Mistress of Her Fate

by Byrne, Julia

  Tears filled her eyes, turning the coins to a shimmering blur. She swiped at her face, blinking rapidly to force back the moisture. ’Twas no use crying because she was stupid enough to let herself be seduced by gentleness into a kiss. And that was all it was. Just a kiss. It meant nothing.

  She jumped down from the table, thankful to find that her legs, so weak and trembling only moments before, now supported her.

  “See, you’ve recovered already,” she muttered, taking some small comfort from the fact that she could walk over to the bed and scoop up the coins. And if there was more than a little bravado in the way she lifted her skirts and shoved the coins into the hidden pouch holding her crucifix, she ignored it.

  She was tired. That was the cause of her tears. Any woman would feel a trifle fragile when she’d been riding for the better part of a night and day, with little food and only a couple of hours’ sleep between. She would feel better tomorrow. She would go to the fair with Bess and enjoy herself. ’Twould be a morning out of time for her. A chance to relax, to be herself, away from danger and pursuit and a man who confused her more with every moment she spent with him.

  Confused and frightened her, she amended, going very still as she remembered that moment earlier when something had trembled deep inside herself. As though she held some secret knowledge within, and had fled from it, retreating to the safety of ignorance.

  Fanciful nonsense, she scolded herself. If she was going to stand here in a pother over some man, it should be the unknown husband chosen for her by her father. What was she going to do about that?

  Nell shivered and sat down on the bed. The thought of marriage to a stranger was suddenly more abhorrent than ever. Mayhap she should only think as far ahead as changing her clothes. A more modest gown might even stop Beaudene—

  Nay! She scowled at the door as if he was standing in front of it. She would not think of that kiss again. He had punished her—in typical male fashion—for getting her way in staying to help Bess. He had extracted a price.

  But he had given in.

  Her angry scowl faded. And in its place came a wistful yearning, a gentle, feminine wistfulness so long suppressed that she was only vaguely aware of it. Why was he so hard? Angry one moment, mocking the next. He had deliberately frightened her more than once. He seemed to despise her. And yet, through it all, she sensed…

  What?

  She sighed. Was she deluding herself into thinking there was more to Beaudene than ruthlessness and an implacable will because of the occasional glimpse of tenderness or humor? But she couldn’t deny that he possessed those qualities. She had seen them. Felt them.

  She shied away from that memory, drawing her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees as though protecting herself from some unseen threat. But even as she ordered herself to forget the unexpected tenderness of Beaudene’s kiss, to ignore silly, girlish dreams, another question hovered tantalizingly at the edge of her mind.

  She thought of the scar he bore, and wondered. Had he, like her, buried the gentler side of his nature in order to survive?

  * * *

  How the devil had survival come down to sitting out here by the fire, trying to leash instincts that threatened to destroy years of waiting and planning? Had he been bewitched? Was he taking leave of his senses?

  Rafe shifted restlessly on the hard ground and glared at the door of the hut as if he could see through it to the little temptress on the other side. She had been one surprise after another today. Her humor, her endurance, her courage. Even that stupidly reckless dash across the meadow provoked a twinge of reluctant respect for her determination once he’d calmed down.

  But that kiss! That had taken him so much by surprise he was still reeling from it.

  His hands fisted as the memory of Nell’s mouth beneath his sent a rush of heat straight to his loins. He tried to will the memory away, but, for the first time in his life, his self-control deserted him. He couldn’t forget how she tasted. Sweet and soft and unexpectedly shy. He couldn’t forget the sensations aroused by his possession of that innocent, untutored mouth.

  Aye, untutored, damn it. She’d yielded, she hadn’t responded. He was too experienced not to know the difference.

  And as if that wasn’t enough to raise several questions, he was beginning to recall other instances when Nell seemed puzzled, even totally uncomprehending over some of the things he’d said. If he didn’t know better—

  Rafe’s brows snapped together. He did know better. Why did he forget that whenever he held her, or touched her, or looked into those luminous hazel eyes? Her innocence was an act. It had to be. But why suddenly assume it now after practically shoving her former lovers down his throat?

