But she had no choice, she knew. She must play the innocent virgin and allow him all of the liberties a wife owes her husband. Pressing her palm to the flat of her stomach in a vain effort to still the trembling, Catherine reminded herself that this part of her foul bargain would not be the worst. Surely she could survive the bedding she faced with the man who was now her husband. He was handsome, almost to the point of profanity. His shape was finer than any she’d ever seen in a man, and he was clean and well mannered on top of it all. Nay, bedding Grayson de Camville would not be the most difficult part of her unholy agreement.
Helping to kill him would.
Catherine pushed herself to her feet as she forced that sickening thought from her mind. She paced to the window, pressing her forehead against the wooden shutters and feeling the night air seep through the cracks to cool her flesh. It might not come to that, she reasoned. There was still time. Time to find another plan, to outwit Eduard and save her children without having to aid in the murder of an innocent man.
Then, with a grinding jolt, she realized that more time was not necessarily a foregone conclusion. First she had to convince Grayson that she was a virgin. She fingered the tiny bladder of chicken blood that Eduard had instructed her to use when the time came, as proof of her broken maidenhead. Pray God it worked.
Other men had been known to kill their wives on their wedding night if they discovered that they’d been deceived in such a foul way. One look at her husband made Catherine certain that, should he be that kind of man, a discovery of her true womanly state might mean this night would be her last. And little as she cared for her own life, her children’s safety depended upon her staying alive, with her wits intact so that she could think of a way out of this horrific nightmare.
Her musings were cut short by the creaking of the door. A faint whisper of air, carrying with it the clean, fragrant scent she recognized as her husband’s, made Catherine’s hands clench. God give her strength now, she prayed, to carry this night to its conclusion with dignity and skill.
Turning slowly to face him in the shadows of the room, Catherine struggled to smile.
Gray held back near the door, for the first time in years uncertain as to how he wanted to proceed. By the Rood, but his wife was beautiful. Not in the way women of his experience were attractive—nay, his warrior queen possessed an almost otherworldly quality, both ethereal and entirely physical at the same time. The incongruous blend of opposing forces produced an intoxicating result…lush sensuality that battled with a depth of spirit that seemed to spill out of her and light his chamber with a golden glow.
Gray took a deep breath and held the air in his lungs for as long as he could, striving to regain some bit of composure before he spoke. ’Twas not like him to be so struck by a maid. But then he wasn’t accustomed to sampling the pleasures of virgins. Those years he’d spent in the filthy alleys working for Bernard Thornby when Gillian was still alive had ensured that his first sexual experience and many others thereafter happened with whores.
After he had escaped that hell to build a life of his own as a knight, he’d taken to bedding women of more noble status, but they too had possessed enough carnal skill to rival the best in Thornby’s trade.
This woman was different.
He’d seen that from the moment he’d lifted her veil in the chapel, from the moment he’d gazed into those wide, uncertain eyes. ’Twas that knowledge which explained his strange reaction to her, he reasoned. That and the intimacy of having her standing before him half-clothed in the shadows of his bedchamber.
“Have I disturbed you too early?” His husky question broke the reverent quiet of the chamber, making him want to grimace at his own awkwardness.
Pink suffused Elise’s cheeks, deep enough to be seen even in this dim light. “Nay,” she murmured. “’Tis your right as husband to enter this chamber whenever you wish.”
“And yet I would not disturb you on this of all nights.” Gray’s tongue felt thick as he spoke. Somehow, acknowledging what they were doing here even with such a vague reference made him feel more on edge. Made him feel the desire to possess her burn more fiercely, warring against his better instinct.
He turned away, breaking the contact of their gazes. Walking to the table, he placed his hands, palm up, in the cool water from the wash bowl there. His mind raced with a thousand thoughts of why he should simply do his duty tonight. Why he should consummate this union with his wife and nothing more. Any further involvement, any emotional attachment to her, would be damaging and foolish.
Bringing up his cupped hands, Gray splashed the water over his face. He hoped that the sensation of cold would aid him. Only this morning, he’d followed his ritual bathing with a plunge in the frigid waters of the river, to help clear his mind and brace him for the unsettling events of the day.
The icy shock didn’t help him now.
He heard his wife step nearer to him as he dried his face with a towel. Her voice pierced the distance, its tone edged with a kind of quiet panic.
“Have I angered you by coming to our chamber too soon?” she whispered. “Please forgive me. ’Tis only that I wasn’t sure—”
Concerned, Gray turned to face her, and with a sobbed intake of breath, she shrank away from him, half-raising her hand as if to ward off a blow.
He felt as if it was he who’d been hit. Taking several steps toward her, he gripped her shoulders and forced her to look at him. “Why do you pull away as if I would strike you?”
Elise stared up at him, eyes wide, luminously blue with tears that threatened to spill over at any moment. She only shook her head and tried to make him release her.
Something snapped in Gray as she struggled against him, making him hold her tighter in his determination to win their clash of wills. “Tell me why, Elise. I demand to know why you whimper and shy away every time I look at you.”
“Please let go,” she whispered. “You’re hurting me.”
Startled, Gray released her and took a step back. She recoiled a few paces and rubbed her arms, but he continued to stare at her, his gaze steady. “Strong I may be, lady, yet I know when I exert enough force to cause pain. If your flesh protests, ’tis not from my touch.”
“Nay, I spoke true my lord,” she said, glancing at him in that skittish, uncertain way he was coming to expect from her.
Exasperated to the point of frustration, Gray strode forward again and took her hand. “Then I must see proof of the damage I inflicted, so that in future I can restrain myself.”
He lifted her hand toward him, at the same time pushing aside the long draped sleeve of her smock to expose her arm. For the second time in less than a minute, Gray felt as if he’d been struck, only this time his concern mixed with bewilderment and then with anger. Bright, angry red marks, made by the force of fingers—God, he hoped not his—slashed across a mass of bruises.
“What in Christ’s name is this? Why didn’t you tell me of it before?” Without waiting for her reply, Gray pulled her to the padded bench near the fire and made her sit. “Did you meet with an accident during your journey? Have you sustained other wounds? I demand that you tell me!”
