To the Lady Born (13 page)

Her belly, slightly rounded, drew his lust. He’d never been with a pregnant woman before and wasn’t hard pressed to admit he found it wildly arousing. He couldn’t even think that the child wasn’t his; it didn’t matter. It was part of Amalie and Amalie was part of him.

When he was finished kissing her cleavage, he moved down to her belly and began to gently kiss it, acquainting himself with both her body and the child she carried.  His free hand began to move to her silken thighs, becoming acquainted with the feel of her skin.  She had such beautiful skin.  But the moment his hand moved to her pelvis near the dark junction of curls, he felt Amalie stiffen up beneath him.

Startled, he lifted his head to see her laying there with her eyes tightly shut, tears streaming down her temples.   He lifted himself up, looming over her in the firelight.

“What is wrong, my angel?” he whispered, concerned. “Have I hurt you somehow?”

She opened her eyes and burst out sobbing, as if she had been holding it back for days.  “Nay,” she wept. “’Tis that… only that the only person who has ever touched me there… God, it hurt so badly. I am so frightened.”

He gathered her up against him, their naked flesh touching for the first time, and held her tightly. She was unbelievably soft and warm, and he could feel her swollen belly against his abdomen. He’d never felt closer to anyone that he did to Amalie at this moment; it went beyond the physical. He felt as if their hearts were somehow intertwined.  His lips were by her ear as she wept softly against him.

“I am sorry,” he murmured, kissing her ear, her cheek. “I told you I would not make you do anything you were uncomfortable with. I meant it.”

She shook her head. “Nay,” she struggled to overcome her weeping. “I do not want you to stop. You promised you would show me what it was supposed to be like, Weston. I will hold you to that.”

He gazed into her wet green eyes, dubious. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, trying so hard to be brave. She swallowed the remainder of her tears. “Aye. Please do not stop.”

He held her hand as he returned to her pelvic region, stroking her growing belly, feeling her soft skin beneath his touch. He moved lower, feeling the soft mat of curls against his finger tips and feeling Amalie start as their hands drifted over her dark thatch.  But that was as far as she was willing to go and she pulled her hand away, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him down to her.  Weston held her body against him with one arm as his hand began to roam more freely now.

He began to kiss her mouth, his kisses gentle and passionate, as his hand became bolder and began to finger her Venus Mound. He began to stroke her, gently, whispering sweet words when she tensed until she gradually relaxed again. 

His stroking grew bolder and he encouraged her to part her legs so they weren’t so tightly clamped together.  With sweet words, gentle kisses and touches, he was able to convince her to part her legs fairly wide, enough so that he had unencumbered access. As he slanted his lips over hers, hungrily, he gently inserted a finger into her warm, wet folds.

Amalie whimpered with fear but he maintained his calm demeanor, talking her through her fear until she relaxed under him again. He stroked in and out of her a few times, mimicking the lovemaking they would soon be doing, and she gradually began to respond to him.  He inserted two fingers into her, and then three, listening to her gasp softly at the sensual invasion.  She was very wet and he knew that her body was ready to accept his. But it was her mind he was still worried about.

He shifted, turning her away from him so she was facing the fire. He wedged himself against her, his enormous arousal pushing at her buttocks. He’d never been with a pregnant woman before and until he could safely navigate making love to her face to face, he thought it best to enter her from behind.  He didn’t want to squash the child.  As Amalie lay on her side, her arm upstretched around his neck, Weston came in from another angle, his mouth to her neck as a hand moved to her breasts.

This time, she didn’t start when he touched her.  Weston gently fondled her breasts, listening to her gasp softly and thinking she sounded much like a kitten purring.  The same hand then moved to her right leg, lifting it slightly to allow him to enter her. Her soft mat of curls were damp with moisture as he inserted a finger in to her again just to make sure she was ready for him.  When she didn’t jump at his touch, he put his heavily aroused member against her threshold and gently thrust.

The most she did was groan softly as he slid into her, nearly half his long length on the first try.  With his mouth to her neck and his hand on her belly, he gently thrust again, sliding into her tight walls until he was completely seated.  Amalie closed her eyes, surrendering to him, feeling nothing of the terror she had known before and all of the passion that Weston had intended.  She wasn’t frightened anymore, of anything.

Weston was unbelievably aroused as he thrust into her, one big arm holding her against him while the other roamed between her breasts and belly.  As their passion grew and his thrusts increased, he moved to hold her right leg up by the knee, allowing him the freedom to wedge his big body between her legs from the rear.

