Tori Phillips (5 page)

Marguerite passed her free hand across her forehead, as if to wipe away the thought. “Sweet little fool! You have filled your mind with too many troubadours’ posies. Nay, I speak of the wedding night, when a man and woman lie together in bed. Have any of your sisters spoken of it to you?” Her voice held a note of hope.

“
Non
. Why should they?”

Marguerite blew out a long sigh. “I was afraid of this. It is no good to cosset young girls under glass, like delicate damask roses, then pluck them rudely out of their loving homes and expect them to enjoy it!”

“Aunt Marguerite? What are you trying to tell me?”

The lady squared her shoulders and seemed to grow larger against the pillows. “’Tis this and none other, child. On your wedding night, your husband will strip the clothes from your back, examine you as one does a horse for sale, then he will...he will...”

Never had Celeste known her aunt to falter in the telling of anything. “He will what?”

“He will unlace his tights, open his codpiece, and thrust his man-root between your legs, into the most private part of your body!”

“Oh!” Celeste gasped as a hot flush rose into her cheeks. The scene painted by her aunt sounded appalling. “Surely this is a rude jest, Aunt. It is cruel of you to tease me so!”

Marguerite’s lips trembled. “It is not a jest, but the plain truth. And you must let him do it, for that is his husbandly right. And I must warn you further.” Now that she had breached her initial embarrassment, there was no stopping the torrent of words that poured from her mouth as if from a rainspout. “You will experience pain and blood.”

Celeste shuddered, and gripped Marguerite’s hand. “Must this thing happen? Could we not merely kiss and whisper sweet loving words, and hold each other in the night? I thought that was what happened betwixt a husband and wife. I’ve seen such behavior with my parents.”

Marguerite’s lips drew back into a sliver of a smile.
“Oui,
if you are fortunate with your husband. And these kisses and cooings and such like are the honey of the marriage bed, but this other, this coupling—
that
is the meat and drink.”

“Why?” None of the beautiful books in her father’s library showed such a thing. Lovers kissed in flower gardens, held hands, entwined their arms about each other and slept together like the best of friends. No one had ever seen Celeste naked except her maid—certainly no man, not even her little brother, Philippe. “It is not natural!”

The older woman gave a dry cackle. “It is the most natural thing in the world. And the why of it? For the begetting of children! How did you suppose they get a start? Do not look so moon-faced, Lissa. In time you will grow to crave it—if your husband is a skilled lover. Of course, he is English, and I have heard it said they are not the wisest in this matter. Fah! Your father! You should have been married to a Frenchman, rather then sent off to the arms of a barbarian! There now, I’ve said my piece.”

“Good Aunt, what am I to do?” Celeste bit her knuckles.

Marguerite snorted. “Close your eyes, lie still. . .and think of sweet, fat babies.”

Celeste spent a restless night, tossing on the narrow, straw-filled mattress. Finally, she fell into a dreamless sleep. When the lauds bell woke her to the sight of a misty dawn creeping through her narrow window, the frightening conversation of the night before seemed merely a fragment of a nightmare. Only the images evoked by the words
naked
,
pain
and
blood
remained sharp in her mind.

Perhaps Aunt Marguerite’s long-dead husband had been something of a beast, Celeste concluded as she hastily dressed herself in her burgundy travel gown. Besides, this day promised to be a fine sunny one, and her unknown bridegroom was miles away, in deepest Northumberland. She would confront the problem of the wedding night when the moment—and the man—were at hand. In the meantime, she had more pressing problems—such as learning to tie up her laces by herself, learning to wrap her tongue around the harsh sounds of the English language and, most of all, learning a good deal more about her new travel companion, Brother Guy.

For the few days she had been a guest at Saint Hugh’s, Celeste had spotted the brother with the celestial face only for brief moments. He always seemed to be rushing somewhere. Once she had tried to speak with him—to thank him for his help on the day of the accident—and he had literally picked up the hem of his robe and run into the dark chapel. His beautiful face had had the most amusing expression on it as he fled.

Another time, while practicing her lute in the cloister garden, she had thought she saw his tall figure hovering behind one of the pillars. When she looked up again, no one had been there. At least the adorable Jeremiah liked her music and had taken to sunning himself on the bench beside her while she played. She would miss the cat’s company when she left the priory.

