The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (16 page)

"Yea, he looks quite engaged," Isabel agreed. "But it is more the behavior of a lady to make her interest less blatant. Such bold behavior is—"

"Is what has caused you such renown," Aelis finished.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your interest in Richard while you were betrothed to another is known by all," Aelis said without the slightest breath of condemnation. Why, then, did Isabel feel such shame? "I was only a child when you were both at Malton," Aelis continued, "yet it is a tale well told and often. Isabel loved Richard and was betrothed to his brother. Yea, everyone knows what passed during your years at Malton."

Shame washed over Isabel. Had she truly been so bold that all knew and all tittered over her love for Richard? Had Hubert, his brother, heard the tales as well? And how would Richard have responded to such a charge? What could he have said that would not have damned them both? Worse, had Richard felt the shame of her regard for all these years? The shame she was just now feeling?

It was a very uncomfortable thought and she longed to rip it from her.

Unfortunately, she did not know how.

Chapter 15

Richard appeared at the light meal that marked the end of the day with damp hair and a jaw scraped raw by the blade. Isabel could not help but wonder if he bathed for Compline or for her. She did not truly want an answer, which was strange behavior for her. She could only blame her conversation with Aelis as the cause.

She had spent the better part of the afternoon, the part not spent in watching Richard at his sword-play, trailing after Father Langfrid, too nervous to speak and too guilty to leave. Guilt, which had touched her but lightly before she found the means to cast it off, would not leave her now. Had she truly pursued Richard as Aelis hunted Edmund? She knew Edmund liked it not; he spoke his annoyance at every opportunity. And he spoke of the gross impropriety of Aelis's behavior. He was not flattered, and he was not disposed to return her regard.

Had it been so for Richard?

She had believed, with no small thrill, that Richard had flown to abbey life because of intemperate love for her, love he could not realize because she was promised to his brother—a raw love that had revealed itself in that one searing kiss. A kiss of urgent need and mating and passion. An erotic kiss. A forbidden kiss.

She could not have him, yet she had wanted him to burn for her, to take his wanting of her, his need, into the whole of his life, even if that life lay within the abbey. To burn for her in his prayers and in his sleeping and in his very dreams.

As she had and did for him.

Now she had him, past all hope in her most fervent prayers, but had she lost his regard in her pursuit of him? Did she have a husband who did not like her?

It did not mean anything; their lands, monies, peoples were joined.
They
were joined by church and king. Liking, even love, certainly love, did not matter in this bond of families.

Yet it did matter. It mattered because it was Richard. He had always held her heart, though she had never believed he would hold her hand in marriage. What did he think of her? Did he shun the marriage bed because he shunned
her?
It might be that he did not want to be a monk, he only did not want her. Edmund did not want Aelis.

To Father Langfrid she had not been able to confess her fears, but she could talk to Richard, searching his mind on the matter. She had to know what Richard thought of her, and, for the first time, she wanted to know what he had thought during the long years of pursuit. If he felt anything of what Edmund felt for Aelis, she would attempt an apology. She had not meant to cause discomfort, and certainly not shame. What would she say?
I ask your pardon, Richard, that I wanted you too much?
She snorted in self-derision and earned a puzzled look from Richard.

"Did your wine go down amiss?" he asked.

"Nay, I... nay," she said, looking down into her lap, watching her fingers twist upon themselves.

A simple "nay" from Isabel? Richard was intrigued; when had Isabel been known for the brevity of her speech? Or the twitching of her fingers? By all appearances, she seemed nervous, yet he could not credit it. Isabel was never nervous, never hesitant.

But how often had it been her bridal night?

Nay, she had been eager enough last eventide, thinking her deflowering hard upon her. Isabel was ever bold, eager, and impulsive. He found it something of a miracle that she had lived to pass out of childhood and into womanhood, given her nature.

Still, a virgin would have fears...

She was a virgin, no matter her impulsive nature, and he was right to ignore Nicholas's hints to the contrary. He was certain of her purity. Mayhap she was only behaving normally, fearful of the coupling to come, ignorance fueling her fear, dampening her natural desires.

Yea, natural. She had desired him from the start, and he could not but believe she desired him even now, though her skin had gone milk pale and her lips were red from self-inflicted bites. It was odd, the way God turned things around; Isabel was reluctant when he was suddenly so resolute. He would fulfill the
vows
he had taken; he would bed her, ripping her maidenhead and making her his wife. He was as determined to do his duty as Lord of Dornei as he was determined not to enjoy it.

There could be no sin if he did not enjoy it.

He was safe if he did not burn with lust.

Richard studied her, her eyes bright, as green as the emerald brooch she wore, her manner distracted, her movements abrupt. He had known her long, for most of his life; he would not have her fear what was to come. He had been forced to it, but he did not want her to suffer the terror of the unknown.

"I will not hurt you," he said, searching her eyes.

She jerked her wine goblet, spilling a stream of red onto the cloth that covered the table. She grabbed for the bread and broke off a mouthful, the air filled with the smell of yeast and wheat. He took hold of her hand before she could hide her emotion in food, swallowing with the bread all she wanted to say.

"It will hurt," he said, stroking her palm with his thumb when her eyes went wide. It was like looking into cathedral glass; her eyes were so clear, her thoughts so revealed. "Though I will do all I can to keep from hurting you any more than is necessary to see my duty done."

"Your duty," she repeated, looking into his eyes, the hurt blatant even in the dim and golden candlelight.

"Aye, my duty. We have a duty upon the marriage bed, Isabel; it was you who reminded me of it. Would you have me say less, do less, now?"

