Page 7

T he door of their marital bedchamber thudded closed, and Lord Martin locked the latch.

Every hair on Isabella’s head stood on end.

She was trapped in a bedroom with a stranger she disliked and didn’t trust, one who had made no secret of wanting to bed her.

All that stood between him and claiming his husbandly rights was a flimsy promise.

It was a relief not to have been subjected to a bedding ceremony with the whole household looking on, but that small kindness was no guarantee that he would stay on good behavior.

Her trunk sat beside the door, a sign that she could not seek refuge in her old room, no matter how terrified she might be.

Her temporary husband might have rescued her from her mother moments ago, but that was very little to go on.

Was he a man of his word? If not, she was doomed.

While she might be a few inches taller than him, it hadn’t escaped her notice that he was well-muscled beneath his silver-embroidered black-woolen cotte.

If it came to a fight, she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to fend him off.

She cast her gaze about for something she could use as a weapon if worse came to worst. As her eye came to rest on a poker, as he opened his travel chest and reached into it.

Heaven only knew what ominous item he might be getting in order to subdue her.

Did he have rope in there? Did he plan to tie her up?

Because she would fight him with everything she had.

She hardly breathed as he pulled out…

A diminutive, stringed instrument. A citole.

Oh, thank God!

“Do you mind if I sing you a song?” Martin sat on a stool, plucking the citole with surprising skill. His fingers flew as he cradled the instrument in his arms. Her sister would be impressed.

“I’d rather listen to the braying of a donkey, but if you must.” As long as his hands were on the citole, they weren’t on her.

He winked at her and started to sing.

“A new song I shall make for thee

Before the cold wind freezes me.

My lady puts me to the test

To make sure that I love her best.

No matter what harsh words she speaks

I know I am the man she seeks.”

Much to her annoyance, he had a nice tenor. Under other circumstances, she might have enjoyed his song. “The lyrics remind me of something I heard in Bordeaux.”

He continued to strum as he answered, “I’m not surprised. This is a rough translation of something Lady Eleanor’s grandfather composed.”

She swallowed and stared. “You know troubadour songs from Aquitaine?”

“Lady Eleanor mentioned how you loved songs from your homeland. I tried to learn a few before I set sail.”

That was surprisingly thoughtful of him.

One of the few things Isabella missed about Lady Eleanor’s court was the music.

Her Grace was a great patroness of the arts.

Her own grandfather had composed troubadour lyrics once upon a time.

There was always some minstrel strumming away, singing of impossible love.

It was a glorious escape from the cold and cynical calculation that consumed her days.

Isabella might not like the fellow making the music, but the song warmed her heart ever so slightly. “You may continue, if you wish. Don’t let me stop you.”

“I’m hers. Her words set me aflame.

In charters she wrote down my name.

I swear to you I am not drunk.

She’s virtuous as any monk.

Without her, life is meaningless.

I hunger so for her caress.”

There was nowhere for her to sit except the hulking, canopied bed, since he occupied the only other seat. Cautiously, she settled on the edge, making sure she was closer to the poker than he was. Perhaps she wouldn’t need it after all, but it never hurt to be careful.

It was unfair the effect the music had on her. The soft plucking of strings lulled her into a false sense of safety. So far, this all seemed tame enough. There was nothing to fear in a little music.

She wondered what her true wedding night would be like.

Her mother hadn’t told her anything except that there would be blood.

She was vaguely aware that one generally took off one’s clothes, but beyond that, it was a mystery.

Even with a man she had chosen, a wedding night was something to be feared.

Perhaps, she thought dismally, this was the best wedding night she would ever have. A man with a pleasant voice singing her love songs was certainly preferable to any alternative she could think of.

The song finished, and she tensed, bracing herself for whatever was to come next.

“My lady,” he said, putting down the citole without breaking his gaze. “I know it is too much to ask.”

“Then you had best keep your mouth shut,” she snapped, but curiosity consumed her about what he was going to say.

“And yet I will speak,” he said gently. “Would you permit me to comb your hair?”

