A Promise of Tomorrow (Medieval Runaway Wives Book 2)
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Synopsis
Book 2 in Alexa Aston's new Medieval Runaway Wives has arrived!
A widow longing for love but threatened by scandal. A charming rogue who has love to give but not a penny to his name. Two souls yearning to be together yet separated by tremendous odds . . .
As a third son, Englishman Ashby fitz Waryn has neither a title nor grand estate, but he does have a lifelong friend in Lord Garrett Montayne, the earl he serves. Garrett sends Ashby to France to learn more about winemaking, an investment the Montaynes have been involved with for decades. Ashby journeys to Monteville, an estate in Bordeaux, where he becomes knowledgeable about grapes—and unexpectedly falls in love with Marielle de la Tresse, a married comtesse in a loveless marriage.
Marielle Matesse was blamed for her twin sister's death, spending ten years in a convent as punishment. Returned to her parents, she hopes to start a new life when an older man, a wealthy comte, takes her as his bride. The marriage is loveless and childless and her life dull—until a handsome Englishman comes calling.
When Comte de la Tresse dies under mysterious circumstances, his brother, Marc, insinuates he'll start rumors that Marielle poisoned her husband unless she immediately weds Marc. Marielle flees France under Ashby's protection, hoping to start a new life in England with the handsome knight.
But Marc de la Tresse refuses to give up so easily, imprisoning Marielle's family in Monteville's dungeons. They will be left to die unless Marielle returns to France and marries her husband's killer.
Can Ashby outwit Marc and claim the love he's hungered for, or will Marielle sacrifice her freedom to save the family that abandoned her?
Each book in Medieval Runaway Wives is a standalone story that can be enjoyed out of order. Read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!
Runaway Medieval Wives
Song of the Heart
A Promise of Tomorrow
Destined for Love
Release date: September 15, 2020
Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.
Print pages: 348
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A Promise of Tomorrow (Medieval Runaway Wives Book 2)
Alexa Aston
PROLOGUE
Libourne, France—1328
She had traded one prison for another.
Marielle Matesse gazed across the cramped shop crowded with rugs of varying sizes and shapes and actually wished she were back at Sisters of Merciful Heart. The convent might be gloomy but at least its spacious, high ceilings and minimal furniture gave her room to breathe. The long masses also provided time for her to daydream of places beyond Libourne. Paris. London. Even the Far East.
In their infrequent chats, Father Julien had woven fascinating tales of life outside the imposing stone walls of the nunnery. The priest had traveled extensively and the pictures he painted of people and places whetted her appetite. That, coupled with her eavesdropping on travelers who sought shelter within the convent, gave Marielle plenty of ideas to conjure visions of a life unlike her own. The narrow confines and religious rules did not bind her spirit from soaring to new places. What she wouldn’t give to see the ancient ruins in Greece or stroll along the crowded streets of Rome. Even if she could only journey to Paris and see the cathedral of Notre Dame or stroll along the Seine, her sense of adventure might be satisfied.
Unfortunately, that brought her thoughts back to the carpets that filled her father’s place of business. Yes, they came from worlds away. As a small child, she had enjoyed tracing their intricate designs. Now, they simply represented wares that must be sold, if not today, then the next or the day after that. Her life was one of staring at carpets and waiting for someone to enter the shop and break up the monotony of every day. A buyer was preferred but she longed to talk to anyone who might venture inside. Instead, hours crawled by as she sat, bored and frustrated.
Would she be trapped here forever?
Marielle smiled inwardly, not daring to allow her father to catch a glimpse of upturned lips. He was a man for whom mirth did not exist and he refused to condone merriment in those around him. She couldn’t recall ever having seen him smile. Certainly not on that last day, the day he cast her from his life and into the hands of the good sisters. She shuddered, wishing to pull a curtain on the past. It was better to push it from her mind before the clammy palms returned with the tightness in her chest.
That day ended her freedom as a carefree child.
In her heart, Marielle would never forget the events, though she’d been but five years of age. It seemed a lifetime ago. Ten long years with her in exile had passed, with Sisters of Merciful Heart being her place of residence. The nuns allowed her to visit with her family in Libourne once a year since the convent rested on the town’s outskirts.
It might have been a world away, however. Her father greeted her presence with stony silence. Her mother, frightened of her domineering husband, followed his example and ignored her. Marielle was left to sit alone for those few hours in the rooms above the shop, where she would gaze out the window and watch passersby bargaining at the market. Each year when she returned, another of her brothers and sisters had fled the Matesse household, off to seek their fortune or having wed.
Until only she was left.
Marielle’s eyes burned. She bit her tongue until she tasted blood. The pain took attention from the tears that she would not allow to fall. She refused to show any weakness in her father’s sight. Her sins—in his eyes—were abundant enough. She would not give him cause to berate her further.