  And how had he known the instant she’d lied to him? Could anyone act so well that she could use feigned guilt to cover an equally false innocence, which in turn covered real guilt?

  By the pit! He dropped his head between his hands and stifled a curse of sheer exasperation. His thoughts were chasing themselves in circles within circles. Anymore and he’d go out of his mind.

  That fact brought another scowl to his face. He raised his head and glared at the hut again. That little witch in there was more dangerous than he thought. In all of this he’d almost forgotten the purpose of his journey, almost forgotten the burning need for justice that had consumed him for years and—

  “Rafe?”

  The low voice came from the woods behind him.

  He was on his feet in an instant, whipping around, his hand reaching for his dagger before he remembered the knife wasn’t there.

  “No need for weapons, unless you’ve taken to killing old friends,” said the voice, sounding amused. “Of course, you still have your fists. As I recall, they were lethal enough on their own.”

  Rafe straightened slowly from the fighting crouch he’d assumed. The man standing in the shadows at the edge of the clearing could have been his brother. He was the same height, possessed the same lean, muscular build, and his hair was as black as the night. Only his eyes were different, Rafe knew. They were a clear, pale grey.

  His gaze narrowed for an instant, before turning quizzical. “Dickon?” he queried, brows lifting in gentle irony.

  A rueful laugh sounded. “Less threatening than Sir Richard, don’t you think?”

  A brief smile flashed across Rafe’s face. “Richard, what in God’s name are you doing living like an outlaw and leading a bloody band of cut-throats?”

  The man he once knew as Sir Richard Peverell stepped forward into the circle of firelight. “Better that than having my head and shoulders part company. I am an outlaw, remember?”

  Rafe’s mouth thinned. “Don’t stand there babbling such folly at me. Now that Edward is firmly on the throne, do you think he would prefer to see you dead because you fought for an anointed king, rather than pardoned and giving freely of your allegiance? Mark me, he would not.”

  Richard shrugged and gestured with one hand. Other men emerged from the trees. With curious glances at Rafe they dispersed, some into huts, others to gather around the second fire.

  They numbered a half-dozen or so, Rafe estimated, and more than a few looked to be the cut-throats he’d called them. Simpkin was last, a faintly amused look on his face as he limped toward them.

  “So I was right to go looking for you,” he said to Richard. “This is the friend you once spoke of. The man who bears the mark of a knife on his face.”

  “You were right,” Richard confirmed dryly. “But did you have to kidnap him and his lady?”

  Simpkin shrugged. “You have need of him.”

  Rafe followed the exchange with grim attention. “You mean I have this to thank for keeping Nell and myself alive?” He touched his scar briefly. “My thanks. I suppose, had it been otherwise, we would have died in the forest when you first saw us.”

  “What! Me, a cripple, take on a warrior of your size? Not likely, my lord.”

  Richard laughed. “Is Simpkin the reason you were not su
rprised to see me just now? Despite not hearing my approach.”

  “I must be more tired than I thought when a great ox like you can take me unawares,” Rafe retorted. “But, aye, I recognized your hand in the way we were ambushed. Or rather, I hoped ’twas you. You’ve trained this rabble the way you once trained soldiers.”

  “We rabble got the task done, my lord,” Simpkin reminded him rather tartly. He turned to Richard. “Sit. Bess is abed, but I’ll bring meat and ale when I’ve checked the wounded.”

  “Ahh.” His leader stretched and motioned Rafe back toward the fire. “A happy thought. I could eat the ox this overgrown barbarian called me.”

  The comment drew a brief smile from Rafe, but as they sat down he fixed his friend with an interrogatory stare and demanded an explanation.

  “I’d rather know what you’re doing running around the countryside with a wife,” Richard answered, yawning. “God’s bones, I’m weary. But we got the job done.”

  “My congratulations.”

  At his sarcastic tone Richard’s brows lifted, but he waited, not speaking.

