down towards the tie of his hose. He seemed larger half naked, and most disconcerting. The effect of her years in the convent, she supposed. Curiosity warred with shyness. Shamefully, she wanted to continue looking at him. But shyness won, and she stared fixedly at a bedpost, hoping he could not see her blushes. ‘I…I’m sorry. Sir Richard said you’d had Emma’s belongings sent up here. I didn’t think you…’ Her voice trailed off.
‘I’ll be gone in a moment,’ Adam said, his voice amused. ‘If you’d pass me that towel?’
A square of white linen was lying in the rumpled mess on the bed. She thrust it in his general direction.
Swiftly drying himself, Adam dragged a clean linen shirt from a travelling chest that sat against the wall between Emma’s red one and her father’s strongbox. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that he had to duck his head to avoid hitting it on the low angled roof.
Only when he was safely inside his tunic did she risk meeting his gaze. ‘This was my parents’ room,’ she said softly, unable to analyse her feelings on seeing Adam Wymark standing in the same space where so often she had seen her father.
Should she hate this stranger from Brittany? She did not hate him—she did not think she could, for so far he had not shown himself to be a cruel man—yet to see him here, sword propped against the side of the bed in exactly the same way that her father had propped his sword…
Adam buckled his belt, his face unreadable. ‘I know, and I’m sorry if it offends you, but I used this room before chasing to the convent after your sister.’ He shrugged. ‘Tonight it’s yours. But tomorrow…’He came to stand close, so close she could smell the soapwort he had been using. ‘Tomorrow it will be our room.’
Her pulse quickened, her mouth opened, but no words emerged. He stood looking down at her: tall, slender, dark. A Breton knight. Her knight. Her mouth felt dry. Would he bring kindness to their marriage? Part of her was beginning to think it possible. But, no, how could that be when he was Duke William’s man, and she was marrying him for convenience? She was marrying him for Philip; for the villagers; for the sake of peace…
And for you? Does not a small part of you marry him for yourself? asked an insidious voice. No! Never! I marry him to…As Cecily looked up at Adam, her mouth went dry and she lost track of her thoughts. It was extraordinary how compelling she found the shape of his lips…
‘Beautiful…’ she murmured.
‘Hmm?’
‘Oh! N-nothing. I…I…nothing!’ she stuttered, her thoughts utterly scrambled.
Theoretically, Cecily knew what happened in the marriage bed—how had Emma phrased it? ‘You’ve seen the stallion put to our mares’—but how did that translate into human terms? She was largely ignorant of what actually went on between a man and a woman. Some men forced women, this she knew. One of the novices at the convent had been raped and sent there in shame when she had become pregnant, even though it had not been her fault. Cecily could still hear the poor girl’s cries echo round the chapel when she realised she would never return to her village. Would Adam force her? Once they were married he would have the right…tomorrow he would have the right…and no one called it rape when a man forced his wife.
Mother Aethelflaeda had told the nuns that carnal love, as she called it, was only acceptable if the couple were married and were intent on begetting children. They were to take no pleasure in their union, for then it became sinful. ‘Carnal love distracts one from the love of God,’ Mother Aethelflaeda had stressed, many times. ‘It is a woman’s duty to give her husband children, yet it is a sin when she takes pleasure in it.’
Confused, Cecily gazed at the man she would marry on the morrow, the man who pleased her eyes, and butterflies fluttered in her belly. If only it were darker in here. He must know he has this strange effect on me. He is laughing at me. He is…
Would he please her body too? Kissing Adam was already a pleasure, which must mean she was a sinner. And as for the rest…Well, tomorrow would tell whether she would find doing her duty a pleasure or no. Her legs felt weak. She did not think he would have to force her…
Adam’s gaze had lightened. ‘You’ve come to change your gown?’
‘Aye—it will feel strange to wear colours after so long.’
He smiled and gently stroked her cheek, warm fingers sliding underneath her wimple. She wanted to lean into the caress like a cat, and rub her cheek against his fingertips. Sensual longings took shape in her mind—forbidden, sinful longings.
‘I won’t be sorry to see the back of this,’ he said, and with his other hand he twitched at her skirts. ‘Not to mention this grey apology for a habit that the convent saw fit to clothe you in.’ Taking up his sword, he turned to the door. ‘I’ll send Gudrun up with more hot water.’
The latch clicked quietly behind him.
Alone in her parents’ room, Cecily sank onto the rumpled bed and put her head in her hands. What was the matter with her? If Mother Aethelflaeda had but a glimpse at the turmoil in her mind she would have her doing penance till her life’s end.
Downstairs in his basket lay her baby brother, an orphan, an innocent. It was up to her to protect him, and to do that she must marry Adam. Honesty compelled her to admit that she had found his dark looks achingly attractive from the first, and against all odds she was learning to like him personally as well. In other circumstances she might have been happy to wed him, might have been able to make a good marriage with him. But—reaching up, she snatched off her veil and wimple—how could they possibly make a good marriage when of necessity she must keep so much hidden from him?
She twisted the veil into a tight bundle. Adam must not discover that Philip was her brother; he must not discover that one of her father’s housecarls, Judhael, was likely determined to overthrow his Duke’s regime; he must not discover that Emma was consorting with Judhael; he must not…
The latch rattled, and a young girl pushed open the door. She was on the verge of womanhood, her thick dark hair bound in two glossy braids which hung over her shoulders, her blue eyes were wide, and when they met hers, her lips curved into a welcoming smile. She hovered on the threshold with a jug of steaming water. ‘Lady Cecily?’
‘Matty?’ Matty was the miller’s daughter—a child when Cecily had last seen her. Now she was growing into an attractive young woman.
Matty came into the room, clutching the jug to her breast. ‘My lady.’
She made to curtsey, but Cecily was up trying to hug her before she had the chance. ‘Oh, Matty, it is good to see you.’
Setting the jug down, Matty hugged her back, her smile warm. ‘We’re glad to see you too, my lady. We need you.’ She lowered her voice. ‘These Franks frighten me—they frighten us all.’
‘There’s no need to fear them,’ Cecily said, with a confidence that surprised even herself. ‘They won’t harm you.’
Hastily, Matty crossed herself. ‘I pray you are right. But with our men gone…’
‘They will not hurt you. Sir Adam will not permit it. We are his people now, and it is his duty to protect us.’
‘Truly?’
Cecily nodded reassurance. ‘I am sure of it.’
Matty bit her lip. ‘If you say so, my lady.’ She glanced at the washstand. ‘Sir Adam asked me to fetch you hot water.’ Unexpectedly, she grinned, and her eyes sparkled. ‘At least I guessed that was what he wanted. His English is not very good, is it?’
‘That’s kind of you—my thanks. And, no, his English is weak, but he is learning.’
Matty went to the washstand, slid open the wall shutter and tipped Adam’s water out, regardless of any hapless soul who might be walking under the eaves. She refilled the ewer from the jug, chattering nineteen to the dozen. ‘He tried to get Marie to come out of the church to