The Deed

Damn! He could lie with Medusa herself to make this his own. Amaury filled with determination as they rode into the bailey and his eyes slid across the towers, barns, and people hurrying this way and that. His people. His vassals . . .

  A frown plucked at his mouth as he took a second look at those people. Then he turned to peer at the men escorting them.

  He had not noticed before, but the men Lady Emma had sent to fetch him were all garbed in black. Amaury had been so angry at the action, he had not taken note of their garb. Now, however, he was hard put not to notice. It looked as if every single person within the walls was dressed in black, and he frowned at the oddity of it.

  He had heard of castles where the people wore their colors, but usually it was reserved for only personal servants in the castle and men-at-arms. Here, everyone seemed to wear black. Even the very littlest babies wore their color as they played about the bailey. If they were their color. He hoped this wasn't a portent of things to come.

  A glance at Blake showed that he too had noticed the odd dress. He was frowning as he took it all in. Still being peeved at him, Amaury merely shrugged and dismounted when his friend finally turned to him questioningly.

  "Sebert!" A plain-faced maid rushed down the stairs as they started up them. "Yer to escort his Lordship to the church. The bishop, her lady, and Lord Rolfe are waiting there."

  "God's teeth," Amaury muttered under his breath to his friend, forgetting his determination not to speak to him. "They be waiting at the church."

  " 'Twould seem the bride is eager," Blake said drolly as Sebert turned to them.

  Ignoring him, Amaury continued up the stairs, announcing, "I shall have refreshment first."

  The little serving wench immediately threw herself at the door, barring his way. "Nay! Her ladyship said ye were to--"

  "I am the lord here now," Amaury began coldly.

  "Not yet."

  Turning slowly at those grim words, Amaury stared at the man pushing his way through the group of men at the bottom of the steps. Tall and well-proportioned, the man had an air of belonging about him that immediately annoyed Amaury. This was to be his castle, after all. No one but he should be so comfortable here.

  "You are?" Amaury drew the words out dangerously.

  "Lord Rolfe Kenwick." He gave a slight nod. "Lady Emma's cousin. And soon to be your cousinin-law." He grinned slightly as he added that last sentence, knowing instinctively that while de Aneford hadn't refused, he most likely wasn't comfortable being ordered to marry.

  "I have had a long trip," Amaury said now. "I wish refreshment."

  "Plenty of time for that," Rolfe said cheerfully. "The servants are busily preparing a repast even as we speak. However, at the moment, the bishop and my cousin are waiting patiently at the church. You took longer than expected."

  Amaury shifted guiltily at those words, aware he had dallied as much as possible. That guilt was the only reason he allowed Rolfe to urge him back down the stairs. "I came soon as I got the order," Amaury muttered, glaring at Blake as if daring him to refute his words.

  Coughing into his hand to hide his amusement, his friend remained silent and fell into step on Amaury's other side as they crossed the bailey. The hundred or so men who had accompanied them, soldiers who had followed him into battle on countless occasions and had elected to remain with him on hearing that he was to have his own manor, fell into line behind them.

  " 'Tis sure I am you did. Quite sure," Rolfe commented dryly, patting him once more on the back. "I, of course, reassured my cousin of this. Several times this afternoon as we waited," he added a bit archly, then paused and turned to face Amaury as they reached the crowd of black-bedecked servants crowded around the church. "Treat her well, or I shall be forced to kill you."

  His tone was so cheerful as he added that last thought that Amaury was left gaping after him as he moved through the people who even now were parting to allow them a path to the church.

  "I believe you have been warned," Blake commented dryly as he watched the other man join the bishop and the woman at the door of the church, then his eyebrows rose. "Good God, she looks all fit for a funeral."

  Amaury peered at the woman in question, and his jaw dropped once more.

  "Well, at least she is not large . . . or rake-thin, for that matter. She appears quite voluptuous, in fact," Blake commented, looking again at the petite, rounded woman, then grimacing at the black gown and veil she wore. "However, it does appear I was wrong about her being eager. Think you she actually loved Fulk?" He glanced at his friend. "I suggest you close your mouth, my friend. I fear you are in danger of swallowing a fly."