She walked to the portal and looked out upon the square. The midday heat poured onto those scurrying to and fro, women with tall loaves of bread, men carrying jugs of wine, carts rumbling by filled with hay and apples and wood. Everyone rushed somewhere.
Except for her.
She’d run away once before at age four. Even at a young age, she had sensed the unhappiness around her and was driven by a need to escape it. She didn’t get very far. Arielle had tripped and scraped her knee badly. The sight of blood terrified her sister and Marielle distracted her twin as best she could. When the tears subsided, Arielle refused to go any further. Marielle couldn’t very well leave her so she sat by her twin’s side until Gustave came looking for them. She still remembered her brother’s words.
“Are you addlebrained dolts? Or are you just stubborn fools? Papa will have your hides and mine made into rugs.”
He swept one girl under each arm and marched back home. She wondered how many scrapes Gustave had rescued them from, all ones of Marielle’s making. Or so her father would point out. He had a great love for Arielle, which she understood. Everyone loved Arielle. Her sister was all sunshine and sweetness.
But Marielle hadn’t understood why not even a smidgen of that love extended her way. From her earliest memories, Gautier Matesse criticized her, scolded her, berated her, or worse—ignored her.
Even at four, Marielle was not one willing to be ignored.
She sighed and watched a flock of birds fly overhead, their shadows thick upon the ground below.
“Pardonez-moi, Mademoiselle.”
Marielle glanced up to see she was blocking the entrance to the shop. She quickly curtsied to the well-dressed customer and stepped aside to allow him to enter. He smiled at her kindly.
She couldn’t remember the last time anyone smiled at her.
Marielle followed him inside, keeping a guarded distance. She would not want her father to accuse her of pestering a patron. From the looks and opulent dress of this man, he was wealthy, indeed. She returned to her place behind the counter, watching him surreptitiously as he perused the multitude of carpets.
Gautier Matesse took stock of the situation. Marielle watched his own furtive glances at the gentleman as he approached him cautiously. She had to admit that her father had perfected the fragile balance between providing just the right amount of assistance to a buyer and giving him room to look in peace.
“Bienvenue. May I assist you in any way, my lord?”
The man looked at several rugs with a discerning eye before asking Gautier to unroll two of the most expensive carpets. The stranger studied the patterns carefully, stooping to the floor in order to have a better look, even smoothing them with a careful hand.
“This is not a decision to be made lightly,” the man muttered.
“Oh, yes, my lord. You are most correct. And quite perceptive. You have chosen two of the finest carpets in my humble establishment.”
The man rose to his feet. “I will wait a day before I make a decision,” he announced.
He strode toward the front of the store and then paused in the doorway and turned to face her.
“Good day,” the nobleman said and nodded in her direction.
Marielle’s cheeks heated with the sudden attention. She lowered her eyes, half-hoping he would still be there when she raised them. He was gone, however. She wondered at drawing his eye. Would her father be pleased or not? He was a hard man to understand, his moods mercurial.
Gautier studied her. He rubbed his chin in thought. “Mayhap he shall return. He was certainly wealthy enough to buy both rugs. Did you see his rich dress? And that ring upon his hand? It would buy everything in this store and then some.”
Marielle nodded slightly in agreement. She did not want her father upset in any way. Now that Mother Superior had returned her to her parents’ care, she would have nowhere to go if they turned her out again. She shivered as she thought of the street beggars that lined the walls just inside the city, dependent upon the kindness of strangers for even a hard crust of bread.
Even worse were the women who sold their bodies for a man’s pleasure. Marielle hadn’t dreamed such a practice existed until she’d seen it herself only last year in her final visit from the convent. Sister Clotilde had tried to hurry them along as Marielle stopped in utter horror of what she saw taking place in an alleyway.
She pushed such frightening thoughts from her mind. No, she must do nothing to anger her father. She watched as Gautier glanced out the door again and then brusquely said, “I must go tend to your mother. You are far too clumsy to do so. Watch things carefully. I will be a quarter of an hour at most.”
He wove his way through the narrow aisles and up the back staircase that led to their rooms above. The minute he was gone, Marielle boosted herself upon the counter to give her aching feet a rest. She knew he would be gone far longer. Blanche Matesse’s demands grew longer and more tiresome as the years passed. She blamed Marielle’s birth for her being indisposed—and why not? Wasn’t everything else blamed upon her? Left unsaid was that Arielle, too, had appeared at the same time. She had been the last babe pulled from her mother’s womb.
Suddenly, a shadow darkened the doorway. Marielle quickly slipped down from the counter in order to greet the new customer.
