A Marriage Begins

Kasey

kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Adhemar and Christiana are blessed by the priest.

Rating: R for sexual situations

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

~~~~~~~~~~

Christiana is dressed and waiting when I knock on her door just before the sun slips above the horizon in a riot of purples and reds.  She is wearing blue today, some garment of turquoise and a paler version of that color, the bodice of which dips pleasingly low on her breast.  I cannot help but notice that she is comely in that color, the vibrant darker blue setting off her brunette coloring, but if she hopes that blue will convince me of her purity though, then she is mistaken.  I am well aware that blue is the symbol of purity.  Her choice of that gown means nothing to me.  Her hair is unbound by even the tiny braids she sometimes wears throughout the thick mass, and it falls just below her hips.  I look forward to later, and being wrapped in her glorious hair as I take her.

I lead her now to the chapel door, her hand trembling in mine.  There are no representatives of her family present.  None of her kin have seen fit to even be with her in the time up until this day, though she has received letters from a couple of her sisters with their regrets.  She has been alone all this time.  The crowd of my family and the workers of this manor gather around us as we walk to the chapel.  They are a river behind us, carrying us forward.  We could not stop now if either of us wished to.

Father Persius is waiting on the steps, looking as disapproving of me as he always has, but perhaps not as much today.  In fact, he seems a bit gloating.  Gloating that I did not carry out my plan of yesterday to have Christiana then?  Probably.  He has always preached to me on my sin of fornication.  Well, that good priest cannot say a thing now can he?  I shall have a wife and must have her often to beget heirs.  Many, many heirs will require many, many hours of sexual recreation with my wife.  Even that dried up old priest can see that.

It is time to list the dower, the jointure.  Her dowry was given early to me and I must speak my part in this exchange of lands now.  That bit of land I gave her father was not the dower, just a way to make him agreeable to giving her to me.  I have chosen other lands for Christiana and should I die before her, she will be taken care of.  I grasp both Christiana's hands in mine and turn her so we are facing each other.  She looks at me, uncertainty in those dark orbs.  I list the lands I have set aside for her and her eyes widen.  I suspect she did not think the dower would be much at all.  Does she really think I would leave my wife destitute upon my death?  I take a pouch from my belt and have her cup her hands, then pour out the contents in her palms.  She gasps at the gold coins and pours them back into the pouch.  The little purse is closed, the strings looped over her wrist as a bracelet.  I present a ring to her and slide it on her finger.

My vows, more elaborate than the words I spoke yesterday, are spoken in a rush.  I want this over with, the sooner the better.  Her vows though....Hers are spoken in a soft voice, slow and definite.  She means her vows, every word, that is the impression her tone gives me.  Well good.  It is good for a woman to mean her vows, yes?  She will obey me and bear me children and all those sorts of things.

I glance down at her.  She looks up at me, and Father Persius says that blessing she was so determined to have.  I could not tell what the man said.  Oh, he spoke clear enough I suppose, but my attention was on Christiana.  As the blessing ended, a gleam took root and blossomed in her eyes, a spark that was captivating.  I could not look away.

She is my wife. Wife.  And she is mine alone.  Not waiting for Father Persius to say I may, I take Christiana's face in my hands and kiss her.  She clings to me and the world shrinks to the two of us.  I am busy mentally considering all the deliciously naughty things I wish to do with her right after mass, when  I recall that mass still has to actually be said.   Father Persius clears his throat hard and lapses into a fit of coughing.  Reluctantly, I release Christiana.  The sooner he gets on with mass, the sooner I can take care of this want I have for Christiana.  I push Father Persius down the chapel aisle, propelling him down to his place before the altar. 

Mass takes far too long and when freedom for the day is near, Christiana and I go to the aisle.  Father Persius gives me the kiss of peace, which I then pass on to Christiana.  The ceremony is over.  I do not see what was so special about this ceremony, but it is done and the Church considers us married.  I study her.  She is watching those leaving with an eager expression, teeth biting her lower lip, her eyes dancing with her excitement.  It is obvious that she wants to be out there, to be seen as the bride.  I would be a beast indeed to force her away from celebrating our marriage with the rest of the manor.  It would be a low thing to drag her to our chamber now.

A strange pang of conscience pricks in my chest and I force my own needs down with much difficulty.  I cannot find it in me to drag her off for some sport, though I would dearly love to dally with her and consummate these vows straight away.  It pains me greatly to admit that my mother is right.  Every girl deserves pleasant memories on her wedding day, no matter what her character.  Every girl deserves to be shown off to the guests even if her groom is aching for her.  Perhaps if I wait, then this night will be better for it.  She will be happy and a happy woman, I have found, is willing to do just about anything.