Her final leave-taking of her beloved aunt was brief, and full of the usual admonishments.

“Watch your funds carefully, Lissa, and don’t let these peasants cheat you.”

“No, dearest Aunt.”

“Remember you are a lady at all times. And practice your English, as well as your singing.”

“
Oui
.”

“Do not drive poor Gaston to distraction. He has his hands full enough with those clod-brained men of his.”

Celeste suppressed a smile. She suspected Gaston was secretly relieved not be to traveling with “Madame Wasp-Tongue,” as she knew he called her aunt behind her back.

“Be sure to brush your hair a hundred strokes before bedtime every night—no skimping, mind you. Keep your teeth clean, chew mint leaves before entering company, and you must promise me to attend your prayers. No daydreaming about knights in shining armor.”

Celeste chuckled. “How can I avoid praying, dearest Marguerite? I will be watched over by a priest. No doubt he will have me saying my paternosters all the way to Snape Castle!”

Marguerite slapped her hand playfully. “Do not tease the good brother. I understand he is sworn to a vow of silence, so do not plague him with endless chatter. He has no defense against you.”

Celeste cocked her head. “Such an odd vow! How am I supposed to practice my English with a silent Englishman for company? La! I swear, I’ll take no such vow to accompany him! I will talk for the both of us.”

“Lissa! Mind what I said—”

Brother Cuthbert’s arrival cut short all further instructions. The monk reported that Gaston and his men waited for the Lady Celeste by the lych-gate.

“I shall pray daily for your speedy recovery, dearest Aunt.” Celeste took her aunt’s hands in both of hers. The moment of parting had arrived, and she felt woefully unprepared for it. She wanted to say something memorable, something loving, but the words hung back like shy choirboys.

“Adieu,
my heart.” Marguerite lifted her face for a last kiss. “I shall hold you in my thoughts, and pray they keep you safe in this miserable country.” She returned Celeste’s kisses on both cheeks, then gave herself a little shake. “You, Brother Cuthbert! I have a bone or two to pick with you. First, let us discuss your wine cellar.”

Celeste grinned as she slipped out the door, leaving the poor monk to his own defenses. At least Aunt Marguerite had not again mentioned that awful idea of the wedding night. Perhaps it had merely been rambling talk brought on by one of Brother Cuthbert’s potions for pain. After receiving a blessing from Father Jocelyn and giving Jeremiah a final hug and a kiss, Celeste skipped out to the lych-gate where Gaston waited to hand her up onto her dappled gray palfrey.

An unabashed giggle bubbled up from her throat when she caught sight of Brother Guy. His loose brown robe hiked up to his thighs, he sat astride a meek-looking little donkey. His long bare legs dangled on either side, almost touching the ground. A thunderous expression clouded the brother’s angelic face. When he heard her inadvertent laughter, he stared up at the blue-washed skies and appeared to be already deep in prayer.

Celeste rolled her eyes in silent exasperation at Gaston. Oh, la, la! This adventure would not turn into a somber, psalm-singing journey—not if she could help it.

Chapter Four

H
ow long had it been since he had last ridden beyond the walls of Saint Hugh’s? As the little party crested the hill, Guy looked back over his shoulder at the squat priory buildings. Bluebells had dotted the fields with splashes of spring color when he first came down this road, going in the opposite direction. He recalled that his heart had been as light as the April breezes that ruffled his hair. Now a cold north wind blew across the bare patch of his novice’s tonsure. He had not expected to leave Saint Hugh’s until that distant day when God called him to his final rest and his fellow monks carried his shrouded body out the lych-gate for burial.

A small, traitorous emotion fluttered within his breast as he inhaled the autumn’s earthy smells and the scent of a peasant’s woodsmoke. With a pang of guilt, Guy shook off the sudden pleasure he took in savoring the crisp air, the clean open sky, the harvested fields rolling to the horizon—and the disturbing company of the young lady who insisted upon riding beside him.

He cast Lady Celeste a surreptitious glance out of the corner of his eye and discovered with a sharp jolt that she examined him with an equal keenness.

