A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3)

A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3) Page 29

“My lord,” she began, wanting to keep the conversation going so that his thoughts would settle on the fact that she was alone with him and helpless, “it would please me greatly to have use of the large chamber betwixt this and the garderobe. I will need such a chamber for a solar, where I and my women might work.”

Bon’s eyes, which had drifted to her bosom, snapped back to her face. “Your women?”

“Aye, my lord. How else shall I keep you in tunics, and tapestries on the walls?” She looked guilelessly at him. “You are in need of a new tunic for our wedding…and do you not think me shallow, my lo—Bon, yet I should like other than this to wear for that day.” She gestured to the gown that fit rather too snugly through the bosom, and whose sleeves were the merest too long to be considered a perfect fit.

His dark eyes gleamed. “And for such a boon as that, my love, I wish a token of your affection in return. Come hither, dearling.” He gestured to the floor near where he sat.

Maris hesitated, then, gathering her skirts, sank into a kneel next to his stool. Keeping her head lowered, for now she was truly fearful for her virtue, she made a great play of arranging her gown about her ankles. Bon reached down and grasped one of her hands, pulling it firmly to his lips. She concealed a shudder as moist lips smoothed over the back of her hand, then over the tender, inner side of her wrist. His tongue flicked out, like that of a snake, tracing the pale blue vein beneath her skin and she nearly jumped at the sensation. It was not pleasant in the least, reminding her of the way one of the hounds licked her hand when she had liniment on her fingers.

“My lord,” she murmured, trying to pull away. His grip tightened and he chuckled quietly. The lips continued to trail along her wrist, his fingers sliding her sleeve back, as he pressed moist kisses on the inside of her elbow.

“Bon, please,” she looked up at him. “Please do not…tempt me so.” Maris swallowed the clot of fear in her throat and managed a tremulous smile. “’Tis only one more day and we shall be truly wed.”

“Aye, ’tis one more day…an’ two more nights,” Bon agreed, his voice rough. His eyes glittered darkly, and she felt that same well of fear that she had when Victor slammed her against the tree. “I would have a taste of what it is I’ll wed, Maris.”

His fingers like iron bands, Bon pulled her to the front of his stool. Placing a hand under each elbow, he lifted her so that she was between the crux of his legs and half risen on her knees. One hand reached to hold the back of her head, his thick fingers sinking into the intricate coils of hair, as his bearded face leaned toward hers, blocking out the light from the candle behind him.

The hair on his face was rough over her smooth skin, and his lips were damp and sloppy. She tried in vain to twist her head away, but Bon’s strength prevailed, and he succeeded in lifting her onto his lap even as his mouth smothered hers. Heavy, rough breathing rasped into her mouth as his kiss coaxed and demanded in turn.

Maris curled her fingers into his tunic to keep from scratching his face. Then she tried to push him away, and, at last, was able to free her mouth from his. His arms were around her waist, pinning her onto his lap, and, gasping for air, he looked down at her own heaving chest.

“Do not be affrighted, my love,” he said in what he must have thought was a seductive voice. “I’ll not hurt you.”

Just then, there was a loud knocking at the chamber door. Maris leapt to her feet, but was jerked back onto a solid lap. “Nay, sweeting. I’ll not be interrupted.”

“But, my lord, ’tis no doubt Agnes with my tonic.”

“Your tonic can wait,” he growled, seeking her lips once more.

With a cry, she managed to slide her face from his mouth, gaining a good scrape of beard across her cheek. “Nay, please my lord, if we do not answer the door, there will be much talk of what is happening herein, and then we shall be in quite a fix if there is any question as to our marriage.”

The knocking became louder, sounding almost as desperate as she felt.

Bon’s hand slipped down the front of her bodice, closing around her breast through the thin chemise under her bliaut. The other hand plucked at the lacings that held her bodice together.

Suddenly, the door swung open. Bon’s head snapped up from Maris’s bosom.

“Begging your pardon, my lord, my lady…did you not bid me entrance?” Dirick had a surprised look on his face, but he strode boldly into the chamber. “It looks as if the fire needs to be stoked.”

“My fire does not need to be stoked,” Bon said meaningfully to Maris, his palm sliding down her back, all the way to the curve of her rump.

She squirmed in his lap, her face hot and her breathing unsteady. What was Sir Dirick doing? Then she saw Agnes hovering in the doorway. She pulled firmly from Bon’s hands. “There you are, you lazy fool!” she exclaimed. “Have you brought my tonic?”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Dirick jolt in surprise.

