A Desperate Action

Kasey

kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Christiana must give news of a personal nature to Adhemar.

Rating: PG-13 (sexual themes)

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them at all.

Notes: 'Plighting the troth' was a historical happening up through the 16th century. A couple did not necessarily have to go to a priest to marry. They simply had to state their intent before witnesses. As time passed, this practice was discontinued and the church ceremony as we know it today became the norm.

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The days have passed quickly and I have settled myself here. Patrice and Lydia have begun to give me the duties they performed as women of the household and I am liking this role I have been thrust into. There is such freedom in being the one to decide household matters instead of being the one to carry them out. I am not exceptionally good at any of the duties, but I am adequate, as Patrice tells me. She insists I shall grow into my role as mistress of the manor and who am I to argue with Etienne's mother? He does enough arguing with her on his own.

I find I am changing as time passes in this household. I am uncertain as to whether these changes are for the better. Traits I did not know I held within me are surfacing these days. For example: I am not, by nature, a devious woman in my own affairs. Jocelyn's request for aid in arranging a tryst with Will is truly the sum of all my devious machinations. However, I find that desperation is a rather large motivator, and I am, as of this morning, most desperate.

Etienne again bid me to inform him when my 'women's trouble', as he put it, was over and it is over. I put it off telling him as long as I could, but finally took myself out to the training field, venturing where the women of the household do not usually go.

He was with some of his men, not practicing at the joust or bow and arrow, but at the sword. I stood there watching and I can freely admit that I did admire the powerful figure he was. Those swords are heavy and it is no wonder to me that Etienne is fit. He was minus his shirt, as were most of his companions on the field, yet my eyes slid past all others to land upon him. Curiosity pricked at me; after all, he is to be my husband. I will see him in the altogether soon. By my own standards, my glance was far too long and bold upon that bare male flesh, noting those wide shoulders and strong back, and when he turned, his nicely muscled chest and flat belly. His chest was hairy, but not overly so.

My heart did quicken, my hands itching to slide along that exposed flesh slick with the sweat of his labors, to touch his chest and explore what my eyes saw. I wondered what his skin would feel like if I pressed my lips to it. I already knew the flesh to be firm.

What of this has caused my desperation? I come to that, for nothing had prodded me to that point yet. He was totally intent upon beating his opponent and once he had, his attention turned unwavering upon myself. Such complete attention is flattering in extreme, but one must understand something of the man.

He drives his men hard and himself harder, accepting no weakness. He is merciless and demanding and I can see why the Free Companies have been useful to the Crown. If he ever lost a battle, it would be because his entire company, himself included, was dead. He's retreated on orders before, yet never lost a full battle that I am aware of.

That understanding must now be applied to his life outside of the military actions. This is the man. Etienne. Adhemar. Count. Soldier. He is merciless and demanding. He accepts no weakness. And he does not back down once he sets forth a plan of action, whether it is hawking or stalking his promised wife.

"Christiana."

He was in a rare good mood, hungry gaze glinting in good humor, voice a purring caress. I have been visually devoured and my heart still does race in remembrance. I took a step back as he approached with the sauntering swagger of a man most confident of himself. I was wary of him, and rightly so, as my news put him to the most amorous of bents.

"We have not had the pleasure of a Lady on our field often. Welcome."

The men, as always in my presence, bow respectfully and hie themselves mostly out of earshot, leaving the dark knight and myself some privacy to speak. I tilted my head back to look up at him, which I know now does please him. His idea of a proper woman is the oddest of things. He wants modesty, but a modest turn of the eyes infuriates him. He says he wants silence, then asks that I speak. He demands obedience, then berates me for it. The contradictions are most confusing and complicated and I believe he wishes a woman like his sister Lydia and his mother, despite his assertions otherwise. I mean, witness his courting of Jocelyn. She was not his ideal of proper woman no matter what picture of her he may have formed in his mind.

"I assume by your presence here that you have something of importance you wished to speak with me on?"

He was so close that I could feel the heat from his body washing over me. "Yes." I forced myself to keep meeting his gaze. "You wished to know when my time ended --"

"It is done?" He cut me off, sword thrown to the ground, the point thwacking into the trampled, packed soil. One brow raised, and with his thick hair in disarray, tumbling about his face, and stubble darkening his jaw, he was much the rakish figure. I was caught to him, pressed firm along his tautly muscled body. "In truth?"

His hands seemed to be eight in number instead of two, traveling freely where, in my mind, they had no license to be as yet. "It is --"

He kissed me. He coaxed, he tasted and teased. He sipped of me in such a way as to incite a longing deep within me, a longing as I've never felt, not even in those gentle moments in Roland's embrace. This kiss was in stark contrast to the kiss he gave me on our journey, rousing and not in the least bit frightening. A surging heat took me, coiled along my limbs in a delicious fashion. No desperation yet. No, I enjoyed the kiss. I enjoyed his ardent embrace as well. There in the morning sun, caught in his arms, I could imagine a scene like those Jocelyn told me. I could imagine a world where Etienne Adhemar was a kind man and he loved me with all of his being. I wrapped my arms about him, ignoring the sweat that dampened my clothes, my hands sliding along the muscles of his back.

I began to enjoy the business of kissing him, my tongue brushing to his, reveling in the thrill of doing so. His arms tightened and I was lifted to him, his mouth slipping from mine, pressing eager kisses down my neck, across my bodice and back up. The stubble on his jaw that he had yet to shave off this day rasped against my skin in a pleasant, exciting way. A moan escaped me.

