The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (24 page)

Before she had known of Bertrada.

Before she had understood the lie of his kiss.

She looked into his eyes, forcing herself to look away from his stern masculinity. He stared back at her, his eyes so dark and rich a blue that she wished to tumble into their depths. Until she killed the thought. She would not be the fool for Richard again. She would leave girlish dreams and fancies behind, in her girlhood, where they would stay. She was a woman now, and a woman knew her duty.

"Leave us, Edmund," she said, and in the same moment, Richard commanded, "Be gone, boy."

Edmund left, so obvious in his eagerness to be quit of the tensions in the chamber so clearly respectful of Richard as to be deeply irritating to Isabel. When had Richard become so firmly Lord of Dornei that even Edmund had abandoned his attachment to her to fasten it on the monk who stood head over them all?

But Richard was no monk. Had she not noted it? He was less the monk each day and more the warrior he had trained to be. Why, then, was she so miserable?

Bertrada.

How easily the answer rose within her.

With the closing of the chamber door, Isabel's eyes focused again on Richard. She could not stop looking at him, it seemed. And cursed herself for her folly.

He leaned back against the wooden tub, the planes of his face sharp and clear in the afternoon light, his eyes like sapphires against the ivory of his complexion. Such beauty in a man was... compelling. Sinfully so. Had those hands, which now were so lazily draped over the rim of the tub, held her thighs apart with such gentle force? Had that mouth kissed her throat, seeking her pulse with its moist heat? Had he truly thrust his member, so large and firm beneath the thin veil of water, into her, making her his?

Was she his?

Isabel swallowed heavily and closed her eyes against the sight of him. She had lived in a dream world for most of her remembering, constructed out of memories and plans and tiny bits of contact with Richard. She did not want to live there any longer. It was a child's game. She was a child no longer.

Was she his?

Nay, he was Bertrada's.

She had a husband who did not want her.

She had a husband who did all out of a sense of duty.

Richard's sense of duty had shaped his life, even when a young squire. Such could not be said of her. She lived on impulse, she could see that now, but Richard had the right of it. A man's days on earth were allotted, and each man must do as God directed; she would do her duty as Lady of Dornei and she would ignore the ache in her heart at dreams both realized and lost.

Duty was a splendid shield against pain.

"Isabel, we must speak. There is much I would say," Richard said.

She forced herself to look upon her husband. Yea, he was a man to make a woman dream, but dreaming was not part of her duty.

"Speak, then. I will not hinder you," she said, her expression calm. Her eyes, her incredible, translucent eyes, were shuttered.

He could not read what was in her, and always, always, he had been able to read her eyes.

He did not know this Isabel.

How could Isabel be so calm, so composed, when he was naked and in the same room with her? 'Twas not possible. Should she not be agitated and distracted in even the smallest degree, as was he?

He had taken her, made her his own, on the bed behind her. He had cupped her breast, her ivory breast, in his hand just hours ago. He had kissed her throat, feeling the heat and life of her pulse beneath his lips. He had laid his hands upon her thighs, preparing her to accept him into her body.

But she had not been prepared.

Therein lay his answer. Or part of it. He had assaulted her body, shattered her dreams of girlhood love, and revealed to her a sin which shamed him every hour of his life. A heavy burden he had laid upon her. That she did not publicly revile him showed the mercy and generosity of her character. That she had shuttered her heart against him he understood. But he could not allow it to stand. He wanted access to Isabel's mind and heart. He needed it. His brief conversation with Rowland had opened a door he had not known existed; he wanted Isabel in his life. He wanted her regard, her attention, her everything.

He wanted her.

He did not know how to get her.

He and Isabel had shared a bond of intimacy from their first meeting. In all of Malton, she alone had been able to make him laugh. She alone had sought out his company. She alone had listened to the whispers of his heart. He did not know what he had done to win her regard, and so he did not know what to do to regain it. In all his experience he had only to breathe to have Isabel.

For once, it was not enough.

He did not know where to begin. He was not a man of courtly words and compliments. He did not know how to flatter. He knew how to fight and he knew how to pray. Such were not skills which won a lady. He did not imagine they were suited to win a wife.

But he would try.

"I would thank you," he began. It was always good to begin by giving thanks. Even prayers began in such a way. "I would thank you for so efficiently hosting our guests. For so many unexpected guests, you have provided well. I did not know you so capable."

The Isabel he had known from childhood would have flared at the implied insult. The Isabel who faced him now did not. He would welcome, happily, any response from her, even anger.

"I did nothing beyond my duty as Lady of Dornei. I seek no praise for it," she answered stiffly.

At that, he had exhausted his efforts at flattery. He did not know how to interact with this strange new Isabel. The atmosphere within Dornei was strained enough with the arrival of Henley and his veiled accusations; he did not want Isabel suddenly to be less than he knew her to be. Where was his impulsive, infatuated girl? Mayhap, if he pressed her into closer proximity, she would tumble into the Isabel of yesterday.

"Since we have dismissed Edmund, would you...?" and he held the square of linen out for her to take.

"Would
I...?"
she said softly, her eyes round and still.

"Wash my back?" he said as innocently as he knew how.

To her credit, she only paused for a moment before grabbing the linen from him and attacking it with a sliver of soap. She did not need to know that Edmund had already washed him thoroughly. Surely, with her hands upon him, she would feel
some
response to him? It would be so, he consoled himself as he leaned forward in the tub. Isabel had little experience at resisting him; surely she would fail before long.

