The Maiden Bride (25 page)

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Authors: Rexanne Becnel

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

BOOK: The Maiden Bride
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“I … I had
hoped
to see you again, but I had not expected to.” She swallowed as the reality of this moment washed unwelcome over her. “Shall this, then, be our farewell?”
Axton stiffened as a longing so vivid, so powerful that he feared he could not withstand it, struck him with cruel force. He’d been furious to find her released from the prison he’d put her in. Furious and panicked too. But having found her, the fire and need of those two emotions had merged into something far worse.
He wanted her. He wanted her physically, but he also wanted her yielding and sweet, welcoming him home every day when he returned to her. He wanted her to care for him as he had come to care so desperately for her.
“By Lucifer and Judas!” he swore, shuddering at his perverse reaction to her. She was his own personal Judas, sworn to him yet betraying him. And still he would clasp her to his bosom and suffer the consequences!
Again he stepped back.
He struggled for composure, to control the hard pounding of his heart and the urgent force of his desire for her. “Duke Henry comes, along with your sister and her doomed bridegroom. While the outcome of that dispute is already foretold, what will become of you is not.”
He stopped short. What was he saying? What did he intend for her, the sole cause of this madness—to allow her to choose her own fate?
He thrust his damp hair back from his brow and steeled himself against any weakness. “Have you anything you wish to say before I decide your fate?”
She shook her head no, but her eyes, dark as the sea at storm, shimmering with what he feared were tears, communicated more than words could. He forced himself to be cruel, as cruel as she had been to him.
“Do not think to turn that sorrowful look upon Henry. Likewise, do not delude yourself with the hope that he will offer you his protection or find you a suitable husband among the many who court his favor. You have no value now,” he continued, growing angrier with every word. “You have no dowry and now you have not even the value of virtue. You can be only one thing to Henry—or to any other man!”
He broke off as the idea sprang full-blown into his head. It was insane—and yet it was the only solution he could find in this insanity that was caused of her machinations.
He crossed the room and grabbed her by the arms. The tears that had shimmered in her eyes before had swelled and spilled over, and now left damp, glimmering tracks down her cheeks. It must be his own peculiar perversion that even still, he could not bear to see her cry.
“I will keep you,” he muttered, staring down into her great, luminous eyes. “I will keep you locked away, in a place where no man but I can have you.”
He pulled her up against him, so that he could feel the sweet warmth of her belly, the full softness of her breasts. He could breathe her in. She was his for the tasting and for the taking. And he would take her, he swore an oath to himself.
His mind made up, he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off her feet. The bed was nearby and convenient, and though she struggled against him, she was no match for him.
“Be still,” he growled. He pressed her down into the bed, holding her there with his greater weight.
“No, I will not be … I will not be your
whore.”
She whispered the word as though it was foul to even speak it.
But her opposition only roused his anger and stiffened his resolve. “You assumed that role when you took on your sister’s name. You have whored for your family—and liked it very well,” he added. He pressed his aching loins into the yielding softness of her belly and at the same time forced her legs apart with one knee. “There is no honest life left open to you. You have not the virtue to demand marriage, nor the dowry to buy a place in the abbey.”
“No! No, you’re wrong—”
“There is no other place for you but in my care,” he insisted. Beneath him he felt her resistance falter. Her hands pressed against his chest, but they weakened. Her lips, pressed tautly together in anger and other emotions, now trembled.
Though he knew he was striking her where she was most vulnerable, he buried any twinge of guilt. He meant to win this battle of wills. He meant to keep her for his own, whether he hated her or—No!
He shook his head against the beginnings of an insane thought. No matter what other perverse emotions he felt for her, it did not matter. She had no other options, so he would keep her.
One sister to wed, the other to bed.
“You have no other choice, save to whore for any man who will have you for the coin. You should be grateful I save you from such a fate.”
Linnea heard his every word and she understood them. She knew he spoke the truth. Yet she could not resign herself to what was happening to her. To what he intended to do. She loved him. She had not wanted to hurt him.
But she had hurt him, and now he was hurting her.
He leaned on one elbow and unfastened the front of his braies. Then he pulled up her skirt until they were pressed, flesh to flesh. He was hard and ready, and she … she, God help her, was ready too. She loved him despite all the madness that lay between them. She would not fight him.
He entered her and she closed her eyes. But not fast enough to mistake the slight softening of his intent features. He knew she was ready for him, and so he must know that she desired him yet. And if he knew she desired him, he might know, also, that she felt even more. Had his mother revealed her suspicions, or had she, herself, somehow revealed it to him?
He began to move in an erotic rhythm that took her out of herself. He took control of her, body and soul, with that age-old rhythm, with the connection it forged between them. In the hot, rousing pace he set, Linnea ceased to care. He possessed her body, and she gladly accepted everything he offered her. Then he groaned and a shudder wracked his magnificent warrior’s body.
Linnea lost the last of her shattered control. For one violent, lightning moment they were joined in the most perfect union God could ever have conceived between a man and a woman.
Then it was over and they were only two people on a bed, gasping for breath. Tears started afresh in her eyes, for the reality was too cruel for her to accept.
Axton drew back, frowning. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. He meant physically of course, and she was not hurt physically.
He rolled off her and lay on his back, staring at the painted roof of his mother’s bed until his breathing became more normal. “Tears will not change your fate. Better that you save them to use upon another. Though they will not sway Henry either,” he added cuttingly.
Linnea rolled away from him. She could not bear this. It was too hard.
She yanked at her skirt, trying to cover her naked thighs. At the same time, Axton shifted on the bed. Suddenly he let out a curt oath and caught her wrist. He jerked her skirts all the way up to her waist.
“Where is the ruby chain?”
 