  Amaury's mouth snapped shut and he uttered between clenched teeth, "What is this? A joke? Black to our wedding? Waiting at the church? Have I lost my--"

  "My lord," the bishop called impatiently from the front of the church, frowning in disapproval. "Do not tarry."

  The woman, who had stood with her back to them up until then, turned now to peer curiously at them, giving them a fleeting glimpse of her black veil before she turned swiftly away.

  "She must be truly ugly, Amaury. Mayhap that is why the rush to wed you. This way you'll not get the chance to see her face before you are wed."

  Amaury swallowed grimly and considered simply mounting his horse and riding away, then stiffened his shoulders. Get a hold of yourself, man, he ordered himself grimly. Think of the manor. Sighing, he straightened and moved through the crowd, feeling like a man on his way to the gallows.

  Emma forced herself not to turn again. She had spied several strangers standing at the edge of the crowd. They had stood out next to her own people, who were in their solid black garb. Her husband could have been any one of them, but judging by their stance and carriage, she knew that he was one of the two who had stood in front. That knowledge had been enough to unsettle her. Neither of these men had been what she expected in a husband. Both were giants. She herself was a bit below average size. Well, all right, she was short. It was the bane of her existence. Rolfe had teased her endlessly about it throughout their childhood. She barely came up to the shoulders on her cousin, and both these men were taller still. She doubted she would reach halfway up either man's chest. Add to that the fact that both men also appeared to be nearly as wide as they were tall, and she found herself swallowing in trepidation and considering the alternative.

  Bertrand. And a point in his favor was that, like his cousin, he was much more delicate of form. However, that was the only point in his favor.

  There was no question of her choice. Giant or not, her soon-to-be-husband could not possibly be a worse choice than Bertrand and his mother.

  As she waited for him to join her at the door of the church, she set her mind to trying to figure out which of the two men was to be her husband. One had been as fair as the other dark. They had been too far away to make out any individual features really, but she had been able to tell that the fair one had been smiling, his face lit up with lighthearted amusement. The other had been as solemn and glum as death. Surely a man would not be so glum on his wedding day? Therefore, she reasoned, her husband must be the blond.

  Emma sensed his presence when he finally reached her side. Swallowing, she clutched her bouquet of flowers tightly and stared steadfast at the bishop. She was almost afraid to look at the man who was to be her husband. She feared what her reaction might be were he unbearably ugly. She didn't like to be shallow, but truly it had been a relief to her that her first husband had been pleasant to look upon. Should her new husband be horrendously ugly, she might offend him with a sour reaction. There being little choice but to marry him, it seemed much more sensible simply not to look.

  "My lady?"

  Emma blinked at the bishop when he called her name. His raised eyebrows told her that she had missed something important. When he repeated himself, Emma swallowed, then echoed the words in a breathless voice. Her new husband, despite his size, spoke his words in much the same manner. When the bishop came to the part about kiss
ing the bride, she steeled herself and turned to her new husband, closing her eyes lest she insult him by expression should he be ugly.

  Amaury took a bracing breath, then reached resignedly and lifted the black veil of his wife. The sight that befell him made him freeze as the veil flew back over her head. Her eyes were closed, it was true, so perhaps he was not getting the full picture, but the woman before him was not the slightest bit ugly. In fact, she was quite pretty even. Her skin was flawless. Her lips were full, round, and inviting. Her nose was not the straight royal nose that would be considered attractive by most, but one with an endearing tip to it that suggested impudence. And she was young, too. Not an old hag as he had suspected.

  A smile tugged at his own lips as her own turned down with slight impatience at his hesitation and he recalled himself to his duty. Grasping her by each shoulder, he lifted her clear off the ground to meet his lips. His relief made the kiss warmer than he had originally intended, so that the peck he had thought to grimly grace her with became instead a warm caress.

