If Love Dares Enough (23 page)

“
Non
,” she whispered. “I understand.”

Yes, she understood perfectly the unsubtle inference. Only a man and his wife shared a trencher. It was so intimate. She felt a tic pulsing at the base of her throat. It was becoming increasingly difficult to swallow. The wine had gone to her head somewhat. Was that part of his plan?

“I’m starving,” he exclaimed as he tore apart a chicken roasted with rosemary, placing the pieces on their trencher. He cut off a succulent portion of breast meat and handed it to her. “Do you like the breast? Or do you prefer the wing?”

She looked back at his green eyes. “I prefer the breast,” she murmured.

He laughed. “Me too. I’m a breast man.”

Her mouth fell open, but he was tucking into his food and she thought perhaps he hadn’t meant anything other than that he liked to eat chicken breast. This was all so overwhelming. She had no experience socializing on an equal footing with men—especially one as ruggedly handsome and self assured as Antoine. She licked the grease from her fingers. Antoine coughed and poured her another goblet of wine.

“I shouldn’t drink too much,
milord
.”

“You’re right. But please, call me Antoine.”

She nodded in acknowledgment. “Antoine.”

“And with your permission I will call you Sybilla.”

She’d never heard her name spoken with such sensuality.
Ssy-bill-ah
. Gooseflesh marched all over her body. She took another unladylike swig of the wine, hoping to ward off the chill of excited fear.

She was being seduced—had come prepared for it, but it was turning out to be a much more pleasant experience than she had imagined. She was becoming intoxicated by Antoine de Montbryce. If only he truly loved her.

“Sybilla, I have a proposal for you. A way out of our dilemma.”

Ah. Here it was.

“A proposal?”

“I wish to make you my wife.”

Antoine could have kicked himself for his insensitivity. What kind of marriage proposal was that? The great philanderer Antoine de Montbryce and that was the best he could come up with? Why had he not told her he burned for her? Because she had been in love with her husband, a man he had killed. He feared she would never return his love. He was a coward.

He saw the look in her mismatched eyes. It told him she wasn’t surprised by his offer. But he saw pain there too. Would marrying him be so distasteful to her? Was she resigned to it because it was the only way to protect her son?

Belatedly, he pulled her up from her seat and went down on one knee before her, taking hold of both her hands. “Lady Sybilla de Sancerre, will you honour me by becoming my wife?”

She closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. He longed to place his hands gently on the rise of her bosom and rest his head there. She swayed. He waited.

“I presume you would wish to have the ceremony before your departure for Caen, so you can take me with you?”

The ice in her voice cut into his heart. She had judged his proposal to be based on his desire to save his brother. Could the woman not see he loved her, that his love for her had turned him into a blithering nincompoop? But she was right. Haste was imperative. He would make it up to her later.

“I’d like to make the arrangements for the morrow,” he blurted out, again realizing how mercenary he sounded. He rose from his knees. “Shall we toast our forthcoming union?”

Dieu, could I make myself sound any more ridiculous?

Sybilla shook her head. “
Non
. I think I’ve had a surfeit of wine this evening. Tomorrow will be an eventful day. I must bid you goodnight,
milord
.”

As she turned to leave, he caught hold of her shoulders and turned her back to face him. “My name is Antoine,” he breathed.

He couldn’t bear the look of desolation and disappointment on her face. She was to be his bride. He wanted to kiss her. He’d imagined it so many times. Still holding her shoulders, he pulled her to his body and brushed his lips against hers. He wanted to coax her mouth open, to deepen the kiss, but didn’t want to alarm her.

Then the thought occurred to him that she was a widow. Her husband must have kissed her a hundred times. Would she be thinking of Denis de Sancerre when he kissed her? He was becoming more aroused with her body pressed against him, and his tongue flicked over her lips, savouring the taste of the wine on them, the fragrance of the rosemary. She gasped and opened her mouth. Had her body surrendered some of its stiffness? He let his tongue wander into her mouth—and his knees went weak when she sucked on it. He gathered her into his embrace and deepened his kiss.