  “She’s not my wife,” Rafe said impatiently. But he kept his voice low and glanced warningly toward the men sitting several yards away. “I’m escorting her to her home.”

  “Well, who knows better than I that the roads are not safe for travelers? But escorting her on your own? Isn’t that a little unusual?”

  “The entire circumstances are damned unusual, but enough of that. What I want to know is how you come to be living this sort of life. And then I’ll know how best to help you out of it,” he added grimly.

  Richard’s soft laugh held a note of bitterness. “I’m at the point where I might accept your help, my friend. Or would you rather I did not call you that?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Richard. You know why I chose to back Edward. The Duke of York took me into his service when I had less than nothing. Edward and I have been friends for years, as were you and I. Because you chose Henry of Lancaster doesn’t make you my enemy. You made your choice and honored it to the end. There is no shame in that.” He paused and stared into the fire for a moment. “God knows, in this cousins’ war ’tis hard to say who has the right of it and who has not.”

  “A pity my lord of Warwick does not hold the same view. ’Twas he who was baying for my head after Towton. I swear merely because I unhorsed him. The man was ever a pompous braggart.”

  Rafe glanced up again, amused. “A shrewd, pompous braggart comes closer to the mark, but I doubt he’ll bother you now. He and Edward have fallen out over the Woodville alliance. Warwick has retired to sulk in his stronghold, and with good reason, I have to own. Not only was he made to look a fool at the French court—arranging a match for Edward while the King was secretly marrying Mistress Woodville—but the Queen’s relatives have overrun the court like a plague of rats, scurrying for their share of the pickings.”

  “Aye. A more ill-considered match I cannot imagine.” Richard grinned suddenly. “And damned inconvenient as well. If you hadn’t come along, I was going to send the prettiest wench here to petition the King on my behalf. But if the gossip is true, marriage has Edward running in harness.”

  “Only until he sees another woman he wants. Now, can we have a sober discussion here? What happened to you after Towton?”

  “You’ve lost your sense of humor, Rafe. This escort business must not be much fun.”

  “I’m sure Nell would agree with you. Talk!”

  “There’s not much to tell,” Richard said, capitulating with a careless shrug. “After Towton there was a price on my head. Hell’s fiends, there was a price on a lot of heads, but I didn’t fancy having mine adorn some city gate, so I made for that hole we know of.”

  “I thought so. We stayed there last night and I knew someone had been before us. ’Twas the other reason I didn’t slaughter that ambitious crew of kidnappers this afternoon.”

  Richard chuckled. “I’ll tell Simpkin to be properly grateful. Well, as you guessed, I stayed low until the hue and cry died down. It took long enough, God knows. Warwick is nothing if not tenacious. Then a little more than a year ago I fell in with these fellows. Most of them are good men, believe it or not, and the rest are controlled by the odd robbery. ’Tis not a bad way of life for some. Drifters from the army, runaway serfs, true criminals—we have them all. And if a man’s name is not the one he was born with, no one questions him about it.”

  “I dare say, but ’tis no way for you to live. Let me intercede with Edward for you.”

  “And live on what? A place in his hall, grateful for a few crumbs from his table but expecting little else because I once backed a rival king? Nay, I thank you.”

  “Not at court.” Rafe hesitated, glancing at the hut before speaking again. “I may be in a position to grant you some land in exchange for your oath of fealty. You’re no fool, Richard. Once pardoned, you can build from that.”

  For the first time there was a flicker of genuine interest in the grey eyes watching him. Then Richard’s gaze sharpened and he said softly, “You’re going to reclaim Hadleigh Castle and your lands. After all these years? How?”

  Rafe shrugged. “Through the King, mayhap. If not, there are other means.”

  “Do those other means have anything to do with the girl you were hell-bent on protecting today?”

  “Hell-bent? God’s bones! What tale did Simpkin tell you?”

  “Naught but the truth,” Simpkin answered, coming up to them with a platter laden with chunks of venison and a brimming jug of ale. He also carried Rafe’s sword and dagger, which he handed over. “You would have taken an arrow for her if we’d fired.”

