The Bridegroom by Darby York Page B

words, I fight hard to
attend to the priest’s pronouncements. The weight of my fate nearly
buckles my knees.
    I glance once more at the unyielding countenance of
the black knight who stands straight and motionless beside me. He
already holds himself like a lord. His loose hair, longer than
fashion dictates, bespeaks his disregard for convention.
    Once again, I temper fear with determination, and
draw a breath, turning back to the priest and carefully repeating
the vows when asked. Yet I cannot shake the deeper dread that
settles in my stomach when I think of the coming night and what I
must do to prove my virginity is not easily taken—even by my
bridegroom.
    ****
    With light waning, I retreat with my maid
upstairs to prepare for bed. As I sit brushing my hair, a sudden
commotion erupts on the stairs. I glance up at my maid, whose face
mirrors my perplexity.
    Without comment, the maid strides to the door
and swings it open. “Who goes there?”
    “Water for the lord’s bath.”
    I jump to my feet, toppling a small stool. I
hug my arms to my body, a niggling fear prickling the back of my
neck. Your wife’s hand will help you on the morrow.
    Serving boys burst into the solar, carrying a
large wooden tub and several buckets of steaming water. They set
their burdens near the hearth and wait for instruction.
    I know when he enters the room. His presence
fills the dark solar with a spark that electrifies my senses. I
glance up to see him watching me with shuttered eyes, assessing me
from afar as a falcon scouts its prey.
    “Pour the water into the tub,” he commands.
“Leave one bucket by the fire.” The boys spring to do as they are
bid. “Now get out! Even you,” he says to the maid.
    “I have not finished with her,” I say,
glaring at him in defiance. “My hair needs tending.”
    “I will tend it.” He shuts and bolts the
door. Then he comes toward me. “And you will tend me.”
    Dread fills me. I might as well have been
naked for the cover my thin chemise gives me.
    “Nay!” I defy him. “Tend to your own needs.
Bride I may to be, but I am neither willing, nor eager.”
    I turn away. Hearing him cross the room, I am
unprepared for the way he grabs the fleshy part of my upper arm and
jerks me around. Anger burns in his eyes and something more.
    His gaze leaves my face to scorch my body,
traveling down to my bare toes. “I am your husband. Your chaste
treasure belongs to me, and I will not abide your willfulness.”
    I glance down. My flesh paled white where his
fingers bite into my arm. “And may be your wife, yet I will not
give myself to you.”
    He throws back his head in laughter. “Well
met! I enjoy a challenge.”
    Dropping his hand, leaving me arm suddenly
bereft of warmth, he turns from me to undress. “I will not entreat
you, but you will yield.”
    His threat frightens me. I stare at his back,
watching him strip off his tunic and braes. Soon he stands stark
naked before me, the taut shape of his buttocks testifying to years
in the saddle.
    I swallow. Fascinated by the curve of his
back and his well-muscled shoulders and thighs, I fight the low,
insidious lust inching its way to where I will soon lose my
maidenhead.
    He faces me, and I can not help but gape at
his erect lance ready to do battle. Grinning like a cocky page, he
steps forward and brushes a hand over the top of my head and down
the side of my face to hold my cheek.
    “I will not force you,” he murmurs, his black
eyes growing even darker. “In faith, I have another precious bauble
to give you once I give you this one.”
    I flush to the tips of me toes. I know what
bauble he refers to—his penis thrusting so proudly before him.
    My breath grows labored. The flesh where his
fingers touch my cheek sizzles. I must resist him, for my
honor.
    His gaze entrances me, pulling me in,
mesmerizing me. Swaying, a deep stupor engulfs me. When he bends
his head to kiss me, I let him, drowning in the soft pressure of
his lips.
    He breaks off