When they broke apart, each taking a deep breath, she stammered, “I’m sorry—I don’t really know how to kiss.”

Surprised by her remark, he laughed, and saw her flinch. “I’m not laughing at you, Sybilla. That was a wonderful kiss.”

“Really?” she whispered.

“Really.” He leaned his forehead against hers and felt how heated she was. If he didn’t let her go it was likely he would pick her up, toss her on the bed and make love to her this very night. But that would shame her. She was a woman who had only recently given birth, a woman who hadn’t yet been churched. He would need to see to that as well on the morrow.

He smiled as he proffered his arm. “I’ll escort you to your chamber.”

Devona had lost track of how long she and her mother had been incarcerated in the hellhole. She judged it to be about a fortnight. Her mother wouldn’t last another fortnight. Lady Wilona was already losing her tenuous grip on reality.

They were brought food twice a day—stale bread and watered ale. The straw in their cell was filthy. They hadn’t been allowed to bathe. Black rats scurried everywhere. There was a hole in the stone floor—a dark corner for relieving the call of nature. Lady Wilona had spent much of her time retching into it. They were provided a bucket of brackish water to swill down it. The stench was overpowering.

I might not last another fortnight either.

Did Hugh know she’d been arrested? Where was this castle in which they languished? She and her mother had been bound and blindfolded throughout the long ride from Domfort. Who had arrested them? If only Hugh would come. She could face this with him. How had he fared in Le Mans? He had sent word the King had garrisoned him there, but did he still live? Had the King already punished him for his part in her rescue? The men who had come for them had talked of a bishop. Did William hold a
curia regis
in Normandie as he did in England? Her heart plummeted at the thought. Might she be hauled before a tribunal of barons and bishops to be judged? Were they to face the wrath of King William?

In the distance she heard the jangling of keys. Gradually the sound grew louder.

“Up on your feet,” a harsh voice shouted, rattling the keys against the grating of the door. “You’ve a visitor.”

At last. Hugh!

As she stumbled to stand, she saw Renouf’s grinning face at the door. She sank back to the floor, feeling no fear, only disgust for this monster who had brought misery to so many.

“How is my fine wife this day?” he crowed. “Do you prefer this to the genteel life I offered you?”

She remained silent.

“And where is your protector now? The great Hugh de Montbryce? Do you think the barons and bishops will condone what you’ve both done?”

Devona had never been a violent person, but she wanted to kill Renouf—if only she had a weapon. Perhaps she could heave the bucket at him. Did she have the strength? She prayed he would not persuade the gaoler to open the door.

He continued his harangue for several minutes, but seemed to lose interest when she refused to rise to the bait. Lady Wilona had remained silent throughout, lost in a stupor. Renouf stomped off, muttering to the gaoler about adulterous wives and retribution.

“Has he gone?”

Her mother’s voice shook Devona out of her daze. “Yes, he’s gone.”

Wilona sat up and took both of her daughter’s hands. “Hugh will come, Devona. We must hold on to that belief. Whatever happens, I’m more content to rot here than in Renouf’s clutches.”

“Pray then our punishment is not to be returned to him.”

They soon fell asleep, clinging to each other until their next meager meal was shoved through the grate.

“Lucky you, ladies,” the gaoler crowed. “Another visitor.”

Still half asleep and exhausted by fear, Devona looked up from where she lay on the straw and saw—Hugh’s face. “Hugh?” she rasped.

“
Non
, Devona. I’m Ram de Montbryce, Hugh’s brother.”

“The Earl?” she croaked as she struggled to her feet. Grasping hold of the grated door, she peered at the face that looked so much like Hugh’s.

“I’m Devona,” she murmured in confusion, “And may I present my mother—” As she turned to indicate Lady Wilona she lost her balance. She felt like a drunkard. “What must you think of me, my lord Earl? This is not how I imagined our first meeting. Where is Hugh?”

