Wedding Page 12

  Eventually, inevitably, like coming down from a high, anxiety began to seep into my brain. Dominic danced once or twice more with me, but didn’t hover or seem especially eager for my company. I could hardly blame him after my coldness, but it put the lie to his earlier ardor. And it was Midsummer. If I did not encourage him, there were plenty that would, and he was not the sort of man to spend festival night alone with his regrets. What had I done?

  CHAPTER 7

  As the afternoon darkened slowly into evening the music changed just as subtly, offering progressively fewer reels and circles, until it was all couples dances. At some predetermined point, those too young for the later phase of the festival were sent upstairs to bed. The elderly and unwell, and others not up to the night’s revelry had been leaving on their own, some gratefully, some wistfully. The tempo and volume of the music picked up; people whooped and clapped as they danced, stomping and gyrating in provocative poses.

  A man cleared his throat above me and I looked up. “My lady,” Ranulf said in his gruff voice, “would you do me the honor—”

  I was so taken by surprise that I accepted. This was an athletic dance for mixed couples, the man lifting the woman high in the air with both hands around her waist every few steps. Skirts rose and fell, legs were revealed up to the thigh and beyond. Ranulf handled me expertly, aware of my inexperience and my pregnancy, but confident in his strength. If I had known what kind of dance this was I would have declined. But I was caught up in it despite myself, the feel of his hard, callused hands on me, the air under my skirts, my bare legs showing, all arousing me as intended.

  Near the end, as Ranulf held me aloft, he ducked his head under my ballooning skirts, his breath blowing between my naked thighs. From my momentary vantage point above the crowd, I saw Dominic standing on the sidelines, incapable of performing this dance. He gave me a wink, raising his glass in ironic congratulations. I almost ran from the dance floor in panic but for Ranulf’s firm hand that set me down on my feet and spun me around for the final steps. The music ended and he bowed. His face near mine, he whispered, “I would ask you for later, my lady, but it’s my lord’s night tonight, and he’s earned it.”

  My heart pounded as if to burst out of my chest and I stumbled toward the side of the room, searching for a seat. Everywhere I looked was a tableau of sexual posturing—men with shirts open at the neck, hips thrust forward, women lifting skirts above the knees to show off intricate footwork, breasts revealed in low-cut dresses, hair coming loose, whipping around faces and necks in the movement of the dance. Another hand touched my waist and I shrieked.

  “Mistress! What’s wrong?” It was Stefan.

  I sighed with relief. “Nothing,” I said. “I’m just not accustomed to these festivals.”

  “Me neither,” he said. “It’s my first Midsummer as a man. Last year I was sent to bed with the children.”

  The group phase of the evening was reaching its natural end. Stefan and I stood side by side, watching as the formation of the room changed. The early dances had allowed us to survey the field. Now, in these very different dances, some lively, others deliberately slow, people were making their decisions for the night.

  Some choices had already been made. Clara Galloway and Alaric, our falconer, had discovered an instant affinity, as I had seen. With their cultivated manner and elegant bearing, they seemed a natural pair, although she topped him by a head. It was no surprise that they had left the hall earlier and gone upstairs to find a free bedroom. Lucretia Ladakh was sitting out this dance, leaning back in pleasure as Marcin, the tenant farmer, kissed and wooed her. They, too, made an attractive couple, she with her lush, wide body and beautiful gray eyes, he with a farmer’s muscular solidity and a keen intelligence in his ruddy face. Sir Nicholas had found a willing partner in Magali, and was wallowing delightedly in her buxom embraces.

  Dance with me, Stefan thought to me. Really dance with me. He had not taken his hand from my waist all this time, and the touch was excruciating, like a finger just brushing the tip of the clitoris, or lips and tongue teasing a nipple. He wasn’t actually thinking these acts, nor was I intentionally responding; it was more the nature of our communion, our connection with Dominic and the heightened sexual mood of the evening. Dominic’s companion could not touch me innocently on this night; there was too great a bond between us.

