The Virgin Proxy (4 page)

She would be his alone.

His alone. An odd thought for a man who had never been possessive of any woman in his life.

Chapter Three

The next morning the castle courtyard churned with activity. Deorwynn searched the faces around her for one in particular—the man who’d made her ignite into a raging bonfire last night and then left her smoldering. The man who’d almost made her forget her purpose there as Sybilia’s virgin proxy.

Today her dream lover was elusive. She began to think the entire incident nothing more than a fevered fantasy of an over-active imagination.

Leaving Sybilia to fuss over her appearance before the wedding ceremony, Deorwynn wandered off to explore her environment. She quickly discovered that the Bear of Brittany’s castle was unfinished, only the gatehouse and a high, crenellated outer wall complete. When they arrived the previous evening it was already dark and she’d seen very little of the surrounding countryside, just that wall, a looming, shadowy structure, grim and forbidding. She and Sybilia had slept together on a hard pallet, sharing their chamber with the only other women in the castle—the head cook and a handful of serving girls who, Deorwynn suspected, were once camp-followers and whores disguised as laundrywomen. This was evidently a place built, inhabited, furnished and ruled by men. There were no comforts, no elegant touches of decoration. Women were merely an afterthought.

Today, however, in the sharp-edged sunshine of a fresh, crisp November morning, Deorwynn saw it was not all doom and gloom. Yes, there were great piles of stone and gaping holes where chambers were yet to be built in the main fortress, but smaller, cozier, thatched cottages of wattle and daub, nestled inside the outer walls. Here a small village flourished; hens clucked and squabbled; dogs and small children ran underfoot. Although they were Saxon, the residents seemed cheerful. In celebration of the wedding, bowers of evergreen vines were strewn over doorways and a palpable excitement lingered in the air. Today would be an excuse for bawdy behavior and plenty of ale or wine. Normans liked their wine, so she’d heard, as Saxons liked their ale.

It was distressing to see her countrymen cowering to the filthy Norman pigs. Surely someone here was secretly stirring rebellion, or had things changed so much during her years stuck in that convent? It was, after all, fifteen years since she was shut away from the world, and fourteen years since William the Bastard of Normandy vanquished King Harold of Britain at the Battle of Hastings. Perhaps, in most folk’s minds, war was over and the Normans had won.

Well, not as far as Deorwynn of Wexford was concerned. Other people could lay down and be conquered; she’d be the last one still fighting if need be. The fact that she hadn’t seen the outside world in so many long years hardly mattered. It couldn’t have altered that much since she was six. Could it?

Sauntering back to the steps of the unfinished chapel where Sybilia waited impatiently, she suddenly—for no reason—looked across the yard, shielded her eyes from a glare of winter light with one hand, and saw
him.

Today he was clean shaven, his face washed. His skin looked even darker in daylight, his eyes more startlingly blue. He wore a surcoat and fur-trimmed mantle. When a spark from that harsh sun caught on the sword and scabbard hanging at his side, she was momentarily blinded.

“Here he comes,” Sybilia whispered through her voluminous bridal veil. “That must be him. Devaux.”

Her sight cleared. He crossed the yard toward them with another soldier at his side, this one fair-headed and smiling. Deorwynn’s throat tightened, a hot curse choking inside, stalled on her tongue. Oh no. This could not be.

Surely Sybilia meant the man with the lighter hair.

But even as she thought that, she knew the dreadful truth. There was a powerful confidence in the dark one’s stride. His face was grim, his demeanor that of a man accustomed to getting his own way. He let the fair-headed man talk and perhaps he listened, but it was clear he had other things on his mind.

They halted and bowed. She was thankful for the sudden breeze that picked up her long hair and blew it across her face. Her heart thumped too hard, like a desperate beggar at an almshouse door in the snows of winter.

Devaux. He was a Norman and the enemy.

And she was the unluckiest girl in the world. Always suspecting this to be the case, now she knew it was true. This gorgeous man, revealed to her last night by some mischievous, wicked demon, was not only her enemy; he was marrying another.

* * * *

Guy’s gaze fixed upon the woman in the light green, woolen gown that clung to her breathtaking form as if wet, but Thierry ignored her, introducing him instead to the woman in the veil.

His bathing beauty was not to be his bride. A mistake had been made. A very bad mistake. Since Guy Devaux, Bear of Brittany, did not make mistakes, he could only lay the blame at this woman’s feet. He’d planned to surprise her, yet he was the one surprised.

She blushed furiously, biting her lip, still looking away across the yard. A guilty face if ever he saw one.

It took a moment.

His anger was very rarely restrained once it reached boiling point, but he caught this and trapped it. Did it matter—their encounter in the cookhouse? Any woman on his manor was fair game, simply another of his possessions, like a horse or pack mule. If he wanted her, he would have her and marriage to another—hers or his—would not be a barrier

Yet last night he’d thought she was to be his bride, not just his bedmate. It had pleased him. Today, finding this was not the case, he suffered an inconvenient disappointment somewhere under his ribcage.

The damned wench was just as tempting today as she was last night. Splinters of reluctant winter sunlight snagged in her hair as it tumbled in heavy locks over her rounded breasts. She wore no wimple, just a circlet of holly and mistletoe entwined. Some berries had fallen loose, tangled up in that thick, soft mass like rubies and pearls.

Alone in his bed last night, he’d laid awake, thinking of the girl in the bath, marveling over his unbelievable good fortune. Looking at the empty bed beside him, he’d thought with excitement of having her in it. He’d imagined them rolling together, his cock finally piercing her maidenhead as she held his shoulders and gasped out his name. He’d even imagined her pink lips forming the word “love”.