Surprised filled her when she saw it was the customer who had recently left. He had a sad air about him, as if he’d experienced too many tragedies in his lifetime. She judged him to be a good score and then some, probably just a few years shy of two score, now that he moved toward her and she looked into his lined face. He paused in front of her, a man of average height. His weight had begun to settle around his middle, as it often did on men as they aged.
“Did you forget something, my lord?” she asked nervously.
He looked about, hesitating for a moment. Marielle realized what he wanted.
“I can fetch my father. He has only gone upstairs for a moment to check on my mother, who is ill. He’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have regarding either of the rugs you looked at before.”
She quickly walked toward the back of the shop, not wanting her father to lose this sale. Even if the man only purchased one of the rugs, it would pay for several months of food. If this stranger chose not to buy anything, somehow Marielle knew she would be blamed.
“No. Wait.” He looked at her a long moment. “Come here,” he added.
Returning to where the nobleman stood, she asked, “Might I show you either rug again?”
“How old are you?”
She was taken aback by such a personal question. “I . . . I will be ten and six within the month.”
He pursed his lips. He seemed far away in thought. She wondered if she should call her father after all.
“Do you like your life here? In Libourne. With your parents.”
How was she to answer such a question? She’d only returned to their house two months ago and, yet, already a lifetime had passed. Would it be improper to tell a stranger just how much she hated her existence? How she dreamed of exciting and distant places where she would find happiness and people who valued her?
Marielle opened her mouth to speak but he held up a hand to silence her.
“No. You need not tell me a thing. I can read it all in your face.”
She flushed, remembering how Father Julien often told her the same thing.
“I can offer you something different.”
Marielle’s heart began to beat wildly. Escape from this jail? Was it possible? She found her voice. “Mayhap you need a new maid, my lord? Or a cook? I have recently left Sisters of Merciful Heart, where I learned to cook and sew and weave tapestries.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Tapestries?” He chuckled. “I suppose Monteville could use more of those.” He must have read her confused expression and said, “Monteville is my home, a great castle in Bordeaux. I grow the finest grapes in all France and they become the best of French wines.”
He took a step closer to her and bowed stiffly. “My name is Jean-Paul, Comte de la Tresse.”
She curtsied. “I am Marielle Matesse, daughter of Gautier and Blanche. How may I be of service to you, Monsieur Comte?” Already, thoughts of becoming a servant in a grand chateau held more interest for her than sitting day after day in this small shop and boring town.
“You are young.” He frowned a moment then brightened. “But that can be a good thing.” The comte looked her up and down. “Your hips are a trifle slender but I suppose they’ll do.”
Marielle felt the heated flush crawl up her neck, thanks to her embarrassment at his comment. She took several steps back, ready to flee.
“No, wait,” he said softly, holding out a hand, palm down. “I seek a wife. I have no children from my first marriage. My wife died last Easter time. She was a good woman, but she was my parents’ choice.”
He stared into her eyes. “This time, I make my own choice.”
Realization dawned quickly. “You . . . you would marry me?” She licked her lips nervously. “I don’t understand, Monsieur le Comte. You must know a dozen women of your class. You could not possibly want me. I am but a common merchant’s daughter.”
The comte’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, but I do. He was right. You are lovely to behold. Summon your father.”
Marielle shuffled away as if in a dream. From the bottom of the staircase, she called for her father to come down. When he appeared, his anger melted instantly when he saw that his previous customer had returned.
“I see you made a quick decision, my lord. Which one will it be?”
He bowed low. “I am Comte Jean-Paul de la Tresse. I choose that one.” He pointed at Marielle.
She fainted.
CHAPTER 1
Stanbury, Sussex—1335
“Go to bloody hell, Garrett.”
Ashby fitz Waryn ground out the words with clenched teeth. “I refuse your pity. And I will not rely upon charity from my thick-headed best friend.”
Garrett Stanbridge, the Earl of Montayne, glared at him as if he were a serf caught poaching on Stanbury lands. Let him glare all he wanted. Ashby’s mind was made up. It was his life. His decision. Garrett could pester him until the Second Coming and Ashby wouldn’t budge. He refused to take charity.
“You are an insufferable oaf, Ash. Full of foolish pride. Why do insist upon refusing my offer?”
He moved closer to Garrett, his words just above a whisper. “Why do you continue to ram it down my throat?” He took a step back. “Besides, I have done nothing to deserve it. I do for you as I would for anyone.”
His friend shook his head. “No. You have been as much of a brother to me as Luke was, lo those many years ago.” Garrett’s eyes searched his. “You are my chosen brother and friend of my heart, Ash. My cherished comrade and companion in battle. You have been at the birth of my children and are much beloved by my family.”
Garrett’s eyes pled with Ashby as much as his words. “Do not reject it outright. At least give it some thought.”
Ashby tamped down the anger that surged through his veins and inclined his head. “As you wish.” His words would placate Garrett.