  Emma's eyes opened in surprise at his kiss. That first surprise was compounded by his looks now that she was finally seeing them. It was the darker man. And he didn't appear the least grim now. In fact, he was smiling down at her with a warmth that left her slightly bemused. Mustering an uncertain smile, she flashed it at him briefly as he set her back on her feet, then whirled to face the bishop as he finished the ceremony.

  Bishop Wykeham's voice flowed deep and smooth over her as he pronounced them husband and wife, but Emma hardly heard a word of it, and she certainly didn't really see his face as she peered at him. Instead, her new husband's face swam into view before her, floating there, smiling at her as he had done when she had opened her eyes.

  Dark hair. A bit long, perhaps. Even a little shaggy, but perfect for the sun-warmed face it surrounded. Kind, dark brown eyes with small wrinkles at each corner that spoke of much laughter. A mouth that had been firm yet soft, charming in smile, and sweet against her own.

  Emma sighed as the crowd surrounding them suddenly burst out cheering. The ceremony was over. They were married now. All was well. They were safe.

  " 'Tis time you two retired."

  Emma flushed brilliant red at the bishop's firm announcement. She had spent the last half hour in a sort of daze, eating the food placed before her and drinking the wine offered as she did her best to avoid staring at her husband. It was most odd being married to a stranger. Emma had been through it before, but still found it disconcerting.

  She was aware that Rolfe and the bishop had pulled Lord Amaury aside and spoken to him as soon as they had returned to the castle. No doubt they had been informing him of the full state of affairs, and no doubt he was now aware of the urgency to consummate their marriage, but truly, to order them to bed seemed a bit much. They had not even spent three quarters of an hour in celebration.

  " 'Tis not yet dark," Emma protested now, trying to ignore her blush.

  "Aye, but the bishop is right," Rolfe announced, rising from his seat beside her. "The deed must be done."

  Seeing his new bride's embarrassment, Amaury frowned at the two men and got to his feet as well. "Come, my lady, we shall retire. Never let it be said that the bishop and your cousin were more eager for us to be bedded than we were ourselves."

  Smiling uncertainly, Emma rose beside him, her gaze flying over everyone else in the hall. Her own people had been updated on events this afternoon, not by Emma, but through the castle grapevine. They were looking on with obvious relief that the consummation was to take place forthwith, ensuring their future safety from the rule of Bertrand and his mother. Lord Amaury's men, however, were looking on with confusion. Some even appeared suspicious. The one called Blake, for instance, was frowning with great concern at the bishop and Rolfe's odd behavior.

  Noting this, Amaury put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Lord Rolfe will explain," was all he said before leading Emma silently away, aware as he did that Rolfe had moved to sit beside his friend to do just that. He could almost imagine Blake's consternation when he learned the reason behind this sudden rushed wedding. 'Twas the truth, neither he nor Blake cared for Bertrand. He was a greedy, selfish beast, and a coward to boot. Many a man had died needlessly in Ireland due to that cowardice and his poor leadership. Worse yet-- though they had no proof-- both of them suspected it was Bertrand who had betrayed the king in Ireland and smuggled the assassins into camp the night he had almost been killed. But perhaps that was simply their own prejudice against the man, Amaury thought now. He pondered the incident briefly, before realizing quite suddenly that they were halfway up the stairs on the way to . . .

  Good God! They had reached the time for the bedding. His gaze dropped to the wee woman beside him and he swallowed anxiously, all thoughts of Bertrand fleeing.

  Lord Rolfe had taken great pains to stress his cousin's innocence. As the rumors had suggested, it appeared she had not even been bedded once by her husband. Amaury could hardly believe Fulk fool enough to neglect her so, and was not sure that he was pleased at the knowledge. He supposed it was nice to know his wife had known no other, but Amaury had never taken a virgin. Being a bastard and knowing the trials of a bastard's life, he had been determined not to produce one himself, and had therefore lavished his attentions on camp followers and wenches, never virgins. Now, however, he found himself in a quandary. Never having bedded a virgin, he really had no idea how to proceed.

