Follow Your Heart

by Ruth Kaufman

  FOLLOW YOUR HEART

  Wars of the Roses Brides Book 2

  Ruth Kaufman

  England 1460: Joanna Peyntor has two uses for a man: to pose for a stained glass window design or to commission her skills. But when her brother conspires to ruin her reputation, she concedes to a third: a husband to help save her glass-painting workshop.

  On a quest to redeem his family name and lands, Sir Adrian Bedford must marry without delay. But what woman he’d accept would wed an impoverished former nobleman who insists on an unusual stricture in their marriage contract? Joanna, a woman striving to succeed in a man’s world, agrees that discussions of a personal nature are prohibited.

  When irresistible attraction makes their marriage of convenience inconvenient, will his dangerous secrets keep them from following their hearts?

  For Romance Writers of America® and Chicago-North RWA:

  Thank you for all of the craft and industry knowledge and amazing colleagues and friends.

  Prologue

  York, England 1442

  The old woman’s unearthly wails carried over the sibilant whispers of the crowd.

  “Save me. Someone save me!”

  Chills coursed through twelve-year-old Adrian Bedford. He looked around the large courtyard, watching each spectator make the sign of the cross. Some seemed fearful, others angry. His mother was grief-stricken; his father clutched her tightly so she would not fall. His twin Andrew looked as confused as Adrian felt.

  For in the center of the yard, bound to a splintery stake, stood their grandmother. Three men held torches to the kindling piled high beneath her bare feet. To burn her as a witch.

  “Use green wood instead! Make her suffer longer!” someone yelled. A few others took up the cry, stamping their feet in the dirt.

  “Don’t look too close, she’s got the evil eye!” a woman shrieked.

  The public display sickened Adrian. What had his grandmother done wrong? Why was it so terrible to know things before they happened? She’d helped many people by warning them before disaster struck. His father and the vicar told him that Grandmother came from the devil. That good Christians did not see the future, hear voices in their heads or dream such dreams. Yet Grandmother had always been kinder and more interested in him than his own parents. She had told him he was destined for greatness. Why would she lie?

  But if she were a good woman, why would the vicar and his parents allow this to happen? Why would they let her burn?

  He looked away.

  The vicar took Adrian’s head between his bony hands, forcing him to watch as the hungry flames licked ever higher. The old woman’s tattered gown caught in a rush of blazing orange. Bile rose in Adrian’s throat. He almost disgraced himself by vomiting. He slid his fingers into the pouch attached to his belt, seeking the scarf Grandmother had given him only a few days ago. The silky fabric comforted him.

  Then Grandmother spoke. No fear lingered in her face, now suffused with mystical calm. Her voice, normally soft and soothing, projected harsh and compelling.

  “Hear me! ’Tis the truth I speak. You will soon see it is so!”

  Grandmother’s words seeped into him, easing his nerves and giving him strength. Her withered face bore no sign of strain, no indication of the pain she must be feeling as the flames surrounded her, climbing relentlessly. Her gray hair floated up eerily in the wind from the blaze. If any had thought her innocent before, now all were convinced she was a witch. Otherwise how could she be talking? Shouldn’t she be screaming?

  All eyes were on her, every ear straining to listen against the crackling and snapping fire. For a witch’s last words would be passed on for years to come.

  Her head turned against the pole and she looked straight at Adrian. Her gaze bored into him, branding him in a way he could not describe.

  No, he thought. Leave me alone or they’ll know that I’m like you. I’m afraid!

  Grandmother looked away with a slight nod as though she heeded his warning. “Evil cannot be burned. Be ever vigilant. Only then can you escape the prison of a troubled mind. Who is worthy of your trust? Follow your heart.”

  She exhaled, a small sigh barely audible above the popping, burning wood. Her head drooped, chin meeting chest. The blindingly bright wall of flames encompassed her with a whoosh.

  “I love you….” Adrian whispered, suppressing tears as his mother sobbed beside him.