For now.
He turned and strode across the great hall. He was reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire but he needed a surge of cool air outside to calm his temper. Usually the most easygoing of men, Garrett had hit upon the one thing that most bothered Ashby.
Land.
He wove his way through the crowded room. The remains of the evening meal had been cleared. The trestle tables had been placed against the walls in order to afford the occupants of Stanbury more room to relax and enjoy what was left of their evening. Music and chattering children now dominated the atmosphere.
“Ashby!”
He turned to Lyssa’s call. All anger stirred by Garrett melted when he spied the nine-year-old girl.
“Come dance with me. Please,” she entreated.
Although dancing was the last thing on his mind, he mustered a smile and took her hand. “Only one, my little love. I have business to attend.”
Lyssa pouted prettily, giving him a glimpse of the woman she would become. “Papa keeps you much too busy. If I were you, I would tell him so to his face.”
“You’re a brave—and opinionated—child, Lyssa, and one dear to his heart. I am but your father’s lowly man of business.” Before she could protest his words, Ashby swept her up and into the dance.
As they moved around the room, he spied Garrett and Madeleine speaking by the fire in hushed tones. Madeleine held two-year-old Cynric in her arms, balanced upon one hip. She glanced up as he and Lyssa passed by, her lips pursed in displeasure.
If only things had been different. If he could have been the one to rescue Madeleine. He would now be Cynric’s father—and Madeleine’s husband.
He shrugged off such wistful thoughts. Regret didn’t become him. He never would have made Madeleine a good husband. Nor any woman. No, he was pleased that she came into Garrett’s life when she did. She saved his friend from the depths of despair. Madeleine had turned Stanbury into a place of happiness once again, through her gifts of storytelling and love. In truth, he felt honored to claim the countess as his friend. He treasured her wit and intelligence. She was a unique woman and he doubted he would ever be lucky enough to find one with her rare qualities and abilities.
Besides, what woman would want him? A third son, cast off, noble nonetheless, but with nothing to offer a woman other than a pleasing demeanor. No title, no lands, no home he could call his own. He would never ask any woman to follow him into marriage with so little future ahead of them.
The music ended. He swept a gallant bow to Lyssa.
“Time to depart, my fair maiden.” He took her hand and brushed a swift kiss across her knuckles before leaving.
He chuckled to himself at the blush his gesture brought. Lyssa was caught up in a quandary. Part of her still loved to run with the boys of Stanbury in all their games, while a softer part longed to begin her journey toward womanhood. He’d been there the night Garrett’s first wife gave birth to Lyssa. He looked forward to dancing at the girl’s wedding someday, enjoying each phase of the transition she now discovered.
Ashby stepped through the massive oak doors and out into the crisp night air. Though only mid-September, the cool pierced his woolen shirt with a sharp bite. He sat upon the steps that led down into the bailey and leaned back, propping his elbows on the step above him as he studied the stars in the velvet sky.
He remained lost in thought some minutes when he heard the door open. It would either be Garrett come to argue with him again or Madeleine come to scold him. The voice that spoke took him by surprise.
“Ashby,” Edith said, “you are behaving like a spoiled child.”
He turned and looked up at the only mother he’d ever known. His own died in childbirth when Ashby was three so he only had a few dim recollections of Beatrice. They were more shadows of impressions than any real memories.
Yet the woman before him had seen him through childhood illness and washed and tended his scabbed knees. She’d taught him good manners and the proper way to treat a lady. Lady Edith was everything he wanted in a mother. He thanked the decision that brought him to foster at Stanbury when he was but seven. Edith, more than anyone, had shaped him into the man he was today.
“Spoiled, you say?” he teased lightly. “And a child? Simply because I like dancing with Lyssa and getting down in the mud with Cynric? I should not think me a child, my lady.”
She shook her head sadly. “What am I to do with you, my son? For that is what you are to me, as much as Garrett is. You both have been the joys of my life.”
Edith knelt beside him and took his hand. “What has ruffled your feathers this time? Do not give me that innocent, charming look,” she warned. “I saw you and Garrett together. Your conversation was tense. I know you argued, Ashby, before you stomped across the room.”
Ashby took her hand and squeezed it. “Stomped is a harsh word, my lady. More like I stalked across the hall. But I think I recovered nicely when I took time to dance with Lyssa. She does have a soothing effect upon me.”
“Children always calm you, my dear. It’s the very reason I think you should have a few of your own.”
He saw the glint in her eyes. “My dear Lady Edith, you know I have no plans to settle down with one woman when so many charming and delightful beauties are in my corner of the world. It wouldn’t be fair to any child to have an absent father with a roving eye.”