Love?
Now he laughed at his own foolishness.

The wedding party looked at him. He knew they must be wondering what had amused the Bear of Brittany—the man who seldom laughed.

The chapel was already prepared, the monk inside, the feast laid out, and a group of traveling players were hired to perform in the great hall that evening. Guy could do nothing today but marry Sybilia Senclere and lay claim to her fat dowry. He may be an uneducated son of a whore, but three things he knew well—never turn your back on the enemy, never sleep without your sword nearby and never look a gift horse in the mouth.

But as Thierry stepped forward to lead the way, Guy stopped him and whispered quickly in his ear. The other man had known him long enough not to question even the oddest of requests. He bowed and hurried on ahead into the chapel.

Guy Devaux had decided not to be married—not today in any case—but most folk wouldn’t know it. Certainly not from his expression. He had mastered the art of never betraying a pleased thought, which is why most people assumed he never had one.

* * * *

He’d laughed at her. The lecherous Norman goat had just laughed scornfully at her!

There was some delay while the chapel was readied. It seemed they were no more prepared for a wedding than they were to accommodate women in this fortress.

Neither Sybilia nor the Norman spoke. Finally they were summoned inside. Deorwynn forced her feet forward into the chapel, but she was trembling, her skin scalded by his closeness.

Of all the men she might have encountered last night, it had to be him. How skillfully he’d manipulated her with his fingers, driving her to lewd acts. Norman swine. She wanted to spit on his feet as he stood there, repeating his vows. How could he do that to her on the eve of his wedding to another? Easily of course. She tightened her lips over a small groan of despair. He was a Norman. This was the sort of thing Normans did regularly without a thought of repentance.

And what about her? Was she any better? She had agreed to lay with a man she knew nothing about; a man who would be married to another woman. Although it pained her to admit, Deorwynn knew she was not above reproach. Last night he had tricked her by not revealing his identity; tonight it would be her turn to deceive.

Cold fingers stretched around her heart, squeezing. Until last night, she’d never known how one man’s keen regard could disrupt her emotions to such a degree; turn her into a wanton hussy. How could she know? He was the first man who’d ever seen her naked; the first to look at her that way.

A slash of cool, blue white mist fell jagged through the unfinished chapel window and lit him up from head to toe. Like the statue of some pagan warrior god, he stood tall with his hands on his hips and commanded the bumbling monk to get on with it. The poor little fellow seemed quite overcome with his duty and had dropped his book twice, causing a cloud of dust that made Sybilia sneeze uncontrollably. Deorwynn’s gaze tracked downward and she noticed the monk’s unusual footwear—a pair of rather elaborate boots with elongated toes peeking out beneath his ill-fitting robes. Perhaps this was his winter footwear, she thought—some fancy, frivolous Norman design. The sticky sweet odor of mead hung heavy about his person and she suspected he would have been parallel to the floor, if not for the amused soldiers standing close on either side of him. Somehow they all got through the service.

* * * *

At the wedding feast he occasionally caught her looking at him, but she always turned away quickly. Thierry sat beside her, at the far end of the long trestle table, and she was soon engaged in conversation with him. Then her face was animated, glowing in the light of the candles. He saw Thierry shift closer, probably using the excuse of not being able to hear above the general noise. They were almost touching. Watching from his distant place of honor, Guy tore another bite of roasted pheasant with his teeth, chewing hard, not tasting. He would have given all his victories and rewards tonight to change seats with Thierry.

“Shall I pour you more wine, my husband?”

The woman at his side was overly solicitous, stretching his nerves even thinner. He shot her a quick glance. Yes, she was pretty enough. During the chapel service he’d lifted her veil, folding it back over her hair to reveal a face of good symmetry and fine, translucent skin. He should be well satisfied with the bride he’d been sent. But she did not draw him in as the other did. She did not tempt him the same way.

He nodded, holding out his empty flagon for more wine. His bride smiled, but it was shallow, self-conscious. Her eyes were guarded; they did not reach into his soul and demand attention.

Because I’m thinking of fucking her senseless at the first opportunity
, he mused, savagely biting into the meat again, his eyes on the girl at the far end of his table. She had just laughed at something Thierry told her and Guy felt a painful stitch in his chest. Was he eating too fast? Winded, he dropped the clean bone to his platter.

The gown she wore was too closely fitted, the wool hugging her too intimately, as if she outgrew it a few years ago but never had a new one made. She wore a shift beneath—the white visible just above the neckline and at her wrists—but even that layer did not protect her modesty. Those delightful, rounded titties were accentuated whenever she moved and the material tugged, catching on a pert pair of nipples just begging for his lips. He rolled a small piece of juicy meat on his tongue and swallowed.

“It seems your man has taken an interest in my handmaid. As you have. My lord.”

He barely heard the words at his elbow, but her sharp tone was felt and noted. Turning his head he glowered down at the other woman. “What?”

She seemed temporarily appeased by his remark, soon bold enough to criticize the spices and the wine that she said was too strong for her. Fidgety and nervous, her fingers skimmed each plate, her teeth taking tiny bites, her nose frequently wrinkled in distaste. Sybilia Senclere was exactly what he’d expected—prim, fragile and whiney.

In truth, if he must marry, he would have preferred to solidify his claim on this parcel of land, as other men like him had done in their new country, by marrying the offspring or widow of the previous landowner. It meant marrying a Saxon, but it would have helped dispel future unrest among the locals. Unfortunately, in this case, there was no daughter or widow available. The Saxon Eaorl of Wexford had only sired sons apparently. Guy had heard a rumor of there once being a little daughter, but she died years ago. Hence, he was stuck with his Norman bride.