Emma was relieved to leave him to it, for she found it hard to keep to a rhythm as he did and found that rather than increase her own pleasure she had dampened it somewhat. She was just beginning to think she had ruined everything with her inept fumblings, when he suddenly reached a hand down between them to stimulate her again.
Amaury grunted as his wife began moaning and crying again. For a few moments there she had gone still and silent, her expression showing uncertainty and disappointment. Oddly enough, rather than please him, that had seemed to affect his own pleasure, reducing it a great deal. Against his own better instincts, he had then begun to stimulate her again. Now she was bucking and sobbing his name like he was God. It made him feel damn good. . . . and it was just the trick for his flagging desires. At this rate, he could ride her all night, he thought and silently thanked a fool named Fulk.
"Good morning, my lords. You both look fit on this fine day."
Blake couldn't help but return Emma's bright smile as she breezed by on her way to the kitchens. "She appears in good cheer this morn."
"Aye," Amaury muttered glumly.
Blake's eyebrows rose as he watched him slam his tankard down on the table. "Is aught amiss?"
"Nay." He raised his tankard, slammed it down again, then suddenly turned to his friend. "Our wedding night was rushed and painful for her."
Blake's eyebrows rose, but he nodded solemnly. "There was much pressure."
"Aye," Amaury growled, swilling some more ale before punishing the table with his mug once more. "I left off approaching her after that because of it. I thought to give her time to adjust and to allow the memory of the ordeal to fade."
"Hmm." Blake was almost afraid to speak and inadvertently bring an end to this conversation. It was becoming most interesting.
"Then last night . . ." Amaury hesitated and frowned.
"Ah," Blake murmured delicately with a nod, allowing a moment to pass before glancing again at his friend. "I take it by her demeanor today that it could be considered a success?"
Amaury grimaced. "She has been smiling ever since. 'Tis indecent."
Blake burst out laughing at the rancor in his friend's voice, then slapped him on the back. "Truly, friend, I wish I had your problems. This fine estate. No parents or in-laws to interfere . . . well, except for Lord Rolfe, of course. And a wife who enjoys bedding you. 'Tis a sin for any man to be so lucky."
Amaury gave a disgruntled shrug. "But ladies are not supposed to enjoy the bedding," he complained, and Blake sighed.
"Do you not enjoy her?"
Amaury peered at him as though he thought he were mad.
"And does her pleasure take away from yours?" Blake asked patiently, smiling slightly at the gleam that suddenly entered his friend's eyes.
"Nay. In truth it fires me up."
"Then there is naught to worry about," he said simply.
Amaury glowered again. "But ladies are not supposed to enjoy--"
"Aye, aye," Blake said impatiently. "I have heard the priests' claims that ladies forbear and all that. But priests are just men, and men have been wrong afore. Are you going to sit about complaining about this, or enjoy your good fortune?"
"Both, I think," he admitted honestly, and Blake rolled his eyes.
"Then complain to someone else. I do not have the time to listen to the whining of someone too dull-headed to count his blessings," he said dryly, turning back to his meal.
Amaury glared at him for a moment, then turned irritably back to his own meal.
"My lady?"
"Aye, Sebert?" Emma continued stirring the pot of steaming liquid she had set over the fire. She was making some more of the damiana concoction for her husband. It seemed to her to be in everyone's best interests to keep his ardor hot until they conceived. The king was counting on her to protect him from Bertrand and his grasping mother. Besides, after last night and learning what the joining was truly all about, Emma found she did not mind it a bit.
"My lady?"
Emma glanced at her steward, concern covering her face. He looked vexed. Sebert very rarely looked vexed. He was usually as placid as a cow.
"There is a . . . man . . . in the hall," he told her grimly, injecting the word "man" with an odd distaste.
Emma straightened slowly, wiping her hands on a cloth. "A man?"
Sebert's mouth worked briefly, then he blurted out, "A pompous little peacock named Monsieur de Lascey. He's sashaying about the Great Hall as though he owned the place. He says Lord Rolfe sent him."
"The tailor!" Emma's hand flew to her chest in dismay. She had quite forgotten all about asking her cousin to send her a tailor to have clothes made for the trip to court.
Lifting her pot off the fire until she could return to it, she led the way out into the Great Hall, eyebrows rising when she spotted the little man posed in front of the fireplace. Posed was the only word for it. She suspected he was trying for a decidedly superior look as he leaned an elbow on the stone wall around the fireplace, looking down his nose at the Great Hall, its contents, and the two serving women clearing away breakfast in their black garb.
Emma tried not to wince at her servants' clothing. It was evidence of her distress at the time, but blacking everything in the castle seemed foolish even to her now that she had gotten past her temporary madness. She could only wonder that her servants had been good enough to go along with her actions without a single word of protest.
Perhaps they had believed her mad and decided to humor her, she thought with a sigh as de Lascey turned his emaciated face to her and peered down his sliver-thin nose in distaste at her own black gown.
"Monsieur de Lascey. How good of you to come." Despite her irritation with his attitude, Emma managed to force some welcome into her voice.
His disdain did not slip a bit as he accepted her hand in a limp grip of his own. "De rien. Your coosin said zat you would make eet worth my while," he drawled in an odd French accent.
"Why, of course," Emma said stiltedly. "I realize 'tis an imposition to make you travel all this way, and I shall reward you accordingly."
Managing a nod and a snooty sniff at the same moment, de Lascey returned to his pose, gazing into the fire as he announced, "I shall need zee three rooms. One for zee fittings. One for zee fabrique and one pour moi. My servants will sleep in zee ozer deux rooms."
"Servants?" Emma raised an eyebrow, then turned as the Great Hall door burst open and at least half-a-dozen women came clamoring in, arms loaded with rolls of fabric. It seemed Rolfe had made it clear that she would be needing a great deal of clothes made in a rather short time. "Sebert?"
"Aye, my lady?"
"See Monsieur de Lascey and his workers to Lord Rolfe's room, the room Lord Fulk used when he was here, and the room in between," she instructed, then excused herself and retreated to the kitchen once more.
Ten minutes later, Sebert was at her side again. "My lady?"
One glance at his face was enough to make her set the pot of damiana aside and give her full attention to him. Emma did not think she had ever seen him quite so put out.
"The peacock is demanding your presence," Sebert informed her grimly.
She felt herself stiffen at those words. "Demanding?"
"Aye." He nodded slowly, then added through gritted teeth, "At once."
Muttering under her breath, Emma started for the door, but paused to step out of the way as it swung open to allow four of de Lascey's female workers to enter.
"Apologies, my lady." The women hurried out of the way at once when they saw her about to leave. "Mister de Lascey said we might come fetch a drink. 'Twas a long trip and--"
"Aye, of course," Emma interrupted with a smile, then glanced at Sebert.
"I will see to it, my lady," he assured her at once, not even bothering to glance away from the woman who had spoken.
Emma's eyebrows rose slightly at his expression. It seemed he was quite taken with the seamstress, Emma realized suddenly, noting for the first time that her st