  His gaze slid to his wife's face. She looked completely unperturbed by what was coming, but he had to wonder how long he could hope for that to last. Probably right up until the bedroom door closed, he decided. Then she would no doubt burst into rivers of tears and fears and look at him like he was an animal.

  Sighing inwardly, he tried to remember all he had ever heard of bedding virgins from others. They were a fearful lot from all accounts. That much was certain. And the first time would hurt too, he'd been told. It was the maiden's veil, of course. A man had to ram through it. There was said to be blood sometimes, sometimes a great deal of it.

  Swallowing once more, he felt a fine film of sweat begin on his forehead. How was he to approach this frail and petite lady with all of this? It was impossible. He would crush her with his very weight. Might crack her in half with his passion. He simply could not give her the tenderness she deserved, especially not when he had thought of little else but the consummation since their wedding. At least he had since he had lifted the veil and seen how comely a wench she was. Lady, he corrected himself. His wife was a lady and an untried one at that.

  "My lord?"

  Amaury glanced at her with a start to find her smiling at him ever so gently.

  "This is my-- our room," she informed him quietly.

  "Ah." Clearing his throat, he reached for the door and opened it for her, then hesitated about entering. It had suddenly occurred to him to wonder if it would not be more seemly to allow her a few moments alone in their room to do what ever it was women did to prepare for bed.

  Emma was halfway across the room when she realized that her new husband had not followed her. Turning back, she found he still stood in the doorway of the room. Neither all the way in yet, nor all the way out, he seemed deep in thought, his face pinched in concentration as he pondered what ever was concerning him. "My lord?"

  Her new husband looked at her then, and Emma was amazed to see uncertainty on his face. Then understanding came to her. This was his first time, she realized, and felt her heart melt with understanding. Up until that moment she had been working herself into a fine lather, silently fretting over having to share her bed again. Despite knowing what to expect, it was still nervewracking being abed with a man for the first time. But now that she saw how fearful he was, she found herself feeling much better. After all, if he had never been abed with a woman before, she was the more experienced one. That being the case, she immediately found herself taking control of the situation.

  "Come." Smiling gently, she held a hand out toward hi
m. "All will be well."

  Realizing that his virgin wife was trying to comfort him, Amaury shook his head in bewilderment and entered the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

  As he closed the door, Emma turned to peer around the room, her gaze landing on the screen Rolfe had brought back to her from one of his travels. "Would you like to use the screen to disrobe?" she asked when he turned to peer at her.

  "Nay, I'll wear naught to bed."

  "Oh!" She flushed slightly, disconcerted at that, then regained her composure and moved to the screen. "Then I shall use it and you may use the room itself," she decided, moving out of sight behind the screen.

  Amaury stared at the screen his young bride was hidden behind, then turned to survey the room. It was a dark and gloomy room. The large bed was the first thing he noticed. It appeared more than big enough to accommodate his unnatural height, he was happy to see. But it was also solid black in color. Not the wood. The wood itself was a dark mahogany, but the linens on it and the drapes that had been pulled back to reveal the bed itself were both as black as the clothes his bride had worn to their wedding.

  Amaury frowned as he took it in. From what he had seen, his wife had an uncommon fondness for black. He would have to see to that. The room would be much cheerier with different bedding, he decided as he set about unbuckling his sword from his waist. Then he turned his attention to the rest of the room. A large fire took up most of the wall opposite the bed. One chair sat before it. He would have to see to another being added. The idea of spending cold evenings comfortably in front of the fire with his wife had some charm to it, he thought with a slight smile. His eyes moved over the tapestries on the wall as a familiar chorus rose up in his mind. Mine. Mine. Mine.

  Sighing his satisfaction, he slid his gaze over the screen behind which his wife changed. It was obviously foreign. He had never seen anything like it, but even so, the painted designs on it spoke of foreign lands and people. A rustle of material caught his ear just as his new bride slung her dress over the top of the screen, and Amaury swallowed, realizing that while he had been dallying, his wife had not. He could almost picture her standing behind the screen, stripping her clothes away one piece at a time.