She did not.

She scrubbed the length and breadth of his back, and his buttocks besides, with all the dispatch of a serf. Very efficient. Not at all intimate.

He was badly shaken by the experience. More so because her hands upon him, neither slowed by passion nor frantic in seeking passion's release, caused desire to pulse between them. He quaked, and he did so alone.

Was she truly so cold to him? Had all her feeling for him died?

True, she had experienced no pleasure in their coupling, but few virgins did. The darker possibility was that she could not forgive his sin with Bertrada.

She had been shocked by his confession, as was right, but he had, he realized now, expected her devotion to him to remain unchanged no matter what sins he had committed. Such was the surety he placed on her feelings for him. He had
been
wrong, and he could add the sin of pride to his growing list of divine offenses.

But, no matter what wounds he had inflicted upon himself, he had hurt Isabel beyond bearing in allowing her to believe that he had joined the brotherhood to escape Bertrada and his illicit love for her. Worse, that he loved Bertrada still. Such knowledge would weigh heavily on a woman, and he could not allow her to bear such an ill-conceived burden. He would have to speak of Bertrada, as much as he hated doing so.

Isabel was leaning over him, her hair curling with the moist heat of the bath, her face intent on her duty and devoid of any emotions he could read. He must speak. He must tell her all and of how wrong she was to assign love to his involvement with Bertrada.

But he could not speak, not when she was so close, not when she was touching him. Her hands were so small and white, the skin of her cheek so smooth, her lips so red; she was a beauty, desired by all who knew her. Her smile was ready and quick, her laughter light and musical. When had she last laughed? Surely not since becoming a bride. All she had wanted was him, and all he had done was wound her. He was not a man for any woman to want, yet all he wanted now was for her to want him.

He was hard for her, and he closed his eyes against the desire hot and heavy within him. He would not act on his desire when she did not want him. He would not force her. He would never force her again.

He would only try to force her to desire him.

Yet he did not know how.

He had to speak; he had to free her of the lie of his loving Bertrada, He would look the worse for it, but it did not signify. Isabel must be free of this. And his desire would be denied until she wanted him again.

"I want to tell you about Bertrada," he began. She jerked upright and dropped the linen into the water. "It is not as you—"

"I am not your confessor, Richard. This is between you and God," Isabel said, her eyes fierce. "But if you wish to speak about something, I am eager to talk about the performance of our marital duty on the marriage bed."

Richard could only stare at her in stunned amazement. Did she truly want the intimacy of their bonding again? Mayhap he had misread her—

"I have been told that in order for a child to be conceived," Isabel continued, wiping her hands dry and laying the linen precisely over the bench when she was finished, "I must experience pleasure on the marriage bed." She turned to face him, her arms crossed over her chest and her chin lifted.

"I am not certain exactly what is meant by that, but I am certain that it did not happen last night."

Richard gripped the edges of the tub in grim silence.

"I understand feat your chosen path lies with the Benedictines. I will not stand in any man's way when he chooses to follow God. Once I am delivered of a healthy child, you are free to return to the abbey, where I am most certain you are eager to be. My duty is to see that the line is ensured, and that is what I intend to do."

She was gone, her dignity intact to the last, before he could manage breath to stop her.

He was not entirely certain what he could have said to stop her. In the cooling waters of his bath, he had shrunk to the size of his thumb.

Chapter 24

As soon as he was dressed, the wool of his tunic clinging to his wet back, Richard sought out Father Langfrid. The good Father was in the town, visiting the goldsmith, whose wife had died of a winter fever. The man, Edward, had three small children and was prayerfully considering a new wife. Father Langfrid was disposed to gently guide him toward the widow of the armorer's assistant, or so it seemed to Richard as he came upon them.

"She is a kind soul who had her husband's high regard," Langfrid said.

"But she is older than I by some years," Edward said.

"And do you think your children will mark the difference?" Langfrid replied. "As to that, you cannot tell me she is not a comely woman. She bears her years lightly."

"I will not deny it," Edward said.

"Especially to his priest," Richard said with a wry smile.

"My lord," Edward bowed in greeting. "If you have need of any work, I am here. My workmanship is skilled and my shop profitable."

"And you are not modest," Richard said.

"I am only truthful," Edward responded.

"And skilled," Richard teased.

"And skilled," Edward smiled.

"I do have need of you," Richard said on impulse. "But now I have come seeking my priest. If you will come with me, Father? I will return and will return Father Langfrid to you, if you are eager to be convinced of a bride."

Father Langfrid and Richard moved off, walking the single street of the town merchants. There was no privacy, but Richard did not want to wait, the question was so hot on his tongue. Taking the Father by the arm, Richard edged toward the pond that bordered the brewer's hut.

"What is it, my lord?" Father Langfrid asked, a trifle winded by their pace.

"It is Isabel. Something has happened to Isabel. She has changed," Richard said in a low voice, though even he could hear his urgency and commanded himself to serenity. The Brothers in the abbey would smile to hear him so distraught, he who had always displayed such self-control. Women were a man's most arduous test in this life.

“The only thing that has happened to Isabel is that she has married," Langfrid said.

A hard answer. The only conclusion Richard could draw was that he himself was the one who was responsible for the change. It was an unpleasant conclusion. He wanted another.

"Yea, she is married, as am I," Richard said. "Yet she has come to me," he said reluctantly, "with...
a plan...
the idea
that... she... we...
have not met the requirements for conception."