  I understood Stefan’s thoughts. Once I was ’Gravina Aranyi, I would live cloistered, in purdah. In the mountains women were kept less strictly than in the southern lands, but no lord gave his wife such freedom as to risk compromising his own honor. I would be forbidden from being alone with a man under any circumstances. As Dominic’s companion, Stefan would be most affected, living in the same house and having always to be careful. As Dominic’s wife, I would presumably find my greatest temptation in a beautiful young man who was always available. This was a last chance for us to be together lawfully, assuming Stefan’s father didn’t come storming over to separate us by force.

  The music started up again, a slower tune signaling that the dancing was soon to end. Stefan’s arm drew me close before I could make up my mind. As if to forestall any second thoughts, he wrapped both arms around me, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe, my breasts mashed against his chest. He was wearing only a light shirt for the dancing, and he wiggled a little to enjoy the feeling of my nipples stiffening through the thin material. Our one dance movement consisted of shuffling our feet over a tiny area of the floor. We were a good match in height; I could rest my head on his shoulder very comfortably. His erection pushed against my belly, but it was somehow not urgent, not really for me, and I accepted it without acknowledgement. His hands moved lower, caressing my ass through the soft silk and velvet.

  A hand fell on Stefan’s shoulder as the music ended, a deep voice said, “That’s enough of that.” Dominic pulled us apart, scooping Stefan into an embrace with his right hand. As Stefan fell against him, Dominic was able to angle his left palm so that he cupped the boy’s erection. Their bodies pressed close, forming a tight seal around it. Another slow dance began immediately, and Dominic held Stefan in it the entire time, Stefan’s head lying on Dominic’s shoulder only because Dominic stooped just enough to make it possible, something he had not done for me.

  I ran back to my chair at the high table and sat down before anyone else could approach. My dress clung to me too tightly, damp with sweat. In front of me couples swayed and fondled each other, hands snaking under skirts and down necks, unbuttoning breeches and reaching in, kneading and caressing and stroking. Occasionally a couple would run off the floor, heading for the stairs. Some of the women enjoyed pretending to be unwilling, but none of them were; nobody was coerced into pairing off. It all came through to my mind in my unshielded, open state. The suppressed desires that had simmered for six months, and the sudden passions that had been discovered only after dinner—all were to be satisfied on this special night.

  A tall woman, graceful and wild, led Josh away outside. Naomi had claimed the seer this night, or he had called to her, had seemed to pursue her for dancing. I had noticed her during the feast, flitting from one table to the next, not eating the entire meal in one place, but landing here for some meat, there for some bread, yet a third place for wine and fruit. She had been in the festival mood early, and from her first dance with Josh she had known what she wanted, dancing with others for form’s sake, but always with her eye on him, like a cat with a toy it is too proud to play with but must guard to keep others from stealing. She would not spend this beautiful, warm night indoors, but with her chosen partner in tow headed for the soft ground between the inner and outer walls.

  Eleonora had seemed pleased with her husband’s intention, but had left the hall by this time, carried off by Ranulf, his grizzled head nuzzling her neck, his strong arms lifting her slim body. They went upstairs; he would not subject Lady Eleonora to the rough outdoors. Her soft laughter and cooing sighs as Ranulf kissed the tops of her breasts had sent shiver
s of lust down my spine from her strong gift, uncurbed on this night.

  I wasn’t sure what the etiquette was. I had seen that married couples, while not absolutely forbidden to spend the night together, were discouraged from it. This was a rare night of freedom—why waste it on the person you can have all year? But what about betrothed couples? What about Stefan?

  Katrina ran laughing toward the stairs, pursued by Berend and Myron Ladakh. Magali sat on Sir Nicholas’s lap. As I watched, they took their hands out from inside each other’s clothes just long enough to stand up, reinsert their hands, and walk awkwardly in the same direction as the other couples. Sir Karl Ormonde, severe and grave before, was almost unrecognizable, laughing as he dragged a sturdy, curvaceous young woman named Isobel toward the door. A local widow with two boys, she had been recommended by Magali as a nursemaid when my child was born. Isobel too was laughing, never missing the opportunity to return kiss for kiss and touch for touch as she parried Sir Karl’s hands that grabbed and squeezed. Luisa Ormonde, respectable as ever, walked sedately to the stairs, arm in arm with Harald, Magali’s brawny husband, permitting herself one openmouthed kiss along the way.