So I will wait even longer.  She knows it is this day and acknowledged that yesterday by her agreement.  Let her anticipation build.  Let her wonder when I will get to the business of taking her. 

My cooks have outdone themselves.  There is enough food to feed the entire Free Companies backwards and forwards for three days solid.  For that matter, my mother has outdone herself.  With only a few hours, she has managed to scrounge together jugglers and other performers and organize a feast.  The rest of the day is spent walking about the manor grounds and eating.  Some of my men have put together contests of archery and swordplay, and I know that by weeks end, as the guests come pouring in to meet my wife, they will have gotten a full tournament going for entertainment.

We go in to eat the evening meal and I am glad to see the end of this day nearing.  We sit.  I take Christiana's slender fingered hand in mine and press a brief kiss upon her knuckles near the ring I placed upon her finger this morning.  Her glance holds all of her uncertainty.  She is off-guard by my gentle manner this day and I intend her to remain as such.  I bend my head to her.

"Does the entertainment please you?"  I ask in her ear, motioning to the juggler making his way along the banquet tables.  The position allows me to glance down and ogle the half exposed curves of her breasts without being too obvious about it.  I do ogle and am already well-warmed for later. 

"Yes."  Her fingers tense in my grasp and I hold them with a firmer touch so she is unable to pull them away.

"Good."  My free hand touches her jaw, turning her face to mine.  To the hall, that touch, and our close proximity,  will look quite loving and tender.  Her gaze raises to mine and I stare into those dark depths.  "Against my better judgment, I have made a sacrifice for you.  Best enjoy it, for I will not make this sacrifice again."  I sit back and make a gesture to Germaine.

The hall doors open.  My mother told me that Christiana adores music and dancing, so what have I done?  I have decided to grit my teeth and let her have that racket on this day.  Should she wish to dance, my grandfather will be happy to show off his sprightly steps.  He always is.  I am alone in my affliction of the ears in this family.  There are times when I hate being left out because of it.  It is not pleasant to watch every single person about you enjoy something that makes your own head ache.

The musicians bring their instruments close and begin making noise.  This would be what is called 'tuning' I suppose, for they stop and start and stop and start in short bursts.  Their leader steps forth and gives a respectful bow, as well he might, for I have been known to toss musicians from my hall with such force that their instruments are smashed.  "My Lord.  My Lady.  What would you wish to hear from my humble troupe?"

Christiana sips her wine, thinking and carefully considering her choice I am sure.  She glances at me and I nod, although I expect the distaste is plain on my face.  My head is already beginning to throb in expectation.  She sits forward, setting her cup down.  "Well, I think...I do not wish for songs just yet.  I wish to be entertained with tales.  Tales and poetry.  Songs and dancing can come after my husband and I retire for the evening."

A gasp works through the hall, echoing, my own catch of breath lost among the uproar.  I see my mother nodding, approval on her face.  What hand has she in this?  I clear my throat.  "As my wife wishes."  In moments, we are regaled by stories of knights and battles and fair maidens and I again lean down to Christiana.  "You could have had music."

She turns her face to mine, mouth to my ear so her words are private.  "You do not like music.  I will hear music at mass."

"I was giving you a  bridal gift."

"At your own expense.  I do not want it if it hurts you to give it."

"You surprise me.  I had expected you to enjoy the gift."

She draws back a space.  "I will miss music and dancing, Etienne, but I can get used to not having it.  The joy of it for me is in the sharing and if I cannot share my love of music with you, then best there be little music in this hall."  Her hand, still in mine, has gone icy cold.  She means her words, that is plain, but also plain is her sadness for the loss.  How many women that I know would give such a care for their husband?  How many would take that gift I offered and play it out without a thought to my very real pain?  This is not typical behavior for a woman and I frown.  She is being thoughtful of me and I did not expect that.  It is confusing that she is not reacting as I expected her to.   

Am I hasty in saying this sacrifice shall not be made again?  Perhaps I could unbend enough on this to allow a musician to play for her while I am out training in the field in the mornings.  Then, I will not have my ears assailed and she shall remain content.  I would not have her depressed and I think she could end up such without music.  I would have her mastered yes, but not in a state of depression.  I make a mental note to consider the subject again later.

The night drags on and I am impatient for later.  She enjoys the hours, smiling and laughing at the plays that are presented to us.  One of the performers regales us with overblown tales of the victories the Free Companies have been a part of and I find myself beginning to relax as well as our wedding feast comes to a closure.  Nothing will stop me from having her now.