H
e dragged her down the stairs, through the hall, and across the bailey. He’d made a spectacle of every aspect of their dealings together, but this … For Linnea, this was by far the worst.
Her protestations were useless. Her struggles, of no moment whatsoever. Like a recalcitrant child, she was hauled past every staring eye, back to the flour closet. He had snatched a small torchère and lit it on the laundry fire. Now he pushed her into the closet and followed close behind.
“Find it!”
Linnea caught herself on a pile of burlap sacks. A cloud of fine white powder rose from where she’d landed.
“Find it!” he thundered. He advanced on her, holding the torch high so that the narrow chamber shivered with an unaccustomed light. “Find it, damn you. You will not leave this place until you wear it again. So help me God, Linnea, I swear you will not leave here!”
It pushed her beyond the edge of reason.
Although he appeared the very devil at that moment, a furious specter filled with malice, with not a shred of mercy to show, Linnea was past caring. The light quivered, red and ugly, casting awful shadows, but she saw only Axton. With a cry that mingled pain and rage and more frustration than she could restrain, she charged him.
It was like hitting the stone wall itself. He did not budge. But she had caught him unaware, for he dropped the torch. It sputtered and flared, but Linnea ignored it. Axton was her target. Axton and his hateful, hurtful ways.
She punched his stomach with both fists, though it jarred her all the way up to her shoulders. But she would not stop. She could not stop hitting him until his arms caught her in a bear hold.
“Stop this. Damn you, Linnea. Stop this, I say!”
But she couldn’t, not until she was exhausted and simply could not fight his superior strength any longer.
He held her in a smothering embrace. Somehow he’d stamped out the fallen flame before it could ignite any of the burlap sacks. Now they stood in the dark, caught in this angry embrace that was no true embrace at all.
Tears wet her cheeks, but they were tears of anger, at least. She had no intention of crying for him ever again, except, perhaps, in anger.
She tried to pull away, for to rest in his arms seemed somehow the very worst thing she could do right now. But he held her fast.
“If you want that accursed chain, then let me go,” she muttered into the smooth kersey of his tunic.
He shifted, and a fresh panic assailed her. He was aroused! Worse, in that moment of instant recognition, she became aroused too.
No. No! Her mind shouted the words. She tried again to break free of him. To her surprise and relief, however, this time he let her go.
She backed away from him until she came up against a tower of flour sacks. She stared warily at him as she fought to regain her breath. He stared too, and though the dim chamber cast them both in shadows, she sensed some change in his temper.
“Go ahead, then. Find it,” he prodded in a voice devoid of discernible emotion.
Without responding, she shoved herself away from the wall of flour and moved deeper into the storage closet. She’d flung it all the way to the back of her prison, and though it took a few minutes feeling around, she located it without any real trouble. Then she turned to face Axton.
“Here.” She flung it at him.
It hit his chest then fell to the dusty floor at his feet.
“Since we are no longer wed—not in the eyes of the Church anyway—you can have back your disgusting
gift.”
Emboldened by his silence, she added, “I hated wearing it.”
Still silent, he bent low and scooped it up in one hand. Even in the dim room, Linnea saw the glint of golden chain and bloodred stones, and their winking was like a mocking torment. She hadn’t entirely hated it.
Axton played a moment with the perverse length of jewelry. Then he advanced on her. But this time she did not retreat. When they were but inches apart, he halted and raised the chain until it dangled between them.
“You hated it,” he repeated her words in clipped tones. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. In any event, it has served its purpose with you. We shall see if it works so easily upon your sister,” he added.
Had he struck her fully across the face, he could not have hurt her more. Stunned, Linnea fell back a step, unaware she’d gasped. Unaware of the stark pain that covered her face.
But Axton saw it. He saw it and he was ashamed. St. Jude, would this madness between them never end?
Unable to face her a minute longer, he spun on his heel and stalked away. But with every step he felt the coward. In the face of her bravery and her pain, he felt like the lowliest of knaves.
In the ward he felt everyone’s eyes upon him. But with one sweep of his threatening glare, they all turned instantly back to their work. A silence preceded him like a wave as he stalked back to the great hall. In his wake, however, he knew the buzz would start again. He’d been made a fool of by the most improbable woman, by the least important member of his enemy’s family. By a younger daughter!
His fist clenched around the chain, tightening until the delicate stone settings cut into his flesh. Damn her! Damn her to hell!
He stormed into the hall and up the stairs, taking them three at a time. He slammed the door to the lord’s chamber, then spying the towering bed, started toward it, intent on smashing it fully to pieces this time.
But the chain in his hand stopped him. Like the winds of a storm, cut off in mid-gale, he halted just short of his objective and stared instead at the delicate jewelry. The fact was, he’d given it to her as a form of torment. Could he be angry now that she’d hated wearing it? He’d wanted her to hate it.
With a groan Axton turned away from the bed. In the beginning he’d wanted her to hate it and yet have to yield to it—and to him. But too quickly he’d abandoned his vendetta. He’d wanted her to want him. Only she hadn’t. It had all been a plot, a ruse.
So, what was he to do now?
He knew he must challenge Eustace de Montfort and win the real Beatrix to be his wife. That part was easy and he had no doubt he would succeed, though it galled him to be forced once more to win back what was rightfully his.
But what of Linnea? What was he to do with her? It was a question he had no answer for. He feared he never would.
 
