1. Cherine

Chapter 1

Cherine

I never meant to lose my virginity this way, but even as I slipped the layers of my undergarments back on in the freezing boatshed, the scent of low tide swirling in through the door and wrapping around my ankles, I knew it was better than the alternative. If it hadn’t been Marc, it would’ve been with his indifferent older brother, Pierre. Pierre, with his trembling hands and hunched back from collecting shellfish all day. Pierre, the only serf available on Lord Bouchon’s estate.

I shot Marc a shy glance, trying not to notice his naked form standing before me, his spent cock still quivering with its recent victory. Shyness was new to me. Marc had been my oldest and dearest friend, the one person I could turn to when life got too hard and my sisters were either too sick or too selfish to spare me their time. Now, I’d gotten to know Marc in a way I hadn’t before, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it.

Marc watched me with a mix of worry and relief as a red splotch began to form on his neck, spreading like spilled wine. I didn’t know whether to keep my eyes on his heated face or let them drift down to the part of him that had so recently been inside me. What used to be an easy-going friendship had suddenly made the boathouse feel stuffier with every moment. I slipped my woolen dress over my head, and I briefly thought that perhaps we’d gone a little too far this time. After all, it had only been touching and kissing for the last year until my urges had gotten the better of me.

Not that I was the only one to blame. Marc was a year younger than me, and soon, he’d be paired with either my second youngest sister, Giselle, or one of the Fornier daughters. The Lord’s estate was small, and the serfs had no choice but to marry whoever was available. I hadn’t seen an outsider in two years, not since a group of soldiers from another fiefdom had come through. It had been one of the most exciting days of my life.

I cleared my throat and adjusted the stiff linen layers under my dress, my eyes darting to the stack of moldy rope crab traps in the corner. “Perhaps you should put your clothes back on, Marc.”

The red splotch grew, and he quickly snapped up his trousers, as if caught in a trance. “I’m sorry, Cherine.”

A small smile tugged at my lips as I moved my attention away from him. “It’s no matter. Just thought you’d catch a cold.”

I waited while I heard him fumble with buttons and sleeves until he finally said, “There.”

I looked back and felt a relief wash over me, happy to see my friend looking like my friend again—dark curly hair, olive skin, hazel eyes, all above tattered, threadbare clothes permanently stained by sea mud. Marc was such a good-looking boy on top of everything, and yet, I felt a pang of disappointment. Our coupling hadn’t produced the results I wanted. As much as my body had wanted to be with Marc, as frustrated as I’d been after months of secret courting and no relief, I was confused at how unfulfilled I felt. Marc had only lasted a few minutes—and I knew he’d enjoyed himself from the way his cries filled the boatshed as he came—but I’d expected to feel more than just a burst of pain and a trail of wetness soaking my drawers.

Well, there was also the bit of fear. I hoped I hadn’t bled enough to make my mother or sisters suspicious if they found my garments on washing day. Almost every soul in France was born with the fear of God in their heart, and my mother was no different. If she found out I was impure, that I wouldn’t be married to Pierre as a virgin, she’d probably have me conveniently disposed of—maybe chopped up and fed to the pigs they kept fat for Lord Bouchon.

I swallowed hard, trying to push the fear away with my fingers as I smoothed out my dress. I remembered the last time I’d upset my mother. I’d fallen asleep on a balmy summer day, lying on my back in the cow pasture, my basket of vegetables beside me. I woke up to a munching sound and a cow’s ugly udder in my face, the carrots all gone. I spent a week sleeping in the woods by myself as punishment, with only my father to bring me a pitiful slice of bread in the mornings. That was before Papa had been called upon by the Lord to serve in the King’s army.

We never saw Papa again.

“I better go,” I quickly told Marc, my heart hammering in my chest. “Odette is in the fields today, and I need to make supper.”

“Cherine,” Marc called out for me. He grasped my wrist delicately and pulled me toward him. I sucked in a sharp breath as I found myself pressed against his chest, which was how all of this started.

“Cherine,” he repeated, his voice low. “We have time to do this again.”

I looked up at him wryly. “I know we do. That only took a few minutes.”

He grinned sheepishly as his neck flushed once more. His grip on my wrist tightened. “I promise, I’ll be…longer. I only need more practice.”

“And I need to go,” I said, deftly pulling my wrist free from his. “You know I’ll get in trouble if I don’t make supper.”

“Are you afraid of your mother? Or are you afraid of me?”

I smirked at his audacity. “You’ve never beaten me with a switch.”

He raised his brow. “No, but I can if you want. Your bottom was begging for it earlier.”

“No part of me will beg for anything from you,” I retorted, gently pushing him back. “You’re my friend, Marc. That’s all you are and all you can be.”

A darkness settled in his eyes. I wasn’t used to seeing that in his normally jovial face, and it made me hesitate. It seemed sex had already changed so many things.

“Of course. Because you must marry my brother,” he said, spitting the words like bile.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know I have no choice. We are serfs, Marc. Peasants. We don’t have a choice in life.”

He shook his head slowly, as if considering something. His gaze drifted to the tiny, shuttered window, the view of the muddy beach and distant white cliffs poking through the broken slats. “But you like me, don’t you? You could even love me. You at least loved me a few moments ago.”

“Sex is not love,” I said, surprised at the lack of emotion in my tone.

Marc laughed bitterly. “How quickly you sound like a heathen. And to think, I was going to ask you to run away with me.”

I swallowed hard, my throat feeling thick. Marc wanted to run away with me? I had entertained that thought for years, the idea of escaping the Lord and finding life on my own. Marc had always humored my idea, only to bring me back to Earth, reminding me that no matter where I went, my future would stay the same. I was the lowest of the low class. Short of becoming a whore, there wasn’t much I could do to live a better life elsewhere.

I was beginning to feel a bit like a whore too, and what scared me even more was that a part of me felt like that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

“I have to go,” I said, my voice breaking. I couldn’t stay in the boathouse a minute longer, or I’d agree to something I’d probably regret.

I flung the rickety wood door open and burst out into the grey light. My shoes sank into the thick mud of the beach, but I pulled them out with a sucking noise and hurried onto more solid ground. In the distance, where the long, slick tidal flats disappeared into October’s waning sun, I could see the dark figures of the Lord’s fishermen coming home. Pierre would be among them, dragging along his collection of clams, oysters, and mussels, all to serve Bouchon.

I swallowed my disgust at the hopelessness of it all and hiked up my tattered dress, running all the way to the two-room shack I called home.