~~~~~~~~~~

I am nervous.  Dear God, am I nervous!  My hands shake and are damp with perspiration as I spend the hours at my husbands' side.  I feel I am balancing on the tip of a double edged sword, where if I fall to either side, I shall be sliced up. 

What sort of test was the musicians?  Why would he do such a thing?  Why dangle them before me, when I know I cannot indulge my passion for music within his hearing?  I am grateful now for Patrice's words on Etienne's affliction.  I think I have passed his test.  His good humor of yesterday on the training field has returned and he has been rather mellow and attentive all day long.  Quite a change from his previous behavior, but one I am more than ready to have.  My ears would gladly listen to flowing melodies and clear voices raised in song, but I cannot.  It hurts him, strange as that is to me.

I drink deeply from my cup and never find it empty in all the short minutes slipping from me.  Soon, I will be a wife in full and the thought of ascending those stairs at his side has me tied up in knots on the inside.  My mind refuses to pay attention to the entertainment, skittering around those humorous tales and not letting them slide into comprehension.  Wonderings on this nights activities travel in circles in my mind, a never ceasing whirl.  I recall Jocelyn's bliss when she returned from Will that first night she went to him, but then Etienne's drunken kiss as we traveled leaps forward.  On the heels of that memory is the memory of yesterday and of his hands upon me, eager caresses, just a bit rough with want.  There is his kiss with that ardent embrace, the searing touch of his mouth claiming mine.  And last to come is the lighter brush of his lips this morning, the possessive showing of his place to me.

The intensity that charges the smallest exchanges with him frightens me.  Our conversations are no thing of gentle discourse.  He is mocking and sarcastic and cruel with his words.  Indeed, he is much the verbal opponent when he wishes to be so, as much a threat there as he is physically.  This intensity, it is a consuming thing, leaping flames of fire licking at us.  I leave our encounters strangely charged and drained at the same time, which is most confusing.  I do not want to go up those stairs with him, for I fear to be consumed by that fire once we are alone and all the barriers he has put up for polite company come crashing down between us.

I almost long for the mildness of Roland's kiss.  I was careless in my wishing for passion it seems.  There is passion here and it will raze me into ashes.

All too soon, our wedding supper is over, the musicians asking permission to begin the dancing for our guests.  It is on the tip of my tongue to ask for more stories, more poems and plays, but Etienne looks at me and the words disappear.  I have stayed him long enough.  It is time to become his wife, for better or worse.  My decision to be an obedient daughter is a heavy throttling weight around my neck, that beautiful ring on my finger burning itself into my flesh as a brand.  Etienne raises his hand, trailing his fingers along my cheek, thumb caressing my trembling lower lip.  He licks his lips and the smile he gives brings to mind a predatory beast gazing at a luscious meal.  "You may begin.  We retire for the night." 

His hand slides down my neck and arm, fingers twining in mine in a hard grip.  I sense a coiling of energy within him and understand what he plans.  We will make a run for our chamber and hope we can outrun the crowd.  He stands and, with a hard jerk,  pulls me from my chair.  I stumble, but keep to my feet, gathering my skirts with my free hand.  The stairs are a long way off at the far end of the hall.  If I fall, I believe he would drag me.