More than anything Linnea wished to flee her hated prison. No door barred her way. No lock or guard stood between her and the inner ward. Should she wish to flee the very castle itself, she suspected that she could do so. Just walk away and disappear into the forest and never again speak nor hear nor even think the name of Maidenstone Castle. Or of its lord, Axton de la Manse.
If only there was a way, she mourned. But how could she abandon her sister? And anyway, where would she go? What would she do?
For a long, dark while she remained in the storage room. She needed to regain her composure. She needed to know where she would proceed when she finally emerged.
With an effort she controlled her frantic breathing and slowed her heart’s violent race. She battled tears too, but that struggle was harder to win. She was never going to cry over him again, she vowed. But then she would remember some tender word, or some exquisitely thrilling moment they’d shared, and tears once again would threaten.
“Fool!” she accused herself. “You are an utter fool!” But that knowledge offered her no solace.
When finally she forced herself to move, she decided to seek out her father. He was her only ally, though Axton’s mother—She stopped short on that thought. She could no more decipher the Lady Mildred’s intentions than she could decipher her son’s.
Determined to leave the flour closet with her head high and her dignity intact, she started forward again. Near the door her foot kicked something small and hard. It ricocheted against the wall and came to rest just beyond the doorway. A tiny, glinting jewel.
Linnea stared at it with a mixture of horror and fascination. It was one of the rubies, one of the jewels that had adorned the chain. It must have come loose when she flung the awful thing at his chest.
But it had not been entirely awful, some part of her countered. Not entirely.
She sent a furtive glance around to see if anyone else had seen it. Her hand trembled as she reached for the tiny ruby. Her fingers shook so badly she almost dropped it. Just the feel of it, small and sharp in her fist, was enough to make her dissolve all over again. But she forced herself to be stalwart.
Axton would miss it, she knew. When he gave the chain to Beatrix he would notice the gold setting missing its stone.
But he would not find the jewel, she vowed. Not ever! She would hide it and keep it and … and use it as a way to escape, she decided. It would provide her with the means to leave this place forever—and Beatrix with her, she thought, elaborating her plan. She and Beatrix would use this ruby to buy themselves a place in a convent.
It was a pitiful plan, she knew. But at least it gave her some goal, some future to focus upon. Meanwhile, however, she must go to her father and await the arrival of the young duke Henry, and the rest of her scattered family.
 
