The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (14 page)

She could hardly wait.

Joan knocked and gained admittance just in time to help with the final arrangement of her hair.

"He prefers it down, I am convinced, so merely wind this ribbon throughout and let it cascade among the curls," Isabel instructed. She was blessed with softly curling hair, of which she was truly grateful. Richard had seemed, from his earliest days, fascinated by her hair.

"Since neither your mother nor Ida are here to help you... prepare... for your bridal night, I feel I should... say something," Joan said, fussing nervously with Isabel's hair until it was more tangle than cascade.

"Yea, I would hear anything you would impart to me," Isabel answered eagerly. What had she to fear on the bridal bed, since Richard would be her partner?

"Oh," said Joan, nonplussed at Isabel's open eagerness. It hardly matched her own memory of her bridal night so long ago. "Well"—she cleared her throat—"he will... that is... men are different from us... fashioned by God to be..."

"Yea, I know that men are different," Isabel helped, turning to face Joan and take her hair out of the elder woman's hands, where it was becoming more tangled with each struggling word Joan spoke.

"Ah, good, you understand," Joan said in relief.

"Wait! How is that difference manifest on the marriage bed?"

"Well," Joan said, turning an unbecoming shade of red, "they are... bigger."

"Bigger than what?" Isabel asked.

Joan coughed and pulled at her wimple. "Richard could explain it better, I think. He will guide you. Trust him, and all will be well." She turned and was gone, speaking the last words to the still air of the stair tower.

It was advice Isabel could happily follow; trust Richard she always had. He was a man who inspired confidence and trust, even as a squire. In that pack of boys reaching toward manhood, Richard had stood apart as a natural leader. Henley had seen it and taken special care to spend more time with Richard, to train and teach him the ways of knight and lord. All had seen that Richard was exemplary, none more than she.

Smoothing her gown over her hips, she took a deep breath and walked out of her chamber. She had nothing to fear; she had known Richard for most of her life. She felt she had wanted him for the whole of her life. And now she had him. He would know what to do, and she would trust him.

With the memory of their single kiss blazing her in eyes, Isabel fled gaily down the stair tower to meet her beloved husband for dinner.

She entered the hall with the confidence of Queen Eleanor herself, her eyes glowing and her step both measured and seductive. Her gown glimmered in the patchy light of the great hall, the candles setting the golden hue aglow with the radiance of the sun, and
the
azure of her bliaut the deep blue of a summer sky; she looked lit from within, as on fire as the sun that burned in the heavens. And Richard, knowing the reason why, could not help but be amused by her.

"I see the good Father delivered my message," he said when she reached her chair.

Isabel looked over at Richard as she sat, carefully arranging her skirts to fall most prettily. Was he making a joke? Richard never joked. She knew him well and knew this of him: He was stalwart, loyal, honorable, handsome, and duty-bound. He did not engage in frivolity. Did he?

"What message was that?" she asked, testing the waters of ill-tested humor.

She held his eyes, expecting him to look away from her in embarrassment, which he would do if he understood what she was asking him to say.

But no matter the provocation, Richard never looked embarrassed; a year at the abbey had not changed that about him.

"That I will see to my duty upon the marriage bed. With you. Tonight," he said calmly.

Calmly he said it, when her heart beat faster just to hear him say the words. He showed all the emotion of a clerk looking over the account books—which, in any regard, was all he seemed to want to do.

Isabel picked up her knife and speared a chicken pasty, cutting into it viciously and eating it voraciously. She would not look at him, sitting so elegantly beside her, his black hair gleaming in the light and his eyes dark and unfathomable. Yea, she noted the length of his fingers as he broke his bread, and she could not ignore the fine black hairs that climbed the back of his hands to his wrists, nor the web of veins that crisscrossed his hands and the perfect shape of his well-trimmed nails. Those hands would touch her soon. They would caress her as they had on that long-ago kiss, when he had gripped her to him as if she were the sum of his world and all that he cared to possess.