  “’Tis my duty,” Rafe said dryly, returning his dagger to its sheath and laying his sword beside him. He turned the question on Richard. “Does the fact that you’re tempted to accept my offer have anything to do with the little redhead sharing my lady’s hut?”

  A grin that could only be described as sheepish crossed Richard’s face.

  Simpkin laughed as he turned away. “Accept on behalf of us all,” he advised his leader with the familiarity of a trusted servant. “I, for one, grow too old for another winter spent in these woods.”

  “An unusual man,” Rafe murmured, watching Simpkin return to his place with the others. “You would have been pleased with the way he planned that ambush. I knew we were being shadowed, but not by more than one, nor that Simpkin sent young Luke off to warn the others and have them waiting. And, by his speech, I would say he’s received some learning.”

  “Aye,” Richard mumbled around a mouthful of venison. “He was once a lord’s fool. Was even taught his letters and how to figure. An easy life for a peasant born with a twisted foot and withered leg, but apparently his liege abused him whenever the mood was upon him so Simpkin ran away and ended up here.”

  He ate in silence for a few minutes, then looked directly at Rafe over his ale-cup, all traces of careless unconcern gone from his face. “He would make a good steward. And there are some others here who may wish to follow me. How does that sit with you?”

  Rafe smiled. “Better to find honest employment, even as a fool, than wind up at the end of a rope.”

  “Then you’ve just gained yourself a fool,” Richard answered quietly. He put the mug down and held out his hand. “And an oath of fealty, my friend.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The open field outside the small market town was teeming with people and animals, and alive with the scents and sounds of the fair.

  Wealthy merchants, garbed in their finest gowns, rubbed shoulders with sharp-eyed pedlars in simple homespun. Craftsmen hammered and sewed. Townswomen in brightly-hued wools and velvets compared prices with soberly-clad farmers’ wives, while their husbands eyed the brilliant, cloudless sky and debated how long the fine autumn weather would last.

  It seemed to Nell that everyone for miles around had chosen that morning to attend the fair. And there was plenty to see and marvel at, from the goldsmiths’ and
jewelers’ precious goods, displayed in sturdy wooden booths, to trestle tables piled high with fine English wool and Flemish cloth, furs from the North, and spices and sweetmeats from the far-away East.

  Even the spaces between the stalls and tables were occupied by people hoping to turn a profit—barbers, jongleurs, traveling players, quacks declaiming the dubious properties of whatever potion or elixir they were selling. Pie-vendors wandered through the crowd, adding their voices to the din; children and dogs abounded, darting between stalls and wagons and legs with reckless abandon.

  And overlooking all, the castle that held license for the fair stood apart on its wooded rise above the town in grimly-fortified patronage.

  “Do you know who lives there?” Bess asked, seeing Nell’s gaze go from the grey-walled towers above them to the uniformed men-at-arms mingling with the crowd.

  “Nay, and even if I did, I doubt they would recognize me like this.” She glanced down at herself and tried to quell a growing feeling of nervousness. It hadn’t been so bad at first. The unaccustomed freedom to wander at will among the stalls and booths delighted her, as had the lavish way she’d been spending Beaudene’s money on various necessities for their outlaw hosts.

  There was nothing, she told herself, to be nervous about. She looked no different to any other fair-goer. Her long hair was braided and coiled into a plain crespinette and the red wool gown Bess had found for her was modestly cut and worn beneath a sleeveless fitted surcoat of moss-green velvet, neatly trimmed with miniver. She could have passed for a respectable tradesman’s daughter. Neither the soldiers in the crowd, nor the group of apprentices who were following her and Bess around the fair, snickering and nudging each other but not venturing nearer, would suspect she was a lady abroad without male protection.

  And there lay the real problem, she admitted, as she waited for Bess to purchase a supply of hemp and tallow with which to make candles. She wasn’t afraid of the risk of exposure; she missed Beaudene’s presence beside her.