The Bridegroom Read online

  The Bridegroom

  by

  Darby York

  Copyright © 2011, Darby York

  Cover art design by Stella Price

  Digital ISBN: 9781935817567

  Published by Turquoise Morning Press for Smashwords

  Turquoise Morning, LLC

  www.turquoisemorningpress.com

  Turquoise Morning, LLC

  P.O. Box 43958

  Louisville, KY 40253-0958

  Smashwords Edition, License

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The Bridegroom

  Medieval life is hard for everyone, especially for noble women forced to marry their enemies. Yet even then women longed for love and fulfillment. Can a reluctant bride find true happiness in an arranged marriage?

  The Bridegroom

  Darby York

  Haworth Castle

  My Lady’s Solar

  I shove my knuckles against my mouth, stifling a gasp.

  Beneath me in the great hall, brawny serving boys place a large wooden tub before the hearth. Two more men carrying buckets of steaming water empty them into the tub and place one bucket beside to the fire, withdrawing.

  Another serving man sprinkles flakes of sweet woodruff into the tub and the pleasant vanilla-like aroma waifs to my nostrils high above. My betrothed divests his clothing. Firelight provides scant illumination, but ‘tis enough for me to witness him step over the edge of the tub and sink into the water. He takes up soap and linen rag and washes himself.

  “Mayhap your wife’s hand will help you on the morrow,” the serving man says with a wicked chuckle.

  “Be gone, knave!” He waves his soapy hand, dismissing the man, but seems not to begrudge the remark.

  As he washes himself, he broods, his black eyebrows furrowing over even blacker eyes. His hair is long, not as custom, flowing down his back as a maiden’s. Minutes later he stands, water sloshing down his long limbs. Without a servant, he attends to himself, lifting the bucket of water. Slowly he splashes the liquid over his body, letting it rinse the soap from the hairs on his chest and the muscles of his thighs.

  His penis stands proudly, only tempered slightly by the cooling water. He throws his head back and stares up at the stone wall.

  I jump back from the squint, a peephole concealed by the war shield hanging near the fireplace below. Had he seen me spying on him? Does he know I am watching him bathe?

  My face aflame, I turn from the secret squint as heat races up and down my body. Fanning my cheeks with my hand, I slowly cross the solar. The flagstones, covered with Castilian carpet, are cold beneath my bare feet.

  After compline, my maid is at rest, and now snores softly on a pallet at the foot of the tall, canopied bed. I avoid her and stop at the side of the down-filled mattress piled high with colorful quilts and warm furs.

  Tomorrow night he will share this bed with me.

  Sir Alan Hawkwood—esquire of the king’s household and knight, my betrothed, the man who calls me sweetheart and kisses me as I have never before been kissed—is my family’s enemy.

  I stare at the lord’s bed, aptly aware of its import. Heirs of Haworth were conceived on yon bed. For centuries, children carrying the lord’s name came into being there. It cannot be helped, my fate, but I need not like it. I need not succumb willingly.

  Renewed by my resolve, I strip off my shift, snuff out a lone, tallow candle, and pushing back the soft fur coverlets, crawl into the high bed. Quietly, I let down the linen hangings, muting the snores of my maid.

  After seeing what I have seen tonight, that personal place between my thighs begins to soften. Slowly. As if becoming a warm pool, opening and welcoming.

  I have seen men before. Heavens, I have been raised with twin brothers. I have watched curs coupling in the bailey. I know what is expected of me.

  Yet I shut my eyes, suddenly dizzy. I have not seen before such magnificence as I secretly witnessed tonight, looking down on that proud stallion that is to be my husband.

  Has he cast a spell on me? Standing—all of him—naked as a Celtic god? Why else did I ache in the place only he has stirred? Why else have memories of that kiss in the garden tormented me, scorching my cheeks and weakening my limbs?

  Lord, help me on the morrow.

