night, began to assist her maid Maeve in removing the bride’s clothing. She hoped to make the moment as brief as possible for Ava’s sake, although what would happen in the chamber thereafter mayhap could be worse.
Ava’s jewel-studded girdle jangled to the floor, and Joanna reached to pull the fine overtunic above her head. After handing it to Maeve to fold, she turned to unlace the sides of the bridal gown. As she moved around to the far side of Ava, she glanced for the first time toward the sea of ogling male faces. Her attention fixed on one for the merest instant and her insides froze.
The man from the stable.
Joanna’s heart slipped off its beat, then returned to a faster pulse. Her fingers became clumsy and it took her twice as long to unlace the second side as it had the first. What was he doing here? Dear God, if Ralf were to learn that they’d met, or even spoken…if the big stranger made any sort of gesture of familiarity toward her—
She felt the color drain from her face as her stomach churned with fear.
But mayhap Ralf wasn’t here…mayhaps he lay in his cups somewhere….
She raised her hands to lift the gown over Ava’s head, and felt her own wide sleeves slip back to her shoulders, baring her slim arms. Maeve took the bundle of fabric from her and Joanna turned to the last bit—the light, fine linen chemise that hid very little of the curves and dark areas of Ava’s body. Knowing it was all that much easier if it were quick, she bent to take the hem, lifting it smoothly and easily up and over, leaving Ava beautifully nude in the midst of gaping, gawking, groping men for the merest instant. Maeve was mercifully quick with the fur-lined cloak, throwing it over Ava’s shoulders and masking her nakedness.
Someone pushed Will, who stumbled again, this time into his bride, nearly knocking her over. The noise of hoots and whistles deafened Joanna, once again, bringing her back to the terrifying memory of her own wedding night. Firmly pushing the thoughts away, she returned to her work and drew the blankets back from the bed, then assisted her sister to slip under the coverings as quickly as possible. Now, she could do naught for Ava but pray that ’twould end soon, and that her husband would have a care when they were alone.
Backing away, nearer the fire again, Joanna watched as the priest raised the arms of the groom for all to see his nude body.
“There appears no reason that the groom should be unable to fulfill his marital duties,” intoned the priest, and the room erupted with taunts and whistles as the evidence of Lord Will’s virility swelled and rose to attention.
“Now, to bed with thee!”
Joanna turned to slip out of the room and came face to face with her husband.
“My lord,” she choked. What she had feared was in his eyes—glassiness, but behind it, glinting sharply, lust.
“My tunic has been soiled,” Ralf grated, his hand slipping around to grasp her arm. “You’ll come to assist me in removing it.”
“Aye, my lord,” was all she could say.
Each of his fingers was a separate ridge, biting into the tenderness of her upper arm, and Joanna held back a wince as he propelled her toward the door way.
One, at least, of her prayers, was to be answered.
As they passed through the doorway, Joanna came briefly face to face with the giant from the stables. His expression was unreadable but his eyes caught and held hers for the barest of instants before she dragged her own gaze away as Harman directed her toward her fate.
Mercifully, the man said naught.
But Joanna could feel the weight of his stare behind her.
II.
Until she’d raised her arms to assist the bride in removing her chemise, the Lady Joanna had entranced Bernard with her shy beauty and graceful movements. He knew of her soft heart just from their moments in the stable. The manner in which she’d treated him when she thought him less than a lord and the care for which she’d shown a mother cat told Bernard all that he needed to know.
In the bridal chamber, he’d stood to the side, sipping, not gulping, the bitter ale that must have come from the dregs of the barrel, watching her, suddenly wanting her…knowing that he must have and protect her. He saw the way candlelight glinted off her rich, honey-gold hair, wanted to touch the creaminess of her half-shadowed skin, and felt the desire to feel her small hands cover his broad chest.
It was a miracle that after so long, and so many women, after so much nagging from his father, that he should find the woman he had to marry this suddenly. And he knew, clearly, that it would be she.
And then, Lady Joanna had raised her arms to help Lady Ava off with her chemise. And Bernard found his attention fixed not on the newly-bare body of the bride, but on the slender, upraised,
Black and purple marks patterned the upper portion of her arms, both of them, leaving no doubt as to their origin. Bernard felt the loud, crowded chamber slide away, leaving him cold and stunned that someone—for it had to be
He’d hoped to talk with her, to find a moment where he could ask her what or who….but ’twas not to be. As soon as Joanna moved to leave the bedside of her frightened sister, she was accosted. Nay,
Bernard could barely control his rage at the realization that this low-bellied snake not only had some claim to Lady Joanna, but that he doubtless had inflicted such bruises upon her person—or if he did not, then he knew who had.
It was all Bernard could do to allow the couple to pass by him at the chamber door, and remain passive. He looked closely at Joanna, catching her eyes—soft blue ones glazed with anxiety—as she passed, trying to send the message that he would stop them if she wished.
The way her gaze flickered away instantly bespoke of her fear, and Bernard forced himself to remain still, tightening his hands into painful fists, knowing that any action on his part would bear more ill toward Joanna.
They left, and Bernard had no choice but to follow the remaining men from the chamber. A heavy sickening settled in his belly as he stomped along the hallway with the other men.
It took only one question to ascertain what he’d inherently known: Lady Joanna was wed to Ralf, Lord of Swerthmoor.
The next morn, Bernard woke with a head fuzzy from little sleep and too much ale. The last person he wished to see, however, was waiting as he stumbled from his pallet. Bernard was not the last of the men to rise, but near enough to it that his father must call attention to that fact.
“Good morrow, dear son,” spoke Lord Harold Derkland, looking up at Bernard, but somehow managing to appear the taller. “And how fares your head this morn? ’Twould be what I’d expect from Dirick—such overindulgence—but not that I’d see from you.”
“Leave me be,” growled Bernard, brushing past his father on a mission to splash his face with water in hopes of washing the fog away.
His father chuckled, but followed along. They picked their way among the pallets scattered over the rush- strewn floor in an antechamber of the Great Hall, taking care not to tread upon any outstretched hand or foot of the snoring men. “I’ve found a wife for you, Bernard.”
By the time his father spoke the unwelcome words, Bernard’s face was inside a barrel filled with water so that he did not have the breath to bellow his discord. But when he pulled up, whipping his head back so that water
