Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

The floortiles grew harder, and colder. Fingers and toes were turning into icicles, goosebumps rose on the back of her neck. Cecily shrank deeper into his cloak.

The hall was quietening. One by one torches were doused, save a couple by the door and a lantern or two hanging from the rafters. Shadowy figures hunched around the hearth, faces shiny in the firelight. The knight who had so discomposed her might have gone, but her unease remained, and a low murmur of voices ran on, broken occasionally by a crack of laughter. Male laughter, predatory male laughter. Duke William’s men.

Cecily’s eyelids closed, but her nerves were stretched tight as a bowstring. She had had four years in the convent, with scarcely a glimpse of a man, and suddenly she was sleeping with a roomful. What penance would Mother Aethelflaeda impose for that?

A mild commotion near the door had her eyes snapping open. A drunk staggered in, held upright by two companions. Drawing in a shaky breath, she stole another look in Adam’s direction. He was lying on his side, head on his hand, watching her. His face was in shadow, but she thought his eyes were cool.

‘Be at peace, Cecily,’ he said softly. ‘If you mean to make me a good wife, you will want for nothing.’

His long, sword-callused fingers lay relaxed on his blanket a few feet away. Never had so short a distance seemed so large.

‘I want…’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t leave me here alone,’ she whispered. ‘Tonight—that’s all I want.’ Tentatively, she reached across the ravine.

Warm fingers closed on hers. ‘Be loyal to me and I will never leave you. But fail me…’ His voice trailed off.

A cold knot made itself felt in Cecily’s stomach even as she clung to his hand. Did he know about Emma?

But the contact must have soothed her, for very soon after that her eyelids closed of their own accord and sleep took her.

Some time later, she stirred and came slowly back to consciousness.

Warm. Warm.

What a delightful, impossible dream. She had not been warm at night in winter since entering the nunnery. Giving a comfortable little moan, she wriggled closer to the source of that warmth. Willing the dream to continue, she tried to slide back into sleep, but instead came more awake.

Her breath caught. Adam. It was he who was giving her his warmth. She was lying next to—no, her head was pillowed on Adam’s bicep, and her nose was pressed into the warmth of his ribcage. His scent surrounded her: alien, male, seductive. And until yesterday absolutely forbidden. She had her arm over his chest, which rose and fell gently under her palm.

Warm, so warm.

Fully awake, she readied herself to pull away if he made the slightest movement. Lying in a man’s arms like this was so far beyond unseemly that Mother Aetheflaeda would have had her drummed out of the convent for even imagining such a thing.

Carefully, she lifted her head. Yes, he was asleep. She allowed herself to relax. His arms were linked loosely about her, and at some point he must have wrapped the blankets round them both. The warmth—oh, dear God, the warmth. One could marry a man for the warmth alone, she thought with a wry smile.

In the dim light of a glass hanging-lamp that had miraculously survived the Normans’ depredations, she studied his face. He was a joy to look upon—particularly now, when he was unconscious of her gaze. Usually she felt too shy. Dark eyelashes lay thick on his cheek. She gazed at the high cheekbones and the straight nose and frowned, for she longed to touch, to stroke, but such longings were surely sinful—and in any case she did not want to wake him.

Staring at him like this was a secret, private pleasure. She had not been outside the convent a day, but already she was learning that other men did not draw her gaze in the same way. Adam Wymark muddled her thoughts; he muddled her senses. He disturbed her, but it was by no means unpleasant…

A dark shadow was forming on the strong jawline, telling her that Adam’s beard, were he to grow one, would be thick and dark as his hair. How often did he have to shave to keep his cheeks smooth, in the Norman fashion? His lips were parted slightly in sleep—beautifully shaped, firm lips—lips that could…

He stirred, turning his head and nuzzling her. That stray lock of hair fell across his face.

Repressing an impulse to nuzzle him back, Cecily lifted her palm from his chest and lightly stroked his hair out of the way. Then she replaced her hand on his broad chest and slowly lowered her head back onto that warm bicep. Softly.

It might be sinful, but they had come together thus in sleep. His warmth, and the long, strong length of him next to her was so delicious she did not care if it was a sin. And in truth it did not feel wicked or depraved, which surely sin always did? It was comforting to lie thus with Adam. It was…cosy. The palace floortiles might be hard, but she would lie on nails if it meant she could awaken again like this.

Someone coughed. Belatedly, Cecily was reminded of the others in the Old Palace. Normans for the most part—men who had used Duke William’s disagreement with King Harold as an excuse to come to England to plunder in the wake of the Duke’s conquest, men whom Cecily had cause to fear. Adam Wymark had come with them. This she could not deny. But now, lying at the side of the hall, wrapped in his arms, she felt safer than she had ever felt. The irony was not lost on her.

Snuggling closer, safe in the arms of the enemy, breathing in the comfort of his forbidden, alien scent, Cecily slid back into sleep.

Some time before dawn someone slipped stealthily into the hall and found a place among Adam’s men. Stirring in Adam’s arms, so full of sleep that she didn’t realise he was still holding her, Cecily lifted her head from his chest.

Sir Richard. Returning from whatever business had kept him last eve. With a sigh, she let her head fall back, and sleep took her again.

At cock crow, gentle fingers were playing in her hair, loosening her braid. Green eyes smiled into hers. ‘Good morning, betrothed,’ he murmured.

‘G-good morning.’ Cheeks hot, Cecily steeled herself to ignore the dark warmth of his gaze. He was looking at her lips, with no trace of the coldness of manner that she had noticed on their arrival at the palace. Her chest constricted, and she thought of the kisses they had shared outside the Cathedral. Breathless. His look made her breathless.

Catching her braid, Adam gave a small tug and realigned her body against his. ‘A good-morning kiss,’ he whispered. His lips met hers, warm and soft. Lazily, his tongue outlined her mouth.

For a moment, hazy with sleep, Cecily let the disordering pleasure wind through her—then she stiffened. What was she doing? She had to keep her wits about her.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘For shame, Sir Adam. Remember where we are! And in any case we are not wed that we should lie this close.’

Eyes laughing, he pulled her tight against him, so she could feel the length of his strong, lean body from breast to thigh. Despite herself, she gloried in it—she actually ached with wanting to press even closer. He seemed to sense it, for under cover of the cloak and blankets his hand ran lightly down her back and came to rest possessively over one of her buttocks.

She gasped. Never had she been touched so intimately.

‘Damn the conventions,’ he said with a grin. ‘No one knows what we’re about. They can’t see.’

Cecily’s loins felt as though they were melting. She longed to run her hand over that broad chest and discover the feel of his skin. Biting her lip, she strove to hide such a sinful reaction. Did Judhael make Emma feel this way? If so, she was beginning to understand why her sister might take Judhael as a lover—even though it was a sin and she risked giving birth out of wedlock.