Ram closed his hand over hers. Its warmth brought her comfort. “He’s safe. He was taken prisoner three days ago. King William has given me leave, because of our longstanding friendship, to see you. I was here in Normandie when the news came. I’ve already made arrangements to get Hugh moved to a different place of incarceration. These conditions are intolerable, and I apologies for the way you have been treated in my country.”

“Hugh is safe?” was all Devona could think to say as a tear rolled down her cheek. “And Antoine?”

Ram nodded. “Safe. Not in prison—yet. Step back while this miserable excuse for a gaoler unlocks your cell.”

Devona didn’t recall much of the journey to the nearby
Abbaye aux Dames
. Men in uniform carried her and her mother out of hell and took them to the convent, where they were allowed to bathe and given a meal and clean clothing—novices’ habits. Ram explained they would be kept here until the
curia regis
was convened.

“How long will that be?” Wilona asked.

“Possibly another fortnight. You’ll not be allowed to see Hugh, but I will. He’s confined to the
Abbaye aux Hommes
nearby. He wanted me to tell you how much he loves you, Devona.”

Devona couldn’t speak. “Tell him—tell him we are safe now. Tell him I love him. Tell him I’m sorry to have brought this upon him—upon you and your family.”

“Lady Devona, Hugh is my brother. Since Hastings, I’ve watched him struggle with his demons. You have exorcised those demons, and for that I thank you. We are all doing what we can to resolve this situation.”

“Thank you, my lord Earl.”

“Please, if we are to be related, you must call me Ram.”

“Ram—has Hugh told you—about Renouf—about our so-called marriage?”

“
Oui
, he has told me. Don’t blame him for breaking his oath. I told him I would do nothing to help either of you if he didn’t tell me the complete story.”

“Tell him I understand, but the
curia
—I’ll be shamed if the court hears of it.”

“Keep faith. I’ll return if there is news. Don’t despair. I must go. Antoine is being married.”

“Married?”

“
Oui
, at the
Abbaye
, so Hugh can attend. The King has given his consent, which is a good sign.”

“Who is his bride?”

“It’s a long story, Devona. I’ll tell you another time. Enough to say this marriage may help your cause.”

***

Antoine stood waiting for his bride to arrive. Despite the circumstances, it felt good to know both his brothers were there to stand with him. Ram had been instrumental in obtaining the King’s permission for the marriage to take place, and for it to happen in the magnificent abbey church William had built. Antoine suspected it had not been easy to persuade the King to allow him to marry an Angevin prisoner. Ram must have done some smooth talking! Now there would be no danger of Sybilla being executed.

Hugh had been allowed to shed the monk’s robe he was obliged to wear as a detainee and stood beside Antoine in clothing befitting his rank and station.

All was in readiness—little Denis slept peacefully in Oda’s arms; seated next to her was an unmarried peasant girl brought as a wet nurse from the
Abbaye aux Dames
after losing her child at birth; he and Hugh were richly attired; a more majestic location for a wedding would be impossible to find; they had the King’s blessing—yet Antoine felt uneasy. His heart ached—if only Sybilla had agreed to this union because she loved him and not because she believed it was the only way to protect herself and her son.

He’d found his soul mate, just as Ram had found Mabelle, and Hugh his Devona. Would Sybilla forgive him for slaying her beloved husband? He resolved to spend his life trying to convince her of it as he saw her come into view on Ram’s arm. Whenever they were apart he’d tried to dismiss his attraction to her as merely physical, but as soon as he saw her, he knew differently. This woman was in his blood. His need for her went beyond the physical, although his shaft was doing its usual thing as he watched her walk slowly towards him. They would be unable to consummate their marriage for a while yet, though Sybilla had undergone the churching ritual earlier in the day. He would not bed her until she indicated she was ready—and willing.