"My lord, this is not the time to be confessing your . . . er . . . oddities," she said in a strained voice. "We all have our flaws. Now, please tell me what I am to . . ." Her gaze was still fixed on the rather tiny appendage as she spoke, so when it started suddenly to grow, the words stuck in her mouth and she watched with renewed fascination. As far as she knew, the village girl's arm did not grow. What an odd ability her husband had!
"He's dismounting!" someone-- Emma suspected it was Mavis-- screeched.
"Have you done the deed?!" Rolfe roared, panic edging his voice.
"My lord?" Emma tore her gaze to her husband's face.
"Lie down," Amaury instructed grimly, hope rising up in him again as the simple act of her eyes on his body sent it back into action.
Emma immediately dropped back on the bed, gasping in shock when he suddenly shifted to lie atop her, his sprouting third leg pressing against her inner thigh.
"Is this the consummating?" she asked anxiously, for while it was a bit more difficult breathing with him atop her, there really was no pain and she was sure he had said--
"Not yet," Amaury muttered grimly. "Open your legs."
"Open my . . . ?" Her expression was bewildered.
"He's at the castle door!" came the half-hiss, half-whisper as the castle seemed to shudder under the impact of that door slamming open. Then there came a rustling as everyone rushed back down the stairs.
"My lady . . ."
"Aye."
"I am sorry."
"Is it done?"
Amaury stared down into her anxious face, and had to wonder how just having her peer at his manhood had made it stand proud in seconds. That had been unexpected. It had also saved them, or was about to, he thought grimly as a man's bellows moved up the stairway drawing closer to the room.
"I am sorry," he repeated, once again apologizing for the pain he was about to cause and thrust forward.
Emma's cry of startled pain ended on shocked dismay as the bedroom door suddenly burst open.
Chapter 3
THE population of the entire world appeared to stand in that open doorway, Emma thought faintly. At least the population of her small world. Lord Bertrand, the bishop, her cousin Rolfe, Lord Blake, Lord Amaury's men, and every single servant of the keep-- including those who had been sent out on watch-- appeared to be at the door to that room. Every single one of them was vying to see the couple on the bed. Eager to assure themselves that the deed had been done and they were safe from the man standing panting in the doorway, exhaustion and defeat struggling on his face as he stared at the entwined couple through the bed curtains she had thoughtlessly left wide open on crawling into bed.
There was a heartbeat of time where everyone simply froze. Then Amaury suddenly moved. Leaping from atop her, off the bed, and sweeping the blankets up to cover her in one fluid movement, he snatched his sword from where it leaned against the wall and turned to face the intruders, completely and gloriously nude.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Emma glanced sharply at him. Despite the fact that he had been more than aware of the events occurring, he was giving a most credible portrayal of a groom unexpectedly interrupted on his wedding eve. She took a moment to marvel at his ability, then glanced toward Bertrand.
Her memory had not served her well. While she had known that Fulk and his cousin had been of a similar size and were both smaller than Amaury, she had not realized by quite how much. Good Lord, the man looked like a boy before her new husband. It did not help that Blake and her cousin Rolfe crowded the doorway behind him, towering over him by a good head. He was like a dwarf amid a room of giants. A very diminutive, fair-haired dwarf. There was not a bit of bulk on his frame, and while his features were handsome, they were soft and weak next to the harsh planes and angles of her new husband. There was no doubt in Emma's mind that should there be a battle, Bertrand would not fare well against Amaury de Aneford. That being the case, she was a bit surprised when the man suddenly drew himself up to announce, "I come from the king."
When Amaury merely raised an eyebrow, the bishop pushed his way through the crowd to the front of the onlookers.
"Our apologies, my Lord Amaury," the older man said smoothly, none of his earlier panic evident in his voice. "As Lord Bertrand says, he comes with a letter from the king stating that should the wedding not already be consummated, it should be made null. However we can see--"
"We can see no such thing." There was a note of panic in Bertrand's voice now. "All we saw was them embracing. They have not consummated the marriage. 'Tis null."
Amaury allowed the tip of his sword to drop to the floor, and he leaned on it in a seemingly relaxed manner. "I beg to differ with you, my lord. Unlike your cousin, I did not dally. This marriage is well and truly consummated."
Bertrand's face twisted briefly in defeat mingled with weariness as he glanced to where Emma sat wide-eyed on the bed, the bed linens clutched to her chest. Then he smiled suddenly. "Prove it."
