Pretending marriage seems like a way to escape a political betrothal to a brute until a baron mistakes her for a real bride and demands First Night rights.
Excerpt
1120 A.D., Britain
Lord Geoff took his time, seeking to resolve his troubled emotions before arriving at the cottage. He walked the path for a second time that day, hoping the physical exertion would relieve the longing ache that had settled in his gut since seeing the Saxon beauty. He fervently prayed the vexing woman was not William’s new bride, but a traveling companion or a sister.
That woman has turned me upside down, he thought.
He was angry with himself, but, perversely, excited to stumble so unexpectedly upon a woman who set his blood boiling.
* * *
Darkening shadows licked at the room. Matilda and William sat side-by-side at the table, finishing a meal of cheese and bread, their heads bent toward each other as they talked. A shadow cut between them, blocking the last rays of a sun that had been feebly forcing its way through the open door. Matilda looked up and gasped. The baron had arrived.
Golden rays from the setting sun caused the visitor’s thick sandy hair to glow like fire. The elegant lines of a well-trimmed beard in no way detracted from a determined jaw.
Why is he not clean-shaven in the style of the Norman? she wondered. It’s strange he should go against fashion.
Why this should be her first thought she didn’t know, but the fact that he followed his own inclinations unnerved her.
His face””arrogant-looking with its straight, aristocratic nose””was nonetheless extremely handsome. Laugh lines around his eyes, crinkling in sun-tightened skin, showed him to be a man to take enjoyment out of life. No mustache hid those sensuous lips on which Matilda’s gaze unwillingly locked. A warm flush started at her toes and worked its way up her body. The man’s seductiveness was too close to that of her dream lover.
I must be careful, she reproached herself.
The baron stood in the doorway, his supple, knee-high leather boots planted firmly on either side of the wide doorframe. High cheekbones called attention to his intense, gray eyes that seemed to drink in Matilda’s face and form. The riveting intensity of his gaze confounded her, making her uneasy.
William rose abruptly so that his chair toppled backward and slammed noisily onto the wide planks of the cottage floor. While he greeted the baron, Matilda uprighted the fallen chair. She stood behind it and nervously grasped its solid wooden back, trying to be inconspicuous, but William gestured for her to come forward.
“This is Lord Geoffrey de la Werreiur.” William’s voice resonated his respect. “Lord Geoff, this is my bride, Matilda.” She noticed the word “˜bride’ left her cousin’s lips easily.
As she reluctantly abandoned the chair’s protective barrier to greet the baron, her heart leapt to her throat, allowing no sound to escape. The curtsy she intended to make never happened.
The baron captured one trembling hand in both of his, creating a tormenting prison. While raising it to waiting lips, he gently caressed its smooth skin with an insistent thumb. When at last he placed the inappropriate kiss upon the back of her hand, she didn’t wait for release, but tugged, intending to free her hand quickly. Instead, the baron held it securely and pressed the tip of his tongue to her skin as if to explore its elemental nature. At the same time he looked up at her from under lowered lashes with a twinkle in his eye.
He’s deliberately tormenting me, she realized.
She tugged harder and freed her hand, her face flushed with embarrassment, her mouth dry and her tongue still unable to utter a sound.
“Welcome to Caelfield.” His voice reverberated deeply within her body. He smiled, teeth flashing white against shadow-darkened skin, acknowledging her discomfort, but not consenting to relieve the emotional pressure. “We’ve met before.”
“Surely not, my lord. I would’ve remembered.”
Her voice sounded strange to her.
“You were but twelve. You’ve grown up.”
The caressing voice flowed around her, adding undertones of meaning. She felt wrapped in an encapsulating cocoon, as if William was pushed out and only she and the baron inhabited this world. Totally disarrayed, Matilda turned aside in panic as William pushed a precisely crafted chair in the baron’s direction.
“Sit down, my lord. Would you like something to eat?”
The baron sat, declining the offer of food.
William positioned himself against the wall, allowing Matilda to sink gratefully onto the other chair, having first moved it so the stout table created a barrier between the baron and her shaking body.
She put her hands in her lap””rubbing the offended spot with her skirt””and cast her gaze downward. She didn’t want to see those teasing eyes, to experience again that first compelling response that put her heart in her throat. She sat, turning her face to the final rays of the sun, and spoke not a word.
The shadows continued to deepen and the sounds from the village to lessen as evening settled in. With her gaze, she traced the outline of first one shadow and then another, on the smooth plank floor. She shifted nervously on the wooden chair.
As the two men talked, Matilda glanced stealthily at the baron and found him staring at her. She quickly looked away.
Time passed and Matilda heard the conversation become strained. William labored to find topics, while the baron talked haphazardly, seeming not to care. She stole glances to watch a frown (unconnected with the lagging conversation) periodically form on his arresting face.
The level of unease increased, making the atmosphere leaden. William shuffled restlessly.
At last the baron rose. His brows knitted in a deep frown as though some thought not totally to his liking moved around in his head. He shook himself, squared his shoulders and moved toward the door. There he turned. It was at William that he looked and to William that he spoke.
“I demand first night rights.”
Matilda felt the color drain from her face. Droit de seigneur. The right of the lord to bed the bride on the wedding night. The thought filled her with horror. She would be ruined.
“First night rights?” William questioned hesitantly. “My Lord, we’ve been married three days.”
“First night on the manor land then.” The voice was hard and demanding, allowing no dissent. “I’ll send my overseer within the hour.”
Matilda’s hands clenched, her arms rigid at her side. “You cannot, William,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
William stared wide-eyed, his own coloring completely gone. His face reflected the tumult surging through his mind. Pain was etched there””and anger””and bewilderment. Then, as if a great burden had been pushed onto his shoulders, so great it aged him by its touch, he bowed his head and said, “Yes, my lord.”
Copyright 2008 Joann Smith Ainsworth. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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