  Grandmother’s final words echoed in his mind. Were they a special message for him or the meaningless ramblings of an old woman? They would haunt him until he knew the answer. As would the horrors of this day. The unforgettable sights and odors of burning flesh, of his grandmother.

  The person he loved most in all the world.

  Chapter 1

  York, England – November, 1460

  Redemption. It was the only thing that mattered to Sir Adrian Bedford. He’d do anything to redeem his family’s position, no matter how low he himself had to sink or how degrading the task.

  Until the bony, sour-smelling dowager sprawled across his lap as he sat in Bedford Manor’s great hall.

  He had to pay redemption’s steep price by playing the paramour.

  This deed tested his principles, but what he stood to gain outweighed his hatred of the means. So he smiled at the one woman who could help him serve his country and restore his family’s losses.

  Open to the waist, Lady Anne Uffington’s velvet gown exposed her small breasts to the harsh light of morning. Sunlight filtered through the tall stained glass windows, turning her sallow complexion into a mosaic of brilliant reds and blues. The glowing colors couldn’t alleviate her distasteful assault on his senses. Nor could they dispel the rank odor of one who rarely bathed. He’d seen her tub. Why didn’t she use it?

  “Touch me,” she said, placing his hand on her waist.

  Adrian held his breath. He could do this. He had to, though vines of shame snared his heart and aversion besieged the rest of him.

  Her high voice quavered. “Hold me. I want your strong arms around me.” She ran her gnarled fingers over his biceps, across his chest, then between his thighs. “Do you want me?”

  “Yes,” he said, hating the lie as much as the untenable position he was in.

  “You’re lying.”

  “What did you expect? This was your idea.”

  “You get what you want, I get what I want.” Her fingers tightened around him once again.

  “Then content yourself with that.” Adrian regretted speaking. He should’ve mollified her, not snapped.

  Disgust surged in his gut. But he’d accepted this devil’s bargain. Every man had to make sacrifices to achieve his goals.

  “You agreed to visit me, yet you cannot even try to enjoy being here?” she asked.

  Adrian looked away to avoid the obvious desire in her gaze.

  After a few more moments of Lady Anne’s fumbling and his carefully placed caresses, he satisfied her. The lady covered herself with the rich but faded velvet, a smile lifting her thin lips.

  He dressed, ready to drink the requisite cup of wine. Staying after that would only prolong his misery.

  “Next week, come to me at night instead of the morning.”

  “Night trysts were not part of our arrangement,” Adrian said, biting back harsher words.

  He’d not spend the night with her, nor sleep in her bed. The thought of being that close to her for that long on her musty, stained sheets was the least of it. Just as he wouldn’t comment about her appalling odor, he couldn’t discuss his other reasons for preferring daylight meetings. And the more time he spent with her, the more opportunity for her to uncover elements of his personality he didn’t wish to reveal. He could never allow that.

  He was close, so close.
This dalliance with Lady Anne would shorten his path to restoring the family name his father destroyed. Adrian had spent decades trying to right his father’s wrongs, starting with accusing Grandmother. Succeeding was the only way he could make his life worthwhile.

  He gulped the last of his wine, anxious to leave. At least it was good wine, not the cheap swill he could afford.

  He heard a knock at the door.

  “Enter!” Lady Anne called.

  The arched door opened with a high-pitched creak. A stooped servant announced a visitor.

  “Ah, yes. The glazenwright. Send her in.”

  Excellent timing. Adrian could use the visitor’s arrival as an excuse to depart.

  “Until next week, then.” She clasped his hand between hers. He subdued the urge to pull free. “Please go out the back door.”

  “The back door?” Lady Anne had never asked this. And usually he offered at least two farewells before she stopped asking him to stay. Yet he couldn’t stop wondering what business Lady Anne had with a glass-painter. “Why are you so eager for me to leave?”

  “I am not sure you should meet…”

  Too late. The glazenwright entered the hall as Lady Anne reached around his neck to bring him down for a farewell kiss.