  I am adorned in my wedding finery—a blue gown made of silk from Sicily, cut full and long, hanging in folds, and a surcoat in a deeper shade of blue, made of baldekin and decorated with images of hounds and harts embroidered into the fabric with gold thread. The skirt of this outer garment is so long and generous that it covers my kid leather shoes and forms a small train when I walk. My hair is unconstrained, flowing in soft, dark shining waves around my face and down my back to my knees.

  When my stomach complains loudly I wonder if others hear. I glance at those standing near and place a hand against the folds of my surcoat, as if that gesture will ease my hunger pangs. I have not broken my fast. Now, with heat suffusing my face, I feel lightheaded.

  Servants have prepared the broad open space of the upper-story hall for the wedding. Rough timber floors have been swept clean, strewn with fresh rushes and sprinkled with dried herbs—spicy basil, sweet-smelling balm and lavender, and refreshing hyssop. Tallow candles impaled on iron candlesticks flicker, casting splotches of stark light that fail to brighten the cavernous hall or alleviate the sudden chill in the October air. I sidle nearer to the roaring fire.

  “He comes, my lady,” my maid whispers.

  My breathing falters. At the far end of the hall, my bridegroom halts, hard-pressed by a crush of castle folks hailing his arrival.

  Watching him from under my lashes, I see the black knight at ease with the servants and the lesser tenants, who have been summoned to the castle for the event. His laughter sounds effortless and genuine. How dare he win over my people so readily?

  As if he hears my thoughts, his gaze finds mine, focusing on me like a raptor fixed on its doomed prey. I suck in a breath. His black eyes cut into me like talons. That dark stare penetrates my inner soul, almost as if he sees my hate. We are enemies. Without mother or father, I must do as the king commands.

  My bridegroom breaks away from the crowd and, with the sweep of his black cloak, closes the distance between us in long strides. Everyone in the hall pauses to watch. His footsteps echo in the expectant silence.

  He stops just inches from me, dressed from head to foot in black with no ornamentation except for the sapphire broach clasping his cloak together across his broad shoulders.

  ‘Tis as if we are alone in the midst of all the wedding guests and servants.

  My heart racing, I pretend to be shy. I can but glance at him, hastily, and then lower my gaze, as any demur maid.

  “Ah, sweetheart, you are lovely,” he says so softly that only I hear.

  My head jerks up. “I am not your sweetheart!”

  He assesses me, silently, his face unmoving. What is he thinking? Pinpricks of tension hold me erect. I lift my chin and glare back at him.

  “I warn you, as well.” His words, when they come, are a quiet hiss between his teeth and meant for just me. “You will act the part of my wife, if only for the sake of your good people here.” He sweeps an impatient hand, indicating the assembled crowd.

  I draw a sharp breath. His threat is not idle. I see it in his resolute stance and in his eyes, those black, raven’s eyes.

&nbsp
; “I will do my duty, sir, for I know my obligation,” I say, letting him see by my own icy gaze that having his way with me will not be easy.

  “The priest awaits.” He takes my right hand gently in his. “Come, let us both do our duties.”

  Before the sixth hour, the ceremony begins inside the tiny chapel. The clergyman announces the terms of my dower and the dowry. I pay scant attention, not caring what is said nor promised. I concentrate solely on the way my bridegroom’s massive grip swallows my hand.

  His fingers are long and tapered, strong and tanned from days in the sun. Still, I feel no safety with my small hand in his. Conversely, I feel faint, my face hot and flushed. ‘Tis as if smoldering embers somehow extend from his fingertips, shooting up my arm and down my body, and bursting into flame somewhere near the core of me being. That place where last night I’d yearned for him—nay, lusted for him—the flower of my maidenhead.

  We stand side-by-side, facing the priest, who crosses himself and glances pointedly at me. I stare up at him as he begins slowly, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together in the sight of God to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony.”

  Jolted by the gravity of the words, I fight hard to attend to the priest’s pronouncements. The weight of my fate nearly buckles my knees.