It had been so long since Weston had last been with a woman that he could feel his climax rapidly approaching, but he didn’t want to take it without her taking her pleasure also.  He wrapped her right leg around his hip, backwards, and his hand moved to the dark curls that were drenched with moisture from their bodies. 

He fondled her woman’s center, feeling the hard little nub of pleasure buried deep within her slick folds.  As he rubbed her, Amalie suddenly stiffened and he could feel her throbbing walls around his arousal, pulling at him, demanding his seed.  Another few thrusts and he answered her, spilling deep into her body, feeling wave after wave of pleasure wash over him. 

Even after it was over, he continued thrust into her, gently, feeling his arousal die but not wanting to relinquish this bliss, not even for a moment.  But he eventually slowed to a halt, very carefully taking her leg and removing it from his hip. His big arms were wrapped around her as he kissed her neck, her shoulders, gently.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

Amalie’s eyes slowly opened and she stared into the fire, thinking on his words. His question brought so many thoughts and feelings to mind that it was difficult to grasp just one.

“Sweet Jesus, West,” she murmured. “It… it is difficult to comprehend.”

He kissed her ear. “Why, my angel?”

Her eyes began to water. “Because,” she whispered, the tears falling. “I did not know… I did not realize it could be like this. I have been living in such fear and now… now, I can hardly believe the beauty of it.”

He hugged her gently. “Then I have accomplished what you asked me to do. I have made you understand that the union of a man and a woman is meant to be joyful.”

She simply nodded, sniffling away her emotions, and he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed.  Esma and Neilie had kept clothes on her bed for the past four months, knowing that Weston went to the nunnery daily to try to convince her to return and expecting that one day she would indeed return with him.  He buried her under the heavy coverlet, climbing in next to her and wrapping his big body around her.

He took her twice more than night, relishing each touch, each kiss, warming her to his touch and loving her reaction.  From a woman who had only known the brutality of lovemaking, she responded admirably.  Every time became better than the last.

Weston finally figured out how to make love to a pregnant woman face to face.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

August

Being that it had been a surprisingly cool summer, it hadn’t been too difficult for Amalie to conceal her condition.  Esma and Neilie found out, of course, and for a week thereafter, they burst into tears every time they looked at her.  But Amalie was no longer fearful, no longer facing an uncertain future. 

The summer had gone by with nary a bump and Weston had managed to dissolve her fears with his love, support and reassurance.  The frightened, timid woman was blossoming into a stronger version of her former self, the woman who existed before Sorrell nearly took the life from her.  It had been an amazing transformation, something Weston was completely responsible for.

The freezing cold rain of March and April had turned into a cooler than usual summer.  Now that Amalie had returned to Hedingham, she settled back into her normal duties as chatelaine as Weston took charge of the garrison.  The months following their wedding were normal months with normal activities, and every night there was a big meal in the banqueting hall full of life and laughter and wine. Since the weather was still cool, Amalie had been able to mask her growing belly with cloaks and aprons, and felt comfortable attending these public meals.

She’d had the opportunity to come to know Heath and John a little better, men who had served Weston for years and men who were deeply devoted to him. She found Heath to be very kind and the more congenial of the two, while John seemed easily volatile and tended to yell at the men a good deal.  Still, it was a good group and life at Hedingham was good for the first time in many months.

On a cloudy morning in late August, Weston rose before sunrise to go about his duties as Amalie slept warm and cozy past dawn.  She rose to a stoked fire but the room was still cold, and she hissed and hopped around as Esma and Neilie brought around hot water to aid her in her toilette. 

Wrapped in a heavy robe, she sat on a stool as her servants helped her wash her hands and face, grumbling because her back hurt as the women finished with her toilette.  Everything went smooth until they helped her into a heavy surcoat of emerald brocade; even though it was a roomy garment, it would no longer accommodate Amalie’s growing belly.  The servants tried repeatedly to secure it without making it look awkward, but to no avail.  So they tried four other garments that were the roomiest ones Amalie had, but none of them fit her any longer. At nearly nine months pregnant, she had finally outgrown her wardrobe. When Amalie realized this, she burst into tears and climbed back into bed.  Esma went for Weston.

He had come all the way from the gatehouse where he had been speaking with two knights passing through to Ipswich from London.  Men like this always brought news and it was important that Weston stay abreast of both rumors and truths.  But Esma’s whispered words had him excusing himself from the huddle of knights and making his way back to the keep in the misting rain.  It was coming down heavier by the time he entered the fore building of the keep.

