A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3)

A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3) Page 22

It had taken every ounce of control that she possessed not to loosen a torment of fury upon him. Instead, Maris, thinking of her father’s wishes, swallowed her angry words at his presumption and meekly settled into a trot. Mayhaps, she thought as they wound their way carefully down the main street of the village, he did not know of any woman as comfortable on a horse as she.

“Good day, Mistress Beth,” she called in English to the smith’s wife with a wave.

“Good day, milady,” the other woman responded with a bright smile. She had her youngest child by the hand, and nudged the toddler to wave also to the grand lady who rode past.

“You are much too familiar with the peasants, my lady,” murmured Victor with distaste. “And why on earth would you learn to speak their coarse language?”

Maris stared at him in shock. “And how else would I communicate with them if I did not speak their language?” she sputtered.

Victor turned to her in surprise, “As I—and all other nobility—do: through an interpreter. ’Twould be in your interest when you go to court that you forget your knowledge of English…else you will make of yourself, and me, a laughing stock.”

Maris turned an annoyed glare upon him. “Then my papa must not be nobility in your eyes, as he is the same one who encouraged me to learn the language. He himself does better than I!”

Victor flushed ever so slightly; in fact, it may have been just a stinging wind that caused his cheeks to pinken, and looked taken aback. “My lady, I—”

“’Tis in my best interest, Sir Victor, to rely on no one but myself as to what is spoken to me. Interpreters have been known to twist words into their own. Even the king and his queen read and write their own words, speak the language of their people as well as their own.”

“Lady Maris—”

She would not let him finish. Her temper had snapped and her father’s wishes thrown to the birds for the now. “And I am Lady of Langumont,” she drew herself up in the saddle to her full, diminutive height. “I care not what the ladies—or even the men—at court think of me. And I particularly should not care if you are a laughing stock because I choose to communicate with my people. And,” she leaned out of her saddle toward the now silent Victor to drive her point home, “you, sir, presume overmuch, as a betrothal has neither been announced nor signed!” She sat back and drew a deep breath, ready to do more battle.

“Ah, but my lady, ’tis where you err.” Victor’s voice was silky…too silky, and a surprise shiver sang along her spine. “Even as we trot along at such a sedate pace, our fathers are finalizing the betrothal arrangements. The agreement is to be announced at dinner, and we shall seal the contract two days hence.”

As Victor’s words sank in and Maris realized that her betrothal was truly going to happen, she gave in to the urge to run away.

With a swift movement she’d perfected years ago, she gathered her skirts and brought her right leg over the saddle so that she was straddling the mare in a most unladylike but practical fashion. All in one instant, she gave a sharp kick and loosed the reins. Hickory shot forward. She heard Victor’s shout of surprise behind her, and, looking over her shoulder, saw that he’d started after them.

Containing a cry of joy at the freedom of tearing across a pristine field of white snow, she urged Hickory on, fully enjoying the risk she took of angering her soon to be betrothed. ’Twould be worth the inevitable lecture, she thought, grinning into Hickory’s mane.

They easily cleared the stone fence that marked the end of the Lord of Langumont’s grain field, heading straight for the dense forest. Maris’s head covering jounced loose and landed on a low bush. Her long braid flew free, the end bouncing off Hickory’s rump with the rhythm of the mare’s strides.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Victor, bent over his mount’s neck, racing across the field. With a mental sigh of capitulation, she slowed Hickory just as they reached the beginnings of the forest. Turning about, Maris watched as Victor roared up beside her, nearly trampling them both. Either he was overcome with rage and did not care if he injured her, or he did not handle his mount as well as a he should.

Before she had a thought to speak, he grabbed the reins from her hand and drew Hickory’s head around toward the rear of his stallion so that he and Maris were very close and facing each other. His eyes were nearly black and his mouth compressed in a firm line. “Are you a madwoman?” were his first words. “Am I to wed a madwoman?”

“Nay, I—”

“Silence!” he thundered so furiously that she reconsidered finishing her sentence. His eyes closed into slits, and, still holding tightly to her reins, he slid off his horse, landing in snow to his mid calf. Looping his own reins over an arm, he reached up and grabbed her wrist. “Let me help you down, milady,” he said in a voice that brooked no disobedience, nearly yanking her off the saddle. She came down gracefully, landing in the circle of his arms.