  I glance once more at the unyielding countenance of the black knight who stands straight and motionless beside me. He already holds himself like a lord. His loose hair, longer than fashion dictates, bespeaks his disregard for convention.

  Once again, I temper fear with determination, and draw a breath, turning back to the priest and carefully repeating the vows when asked. Yet I cannot shake the deeper dread that settles in my stomach when I think of the coming night and what I must do to prove my virginity is not easily taken—even by my bridegroom.

  ****

  With light waning, I retreat with my maid upstairs to prepare for bed. As I sit brushing my hair, a sudden commotion erupts on the stairs. I glance up at my maid, whose face mirrors my perplexity.

  Without comment, the maid strides to the door and swings it open. “Who goes there?”

  “Water for the lord’s bath.”

  I jump to my feet, toppling a small stool. I hug my arms to my body, a niggling fear prickling the back of my neck. Your wife’s hand will help you on the morrow.

  Serving boys burst into the solar, carrying a large wooden tub and several buckets of steaming water. They set their burdens near the hearth and wait for instruction.

  I know when he enters the room. His presence fills the dark solar with a spark that electrifies my senses. I glance up to see him watching me with shuttered eyes, assessing me from afar as a falcon scouts its prey.

  “Pour the water into the tub,” he commands. “Leave one bucket by the fire.” The boys spring to do as they are bid. “Now get out! Even you,” he says to the maid.

  “I have not finished with her,” I say, glaring at him in defiance. “My hair needs tending.”

  “I will tend it.” He shuts and bolts the door. Then he comes toward me. “And you will tend me.”

  Dread fills me. I might as well have been naked for the cover my thin chemise gives me.

  “Nay!” I defy him. “Tend to your own needs. Bride I may to be, but I am neither willing, nor eager.”

  I turn away. Hearing him cross the room, I am unprepared for the way he grabs the fleshy part of my upper arm and jerks me around. Anger burns in his eyes and something more.

  His gaze leaves my face to scorch my body, traveling down to my bare toes. “I am your husband. Your chaste treasure belongs to me, and I will not abide your willfulness.”

  I glance down. My flesh paled white where his fingers bite into my arm. “And may be your wife, yet I will not give myself to you.”

  He throws back his head in laughter. “Well met! I enjoy a challenge.”

  Dropping his hand, leaving me arm suddenly bereft of warmth, he turns from me to undress. “I will not entreat you, but you will yield.”

  His threat frightens me. I stare at his back, watching him strip off his tunic and braes. Soon he stands stark naked before me, the taut shape of his buttocks testifying to years in the saddle.

  I swallow. Fascinated by the curve of his back and his well-muscled shoulders and thighs, I fight the low, insidious lust inching its way to where I will soon lose my maidenhead.

  He faces me, and I can not help but gape at his erect lance ready to do battle. Grinning like a cocky page, he steps forward and brushes a hand over the top of my head and down the side of my face to hold my cheek.

  “I will not force you,” he murmurs, his black eyes growing even darker. “In faith, I have another precious bauble to give you once I give you this one.”

  I flush to the tips of me toes. I know what bauble he refers to—his penis thrusting so proudly before him.

  My breath grows labored. The flesh where his fingers touch my cheek sizzles. I must resist him, for my honor.

  His gaze entrances me, pulling me in, mesmerizing me. Swaying, a deep stupor engulfs me. When he bends his head to kiss me, I let him, drowning in the soft pressure of his lips.

  He breaks off with an audible sound of regret. “The water cools.”

  He leaves me. I teeter, licking my dry lips. He climbs over the edge of the tub and sinks into the steaming water. Too tall to fit comfortably, he bends his knees so they peep out of the water.

  Glancing back, he raises an eyebrow. “I am waiting.”

  Snapped out of my trance, I rebel. “I am no serving wench.” Leisurely I bundle my hair by tying it once into a loose knot, thereby getting it out of the way.

