Damien didn’t know how much more of this he could take.
It had begun with the afternoon’s feigned exchange of vows and had not let up since. After he’d led Alissende to the altar inside the village church, he had stepped aside, unable to do aught but watch in painful silence as she’d knelt in prayer—realizing too late that every moment he spent inside that holy place would only serve to prick and scrape at the raw place of lost faith inside of him.
Ben had tried to offer quiet support, but it hadn’t mitigated the difficult truth. When Father Michael had cast him a somber look, Damien’s mouth had tightened with bitterness, as he’d known that the priest expected him to go through the motions of praying, at least. He had refused. There would be time enough for such pretense in the countless days to come, when he would be living under the weight of strange eyes, watching his every move.
And yet even that had not been the worst of it.
The time they’d spent within those sheltering stone walls had also drawn into sharp contrast the reality between the farce of this mock wedding and what he had hoped for with Alissende five years ago. It had stung more deeply than he would have imagined possible. He had found himself watching her with a burning sensation in his chest, until she’d finally stood from her prayers and moved to the sanctuary with him at the Gospel side of the altar.
Father Michael had joined them there, using the remaining time to remind them both of the need to be convincing in their efforts to show the world that theirs was a love match and not one undertaken in an act of selfish disobedience to the king. Of immediate concern was the fact that there had been some grumbling and rumor within the ranks of the castle guard, who were now under Damien’s command. It was imperative that they continue their efforts to quell any lingering talk here at Glenheim before they traveled to court.
The news had been unwelcome, though not unexpected. Damien had absorbed the import of it in silence. Alissende had as well, though her face had grown paler than it had been before, if such a thing were possible.
And then had come the wedding feast.
They had been trapped next to each other in the great hall, constrained to try to behave for the world as a happy, newly married pair. Damien had thought he might go mad from it. It had been a kind of agony, being forced to sit so closely beside this woman who had once comprised his most secret yearnings and deepest desires. A lady believed by all to be his wife, but who in all truth and honor he could not touch in the ways a man was meant to touch a woman. Ways that he had touched her before, many times in the days before she had ripped out his heart with her betrayal.
He swallowed hard at the bitterness that filled him with the recollection and turned to his recently filled cup of wine, draining it in one gulp before gesturing for the serving lad who bore the pitcher of drink to approach again. Everything had intensified over the course of the past three hours. It was as if against his will he’d become attuned to every nuance of Alissende’s body—to each breath she’d taken, to the feather-light brush of her sleeve against his arm while they’d eaten, and the slight movement of her head as she’d inclined it toward any with whom she spoke.
To the gentle perfume he knew, from tormenting memory, that she always applied to the soft skin inside her elbow and the tiny hollow at the base of her throat…and to other more hidden places, as well.
That thought had teased him, maddened him, her scent wafting over him like a spell every time she’d raised her goblet in acknowledgment of yet another wedding toast. It had been all he could do not to drag her to him and force her to acknowledge the passion she called up in him in a manner that would dispel all doubt in the matter.
He’d been left feeling raw, his very flesh charged by constant stimulation that had had no release. If fate had not intervened in the form of external distractions, he would not have been able to keep himself from shoving away from the table and striding out into the cooling dark outside to restore his sanity. As it stood, he had been saved, after a fashion, by mundane necessity. A short while ago, the introductions had begun with nary a rest between them, except to choke down bites of food at irregular intervals from the astonishing array of delicacies that had been provided for the celebration.
He had met Sir Reynald Fitzgibbon, captain of Glenheim’s castle guard, along with another threescore of the men now under his command. None had shown any outward sign of disrespect or suspicion, for which he had been silently thankful. He had been greeted with cautious good spirits by tradesmen and various other folk from the village: a seamstress and her daughter, a carter, the miller who served both Glenheim’s people and those of the next village, a weaver, a master carpenter, the blacksmith, and an alewife.
The flurry of it all had helped to distract him, as had Alissende’s decision, a few moments ago, to arise from their table and walk amongst the people, greeting them with thanks for attending the celebration.
Aye, he thought ruefully, their physical separation helped…as long as he could manage to keep himself from tracking her with his gaze, following her every graceful movement like a predator marking his prey. It seemed a near impossible task. Shaking his head, he forced himself to stare into the ruby red depths of his wine, willing his mind to less dangerous paths.
Another pointless exercise. Nay, nothing would assuage the ripening urge he felt building inside of him, and he was angry at himself for it. It was not as if he was a green lad, untested by desire. But he could not deny that he had never known a sense of want this intense. This demanding of his focus even to keep it at bay. He was failing miserably in that effort, which made Ben’s timing as he approached from the opposite side of the hall all the more unfortunate.
“Damien—?”
“What?”Damien snapped, swinging his gaze for just an instant to Ben before he turned back to his half-empty cup, lifting it to his mouth to down the remainder of it in one desperate swallow.
His friend made a huffing sound. “There is no call to be so bad-tempered, man. This is not my doing.”
Damien simply glared at him in response.
Impervious to the danger burning in that gaze, Ben squatted down next to Damien’s chair, so that he might speak more softly and for his hearing only. “I came to remind you that the feast will likely come to a close within the hour, and yet there has been little evidence of your interest in Lady Alissende as your newly wedded wife, beyond the act of sitting next to her at table. Some of the men are beginning to take notice and talk among themselves, only with the vehemence lent them by the drink they’ve consumed this night.”
“They can be hanged,” Damien muttered, wishing the warmth that was beginning to fill him in response to his own swift downing of drink would hurry along and ease him from his misery a bit. “Alissende isnotmy wife. Not in truth. And the idea of a public display of attention to her as such is more than I can bear right now.” He gestured to a serving lad to refill his goblet once more.
“That is unfortunate,” Ben answered, his mouth smiling even as the words came through clenched teeth, “and also irrelevant, I’m afraid. You would be wise to set down your cup for a while, call on that steadfast resolve for which you are so famed, and begin behaving like the besotted groom you are supposed to be, else all of your plans for these six months will prove for naught.”
Damien bit back a growl that he was certain would have sounded more wolf than man had he allowed it full release. He directed his stare toward the table of men-at-arms—hismen-at-arms now, he reminded himself—noting several sideways glances, a few frowns, and what seemed to be murmured comments that were mostly hidden behind lifted cups. Ben was right, damn him. There was something brewing there. And if it was suspicion over the authenticity of his union with Alissende, then his duty demanded that he put it to rest with some kind of action.
The thought sat like a lead weight on his chest. It meant he would have to embrace her in front of these people. He would have to make them believe that he loved her. And that meant he’d have to—
Blast it all to hell.
His jaw tightened for a moment before he stiffly turned his head to meet Ben’s gaze again and muttered, “If I do this, I will need to leave immediately afterward for the privacy of my chamber. My control hangs by a thread as it is.”
Ben looked somehow sanguine as he nodded his acquiescence. “Aye, but just remember that it is your wedding chamber to which you retreat—and that you must needs bring Lady Alissende with you.”
Damien did utter a curse aloud then, closing his eyes and tipping his head back as his entire body stiffened in reaction to that overlooked reality. This was going to call upon every ounce of his strength, and still he did not know how he was going to survive it. He opened his eyes, his gaze seeking her out in the chamber almost against his will, feeling that pang of need, hurt, and unadulterated desire sweep through him at the sight of her as she leaned over to speak to the miller’s wife.
