Bound to the Warrior. Barbara Phinney

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      Chapter Two

      “Are these guards necessary, Poitiers?” Adrien snapped at the chaplain as his squire returned his sword. He saw no need for soldiers.

      “My men brought your betrothed down here. They needed to drag her here with great force.”

      Adrien couldn’t help but laugh. “Obviously your men require more exercise if two are needed for such a weak task. Have them report to me, and I will train them properly.”

      Behind them, Eudo snickered. The red-faced Poitiers growled, “I’ll handle my men. You’ll soon have your hands full with this Saxon wench. She’s lived a strong life in some castle in Essex not far from your brother’s holdings. Farm stock, no doubt. She’s no timid maid.”

      Eudo slapped his brother’s back, his grin merry as he strolled past. “William wants me to build a keep in Colchester with the rubble left from some pagan temple. I won’t be far. You’ll be able to come next winter, Prado,” he said, using that annoying childhood name. “Mayhap we can celebrate Christmas together, with wives heavy with child?”

      ’Twould do no good for Adrien to rise to his brother’s goad, for the man had no wife yet and was simply mocking him. Adrien took his newly betrothed’s arm again.

      She yanked herself free. “I can walk of my own accord, sir,” she answered in French.

      Irritated by his brother, his king and this woman who apparently knew his mother tongue, Adrien swept his arm sarcastically toward the chapel. “As you wish, my lady. Let us get this unpleasantness over.”

      She pulled up her wimple and followed the chaplain down the corridor. Adrien watched her take her leave, her soft sashay not enough to disguise a slight limp. Had Poitiers’s men caused that? His jaw tightened. For better or for worse, this woman would be his wife and was therefore under his protection.

      At least she was pleasing to the eye. And he was more than a little surprised by her ability to speak French, albeit with a sharp, Saxon accent that seemed in contrast to the smooth, gentle features. But her accent was nowhere near as sharp as her obvious displeasure over their match.

      Give me strong babes that look like you.

      William’s words echoed in his head. But he doubted that this woman, Ediva Dunmow, would open her bedchamber to him, and Adrien refused to bend his pride and insist. He watched the woman walk stiffly behind the chaplain as if she was walking to her death.

      To her death? Insult bristled through him. And despite the interest in her beauty, he had no desire to marry any more than she did. She needn’t act as if all the disadvantage lay on her side. But ’twas far better to obey than to incur the king’s wrath. So he hastened his own steps toward the chapel.

      This would preserve her lands, at least. ’Twould be hard enough for England to accept a Norman king, but if this woman remained on her land, married and settled, there may be some measure of peace for her people. Surely even she would see the logic in that.

      He followed Ediva into the chapel, all the time aware of the soldiers at his heels. But wisely, the armed men kept to the back, propping open the heavy oak door and allowing the wind from the river to dilute the potent odor of burning wax. The old chaplain stopped at the front, offering respect to the altar before turning. He cleared his throat as he opened his small leather-bound book.

      The ceremony was short and in Latin, and Adrien was again surprised to find Ediva completely fluent in yet another language.

      When Poitiers ordered them to seal the nuptials with a kiss, Adrien turned to face his new wife.

      His wife! He’d never considered this day, always expecting to live out his lifespan as a bachelor and a soldier. Now he’d pledged to God that he would devote himself solely to this woman, a stranger not even of his own country.

      And judging by her regal bearing, this woman was in a class far above his. Poitiers’s insult of farm stock was foolish. She was obviously higher in status. Aye, his family had influence with William, but Adrien was happy being only in the king’s service. Would his wife despise him more for his Norman heritage or for his low upbringing?

      Ediva blinked up at him, her arrogance gone and now revealing smoldering, stubborn fear that was, oddly enough, tempered with a slow swallow.

      ’Twas just a kiss ordered by the king through Poitiers. Yet her pale eyes were awash with tears and her lips clenched so tightly together they must have hurt.

      He pulled back his shoulders. He wasn’t in the habit of forcing himself on women.

      “Seal this union, Adrien,” Poitiers growled. “It has the king’s license.”

      Behind him he heard the chink of half-drawn swords hitting mail. Ediva tilted up her СКАЧАТЬ