  Those still dancing were entwined, barely moving; the music was soft and low. Dominic and Stefan stood still as a song ended, locked in a kiss that began gently, then intensified into a long, bruising, swooning prelude to love. As one last tune began they ended their kiss, smiled into each other’s eyes and walked, Dominic’s good arm draped over Stefan’s shoulders, Stefan’s arm encircling Dominic’s slim hips, to the door.

  A few singles sat on the benches or stood watching the dancing. Only the unhappy souls who had missed their first choice and were unsatisfied with the dregs that remained stayed in the hall in desperation. Like me. I had rejected my first choice, my only choice; he was with his companion now, although he had made it clear to me early on that I was his first choice tonight.

  There was no point in sitting here any longer. As at La Sapienza, I would spend festival night alone. And if I shocked Dominic a second time, it was just as well. He had done worse to me, twisting my guts with sympathy for his terrible wound, making me sick with worry over his pathetic condition, only to act as if little was really wrong when he came home. And then to learn he had brought it on himself!

  Really, I decided, I was better off not marrying such a crazy person. Tonight’s announcement, the glass comb and the entire last two months notwithstanding, in the morning I would put an end to my masquerade. I would have to make some arrangement for the child, but once she was born, Lady Amalie would disappear, and Amelia Herzog would return to Eclipsia City, to her old job in the Terran Sector or whatever was available, thinking up some excuse to offer to her employers for her long absence. A wave of nausea overwhelmed me; I thought I was going to barf all over the high table, sicker than if I had drunk as much as most of the guests. I leaned on my chair and swallowed repeatedly. The worst of it passed, and I walked unsteadily to the door.

  I made my way through the congestion in the entrance and started up the main staircase. As I reached the third step someone behind me lifted my hair and the betrothal ornament, and kissed the forbidden back of my neck. Even if my flesh hadn’t turned to flaming jelly at his touch, I would know who this was—Midsummer or not, I felt sure only Dominic was entitled to take such a liberty with his betrothed. “Going to bed without me?” he asked. His voice sounded strange, almost giddy.

  “Why not?” I said. “It’s Midsummer. Surely you don’t want to waste this night on me.” I tried to sound cold and dignified, heard my voice shake, turning shrill.

  “Beloved,” he said, “how can you—” He broke off, seeing in my mind my cold fury and my hot passion for him as intertwined as any of the coupling pairs in the rooms above. Amalie, he thought to me, it was all I could think of, every day I was away, that at Midsummer we would be together.

  He was making love to me with his crypta, as we had had to do at La Sapienza, only now we were close enough to touch. I nearly keeled over from the warring sensations within me, anger and desire, love and fear. “What about Stefan?” I asked.

  “Stefan is very happily occupied,” Dominic said, “with that overworked young steward of mine, demonstrating how two cocks can be sucked simultaneously.” His hand massaged the back of my neck, hot and sweaty under the hair.

  “Berend left with Katrina,” I said. “My maid.”

  Dominic’s hand moved around to the front of my neck and began a slow descent. “Your maid,” he said, “is of no interest to me. But if it makes you happy, I can tell you she is at this moment being well and thoroughly fucked by Myron Ladakh.” Dominic’s fingers had worked their way in between my skin and the lace that covered it, and my body leaped at his caress, pushing my breast neatly into his palm. Dominic closed his hand, squeezing as if testing for ripeness. “That poor boy’s been walking around with a hard-on ever since his wife was in her eighth month,” he said of young Lord Ladakh, shaking his head over Christian notions of sexual fidelity. “About time he got a chance to sheathe that sword.”

