The Deed by Lynsay Sands
Emma was relieved to leave him to it, for she found it hard to keep to a rhythm as he did and found that rather than increase her own pleasure she had dampened it somewhat. She was just beginning to think she had ruined everything with her inept fumblings, when he suddenly reached a hand down between them to stimulate her again.
Amaury grunted as his wife began moaning and crying again. For a few moments there she had gone still and silent, her expression showing uncertainty and disappointment. Oddly enough, rather than please him, that had seemed to affect his own pleasure, reducing it a great deal. Against his own better instincts, he had then begun to stimulate her again. Now she was bucking and sobbing his name like he was God. It made him feel damn good. . . . and it was just the trick for his flagging desires. At this rate, he could ride her all night, he thought and silently thanked a fool named Fulk.
"Good morning, my lords. You both look fit on this fine day."
Blake couldn't help but return Emma's bright smile as she breezed by on her way to the kitchens. "She appears in good cheer this morn."
"Aye," Amaury muttered glumly.
Blake's eyebrows rose as he watched him slam his tankard down on the table. "Is aught amiss?"
"Nay." He raised his tankard, slammed it down again, then suddenly turned to his friend. "Our wedding night was rushed and painful for her."
Blake's eyebrows rose, but he nodded solemnly. "There was much pressure."
"Aye," Amaury growled, swilling some more ale before punishing the table with his mug once more. "I left off approaching her after that because of it. I thought to give her time to adjust and to allow the memory of the ordeal to fade."
"Hmm." Blake was almost afraid to speak and inadvertently bring an end to this conversation. It was becoming most interesting.
"Then last night . . ." Amaury hesitated and frowned.
"Ah," Blake murmured delicately with a nod, allowing a moment to pass before glancing again at his friend. "I take it by her demeanor today that it could be considered a success?"
Amaury grimaced. "She has been smiling ever since. 'Tis indecent."
Blake burst out laughing at the rancor in his friend's voice, then slapped him on the back. "Truly, friend, I wish I had your problems. This fine estate. No parents or in-laws to interfere . . . well, except for Lord Rolfe, of course. And a wife who enjoys bedding you. 'Tis a sin for any man to be so lucky."
Amaury gave a disgruntled shrug. "But ladies are not supposed to enjoy the bedding," he complained, and Blake sighed.
"Do you not enjoy her?"
Amaury peered at him as though he thought he were mad.
"And does her pleasure take away from yours?" Blake asked patiently, smiling slightly at the gleam that suddenly entered his friend's eyes.
"Nay. In truth it fires me up."
"Then there is naught to worry about," he said simply.
Amaury glowered again. "But ladies are not supposed to enjoy--"
"Aye, aye," Blake said impatiently. "I have heard the priests' claims that ladies forbear and all that. But priests are just men, and men have been wrong afore. Are you going to sit about complaining about this, or enjoy your good fortune?"
"Both, I think," he admitted honestly, and Blake rolled his eyes.
"Then complain to someone else. I do not have the time to listen to the whining of someone too dull-headed to count his blessings," he said dryly, turning back to his meal.
Amaury glared at him for a moment, then turned irritably back to his own meal.
"My lady?"
"Aye, Sebert?" Emma continued stirring the pot of steaming liquid she had set over the fire. She was making some more of the damiana concoction for her husband. It seemed to her to be in everyone's best interests to keep his ardor hot until they conceived. The king was counting on her to protect him from Bertrand and his grasping mother. Besides, after last night and learning what the joining was truly all about, Emma found she did not mind it a bit.
"My lady?"
Emma glanced at her steward, concern covering her face. He looked vexed. Sebert very rarely looked vexed. He was usually as placid as a cow.
"There is a . . . man . . . in the hall," he told her grimly, injecting the word "man" with an odd distaste.
Emma straightened slowly, wiping her hands on a cloth. "A man?"
Sebert's mouth worked briefly, then he blurted out, "A pompous little peacock named Monsieur de Lascey. He's sashaying about the Great Hall as though he owned the place. He says Lord Rolfe sent him."
"The tailor!" Emma's hand flew to her chest in dismay. She had quite forgotten all about asking her cousin to send her a tailor to have clothes made for the trip to court.
Lifting her pot off the fire until she could return to it, she led the way out into the Great Hall, eyebrows rising when she spotted the little man posed in front of the fireplace. Posed was the only word for it. She suspected he was trying for a decidedly superior look as he leaned an elbow on the stone wall around the fireplace, looking down his nose at the Great Hall, its contents, and the two serving women clearing away breakfast in their black garb.
Emma tried not to wince at her servants' clothing. It was evidence of her distress at the time, but blacking everything in the castle seemed foolish even to her now that she had gotten past her temporary madness. She could only wonder that her servants had been good enough to go along with her actions without a single word of protest.
Perhaps they had believed her mad and decided to humor her, she thought with a sigh as de Lascey turned his emaciated face to her and peered down his sliver-thin nose in distaste at her own black gown.
"Monsieur de Lascey. How good of you to come." Despite her irritation with his attitude, Emma managed to force some welcome into her voice.