Peter sat upon the parapet. His feet hung over the edge as he stared out at the village of Maidenstone. He had found a seam of loosened mortar, and now he tossed the pebbles, one by one, out into the void, watching them plunge silently into the dark moat. A perfect circle of ripples was all that marked each pebble’s entry into the still water. He was too high to hear the sound of water yielding to stone. But he saw the results.
Not that it mattered. Not that it signified anything. Not that it was even particularly entertaining. He tossed out another bit of stone. It was just something to do.
“There you are.”
He turned his head at the sound of his mother’s voice. “You should not have climbed up here,” he admonished her when he spied her flushed cheeks. “You could have sent your maid to seek me out.”
“I may be old, but I am not yet so infirm that I cannot roam any portion of Maidenstone that I wish.” She leaned against the merlon on his left, silent a moment. “I remember how pleased your father was when the walls of this castle were finally completed. This was the last section,” she said, sliding her hand along the top edge of the rough stone, as if it somehow comforted her. “How dearly he loved this place.”
Peter sighed. His father’s memory was not strong in his mind. He’d been but a little child when Allan de la Manse had fallen. In truth, Axton had been more father to him than had his true sire.
“Axton loves Maidenstone as well as did our father.”
Lady Mildred looked a long moment at him. “Do you imply that you do not?”
Peter shrugged. “It is a fine fortress. I do not deny that. It would seem, however, that it is not a place destined to bring happiness to our family. I much prefer our stronghold in Caen.”
His mother smiled. “’Tis just as well then, for Castell de la Manse shall be yours when you are of an age.”
“Mine?” Peter leaped to his feet, unmindful of his precarious perch. “In truth, Mother?” Then he paused. “What has Axton to say on this matter?”
“He agrees. He knows you see it as your true home, as he sees this place as his.”
Peter grimaced. “He may see it as his home, but as of yet it does not bring him any happiness. I wonder if it ever shall.”
He did not have to elaborate, for she clearly knew what he meant. His mother turned to look down into the bailey. “I confess this only to you, my son, but I am torn. I do not wish him to fight this Sir Eustace, and if he is hurt—” She broke off and he could see her chin quiver. “If he is hurt, I shall never forgive her. But I fear also, that even a victory over Eustace will not bring him ease.”
“He loves her,” Peter stated, taken aback that he and his mother had come to the same unbelievable conclusion.
“I believe he does.”
Peter lowered himself from the parapet. “Mayhap he will come to love the other sister as well. They are said to be the very image of one another.”
At that his mother smiled. “Identical in their appearance they may well be. But it is not the face that sustains love. It is something far deeper. If that is what he has found with this girl …” She trailed off, no longer smiling.
For a long moment they stayed silent upon the castle wall. Somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled its ill-tempered threat. The sky hung low and gray, and the wind had begun a fitful assault upon them. Then in the distance, they spied a rider galloping full tilt toward the castle.
“Young Henry comes,” Lady Mildred murmured. “I think I will visit the chapel before the duke arrives.”
Peter watched her turn and slowly depart. She was old, he realized, and she’d suffered much loss in her life. But still she was a lady, gracious even to her enemies, which Linnea most assuredly was.

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