Domning, Denise (3 page)

"How reluctant can I be, Benfield?" Lord Graistan said, his voice deep and his words unhurried. "I am here. I simply thought you might wish to arrange a more elaborate affair for the wedding of your daughter and heir."

"You simply thought!" her father mocked. "This is nothing more than a ploy to prevent this marriage until Lent is upon us and no marriages might be made."

"I would hardly call Prince John's attempt to steal his brother's throne a ploy. Nor did I ask to be called to arms to serve my king."

Rowena raised her brows in grudging admiration for his clever phrasing, but her father was not dissuaded. "You twist my words against me," he protested. "'Tis you who would use a siege which might last for months to escape an obligation that could be dealt with in a day and night's time. You knew I wished this deed completed swiftly. If you had intended in good faith to wed my daughter, you'd have paid the scutage instead of going yourself."

"Too many men these days seek to shirk their knightly duties that way." The words were a naked rebuke. "Besides, where's the hurry? Our contract will stand. Let us celebrate a betrothal this day and a wedding this summer when the weather is pleasant and I am released from service. My cousin will officiate, and your new vassals as well as mine will attend. Although my men have all approved our contract, they will feel slighted if I wed in seeming secrecy."

"Betrothal is not enough." Her father clenched his fists in impotent rage. "What will happen to her if you spill your life's blood on the field of Nottingham? I must needs begin again the search for a husband to wed her."

"Your concern for me is touching," the tall man returned dryly, "if somewhat misplaced. The taking of Nottingham will most likely be a tiresome and dirty affair, but not particularly dangerous. Besides, in my family it is not the men who die young." The honest bitterness that stained his words told Rowena he had mourned the wives he'd lost and made lies of her mother's words about murder.

"I want her wedded and bedded now," her father demanded. Then he shut his eyes and took a long, deep breath. His words were calmer when he spoke again. "Perhaps you do not intend to fall at Nottingham, but I have not the arrogance to defy death. I cannot afford to leave her unmarried when her claim to these lands will be contested by her sister's husband. I came to you because I was told you would be a strong and just protector. Have I found one?"

"You have, but what if I insist upon betrothal?" Lord Graistan shrugged as if he, himself, did not expect his request to be taken seriously.

Benfield stared at him. "I would consider our contract void. She must be married as quickly as possible. Will you allow her dowry to slip so easily from your fingers?"

Lord Graistan nodded slowly. He had expected no other response. "So, where is this prize of yours?"

At his words, Edith stepped forward. Her movement caught her husband's eye, drawing his attention to his daughter. "Here she is now. Rowena!" He beckoned imperiously.

She crossed the room to them and dropped into a deep curtsy before Lord Graistan. As she straightened, she looked boldly up at him. His eyes were gray and as hard and cold as the stones that made up the keep walls. The harsh angles and planes of his face gave his features a bitter cast. Not even the tendrils of dark hair that lay lightly against his cheekbones lent him any softness. He could easily snap her in two, she thought, once again revising her mother's terrible claim.

He studied her intently in callous appraisal from the pearls in her hair to the toes of her plain shoes. There was an expression of slight surprise on his face when he once again met her gaze. "You jest," he finally said, his eyes never leaving hers. "She does resemble you, Benfield, but this cannot be your daughter."

Her father's anxious gaze darted between them as he stuttered in nervous agitation. "What! Now you would accuse me of attempting to pass another off as my daughter? What nonsense is this, Graistan? Rowena"—he jerked angrily on her arm—"stare not upon your betters. If you seek to destroy with your rudeness what has been so carefully planned, I swear I will see you flayed alive."

She shot her father a scathing glance, but bowed to the possibilities in his words and studied the rushes that lay deep on the floor.

"Nay, Benfield," Lord Graistan snapped. "You spoke volumes of her convent-guarded virtue, but not once did you mention her appearance."

"What has her appearance to do with the marriage contract?" her father spat out. "Had you spoken of your desire to see her, I would have arranged it."

"I thought you had confined your daughter to a convent because she was an ill-favored wench. At her age what should I have expected?"