  Avoiding her mouth, his lips met her parchment-dry cheek. He caught sight of the glazenwright. A woman glass-painter? Chagrin filled him as she stopped short, taking in the scene before her. She put a roll of documents on the table and pushed back the hood of her cloak.

  Adrian straightened, his desire to leave evaporating despite the awkward situation. The glazenwright was beautiful, with a delicate oval face, high cheekbones and a small, straight nose. He knew he was staring, but didn’t want to stop. There was something compelling about this woman aside from her lovely face, which was all he could see. Her heavy, serviceable black cloak and headdress concealed the rest.

  Her expression captured him. Not the simpering moue of court women, nor the lustful gleam of barmaids or the respectful, downcast eyes of servants. She radiated a quiet confidence he found enticing.

  Their gazes met and locked. Hers conveyed curiosity and mayhap a challenge. He couldn’t tell if she recognized him or what she’d gleaned of his relationship with Lady Anne. Surely she’d be appalled if she knew. After a long moment, she looked away.

  “My pardon, Lady Anne. Your servant bid me enter. I can wait or return another time,” she said.

  Accustomed to Lady Anne’s shrill waver, Adrian absorbed the pleasant, soothing tone of the guest’s voice.

  “No, no, now is fine,” Lady Anne replied, her hand sliding possessively down Adrian’s arm.

  He stepped back abruptly to detach the clinging fingers. Lady Anne should know better. The servants might suspect something, but no one else needed to know. That wasn’t part of their arrangement.

  Distancing himself from Lady Anne allowed him to return his attention to the glazenwright. She was staring at him again. If only he could see her hair…was it the same shade of red as her delicately curved eyebrows? He cursed the fashionable concealing headdresses of the day.

  Her skin was fair and smooth, her lips delectable, a tempting rosy red. Her large eyes were green. Bright green. They pierced him with a keen alertness that made him wonder if she could see into his soul.

  She must be intrepid as well as ambitious: a woman working as a glass-painter. He wanted to know more about her.

  He wanted her.

  If only he was like other men. But he couldn’t risk getting close to anyone. Because a secret encumbered him, so unfathomable it could destroy him and possibly anyone he cared for.

  What would being free feel like? Being loved by a woman like her? Alas, he’d never know.

  Redemption, not love, would be his salvation. Soon he’d earn his freedom from the miseries of his past. His approach might be convoluted and unconventional, but given his situation ordinary means wouldn’t serve. Once he completed his mission, his twin Andrew could wed and continue the family line, while Adrian would live alone with his dogs and the satisfaction of achieving his goal. Given his perilous affliction, he couldn’t ask for more.

  “Your mutual absorption has gone on long enough,” Lady Anne said. “Let us get to business.” She tugged at Adrian’s sleeve. “Are you staying, then?”

  He moved too far away for her to touch him again. Every man had his limits. “Perhaps.”

  He appreciated Lady Anne’s discretion in not introducing him to her guest. Still, the stretching silence made him uncomfortable. Lady Anne poured herself more wine, the sloshing loud in the quiet.

  The glazenwright made her way around the rectangular room, studying the elaborate windows that reached up three of the walls. Sunbeams turned blue, green and red by the stained glass danced upon her face as she moved, turning her into an unearthly being. The jewel tones highlighted and enhanced the loveliness of this glazenwright, transforming her into a woman of mystery and enticing possibilities.

  Adrian forced his thoughts from her to the magnificent windows. Each wall told the story of a different saint, replete with symbols of heraldry and detailed borders. They were old, like many things in the manor house, but they didn’t seem to be in disrepair or in need of a glazenwright’s services. He could find no reason to make any changes in this home.

  This home, which was once his.

  After studying the glorious windows, Joanna Peyntor turned her attention to Lady Anne’s visitor, an exceptionally handsome man. Had he truly kissed her patron?