Dropping the reins, he yanked her closer, and the other hand reached up to close tightly over her chin. The expression on his face was dark and determined, and for the first time, Maris had a sense of real trepidation and she reflexively stepped back, twisting her face away.

“Oh, nay,” he whispered, jerking her close, his fingers tightening on her arm. “Do you not step away from me, wife.”

“I am not your—”

Her words were stifled as he crushed his mouth to hers. At her involuntary gasp, his hand went to the back of her head, his fingers curling roughly into her hair, dragging down on it to hold her steady. He held her immobile as his lips and tongue brutally invaded her mouth. The hand on her wrist loosened to move around her waist and pull her close to his hips while the fingers of his other hand pressed into the back of her skull.

Maris fought the nausea that rose in her throat at his angry onslaught. Her eyes closed and she pushed against him fiercely. She should have known better than to anger him thus.

At last he pulled away from her mouth, breathing heavily, and looked down at her with eyes glazed with desire. “Aye, you’ll be a fine wife,” he breathed frost into her face, “once you have learned that I am to be obeyed in all things.” As she stood frozen, he reached up to fumble with the ties of her cloak.

“What—”

“I told you to remain silent.” His hand shot up to pinch her chin, and he gave it a vicious twist. “I would learn what other treasures I win along with the lands of Langumont.” Before she could protest, her cloak fell to the snow in a pool of blue. With horror, she realized what he was about. Surely he did not mean to disrobe her…here.

“Nay,” she cried, clutching her overtunic to her neck.

He grabbed her wrists, forcing them behind her back, and settled his hand into a vee beneath her chin, holding her by the throat. Maris felt the rough bark of a tree behind her, rasping over her hands, as he forced his mouth onto hers. As the kiss deepened, his hand slipped from her chin to cover one of her breasts. She jolted in shock, pulling her mouth away with a desperate twist.

“Release me,” she demanded, her voice unsteady with shock. To her horror, she felt the warm trickle of a tear down her cheek.

Victor ignored her command, pressing his hips into hers. She felt the rise of his desire, hard and threatening against her thigh and Maris struggled to keep her breath steady. Surely he wouldn’t…here. Surely. Those thoughts were the only things that kept her from going mad with desperation.

Victor smiled with cold satisfaction as he kneaded her breast through three layers of wool, pinching and fondling her thoroughly. “’Tis well that you are not used to this kind of touch, else there might be other things you will learn.” He pressed an almost tender kiss to her bruised lips.

Maris twisted away. “Release me,” she said again, trying to slip free.

“You are soon to be my wife,” he said, his voice hard, his hands tightening over her breast and around her wrists. “And I am determined that we shall suit well, my lady. In fact, I shall ensure that we will suit.”

This last was said conversationally as his fingers found and teased the nipple that had stiffened with cold. He pinched it enough to bring a gasp from her throat. Bending his knee, he pressed his groin into her thigh as he forced her mouth open once again with his teeth. A low moan escaped from him as he ground his throbbing erection into the joint between her torso and thigh.

He pulled back and looked down at her. Still holding her wrists, he used his other hand to comb through her loosened braid. “Beautiful,” he breathed with satisfaction. “When we are at court, you shall cover this with naught but a net of jewels.” With a sudden twist of the wrist, he grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked hard enough to bend her head back so that she looked into his face.

Victor met her wide eyes. “You angered me, my lady. You angered me with your sharp tongue, and your disregard for your person—tearing across the fields as you did. Take care not to anger me in the future, Maris, and we shall do well together.”

With that, he turned and clomped away through the snow. Gathering up the reins of his mount, he swung himself into the saddle, and, without a backward glance, urged the horse into a loping canter back toward the keep.

Shaken and numb, Maris stiffly gathered up her cloak. As she draped it around her trembling shoulders, she tried to hold back the tears. The Lady of Langumont would not cry. Turning to look about, she saw Hickory and whistled for her mare.

A heavy weight settled over her as she climbed into the saddle, her trembling hands fumbling with the reins. He would be her betrothed two days hence. As her wedded husband, he owned her—owned her—and could do as he wished. He could beat her, rape her, even kill her if he chose. Maris had met and cared for a young woman just a little more than a year ago, Lady Joanna, who had been beaten nearly to her death by her husband.

With a fearful, shuddering sigh, she urged Hickory into a slow trot. Tears stung the corners of her eyes as she held onto the reins so tightly that her nails bit into the palm of her hand.