While Beauty Slept (33 page)

“I am hardly worthy,” I said.

“Spoken like a true lady,” he said with a delighted grin. “I have seen women far more wellborn become a discredit to their husbands. I do not fear that with you.”

His hands moved to my waist, drawing me gradually closer.

“If you agree, we could be husband and wife by harvest time.”

His hips pressed against mine, and his powerful hands pressed against my back, pulling me ever closer, until our bodies were melded together. I could have fainted yet remained upright, such was his hold upon me. Dorian leaned over to kiss my forehead, then my cheek, then my lips. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the warm sensation that rushed across my skin, numbing any resistance. Indifferent as I thought myself to Dorian’s wiles, I could not deny the longing that his touch provoked, the sudden quickening of my pulse, the powerful urge that impelled me to return his kisses with ever greater force. Freeing my arms from his grasp, I ran my hands over his back, then downward; I could feel the hardness of his legs through my skirts, and the sensation weakened whatever resolve I had left.

Slowly, Dorian disengaged his lips from mine, smiling in amusement. “May I take this to mean you accept my offer?” he asked.

Blushing and avoiding his eyes, I nodded, belatedly mortified by my boldness. Dorian placed his hands on my cheeks and turned me back to face him. At first I thought his smile was at my expense, but I soon realized he was pleased by my fervor. Abandoning any attempt to compose myself, I acquiesced willingly when he ran his fingers under the edge of my cap and through my hair, drawing me toward him once again.

I had taken Mrs. Tewkes’s admonitions to heart. I knew that the prestige and wealth of Dorian’s family would assure a comfortable future, and as wife or widow I would be cared for in my old age. But that is not the reason I said yes to Dorian’s proposal. I did not love him, and I did not entirely trust him. Yet the moment he kissed me, my body submitted to his. Once we were married, such passionate embraces would be no cause for shame. My thoughts raced to an image of our wedding night, and suddenly I could not wait to discover what pleasures I might find in my new husband’s arms.

Thirteen

A WEDDED WOMAN

D
orian and I exchanged our vows in the Royal Chapel, with the king and queen as witnesses. Queen Lenore gave me a new dress for the occasion, made of a deep red velvet chosen to complement my brown hair and eyes, and insisted I borrow the gold floral necklace she had received as a wedding gift from her mother, the necklace that would one day be passed down to Rose. Dorian grinned with satisfaction when he saw me standing in the chapel entry. He looked utterly self-assured, as if this ceremony were a joust or a hunting excursion, a diverting escapade rather than a life-changing event. I followed him silently to the altar, still astounded that this striking, rugged knight had chosen me as his wife. The sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window lit him with a burnished aura as I followed the prompting of the priest, promising to obey my husband and put his cares above my own. It was not until I said the words aloud that I truly understood the consequences of my actions. As Dorian slid a gleaming gold band along my finger, the finality of the gesture made my hand tremble. Had I relinquished my freedom too easily?

After the ceremony we were given a feast in the Great Hall. King Ranolf presented Dorian with his wedding gift, a hunting dagger whose blade jutted from a handle inlaid with precious gems. Dorian’s fellow knights exchanged envious glances at this extravagant proof of the king’s favor, just as their wives shared looks of silent disapproval when I took a seat among them. Rose ran over and threw her arms around me, bubbling with congratulations, and I was further discomfited by this unexpected flouting of castle etiquette. To judge by the expressions of my table companions, my sudden rise in status was scarcely believable to them as well. Throughout the rest of the meal, I stared modestly at my plate to spare them the awkwardness of my attention.

Dorian alone appeared unaffected. He was his usual jovial self throughout the meal, trading jokes about his prowess as a lover with the knights who sat at our table. He ruffled my hair and kissed my hands, proud to publicly claim possession. As the hour for us to retire grew closer, I grew steadily more nervous. We had shared many passionate kisses since our engagement, but time and again I had stopped his wandering hands, determined that the consummation wait until our wedding night. But now that the moment was upon us, I feared disappointing him. I was ignorant in the ways a woman pleases a man, and Dorian had enjoyed a wide array of female companionship. Would I bore him?

After dinner and a series of rambling, drunken toasts, a group of Dorian’s friends escorted us from the hall, taunting my new husband about the great test before him. Although I knew that such jests were a matter of course for a wedding night, they fueled my unease. I quickened my pace, hearing the voices fade in the distance behind me, and walked into Dorian’s bedroom. I had seen it for the first time earlier that day, when I’d accompanied the porter who carried my meager possessions downstairs. Accustomed as I was to the expansiveness of the queen’s rooms, the space looked woefully cramped and dark. A simple bed stood in the center, with posts at each corner but no canopy. Two chairs sat under a small window, which looked out over the stables. A plain wooden cross on one wall was the only attempt at adornment. Such a spare room bore little witness to the character of the man who slept there.

I paced between the bed and the chairs, the only part of the room with space to walk. I heard footsteps and looked up, preparing myself for further mockery. Dorian entered, alone, and closed the door behind him.

“Don’t tell me those fools upset you?”

He carried himself as if this were any other night, walking past me as he pushed his coat off his shoulders and tossed it onto one of the chairs. His boots were cast aside in a similarly careless manner. Was I expected to disrobe with the same indifference? Dorian turned to stand before me, the form of his broad chest visible through his thin linen shirt. Gently, he removed my headdress and pulled my curls loose from their fastenings, sending tingles across my scalp. His hands moved down to my shoulders, along my arms, and to my back, where they expertly undid the laces that cinched my dress. The supple velvet slid to the floor, and I was left in my shift, shivering with nerves. Dorian leisurely took in the sight of me as I stared at the floor, unsure how to proceed. Then, suddenly, I was in his arms, lowered back onto the bed, trapped by the weight of his body.

