceed with her.
 
Peter peered cautiously into the lord’s chamber. He’d heard the ruckus, the oaths and smashing furniture and furious cries. It had to be that woman. No one else could anger Axton so; no one else had the ability to. Even her father, whom Axton had hated since forever, did not rouse his temper to such furious outburst. Edgar de Valcourt inspired cold vengeance in Axton; Beatrix, however, made him boil over with emotion.
But much as Peter wanted to blame her for his brother’s current condition, that image of her, naked on the bed, continued to haunt him. She was much too small to withstand Axton’s rage, whether it be a rage of temper or sexual in nature. She was too vulnerable.
That’s why he’d lingered in the keep tonight, finding a place to sleep in the pantler’s cabinet. He’d heard every word that had passed in the hall. He’d heard his brother’s cryptic responses to his men about his wife, but he’d also heard the pride and satisfaction in his voice. Then he’d heard Linnea’s foolish defense of her family followed by Axton’s insults and her own. He’d seen his brother raise his fist, and Reynold grab for his arm. He’d witnessed Beatrix’s hasty departure, then watched as his brother drank himself into a deeper and blacker rage.
He’d watched and he’d waited and he’d worried. He hadn’t wanted to follow Axton above stairs, but the image of that slender, naked body at the mercy of Axton’s uncertain temper had forced him to it. He’d been more than relieved to find her absent from the chamber, even though the repercussions on the morrow would be harsh.
But tomorrow Axton would be sober. Tomorrow there would be witnesses. And mayhap their mother would arrive soon. Surely she would be able to talk sense into her eldest son, Peter hoped as he spied Axton sprawled beside the remnants of his broken bed.
He held the small torch he carried higher and surveyed the brother he’d always worshipped. He frowned in confusion. Never had he seen Axton as angry as he’d been this night. Never had he seen him in such a drunken state. And all on account of
her.
He shook his head in bewilderment. He’d better go find her. God help them all if the wench was stupid enough to flee the castle itself. If tonight’s display were any indication, Peter feared his brother would turn the entire countryside upside down to find her.
 
L
innea’s eyes watered and her cheek burned. But she did not flinch away from her grandmother’s stinging slap. Though this time she knew her grandmother’s wrath was deserved, the habit of stoic resistance was too ingrained for Linnea to cringe.
“I
knew
you were unfit for this task! I knew you would fail your family! One thing only have I asked of you and what is the result? Failure. You are the ruination of this family!”
Linnea stood miserably before her grandmother’s onslaught. She would have preferred further physical punishment; she was more inured to that. But this … Every curse and every accusation fell like a vicious blow upon her, hurting her in ways no mere slap could ever do.
It was true, all of it. She’d let her temper and her foolishness hold sway where reason and cunning should have reigned. And now she feared she would never be able to regain the ground she’d lost with her enemy husband. He would send her grandmother away, imprison her father, and do God knew what to poor Maynard. And it was all her fault.
Her grandmother paced the small chamber given to her. It was mean housing, the cook’s chamber behind the kitchen. Her father was under guard with Maynard in the priest’s chamber. Of them all, only she yet resided in the keep. All four chambers had Axton kept empty to afford them privacy. But instead of using that to her advantage, in one fit of temper Linnea feared she had wasted it all.
“Did he say what he would do with Maynard and Edgar?” The old woman bit out the words, glaring at Linnea.
“He said … he said they would remain his prisoners until Henry, Duke of Normandy, comes.”
“He comes here? Henry of Anjou here?”
“So he said.” Linnea peered warily at her grandmother.
“And he wouldst see me confined at Romsey Abbey.” The old woman continued her agitated pacing, her stick a sharp click against the stone floor. Then she turned with a start, her black skirt belling out around her. “Mayhap is for the best. These be uncertain days. There is not a nobleman in England who does not hope to gain Henry’s goodwill. The right position … The right loyalties … Father Martin is not wily enough to represent the de Valcourt family’s best interests. But once I am at the abbey, I can better solicit the right husband for her. You—” Her eyes lost their speculative look and fastened once more in dislike upon Linnea. “You will remain here and approach your husband as the meek and obedient bride you are meant to be. You will grovel and beg for his forgiveness, if that proves necessary to appease him. Wilt barter thy body to ensure the continuing safety of your father and brother—understand me, girl? Beatrix?” she added, with threatening emphasis.
