The carriage stopped abruptly, men shouting and sneering mere meters away from you. You took a quick peek through fine curtains and sighed, staring at the blue and white striped banner adorned with red martlets.

“Aymer de Valence, 2nd Earl of Pembroke.”

“The beast?” 

A terrified whimper escaped your companion's lips, but the door opened with a thud, startling you both.

“Out, both of you!”

You met Aymer once, and although you were not introduced, you knew what he looked like, and the man playing nice and holding out his hand for you was decidedly not him. You hovered your hand in the air, your eyes settling on a huge man sitting on a horse that was seemingly too small for him. You cocked your head before setting it straight again, a small, polite, learned smile gracing your face.

In three long steps, Aymer de Valence and his irritating smirk were offering you his hand. He pulled his chainmaille hood off, showing a new, ill-healed scar across his bald head.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” your hand was small, nestled inside his, his long, strong fingers elegantly wrapping around yours as he guided you a little further away. “Has the Lord Edward’s castle fallen?”

You looked up, flashing another polite smile, looking again at those piercing blue eyes. 

“No, my Lady.”

You glanced at those sharp, crooked teeth when he spoke, strangely captivated by them. He was still holding your hand, breaking all rules of propriety. Yet Aymer de Valence was known for such acts, his ruthless, brutal nature caring little for the laws of men or God. His dressing up as just another soldier amongst many, trying to trick you for what seemed nothing but his own amusement, was the most tame of the examples.

“We are attempting… A negotiation.”

A giggle escaped you, a warm and earnest reaction at Aymer calling this kidnapping a mere negotiation. He frowned and clenched his jaw, but you couldn’t help yourself, your fingers tightening around the edges of his gloved palm. 

“Where are you taking us, Your Grace?” you finally managed to gain some composure, your pretty doe eyes still scanning his fuming face.

“Pembroke Castle,” he spat out, swallowing hard. It took him by surprise that you sniffed out his little rouse so quickly, and then effectively disarmed him with your pretty smile and politeness, treating him like you would any other nobleman.

He remembered you from that tourney, always giggling and wide-eyed, knights swarming you for your favour. 

You gave three, two of them to your cousins, and one to a handsome young knight; Aymer didn’t even think to ask, but unhorsed the knight in the first joust. He’d often remember how, while all the ladies around you were gasping and covering their mouths, you were serious, calmly looking at Aymer executing his beloved horse.

**

It’s been a whole moon since Aymer took you hostage, and the negotiations have stalled quickly after that. Your lady was ransomed, not having much use for her, and would now send you letters, hoping that you too would soon be safe away from the monster’s grasp.

You didn’t mind terribly, however. You were fed, entertained, and left alone, well, mostly. Aymer was growing bored, it seemed, and would barely leave you alone, demanding your presence at every meal, even going so far as to bring you to hunts. 

You had a free rein of the castle, as much as propriety allowed, and would spend most of your days among the books in the solar or embroidering. Aymer even generously procured some special threads for you when you asked, adding a couple more spools in different colours and even fine linen fabrics to serve as your canvas.

Your father decided to keep calling Aymer’s bluff, to your growing irritation. At first, you were fearful, not knowing what Aymer would do with you, and you were saddened by the realisation of how little you meant to your father, your family.

“No harm shall find you while you’re under my protection,” Aymer awkwardly told you, finding you distraught in the solar. He sounded… Irritated, almost offended by your tears. 

“I never thought it would,” you wiped your tears and fixed your hair, trying to come to terms with your father’s harsh words. “These tears are not for you,” you added quietly, swallowing another sob.

Aymer nodded, relieved and angered at the same time. He had no idea where this need to walk to you and wipe your tears himself was coming from, to embrace you and hold your face in his hands. So he left it at that, letting you grieve in solitude.

As far as Aymer was concerned, your father was a moron. Caring so little as not trying to get you back, but at the same time not marrying you off, was one of the most idiotic decisions Aymer has seen. And not that you weren’t agreeable, far from it: kind, pious, and pretty. 