Emma blinked in confusion as all eyes turned to her, wondering how they were to prove it. Were they truly expected to perform that atrociously painful act again? And in front of them? Again? For they had certainly been well and truly joined when everyone had burst into the room. At least she thought they had.
Peering at the bed, Amaury knew at once the problem. The bedclothes were black . . . as was everything else in this bloody castle. Blood would show on white sheets, but doubtless would not on black.
"True, the sheets would not show," Rolfe said confidently, stepping up beside the bishop now as he too caught the drift of Bertrand's thoughts. "Howbeit, Amaury carries the proof himself."
All eyes, including Emma's, now turned to Amaury and dropped to that odd appendage she had noticed earlier. At the sudden unexpected attention, the appendage, which had remained tall and proud throughout, suddenly shriveled under the weight of so many eyes. But that was not what made Emma gasp. It was the blood that covered the member. Amaury had hurt himself. She glanced worriedly up to his face to find that, despite his injury, he was suddenly smiling.
Lifting the tip of his sword off the floor once more, Amaury took a menacing step forward. "If one and all are quite satisfied that I accomplished what Lord Fulk obviously neglected to do, my lady and I would enjoy some privacy," he said pointedly.
"Of course, my lord," the bishop murmured, and with the help of Sir Rolfe, managed to urge the shocked Lord Bertrand out of the room. Turning back at the door, Rolfe paused long enough to give his cousin a cheerful wink, then tugged the door closed.
Amaury sighed his relief and set his sword back to lean against the wall, then turned reluctantly to the bed, only to see that it was now empty.
Eyebrows rising, he glanced sharply around the room to find his wife standing naked by the washstand. She apparently had not wasted a moment in hopping out of the bed once the door had closed. He could hardly blame her after the painful fiasco she had just endured. No doubt she would never wish to repeat the act again, he thought glumly, and sank onto the side of the bed. Face dropping into his open hands, he propped his elbows on his knees and sighed wearily.
"My lord?" Her cool hand on his knee brought Amaury's head up swiftly. "If I might?" she said quietly, carefully avoiding looking at his manhood, even as she urged his legs apart.
"What?" Amaury asked uncertainly, his legs spreading automatically, but her next move explained all as she began to bathe his stained manhood.
"You have injured yourself," she said quietly. "It must have occurred during the . . ."
"Joining," Amaury finished for her, catching her hands in his own as he felt himself stir under her gentle touch. "My Lady--"
"Emma."
"Emma?"
"Aye, Emma," she said simply. " 'Tis my name."
"Oh, aye. Emma. Here." He urged her up off the floor to sit on the bed beside him, smiling wryly when she suddenly noticed her nudity, blushed, and drew the bedclothes up around her shoulders to hide herself.
"We should tend to your wound," she said uncomfortably when he continued to simply smile at her, then regretted her words when that smile faltered.
"But I am not the one injured." Careless of his nudity, he stood and urged Emma's legs up on to the bed so that she was lying down again. "I fear 'tis you who has been injured," he informed her.
"Me?" She looked startled at that. "But you are the one bleeding."
"Nay." He shook his head and gently drew the sheets away to reveal her body again. " 'Tis you."
Emma glanced down when he gestured, and noticed with surprise the blood on the inside of her legs. Sitting up abruptly, she stared at herself in horror. It was not her woman's time. She should not be bleeding, and yet she was . . . from inside.
"Are you not still in pain from the joining?"
"Aye, but I have been since . . . I thought . . ." Putting her hand to her head as the room began to spin around her, she fell back on the bed with a gasp. "Am I dying?"
"Nay, my lady," he said reassuringly, then frowned at her pallor. "You've turned quite white."
"I fear I do not handle the sight of blood well," Emma confessed faintly.
Amaury's eyebrows rose at that. "You did not react so to the blood on me."
"Aye, nay. Well, but then I did not know it was mine own."
"Oh . . . aye," Amaury said wryly. Bending, he retrieved the cloth she had used on him, wrung it out, and tended to her even as she had done for him.
Face going from white to red, Emma grabbed at his hands. "Nay, I . . ." she began with embarrassment, falling silent when her new husband turned a determined look on her.
"I am your husband," was all he said, and it was enough. Emma released his hands and lay back, suffering his gentleness in silent embarrassment.
"Besides, 'tis no more than you did for me," he added as he finished cleaning away the blood and tossed the cloth back into the bowl. "Rest now."