As he crept toward the door, Peter heard only the last of the old crone’s words. He gritted his teeth against the epithets that rose in his throat. So that was the way of it. The young bitch was to deceive his brother at the behest of the old bitch. He wanted to wring both their necks. At least men fought face-to-face. But women … Women slunk around in the shadows, smiling on the surface while they plotted behind your back.
Well, not all women, he amended, thinking of his mother and her complete devotion to his father. But these de Valcourt women, they were nothing like his mother.
He pulled back into the black shadow of the wall. It was a moonless night and easy to hide. But it had also been hard to find his brother’s new wife. He’d only come upon her just in time to hear her grandmother’s orders.
Barter her body to ensure the safety of her brother and father. He would have to tell Axton.
Then he frowned. Axton would not like to hear this. He would be furious, both at her and at anyone—like his younger brother—who knew the truth of his pretty wife’s opinion of her husband. He would wonder what had prompted Peter to follow her, and he would guess what his little brother had overheard earlier in the hall.
Peter rubbed his hand over the top of his head. Axton would not appreciate his brother knowing what Beatrix the Bitch had thought about his skills in the bedroom.
And yet, what could he expect when he did frighten the foolish wench right out of her wits?
Remembering how she’d huddled terrified on the bear skin when Axton had slammed into the lord’s chamber, he was amazed she’d faced Axton in the hall later. If nothing else, she was a brave one, he grudgingly conceded. Brave, or exceedingly stupid. Jesu, but this had become so confusing. Loyalty demanded that he tell his brother what his wife did plot. But another sort of loyalty—that of loyalty between men—demanded that he remove himself completely from such goings-on and let his brother deal with his wife as he would. It was not as if the women’s plotting would actually come to aught. The fate of Edgar de Valcourt and his son rested entirely in Henry Plantagenet’s hands. Beatrix’s pretty little tricks would not influence anything.
Besides, in time she might come to accept Axton’s attentions. Some women were hot-blooded, he’d heard. Others were cold as a witch’s teat. Maybe this was something Axton should work out for himself. Most assuredly he would not welcome his younger brother’s interference in matters of this sort.
Maybe the best thing would be for him to simply keep an eye on his brother’s wife. Once the old woman was gone, Beatrix the Bitch might soften a bit.
And even if she did not, he reasoned, she was only a woman. She might enrage his brother, but that would eventually pass. In the greater scheme of things, she was really of no consequence at all.
 
Linnea crept slowly up the stairs. In the great hall servants had begun to stir, building up the fire, pulling out the many tables, beginning the day’s routine. Above stairs, however, all was still as death.
She’d left her grandmother under strict orders to return to her husband, ashamed, repentant, and willing to do anything to earn his forgiveness.
It would not precisely be an act for her to portray those emotions. She was ashamed of how easily she’d forgotten her role as Beatrix. She was repentant of her quick temper and willing to do whatever she must to save her family, even if she must barter her body, as her grandmother had ordered. Hadn’t Maynard done much the same every time he went out in defense of Maidenstone? Didn’t he even now pay a dear price with his body?
She could do no less.
Yet as Linnea peered into the antechamber and toward the door that led into the lord’s private chamber, her insides were quaking. She was too terrified of what Axton would do when he saw her, terrified of his anger and the punishment he most assuredly would mete out. But she was just as terrified of the other reactions he could rouse in her if he put his mind to it. That was when she felt most in his power and most vulnerable to him.
It would probably be better for her if he had struck her last night. It would harden her resolve against him. But he hadn’t struck her. His man had grabbed his arm, true. She wondered now, though, whether he would actually have hit her. After all, he’d been so tender before, rough and tender and passionate, all at the same time.
She edged into the antechamber and felt the disturbing slide of the ruby chain between her thighs. A shiver of remembered passion stirred deep inside her.
What manner of man had she been wed to, that he could be such a bewildering combination of warrior and lover, husband and foe? Would it ever be this way between them?
At that foolish thought she shook her head. Was she already forgetting that this was only a role she played? He and she would not be wed long enough to know what he truly was like. Nor was it wise for her to wonder or care. She was here to placate him, to beg his forgiveness and make him content. That was all.
Best that she got on with it.
Drawing a deep breath, she straightened to her full height, then walked across the room, measuring every pace. Not too fast and bold, but neither would she slink in fear. Well, maybe a little fear was appropriate. And she was afraid.
The door stuck a little, then creaked when she shoved it open. She caught her breath in alarm, but when nothing stirred, she peeked inside.