“Bonjour
,
mon frère!”
she sang in a lilting voice. Her deep purple eyes sparkled as amethyst crystals in a sunbeam. “I mean...” She paused for a moment, her delicate dark brows furrowed with some inner struggle. “Goo morrning, Broozer Guy.” She drew out the English syllables, then cocked her head, reminding him of a clever robin waiting for a bounty of bread crumbs. “Well? Did I not say it correctly?” she asked in French.

Guy blinked. Was she expecting him to give her English lessons? By the look on that lovely young face, he realized that she did. Hadn’t anyone told her about his vow?

She sighed with an uniquely French eloquence. “La, Brother Guy! You need only nod or to shake your head at my pronunciation. Is that too hard for you? It is a little nod, like this.” She demonstrated, with a sly grin turning up the corners of her full mouth. “Or a mere shake, like so.” She moved her head slowly from side to side, her gaze never leaving his face. “Goo morrning, Broozer Guy,” she repeated.

He blew out his cheeks. They were scarcely a mile from the haven of Saint Hugh’s, and already the little witch tempted him. Guy considered the long road ahead of them. Three hundred miles to Snape Castle, by his reckoning. He groaned inwardly.

“Hey-ho, Broozer Guy!” Her words, like warm raindrops, pattered through his musings.

No peace! He shot her his haughtiest look and shook his head. Her smile disappeared, and he was instantly sorry for its loss. She looked as if he had just struck her. Lesson one: Lady Celeste did not take criticism well.

“Was it the good-morning or your name that was not well-done?” she asked in French, with a toss of her head. The accompanying breeze lifted her veil, revealing the wealth of blue-black hair beneath.

Guy sighed again. Her prattle would drive him witless before Shrewsbury. At least her voice was pleasant on the ear.

“Goo morning,” she repeated with a determined glare.

Guy inclined his head slightly. Perhaps she would take her small victory and reward him with blessed silence.

“Bon!”
Celeste clapped her hands. “Broozer Guy?” she continued.

Guy shuddered and shook his head. Unhooking his slate from his belt, he let go of Daisy’s reins long enough to print out
Brother
on it, underlining the
th
. He held out the slate for her perusal.

“Bro—” The pink tip of her tongue appeared enticingly between her white teeth.

Guy looked away quickly, though he could still see its wetness in his mind’s eye as he listened to her draw out the
th
for an eternity.

“Bro-
th
-er,
oui?
” She finally released the poor word from her mouth.

Guy nodded, then nudged Daisy’s belly with his bare knee. Perhaps the English lesson, which showed every promise of lasting until hell froze over, would be terminated if she saw only his back. He squared his shoulders as he moved ahead of her. Better this way. He didn’t have to look at her, to see those mysterious purple eyes full of secrets, the blush of a midsummer’s rose on her cheeks, or the curve of those luscious, full lips, which—

Guy ground his teeth together. Great Jove! From where had those secular thoughts sprung? He must not permit them to intrude again. He had renounced all cravings of his body six months ago.

A small sound behind him pricked his attention: a pent-up burst of air, followed by several others in quick succession. Was she crying? Had he offended her by riding ahead so abruptly? Churl! He glanced over his shoulder to apologize and saw that Celeste had covered her mouth with one gloved hand. Hearing her suppressed giggles, he realized that he was the source of her mirth. At that moment, a throaty laugh escaped her.

“Your pardon, Brother Guy, but it is too amusing!” She laughed again. Some of the men-at-arms nearby grinned at the contagious sound. “Your poor, poor little donkey! It is very hard to tell if she has four legs—or six! In truth, good Brother, you could walk all the way to Northumberland and still be sitting astride!” Full-blown gales of laughter punctuated this last remark. The escort joined in her mirth.

Guy scowled. Had the chit no respect for a man of the church, that she would laugh at his humble means of transportation? He looked down at Daisy’s neck, with its rough ridge of a mane. Memories of Moonglow, his gray war-horse, rose in his mind. If this minx of a girl had but seen him astride that noble steed, she would never have laughed at him. Nay, she would have been frightened half to death. Smiling at the thought, he kneed Daisy into a faster walk. The donkey, a devil despite her meek facade, blew a loud, wet snort of protest through her nostrils.