His words surprised her so much that her jaw dropped. He wanted to comb her hair? She’d never heard of a man asking such a thing. Had he gone mad?

And yet the thought of him touching her head as gently and deftly as he’d pluck those strings was more appealing than she wanted to admit. Though it could also be a prelude to things she didn’t want to contemplate.

“Only if you hand me the poker so that I can stab you if you do something I don’t like,” she said at last, certain he wouldn’t agree to any such condition.

He chuckled. “I wondered why you kept glancing at it. You do not need a weapon to defend against me, but if it makes you feel better, then here.” The provoking man took the poker and knelt like a knight presenting his sword to his liege.

“Your poker, my lady. I have no doubt you would make good use of it if I broke my word.”

She let out a long breath as her hand closed around it. The knot in her chest loosened ever so slightly as she clasped the rough iron. “If you insist on humiliating yourself and playing lady’s maid, the comb is in my trunk. It should be on the top.”

Martin rummaged in her trunk and returned with the comb.

Kicking off his shoes, he climbed onto the bed behind her.

Every muscle in her body tensed as he reached out to remove her crespinette and pluck out the hairpins that held her side buns in place.

His fingers brushed her ear, making her jump.

If he touched her anywhere improper, she would jab his eye out.

“Be at ease, my lady,” he crooned as he pulled out the remaining hairpins. Her hair fell down in two thick braids, and he leaned to the side to set the pins on the bedside table. Moments later, he was behind her again, not touching her back but so close she could feel the heat radiating from him.

As the wind howled outside, she gripped her poker, instincts warring within her.

Part of her longed to run away as fast as she could.

But another part of her longed to curl into that warmth.

It was so cold here at Bamburgh and so rare that she ever managed to thaw out completely.

Did she dare get closer to take the edge off her chill?

She still had a weapon to defend herself with.

Fortunately, good sense prevailed, and she stiffened her back.

“Hurry and be done with it before I change my mind.”

He chuckled as he picked up a braid and began combing it out.

“My little sister, Eglantine, taught me how to braid,” he said as the comb slid through her hair, teasing apart any tangles so gently that she didn’t feel anything beyond a soft tug.

“You’d think my brother, Lance, would have been the one to order us all around, given his size, but my sister ruled my childhood with an iron fist.”

The comb grazed Isabella’s scalp, sending tingles down her spine.

Against her will, she found she rather liked the sensation.

It took more effort than she expected to remain impervious to all outward appearances.

“I didn’t know you had a sister, or a brother, for that matter,” she said, making conversation to fend off the heavy languor that was descending on her at his touch.

She couldn’t afford to let her guard down, even for a moment.

“Oh yes,” he said. “You’ll meet them both when we get to Winchelsea. They’ll absolutely adore you.”

As he continued his work, some rebellious part of her wanted to arch into his hand like a cat seeking pets. What dark, nefarious magic was this? “Adore me?” she asked, struggling to keep the thread of the conversation. “No one adores me.”

“No? Not even your sister?”

Her heart squeezed at the mention of Adelaide. “She’s too tenderhearted for her own good. Our parents have never been…” She ought not to complete that sentence while under this roof, if she knew what was good for her. “Well, you’ve met them.”

“No need to explain.” Setting down the comb, he traced his fingers lightly through her hair, sending irritatingly pleasant shivers down her neck.

“We only ever had each other. And our brother, Crispin. But we haven’t seen him for many years.”

He began to massage her scalp, and her breathing hitched as the day’s tensions melted away beneath his skillful touch. Coxcomb that he was, his fingers were doing a marvelous job of putting her at ease.

“I’ve always looked out for them, and they’ve always looked out for me, at least when we’ve been together.

Leaving them was the hardest part of going off to serve Queen Eleanor at King Louis’s court.

My brother was sent out to foster around the same time I was sent away.

Poor Adelaide was all alone for years. How she survived and stayed the sweet young woman she is, I don’t know. ”

He pressed his thumbs at the base of her skull, and she couldn’t stop herself from moaning aloud. “By all the saints, that feels heavenly. Where did you learn to do this?”