Chapter 2 #3
He remembered how delighted she had been.
It had been at the fête here at Montvieux to celebrate his knighthood, though he had no recollection of those from Marnis having been invited.
His father’s grace and courtesy had been rewarded by Isabella’s undisguised pleasure in that one dance.
Amaury recalled his own regret that he had not been the one to make the invitation, and could feel again the satisfaction of all present in the hall at his father’s gesture.
Isabella inclined her head slightly, and he could not guess her thoughts at all.
It wasn’t so much that she was plain – for she was – it was that she did not seem to be alive.
She was so still, so placid, so serene, that she might have been a piece on a chess board and not a woman of flesh and blood.
And that limp. It seemed painful for her to walk and he wished he might have been able to ease her discomfort.
The heart of the matter was that Amaury could detect no sense of her opinion of the situation. Was she angry? Was she pleased? Did she want to wed him? He could not even hazard a guess. She was being compelled to marry – was it possible that she did not care?
Or had she learned that displaying an interest in any matter would ensure that her choice was denied? There was a possibility. He was certain she had been surprised that he asked for her opinion, but he was not going to wed any woman by force, not even for Montvieux.
Isabella’s dark hair was drawn back from her face and braided in a coronet, every hair smoothly in place.
He supposed that was a compromise: her hair was uncovered as was typical for an unwed maiden, but it was not loose around her shoulders as might be the case for a girl younger than herself.
He calculated that she must have seen twenty-five or six summers.
Truly, she should have been wed a decade before, if not sooner, and he wondered that her father would be so lax in arranging an advantageous union for his only daughter.
She was slender and taller than many women Amaury had known.
She was dressed simply, in a plain gown of brown wool.
Indeed, she could have been pledged to a convent already.
The garment was shapeless, enclosing her in a tent of fabric that fell to her toes, and he could make no guess as to the ripeness of her figure beneath or its lack.
The truth was that Amaury cared less for beauty than he did for loyalty. Would Isabella’s loyalty be first to him or to her father? An interesting question, and one that had need of an answer very soon.
Had Amaury heard once that Gaultier’s sole daughter was clever? He thought that might be so, but it had been so long. He liked his sense that she was of good health. He was not fond of delicate or petite women, and Isabella reminded him of a well-forged blade.
She halted beside him at the former gatehouse and raised her gaze to his. Her own was steady and unfathomable. Aye, she was no fool, that was certain. She seemed to be assessing him, just as he assessed her.
They would have tall sons, perhaps with her dark eyes or perhaps with his blue ones. He smiled at the notion and watched her take note of it, her gaze lingering on his mouth.
“Before you wonder at my thoughts, I consider that we are likely to have tall sons,” he murmured for her ears alone. “And I am pleased by the prospect.”
Her lips parted, then closed again, as if she did not know what to say.
Then she flushed crimson, color flooding her features as the dawn claimed the morning sky.
Amaury had the sense that she awakened. He could only think of the first light sliding over the land, illuminating all that had been in darkness, stirring all to life again.
The flush rose from her throat in a beguiling hue of pink, suffusing her cheeks, and making her eyes sparkle.
Her lips parted, seemingly more ruddy than they had been just a moment before, and he could almost imagine that this breath she took was her first. Her dark lashes fluttered and she lowered her gaze, her cheeks scarlet as she bowed her head and curtsied to him.
“Sir,” she said. “I find myself without words.”
“My lady,” he replied, bowing to her, then offered his hand.
He had shed his gloves earlier to set up the tent and he saw her assess the tanned hue of his hands.
She hesitated only a heartbeat before placing the weight of her hand upon his own, her glove cool and soft.
He raised her fingertips to his lips in silent salute.
She watched him through her lashes, and he guessed that she was unaware of how alluring she was in this moment.
“Though truly, this inability to make conversation seems contagious,” he murmured for her ears alone.
He was rewarded by the quick flash of her smile, an expression that was soon dismissed but would not be quickly forgotten.
Amaury tucked her hand into his elbow. She smelled of flowers and sunshine, of clean linen and warm skin.
He felt a prickle of awareness, a most welcome interest, as he turned them toward Montvieux’s ruins.
She did not lean upon him but might have appreciated that he offered an aid to her balance.
Either way, she limped less as they proceeded together.
He led her past Denis, gesturing to his comrades. “I would introduce you to my companions,” he said to her. “This is Lothair, oft called the Viking, who hails from Sutherland in the far north of Scotland.”
The tall fair warrior bowed low before Isabella and typically said naught at all. The lady curtsied but did not speak either.
“You have met Luc Douglas.” Amaury halted for Luc to bow to her again. “And this is his brother Thierry. They both have ridden far with me.”
“And fought at your back,” Thierry added with a grin.
“I would remember the adventures over the battles,” Amaury said lightly and the knights laughed as one. “And you have met my squire, Philip, as well, who hails from Montvieux’s own village.” Philip bowed to Isabella. “Is there a priest? Or shall we pledge to each other with God as our witness?”
“I shall stand witness,” Denis said, striding after them.
“As the eyes and ears of your father,” Amaury said quietly.
“Of course, you will.” He thought he heard the lady catch her breath and he looked down to find her fighting a smile.
If she liked that he challenged her brother, he would be inclined to do so often.
He smiled back at her, encouraged, but she blushed more deeply and averted her gaze once more.
Why was she not wed already? She had to have a dowry, given her father’s wealth, and not all men desired to wed a beauty. She had her wits about her and he thought she would be pleasing company.
Questions abounded, to be sure, but Amaury always liked to solve a riddle.
Better yet, he had a curious conviction that this marriage would suit him very well.
He had known he would secure his legacy with a bride and a son – or more.
He had expected his father to choose the lady in question.
In a way, Amaury felt his father had done so.
Isabella was the lady who could return Montvieux to his hand, which meant she was his choice as well as the one he knew his father would have encouraged.
They came to the black ash where the chapel had stood.
The stone foundation of the crypt was to one side, the river coiling around the jut of land where the chapel stood.
Amaury could see Montvieux’s fields from this vantage point, and that they had not been tilled this year, as well as the green of the forest beyond.
He felt a quickening, for there was much to be done, and this ceremony was but the first deed he must complete on this day.
The match must be consummated, as well. He would not risk his new wife having an excuse to place her allegiance in any other but himself.
Amaury turned to face Isabella where once the altar had been, taking both of her hands within his.
She did not tremble or hesitate. Their gazes locked and held, yet again, her thoughts and feelings were hidden from him.
She was a veritable statue once again, but Amaury intended to rouse her to wakefulness forever.
He was glad to feel the steady reassurance of his father’s presence. Marriage, that man had insisted, became what the two parties made of it.
Amaury intended to make his marriage a fortress that would hold fast against all the woes of the world. He smiled at his bride, confident in their shared future.