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“My lord?” she asked with temerity. “I have invited you to claim me without conceit or compulsion. Is this not where the Zalim conquers?”
“It is. But as you have shown me, I am also a man. And this man wishes to bed his beloved in his home, and not on a bed of hard roots. Once, that was my baser instinct, but no longer.”
There would be no ungracious, rough handling of her in the forest, nor was she expected to humble herself to the point of degradation. The thwarted part of her held fast for a few minutes as they ambled in the direction of Gervais’s horse, but it withered, knowing his wishes were abundantly correct, and disappointment was replaced by excitement once again. He was right. A wife’s place was at home in her husband’s bed, and he had changed the Zalim within him sufficiently to meet the needs of the man.
“Are you the same man I met three months ago?” she asked him.
He lifted her up onto the saddle.
“Always, and more. What about you?” He held the hunting horn close to his lips.
“Likewise.” She grinned.
He blew the horn long and hard, signalling his conquest and summoning his squire to meet them.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The wedding bell pealed long and hard, and the small congregation left the chapel tossing petals over Matilda’s floral headdress. Under the veil, her apricot hair shone and her complexion was as flushed as a red carnation. Proud of his bride, Gervais held out his arm, and she rested her quivering palm on his wrist. He had matched her beauty with his commanding presence by wearing his lightest, most decorative plates of armour, which Lionel had polished for hours the previous day. The glinting steel covered his shoulders and breast, the links of chain between them clinking when he moved. And over the ceremonial display he wore a silken cloak woven with his coat of arms, and on the lapel, the small crest of the Order of Zalim, known only to himself and Lionel.
Marcia, the maid of honour, who had prepared his wife along with Sara, beamed at her achievement. She had fussed over the gown and, according to the amused Tilda, had tutted when a single thread of gold came loose and needed stitching back.
To one side, discreet and demurely dressed in plain clothing, was a tall knight without armour or weapons. The request to linger a little and stay for the ceremony had been met with trepidation by Matilda, and bemusement by Gervais. However, neither of them resented Geoffrey’s presence. He had prayed for forgiveness at the chapel altar, charmed Marcia with a subtle approach that proved he had matured, and won her over swiftly. Gervais had agreed to his request and allowed Geoffrey to stand at the back of the chapel, under the watchful eye of Jacob. The young man had kept his word and done nothing to upset the proceedings.
After Gervais had brought his bride home from the forest, he’d found Marcia had already locked her claws on Geoffrey, and she’d persuaded Gervais to let the knight stay for a while and woo her. Gervais, rolling his eyes at the thought of another wilful young lady under his roof, had reluctantly agreed. It was obvious that the absence of her parents would speed up the courting. Gervais wrote to her father indicating something was afoot, and that it would serve well to let it progress naturally.
Marcia and Matilda were now fast friends. It was important for his gregarious Tilda to have companionship beyond his needs, and if he felt threatened by the ongoing presence of Geoffrey, he crushed it at night with his passionate display of lovemaking. Matilda barely noticed Geoffrey hovering in the background and seemed to have lost any interest in conversing with him. So, it seemed that fate had brought the contracted betrothal to a happy conclusion, as well as Geoffrey and Marcia falling in love, Gervais had too, which continued to surprise him.
Outside the chapel, Matilda permitted her former beau a small kiss of her knuckles. She now outranked him, and he bowed low and addressed her as Lady Baliol. Geoffrey took Marcia’s hand and followed Lord Barre and the rest of the small gathering into the Great Hall for the celebratory meal.
Only family and a few friends had witnessed the marriage, and they enjoyed the music and food in quiet appreciation. Gervais had been determined to keep away the boisterous knights and ladies, and ensure nobody spoilt the special day with lewd or drunken behaviour. From evening to nightfall, the merriment continued, until the time came for him to bed his bride.
Tradition encroached on his plans. The wedding party accompanied the couple to his chamber. Matilda’s cousins giggled, while her father was slightly red-faced. He and Gervais both knew she was no virgin, and the performance was for custom’s sake, and not theirs. Matilda had gone quiet toward the end of the festivities, and her apparent meekness sent the blood rushing to his groin. She was as impatient as he was for their time alone.
With more petals strewn here and there, dusting the bedcovers, the parish priest blessed the couple as they knelt by the bed. The formalities completed, the guests retreated. Gervais was alone at last with his wife.
A few days previously, they had discussed in the cool of the darkness how to spend this special night.
“I’m not a virgin,” she’d said. “What can I offer you that is virginal? What would a Zalim require from his woman?”
She understood him too well.
He’d pondered her question while she’d caressed his cock with her tongue and decided that while lovemaking had become established between them, the Zalim required something unusual from her. She had dared to summon him, allowed him to hunt her, and although he had blended the man and beast, creating a new and content being, for one last night, he would let the Zalim hold sway.
Chapter Thirty-Six
She felt like a magnificent swan with her white gown flecked with gold, and Gervais, splendid and breath-taking, was her blue skies. He’d dispensed with the armour and under the shiny plates was a cloth of azure fashioned from the silk and velvet, tailored to perfection around his fine form, and the rich colour matched his startling irises. Capping his regal head was his burnished hair and beard, both of which had been trimmed for the occasion. Consequently, gone was the dark broodiness that often haunted him. He’d lightened considerably in the last few days, wiping years off his appearance. It was only after seeing him so that she’d plucked up the courage to ask for his age, and he had replied with amusement.
“Thirty-two.”
She had assumed he was as old as her father, or thereabouts, and with his admission, she’d realised how ridiculous her estimate had been. He had the body of an athlete, the strength of a young man, and the stamina of youthful exuberance. Her father complained abo
ut climbing the stairs several times a day. Her mistaken guess was based on the years of warfare that had consumed Gervais’s life.
“I was fifteen when I left home,” he’d added, following her train of thoughts. “It’s been a long journey to reach here.”
That conversation had occurred during the dancing, and now, alone together in their bedchamber, the guests raucous outside and finally retreating, she had the full attention of her husband. She bit gently on her lower lip and fiddled with the seam of her opulent gown.
He watched her with opaque eyes from where he stood leaning against the wall, his ankles crossed and arms folded across his chest. Supremely relaxed, he exuded the manliness of his nobility, while beneath lurked the hungry beast. She wished she had his arrogance sometimes, even though it was not always fitting. He carried the confidence naturally, hers had always been forced, brought upon by the wish to be liked by everyone, and tainted by the fear she might lose respect if she showed the slightest hint of her mother’s manic affliction. But she had grown apart from her family, and her mother was no longer influencing Matilda’s thinking.