Standing, he took her hands and brought her to her feet. “My lot in life is to simply enjoy Lyssa and Cynric. After all, I have no soiled cloths to change nor whining to listen to. I have the freedom to enjoy them when they are pleasant to be around—and walk away when they’re cross. I’ve had the best of both worlds.”
“With none of the responsibility,” she added sharply.
Ashby grinned at her. “You are in fine fighting form tonight, my lady. Mayhap Garrett should put you in the bailey to spar with his knights. You could teach them a thing or two.”
“Making light of things will not always be the answer, Ashby. You would do well to remember that.” She gazed at him with love in her eyes. “Please. Accept Garrett’s offer of a manor house. Do it for me. Keep the peace between my two sons.”
He bristled, dropping her hands. “I will not take from Garrett what is his. Ever. No matter how many times he offers—and tonight made the count at seven and twenty. It’s his land and his manor. Not mine.”
Ashby tamped down the anger that sprang up so quickly again, knowing talk of the incredibly generous gift made him irritable. More than anything, he would love to possess his own manor. His ancestral home, Ashland, naturally passed to his eldest brother, also called Ashland. If anything ever happened to him, then his brother, Ashcroft, would take ownership, or one of their children. The only way Ashby would ever gain his own land was to join the king’s army and do something so spectacular on the battlefield, the king would immediately bestow a title and castle upon him.
Since that was a far-fetched scheme which would never come to pass, he knew he must learn to be happy with his lot in life.
Part of him thought he was a coward, in some respects. Oh, he’d proved himself valiant in battle. Both he and Garrett owned more than a few scars between them to prove their prowess. Yet a secret part of him never wanted to leave Stanbury. It had been home to him these last two and twenty years since he’d come to foster as a boy. How could he leave it, much less Garrett and Madeleine, Edith and Lyssa, Cynric and all the friends he’d made?
No, his stubbornness and pride dug in their heels. This was where he’d grown up, where he’d reached his maturity. This was where he would stay.
“Shall we go in?” he asked Edith politely. She cast a look at him that would chill any knight in training but he knew how soft she was underneath the brittle glare. He took her arm and led her back inside, hoping he could avoid Garrett.
Ashby took to the shadows, sitting far from the fire and gaiety of the great hall, the better to become lost in his thoughts. In truth, he admitted it might be for the best if he did leave Stanbury, despite the great estate’s pull on him. Things had been different before Madeleine came. He and Garrett lived their lives much as they pleased.
Madeleine Bouchard changed everything. She brought light and grace and charm to Stanbury. For all his fierce ways before, Garrett was now tamed from his wild days. He was utterly, madly in love with his wife and two children.
Watching the happy family together ate away at Ashby’s core. Though he knew he would never have greater friends than Garrett and Madeleine, his jealousy of their closeness and joy might well destroy him. How could he love the two of them as much as he did and yet despise everything about them? He wanted what they had, something he could never attain.
Because the intensity of his feelings had grown stronger over the past few months, he realized the time had come. He must move beyond Stanbury, else his unreasonable envy would cost him everything he held dear.
Yet he hesitated. How would he explain to them where he went or why he must leave? Garrett offered him a way out but Ashby did not feel right in taking it. His frustration with abandoning all that was dear to him warred with his strong sense of pride. He refused to be treated as a charity case. He must make his own way. The time had come to cut his ties with Stanbury. Ashby pushed aside the heaviness in his heart. Leaving would be best for all. He would speak to Garrett immediately. Before he changed his mind.
He rose and made his way around the great hall, scanning the crowd in search of Garrett. He spied him and felt the knife twist in his heart at the warm smile his friend gave him.
Garrett motioned him over into a corner. Madeleine was no longer there, probably having gone to put Cynric to bed. Ashby took a seat.
“I don’t want us to quarrel, Ash. I will respect your wishes and swear I shall not bring it up again.”
“Not at least for a sennight,” he piped in, reverting to his usual quick wit. How could he broach the subject? Already his resolve wavered.
Garrett’s mouth tightened and he shook his head. He laid a hand on Ashby’s shoulder. “Why do I put up with you?” he asked softly.
“Because no one else besides Madeleine, of course, will put up with you. You should be grateful that I am your staunch supporter and truest friend.”
Garrett laughed. “You will be the death of me, Ash. That or Cynric, now that he is walking and into everything not nailed shut.” His friend grew more serious. “I think the time is right for you to go to France. It’s something I have pondered upon for many months now.”
Ashby sat up expectantly. No one had visited the French vineyards in close to five years. Garrett himself went then, staying for a few months and learning all he could about the grape. Then he’d met Madeleine. That had kept the earl close to Stanbury.
Maybe Garrett’s request would lead to new opportunities. At any rate, it would give Ashby more time to think his plans through.
