Revealed

Summary: Christiana has a private conversation with Adhemar.

Rating: PG-13 (sexual innuendo)

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

A Note on feedback: Thank you to all those who have reviewed the chapters thus far. Your comments are greatly appreciated.

A Note on research: The links I have used for research on the medieval time period are listed on the links page if anyone is interested.

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Despite the leisured slow pace set for our journey, I find myself exhausted. It is not difficult to discern the cause for my fatigue. Fear is a draining emotion and I greatly fear the unpredictability of Count Adhemar. He is a constant presence at my side during the day, riding that great horse, his imperious glance occasionally falling to me. He is a reminder that my days as a carefree maiden are over. My job as his wife will be a serious endeavor I know, for I do not foresee much in the way of laughter in the future.

No, my future seems most bleak, gray days stretching to the last final day of my life with little to no sunshine. Without glancing at him, I know that his jaw is set in a hard, unyielding line, that sharp gaze of his scanning the road ahead for thieves, his carriage straight and tall. He is every inch the arrogant noble man, certain of his place in society and his rights to do as he pleases.

He appears so humorless, this stern man beside me. How can any man live without merriment? Does he never give a true laugh? Do his lips ever twitch with a smile of amusement that does not have a dark beginning? I long for the merry giggles Jocelyn and I shared over the outrageous antics of some of her suitors. We would stay awake long after we should have been in slumbers, talking and laughing in a silly way. I want such silliness to return to my life. There has been none since leaving Will's camp.

I also long for the loving touch of another human being. He does not touch me if he can help it and his only touches are those of common courtesy: giving me his arm so that I will not stumble and helping me dismount, although he generally leaves that task for Germaine. I feel almost leprous. Jocelyn's family was rather demonstrative in their affection. Hugs were exchanged at the slightest welcoming turn. To not have such affection makes a coldness settle within me. How could I have misinterpreted the tone of his letters? As to that, how could Goeff? We both came to the same conclusion: that Count Adhemar was quite eager for me.

I remember Goeff going through the last letter with me, his hands trailing the air in graceful emotion-filled gestures. "What does he really want?" he'd asked for about the hundredth time. "There has to be something! He goes all hot for Jocelyn then turns that onto you? Not that you are not comely, Christiana for you are quite beautiful, but Adhemar does no thing without a motive. Why you?" Indeed.

No, there were no romantic words or flowery phrases of poetry like Will sent to Jocelyn. I would have thought him touched in the head if any had been included. The eager tone was in the descriptions he wrote of all the arrangements he had undertaken to fetch me. Those, he described in length, with specific instructions on what I could bring with me to his home. He also spoke of his expectations for me, that I should bear him many children.

Children. Once upon a time I had girlish dreams of falling in love and marrying a man I adored. In that dream, we had beautiful children and my life was rosy. There is a twinge of jealousy in my breast that Jocelyn is living my dream. She has fallen for gallant Will and marries her perfect knight even as I travel for my own wedding. She shall have the children of a man she loves and what of me?

I am to be chained for life to a man who is feared and despised. I will submit my will to his in all things and pray he does not hurt me, while my belly rounds out each year so he can have sons. Maybe I will pray for a daughter. But if I had a daughter, would I then see a gentle emotion in him? Would a tiny girl reaching her arms up to her papa bring him pleasure? Or would she be sent away as my own father saw fit to do with me?

Best I pray for sons so as not to displease as my fathers wives all did.

Oh, it is useless to think on this! Time will tell the things I wonder on, God revealing the course of my fate in His own time.

I stop my continuous pacing of my tent and flop down onto my bed. I should compose a letter to Jocelyn, but I do not know where to begin. Besides, I am rather comfortable in the unlit confines of my tent, darkness settling as night lowers upon the earth. Jocelyn may or may not have understood my feeling of duty to a father who had been determined to forget my existence. I do not have to marry Etienne Adhemar. In theory, I can not be forced into doing so. I will marry him though. While I have no love for my father, I am very aware of the duty of a daughter. It is my duty to marry the man he has seen fit to give me to. He must have a good reason for joining me to this Count.

I admit, I am puzzled as to why the Count of Anjou, a wealthy man far above the station of my own family's situation, would want me. Goeff was right. Why me? God's will should not be questioned, yet I am most puzzled by Adhemar's will.

The tantalizing scents of roasting meats drift in to me. My stomach gives a horribly loud rumbling and I sigh. For the duration of this long drawn out process of going to his home, I have dined alone a goodly number of the nights. Germaine would bring me a tray and leave me to eat or not, whatever my whim. My intended would not speak to me or even glance at me after his tent was erected. Will I eat alone this night? I wonder, for he has called me into his tent. I know from hearing his men speak that tomorrow will see us at his home. I tremble at the thought that I will soon see the sort of family that raises a man such as he. Are they as cold as he? As demanding and merciless? As frightening?

I get up, limbs heavy with a bit of dread, leave my tent, and walk around the fire to his tent, my hands clenched in the fabric of my skirts. Whatever he has to say, it is private and away from his men. No ear shall hear our conversation and this alone frightens me. Will I be berated for some wrong I am not aware of committing? I am in a constant state of uncertainty. His men have stationed themselves as far from our two tents as possible and only Germaine greets me, as nervous as he always is. How much of that nervousness, I wonder, is truly him, or simply a by-product of his posting?

