Marriage Under Siege

‘There is no need, my lord.’

He would have pulled her closer still, to transfer his kiss from her wrist to her soft lips, so close, so tempting … He had never even kissed her, he suddenly realised! Even when she had promised to be his bride. Struck uncomfortably by the omission, he would have lowered his mouth to hers. But she pulled back and escaped his loosened hold, colour deepening in her face.

‘I will have food brought when you are ready, my lord.’

His eyes followed her speculatively as she hurried from his room.

Chapter Four

Within the week the Reverend Gower was presiding over another service in St Barnabas’s Church at Brampton Percy. He had expressed his opinions over such a speedy remarriage of the Widow as forcefully as he dare. Most unseemly, of course, in the circumstances, Lord Edward being dead less than a month, even if the Bishop of Hereford saw fit to issue a special licence. What was the world coming to when the dictates of God and Crown were held in such disrespect what with the law and order in the countryside going to rack and ruin and no honest man able to travel except in fear of his life? And now the new lord treating the laws of God in such a cavalier fashion and Lady Mansell herself willing to be a party to his schemes … But as the incumbent of a church in Lord Mansell’s gift, even God’s servant must be aware that it would not pay him to voice his disfavour too strongly if he valued his living.

Thus he presided over the marriage of Francis Brampton, Lord Mansell, and Honoria Mansell, previously Honoria Ingram, ably supported by Sir Joshua Hopton and his lively sister Mary. Given the depth of cold in the church, all the participants were well shrouded in cloaks, but it could be noticed by anyone sufficiently interested in so trivial a matter that the bride, in spite of her recent bereavement, did not wear black. It was indeed noticed and approved with a wry twist of the lips.

The service was brief and stark, the ceremonial kiss a mere cold and formal meeting of lips. Honoria found it hard to cling to reality, even as she tried to concentrate on the Reverend Gower’s reluctant blessing. Only the firm clasp of Mansell’s hand on hers kept her anchored to the fact that she was once more a bride.

The bridal party returned to the Great Hall of the castle to some semblance of festivities. The servants and the tenants of the cottages of Brampton Percy had been invited and so were present in force to enjoy the food and wish their lord and lady well. Ale, far superior to Lord Edward’s dwindling casks and brought from Ludlow under Sir Joshua’s escort, flowed freely and some local musicians had been hired to lighten the atmosphere with shawms and drums.

Honoria too had been busy, with Master Foxton’s willing help. The Hall had been restored to glory: vast logs set for a fire that would do justice to the size and height of the room, furniture arranged and more screens unearthed from the cellars to do battle against the draughts. It was a more cheerful occasion than the burial the previous week and, although it was not graced by any of the county families, it was thought by all present to be most satisfactory. And not least by Lord Mansell. Under the influence of ale and music the natural reticence of the tenants soon wore off, giving their new lord a useful opportunity to further his acquaintance and put names to faces.

‘So you have indeed married the widow!’ Catching him in a quiet moment, Sir Joshua raised his tankard in a silent toast to his friend and host. ‘I will not ask you if you know what you are doing.’

‘Tactful at last, Josh?’

‘No. You must have had your reasons.’ He grinned disarmingly. ‘Does your lady realise that your views are diametrically opposed in relation to our esteemed monarch?’

‘She does, of course. She is no fool, nor is she ignorant of the state of the county. But we are hoping that it will not cause unnecessary dissension between us. Why should it, after all?’

‘I have heard rumour. Your neighbours are beginning to see you with suspicion and there is talk of removing those who might upset the close unity hereabouts.’ Josh’s cheerful face was marred by lines of concern. ‘It might just come to a matter of arms. There are any number of extremists willing to put the matter to the sword.’

‘I know it. I too have heard such murmurings.’ Sir Francis eyed his glass of wine thoughtfully as he voiced his present concern for the first time. ‘Although I married Honoria to give her protection, I am beginning to think that I might have inadvertently put her in more danger. She might have been safer not to be tied to me. Sir William Croft did me the honour of giving me a warning of what might occur.’ He tightened his lips pensively. ‘But it is done. And perhaps today is not such for talking war.’