“I would need you to go to the Bouchards first,” Garrett said. “Pierre is in total charge since Madeleine’s father fell ill last spring. I would also like you to go to a neighboring vineyard, that of a Comte de la Tresse. I would go myself but I have no wish to be gone for too long a time.”
Ashby smiled. “Unless you took Madeleine with you. I am sure she has said no for the time being, wishing Cynric to be a bit older and less troublesome.”
Garrett broke out in a grin. “Do you skulk about under our bed while we have our private conversations, Ash? You know far too much about us.”
He shrugged. “I do know you, my friend. You both are miserably predictable. It’s what happens to old married folk. Now I, on the other hand, as a man with no ties, beholden to no other—I move as the wind blows me.”
Garrett snorted. “Yes, from one young maiden to the next.”
He chuckled. “Shouldn’t I have the freedom to sample the wares of all the flowers in the field?”
“You are impossible.” Garrett swung an arm around Ashby and hugged him tightly. “I will miss you more than life itself while you are gone.”
“So,” Madeleine interrupted, “he has agreed to go?”
The two men turned to her.
“Who knows, Madeleine?” Ashby smiled. “Mayhap I will find as fresh a flower as you among the women of France.”
Madeleine’s brows arched. “And how many will you sip from before you alight upon the one true bud?”
Ashby let out an exasperated sigh. “I do not know how you live with the women in this family, Garrett.”
They all laughed and then Garrett said solemnly, “If the place suits you . . . if you find an affinity with the grape . . . mayhap you could remain there indefinitely and manage the vineyards alongside Pierre.”
The idea intrigued Ashby more than he was willing to admit. He shrugged nonchalantly. “Let me first get there, Garrett. I have yet to see a sunrise in France.”
“Then let us meet on the morrow to discuss the details. It will involve a new strain of wine that I have an idea for, mixing the red grapes with white ones. Would you be agreeable to leaving the day after that?”
Ashby smiled. “I am at your service, Lord Montayne. Wherever you wish me, there I will go.”
CHAPTER 2
Marielle de la Tresse contained the excitement that filled her. Finally, a visitor that was not Marc. Someone who could take the boredom from her days and nights. Jean-Paul promised that she could plan entertainment and a small dinner or two while Ashby fitz Waryn stayed with them, talking, as most visitors did, of the grape. The Englishman represented an English nobleman who owned the neighboring vineyard, managed by the Bouchard family for several generations.
She had liked Robert and Cadena Bouchard from the moment Jean-Paul introduced her to the couple. While a bit gruff, Robert was a fine storyteller, weaving fantasy with the everyday into magical stories. Cadena had taught Marielle much about herbs and spices. She’d tried to pass along her new knowledge to the chateau’s cook but the stolid woman merely grunted and prepared what she intended to in the first place.
Pierre was another matter. The Bouchards’ son was so serious, seldom speaking. He reminded Marielle of Sister Clotilde, the quietest of the nuns at Sisters of Merciful Heart. Thank goodness her convent days were well behind her although Monteville was often as silent as a tomb. The quiet drove her to distraction.
She fingered the twisted rope of gold and garnets that hung from her neck. It was Jean-Paul’s latest gift to her, one of a hundred he had presented her with during the last seven years. He’d promised her diamonds upon the birth of their first child.
Neither the diamonds nor the child seemed forthcoming.
Marielle stood, restless, and stared out the window. She’d already discussed with Cook all the menus for fitz Waryn’s visit. She knew the great hall was set for their visitor’s welcome. New rushes covered the floors, their sweet smell wafting through the air. She’d picked fresh flowers only an hour ago and had placed them in the English visitor’s bedchamber. She was dressed and perfumed, eagerly awaiting the new company.
Marielle perched on the window seat in front of her and looked down the road as far as she could see. After a quarter-hour, she was rewarded with a glimpse of horses in the distance. It would be their guest, certainly accompanied by Pierre Bouchard. Jean-Paul might also have joined in if he’d seen them from the vineyards. Most likely, though, her husband would not return to the chateau until work ceased for the day. She almost hoped he wouldn’t. She was eager to speak with this Englishman and find out what had gone on in the outside world as of late. Maybe fitz Waryn had even been to London or Paris. How she longed to see those magnificent cities one day.
She doubted that day would ever come.
If she had it to do all over again, knowing what she knew now, she would steal away from her parents’ house, never to return. The nuns hadn’t wanted her at the convent after she’d been exiled there for ten years. Mother Superior and all the Sisters of Merciful Heart nuns had tried to push her toward the holy life. It was a pity they hadn’t practiced more of the holiness they preached. If even one of the nuns had shown her any personal kindness, Marielle might have tried to fit in and take her vows.
Instead, they returned her to her parents’ care and the long days and nights of her father’s badgering and her mother’s complaining. No wonder each of her siblings had left by the time she’d returned home, seeking a trade in another town or fleeing into the hands of the first man that asked for their hand in marriage.