"Nay, naturally not," she said, turning back to her small feast of bread and cheese, chewing the bread with as much gusto as if it were venison.

"It is natural, what we undertake," he said, still holding her hand, his thumb making circles on the inside of her wrist. "God created, God ordained; the joining of two bodies into one, a sacred union, a bond both spiritual and physical."

Her eyes had gone wide, pools of mossy green fringed by lashes so dark and long they reminded him of butterfly wings beating against the summer air. His body hummed his awareness of her, of every nuance of color in her hair and skin and eyes, of the sweet and spicy scent of her, of the fine texture of her skin, and the way her hair fell down in glistening waves. She was as light as a lark and as active, her voice sweet and her movements quick and agile.

She had always been so. Even in her awkward age, she had not been awkward.

It would have been easier for him had she been less beautiful.

But she had never made it easy for him.

God and all the saints, and all of Malton, too, knew how difficult she had made life for him. Yet, strangely, he did not think that Isabel knew. She did not look about her, as most in the world did, seeking approval or agreement; nay, Isabel fixed her eye and flew straight to her target, all else lost, inconsequential. And all his life, for as long as he could remember, she had fixed her eye upon him. Yet now, now she could not meet his gaze.

He would never understand her.

Now, when he had acknowledged that he had the right—nay, the duty—to lay his hands upon her, he could not stop touching her skin. His hand traveled up her arm to the bend of elbow, and there he caressed her. Through the fabric he could feel her heat. Her very slenderness, her fragility, enticed him. She was so small, so delicate, so feminine.

She was, in all ways, all that he was not.

In an hour, her body would accept him. In an hour, she would take him inside her, sharing her heat. In an hour, he would feel her surround him, blessedly trapped within her. In an hour, he would lie upon her, encompassing her as he took her. In an hour—

"It is time for Compline," Father Langfrid said into the haze around him.

Richard stood woodenly and helped Isabel to stand. "Praise God for each and every miracle," he said hoarsely, his hands tightened into fists, refusing to touch her. "I was close to taking you before Compline."

He left the hall, looking to all a man in firm control. Isabel followed behind, her face a mask of shock. She had almost ranked above his prayers? God was a god of miracles in truth.

* * *

Compline passed in a choral blur, and Isabel escaped as soon as it was over, leaving Richard in holy conversation with Father Langfrid.

Her hour was upon her.

She had never thought to be afraid, not with Richard, and she was not; at least, not that much.

She was in the lavatory, rubbing a cloth over her face and... private parts. She suddenly and urgently wished for another bath, yet there was no time. Compline was over. Richard would come. The sun had not yet set, but Richard would come. He had his duty to perform, did he not? And would it be only that? Would it be only duty between them?

He had offered nothing else.

She had believed—nay, she had dreamed—that if only he were her husband and lord then all would be well. She would have everything she wanted. But she had wanted a willing husband. Richard was not willing. Richard was determined. There was little room for passion in determination.

Perhaps there had never been any passion in Richard at all; perhaps she had only inspired embarrassment. But their kiss had not been tinged with embarrassment; she could console herself with that. It was small consolation; the kiss was long ago and the marriage bed faced her. It seemed a big bed, cold and hard when shared with a man chained to it by biblical duty. What sort of kisses would such a bed inspire?

Nervous, with no outlet except the one which loomed before her forbiddingly, Isabel scrubbed at her feet, washing away the ash and dirt of the bailey. Joan came upon her then, and Isabel tucked her feet under her gown, unaccountably embarrassed. Joan, bless her, said nothing about her grooming habits.

"Your night is upon you," Joan said, her chin high and her courage bolstered by five cups of wine. "Trust yourself in Richard's hands; he will know what to do. There is naught to fear."

"The pain?" Isabel managed to ask.

Joan kept her chin high, looking at a spot somewhere above and to Isabel's right. "There is some... discomfort at first, but, because it is Richard, you will heed it little. This is a night all women must face. Face it well," she said.

It did not sound pleasant if she must be admonished to "face it well."

Joan made her departure as abruptly as her entrance, turning at the portal to say, "He will not be looking at your feet."

She supposed that was a blessing, as they were still somewhat dirty.

She would have liked for Joan to stay, a feminine companion to ease her into the marriage bed, to be a link between wife and husband before the link was fully forged in physical union. She would have liked not to have to wait in the lord's chamber for Richard all alone. But it was not to be.

Richard had come.

* * *

Isabel looked ready to fly about the room in agitated nervousness. He supposed it was natural for a bride facing her loss of maidenhead, but it seemed unnatural for her. Where was his bold girl? He did not know how to deal with this Isabel. Isabel was fire and spark, not damp dismay. He did not know what to do, so he did what he had come to do; he pulled off his tunic.

Why did she not disrobe? She knew what they were there to do.

Thinking about her at supper, sitting next to her, breathing her scent, he had been hard and ready. He had throbbed with need all through Compline, disgusting himself. He had changed not at all. He was unfit for the brotherhood of holy men and had been cast out of it; God had seen his heart and the succubus who plagued him. A year of prayer and fasting, and he had not changed. He was stiff now, just thinking of performing his husbandly duty, hardly caring that Isabel looked like a mouse that had spotted a circling hawk.

Yet what did she have to be nervous about?

Was she not, as she always did, getting what she wanted? His life had been turned inside out, while she had a husband she had wanted since her hair grew past her shoulders. He was being forced by duty to take her, fouling his purity, so hard-won after such diligent effort. Yea, he had failed; his thoughts had betrayed him, though his body had remained pure.