Колин Глисон - A Whisper of Rosemary

“Come,” Dirick took her hand, placing it firmly on his arm. She let it rest there, resisting the urge to close her fingers over the pronounced muscles and feel his warm strength.

They proceeded down the hallway and directly to an opening that led to a courtyard. He did not speak, but walked her out into the spring sunshine, leading her to a single bench at one end. Proffering her a seat, Dirick waited until she sank down before sitting next to her.

Maris busied herself by arranging her gown, grateful for an excuse to remove her hand from his arm. He’d sat upon the edge of her skirt, and when she looked up at him to ask him to move, she froze at the cold anger in his eyes. Suddenly, she knew why he’d brought her outside: so that they would be alone and no one could overhear.

“No sooner is our betrothal announced than you are plotting to rid yourself of me.” He leaned close to her face, close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek. Dirick tipped up her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You’ll not be rid of me that easily. You haven’t a chance in the world, Maris.”

She pulled back, disturbed by the fluttering in her stomach. “Dirick—”

But he cut her off. “I’ve just been given everything I want in this world.”

“Nay,” she whispered, wondering, hoping, that perhaps she had been part of what he wanted in the world… she , not her lands. But the hope was futile, as his next words proved.

“I’ve been given a title, and my own lands—and Langumont will bring even more leverage to the Barony of Ludingdon. ’Tis more than I’d ever thought possible.” If Maris hadn’t been so hurt by his words—for there was no mention of her, only her lands —she would have been warmed by the pride and happiness that lit his silvery-blue eyes. “If you are so repulsed by the notion of wedding with me, so be it—but do you not squander my own life for your whim.” The warmth in his eyes evaporated, replaced by the flashing anger that had been there before.

She rose, looking down at him. “It was only the concern of my loyal man that you heard, as I’d made it clear to him in the past that I’d not suffer Victor d’Arcy in my bed. He merely wished to assure me of his protection regardless.”

Dirick’s face took on a serious cast. “Aye, lady, ’tis certain d’Arcy is miffed by the dissolution of your betrothal to him. Have a care to yourself.”

Mayhap he did care for her. Nay, ’twas more likely he feared aught would happen to her before their wedding gained him her lands. Maris’s lips tightened. “Victor would gain naught by harming me—’tis you who should watch your back.” A cool smile flitted across her mouth. “In less than the space of one day, you’ve made two enemies on my behalf.”

He pulled to his feet, tall and powerful in his great height. “My dearest Maris, I have many, many enemies, and two more, especially for your sake, mean naught to me.” His gaze caught hers, holding it steadily, then falling downcast as he took one of her hands. He raised it to his mouth, brushing full, warm lips over the sensitive skin of the back of her hand. She shivered and tried to pull it free, but he held her firmly, turning it palm side up and pressing a gentle kiss to the cup of her hand. Little prickles of awareness shivered up her arm.

“Dirick,” she breathed through a heavy, tight chest.

“I require a kiss to seal our betrothal,” he told her, gathering her to his chest. “It is my right.” He was warm and solid, his arms a strong band holding her to him. Dirick looked down at her, not to seek her acquiescence, but for her to see the determination in his gaze before his mouth descended.

When their lips met, it was with a clash of heat and tenderness, a rush of pleasure. A new strength, a possessiveness, colored his kiss as bold confidence exuded from his person…and yet there was an easiness about it all. As if he had every bit of time he needed to explore, to taste, to coax and tease—as if he would do it so thoroughly that she would be left fully plundered.

And Maris, for her part, could hardly recall that she must breathe at some point. The world fell away and there was only Dirick, only his strength about her, only his clean, sharp scent the heat of his body burning into hers.

His hands slipped from her back down over her rump, pulling her up against the ridge of his arousal. He sighed, dipped his head to gently bite her neck, and released her. They looked at each other for a moment, assessing the other, gathering their wits, realizing that in four days they would be wed.

“I shall tell you this only once, my lady,” he said at last in a voice rough with desire. “Though you may find marriage to me repulsive, you will suffer me in your bed…at the least until you have presented me with an heir.”

He stepped away, his chest still moving with quickened breaths. “Call upon your faithful knight to see you to your chamber. But I shall escort you to dinner this eve.”

The next morning, Maris broke her fast alone in her chamber. She had no desire to rest her attention upon her betrothed husband any sooner than her wedding day demanded. She’d been so stunned by his kisses, and then broad sided by his steely command that she bear him an heir, that she’d been able to do naught but gape after him as he left her standing in the courtyard.

Dirick had not escorted her to dinner as he’d promised, for the king had called his council of barons together to discuss the problems with his brother in Anjou. As a newly confirmed lord who also had the ear of the king, Dirick was expected to participate in this activity, and, Maris thought, ’twas no hardship to her. Verily, she hoped he’d spend the rest of his time in the company of his liege lord.

He’d left her confused, uncertain, and trembling with something that she didn’t understand. And until she could determine how she must act around him—cool and remote, giddy and complimentary, or some other way—she was happy not to be in his presence.

According to Dirick’s pronouncement that she would join him in his bed, there would be time enough for that anon.

Agnes assisted her to dress in a traveling gown for a trip into London Town. Despite her annoyance with Dirick for his blunt, offensive orders to her the day before, Maris knew that she would be wed three days hence, and the womanly part of her desired to dress the part. And she must find a wedding gift for her husband.

Raymond and five other men-at-arms waited without her chamber, following as she and Agnes started down the hall.

Their horses were ready for them at the great royal stables. Maris offered Hickory a scrubbed carrot in apology for not visiting the day before, then, using a tree stump reserved for that purpose, hoisted herself lightly into the saddle.

As they approached the market area of London Town, the six men-at-arms stayed close around the two women. Once they reached the stalls where the cloth makers were, Maris and Agnes dismounted from their horses and, leaving their mounts with two of their burly guardians, began to weave their way through the crowds of people.

Raymond and the rest of the men cleared a path for the women, stepping out of the way when they reached a vendor that interested Maris.

She spent a better part of the morning searching for cloth to make her wedding gown, fingering silks and wools and linens from France, Italy, even the Holy Lands. At last, she discovered a merchant with brilliantly colored, tightly woven fabrics of such quality that she’d not seen. Each bolt cost more than one peasant family subsisted upon in one year at Langumont, and Maris nearly went on to a different stall.