Free The Wagered Wench by Georgia Fox Page A

and wonder what became of dependable Dom. Well might they wonder, he mused.
    Dominic Coeur-du-Loup had just taken more land for the Norman cause and he hadn’t even raised his sword this time to do it. Just a pair of crooked dice.
    * * * *
    The wedding ceremony was delayed because the Norman sent for a Prior all the way from Exeter. He also took it upon himself to explore the countryside for a suitable place in which their vows could be said. In the end he settled upon an ancient, roofless stone hovel on the cliff’s edge. He said it was the closest thing to a real chapel and he ordered it filled with little candles.
    With bemused eyes, Elsinora watched his preparations for the wedding. Apparently he liked things done “just so”. He had a hand in everything and even chose the cloth for her gown—an impractically thin, light blue wool, softer than anything she’d ever felt and brought on a cart from Exeter along with the Prior.
    “I shall catch my death of cold,” she exclaimed when he gave her the bolt of cloth to make her bridal gown.
    He lowered his brows and his eyes looked shyly downward. “No you won’t. I’ll warm you.”
    She shook her head, tut-tutting over the splendidly fine cloth, fearing it would show every stain. Glancing at his fingers she noted his ring was gone. It was true then. Alf had told her the Norman sold his ring to pay for that cloth.
    When the monk finally arrived and they all trouped down to the hovel on the cliffs, a light drizzle of rain had begun. It glistened on the mossy stone and trickled down their faces, so they all glowed and sparkled in the light of all those little candles he’d ordered lit. The tiny flames puttered and wavered valiantly against the rain and surprisingly few were extinguished.
    As the Prior began his droning recital, Elsinora clenched her posy of blossom in both hands and stared at this odd man, this Norman she was marrying. It had to happen one day, of course. She’d always known her fate, but for as long as possible she’d fought it, hoping for a miracle. Hoping her father might suddenly recognize her as a person in her own right. Foolish hope.
    Now the moment was upon her. She was being thrust into this man’s arms.
    He couldn’t seem to meet her gaze today, but looked instead at her newly sewn gown, studying it as if he counted threads.
    The fresh scent of spring buds drifted all around her and the sea was a muted whisper today. It might have been a pleasant afternoon if not for the rain soaking through her shoes and pooling between her toes.
    Her last day as an unwed woman. Later, she thought with a hitch in her pulse…later he would take her to bed.
    She’d waited a long time for a swiving. Of course, there was Stryker Bloodaxe, always raring for a chance. But somehow it had never seemed right. As an unmarried woman she was expected to remain “intact”, but other folks expectations had never mattered much to Elsinora. No, she was accountable to God first and then her own conscience. This was what kept her from taking that leap—a mixture of fear and pride. Compounded by the fact that she’d never met a man she deemed good enough for her. The temptation, though great, had never been quite enough to cast her trepidation aside.
    Now it would happen, whether she liked it or not. Anticipation skipped through her bones and rattled the locked cage in which she kept her heart. The choice had been taken from her. Why then was she not feeling as angry about it as she should? Her wicked curiosity was apparently stronger than she ever realized.
    And she was attracted to him. Oh yes. She was not such a coward to deny it.
    He had no manners and ate like a pig at a trough, but somehow she, Elsinora Gudderthsdottir, found him attractive.
    His eyes finally met hers and there it was again, the distant gaze that reached beyond her and looked for ghosts. Did he see her at all, she wondered, or did he think of some other woman he knew once.
    The service was over.