We are halfway across the hall before the guests realize we are fleeing their presence.  Luckily, they had congregated about the musicians, eager for the songs and dances that were coming.  Had they forgotten my request for music to be played after Etienne and I retire for the night? Apparently.  The crowd follows us.  Etienne pulls me along, urging me to run faster and I stumble at the speed we must use.  The voices of our guests are raised with merriment, their footsteps loud behind us.  I glance back as he swings me forward, my momentum carrying me through the door to our chamber and several paces beyond.  Etienne puts the bar on the door before they catch us.  Loud protests of our flight come to us through the heavy wood panel, then several crude suggestions on what he should do with me and gradually, there is quiet outside our door.

Breathing hard, he looks at me, ripping open his coat and letting it drop it to the floor.  "Nothing like a good chase to get the blood going."

I clasp my hands together and glance around the chamber.  I have never looked in here before.  I had not wanted to until the last possible moment, because in my mind, to look in here would acknowledge that his bed is where I shall be.  And now I am here.  We have a private chamber, a new thing in many manor houses and something his family embraced.  The bed is large and canopied, difficult to miss.  It dominates one wall, sitting on a raised dais.  There is a table and a couple chairs, along with two big trunks.  One of the trunks is mine.  It has been moved here sometime during this long day.

My pulse pounds in my ears.  There is silence between us, not a complete silence, for I hear his breaths and the sounds of him pouring liquid into a cup, but the absence of conversation.  I would not know what to say even if I were inclined to speak right now.  What does a woman say before bedding down with her husband for the first time, a man who thinks she has been free with herself?  I move away from the bed and look at him.  He is staring at me over the rim of a cup, his eyes narrowed.  I wait for the explosion of his temper that I am certain will come.

Etienne drinks the liquid and sets the cup down, then comes to me.  I take a step back for every step he makes forward until I am against the wall, my cold hands pressed to cool stone that almost feels warm.  I fix my gaze upon his chest at the spot where the linen is parted.  When his voice comes, it is obvious he is amused, the tone mild.

" In the future I shall remember you have no head for liquor, Christiana."  He takes my head in his hands, raising my face until I am gazing into his eyes.  "I had not intended on getting you drunk, but it will save some time."

Drunk?  Is that what has caused my head to whirl and my attention to waver?  Is that why those memories turn about my mind in such a fashion?  That?  Relief travels through me and I slump against the wall, giving a laugh.  It is drink that has exacerbated my fears, nothing more.  "That is a relief."

"Mmm..."  He still turns my face left and right, thumbs running along my jaw and lips in tingling touches.  "What is a relief?"

"That I am only drunk."  My tongue runs ahead of my thoughts.  "I have been thinking all day about how there is this intense, scary something between us and I thought that once we were alone it would consume me and I would be drowning in this great tub of intense passion that I cannot get away from."  I give a laugh to show how ridiculous this sounds and he does not laugh back.  No, he gives me one of those focused stares of his as his fingers smooth my hair from my brow.  My moment of relief slides away.

"Drowning?" He asks, brows raised, voice a mellifluous caress.  "Let's explore that idea, hmm?"

"Um..."  I gulp.  The whirling of my head is a hindrance now.  I am unable to turn my head away before his mouth comes down upon mine, nor do I truly want to.  The time has come for me to discover those things Jocelyn and I giggled about as young girls.

This kiss is somehow everything his previous kisses have been and more, nothing held back.  His tongue pries my lips apart, then darts inside to meet with mine.  I am helpless not to respond to that hungry searching, for I am hungry too.  I am so many things right now that I do not know exactly what I am.  I am scared and tired, drunk and helpless.  But I am also empowered and hungry, this meshing of our lips and tongues bringing a fierce need to the forefront of my being.  I want him.  I want what he can give me, what only he can give me.  This yearning is for him alone and no other can quench my thirst, slake my hunger.

