A Flame Run Wild by Christine Monson Page A

afford matched livery for them, but they looked alert and well fed,, not dull-eyed and verminous as were so many of her uncle's servants, even in their celebration finery. She recognized Signe relatives in the crowd; among Brueil's people were only castellans and servants.
    "My household," Brueil said, indicating with a sweep of his hand. "My mother trained them well. I believe you will find them courteous and willing." His tone said that he did not much care whether she did or not, only that he did not encourage her to meddle with their management.
    Liliane nodded to the retainers who bowed en masse. Alexandre led the party indoors, and then Liliane was greeted by a stark great hall with the customary window slits replaced on one side by hallways; the larger one led to the bailiwick, armory and kitchens; the other small haH probably led to the upper chambers. Fresh reeds were strewn about the floor, and the place was scrupulously clean, but no bright banners and tapestries adorned the walls; no heraldry mounted the three huge, drafty fireplaces. The glassless windows On the eastern side offered superb, if narrow views of the Aleppo pines and Helm oaks dotting the meadows that rolled to the distant shore. At sight of the sea, the knot of anxiety within Liliane eased a trifle. She had lived within sight and sound of the sea for so long that she had dreaded brown inland silence.
    A plump berry of a priest was waiting. Hearing the courtyard commotion, he had jumped to his feet. Although he was now composed, the tasseled cord at his waist was still swinging.
    With few preliminaries, the service began. When the time came, Alexandre de Brueil's slim, brown hand upon hers felt strange; she tried to imagine it holding a flute. His rigid face did not seem that of a musician; instead she saw him at strategy tables or hidden behind a visor.
    The priest droned on at length. Liliane had not heard so much Latin in years. Although it lent majesty to the service, the words grew monotonous as the sun waxed high and the onlookers began to stir in their hot garments. Liliane amused herself by translating the Latin into Arabic. A small smile teased the corner of her lips as she imagined the priest's horror, could he divine her heathen whims.
    Alexandre caught her enigmatic smile. Why now, he wondered grimly, does she smile while last night she bewailed this moment* Was her dread of marriage but a sham to be easily rid of her hedgerow lover? His already tight temper was growing frayed. He was definitely coming down with a cold. His head ached and his throat was scratchy and sore. Right now, he would give a good deal to be back baking his brains in the Holy Land and bedding whores who bit his coins and gave him no trouble.
    He should have considered the complications when he met this demure-looking Liliane, but when he had seen her bare to the waist in those Moorish pantaloons, her slim, white back curved like an Indian gupta and her tempting breasts scarcely hidden by his chainse, his brain had turned to suet and his loins to flame. Now what in the name of King Philip and Saint George was he going to do about their wedding night? Philip was an unabashed libertine who would take his pleasure with Liliane, then board her up in a tower come morn. And Saint George . . . well, George's dragon-killing lance had a certain naughty charm. Should he prod her with his own lusty lance and make her squeal for more " amour "?
    After the wedding ceremony had mercifully ended, Alexandre was content to remain silent, leaving Jacques and the priest to keep the conversation flowing during the modest wedding feast. Shirred eggs with cream and leeks, roast pig and lamb with last season's potatoes, and cabbage followed by good broth loaded down the banquet table. Brandy pudding finished the meal. Alexandre had been able to afford only three musicians; they now circled the tables providing a cacophony of harp, flute and horn that heralded the bedding to come. Liliane's