I complied, having little choice. Margaret reappeared almost immediately, bearing platters of roasted meat, bread, and vegetables. The smell would normally have made my mouth water, but now it only turned my stomach.
Gaspard took his seat at the head of the table, surveying the food with satisfaction. “Eat,” he commanded. “Thou art too thin.”
I picked at the food, forcing myself to take small bites. Gaspard, meanwhile, tore into his meal with gusto, grease shining on his chin as he spoke between mouthfuls.
“Thy dresses will not do,” he said abruptly. “Now that thou art under my care, thou must look the part.”
The sting of his words was sharp, but not unexpected. I’d seen how he looked at my simple garments, disdain plain on his face.
“My clothes are perfectly serviceable,” I replied, keeping my voice even.
“They are the clothes of a peasant,” he countered. “I will have the seamstress come tomorrow to fit thee for proper attire. Dresses that match thy beauty.”
His eyes raked over me as he spoke, lingering on the swell of my breasts beneath my bodice. A low groan escaped him, animalistic and hungry.
Before I could react, his hand shot across the space between us, cupping my breast through the fabric of my dress. His touch was rough, possessive, violating.
“Perfect to fill my large hands,” he murmured, squeezing painfully. “I knew thou would be.”
I jerked backward, nearly toppling my chair in my haste to escape his touch. “Don’t,” I gasped, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Please, Gaspard. I am in thy care as a ward, not—”
“Not what?” he demanded, rising from his chair. “Not mine to touch? Not mine to claim?” He stalked toward me, backing me against the wall. “Everything in this house belongs to me. Including thee.”
My eyes darted to Margaret, who had returned with a pitcher of wine. Surely she would help, would say something? But the maid kept her gaze fixed on the floor, carefully setting down the pitcher before turning to leave.
“Please,” I called to her. “Don’t go.”
She paused, her back to me, shoulders hunched as if bearing a great weight. “I’ll... I’ll just be preparing thy bath, miss,” she said, her voice barely audible. Then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.
In that moment, I understood with terrible clarity that I was not the first woman Gaspard had forced himself upon in this house. And that Margaret had learned, likely through painful experience, not to interfere.
“My virtue must remain intact until marriage,” I said desperately, searching for any argument that might sway him. “The village would talk—”
Gaspard laughed, the sound devoid of humor. “Marriage? Is that what concerns thee?” His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my throat. “That will not be a problem, Isabeau. Thou wilt be my wife. I have waited years for thee to come of age,watching as thou blossomed into the beauty I knew thou would become.”
“No,” I choked out, clawing at his hand. “I refuse thee.”
His face darkened, eyes narrowing to slits. “Thou dost not get to refuse me,” he snarled. Then his open palm connected with my cheek, the force of the blow snapping my head to the side.
Stars exploded behind my eyes, pain radiating across my face. Before I could recover, his hand tightened around my throat, cutting off my air.
“I am done with thy teasing,” he growled, his face inches from mine. “Done pretending I don’t see the way thou sways thy hips when thou walks past me. Done waiting.”
His other hand grabbed the front of my dress, wrenching downward with such force that the fabric tore. Cool air hit my exposed skin as my bodice gave way, revealing my breasts to his hungry gaze.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, releasing my throat to paw at me. Each touch hurt, his fingers pinching and twisting without care for my pain. “Thou hast bewitched me, Isabeau. Made me mad with wanting thee.”
“Please stop,” I begged, tears streaming down my face. “Gaspard, please. Not like this.”
But my pleas fell on deaf ears. He was beyond reason now, consumed by his lust. His hands roamed my body, tearing at the remains of my dress, exposing more of me to his greedy eyes.
“I’ll be gentle with thee after we wed,” he said, as if offering a great kindness. “But tonight, I claim what’s mine.”
He spun me around, bending me over the dining table. Dishes clattered to the floor as he swept them aside with one arm. I heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of him unfastening his breeches. I squeezed my eyes shut, my mind screaming for escape even as my body remained trapped.
“Look at me,” he demanded, grabbing my hair and yanking my head back painfully. “I want thee to see what pleasures await thee as my wife.”
Forced to obey, I opened my eyes. Gaspard stood before me, his manhood freed from his breeches, clutched in his fist like a weapon. I had never seen a man thus exposed before, had only heard whispers from the girls who worked at the village tavern. It was smaller than I had expected, given his boasting nature and how the working women talked about the sizing. His entire length disappeared within his grip as he stroked himself, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