Pretty enough that now, during the evening sparring session, he was losing focus, his eyes constantly trailing to you, sitting on a bench with a book in your lap. You didn’t pay any attention to it, your eyes glued to wherever Aymer would swing his sword. It became a common occurrence over the past few weeks, where you pretended that you would read just as he was in the yard, and Aymer pretended he wasn’t nervous when you’d be late to those sessions.

Swing after swing, he was trying to show off his strength and precision, even if he would never admit it, going so far to fight multiple opponents, leveraging his prowess and frame to impress you, catch that tiny moment when you would be smiling at him, your eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, before you’d quickly look into your book, trying to act as if you’ve never noticed him.

And then it happened; Aymer himself couldn’t say how, but he was struck on his sword-wielding hand, a nasty cut spreading from between his thumb and forefinger, all the way to his wrist. He cursed himself for not wearing gloves. As blood was dripping from his hand, he caught you in the corner of his eye, standing up and hastily making way towards him.

Everyone around him was frozen in fear but you, calmly demanding to see the wound. 

“Curse you, woman,” he spat out, pulling his hand away and immediately regretting it.

“Let me see, my Lord,” you repeated in an even softer tone, your fingers already reaching towards the bloody mess of his hand, ignoring the frown on his face.

Aymer thought of you as kind, a little timid, a little naive, but suddenly realised you were the only person treating him like he was nothing but a man. There was no fear in your eyes, no hesitation, your fingers gently, softly touching the back of his palm. He was taken aback, unable to say anything, unable to think. 

It’s been years since such kindness was extended to him, and despite craving it, now faced with it, Aymer didn’t know what to do, except stare at your face.

He was still thinking about it, lying awake in his chambers hours later. Your fingers, sullied in his blood, slowly sliding over his skin, patiently exploring, following the line of the cut, assessing for depth, asking him to move his fingers, massaging gently.

“I’m sure you suffered much worse, my Lord,” you said, flashing a faint smile and pressing your handkerchief to the wound, soaking it completely in crimson, watching his face relax.

Aymer already ordered his servants to clean that handkerchief to a pristine state, despite doubting that it was possible. He should at least get you more threads, more fabric, in case you wanted to make another. Perhaps a bracelet, to apologise. He quickly shook off the last thought, a weird feeling of hollowness spreading through his chest.

Then, he heard three quick, mousy knocks on the door, and in a blink of an eye, without waiting for an invitation, you simply opened the door, with two servants in tow; Aymer was too stunned to speak, watching you walk in, carrying clean rags and ointments, servants carrying hot water.

“Thank you,” you turned to the servants, watching them squirm uncomfortably.

“My Lady?” one of them asked, avoiding looking at Aymer.

Still, you dismissed them before turning to him; he was sitting on the edge of the bed, without his sleep shirt. Actually, you were not sure if he was wearing anything, a heavy quilt covering his lap. With all of his muscles on display and the idea of him being naked, you couldn’t stop the flush to your face, but you pretended it was the fire burning in the hearth. 

You thought him strong and handsome, especially now, warm flames dancing across his handsome features, somehow making his eyes even bluer. The skin of his torso and his arms was taut, scarred, and a little paler compared to his tanned face, and you tried so hard to control your breathing.

“May I see?” 

Removing the soaked rags from his hand, you slowly washed the crusted blood around his wound before gently applying a healing ointment, a faint scent of chamomile filling the chambers.

“Are you not afraid of rumours?” Aymer tried to get a read on you so badly. He wanted to desperately know the true nature of your feelings towards him, almost like he would be able to read your mind. He closely observed your face for any tell he might have missed, for any indication that his own feelings were making him delusional. 

“Rumours, my Lord?” you were still spreading the salve, your fingertips almost ghosting over his imperfect skin.

“You are alone in an Earl’s chambers.”

And there it was again, that wholehearted giggle that you couldn’t suppress, your fingers resting lightly against Aymer’s forearm. His whole body stiffened, his brows furrowing, jaw protruding. He loved your laugh, but never when it was so agonisingly pointed at him. It wasn’t anger spreading through him, it was pain - not that he was adept at handling either of those, a red flush rapidly creeping up his neck as he clicked his teeth together, almost literally biting his tongue to not snap at you. 