Marielle should have seized an opportunity and left. She was fairly tall for her age. She should have cut off her auburn tresses and worn a man’s tunic and pants, trying to pass herself off as a young boy for a time. She might have found work as a servant to a great nobleman, traveling far and wide with her master and seen all the world had to offer.
Instead, she’d willingly gone with Jean-Paul de la Tresse. In her inexperience and immaturity, she mistook the sad air about him, romanticizing how heartbroken he was at the death of his wife the year before. When he’d wanted her to come to Monteville, she assumed it was as a servant. Eager to please, she offered to cook or clean or weave tapestries, her only skilled accomplishment from her convent days.
Jean-Paul had taken her as a bride instead. Marielle was certain that Agnes, the first wife, had died of neglect. She learned all too quickly the unhappiness Jean-Paul wore was a mixture of boredom and indifference. She’d been eager to marry him and escape her father’s house, never dreaming she’d become a caged bird at Monteville. Thank the Sweet Christ her husband was often gone on business. It was the only thing that helped her retain her sanity.
Marielle rose and made her way from the bedchamber to the floor below. From there, she went outside into the cool, sunlit morning to await the riders. Within minutes, three men on horseback entered the courtyard. One was Donatien de Toulouse, Monteville’s overseer and Jean-Paul’s right-hand man. The second, as expected, was Pierre Bouchard, looking slightly out of sorts, as if the ride to Monteville was an interruption he barely tolerated.
But it was the third rider that most interested her. The nuns always chastised her for her immense curiosity but they were no longer the ones who made the rules in her life. She was la Comtesse of Monteville. Marielle regally moved down the steps to greet fitz Waryn.
He swept off his horse with a grace that belied his size. He was far taller than any man she’d met and possessed a lean yet athletic frame. She was drawn to his long, muscular legs tucked into black boots which gleamed in the sunlight. His handsome face radiated strength and good cheer. As he bowed to her, his blue eyes twinkled with mischief.
“I take it you are the Comtesse de la Tresse.” His white, even teeth shone in a wide smile, a direct contrast to Jean-Paul. Her husband rarely smiled and, at two and forty, was missing several of his teeth.
“I am Ashby fitz Waryn, man of business for Lord Garrett Stanbridge the Earl of Montayne of Stanbury.”
Marielle’s eyelashes fluttered instinctively, surprising her because they’d never done so before. She curtsied to her guest. “Please, call me Marielle. We do not stand much on formality at Monteville.”
Fitz Waryn took her hand in his. His touch was light but decidedly masculine. It also made her instantly aware that she was a woman and he a very handsome man. Marielle looked into his eyes of azure, her mouth gone as dry as brittle bones.
He gave her another smile, pleasant and yet at the same time sensual. Sweeping a quick kiss across her fingers, he said, “Enchante, Marielle. And please, you must call me Ashby.”
The name fit him. Marielle returned his smile. “We are honored to have you stay at Monteville, Ashby.” She liked the way his name rolled from her tongue. “Your French is quite good.”
He beamed. “I was brought up at Stanbury with Lord Montayne. His mother had us speaking French from an early age, though Garrett didn’t use it much. Still,” he added, “it wasn’t until Garrett married the Bouchards’ daughter a few years ago that I had a true feel for the language. Madeleine drilled me like a tyrant before I journeyed here, especially since it’s her native tongue.”
“Well, you may tell her that you have done justice to it.” Marielle turned to the others. “Bonjour, Pierre. It’s always nice to see you.”
Pierre mumbled something in return, no louder than a mouse confronted by a hungry cat.
She turned to their steward. “Thank you, Donatien, for bringing Ashby here.” Glancing at their visitor, she added, “Jean-Paul said he would mostly likely visit with you when we sup this evening. Until then, I am sure Donatien can answer any of your questions. Come, let us go inside the chateau and allow you to wash.”
She led the trio into the darkened hall and signaled for water and towels. The men soaped and rinsed their hands before being seated. Since it was past the midday meal when their workers had eaten, Marielle had only one trestle table set out for them to dine on.
“Monteville is quite a becoming estate,” Ashby commented. “The land is lush and your chateau is full of charm. And you, my lady, are the jewel in its crown. Rarely have I seen such beauty.”
Marielle’s face flamed, unused to any form of flattery. As the youngest of seven children, no one had paid attention to her at home. When she’d been sent to the convent as punishment, the nuns had not tolerated vanity in any form. The only way she’d learned she was pleasing to the eye was when Jean-Paul told her so and then pursued her with determination in the space of a single afternoon. She’d regretted that his passion had all been in the chase, for once caught, he rarely gave his young wife a second thought.
