Free A Place Beyond Courage by Elizabeth Chadwick Page B

my lord?’
    He winced. ‘It’s hardly what a groom wants to hear on his wedding night, but yes. I will not trouble you again ... unless of course you want to trouble me.’
    She looked down but not before he had caught the flash of dismay in her gaze. ‘I thought not,’ he said and donned his shirt.
    ‘You . . . you are not staying?’
    He shook his head. ‘I am not tired and I have work to do.’ He picked up her chemise from the floor and handed it to her. ‘Here, put this back on, if it eases you to sleep in your clothes.’
    Aline clutched it to her bosom and her eyes filled with gratitude. ‘Thank you, my lord, thank you!’
    ‘Don’t make a fuss over trifles,’ he said, and left the room.
    As he closed the door behind him, Aline scrambled into the chemise and tied the lace at her throat, as if in so doing she could hide from herself. She didn’t dare to look at the sheet, because she knew she would be ill. There was a dull throb between her thighs and she skittered away from the memory of his body within hers. She had done her duty according to God’s will. Latch on to that thought and use it for comfort.
    Kneeling at the bedside, clutching her prayer beads, she closed her eyes and resumed her prayers, asking the Virgin to make her a good wife and help her cope with the changes that being married was going to bring.
     
    John sat down on the bench before the hearth in the main room and signalled to one of the men for the wine jug. They were looking at him askance, and he didn’t blame them. He’d have been surprised too, had he been one of their company.
    ‘I surely didn’t expect to see you this side of the dawn, my lord,’ said his cook Walchelin as he obligingly poured a goblet and handed it to John. He moved with a lop-sided twist, the result of a horse falling on him when he had been one of John’s serving serjeants. Since he was no longer fit for active duty, but owned skill with a ladle and could drive a baggage cart, John had found him a new niche in his household. His tongue was as robust as his cooking. ‘Which shows how many virgins you’ve had in your life,’ John said grimly, and drank.
    Walchelin cupped his chin. ‘How many have you had then, my lord?’
    ‘A surfeit,’ John replied, and took his goblet outside. Winchester was mostly dark under the cover of an overcast starless night. The breeze was warm and smelled of imminent rain with a ripe undercurrent of midden. The occasional light flickered in a house where the shutters had been left open. The shoemaker next door was working late over his leather. Muted by distance he heard a woman shouting and what sounded like a pot crashing against a door. His lower lids tensed in brief sympathy. Not that any woman had ever hurled a pot at him, although many would perhaps have liked to.
    Drinking his wine, he grimaced. The consummation had been awkward, but he had expected no less. He didn’t understand why men should think the taking of a virgin such a wonderful experience. Aside from knowing that any child begotten of the deed would be of their siring, and the virile feeling of being the taker of innocence, there was far more pleasure to be had from an experienced woman who knew her business. Initiating Aline had been like dancing with someone who had no idea of the steps . . . and who was afraid to try them out in case she fell over - or worse, started enjoying herself. He hadn’t mistaken her response when she dropped her guard, but he wasn’t sure he had the patience to keep on coaxing her. Then again, it was his duty to bed her until he got her with child, as it was hers to open to him. Remembering her horrified stare as she looked at him, still erect and naked, he didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. He had wanted innocence and had well and truly received it. A door slammed and another pot crashed. John toasted the sound and drained his cup. Done was done. For better or worse, he had a wife, her lands and a marriage