“A aye, my lady,” Agnes was obviously so accustomed to being spoken to in that manner that it was not difficult for her to feign fear. “A tea of pennyroyal and chamomile, to help you sleep, my lady…and peppermint leaves to chase the ache from your head.”

“And about time it is,” Maris snapped, taking the pitcher from Agnes more roughly than necessary. She turned, curtseying to Bon. “My lord, as we have been interrupted, I pray you will allow my maid to prepare me for bed. I have much to accomplish on the morrow to prepare for our wedding, as I wish to make you proud.” She fairly held her breath, waiting to see if he would acquiesce, or if he would order Dirick and Agnes from the chamber and continue with his hands down her bliaut.

Bon swaggered to his feet and she gave a silent sigh of relief. “As you wish, my dearling,” he said, as if granting her the moon. “But know that the taste I have had will barely suffice until we are well and truly wedded.”

With the last press of a kiss to her hand, he turned to make his way from the chamber. After two steps, he halted in his tracks, turning toward Dirick—who was still meddling with the fire. “Dirick, you belong on the outside of this chamber, and do you not forget that. Come now—the fire is blazing.”

“Aye, you are dismissed.” Maris turned regally away from him.

She felt Dirick still behind her, and then sensed it as he pulled himself to his feet with careful deliberation. For an instant, she felt him towering behind her. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she fancied she felt the spear of his stare driving into her back. Keeping her head high and her face averted, she walked over to the bed, untying the curtains that would keep the drafts out during the night.

Maris didn’t turn until both men quit the chamber and the door shut behind them. At last she was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Oh, my lady, are you—are you untouched?” Agnes asked in a low voice, pouring the pennyroyal tea into a goblet. “I hurried as quickly as I could. Did my lord—did he hurt you?”

“Nay.” Maris took a long drink of the lukewarm tea, then refilled the goblet and drank again. “Though ’twas a near thing.”

“My lady, what is the purpose of the pennyroyal? Is it not for Lord Bon, that you planned to poison him in some way?”

Maris shook her head and forced herself to drink more of the bitter tea. “Nay, for were he to be poisoned, would I not be the first at which the fingers would point? ’Tis to bring on my monthly flux. Bon will not touch me while I am unclean, and I pray my Papa will arrive before ’tis through. Bring me as much as you are able, as I must drink a good portion to ensure that it begins on the morrow. I must needs find some other way to keep him from me tomorrow night, as ’twill surely not start ere then.”

“Mayhap there is something to put his lordship to sleep early,” Agnes suggested.

“Mayhap, yet that is bound to be discovered. Is it not common for a bridegroom to spend the eve before his wedding fasting and doing penance?” Maris asked with a smile.

“I’ve not heard of such a thing, my lady,” Agnes shook her head.

“Methinks I’ll make such a suggestion to my lord Bon, and I’ll pray he swallows it.” Maris took a final draught of pennyroyal tea, then, looking ruefully under the bed, added, “I’m certain to be up in the night to use this” —she pulled a chamber pot from under the high bed— “after drinking so much of this tea, but it cannot be helped. Here, Agnes, climb you into bed, and we shall keep the other warm.”

Outside the chamber door, Dirick leaned against the rough stone wall, trying to erase the mental picture of the helpless Maris sprawled on Bon’s lap, her breasts spilling from her gown.

He snorted. Helpless? Maris of Langumont was anything but helpless. She already had her abductor wrapped neatly around her little finger, and the ease with which she’d done so was both admirable and frightening. Bon would probably set her free if she begged prettily enough.

Yet, he thought there’d been more than a trace of fear in her eyes when he burst unannounced into her chamber. Maris was definitely not out of danger yet.

Dirick did some quick calculations: he’d sent the messenger to Langumont just before the evening meal. The man would not reach his destination until late on the morrow…and then it would no doubt take Merle some time to gather his forces before they were on their way to Breakston. He estimated two days at best, more likely three, until Dirick would have help from that quarter. Unless by some miracle Merle had already discovered the identity of his daughter’s abductor.

But he didn’t have the luxury of three days, for Bon was determined to wed the day after the morrow.

Dirick leaned against the wall, considering his options. It wasn’t the marriage itself that would be so much the problem: a forced marriage could easily be annulled, and he was a clear witness to the forced aspect of it. Nay, what concerned him the most was the harm that could be done to Maris in the meanwhile. The loss of a maidenhead, so crucial to a profitable marriage, could not be rectified, but it was the manner it which it would be taken that troubled Dirick. His insides soured at the thought of the stocky, hirsute Bon poised over Maris’s delicate, white body.