“It will be a marvel,” she said softly and he nodded agreement.
“I hope so.”
They settled around the fire, the mood most companionable. Fraser came from tending the horses, some prize cradled in his hands.
“For the bride,” the boy said gruffly, his ears fiery red.
Amaury did not realize immediately what it was, but Isabella caught her breath in delight when Fraser presented it to her.
It was a crown woven of daisies. Isabella bent her head and Fraser colored furiously as he placed it atop her dark hair. Amaury stretched out a finger to straighten it, losing himself in the unexpected sparkle of Isabella’s eyes. There she was again, the beguiling maiden at the dance, and he was charmed by the sight. He smiled at her and she flushed crimson.
“I thank you, sir,” she said to Fraser, who could not manage to make a sound in reply.
“This is Fraser,” Amaury said quietly and Isabella thanked the boy again. This was too much for Fraser, who stammered, bowed, and fled to the company of the palfreys.
“All hail the bride,” called Luc and the rest of the company cheered.
Isabella protested when she realized she occupied the only chair.
“And who better to be queen of the company this night?” Amaury asked.
Philip came with a bowl of hot water and a napkin to wash the lady’s hands, and he had even located a measure of rose water to sprinkle over her fingers.
“I feel like a queen,” she said.
“And so should the Lady of Montvieux,” Amaury declared.
Thierry presented a bowl of stew to her. Isabella seemed to realize immediately how few bowls they possessed, but Amaury crouched down to sit at her feet.
“We eat in turns,” he informed her easily. “For there is no rush and on this night, no one will go hungry. My lady, let us honor you.”
She seemed to be at a loss for words. He watched her blink quickly, as if dismissing tears and he hoped they were joyous ones. Then she plucked a piece of meat from the stew and presented it to him between her finger and thumb, as if they were sharing a trencher at the king’s own table. Amaury smiled and ate the meat from her hand with undisguised pleasure.
Philip offered the water and cloth to wash his own hands, and Amaury did as much, then reciprocated, offering Isabella the finest piece of meat he could see. His fellows cheered and his ring shone on her hand. Her coronet of daisies made her look both innocent and alluring. Unable to look away, he watched her catch her breath.
“And so we are wed,” she murmured for his ears alone, as if she could not believe as much.
“And so we are wed,” he replied with satisfaction. He smiled, realizing that his contentment grew with every moment in this lady’s company, and he could imagine no better portent for their shared future. Isabella lowered her gaze demurely, then offered him another bite of stew. Truly, Amaury de Montvieux had no complaints with his circumstance on this night.
He would ensure that his lady did not either.
CHAPTER 4
The stew was delicious and the company amiable, but that could not fully explain Isabella’s lightness of heart. She felt at ease amongst the men, who clearly knew each other well, and gave credit for that to her new husband. The knights jested with each other in the manner of old friends, and the boys were quick to perform their duties. There was discipline in this small company and a mutual respect that she could only admire.
She could find no fault with her spouse. Amaury was as gallant as she could hope, which was of greater import than how fine his appearance might be. She dared to believe that they began as they would continue, that he would always treat her with such courtesy, that she might be happier wed than she had been all her life thus far.
Isabella willfully silenced the doubting voice in her thoughts. If faith made the result, she would believe – and she might well have the happy match she desired. Amaury laughed at some jest made by one of the knights and she watched him, her heart fluttering that he should be her lord husband. He had conjured a magical night from little at all and she felt fortunate, as sherarely did. That he had done as much to please her, to give her a memory to savor, made her heart glow.
When the sun vanished behind the distant trees, Amaury sent Philip to the tent. The boy returned with a cloak of heavy wool, one of deepest blue with a line of fleur de lis embroidered around the hem. It was lined with pale fur that shone in the light of the fire as Amaury swirled it around.
She thought he meant to don it but he ordered her to stand up, then swept the cloak around her, winking at her as he fastened the clasp at the neck. She could smell his skin upon it and was immediately surrounded by welcome warmth. She parted her lips to protest and found his fingertip across them. “Remember: my lady wife is queen at Montvieux,” he whispered, a glow in his eyes, and her heart leapt for her throat yet again.
Isabella heartily wished that she knew better what she might expect later this night. The uncertainty left her unable to think of anything to say. The boys cleaned up after the meal, then went to ensure that the horses had enough water. Luc carried pots to the river, followed by two of the boys, and Thierry kicked the embers of the fire to life again.
She was alone with Amaury, which should not have been so troubling. It seemed to Isabella though that the silence between them was awkward, and she wanted nothing to mar this evening.
“I am sorry that your father died,” she said finally. She watched as Amaury glanced toward her, his expression turning rueful.