‘Certainly.’ Josh smiled in understanding. ‘You have my congratulations, Francis. I wish you happy. The past months have not been kind. Your lady looks well.’

‘Hmm. She does.’

Honoria was in deep debate with Mistress Brierly at the far side of the room. He had no difficulty in picking her out of the crowd today. True to her word she had cast off her mourning and now stood in the glory of a full-skirted dress of deep sapphire satin, which glowed and shimmered as she moved in the candlelight. A tiny back train fell regally from her shoulders to brush the floor when she walked. The boned bodice and low neckline drew attention to the curve of her bosom and her slender waist. The deep collar and cuffs were edged with the finest lace.

She turned from her conversation and their eyes caught across the Hall. He raised his glass in a silent salute; she responded with the faintest of smiles and a flush of delicate colour which tinted her cheeks. She had a grace and a tasteful and polished refinement of which he had been unaware. She still looked tired, but there was a glow to her fair skin and her hair shone. The deep blue was flattering to her pale complexion where the black had merely deadened her pallor. Mary, quick to volunteer her skills as lady’s maid and expert gossip, had brushed and coaxed Honoria’s soft brown hair up and back to cascade in deep ringlets with wispy curls around her temples. Hazel eyes glinted gold and green as they caught the light. She is quite lovely, he thought as he drank. How could I not have been aware?

As he watched, Honoria turned her head and bent to accept a posy of the earliest primroses from one of the village children. She smiled and spoke to the little girl, who giggled and ran to her mother’s skirts. A pretty tableau that caused many to smile and nod, but one that had Mansell catch his breath and turn his face away. Memories were so easily triggered, however unwelcome, however inappropriate. Sometimes in the dead of night, when sleep evaded him, he could still feel Katherine’s softness against him. Still taste her on his lips. Perhaps the intense grief was less than it was—he no longer wallowed helplessly, without anchor, in a sea of despair—but it still had the power to attack and rend with sharp claws. They had known each other so intimately, their moods, their thought processes even. It had been so easy to communicate by a mere look or gesture—words were not always necessary. A few short months of heaven had been granted them, together as man and wife, and now, the child also lost, he was left with a lifetime of purgatory.

He tore his tortured mind away, chided himself for allowing such thoughts to surface. Honoria deserved better. Life must go on and he had need of an heir. It was, beyond doubt, a satisfactory settlement for both himself and the lady. And with a deliberate effort of will he closed his mind against the vivid pictures of a previous such occasion when good fortune and enduring love promised to cast their blessings on a tawny-haired, green-eyed bride.

* * *

When the ale and food had disappeared except for the final crumbs, and the tenants could find no more excuse for lingering, there was much whispering behind the screen that led from the kitchens. Master Foxton eventually emerged with due dignity and a silence fell as at a prearranged signal.

The Steward, solemn and seemly, made a short speech of congratulation, followed by a spatter of polite applause. And then, with a grave smile, he raised a hand. ‘We thought to give our new lord a gift on the occasion of his marriage,’ he announced.

Robert staggered out from behind the screen with a log basket, covered with a cloth. He placed it on the floor before Master Foxton’s feet, where it began to rock unsteadily.

‘It is clear to everyone that Lord Edward’s wolfhound has attached herself exclusively to Lady Mansell,’ he continued. He looked round the circle of faces, where smiles were already forming. ‘We though it would be fitting to give our lord one of his own. We are fortunate indeed that Mistress Brierly has a nephew who is employed at Croft Castle. Sir William was very willing to provide us with our needs.’

Foxton bowed to Lord Mansell and walked forward to take the cover from the basket, which immediately rocked on to its side and deposited a small grey creature on to the floor. It rolled and struggled to its feet with gangling energy, to lick the outstretched hand offered by Sir Francis. It was totally ungainly, uncoordinated and entirely charming, its grey pelt still soft with the fur of babyhood. There was no indication here, in the large head and spindly limbs, of the majesty of lithe strength and imposing stature that would one day have the ability to bring down and kill a full-grown wolf.

The puppy rolled on to its back to offer its belly for a rub.