His disdain did not slip a bit as he accepted her hand in a limp grip of his own. "De rien. Your coosin said zat you would make eet worth my while," he drawled in an odd French accent.
"Why, of course," Emma said stiltedly. "I realize 'tis an imposition to make you travel all this way, and I shall reward you accordingly."
Managing a nod and a snooty sniff at the same moment, de Lascey returned to his pose, gazing into the fire as he announced, "I shall need zee three rooms. One for zee fittings. One for zee fabrique and one pour moi. My servants will sleep in zee ozer deux rooms."
"Servants?" Emma raised an eyebrow, then turned as the Great Hall door burst open and at least half-a-dozen women came clamoring in, arms loaded with rolls of fabric. It seemed Rolfe had made it clear that she would be needing a great deal of clothes made in a rather short time. "Sebert?"
"Aye, my lady?"
"See Monsieur de Lascey and his workers to Lord Rolfe's room, the room Lord Fulk used when he was here, and the room in between," she instructed, then excused herself and retreated to the kitchen once more.
Ten minutes later, Sebert was at her side again. "My lady?"
One glance at his face was enough to make her set the pot of damiana aside and give her full attention to him. Emma did not think she had ever seen him quite so put out.
"The peacock is demanding your presence," Sebert informed her grimly.
She felt herself stiffen at those words. "Demanding?"
"Aye." He nodded slowly, then added through gritted teeth, "At once."
Muttering under her breath, Emma started for the door, but paused to step out of the way as it swung open to allow four of de Lascey's female workers to enter.
"Apologies, my lady." The women hurried out of the way at once when they saw her about to leave. "Mister de Lascey said we might come fetch a drink. 'Twas a long trip and--"
"Aye, of course," Emma interrupted with a smile, then glanced at Sebert.
"I will see to it, my lady," he assured her at once, not even bothering to glance away from the woman who had spoken.
Emma's eyebrows rose slightly at his expression. It seemed he was quite taken with the seamstress, Emma realized suddenly, noting for the first time that her st
Shaking her head slightly, she stepped past the women and crossed the Great Hall toward the stairs. No doubt the pompous little popinjay wanted to start fittings right away. She really could not blame him for that. There were a lot of clothes to be made in a very short time. However, she suspected his attitude would not have improved in the short time since his arrival and she would have a trying few hours ahead of her.
Emma was not mistaken.
In the two hours she spent cooped up in the small bedchamber designated as the fitting room, she found herself driven to the point of contemplating the benefits of murder several times. None of the fabrics she favored were "quite right" according to de Lascey, nor were the styles she chose. As for her figure, while he had no complaint with her waist and hips, he fretted endlessly over her chest. It was not the fashion to be so buxom, he kept saying. Her "boosums" would ruin any design he chose to grace her with. "Zey would have to be bound."
By the time the nooning hour rolled around and she was able to escape, Emma had been clenching her teeth so hard for so long that she had a pounding headache. The noise and clamor in the Great Hall when she entered to join the midday meal simply aggravated the ailment. Emma briefly considered putting off returning to the fitting room and retiring for a nap after lunch until the ache had gone, but then decided there was little use in that. The ache would no doubt return the moment she returned to de Lascey's presence, and she would have to do that eventually if she wished new clothes for court. It was best to simply get it over with.
The scrape of something heavy being pushed along the stone floor drew Emma's gaze from her lunch to the room around her. Her eyebrows knitted in bewildered surprise as she saw that the men had finished their meal and were on their feet, pushing the long trestle tables against the walls.
"Husband? What happens here?" she asked, frowning over the activity.
Amaury stilled, his tankard halfway to his mouth as he realized guiltily that he had not informed his wife of his plans for the day. He had intended to tell her last night that he planned to hold court. But then she had behaved so oddly and the worry of her being ill had come up, and then the surprising occurrence of her baring herself to his sight had transpired, followed by the torrid interlude when he had finally made love to her. . . .
Frowning at Amaury for his silence, Blake leaned forward to speak around him. " 'Tis for court, Lady Emma."
"For court?"
"Aye." His forehead furrowed at her expression. "Did you not know he was to hold court today?"
"Nay," Emma said heavily.
Amaury frowned at the censure in her voice.
"Why are they clearing the room so?" she asked, unable to keep the anger out of her voice.
Blake glanced at his friend's surly expression, then answered the petite woman himself. "Amaury thought 'twould be better to make more room. The people have been neglected for so long that he is sure there will be many complaints."
"Neglected?" she repeated carefully.
"Aye. Well. We are aware that Fulk was much absent. Doubtless he had not bothered with a court day for quite awhile before his death."
"Nay, he did not. He did not hold court once in the two years after our marriage," Emma admitted grimly, then added, "I did."
Amaury was startled into speech at that. "You?"
"Aye. I ruled in my husband's absence," she pointed out with a distinct chill to her tone. "I saw to the running of the castle, the training of the men, and presiding over court."
Blake raised his eyebrows. "You saw to the training of the men?"
"Well, I saw that they had a proper trainer," she said quickly.