"Will you be my wife, Christiana, till we part at death's door?" he murmured in low tone.

A tiny frown pulled at my brow. The question was out of place to my mind. I should be hearing endearments, not a question as to my intentions. "Yes, I will be your wife." I whispered back, turning my head so that his lips could reach my neck better. I should have realized his intent, for his next words froze me quick.

"I will be your husband. The troth is spoken then. My wait is done. I will not wait for a priest to bless our marriage. This night you are mine."

Why did his intent bring panic? Is it what I know of him, that knowledge that he is merciless and demanding? Is that what frightens? Under that fear I have of him, the desperation and panic, lies a desire for him I have begun to carry. I have willed myself to feel something for him for the sake of the future. I have willed myself to want him. I do not wish to be thought of as another of his women. I wish to be his wife. Do I make sense? Yes. That is it. If he takes me this night with only this unblessed vow between us, I will be just another woman he has bedded. But if I can stay him until we go before a priest, then, and only then, will he possibly see me apart from all the others. I refuse to be anything less than a church blessed wife, since a wife was what he bought me to be.

I twisted, pulled away, a feat in itself, for his grip on my dress and person was hard. There was a horrible tearing sound, my dress ripping, the seam in his grasp giving way. "No!"

He caught my arms, fingers digging in and hurting. I will have bruises later from that grip. "Why not?"

"We are not wed."

"Do not play the pure maiden. We have stated our intent to be husband and wife to one another. My men are all witnesses. The blessing of a priest is inconsequential." He gave a harsh laugh, that good humor bleeding from his eyes, something frigid replacing it. "Do you deny me what you gave that peasant?"

My lips trembled at that. He will not believe I am pure. As I have before, I said again and again he gave caustic retort. I fled, another seam ripped as consequence and now, after calming myself, approach the solar where his mother sits sewing. If any can stay him, it is she. I am the most devious of women in that. This is where my newly found deviousness comes to play. Etienne at times does value Patrice's counsel. And when he does not listen to her, she keeps at him until he acknowledges she has an opinion separate from his. If he does not listen, at least I can be assured that she will hound him all the rest of the day about it, thus giving me a rest.

She is bent over a tapestry, her work slow, and she glances at me, curiosity in her eyes as she takes in my torn gown and general state of dishabille. I have not paused to change. "Yes Christiana?"

She expects blunt speech from all and gives as much in return. I say plain what I have come to say. "Do you feel it proper for a man to bed his intended before the priest gives his blessing?"

Patrice sits back, anchoring her needle in the fabric on the heavy standing frame. "My son is rather pig headed. It was a trait of his father." Her glance goes to the large tear at my hip. "Is that from him?"

"Yes."

"I take it you do not wish to simply pledge and be done with the matter?"

"No."

"Why not? He has stated he will be husband to you, yes? Even if he changed his mind, he would not back out of a promise. There is that spit of land he gave that he despises. He would not risk possibly having to take that back."

I endeavor to explain my revelation to her, my hands twisting together. "If he were to...take me tonight before the priest can bless us, he will never think of me as his wife."

A laugh sounds forth from her and she stands. "That could be a good thing. Have you considered that? Mistresses are often better treated than a wife. For him to consider you as his mistress could be better than being thought of as his wife."

I shake my head. "He wanted me as wife. He will have me. If he does not like the restriction of waiting, he has none but himself to blame for insisting on having me as wife. He could have stolen me from my place with Lady Jocelyn and kept me for a few weeks if all he wanted was my body. He did not. He went to all the trouble of contacting my father and offering for me. Etienne can just wait one day and wed me properly on the morrow."

Speaking plain to his mother on the matter feels odd to me, but I am not surprised when she laughs harder. "Oh, you are perfect for him!" That I do not see. "Well. Etienne may be Count, but he is still my son and not so big I cannot take a switch to him if need be." Her eyes twinkle with anticipation. I think she likes the arguments they share. Verbal warfare seems to be how this family bonds together. I wish hugs and kind words were the norm instead, for I do not excel at verbal warfare. I would rather give an embrace and gentle encouraging words than scream and rail and storm away to sulk. "Rest easy. He will not find you this evening."

When she has gone, I sit in the chair she vacated and lean to study the tapestry. So far, Patrice has done greenery and flowers along one section. The work is beautifully done. As I peer closer, I hear a clapping from behind me and turn. Lydia is coming towards me, clapping her hands. We have not talked alone, her and I, though I have been in this house awhile. She avoids me, sometimes even turning and running the other way when she sees me.

"You are right." She stops a few feet from me, tucks her hair behind her ears. Her voice has the mark of one in this family, strong and not faltering in the least. This young woman, like her mother, is not the sort to speak quietly. "You know how my brother thinks. Impressive."

"A matter of watching him. Not so impressive."

"No, it is. Really. You understand him. Not many people ever really do. Beatrice certainly did not." Her voice is sly, her gaze matching the tone she uses. She is telling me this for some reason only she knows.

"Who is Beatrice?" I ask. Trying to lighten the moment, I give a smile and add, "Is she one of Etienne's women I've heard about, kept locked in a chamber somewhere?"

Lydia gives me a long measuring stare, then shakes her head and begins to walk away. "You mean, who was Beatrice? Not for me to tell. But if you really want to understand my brother fully on women...." She turns and backs out the open door, finishing the sentence as she goes, "find out."

And with that cryptic remark, I am left to wonder who this Beatrice was and what she means to Etienne.