Lord Francis obliged with a laugh. ‘Is this your doing, my lady?’ He glanced up at her, the gleam in his eye acknowledging the success of the gift.

He saw that her face was flushed and she smiled, a glimpse of neat white teeth. Her eyes held the slightest of sparkles as the puppy struggled to lick her lord’s hands again.

‘I claim no involvement—although Master Foxton did ask my opinion.’

‘He is a fine animal.’ Mansell rose to his feet and addressed the ranks of servants and tenants. ‘I shall value him, especially when he learns not to sit on my feet or make puddles on the floor.’ The puppy in its excitement had achieved both.

There was a general laugh and rustle of appreciation.

‘I suppose with Morrighan we should continue the theme of Irish heroes—he had better be Setanta. He will grow into the dignity of his name. And mine, I hope! I would thank you all for your good wishes this day for myself and for my lady, and for your kind thoughts.’

He has a light and easy touch, Honoria thought, her smile lingering. He is nothing like Lord Edward!

Everyone left, even Sir Joshua and Mary finding things to do elsewhere in the castle, finally giving the newly wedded pair a little space together in the vastness of the Hall. The puppy slept by the hearth in utter exhaustion. Morrighan kept her place beside Honoria, ignoring the newcomer as was fitting for something so lacking in gravitas.

It all had a dreamlike quality, Honoria thought. The ceremony, the festivities. They did not know each other. It was purely a business arrangement. And yet … she would hope for more. Surely he would not deal with her as Edward had? Her new lord had never treated her with anything but respect and sensitivity.

Her lord now stood beside her with no one to cushion their seclusion, resplendent in black satin breeches and jacket, collar and cuffs edged with lace. He wore none of the ribbons and decorations so loved by the court gallants, but the deep blue sash holding his doublet in place added an air of elegant celebration. His stark features were softened by the flattering candlelight—and perhaps by the occasion—his grey eyes darker and unfathomable. A frisson of anticipation ran through her veins, but whether pleasurable or edgy she was uncertain.

‘Well, my lady?’

She realised that she had been simply standing, lost in thought. ‘I, too, have a gift for you, my lord.’

‘Does it have teeth?’

She laughed, impulsively, for once. ‘Not as such, but it can bite.’

She walked from him to the fireplace from where she rescued a long slender package, wrapped in fine cloth. She handed it to him. ‘This belonged to my father. I never knew him, or my mother, but this was kept for me. Sir Robert gave it to me on the occasion of my first marriage.’

He took it, carefully unwrapped it, knowing what he would find. Here was a far more serious gift. Although unused and stored for so many years, the steel was bright and sharp, still honed to cut through flesh and bone. The blade was deeply incised down the centre, chased with an intricate leaf decoration, the hilt beautifully curved and weighted and fit easily to his hand. It was a magnificent weapon, worthy of any gentleman. With it was a scabbard of tooled leather with tassels and loops to attach to a belt. It spoke of foreign workmanship at the hands of a master craftsman.

Mansell lifted the sword and made a practice lunge, before examining the quality of the steel, the balance of hilt and blade. ‘It is splendid. I could not expect anything so fine.’ She watched as he ran his fingers, skilled and knowledgeable, over the engraving, the lethal edges.

‘Does it please you? It was always my intention to give it to my husband.’

‘Yet you did not give it to Lord Edward?’ His voice made it just a question rather than a statement.

‘No. I did not.’ She made no effort to excuse or explain but watched him, wary as a young deer.

‘Then I am doubly honoured. Without doubt it pleases me. It will be my pleasure to wear it, my lady.’ Silently he hoped that he would not be called upon to use it, in either hot or cold blood—that Josh’s previous words held no element of premonition.

In a formal gesture of chivalry he took her hand, bowed low over it, then raised her fingers with courtly grace to his lips. She tightened her hold in recognition of his acceptance of the gift and, as he glanced up, he saw her face relax into a smile. It gave her a fragile beauty that touched his heart, causing the faintest brush of desire across the surface of his skin.

‘Your gift is as handsome as your presence, lady.’