His hands move on my body, arms wrapping about me and lifting, and as we continue to kiss, Etienne takes me to our bed and sets me beside it.  The fastenings to my surcoat, then gown are opened, the cloth pushed from me.  I pull his shirt free of his breeches and undo the buttons far enough to pull the shirt up and over his head.  The neck opening tousles his hair, leaving it in rakish disarray.  I lick my lips, bringing my hands along his neck and across his wide shoulders.  There are scars, several thin ones, on his chest. 

He cups my breasts, then drags the fine linen of my shift over my head, tossing it aside. My shoes, hose and undersocks join the pile of cloth and I am naked.  I return my hands to his chest.  The sprinkling of hairs there are crisp beneath my palm, and I lean forward, pressing a light kiss to one of the scars.  He draws in a ragged breath, hands stroking my back, tangling in my hair.  That breath makes me bolder, my tongue tracing the scar.  I slide my own hands down his chest and belly.  The muscles tense under my touch and I reach for the fastenings of his pants, still tracing the scars that dot his chest.

I struggle with the unfamiliar closure and pull back to look down. Etienne brushes my hands aside and the remainder of his clothes join the pile of mine.

He lifts me, tosses me upon the mattress, then joins me, hands and mouth exploring every inch of my flesh in a sensual onslaught that leaves me gasping and moaning.  I strain against him, wanting...what?  What is it I am tumbling towards on waves of rapture?  My mind whirls in even faster heady circles.  I am drunk on him now as well as wine.  The sensations he pulls from my body are glorious and I cannot believe that this man is mine.  I had feared he would not have a care for me, that he would treat me...well, as a prostitute.  Although, I do not truly know how a prostitute is treated.  He is not pleasing only himself.  He can have no doubt that I enjoy what he is doing.

My belly trembles beneath the flat of his palm.  I close my eyes.  His fingers urge my thighs apart and a heat floods my pelvis.  I tilt upward to meet his hand and am not disappointed when his stroking ministrations cause the pleasure I already feel to increase by a hundred fold.  It does not take long for me to be unable to be still.  I must writhe in an attempt to bring this building heat within me to fruition.

Etienne lifts his head from my breast, flashing a satisfied curl of a grin at me as he asks hoarsely,  "Are you drowning yet, Christiana?" 

I can only nod, clutching at his shoulders.  I do drown and am adoring every second of blissful surrender.  This is what I was afraid of?  This is nothing to be afraid of.  I am awakened, I am embarked on a blissful journey whose end will see me a woman in full.

"Ahh, but you are not completely surrendered to that great tub, are you?"  His tongue teases and mouth nips at my breasts and he slips his hand back between my thighs.  I give up any semblance of control of myself, closing my eyes and letting his touches take me away into paradise.  I hear my voice crying out, but it is far away, a dream thing, not real.  I am scarce down from those lofty heights of pleasure when he takes my hand and brings it to him.  My fingers are curled about that engorged flesh.  It is both soft and hard at the same time.  I explore that part of him, his fingers guiding mine, his mouth taking mine,  our tongues twining in an exhilarating wild dance.

Etienne raises back a fraction.  Passion has given him a untamed look, his stare fair burning me in intensity.  "I drown as you do."  He gasps out, stilling my hand.

I lift my head and press my lips to his jaw for a second.  "So drown."  I place my arms above my head and stretch, arching my back to bring my breasts up to him.  His hand glides up my stomach, curving about one breast, his thumb teasing my nipple.

"Temptress."  In a swift movement, he rolls over me onto one muscular arm, powerful thighs spreading mine further. 

I look between our bodies, both seeing and feeling him against me, hard where I am soft.  I am too satisfied right now to be afraid of anything, and I run my hands along his shoulders.  He brings his hips down and, for second I cannot breathe, but then my throat draws in air and I let out a yell.

Confusion washes away my arousal.  Jocelyn never mentioned any pain.  She went on and on about beauty in this.  I had not expected pain and as a consequence, my enthusiasm wanes and dies.  My nails are dug into his shoulders and I cannot stop my steady whimpers.  I can feel him there, inside me, filling me, a huge hurting thing.