  With Dominic’s hand on me I had no control over my thoughts. We fell further into an awkward communion, and Dominic learned my last, nausea-inducing decision. His face went dead white, then pale green. He took his hand from me to grasp the banister, hanging his head and gagging. Couples passed us incuriously, hurrying upstairs. Not a few of them were drunk to sickness; I could hear people throwing up in the courtyard. There was nothing unusual in Dominic’s behavior, except to me, who knew he was never sick.

  Somehow Dominic kept his dinner down. Clutching the railing, he lowered himself to sit on a step and hung his head between his knees. I leaned over him to hear his whispered words. “You couldn’t do such a thing, Amalie.” He lifted his head, his eyes with their inner lids lowered, glassy and empty. His hand reached for mine, the fingers seizing me like talons, nails digging into my flesh. “Even if you could leave me,” he said, “surely you would not abandon your child?”

  I looked around helplessly. One couple, in too great a hurry to make it all the way up the stairs, stopped on the landing. Wedging the woman into the corner, the man hiked her skirts above her hips as she clutched her partner’s shoulders and locked her ankles around his waist. People sat on the steps, kissing and fondling. There was no more music, only the breathy, sighing sounds of sex. I pried myself loose from Dominic’s grip and flexed my numbed fingers. “Come on, then,” I said, “if you can, and explain to me why I should stay.”

  Standing three steps above, I slowly tugged him upright and braced him as he swayed. After a moment of deep breathing, he was able to climb the stairs to the floor of bedrooms, and I let him lead me along the corridor, pushing his way past groping couples, fending off the occasional reaching hand that would pull one or both of us into a group. He stopped outside a door to a bedroom, not mine. “That’s the wrong room,” I said.

  “No, my lady wife,” he said. “It is the right room for us.” He opened the door, led me in and sat down on the bed, pulling me along to sit beside him. It was a beautiful room, spare and opulent at once, with an enormous high bed, a few pieces of heavy, burnished wood furniture and sumptuous wall hangings depicting naked, fleshy goddesses. I noticed all this because I wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t give him the opportunity to form full communion and weaken my resolve.

  He loomed over me where we sat, a tall, hot presence that seemed to fill the entire large room. I looked up, compelled by the force of his thoughts. His face had a faraway look, as if he were seeing into the future, or perhaps the past. He was still recovering from the sickness that our communion had brought on, festival merriment that had congealed to icy terror, slowly melting back to warm love. His arm tightened around my waist, his face lowered to mine for a kiss.

  I pulled away. “I can’t believe this,” I said, forced to speak, to make some sense of things. “Before you left, you were afraid to touch me, terrified of hurting me, because of what the telepathic weapon did to
our communion. Now you’ve been wounded by that weapon, not just influenced but damaged. It must have messed up your mind along with your arm, if you think you can announce some phony betrothal and not say one meaningful word, and then take me to bed for Midsummer night.”

  “Yes,” he said, “the most important night of the whole year. After being so long apart, we should spend it with each other.” He said nothing else. He touched the front of my dress where my nipples pushed against the lace, rubbed his thumb over one, back and forth, around in circles. I sat and cried silently, nearly choking on my tears and the arousal that would have had me flat on my back with my legs in the air but for the anger that held me unmoving, stern and upright.

  “Stop it,” I said when I could stand it no longer. He took his hand away the instant the words left my mouth.

  “I will do nothing you do not want,” he said. “You must tell me what you want.”

  “You can’t do what I want,” I said. “I want you to be sane. I want you to not get yourself killed.” My voice rose in a wail. “I want you to have sense enough that I don’t have to tell you these things.”

  “Oh,” Dominic said, “you ask a great deal of a husband. But I have done two of those three.” At my skeptical expression he said, “I didn’t kill myself, and you really don’t have to tell me these things.” He laughed in my ear, low and rumbling. “As for the first, I’m sorry, but if it’s sanity you want Aranyi is not the place to look.”

  He unlaced his shirt with his right hand, wriggled his left arm free and tugged the shirt over his head, then pulled off the glove that covered his left hand. The flesh was white and hairless, smooth but not atrophied, only a little softened from its weeks of disuse. There were no scars or any indication that he had been burned. He stood up and began to work on the buttons of his fly.