"Hmm." Amaury eyed her silently for a moment, his mind considering that. He had been quite surprised at how well trained her men had been. He had expected them to be lazy and inept. Instead they had been skilled and hardworking. Not as skilled as his own men, of course, but then his men were warriors. The best in the kingdom. Still, they were skilled. She had done well in seeing to their training.
He briefly considered commending her on her efforts, then decided against it. He would most likely embarrass her with such improper praise. Women preferred compliments on their looks and the running of the house hold to praise of their abilities in such manly matters as training for battle.
Emma peered silently at the transformation of her Great Hall. It was the custom for the lord to hold court once a month for his people, to hear their complaints and resolve any differences between them. It was a chore Emma had aided her father with before marrying and then taken over completely after moving here. As they had thought, Fulk had shown as little concern for his people and their problems as he had for his wife.
She supposed that, had she thought about it, she would have expected her new husband to take over the duty. Amaury was not as unconcerned with his people as Fulk had been. Still, she would not have expected him to simply take over the task in such a summary way, and she certainly would not have expected to hear about it like this. It seemed she was the very last to know. Even the servants had been aware of it before her. She found she wasn't just angry, she was hurt. After last night . . .
Sighing, she drew her eyes away from the men before her and peered at her hands as they twisted in her lap. Last night had been exciting and even beautiful. Emma had thought that they had shared something . . . special. She had felt that they were closer now. She had hoped that they would talk more, get to know each other better, discuss things. It seemed her husband did not feel the same way, she realized disheartenedly. She glanced toward him now, only to find that he no longer sat there. He and Blake had moved to stand by the fire while she was caught in her thoughts.
Rising, she moved to join them. "My lord?" She paused in surprise at the anger on his face as he turned to her, then took a breath and forced herself to continue. "I thought that since I am already apprised of the problems and past complaints of the villagers and servants, mayhap you would like my assistance."
"I need no interference, wife," Amaury snapped irritably. " 'Tis insulting for you to think that I might."
"I merely thought--"
"Have you so little faith in my abilities as lord?"
"Nay," Emma said quickly, trying to soothe his hurt pride. "But--"
"But nothing, wife. You see to your business and I shall tend to mine." Amaury turned to walk away, but got only halfway to the head table before stopping. He had not meant to be so short with her. In truth he knew he should have told her himself, and the fact that he had forgotten to had made him angry with himself. It had not helped that Blake had dragged him off into the corner to lecture him for not telling her and hurting her tender feelings. Again. Amaury was heartily sick of being told how to take care of his own wife. He turned back now with the intention of apologizing to her, but she was no longer by the fireplace where he had left her. She was mounting the stairs to return to her fittings.
He started to follow her to apologize, but just then the first of the villagers and servants with complaints to present before him began to file into the room. Sighing, he decided to leave it until later, and turned to begin court.
"Finalement!" Hands propped on his hips, de Lascey glared as he sashayed across the fitting room to confront her when she stepped through the door. "How do vous expect moi to get anyzing done when you are not available for zee measuring?"
For zee torturing, more like, Emma thought grimly, but pasted a penitent expression on her face and offered her apology. "My apologies, Monsieur de Lascey. I was delayed."
"Hmm." Pursing his lips, he eyed her doubtfully, then gave a dramatic sigh and turned to strut across the room. "Gytha, bring me zee gold cloth!"
Two hours later, Emma was standing on a sto
Smiling gratefully at Gytha, the seamstress who had grabbed her arm quickly to steady her, Emma turned carefully on the stool to face her husband.
"I . . ." He paused, his eyes widening incredulously at the sight of her swathed in gold. It was the first time Amaury had seen his wife in anything other than black. Even when she'd been naked, it was in the bedroom with a backdrop of black linens on the bed. Damn, but she looked lovely, he thought admiringly. Like an angel. Beautiful . . . Ethereal . . . Glowing . . . Flat . . .
Flat? Blinking, he focused his gaze directly on her chest, or where her chest used to be. "God's wounds, where be they?!"
Emma frowned in confusion. "Where be what, my lord?"
"Your . . . Your . . ." Lifting his hands, he held them before his own chest as if cupping two invisible melons to his plate mail.
"My lord!" Flushing deep red, Emma glanced askance at the others in the room. The women were rather wide-eyed, but the tailor looked as if he were about to burst out laughing. That expression was replaced by one of dismay when Amaury suddenly crossed the room and lifted him up by the front of his collar.
"What did you with my wife's b--"
"Bound!" the man squawked at once.
Frowning, Amaury cocked his head. "Bound?"
"They are still there, my lord. I simply bound them up. Gytha did it," he added quickly when Amaury's expression darkened. His accent was noticeably absent. "I, of course, would ne'er lay a finger to her--"
"Well, have her unbind them!" Amaury roared, interrupting him.
"Of course, right away."
"Nay, husband," Emma protested. "They will simply have to bind them again after you leave." Though she would have been grateful for the chance to be able to really breathe again, her breasts had just finally gone numb. It was painful to have your chest squished so flat. She did not wish to go through that again.