Germaine gives a tiny tilt of his head. "Good evening my Lady." His manners rival that of any courtier and I know him to be much the gentleman. He opens the tent flap for me and, with an answering nod to him, I enter.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the brightness candles make in contrast to the deep twilight outside. He must be eager to be home I decide, for his tent is sparsely furnished. There is a table and two chairs, a trunk and through the open flap at the back I see a large bed. What I do not see, or rather who, is Etienne. Strange to think of him by that name, but I force myself to use it with regularity. It is more appropriate for a wife to use than the other and I will be his wife before long.

I clear my throat. Should I sit? I dare not anger him, so I remain standing. My thoughts race. To speak privately is not a thing I wish with him, yet again, I suppose I must begin to become familiar with him. I do not see him allowing me to be less than a wife in full. I will not be less unless it is his wish I be so. Duty must be done. Again, I hold no love for my parent, but I will honor his house and his decision in wedding me to Adhemar.

He appears from the back, shrugging into a fresh shirt. I am struck by how tired he looks in the light of the candles. The hollows of his cheeks are emphasized and there is heavy stubble on the hard line of his jaw. I cannot help but admire those pleasing chiseled lines and curves of his face. He motions to the table. "We will have a light repast this eve."

Scarcely are we seated before Germaine bears a large tray in to us. Our meal is silent save the sounds of our eating. Germaine remains, filling our cups. Etienne does not glance at me as he eats, his gaze on the table top and at times far away, as though he is lost in memories. I eat slowly. The food has no taste to me and, although I stall the moment as long as possible, we are soon alone, the signs of our evening repast taken away.

He stands, paces about, long legs striding back and forth from one side of the tent to the other. He is weary, but there is a strength, a coiled energy, that rests along his limbs and makes me cautious. "What was his name?"

The question takes me by surprise. I should have expected it eventually though. It was naïve to assume he would not mention it. "My Lord?" My hands clench in my lap, cold and trembling. Perspiration makes them clammy.

"The man you took to your bed. The peasant." The word is fairly snarled. "What was his name?"

All save that one word is issued in a pleasant lilt and he stops, his wide back to me. Etienne rolls his head on his neck and I hear something crack, loud as a whip striking. I have nothing to hide. Truly. Oh, I know who he means. Roland. I did not take Roland to my bed though. I was tempted, but something always held me back right at the point of no return. Roland understood my reticence. Were I to plead my innocence of the charge though, I feel Etienne would not believe me. He has judged me already.

"Christiana."

Still a pleasant tone and I cringe at it. I must say something. Silence much longer will surely damn me as much as speaking. "I am untouched," I whisper.

Etienne turns with a laugh and I see his eyes are so very cold. There is no warmth there at all in those frigid hazel depths. "You deny it?" Incredulity wars with anger on his handsome face. Those mixed together give him an intense quality and I cannot turn from the man at all.

"I do."

He sets his cup down with such force that the dregs of wine are sloshed out onto the table top. He steps back, hands clenching again and again into tight fists. "We will not be wed until your...women's trouble...has passed for the month. Then I shall be certain any child you bear is mine."

I feel a flush warming my skin. Gentlemen do not speak of such things freely. That he should do so is embarrassing. But, I should remember he is not the average man. He speaks of what he wishes, when he wishes. My lips remain closed. Now, I think, is the time to stay silent. If I speak again, I could find myself beaten. Beaten. The possible reality of that causes my breath to shorten, the blackness of a faint pulling at the edges of my vision, narrowing my view of the world. I force myself to slow my breathing and my sight eases back from the tunnel it was sliding into. A mild dizziness remains.

He rests his palms on the table and leans over me. I smell the wine on his breath. Is he on the path to drunkenness this night? Is that the reason for his need to know? "Were I certain you were pure, little Christiana, I would make you mine. Right now. Tonight. But my own doubts keep you safe." My heart skips a beat. I am perused, a maddening slow glance down me and back up, another delectable morsel at his table. Etienne lingers at the swell of my breasts, his tongue wetting his lips.

I should be disgusted by the drunkenness I see now that he is up close, but instead am intrigued by a brief glimpse of hurt in those hazel orbs. I find honest emotion there, instead of cold and calculating detachment. It occurs to me that he has been injured in the past, I suspect long before he set his sights on Jocelyn. What was done to him to cause him to bury his feelings; to make him the harsh man he is today?

His mouth grazes my ear, breath hot. "Run to your tent, girl." Each word is emphasized with care so that he does not slur them. His fingers caress the side of my face and lower, stopping their downward path at the neckline of my gown. He drags them along the edge of the fabric, a tickling sensation that raises gooseflesh all along me. His mouth moves, takes mine in greedy swoops, pressing me back into my chair. My hands raise to his chest, palms flat against the fine linen of his shirt. I feel the cloth soft beneath my hands and the scorching heat of a man's flesh as I struggle to remain passive, that careful line of obedience I must walk before him.

The flush on my face is now burning, his teeth nipping my lower lip as he draws back a space. "Run or damn my doubts girl, I will take you now."

I gasp, a tremor working through me. I glance to my right and catch sight of his large bed, the covers turned down and inviting. I cannot say that he would not dare, for he would very certainly dare. He would lift me in his arms and take me into that temporary room, his will overriding mine. I would find myself devoured, his insistent hands and mouth and body making me his. He would take me and if I conceived, he would spend a lifetime in anguish from his doubts, never certain the child was his.

Etienne's lips brush my temple and he pushes himself away from me. I see his hands tremble as mine do, but the realization is not comforting. His hands tremble from suppressed desire, mine from my panic.

I flee, and find myself crying, cheeks wet with tears. My hands wipe at them as I go to my solitary bed.

Do I cry for myself or for the glimpse of terrible pain I saw in him?