Rowena smiled even as her father laughed. "Are you saying you wish my daughter were ugly?"

She could not resist peering up at him from her meek pose. Lord Graistan's face was clouded in irritation until he caught her amused glance. He trapped her gaze with his, and his finely arched eyebrows slowly rose. Seemingly against his will, a smile steadily bent his lips. In that moment he changed.

Gone was the dour, glowering lord. In his place stood an attractive man with a warm and charming smile who made no attempt to hide his amusement even though it was directed at himself. "Do not ask me to explain," he said, his words touched with laughter, "for I will not."

She was not prepared for this. Here was a powerful, complex lord in the prime of his life while she was an overeducated, overaged woman with no experience at all with men. What sort of marriage could this be?

"What is this?" He crooked a finger beneath her chin and slightly tilted her head. "She is bruised, Benfield."

Her father only grunted. "She misunderstood something I told her this morn."

"I see" was all Lord Graistan said. After a quiet moment, he continued. "It appears there are no further impediments here. May I escort you to the chapel, my lady?" He inclined his head in invitation as he offered Rowena his hand.

"As you command, my lord." She took his hand, although she was reluctant to do so.

He quickly lead her between the long trestle tables, expertly dodging the servants who were placing additional torches along the wall. Once past the hall door, they carefully picked their way across the bailey until they reached the keep's gate. Here they stopped, no more than a dozen steps from the walls and the village church, which would serve noble as well as peasant this day.

"Now it is your father who delays us," he said. She looked past his shoulder at the hall. Her parents had yet to emerge from the door. The barest hint of mockery touched his tone as he spoke on, "Tell me, my lady, surely you must pine for a more elaborate ceremony. All this haste seems unnatural to me."

Rowena felt no need to be truthful. "It matters naught to me, my lord." The chill breeze caught at her mantle until the rich garment billowed out behind her. With trembling hands, she pulled it more tightly around her. Why did the cold not seem to affect him? She shivered again.

He stepped nearer until the greater build of his body shielded her from the wind. "Then, you are most unusual among women if the poverty of this affair does not concern you. Or perhaps"—he took her hand again, his fingers intertwining with hers— "it is only that you do not find me to your liking."

Rowena glanced sharply at him. "You are teasing me, my lord. I have seen you for only a few moments and spoken to you even less. How could you expect me to know whether I found you to my liking or no?" Asperity honed her words to a fine edge.

Lord Graistan's smile did not touch the guarded expression in his gray eyes. "I am gratified to know you have yet to judge me, my lady. I am very vain and could not easily tolerate a harsh verdict. Do you suppose the servants are disappointed we do not act the part of lovers?"

She started in surprise at this nonsequitur. "Lovers? We are barely acquainted. The servants know that." Did he think she was a fool?

"Oh, but even the barest hint of affection would please the crowd." He gestured to the serving folk and peasantry, who watched them from a respectful distance.

She eyed him narrowly. "My life is no man's entertainment." He was toying with her, the way a cat plays with a mouse before devouring it. His faintly mocking smile was proof of that.

There was a moment's silence between them, then she could resist her question no longer. "Might I ask you something?" When he inclined his head, she continued. "It does not concern you that I am an unwilling wife?"

This made him laugh out loud. It was a deep, rich sound of amusement. Then, still grinning widely, he said, "My sweet, all wives are unwilling. That is the nature of wives. Come, it is time." Her parents came to join them and, much too quickly, she stood with him before the doorway of the tiny village church.

The priest nervously cleared his throat. This was an awesome moment for one so humble as he. Noble marriages were always celebrated at the abbey. He was just a peasant's son who knew more of flocks and fields than Latin rites. Before him now stood both his present lord and one even greater who would someday hold this manor. He turned to the bride and asked if she entered willingly into holy matrimony.

"Of course she does," Lord Benfield growled out. "Get to the meat of it."

He once again cleared his throat. His hands trembled in growing nervousness as he asked, "Be there any obstacles to this wedding? You are not relatives?"

"Fool!" his lord yelled at him, "get to the recitation of property and the vows."