Entering the warm, fragrant chamber he shared with Amalie, he could see her sitting in their bed with a pillow hugged up against her body. She turned when she heard the door open, seeing Weston’s wet face smiling back at her.  The sight of him had her bursting into tears and he removed his helm, setting it near the hearth as he made his way to her.

“What is the matter, my love?” he asked gently, pulling off his enormous leather gloves. “Why are you crying?”

She sounded so pathetic and dramatic that it was an effort for him not to laugh at her when she spoke. 

“Nothing fits,” she sobbed, slapping angrily at the bed. “I have grown as fat as a cow.”

He bit his lip to fight off the grin at her big pouty tears. “That is not true,” he told her flatly. “You are beautiful and luscious.”

“But my clothes no longer fit,” she frowned tearfully. “Nothing fits. I cannot go out in public any longer.”

He couldn’t help but grin, then.  He was wet and didn’t want to get any water on her, but he sat on the edge of the bed anyway.

“Is that what is troubling you?” he reached out, tucking a stray piece of blond hair behind her ear. “No worries, my angel. We will go into town and find that seamstress – what is her name?”

“Brigid,” she told him, unhappily wiping at the tears on her cheeks.

“Brigid,” he repeated. “We will commission the woman to make you new clothes.”

She eyed him, though the tears were fading as his words brought her comfort. “Are you sure?” she sniffed. “I am almost nine months pregnant. Any garments she makes for me will not be useful after the child is born.”

“It is of no consequence. You must have clothes to wear.”

She was still reluctant, but just for a moment. “Very well,” she said. “Will you at least bring your purse this time so you can pay her? I know how you hate to spend money.”

He lifted an eyebrow at her, though he was pleased that she was at least no longer weeping. “Cheeky wench,” he pretended to scowl. “I have no issue with spending money for a worthy cause.”

Tears gone, she smiled at him. “I am a worthy cause.”

“Indeed you are.” He took her hand and kissed it. “This is an opportune time to increase your wardrobe. You will need something to wear to Cecily’s wedding.”

Her smile vanished. “I am not going. I told you that.”

Weston knew this was a sore subject with her and he scratched at his neck, thinking of the words that would not send her off into fits. “Cecily has sent several missives reminding you of the date. It is, in fact, in just a few days. Will you disappoint her?”

The frown was returning to her face. “I do not want to,” she admitted. “But I cannot go… not like this.”

He sighed patiently. “My angel, I know how you feel,” he said softly. “But I truly feel that it would be good for you to attend. You know as well as I do that….”

She tossed back the covers angrily. “I am not going, Weston,” she insisted. “Everyone will see that I am with child and they will whisper wicked things behind my back. I will be ashamed. Why do you want me to expose myself to that?”

He remained calm, watching her as she climbed out of bed. “Are you ashamed of me?”

She paused in her ranting, stopping to look at him. “Of course not,” she insisted softly.  Then she looked to her blossoming belly, rubbing at it. “But this… I can no longer hide this, Weston. Everyone will believe… they will talk….”

“They already talk and you know it,” he said. “Should you hide here until the babe is born? Should you let tongues wag and create wild stories that are not true or should we face this issue head-on and let everyone know the truth?”

Her brow furrowed with confusion, perhaps disbelief. “The
truth
?” she repeated. “You would tell everyone the truth?”

He stood up and faced her. “The truth is that we are married, deliriously happy, and expecting our first child,” he went to her and put his enormous hands on her shoulders, reassuringly. “I am not ashamed of your belly and everyone will believe it is my child. If I am not ashamed, you should not be, either. Be proud that you have a wonderful life with a man who loves you deeply. Not even your silly friend Cecily can make that claim.”

His words were sweet and reassuring but she still wasn’t convinced. “But if they have heard the rumors of the attack, then they might suspect that….”

He cut her off. “I am the father. Even if they speculate otherwise, they will never know for sure. You are my wife and the child in your belly is ours.  You have no cause to be ashamed.  If we are to have any chance of restoring an honorable reputation to the House of de Vere, then you must believe that.  We must hold our heads high.”

She gave up arguing with him about it, mostly because he made sense. She watched his handsome face for a moment, speculating on his feelings, his motivation.

“Honor means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?” she asked softly.