Etienne goes very still, his expression that of a man who has had a nasty shock.  He searches my face, and I think I see regret displayed on those handsome features, but decide it is only my imagination.  The hand not holding his weight slips up to caress my cheeks, and then bury in my hair.  He lowers his body flush to mine and I turn my face away so I do not have to look at him.  He kisses my neck, lips extremely gentle, almost coaxing, as though he is trying to persuade me back into an aroused state.  I remain passive though, wanting nothing more than for this act to be done.

Really, Jocelyn never mentioned any of this.  I bite my lip.  The hurt has gone while he has kissed my neck and left in its place is a discomfort.  I close my eyes, feeling him start to move against me and in me.  He does not make a lot of noise, just grunts here and there.  His movements quicken until he gives a great shudder, then rolls from me, staring at the canopy top above us, his chest heaving with breathe.  I snag the sheets and inch them over myself until I am covered, my hands clutching them tight to me.  There is a fluttering, nervous sensation in my belly, the whirling in my head beginning to subside somewhat.  Now what happens, I wonder?  Is this it?  Do we do it again, or what?

"Oh God..."  He groans before sitting and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.  I stare at his back, my head turned towards him on the pillow.  There are streaks of blood where my nails pierced his back.  Etienne glances at me over his shoulder.  "Go to sleep, Christiana."  With that, he stands and begins closing the curtains about the bed.

"Are you...coming to bed?"  I ask, my voice very small to my ears.  His expression is one I cannot decipher or even describe.  All I know is that something has changed in him towards me.

"I will be awake awhile yet."  The curtain at my side is yanked shut before I can say any more and I am left alone within the confines of the bed.  I curl onto my side.  The tears I have been holding in since we arrived at this manor slip free and I sob quietly into the pillow, my only restraint in the sounds of my crying.  I do not want him to know I cry.  It is not that I think he would care, but rather that I do not want to annoy him.

~~~~~~~~~~

Damn.  This will teach me to make assumptions.  How was I supposed to know that the girl really was a virgin?  By all accounts of her behavior with that peasant, he had the chance to have her.  Yet he did not do so.  Why?  Why would any man resist the temptation when she was there and willing?  Was it she who stopped him?  Is Christiana truly a Lady in that regard?  Was she honestly saving her virtue for marriage?

The evidence is there.  My wife was not wanton.  No, I must rephrase that, for her complete abandon and her surrender to me proves that she is delightfully wanton, as much as I could ever wish in a woman.  If I had not had that very obvious proof  -- the maidenhead I breached with all the delicacy and gentleness of a savage invader sacking a castle -- her willing eager manner would have led me to the same assumption I held to begin with: that she was a woman familiar with a man.  I know that is false though. My wife did not allow herself to be seduced before marriage.  There.  That is it.

And now I feel lower than a worm for having cast such aspersions on her character.  All this time I have been a crude bastard to her, when I should have been courting her as I had courted Jocelyn.  It is no wonder that she enlisted my mothers aid.  It is no wonder she was alarmed by my words yesterday on the training field.  Perhaps my sources were wrong.  Perhaps it was not she they saw going with that peasant.

I shake my head and glance across the room at the bed where she is sleeping.  No, it was her.  She kept herself from him though.  My wife did not play those same games that Jocelyn was up to with Thatcher.

I draw on a robe and pace the chamber.  It is on my mind to go back to bed and apologize for my wrong conclusions, but I ignore the impulse.  She should have known better than to go with the man alone.  Anyone would have thought as I did, including her father if the man had any true interest in his daughter.  No.  I will not apologize to her.  The deed has been done.  She was a virgin and her husband -- I -- relieved her of the state.  All is right, all is well.

Still, if I plan on bedding her a regular occurrence, and I most definitely do, it would be wise to show her she can enjoy the entire matter, not just a part of it.

I take the bar from the door and open it.  As luck would have it, a servant is coming down the corridor.  I stop her and explain my order.  She nods.

"Very well, my Lord.  It will be ready for you then."

Satisfied that my next action will help, I go to bed.  Christiana is asleep, her breath deep and even.  She has got all the covers on her side, rolled about her as a cocoon of sorts.  I leave them to her and force myself to rest.

