Page 11 of The Wager and the Wedding

Her temporary husband might have rescued her from her mother moments ago, but that was very little to go on. Was he a man of his word? If not, she was doomed. While she might be a few inches taller than him, it hadn’t escaped her notice that he was well-muscled beneath his silver-embroidered black-woolen cotte. If it came to a fight, she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to fend him off.

She cast her gaze about for something she could use as a weapon if worse came to worst. As her eye came to rest on a poker, as he opened his travel chest and reached into it. Heaven only knew what ominous item he might be getting in order to subdue her. Did he have rope in there? Did he plan to tie her up? Because she would fight him with everything she had.

She hardly breathed as he pulled out…

A diminutive, stringed instrument. A citole.

Oh, thank God!

“Do you mind if I sing you a song?” Martin sat on a stool, plucking the citole with surprising skill. His fingers flew as he cradled the instrument in his arms. Her sister would be impressed.

“I’d rather listen to the braying of a donkey, but if you must.” As long as his hands were on the citole, they weren’t on her.

He winked at her and started to sing.

“A new song I shall make for thee

Before the cold wind freezes me.

My lady puts me to the test

To make sure that I love her best.

No matter what harsh words she speaks

I know I am the man she seeks.”

Much to her annoyance, he had a nice tenor. Under other circumstances, she might have enjoyed his song. “The lyrics remind me of something I heard in Bordeaux.”

He continued to strum as he answered, “I’m not surprised. This is a rough translation of something Lady Eleanor’s grandfather composed.”

She swallowed and stared. “You know troubadour songs from Aquitaine?”

“Lady Eleanor mentioned how you loved songs from your homeland. I tried to learn a few before I set sail.”

That was surprisingly thoughtful of him. One of the few things Isabella missed about Lady Eleanor’s court was the music. Her Grace was a great patroness of the arts. Her own grandfatherhadcomposed troubadour lyrics once upon a time. There was always some minstrel strumming away, singing ofimpossible love. It was a glorious escape from the cold and cynical calculation that consumed her days.

Isabella might not like the fellow making the music, but the song warmed her heart ever so slightly. “You may continue, if you wish. Don’t let me stop you.”

“I’m hers. Her words set me aflame.

In charters she wrote down my name.

I swear to you I am not drunk.

She’s virtuous as any monk.

Without her, life is meaningless.

I hunger so for her caress.”

There was nowhere for her to sit except the hulking, canopied bed, since he occupied the only other seat. Cautiously, she settled on the edge, making sure she was closer to the poker than he was. Perhaps she wouldn’t need it after all, but it never hurt to be careful.

It was unfair the effect the music had on her. The soft plucking of strings lulled her into a false sense of safety. So far, this all seemed tame enough. There was nothing to fear in a little music.

She wondered what her true wedding night would be like. Her mother hadn’t told her anything except that there would be blood. She was vaguely aware that one generally took off one’s clothes, but beyond that, it was a mystery. Even with a man she had chosen, a wedding night was something to be feared.

Perhaps, she thought dismally, this was the best wedding night she would ever have. A man with a pleasant voice singing her love songs was certainly preferable to any alternative she could think of.

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