“You have no idea how I’ve waited for this moment,” he said, his voice a gruff whisper, as his hands pushed up my skirt and ran up and down my legs. My heart pounded so strongly it seemed the rhythm passed through us both.

“You’ll do as I say, will you, wife?” he asked teasingly.

“I will obey you,” I said, echoing the vows I had said a few hours before.

I thought his body an unknown land to be explored warily, but he treated mine as territory to be conquered. Guiding me through the motions that bind husband to wife, he issued commands like a soldier, but the words were uttered with the warmth of lovers’ talk; the forcefulness of his callused hands might have been threatening had I not felt so protected in his powerful embrace. For he had a skill I imagine few men do: the ability to temper danger with tenderness.

In that shadowy bed, illuminated by the flame of a single candle, my nervousness fled under Dorian’s assured fingers. When he unbuttoned my shift with a grin and pushed it down from my shoulders, I blushed as my nakedness was revealed. But the feel of his skin against mine as our limbs intertwined soon swept me into a realm of pure pleasure. With his delighted encouragement, my hands roamed from the tight muscles of his legs, hardened by years of riding, to the surprisingly soft skin at the base of his neck; when I reached up to kiss him there, he quivered with delight, and I reveled in my power to affect him so. Yearning for more, I followed as he urged me here, then there, tasting his musky skin with ever-increasing hunger. When his final assault made me gasp with a sudden, sharp pain, he pressed his face against mine and whispered reassurance, holding me tight as he shuddered to his conclusion.

Stroking my arm as he rolled to lie beside me, he said, “I was right to put trust in your virtue. A fine wedding gift to your husband.”

He kissed me lightly on the forehead, then turned away; before long his breathing rumbled into snores. After so many years spent sleeping alone, I knew not how to position my body beside him. I lay rigid and alert, feeling the heat emanate from his skin, exhausted yet unable to sleep.

Marriage had transformed me from the queen’s maid to a knight’s wife. Queen Lenore took on a new personal attendant, an amiable young girl named Heva, and I became the newest of her ladies-in-waiting. Rather than stand to the side in the queen’s sitting room waiting to be summoned, I was entitled to a seat among women of noble birth and permitted to speak as an equal. Though I continued to treat them with deference, the queen’s ladies did not welcome me into their ranks. On more than one occasion, I walked toward a knot of them huddled in whispered conversation only to have all sound cease at my approach. One asked impertinently if I was with child, as if that were the only way the castle’s most notorious bachelor could have been enticed into marriage. No doubt a few had fancied Dorian for themselves.

The occasional disapproving stare was a small price to pay for the advantages of my new position. I was no longer awake at dawn to serve another; I could now greet the morning at my leisure, hovering between sleep and wakefulness in my new husband’s arms. The days were mine to spend as I pleased, for the queen’s ladies could come and go at will. In truth, after so many years of service and with no friends of my own rank to help pass the time, I found it difficult to fill the empty hours that greeted me at the start of each day. Out of habit and affection for the queen, I continued to spend much of my time in her apartments, which were a welcome escape from the cold, masculine rooms Sir Walthur and Dorian shared.

Rose, one of the few who reveled in my new position, became my closest companion. In her younger years, she had enjoyed a certain measure of freedom, escaping the castle’s fortifications for rides with her father in the countryside or visits to nearby estates. Given the growing threats to her safety, such excursions now were denied her, as was the company of girls her own age, for most noble families raised their children away from court. Desperate for diversion, with no other friends to turn to, Rose came to me for conversation and guidance. Not long after I said my vows, she asked whether the wedding night had been as I expected.

“Do you mean after the feast?” I considered carefully how to phrase the words. “The consummation?”

“I heard the men making jests with Dorian, but I did not understand their meaning.”

“Hasn’t your mother spoken to you of such things?” I asked.

She shook her head. “She told me only that a wife must perform certain duties. The rest could wait until I was older.”

Given my rustic upbringing, I could not imagine reaching the age of fourteen with no knowledge of how men and women lay together. From as early as I could remember, I had seen sheep rut in the field and heard my father grunt against my mother in the darkness of our hovel. I did not think it my place to educate Rose, yet I was touched she trusted me with such questions.

“I must respect your mother’s wishes,” I said. “I promise, I will tell you all you need to know when the arrangements for your marriage are made.”

“You are happy with Dorian, are you not?”

Such a simple question, yet so difficult to answer truthfully.

“Of course,” I said with great assurance.

“I hope to be happy with Sir Hugill.” Rose had yet to meet her future husband, though she often pored over a small portrait he had sent. “I know nothing of his character or temperament, yet I am to be bound to him for life. Does that not strike you as cruel?”

“It is the way things are done,” I said warily. No good could come of questioning her lot in life, and I would not be accused of encouraging such sentiments.

“I am more prisoner than princess. Never consulted for my thoughts or opinions, only informed of what I must do. Not once has my mother spoken of love when it comes to my marriage. How I envy you.”

Rose, alas, was too young to remember when her parents had stared adoringly at each other before the whole court or read poetry aloud in Queen Lenore’s sitting room. Now they were little more than figureheads, a king and queen who lived largely separate lives. Her father passed his days fixated on real or imagined threats, while her mother took solace in the teachings of her newest favored adviser, a traveling monk named Father Gabriel who could expound for hours on the sins of human vanity. Tall and ascetic, with a gangly, thin frame that called to mind a crane, he took pride in sleeping on the floor of the kitchens, rolled only in his cloak. With such a saintly presence hovering in the queen’s rooms, I could hardly blame the king for seeking amusement elsewhere; according to Heva he no longer shared his wife’s bed. It was little wonder that Rose considered my marriage a love match, compared to that of her parents.