Linda Skye – A Pleasurable Shame (страница 2)

And, Giselle found herself thinking, reckless and impulsive young men of any calibre might be easily swayed.

Her trembling ceased. Although she didn’t yet know how, Giselle was sure she could turn this unfortunate event to her advantage. But before she could trace that path any further, her thoughts were interrupted by her mother’s cry of dismay.

“Why?” her mother asked with a low wail. “Why is it that monster of a man? He will destroy our girl, Bernard.”

Her father rose tiredly and walked to where Giselle sat in the dust. He squatted down to lift her head with his large, rough hands, brushing away the remnants of her warm tears with his calloused thumbs.

“Ma fille,” he said, his tone pained. “Forgive me, but there is nothing to be done but obey. Our lord’s command is absolute.”

“I understand,” Giselle answered, her voice quiet.

“Then, we will eat,” her father announced. “And this evening you will be presented to your lord after he has supped.”

The small family sat at their tired old table. Giselle ladled out portions of thick pottage, and they ate in silence, minds heavy with what was to come. When they were scraping out the final sips of soup from the bottom of their bowls, a loud voice shouted at her father from outside. Bernard stood and pushed past the door to greet their bellowing guest.

Sounds of a heated argument quickly escalated, and her mother edged closer to the door, perching close to the opening to listen in on the quarrel. Giselle rose just as the crescendo of shouting peaked—and then it immediately died out as her father pushed his way back into their house. Through the square of twilight, Giselle saw a man stomp away angrily, cursing all the way.

“That was Henri,” Bernard said, calmly ignoring his wife and daughter’s twinned expressions of bewilderment.

“What did he say?” her mother asked worriedly.

“Never you mind,” Bernard said with a loud exhalation of breath. “We can only hope that he will have a change of heart once his anger is spent.”

Giselle frowned. If Henri had already decided to abandon her, it could drive her parents to poverty’s door. She needed to find a way to turn her family’s fortunes—and quickly.

“Come now,” her father said, beckoning to her with a wave. “We must go to the chateau. Our lords are expecting to see you.”

Without a word, Giselle rose to follow her father. As they began to weave their way down the beaten path to the manor house, her mother suddenly called out to them. Giselle turned to see her mother jogging toward them. She hooked her arm in her daughter’s and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“I will go with you,” her mother panted. “So that you know that you do not stand alone.”

Giselle smiled gratefully at both her parents before they resumed their resolute march toward the looming shadow of the chateau. The walk seemed much too short, and soon they stood at the manor house gates. The evening watchmen leered at Giselle as she passed, and she huddled closer to her parents. They stopped at the great wooden doors to the great hall, where an austere older woman stood waiting.

“You are the peasant girl that Seigneur Eustache requested?” she asked, her tone nasal and astringent.

“Yes,” Giselle’s father answered for her.

“Good. I am Madame Lessard.”

The stone-faced woman looked Giselle up and down and then sighed.

“Follow me,” she said, taking her by the arm while gesturing for her parents to stay where they stood. “The lords are almost ready to receive you.”

Giselle shuffled alongside the woman, casting timid glances in every direction. She had never before set foot in the chateau, and its stone and glass grandeur stunned her. She was so amazed that she almost bumped right into her guide’s back when she stopped abruptly.

“Wait here, girl,” Madame Lessard told her curtly as she disappeared into the dining hall.

Giselle could hear the sounds of raucous laughter echoing off the stone walls, and her heart began to race in anticipation. Soon, she would come face-to-face with the man who would take pleasure in her body, a man who held absolute sway over the course of her life.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Madame Lessard returned, her face a blank mask.

“Come,” she instructed firmly.

Giselle followed her obediently into the dining hall, instantly aware of the hush that fell over the diners. Her face grew hot as she felt their curious stares alight on her slight form, and she struggled to concentrate on putting one foot ahead of the other. She stopped when Madame Lessard stopped, her eyes glued to the stone floor.

“Mes seigneurs,” Madame Lessard intoned. “This is the girl requested by Seigneur Eustache.”