~~~~~~~~~~

The hour is early when I wake, and I find myself being carried, lifted high in Etienne's arms, a sheet wrapped about me in haphazard fashion.  He carries me down a curving flight of stairs and into a small chamber I have not noticed before.  The air within is close and humid, Etienne setting me to my feet before the largest bathing tub I have ever seen.  It is sunken into the floor, or rather the floor is built up around it, and it is deep, filled with steaming, fragrant water.  I have been bathing in a much smaller tub since arriving here.  He gets into it, the water reaching his hips, and holds out his hands to me.

"Come."

Still sleepy, I let the sheet slither down my body to the floor.  His hands set upon my hips, nudging me close to the edge of the tub.  He draws one hand up to my waist, then over my belly and back to my hip, and leans in to me.  His mouth caresses my stomach, tongue swirling over my skin, and I place my hands on his shoulders.  My belly quivers under his touch.

I look down at him.  The black of his hair stands out against the paleness of my skin, ink spilled on pure white parchment, and I cannot resist the urge to run my hands through that thick thatch.  The discomfort I remember from earlier seems a dream thing now, something not real.

He lifts me, lets my body slide slowly down his until our mouths meet.  The water encases and caresses and I secure my arms about his shoulders as we sink into that warmth.

Much later, I work on clearing the snarls from my wet hair, watching my husband dress.  My husband.  I feel a goofy grin on my lips.  I am a wife now, my place in his household official.  My heartbeat races at the delicious remembrance of his naked flesh pressed intimately to mine not even an hour earlier.  If we did not have to be up and about, I would not mind staying here longer.  I am glad he woke me with a hot bath, an hour there that showed me I need not fear the last moments of lovemaking.

Jocelyn was right about the sweeping passion, but her descriptions did not do it justice.  I have been thoroughly consumed by the razing fires of ecstasy and enjoyed being taken over by the insanity of it.  I watch Etienne pull on a shirt, then move to the bed as he tucks it in to his breeches.  The memories of the hours in his arms stay at the forefront of my thoughts and I begin to think that he is not all that bad really.  Any man that can show such tenderness for his wife cannot be too terrible, can he?  He places his hands flat on the mattress and leans down.

"Well you certainly didn't bleed much after that overly dramatic screech you gave."  His tone is decidedly critical.

My grin slides into a frown, the loveliness of the previous hours sinking into exasperation and my wavering of opinion on him slipping firmly back onto the 'crude man' side.  How beautiful of him to ruin my mood with a single sentence.  "Hm."  I give a tiny, miffed noise, rolling my eyes.  "So sorry I did not bleed like a stuck pig for you," I murmur, forcing the comb through one particularly bad snarl.

He hears, though I had thought he would not, his head turning to me, expression thoughtful, eyes narrowed and lips pursed.  Now, he comes to me, taking up the dagger that rests on the table beside me and tapping it's blade flat on his left palm.  I raise my gaze up from that hypnotic tapping, apprehension crawling along my spine.

"A stuck pig."  He repeats, giving me one of those long, piercing looks he is so good at.  Something like a laugh escapes his throat.  He returns to the bed, still tapping the dagger.  "It would have been more convenient, wife."

Convenient?  I turn in my chair.  Surely he is not crude enough to want to....I wince as he closes his hand in a fist about the dagger and yanks the blade out.  Blood drips onto the sheets, my mouth opening, a sinking sensation in my belly.  I am certain now what he plans: the showing of the sheets.  Ugh.  What a barbaric thing to do.  He will have the sheet strung up somewhere for all to see his fortune in marrying a virgin.

Etienne walks back to me, smug smile upon his lips.  He sets the dagger on the table and holds out his injured hand.  "Tend me."

I stare at him.  "How will you explain where that cut came from?"  I ask, setting my comb aside and standing.

He gives a shrug, then picks up the water pitcher and hurls it down.  Pottery shards and water slide across the floor.  "Now tend me."  His expression is very much like that of a little boy who has gotten what he wanted, one brow cocked and an arrogant glint to his gaze.  I hurry to find a strip of cloth to bind the wound with and, that task completed, we leave our chamber and descend the stairs for mass as husband and wife.