“Next to you, it means everything.” He stood up from the bed. “Think of our children, Ammy; the de Vere name has been damaged by your brother’s actions, and now with the rumors that surround you. It’s important that we face these issues and show people that we are proud and unafraid. It is important to rebuild what has been damaged. Does that make any sense?”

She nodded faintly. “It does,” she admitted softly. “But I am still afraid.”

“I know. But you needn’t fear with me by your side; I will protect you, always.”

She gave up and went to him, moving to hug him but realizing he was still wet from the August mist.  She giggled as he held her at arm’s length, kissing her on the nose, the lips. Her big green eyes glimmered adoringly at him.

“I am truly fortunate to have you,” she patted his cheek.  Then her grin grew hopeful. “Can we go to Brigid right now?”

He shook his head. “The weather is wet,” he told her. “I will bring the woman to you. I do not want you out in the elements.”

She stood on her toes, kissing him again and accompanying him to the door as he collected his gloves and his helm.  Even after he left, her thoughts and heart were still warm on him, thinking on this man who had been able to see past the shame and darkness that surrounded her.  She reflected on her life, thinking she must have done something terribly good at some point in order for God to have rewarded her with a man as amazing as Weston. 

She thanked God daily for her blessings.

***

Cecily’s family had an expansive fortified manse in the town of Sudbury, about three miles to the east of Hedingham Castle.  Brundon Manor had been built by Cecily’s grandfather, Sir Albert Brundon, who had prospered as a sheep farmer, and the family owned nearly the entire town.  They were very wealthy and very political. Many people of political importance would be at the wedding and as the party from Hedingham made their way to the fortified gates of the manse, Amalie was feeling more and more anxiety.   Even if Weston was convinced that this was the right thing to do, she was still apprehensive.

Apprehensive or not, her angelic looks masked her angst.  The seamstress in the village, the same one who had made Cecily’s wedding gown, had constructed a beautiful confection of gold brocade and satin with a waistline that gathered underneath her breasts so the emphasis was completely off her big belly. 

It was, in fact, difficult to see her belly at all for all of the layers of billowing fabric.  More than that, the neckline was off the shoulder, drawing the eye to the delicious swell of her breasts, something that Weston found utterly arousing.   He was positive she would outshine every woman at the wedding, including the bride, and he wasn’t the least bit sorry about it.  He was so proud he could burst.

He rode next to the cab carrying his wife astride his big blond charger.  Heath and John rode behind him, absolutely thrilled to be at a wedding where there would be many unattached young ladies and copious amounts of alcohol.  Young bucks that they were, women and alcohol pleased them immensely. Ten men at arms rode in strategic placement around the carriage while young Owyn drove the cab.  

Weston wasn’t completely thrilled with his wife’s savior driving the carriage but Heath had selected the man for the detail, not entirely aware of who he was until Weston mentioned it. But Weston let it go, realizing he wasn’t threatened by the soldier any longer no matter what the young man felt for Amalie. Since their marriage, Owyn had made a point of staying away, something that Weston had been grateful for.

Perhaps the man stayed away only out of fear, but he was grateful nonetheless. Amalie had never asked where the soldier was and Weston had never offered. That bright smile he had once seen given to Owyn those months ago was now reserved for him alone.

On this day on the first of September, the sky above was brilliant blue.  Weston glanced up, watching the breeze push cotton-puff clouds across the sky, watching ravens soar on the drafts.  He felt happy and proud to be here.  When the guards at the gate admitted the party from Hedingham entrance, Weston rode at the head of the delegation as they approached the main house.

It was a long road, rocky but fairly well kept, lined with statues of saints.  It was rather ostentatious and more than once he cast Heath and John humorous glances. There were valets, servants and grooms everywhere to attend to Cecily’s guests, men dressed in fine silks especially for the occasion.  Heath and John kept looking around for the women.

When they reached the entry to the manse, Weston dismounted his charger and strapped the muzzle on the beast so the grooms could handle him and not get their arms bitten off.   When one of the valets moved to open the cab door, Weston barked at the man, who immediately backed off. Weston wanted the privilege of opening the door himself, which he did and extended his hand to his wife.

Amalie put her small hand in his, stepping out of the cab and resplendent in her golden gown.  She smiled up at her husband, seeing reassurance and pride in his features. The dress and matching cloak billowed out behind her and the valets scrambled to keep it out of the mud. Weston led her up the stone steps with the regal air of a queen, taking her hand and tucking it possessively into the crook of his elbow just before they reached the great and ornate door.