Giselle felt herself freeze as silence reigned for a long moment of scrutiny.

“So this is the peasant you demanded to have in your bed, Eustache,” an authoritative voice boomed.

“Yes, father,” Eustache answered in a low, deep voice that rumbled in his chest.

“And why is this commoner worth such pains?”

Giselle heard the creak of a wooden bench as someone stood. Then, there were the echoing sounds of heavy footfalls against the stone floor. Large boots filled her field of vision, and she fought the urge to flinch away. He was so close that she could feel the heat from his body.

“Raise your head, girl,” came the authoritative command.

Giselle slowly lifted her chin, her eyes downcast. A rippling gasp of surprise spread throughout the room.

“Didn’t I tell you, brother?” said Alphonse, the younger of the two brothers, leaning back in his chair. “Isn’t this peasant an uncommon beauty?”

Eustache grunted his approval, his icy blue eyes tracing the exquisite lines of the slender peasant woman’s face as he slowly paced around her in a circle. The rumours about her beauty had not been exaggerated. Indeed, she was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on. Long, dark curls had escaped her woollen cowl and cascaded over her slim shoulders, framing a perfectly oval face. Her skin was lightly bronzed by the sun, a healthy glow brightened her cheeks and her thick, dark lashes fluttered over delicate cheekbones.

“A fine sight, indeed, my son,” the current lord of the manor admitted. “But also nothing but a peasant beneath your station.”

Eustache turned on his heel to face his father.

“And?” Eustache demanded, voice clipped.

Alphonse chuckled, slapping his open palm onto their table.

“Let him be, father,” the younger brother said, still laughing. “Eustache is entitled to enjoy the carnal rights of a lord. Besides, he is so tightly wound that even the other nobles are half afraid of him.”

Eustache stifled an annoyed growl. The other nobles could shove off as far as he was concerned. In fact, they were right to be afraid of him. For most of his life, he had known nothing but the mud and blood of battle, charging forward with his sword and cleaving through enemy after enemy. It was about the only thing he was good at. Frivolous noblemen and women annoyed him, and their prattling seemed worse to him than the cold, pelting rain on a February day in England.

“What of it?” Eustache growled in a grating snarl. “I do not care what the other nobles—or even you—think of me.”

Giselle glanced up in surprise at his back, and his towering girth filled her sight. Awed, she took in his trim waist and broad shoulders. Her chest tightened as she continued to gaze up at him, startled by his sheer size. Though both of the lord’s sons were large men, they looked nothing alike. While Alphonse’s weight seemed to sink to his middle so that he resembled an overripe pear, Eustache carried his muscular bulk in his shoulders and chest. He was clearly a hardened man who exuded raw power with every movement of his hulking frame.

Then he turned, and his icy blue eyes were sharply trained on her.

She froze, suddenly realising that she was at the centre of his attention. Immediately drawn into his piercing gaze, her breathing quickened and her heart began to pound. He was ruggedly handsome, and he had thick, golden hair that glinted in the light and a strong, square jaw that was covered in the barest hint of stubble. As he towered over her with contemplative eyes, she felt something warm pool in her belly—an unknown longing that burned low and sent a shiver up her spine.

“Your name, girl,” he demanded.

“I am Giselle, mon seigneur,” she whispered softly, heart hammering.

Eustache placed a finger under her chin to tilt her face upward. Her eyes were pale and greyish blue, the colour of the deepest part of the channel waters on a sunny summer’s day. Her lush, plump lips parted slowly in surprise, and one corner of his mouth twitched upward in the barest hint of a predatory smirk.

“Well now, Giselle,” Eustache told her, leaning in so that his warm breath dusted her face, “we will meet again on the eve of your wedding day.”

Caught in his commanding stare, Giselle could only stare back in mute awe. But even so captivated, she suddenly knew what she had to do. As the lord ran the tip of his finger down the column of her throat to her collarbone, she shivered involuntarily. But Giselle fearlessly held his lusty gaze with her own, her plan taking root.