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Authors: Claudia Dain
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appetites. But how long would discipline last before he slid back into gluttony?
Debauchery.
He glanced at Isabel again. She was watching him. Their eyes met. He could read her desire in the parting of her lips and the flush of her cheeks, but most especially in the clear depths of her gaze.
It was always so.
She had pursued him with her eyes as a child and then as a woman of marriageable age and now as a wife. He had beaten back her desire for him for an age, and except for one moment of sin-soaked weakness, he had resisted her. He would resist her still.
Everything about Isabel's too blatant desire for him had been wrong—wrong in God's eye and the world's. She had been betrothed to his brother, therefore, she was his sister by marriage, her attraction for him both incestuous and adulterous. She had followed where he did not want her, her dark hair flying behind her as she watched him when he trained in the bailey. He had endured it, knowing her to be impetuous and willful and in need of training; ignoring her presence until the boys who shared his fostering at Malton had made Isabel and her hawklike devotion to him the point on which every joke, every ribaldry, was raised. Until Henley had noted it.
She had become a stone thrown against his honor and the honor of his house.
And now again. He had sought to honor God with the gift of his life, but his life had been given to Isabel. Everything in his life seemed to turn around Isabel, like the sun around the earth, the unwelcome center of all his thoughts and all his plans.
Lifting a morsel of bread to his lips, he could feel her eyes on him. Always she watched him. Without shame or modesty, she watched him. He could feel her carnal desire, see it in the flush of her cheek and the twitching of her hands. He knew all the signs of a woman's desire. He had learned at Malton.
But Malton was the past and Dornei was the present. Thinking of Malton would not help him in Dornei. Richard studied the men in the hall, dining on his food at his tables. He did not like the manner of the one called Adam. That one had been too close upon Isabel, his smile too false, his bearing too eager. Nicholas he knew too well from Malton to trust overmuch. Louis's bright look he distrusted. The steward regarded him cautiously, the bailiff suspiciously, and the men-at-arms with grim silence. Yet none of it touched Richard as much as Isabel's ill-concealed desire for him. That, he must fight, and it was the only struggle in his path which challenged his confidence, for it was a battle which he had waged often and never victoriously.
Isabel and her desire were as constant as the sun, as hot and as bright. 'Twas his battle against Isabel's carnal desires that might topple him.
But this was where God had sent him, even if only for a season, and he would master all to which he laid his hand. Brother John had come expressly to remind him of his duty as Lord of Dornei.
And of his duty to Isabel? He did not want to master or lay hand to Isabel. Not again.
With that thought foremost, he spoke to her, though he would not look at her.
"It is expected that we will consummate our marriage tonight."
Isabel dropped her knife with a clatter against the table. It left a dark stain against the cloth. Richard picked it up and handed it back to her, all the while keeping his eyes lowered, in the Benedictine fashion.
"It is inappropriate," he continued, almost without pause. "To commit such an act on the heels of Lord Bernard's death is unseemly. God would surely not smile on such behavior, and I would not begin our marriage on so precarious a step."
He chanced a brief look at her face. She was as still as a salt pillar; she did not even blink a response. Her eyes, though, gave all away.
She wanted him.
Yet she would not fight his will.
All this he could read in her eyes. Richard felt a surge of hope. Perhaps, after all, he could make it through this trial God had set before him.
"In service to God and
Debauchery.
He glanced at Isabel again. She was watching him. Their eyes met. He could read her desire in the parting of her lips and the flush of her cheeks, but most especially in the clear depths of her gaze.
It was always so.
She had pursued him with her eyes as a child and then as a woman of marriageable age and now as a wife. He had beaten back her desire for him for an age, and except for one moment of sin-soaked weakness, he had resisted her. He would resist her still.
Everything about Isabel's too blatant desire for him had been wrong—wrong in God's eye and the world's. She had been betrothed to his brother, therefore, she was his sister by marriage, her attraction for him both incestuous and adulterous. She had followed where he did not want her, her dark hair flying behind her as she watched him when he trained in the bailey. He had endured it, knowing her to be impetuous and willful and in need of training; ignoring her presence until the boys who shared his fostering at Malton had made Isabel and her hawklike devotion to him the point on which every joke, every ribaldry, was raised. Until Henley had noted it.
She had become a stone thrown against his honor and the honor of his house.
And now again. He had sought to honor God with the gift of his life, but his life had been given to Isabel. Everything in his life seemed to turn around Isabel, like the sun around the earth, the unwelcome center of all his thoughts and all his plans.
Lifting a morsel of bread to his lips, he could feel her eyes on him. Always she watched him. Without shame or modesty, she watched him. He could feel her carnal desire, see it in the flush of her cheek and the twitching of her hands. He knew all the signs of a woman's desire. He had learned at Malton.
But Malton was the past and Dornei was the present. Thinking of Malton would not help him in Dornei. Richard studied the men in the hall, dining on his food at his tables. He did not like the manner of the one called Adam. That one had been too close upon Isabel, his smile too false, his bearing too eager. Nicholas he knew too well from Malton to trust overmuch. Louis's bright look he distrusted. The steward regarded him cautiously, the bailiff suspiciously, and the men-at-arms with grim silence. Yet none of it touched Richard as much as Isabel's ill-concealed desire for him. That, he must fight, and it was the only struggle in his path which challenged his confidence, for it was a battle which he had waged often and never victoriously.
Isabel and her desire were as constant as the sun, as hot and as bright. 'Twas his battle against Isabel's carnal desires that might topple him.
But this was where God had sent him, even if only for a season, and he would master all to which he laid his hand. Brother John had come expressly to remind him of his duty as Lord of Dornei.
And of his duty to Isabel? He did not want to master or lay hand to Isabel. Not again.
With that thought foremost, he spoke to her, though he would not look at her.
"It is expected that we will consummate our marriage tonight."
Isabel dropped her knife with a clatter against the table. It left a dark stain against the cloth. Richard picked it up and handed it back to her, all the while keeping his eyes lowered, in the Benedictine fashion.
"It is inappropriate," he continued, almost without pause. "To commit such an act on the heels of Lord Bernard's death is unseemly. God would surely not smile on such behavior, and I would not begin our marriage on so precarious a step."
He chanced a brief look at her face. She was as still as a salt pillar; she did not even blink a response. Her eyes, though, gave all away.
She wanted him.
Yet she would not fight his will.
All this he could read in her eyes. Richard felt a surge of hope. Perhaps, after all, he could make it through this trial God had set before him.
"In service to God and
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