The priest jumped, nearly colliding with the bride, then straightened his stained and darned surplice. Once again he cleared his throat. "My lord, you have not given me a l-list to recite," he stuttered.

"God's teeth," Lord Benfield cursed. "I will do it."

Rowena listened carefully to her father as he chanted out the lands that made up her value.

"The keep at Provsy and its village and the right to the church therein. Four furlongs of arable land and the woods at Oxbow—"

Rowena was astounded. She had not known her mother's family was so wealthy. When he was finished, her husband began the recitation of what would be hers throughout their marriage.

"I, Rannulf FitzHenry, Lord of Graistan, Ashby, Blacklea, and Upwood, give to my wife as her dower the manor of Upwood with its three ovens, two mills, and dovecot. Four hides of arable as demesne will see to her needs as well as the right to customary collection of all fines, fees, and merchet therein. This will she hold until her death." Then, he paused. "Only if she agrees as a condition of this marriage to hold in trust for my natural son, Jordan, the manor, and all customary lands attached to it, at Blacklea. Unless she so swears, this marriage will go no further."

The only sounds were a low moan from her father and the wind whistling through the open church door. Startled, she stared at her husband. Here, her mother had not lied, he cherished his natural son.

"We never spoke of this," her father shouted when he finally found his voice, "I will have none of it!"

A deep sense of irony twisted in her stomach. This was the culmination of a fine business proposition, held in the best manner of business dealing. It only remained to be seen who had cheated whom. But, if she refused this man, her father would swiftly find another to take his place.

Lord Graistan's fingers tightened ever so slightly on hers. She looked up. He waited, his eyes cold and gray, but there was something almost hopeful in the way he held his head. A subtle warmth flowed through her, and she smiled a very small smile. The corners of his mouth quirked upward and his eyes softened.

"I swear." Rowena's calm, firm voice overrode her father's complaints. "I do vow that the manor at Blacklea"—she paused, looking for confirmation in her husband's eyes—"be held in trust for my lord's natural son. I accept the conditions of this marriage as true and binding. I, Rowena of Benfield, take thee as my husband."

"And, I, Rannulf FitzHenry of Graistan, take thee as my wife. I present to you this token of our pledge," he said, not waiting for the priest to ask him. He produced from the small leather purse that hung at his belt a silver ring, tarnished with age and deeply etched with whimsical tracery. It was set with a large stone, a milky lavender at one end that deepened into royal purple at the other. He handed it to the priest, who quickly blessed the ring and handed it back to him.

Then, he placed it successively upon the first three fingers of her right hand, to bless the pledge, then on the middle finger of her left hand. "Accept it in remembrance of your words this day."

"Stop," Lord Benfield cried out to the priest. "There will be no marriage this day."

Both bride and groom turned to look at him. Suddenly, a wall of surly men rose up just below the church steps. Although unarmed, they were daunting enough to stop a single nobleman. Her father sputtered in helpless rage.

"What is your complaint over a single, insignificant manor entrusted to my son?" Lord Graistan's fingers entwined with his wife's, and he pulled her slightly behind him. "Now, why do we not say mass and repair to the hall to restore our good humor with the feast?"

With that, he took a handful of coins from his purse and tossed them into the crowd. As the servants and peasants scrambled to grab what they could, he spun on his heel and led his wife into the church. Their walk up the aisle stirred up an airy cloud of dust. The priest had been hard at his plowing and had not seen to sweeping out the nave.

"Aye, let us do so, and quickly," Lord Benfield growled, "for I am badly in need of drink to wash away the foul taste of these dealings. I am glad I have only one daughter to marry." He stalked past Lord Graistan's men and followed his new son into the church.

Unnerved by the happenings, the priest stumbled through the service, then bid the couple to seal the deed. Rowena turned her face up to accept the brief, ceremonial kiss expected in rites such as these. She was hardly prepared for the shock of her husband's warm mouth touching hers. His lips were soft and lingered against hers in the most disturbing way. She gasped softly and drew quickly away. He frowned at her as if she'd done something amiss. After a moment's hesitation, they both stood, then left the church.