“I’ve been your hostage for weeks, my Lord. Do you truly believe rumours are not already abundant? Probably why my father doesn’t want me back, his daughter’s honour ruined by the beast,” you continued, trying to catch your breath, your laugh turning into a wide, warm smile that had Aymer’s heart beating a smidge faster.

“Why didn’t your father marry you off?” mellowed under your smile, and focusing on the way your fingers were rubbing into his palm, he cautiously probed, now fearing you might have been betrothed after all.

“When he sent me away, I asked him the same. I was actually convinced he would do so, for an alliance; it was only sensible. But instead, he remained stubborn, and I am now here. Alone in an Earl’s chambers,” you teased him, flashing another warm smile his way, but quickly looking away. You truly didn’t want him to know the depth of your growing feelings, as you still didn’t trust him completely. Somewhere deep there was fear after all, fear that he would hurt you, ridicule you.

“Who did you have in mind?” Aymer’s voice was uncharacteristically hoarse, his other hand gripping around the quilt so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Who did I think I should marry, or who did I want?” you were careful to make a distinction, because you truly had two different men in mind, not that your father wanted to hear about either.

“Who did you want?” his voice falling all the way to a throaty whisper, Aymer was trying to hide a tremble in himself. He was bracing for disappointment and more pain - there were so many young and charming Lords, much more suited for a beautiful, young Lady such as yourself. You wouldn’t look twice his way, he told himself, if he hadn’t stolen you from the world.

“I’ve heard that the Earl of Pembroke is rather handsome.”

Aymer’s whole body went rigid so fast he forgot to breathe. You stilled as well, observing his reaction, wondering if you were too direct, too unladylike. 

You were toying with him, he was certain of it. Ridiculing and mocking him, the same as you saw through his rouse when he stopped your carriage, you already saw through him and his hopeless weakness for you.

“Do not tease me, harlot!”

He jerked his hand away, jumping out of the bed with such force that you fell to the floor. His short, tight braies showed off his muscular legs that made your mouth water.

“Why would I do such a thing?” you tried to reason with him in the softest, silkiest voice your throat would produce. “And he’s strong, I watched him unhorse man after man at a tourney. Although not sure what to make of his predilection for kidnapping young Ladies.”

Aymer wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t even turn from the table to look at you, chugging goblet after goblet, small drops of wine trickling down his chin. You waited, your heart beating hard, before you finally had to admit defeat, to your utter embarrassment.

“Good night, my Lord.”

“Aymer,” he growled through his teeth.

“What? I couldn’t possibly…” it took you a moment to understand what he meant at first.

“You are in my bedchambers! You’ll address me in any way I like!” he threw the goblet across the room, just above the hearth, where it echoed against the stone wall.

“Yes, my Lord. Aymer. Good night.”

**

You couldn’t wait for your wedding day to end. There were so many people present at the ceremony and even more at the feast, including the king. Joyous celebration for everyone except your family, who looked like they were attending a funeral. You were nervous, so much so that even Aymer noticed, pushing for the pro forma bedding ceremony earlier in the evening, trying to be alone with you.

“You look sour,” he commented, getting up from the bed.

“I couldn’t wait for the day to be over.”

“Married to me for less than a day, and already sick of my presence?”

“Aymer,” you followed your brooding husband out of bed. “I’ve been so excited I haven’t slept for days. And then I started to think of all the ways this could go wrong, what my father had planned, if he had planned…” your thoughts trailed off as you grabbed Aymer’s hand, gently pressing kisses against the scar.

Standing on your toes, you craned your neck as much as you could, but Aymer stood unwavering. You peppered his jaw with kisses, your hands sliding over his chest and under his shirt. You could hear your breath stuttering, and feel flush spread through your cheeks, and heat through your maidenhood.

“I couldn’t wait for the day to be over, because I couldn’t wait to be your wife,” you whispered against Aymer’s skin, pressing harder into his body.

He finally relented, dipping his head to claim you in a feverish kiss, his huge hands settling over your waist. 

“I love you,” he muttered, his cheeks reddening, before gently picking you up and laying you down on the bed. “I love you,” he repeated as he settled over you, his lips gently falling into the crook of your neck.

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