He had been on fire then. Now he was cold, calmly telling her that he would do his duty by her on the marriage bed. He showed more passion when reviewing the accounts with Jerome.

He was nothing like a real lord, who spent his time hunting, hawking, and fighting. Nothing. Richard may have worn her father's clothes, but he was still a monk at heart.

Sitting at her side, he could feel that her mood had changed. Gone was the queen at her adoring court; in her place sat an angry girl.

It was so typical of Isabel and of his converse with her. Never could he fathom the maze of her thoughts, except to know that all her thoughts led to him. Her fascination with him was as constant as the earth. Should she not then be happy that she found herself his wife and that he would take final possession of her tonight on the marriage bed?

The thought made his blood thicken and pulse heavily, and he shifted his weight in his chair, praying for control. Always it was the same—he prayed for control over his rebellious body, fighting the images and urges that had long plagued him. Always he was successful. Yet he fought the same battle again and again, never gaining firm ground, never able to leave the battlefield of physical lust.

He looked at Isabel sitting at his side. She was not the enemy in his battles against his own urges; she merely made it more difficult for him to win. Perhaps because she was so very determined that he lose. The thought made him smile. He watched her eating furiously, the food in her mouth barely swallowed before more was shoved in to takes its place. She chewed as if her food were an enemy to be devoured.

He found he could understand it. And he smiled more fully; Isabel had always amused him, though she confounded him just as often with her impulsive ways.

"I did not see you in the yard today," she blurted out between mouthfuls. "I suppose all that reading tired you."

He looked at her over his wine, sipping slowly, enjoying the disparity in their eating styles and wanting her to be aware of the difference. She thought him tired? Where would this lead? He would not have long to wonder since Isabel was not adept at hiding her thoughts; although he could not help but wonder if she had ever tried.

"Reading never tires me," he answered easily, studying her. "I am accustomed to it."

Isabel grumbled under her breath and shoved a piece of bread into her mouth, answering over her food, "There is no doubt as to that."

"Would you like instruction in reading?" he answered pleasantly, sure that the enjoyment he was getting in prodding her was a sin, Still, he didn't have the heart to repent. "It would help you in your management of Dornei in the event of my absence."

Lords of vast estates often traveled, leaving wives behind to manage all. Lords of vast estates, even small holdings, fought and were gone in their warlike pursuits, satisfying overlord and king. She could hardly picture Richard doing that, unless he carried a scroll rather than a sword.

"I can read, thank you," she answered sharply. "I pursue other pleasures for my entertainment. Do you not do
anything
else?"

Richard looked into the dark liquid of his wine and cursed the image that rose in his mind. Yea, he did more than read; he battled the succubus who visited him nightly, but he was not going to admit that to Isabel. She would probably think it a fine joke.

"Yea, I do more than read. I pray," he answered, prodding her, swallowing his smile.

"I had noted that," she said.

"That is good," he answered, knowing it would prick her. "I would be a worthy example of Christian service to my wife."

For answer, she drank half her wine in a series of loud gulps and picked at a second chicken pasty. Her knife became a weapon and her food the enemy. Isabel was blatantly irritated.

He could not fathom the cause. Yes, he teased her now, but he had agreed to bed her, had he not? He was the one being forced to bend his will; her will was being satisfied on every level. He should be the one in turmoil, not she. He was married, as God willed, and he was obedient, succeeding at this latest task to test his commitment to the Holy Father.

And he would not think of the passion of Isabel's kiss or the feel of her beneath his hands, though the memory scourged him.

His agreement to consummate the marriage was spiritual service, not lustful action. He would take no pleasure in it. He must not.

While he battled his determination to do his marital duty against his rising passion for his wife, he listened distantly to Isabel talking about hawking and sparring and the waning of his knightly skills. He had not remembered her as being shrewish; then again, he had avoided her company at every opportunity.

