The Virgin Proxy(10)
But as Thierry stepped forward to lead the way, Guy stopped him and whispered quickly in his ear. The other man had known him long enough not to question even the oddest of requests. He bowed and hurried on ahead into the chapel.
Guy Devaux had decided not to be married—not today in any case—but most folk wouldn’t know it. Certainly not from his expression. He had mastered the art of never betraying a pleased thought, which is why most people assumed he never had one.
* * * *
He’d laughed at her. The lecherous Norman goat had just laughed scornfully at her!
There was some delay while the chapel was readied. It seemed they were no more prepared for a wedding than they were to accommodate women in this fortress.
Neither Sybilia nor the Norman spoke. Finally they were summoned inside. Deorwynn forced her feet forward into the chapel, but she was trembling, her skin scalded by his closeness.
Of all the men she might have encountered last night, it had to be him. How skillfully he’d manipulated her with his fingers, driving her to lewd acts. Norman swine. She wanted to spit on his feet as he stood there, repeating his vows. How could he do that to her on the eve of his wedding to another? Easily of course. She tightened her lips over a small groan of despair. He was a Norman. This was the sort of thing Normans did regularly without a thought of repentance.
And what about her? Was she any better? She had agreed to lay with a man she knew nothing about; a man who would be married to another woman. Although it pained her to admit, Deorwynn knew she was not above reproach. Last night he had tricked her by not revealing his identity; tonight it would be her turn to deceive.
Cold fingers stretched around her heart, squeezing. Until last night, she’d never known how one man’s keen regard could disrupt her emotions to such a degree; turn her into a wanton hussy. How could she know? He was the first man who’d ever seen her naked; the first to look at her that way.
A slash of cool, blue white mist fell jagged through the unfinished chapel window and lit him up from head to toe. Like the statue of some pagan warrior god, he stood tall with his hands on his hips and commanded the bumbling monk to get on with it. The poor little fellow seemed quite overcome with his duty and had dropped his book twice, causing a cloud of dust that made Sybilia sneeze uncontrollably. Deorwynn’s gaze tracked downward and she noticed the monk’s unusual footwear—a pair of rather elaborate boots with elongated toes peeking out beneath his ill-fitting robes. Perhaps this was his winter footwear, she thought—some fancy, frivolous Norman design. The sticky sweet odor of mead hung heavy about his person and she suspected he would have been parallel to the floor, if not for the amused soldiers standing close on either side of him. Somehow they all got through the service.
* * * *
At the wedding feast he occasionally caught her looking at him, but she always turned away quickly. Thierry sat beside her, at the far end of the long trestle table, and she was soon engaged in conversation with him. Then her face was animated, glowing in the light of the candles. He saw Thierry shift closer, probably using the excuse of not being able to hear above the general noise. They were almost touching. Watching from his distant place of honor, Guy tore another bite of roasted pheasant with his teeth, chewing hard, not tasting. He would have given all his victories and rewards tonight to change seats with Thierry.
“Shall I pour you more wine, my husband?”
The woman at his side was overly solicitous, stretching his nerves even thinner. He shot her a quick glance. Yes, she was pretty enough. During the chapel service he’d lifted her veil, folding it back over her hair to reveal a face of good symmetry and fine, translucent skin. He should be well satisfied with the bride he’d been sent. But she did not draw him in as the other did. She did not tempt him the same way.
He nodded, holding out his empty flagon for more wine. His bride smiled, but it was shallow, self-conscious. Her eyes were guarded; they did not reach into his soul and demand attention.
“Tell me, my lady Sybilia, who is your handmaid? A relative?” They had very similar coloring and build.
“Deorwynn?” Her lashes fluttered. “Oh, she is a poor orphan from the convent. I let her come with me out of charity.”
“Deorwynn,” he ran the name over his tongue, testing it.
“Yes, my lord, a peasant girl the nun’s took in. A Saxon. Why do you ask?” She nibbled daintily on her bread.
Because I’m thinking of fucking her senseless at the first opportunity, he mused, savagely biting into the meat again, his eyes on the girl at the far end of his table. She had just laughed at something Thierry told her and Guy felt a painful stitch in his chest. Was he eating too fast? Winded, he dropped the clean bone to his platter.