He drew her towards him then, his arm encircling her waist. Before she could resist or retreat, he sealed the new vows that they had made, his mouth on hers. He felt the nerves under her skin flutter, so kept it light and unthreatening, the merest promise of possession. But, unlike the salute in church her lips were now warm and softened under his caress. When he released her she remained standing within his arms, lips parted, an expression of surprised pleasure in her face. He brushed his fingers over her hair where it curled at her temple, satisfied with the outcome.

‘Go up,’ he said softly. ‘I will come to you.’

Later he opened the door that connected his bedchamber with hers, entered and closed it quietly behind him. She was sitting in bed against a bank of pillows, waiting for him. A fire still burned so the air was warm and fragrant with the distinctive scent of apple wood and a candle flickered at her elbow. She held a book, open, before her on the coverlet, yet he had the distinct impression that she had not been reading.

Her fine ringlets had been brushed out so that her hair curled against her neck and on to the white linen of her shift, gleaming more gold than brown in the candlelight. Her face was drained of colour again and she clutched the leather binding with rigid fingers. He drew in a breath. She looked anything but at ease, but then what did he expect? Things should improve between them as they came to know each other better. And he had sufficient confidence in his lovemaking to believe that he could indulge her with a degree of pleasure and contentment. He smiled a little. His expertise had never been questioned in the past. If only she did not watch him with such frightened eyes, as a terrified mouse would wait for the descent of a circling falcon.

Making no move further into the room, he remained with his back to the door, trying for lightness to diffuse the nerve-searing tension. ‘Where is she?’

‘My lord?’ The voice from the bed was a whisper of nerves.

‘Morrighan! If she is under the bed, you spend the night without me. I value my life.’

‘She … she is in the kitchens. Master Foxton took her. And the puppy.’ Honoria’s lips felt stiff and bloodless. She could not have smiled, no matter what the enticement.

Mansell saw this with a touch of unease. Because there was nothing to be gained in prolonging the agony for her, he strode to the bed, and in a succession of swift movements doused the candle, shrugged out of his robe and turned back the bed covers.

He is nothing like his cousin, she told herself, reassured herself, as the firelight played over the planes and angles of his body. Such broad shoulders, firm flesh, smoothly muscled. She closed her eyes briefly in an anguish of anticipation. Do not think of Edward now! Surely it will not be the same. Don’t think of his cruel words. His unwashed, greasy hands, grasping and demanding. His soft, grey flesh. Don’t think of …

She felt the bed give with Mansell’s weight and then the warm proximity of his body as he stretched beside her, steeling herself to remain still, to resist flinching at his touch.

‘Honoria?’

‘Yes.’

‘It will not be so bad, you know.’ He felt the hideous tension surround them in a thick cloud, suffocating with her fear. She trembled with the force of it as his naked arm, hard and corded with sinew, made contact with hers in the slightest of movements.

‘I know,’ she managed to croak. But she didn’t!

He immediately took the initiative and smoothed his fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her temples. With gentle fingers he touched her face, a fleeting caress of the skin, then following their path from temple to jaw with his lips. Her mouth was soft when he kissed her, the lightest of brushes, mouth against mouth. But then he felt her pulse begin to beat in her throat when he kissed his way along the line from jaw to delicate shoulder, when he paused to press his lips to the very spot where her blood pounded. She lay beneath his touch as if, apart from that one pulse, turned to stone.

She was not a virgin, he thought. She had shared a marriage bed. So why was she so tense? He had hardly touched her.

He persisted as slowly and carefully as he could. It was merely a matter of familiarity. He let his hands smooth down over her body to push away her linen chemise to expose her shoulders to his touch. When his palm closed over a firm breast, lightly moulding so as not to startle her, he felt her gasp and hold her breath.

He continued, gently, stroking, touching, caressing, exploring the curve of her breast to the delicacy of her ribcage and the flowing indentation of her waist. She was lovely. Her skin was as pleasurable to the touch as the most costly satin. He felt his blood begin to heat with arousal and his body hardened in anticipation. It might be true that he did not know her, but he had no difficulty in responding to her pure femininity. But he must go slowly. He gritted his teeth. When he allowed his fingers to trail across the soft skin of her belly and smooth over the roundness of her hip, he felt her catch her breath again, almost on a sob.