  As her artist’s gaze skimmed over his striking features and the elegant cut of his black tunic, a strange tingling raced through her. His unfashionably long hair was thick, slightly wavy and the blackest black, like the arnement she painted on her glass.

  There were two uses for a man in her world: a face to be used for a design or a source of gold to commission her services. He looked as though he could fulfill either role.

  Had she ever seen such a perfect chin? Joanna noted his broad shoulders, though like his imposing height they were less important than the sculpted angles of his face. She pictured him draped in velvet. Red velvet. He’d be perfect for the window of St. George and the Dragon she had planned. She had to get him to pose for her. But how? One didn’t just say, “I need your chin, please let me draw you.” Not everyone shared her artistic fervor.

  Immersed in admiring him, Joanna realized she was staring. She turned away to view the many windows again. She felt his gaze on her, following her. Almost as if he touched her. The strange tingling returned and intensified. Joanna was glad her back was to him. Certainly a blush brightened her cheeks.

  Lady Anne asked, “Did you bring the designs?”

  So there were to be none of the customary niceties. Why didn’t Lady Anne think her worthy of an introduction? Because she was a woman involved in trade? What was this handsome, finely dressed man, likely of noble descent, to the lady?

  “Of course,” she answered.

  As Joanna unrolled her drawings, Lady Anne turned to him. “I’ve decided to replace some of the windows in the hall. Perhaps the chapel, too.” She sounded as if she taunted him.

  The man stiffened, his lips tightening. The lowering of his dark brows was impressive. Perhaps he could represent a more sinister character. Some day she might need a fiend or devil.

  He sat heavily on a carved chair and glared at Joanna with eyes the brilliant blue of the glass jewels she often used. She refused to cower, though he seemed to blame her for something. Why should he care what Lady Anne did to her windows?

  Lady Anne sipped her wine. “Bedford Castle. It isn’t even a castle, but a lovely manor house. Perhaps I should rename it. What think you of Uffington Manor?”

  The man took a deep breath and clamped his lips together.

  “Of course this house has such a history, I could never think of doing such a thing.” Lady Anne waved her goblet in the air, the wine surging to the rim and threatening to spill. She laughed, a scratchy sound t
hat reminded Joanna of metal scraping glass.

  Joanna sat beside her at the broad, highly polished table.

  “There is no need for you to remain,” Lady Anne told the man. “I must speak with Mistress Peyntor. I look forward to next week.”

  He stood, towering above them, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he grabbed his cloak and left.

  Joanna closed her eyes briefly, committing his features to memory so she could sketch them. It wasn’t likely their paths would cross again.

  Two hours later, Joanna’s booted feet crunched the snow as she walked, clutching her designs and huddling into her cloak to hide her face from the wind. She spared no attention to the houses and shops she passed as she made her way back from Walmgate. The faster she walked, the sooner she’d reach her workshop with its cozy fire and could get back to work. The sooner she could focus on finding a solution to her troubles with her brother.

  Lady Anne’s wavering presented a new problem. She’d requested more major changes and hadn’t approved the final version of a single window. Joanna stood to earn a sizeable profit once Lady Anne made up her mind. Because of this, only for Lady Anne did she draw on costly paper. For other clients, she sketched each design right onto her worktable.

  Though frequent alterations took more time and work, Joanna didn’t complain because Lady Anne paid her deposits, and on time. She couldn’t afford to anger a good client by letting impatience get the best of her.

  Joanna desperately needed Lady Anne’s coin in her coffers.

  She was about to cross Foss Bridge when a deep voice called, “Mistress Peyntor!”

  Joanna turned, knowing before she saw the speaker who she’d see.

  Him.

  The exquisite man from Lady Anne’s looked even more attractive in the full light of day. His eyes, so incredibly blue, so clear, met hers. Latent power in his gaze sent a shiver through her. His hair glistened in the sun. Astride a huge brown horse, his cloak swirling about in the wind, he intrigued her as no other man had.