  Expensive lavender soap from London and a linen rag lie beside the tub. He reaches over the side, picks them up off the floor, and extends his hand, offering them to me. “My servant usually adds woodruff to the water,” he says as if we have lived this way for many years.

  Well, let the servant tend you! But I dare not speak this bit of boldness. ’Twill serve him right to smell like lavender flowers.

  His gaze collides with mine, almost as if he hears my thoughts. I tip up my chin and firm my jaw, hesitating. My knees feel weak, but as happened last night, something enthralls me, melting my reluctance and moving me toward him step by step.

  Taking the soap and rag from his hand, I kneel at the side of the tub and dip the rag into the water, wetting it, soaping it, and working up a rich lather. Slowly, afraid to touch him, I catch his long hair with my left hand, lifting it from his shoulders.

  “I thought Crusaders wear short hair because of the clime,” I say, faulting him for going against fashion.

  “‘Twas short at the time,” he replies.

  I pat his back with the rag. Trembling slightly, I rub his muscled shoulders, made strong from the wielding of his longsword, leaving the sweet-smelling lather covering his skin. Then I follow his spine until I reach the water.

  I suppress the need to gulp. “Why not now?”

  “It suits my purpose.”

  “Extend your arm, if it suits your purpose,” I direct, releasing his black locks so they fall against his wet neck.

  He complies, and I run the soapy cloth from his shoulder down the length of his left arm until a ragged red scar near his elbow stops me suddenly.

  “A Saracen almost severed my arm,” he tells me. Smiling slightly and lifting an eyebrow, he asks, “Do you care about me?”

  I jerk back. “As much as I care for anyone in my household.”

  He catches my wrist, his fingers burning mine to the bone. “You don’t disappoint, do you, Sweetheart?”

  I shoot him a look. He doesn’t mind my reluctance, but simply draws my hand toward the curly, black hairs on his chest. “You are not finished.”

  Helplessly, I touch the rag to his chest. He drops my wrist and rests his arms on the side of the tub, settling back. I scrub the place between his breast bones and then move up to his throat. Going down again, I pass over his nipples that hardened at my
slight touch. Seeing them tighten, I feel warm shock waves wash through my womanly place. Why does he stir me?

  My throat aches. I feel out of my skin—cold and hot, flushed with a fiery lust I cannot hope to control. Washing the hard planes of his stomach, I am aware of the heat in my face and in his even hotter gaze that lands possessively on the thin fabric covering my breasts.

  When I come to the water once more, I stop.

  “Tend to it all,” he orders, his voice rough with what I take to be desire.

  His penis is fully erect in the water, hiding just beneath the surface, taunting me.

  I spring to my feet and slam the rag into the tub, splashing water into his face. “Do it yourself!”

  I run from him, as far as the confines of the solar will allow. I am barefoot and practically naked in my damp shift.

  My heart beats hard. I turn and see him rise from the tub. He steps over the rim onto the stone floor and comes toward me, slow and menacing. He is in control of himself. I fear he takes pleasure in the game of cat and mouse. After all, what man does not enjoy conquest?

  “You are my wife,” he says, crossing the floor to where I cower at the window seat, my hair now loosened and falling around me face.

  My fingers curl into fists, my nails biting the pads of my palms. What have I done? By my simple act of defiance, I am giving him cause to take me as his right.

  “You bring out the worst in me,” I snap.

  “And you bring out the best in me.”

  Without more ado, he catches me by my shoulders and snarling, drags me to him. He crushes me to his wet body, suffocating me with a kiss that devours my lips and invades my mouth. I resist only briefly before the same hard-breathing desire explodes within me. I kiss him back, seeking satisfaction, exploring his mouth and hating myself for my own insatiable hunger.

  He breaks away, panting, and as I breathe quickly, he lowers his head once more, raking his lips down the tender flesh of my throat. Angered by the thrill that trails through me when he finds sensitive targets, I have half a mind to resist again. Instead, I bring my trembling hands up to his chest to brace myself, and gasp aloud when his mouth finds my nipples beneath the ineffective chemise.