One #7
“Banquet?” Brielle addressed the word to her pillow, moving numbed arms in position for a roll to her side. Or something. Her mind was in denial of what her senses told her. She was in her own chamber, her own maid in attendance. All of it impossible.
“Aye. A grand affair. I vow, there’s not been such goings-on since your dear mother passed on, God rest her soul.
Why … the preparations alone are mind-spinning.
They’ve got more game meats roasting than we had spits for.
They had to construct more out on the list, where the smell rouses more than one appetite.
And for certain the cook staff is flustered, what with orders to prepare all sorts of tempting breads and puddings.
The aleswoman is beside herself. She’s had to break into the stock for enough brew.
Even her mead. And you know that woman brews a stout mead.
” There was the sound of smacking lips. “’Twill be quite the affair.
His Lordship even hired real musicians this time.
Not like that horrid Arran fellow from the other night.
That man can’t play a pipe to save his arse! ”
The maid chuckled at her own jibe, and then sent a scraping sound through the chamber.
Brielle rotated her head and watched her privacy screen get set up.
Just like normal. As if she hadn’t left this room four days ago with a cowl about her for warmth and an escort of guards on her way to the dungeon. Brielle groaned.
“Here, Lady Brielle. I’ve brought you a bit of that mead.
Warmed. Just as you like it. It’ll be just the thing.
You’ll see. We’ll have you up and dressed in your finery for presentation in no time.
” Brielle was on her side, and then she was working at sitting up, all of it accompanied by massive ache that had no centre.
She scooted back into layers of pillows fronting her headboard, accepted the mug of steamed liquid and sipped. And then she looked over at her maid.
“Presentation?” The word was low-toned and harsh. It was a good thing she’d swallowed the mead, otherwise she’d possess no voice at all. Brielle frowned. Sipped.
“Your new husband ordered it so.”
Her throat revolted and Brielle choked, coughed and then had to wipe the moisture from her cheeks.
Through it all, she could feel ache spreading.
She knew where it originated now and hated everything about it.
She didn’t dare feel anything for him. She couldn’t.
And nothing that could be labelled as love.
It wasn’t warranted. It wasn’t feasible. It wasn’t possible.
And she knew she lied.
“The MacEuann is a prime catch. Your father is announcing it to all. Has sent word to the king! He’s proud of you, My Lady. You’ve gone and captured the MacEuann laird!”’
“’Tis a shame he doesn’t want me. Is Father announcing that?”
“What nonsense is this? You’re an heiress! MacEuann’s been assessing your dowry all afternoon. What man wouldn’t want that?”
“I said he doesn’t want me. Not the riches that come with my hand.”
The maid stopped her fussing, put her hands on her hips and regarded Brielle. “He looked full pleased to me.”
“When?” Brielle lifted the mug and took a sip.
“I was here when he carried you in, held real close. He placed you with extra care. Stood looking at you, and I’m telling you. He sure had the look of wanting his bride. Now come. Drink up. We’ve got to bathe and dress, and that water is na’ getting any warmer while you tarry.”
Brielle sipped at her mead and regarded her maid. And hoped.
No afternoon had seemed longer or more tedious; filled with looking over the castle, examining the treasury, listening to everything that came with Brielle’s hand.
As if they hadn’t already wed, satisfying both families’ honour.
Gavynn was bored before reaching the armoury, long before a tour of the battlements, looking at the land claimed as a demesne, and nothing kept him from swaying from foot to foot when they examined the stables.
It was Brielle’s hand that mattered, not what came with it.
Gavynn followed the steward’s words, hiding the sense of anticipation just beneath the surface.
It had been there when he’d awakened, and it just kept growing.
Preparing. Readying. Going to a dizzying increase of pulse-beat whenever he thought of seeing her again.
He had no choice but to temper it. And then hide it.
And now, here he was, at the time when the meats would be removed from the Great Hall, and his new wife had yet to even show herself.
Gavynn put another tasteless bite in his mouth, chewed it and glanced at Iain, looking pale and thin in a position beside Reeb.
Gavynn knew the lad expected and dreaded punishment for being the catalyst behind this marriage.
Iain didn’t know there wouldn’t be any. And Gavynn wasn’t saying. Yet.
He smiled slightly at his brother’s discomfiture. Such a thing was punishment enough for being caught reaving without taking a clansman for assist.