His mouth returned to hers, this time with possessive demand, encouraging her lips to part to allow his tongue to slide over the soft inner flesh of her lips, as soft and smooth as silk. She stiffened, every muscle in her body tensed, silently resisting, as he teased a nipple between his fingers.

And he realised that her flesh had chilled, her skin had become clammy as her blood drained, her responses withdrawn from what she saw as a violation. He could no longer pretend that she saw it in any other way. But why? He had deliberately gentled and slowed his desire to take her. By no stretch of the imagination had he attempted to ravish her or treat her with less than utmost consideration for a new bride.

On a deep breath, he stopped, lifted his hands and raised his head to look down at her face below him in the shadows. He could not be other than stunned at what he saw, at the stark fear momentarily in her wide eyes. She was not fighting him, not physically resisting, but she feared him and her whole body was rigid, totally unresponsive to his attempts to arouse and seduce.

He rolled away from her to sit up in concern and some exasperation. He kept his voice low, but she could not mistake the edge in it. ‘I have never, to my knowledge, been guilty of forcing a woman against her will. I do not relish the prospect of starting with my wife!’

This time there was definitely a sob in response to his words.

‘And I thought I had some skill in bringing pleasure to a woman.’

At that she covered her face with her hands. Panic choked her, filled her lungs like smoke. Her breathing became shallow and difficult. To her horror, against all her hopes, she had to accept the truth of it, that Lord Edward had been right after all. She was incapable of attracting a man and an abject failure at bringing pleasure to him as a wife should. It was all her fault. And her new lord was about to reject her as assuredly as Edward had done. He would not be as cruel as Edward, could not be, but he certainly showed no inclination to pursue the consummation of their marriage in the face of her own frozen despair.

Mansell cast aside the covers and stood beside the bed, hands on hips, to survey her with a frown. Whatever the problem, she was clearly terrified. Acting on instinct, he seized the coverlet and stripped it away. ‘Honoria …’

A whimper issued from the bed. If it was not all so distressing, he would have laughed at this extreme reaction to his lovemaking. But there was nothing amusing here; he could neither force her nor ignore her distress and walk away.

He leaned over the bed, picked her up in his strong arms as if she weighed nothing, wrapped her in the coverlet with deft movements as if she were a child, and carried her to the settle by the fire. She was too surprised to protest other than a squeak of shock. He placed her there while he stirred the flames and recovered his own robe. Then he returned and sat beside her, sensing the tiniest of movements as she would have pulled away from him. She was watching him, aware of his every movement, every gesture, eyes dry and strained. He knew that if she had been able, she would have fled the room.

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, a gesture that she had come to recognise. She flinched again. ‘This is no good!’

Without warning he scooped her up again and settled her on his lap, imprisoning her within the circle of his arms as, with gentle fingers, he pushed her head down to rest upon his shoulder.

‘There.’ He stroked her hair a little. ‘There is nothing to concern you now. I shall not do anything you do not wish.’

Silence settled, except for the crackle of the fire, as he continued to smooth his hand over her hair. He was aware of her fingers clutching at the satin collar of his robe in a vice-like grip, but he made no comment. Simply sat and held and waited. Gradually her breathing calmed and she relaxed, sufficient for her to release her grasp and rest against him.

‘Now.’ He kept his voice low. ‘Talk to me, Honoria. Will you tell me why you are so distressed? Do you trust me enough to tell me?’

She said nothing, but he felt the merest nod of her head against his throat.

‘Did my cousin … did Edward rape you?’

‘No.’ The answer was immediate. It came as a wail of anguish.

‘Then what happened? Things can never be so bad that they cannot be put right. Talk to me, Honoria.’

Without thought he turned his face against her hair in an unconscious caress and pressed his lips to her temple in the softest of kisses. Yet it was her undoing. All the tears, all the anxieties and self-doubt, the horror, the sleepless nights, dammed up over the past weeks, overflowed and washed through her in response to that one innocent gesture of kindness. Her breath caught again and again and she could do nothing to prevent the harsh sobs that shook her frame, tears streaming down her face. In the end she gave up trying to control them and simply wept.