“I thank you, sir,” she said meekly. “I fear your long journey to France may have addled your brains, nonetheless.”
The Englishman took a sip from his wineglass before replying, “I’ve been here a good week, Marielle. Long enough to recover from any strain my trip could impose. As for the ride here, it was merely a snap of the fingers.” He snapped his fingers as he spoke.
Marielle winced involuntarily. A chill passed through her, settling in the pit of her belly. Jean-Paul usually ignored her but when he wanted her for something, he would snap his fingers loudly. The staccato sound always washed over her, covering her in dread. She tried to dispel that feeling now.
“I am glad you have come to join us. Would you care for more of the duck? Mayhap some more fish?”
She settled more into her role of hostess after that, letting the men speak of wines and the weather and what prices next year’s crop might bring. Before long, the meal ended. Pierre excused himself, saying he must return to the grapes. Donatien, too, begged forgiveness to go about his duties.
That left Marielle alone with Ashby. She had studied him surreptitiously throughout the meal. She liked his easy manner and relaxed grace, whether it was conversing or spearing a tidbit of meat with his knife. The fact he was so handsome that he took her breath away made her realize she grew warm. Marielle pushed a loose tendril back. Why, she hadn’t experienced infatuation since her brother Renaud’s friend, Guy, had been underfoot years ago. Guy, who never looked at her as more than a pesky little sister, while she worshipped the ground he trod upon.
Many a night, she had endured Jean-Paul’s hasty lovemaking by closing her eyes and picturing that young image of Guy as her lover—not her husband with his sagging middle and hairy back and foul breath. Jean-Paul may have gruffly claimed to love his wife when pressed but Marielle did not reciprocate such feelings. She found it increasingly difficult as the years passed to be around him, much less share his bed on the rare occasion he snapped for her appearance.
Yet now, at the ripe old age of three and twenty, this Ashby fitz Waryn had her heart doing somersaults, like the monkey she’d seen at the faire two years prior. She longed to lean over and kiss him, a gesture Jean-Paul found distasteful. Because of her husband’s opinion, Marielle had never been kissed.
She knew this childish attraction she felt toward their visitor must be quashed. To act upon it would be dangerous—not only for her, but for Ashby himself. In the meantime, she would continue to enjoy the rare company of a visitor. She couldn’t remember the last time a man eyed her so appreciatively yet respectfully. This Englishman would be amusing to have around.
“Would it be possible to walk about and show me some of the grounds?” Ashby asked.
“I would be delighted to be your escort.”
They went out into the afternoon. A cool wind had picked up since the men had arrived.
“Here, let me return for your cloak,” he told her. “I’ll only be a moment.”
Before Marielle could protest, he went back inside the castle. Little tingles pricked her spine. She threw off the warning signals and clasped her hands together to still their trembling. In less than an hour, Ashby fitz Waryn had paid her more attention than she’d received from a man in her entire life.
Except for Marc.
“Here you are.” Ashby draped the cloak about her. As when he’d taken her hand upon first meeting, Marielle sensed a quick spark between them. Because of it, she avoided meeting his eyes. Instead, she tied the cloak tightly about her, nervous and unsure what to do.
“If I may?” He took her arm and guided her through the inner bailey and beyond. His casual air and dozens of questions soon had her laughing, recounting humorous incidents of life at Monteville. Marielle admired his easy charm. She also liked how he didn’t speak down to her, as if she were a child, which Jean-Paul frequently did. Rather, the Englishman spoke to her as la comtesse should be addressed.
They walked to her garden, where she planted the flowers and herbs that Cadena Bouchard recommended when Marielle first came to Monteville as a young bride. She pointed out the differences between rosemary, fennel, and thyme. They sat on a bench in the garden and talked for what seemed like hours.
Marielle had never known a more perfect afternoon.
“I find you a delightful companion, Marielle,” Ashby told her. “You are intelligent and beautiful. You have such a natural curiosity, as well.”
She laughed. “You should have heard what the good sisters said about me.”
“Were you convent-raised?” he asked.
Marielle nodded. “My parents, Gautier and Blanche, had six children before me. They hoped the nuns could take my nosiness and quick perceptions and mold me into something God would look upon with favor.”
“And did He?”
She laughed. “I shall simply say that Mother Superior and I came to same conclusion. It was not meant for me to have a vocation within the Church.”
“So you were a misguided novice?”
“No, I never even made it that far. The sisters took me in at five years of age. By that age, I was already a difficult child. Always into trouble. I seemed to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“I was only allowed to stay because they found me intelligent. The good sisters kept hoping I would come around. That the daydreaming would cease and the mischievous deeds would end.” She grinned. “They never did.”
Ashby took her hand and gave it a friendly squeeze. “I find you perfect the way you are, Marielle.”
“So does her husband. My brother,” a voice said from behind them.
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