The entire chamber was a shambles. The hairs rose up on the nape of Linnea’s neck. Oh, but he must have been furious beyond her wildest imagination to tumble the cupboard over and fling everything about. His shirts, her gowns—Beatrix’s gowns, actually. And the bed! It did list to one side, while the mattress lay against the far wall—
And Axton sprawled on it!
She almost slammed the door shut and ran away at the sight. But she knew that would gain her naught. When he did not move—when she heard only the sound of his light snoring, a slow, steady rhythm—she gathered her courage, pushed into the room, and warily studied her sleeping husband.
He did not look nearly so threatening asleep, she decided as she picked her way across the littered floor. He’d thrown his tantrum and tired himself out, like a spoiled child might. Like Maynard had so often done.
He’d also been helped along by a considerable quantity of wine, she surmised when she caught a whiff of his breath. Just like her father was wont.
Linnea sighed. Men were so alike in such matters: great roaring beasts, prone to swearing and stamping about, but made tame by too much drink. And women were always left to clean up after them.
Feeling a trifle more confident, she surveyed the room once more. She could pick up the clothing and smaller items. But she would heed help to right the cupboard and repair the bed.
As for Axton … he would need a bath, she decided, remembering his instructions to her. He obviously valued cleanliness. She would also have a plain breakfast of good bread and cold meat brought for him. She would provide every comfort she could think of, for men were like grouchy children after drinking and raging about. He would want to be soothed, she hoped.
Perhaps if she simply behaved as if last night had never happened … perhaps the drink would make him forget how she had angered him—and the truly awful things she had said. How she prayed it was so.
Linnea swung into action. It was good to have something to do. Inactivity and uncertainty were unbearable. She hurried back to the hall and gave a maid orders to have a bathing tub brought up into the antechamber along with lots of hot water and the best soap from the storerooms. Another she instructed to prepare a breakfast tray and leave it also in the antechamber. She would first deal with Axton alone in their private chambers. Should he turn out to be an unpleasant drunk, she did not want everyone in the castle to witness her humiliation.
She returned to the chamber and packed her scattered clothing back into the trunk. Then she stacked his as neatly as possible on the carved top of her trunk. She gathered the bedding and folded it, and generally tried to put the chamber back in order, as much as she was able.
Then it was time to awaken him.
Linnea had tried to ignore her husband’s slumbering form while she busied herself with the other tasks. Now she had no choice but to face him.
He was sprawled on his side up against the wall, as if he’d slid down the stone surface into a sitting position, then toppled over in a stupor. Yet even in so ignominious a pose, the man was formidable. Powerfully built, tall, lean, and solid muscle, his body showed the evidence of the years he’d spent honing himself with the tools of war. But there was also something of the boy in him.
Grimacing at the foolishness of that thought, she opened one narrow window and let the beginnings of dawn’s light into the silent chamber. In the faint, golden haze, she saw how his ebony hair tumbled over his brow. His hard mouth was relaxed too, and there was no frown to mar his forehead, nor scowl to crease his cheeks. He was exceedingly handsome, in fact. But only because he slept, she reminded herself. Only because too much drink had stolen his sour disposition.
Oh, but he would have a terrible headache, she speculated, and she was glad of it. He deserved to suffer as he made everyone around him suffer.
On that thought she nudged one of his large, booted feet with her smaller, slippered one.
“My lord. My lord, ’tis morning. You’ve many a task awaiting you this day. Axton!” she added more forcefully when he did not make any response.
At the sound of his name he shifted and snorted. But then he resumed the slow, easy breathing of before. Linnea glared at him. “Great lummox,” she muttered. “What would you do if the castle came under siege? Sleep right through the battle?”
She studied him a moment. Then her eyes fastened on the sheathed dagger still strapped to his side. To disarm him in his sleep would be a great coup and it would go far toward restoring her sense of confidence. He would be furious when he learned of it. But he would have to respect her, she told herself. Especially if she told him where she’d put the weapon—for safekeeping, of course.
She crept nearer, though she feared to come within reach of his hands. But he was so far gone as to be deaf to everything, she decided, even the roof capsizing over his head, should it so happen.
As she leaned over him she was intensely conscious of how much larger and stronger he was than she. He was every inch the warrior. Then the chain brushed her left thigh and she unwillingly admitted that he was every inch the lover also. The same power that stood him in such good stead when he pitted himself against his enemies served him equally well with his wife—who was also his enemy, she sternly reminded herself.

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