"Fret not," he said, cutting her off. "I know well what is expected of the Lord of Dornei. In fact, I must journey to Warefeld and the other estates which we jointly hold so that all may swear to me. Once matters at Dornei are in hand, I will leave for Warefeld."

Isabel was certain that she was one of the "matters" to which he referred.

Had he always been so cold-blooded? Could a man who spoke of their joining in such terms inspire confidence that he would do well at his "task"? He was clearly, nay, proudly, only interested in reading; she was not at all certain he could perform in the marriage bed. The memory of their kiss was less vivid the more time she spent in his company. This "monk" was hardly capable of inspiring ardor—until she looked at him from under the fringe of her lashes and noted him boldly studying her.

He was beautiful. His skin was without blemish, his eyes the color of sapphires, his hair dark as a lake in midwinter; and he was looking at her as if he actually wanted to make her his wife. His body to hers. His mouth to hers. His hands... touching her, without restraint, without censure, without... sin.

The thought struck her hard, and she knew the thought was his, coming to her from his eyes. Coming to her from his heart? She wanted to believe it so.

Her heart fluttered wildly, a bird trapped in a cage, her pulse jumping to fly free of her body. She returned his stare. Caught. So willingly caught.

Mayhap more would happen tonight than communal prayers.

Gilles pouring more wine into their cups broke the moment, but she had a new memory to add to the memory of their kiss. And, God willing, memory upon memory would be added tonight.

Dinner was concluded. A light rain was falling, the sky darkening outside the wind holes so that extra candles were lit. The dark was coming early, and she could only praise God for His impeccable timing and bounteous grace. The inhabitants within the curtain wall broke into groups of quiet activity. Elsbeth drew Aelis into helping her repair a tapestry that Isabel's mother had fashioned in her day as Lady of Dornei. Aelis came reluctantly, and only because Edmund had quit the hall before the final course, leaving the duty to Gilles. Isabel knew she should help with the tapestry, but she did not want to give up her place near Richard. No matter how monkish he had become, she could not imagine him sitting to mend cloth, needle in hand. What to do to keep him close and occupied before he found something else to read or another prayer to chant?

"My lord, would you care to play a game of chess?"

By his look, he was preparing to refuse her. But today was not going to be a day of refusals.

"Have you lost your skill at chess as well?" she prodded.

"As well?" he answered, turning to face her.

"As well as losing your skill at hawking and swordplay and—"

"I have not lost my skill, merely my desire."

"A result of your abbey confinement," she rejoined. "They are greatly skilled at subjugating a man's natural desires."

"You may praise God and Abbot Godric for that, Isabel, else I would give in to my desires now. You would not be happy at the result."

He looked very stern, very severe. She did not care; it was his look. She knew it well.

"I think I would," she said with a fetching smile. "I have always been happiest when you followed your natural desires."

His eyes glowed dark, the blue lost, becoming black as night sky. He was remembering their kiss. Nothing could have given her more pleasure.

"I think you would not, little Isabel," he growled, "for this desire is more violent than any you have yet seen from me."

"I am ready for any desire you choose to bestow upon me. More than ready. Eager," she breathed, staring into his eyes, challenging him. Unafraid. He was Richard, after all.

He shivered then, a tremble that traveled from his head to his feet and swallowed whatever retort he had been ready to make.

"Set up the board," he said instead.

Smiling, victorious, she did.

"Who shall have first move?" she asked.

"You, naturally," he said with a small grin. "You always make the first move."

"Only when I am compelled by my—"

"Opponent?" he cut in.

"Partner," she said instead. "My partner's inability to do so."

She moved a pawn forward.

"You mistake of desire for inability," he said, moving his own pawn.

She stared into his
 
eyes and said, "You will never convince me of a lack desire, not when it comes to... play," she finished with a wicked grin.

Richard shook his head and laughed lightly. "You never would be convinced of something you did not want to know."

"Is that unusual?" she returned. "Besides, I think I know more of this game than you would credit."

Richard's look turned dark, and he studied the board, refusing her eyes. "I pray that is not so, Isabel."