The slightest change alerted Gavynn of Brielle’s entrance.
A ripple went along the crowded tables below him, lifting man after man to his feet.
Silently. In homage. Gavynn half-stood as well, despite being on an elevated dais.
Then he settled back into an indolent position, as if she meant little.
He couldn’t do anything about the increase of heart-beat as Lady Brielle neared, wearing a silver-cast satin that shimmered in the torch-light, while the same shade of veil trailed from the point of her headdress.
It framed and highlighted her beauty. Needlessly.
Despite the hold he exerted, Gavynn couldn’t prevent a lurch towards her …
as if beckoned. As if she actually wanted him.
It also evidenced how little he’d managed to temper his own desire.
The anticipation was humming through him, sending frustration with it.
Gavynn shook in place. This was much worse than his first wedding.
He’d been eighteen then, and forced as well.
His bride had turned her nose up at him, too, but it hadn’t felt like this.
He’d had to force his feet to her bedchamber.
This time, he’d be doing the opposite: running away.
Gavynn rubbed his palms along his thighs, moving wool plaid with the motion.
He missed her approach due to it, but he knew it was happening.
Silence seemed to fill the area about her, a reverent kind of sound.
And then she was there. At his side. Being seated with a swish of satin, the slightest scent hovering about, sending his senses into alarm and fright, and kicking his heart into sporadic, heavy thumps that had nothing rhythmic to them.
He turned his head to watch as she put a morsel to her mouth.
Chewed it. Swallowed. His throat made an answering gulp. And then she spoke.
“My Laird?”
Her whisper carried even more sweetness! Gavynn tightened his fingers about each knee before turning fully to her and forced his gaze to hers. The moment their eyes touched, she jerked hers away, putting dark lashes against her cheeks.
He reached for his tankard. “Aye?”
“I need to ask you … something.”
Her voice was hesitant and light. It was going to haunt his every waking moment! It already was, he decided.
“Ask it,” he replied curtly.
“I need you to keep silent … a bit … longer. Please?”
Gavynn wasn’t pretending the confusion over her words. His entire body suffered it. He grunted what went for an answer.
“He m-may not … release your b-brother … if he … knows.”
Her stammered words tied him in a thousand knots and then pulled at each of them. Gavynn lifted the drinking vessel to his lips to disguise the shake. “Kens what?”
“That I … displease you.”
Displease him? Gavynn choked, felt the sear, and forced the cough away by sheer will. It made his eyes water and his throat burn, but it was done.
“What?”
The croak of voice carried his surprise. He put the tankard back down with a slam, blinked moisture out of his eyes, and watched her look out over the assemblage, the slightest pout to her lips.
“You were forced to – to … wed me.”
“What of it?” And God curse the effect she has on me!
Gavynn held his sporran in place with both hands before it alerted any who looked of his inability to control his own desire for his new wife.
He waited two full heartbeats. Then she moved, tipping her chin to meet his gaze full on, stopping every other sound in the room.
“I … don’t understand, then.”
“What?”
“Last eve … when you – you––”
Her voice trailed off. His pulse ramped up, sending rushing water noise through each ear. “When I … what?” he prompted.
“You forged proof of … the consummation.”
He guessed from her lips what the words were. It wasn’t possible to hear them. “I will na’ take an unwilling woman to my bed, Lass. Ever.” His answer was cold. Curt.
“You … thought me … unwilling?”
Gavynn went still. Coiled both hands into fists about his sporran. Gulped.
“Aye.”
“Oh, no. I mean … I––” She lifted dark eyes to his, and blushed. He watched the pink suffuse her cheeks. “I don’t know … what to say,” she offered.
Gavynn cleared his throat. “Here is what you say. ‘I am na’ averse to wedding with you, Gavynn MacEuann. And I am willing to tupp with you as well.’”
She gasped. He watched her silver-satin-encased bosom rise with it. “I can’t say that!”
“Infer it, then.” He was stirring. Growing heavy and hard for her right then. And right there. He couldn’t help it.
She twisted her fingers together. Looked away. Flitted back to look at him. Away again.
“Perhaps you could just nod, Wife. That would suffice for the same.”
She nodded and went even redder. The rush overtaking his body was severe enough he shook with it. She lifted her gaze to his. Stilled. He watched her eyes widen at what she saw.