Mistress of Her Fate

by Byrne, Julia

  “That shows how little you know,” she muttered. “I’ve spent the past three years keeping myself out of danger. Without the help of any man.”

  They reached the horses and Beaudene stopped, swinging around to pin her with a dangerous stare. “Is that so? And just how did you manage that, princess?”

  She glared back at him. “’Twas not difficult. The men at Langley didn’t have any brains or sense either. Like you, they saw what they wanted to see and didn’t look any further.”

  “And you let them see what they wanted to see, didn’t you, lady? Languishing sighs, sidelong looks, admiring glances. Not to mention—”

  “Aye,” she interrupted without ceremony. She didn’t have any desire to hear the rest of what was undoubtedly a lengthy catalogue of her faults. “But think on this, my lord. If I had followed my natural inclination and laughed at those preening peacocks instead of giving them admiring glances and languishing sighs, they would have turned into very nasty small boys, except they have the strength of men.”

  He was silent for a moment, his gaze intent. “And you’re too small and soft to defend yourself physically,” he murmured. “Is that what happened, Nell? Did you learn to use men rather than be used?”

  At the gentler note in Beaudene’s voice, something tremulous unfurled within her. She remembered the impulse she’d felt when she realized who had saved her from the guard. At that moment, she had wanted to throw herself into Beaudene’s arms and feel them close around her, warm and strong and protective. Only the fight raging around them had stopped her.

  “I don’t use men,” she denied. “I have no use for them.”

  His voice went even softer. “Then you’ve never been made love to properly.”

  “Love! What has love to do with the dealings between men and women?”

  “A telling question,” Rafe said almost absently. The tremor in Nell’s voice was having a strange effect on him, smothering anger beneath a growing need to hear his name spoken in that breathless, utterly feminine whisper. He took a step closer and saw her tremble.

  What was she thinking, he wondered. Her chin was up and her mouth set in a stubborn line, but her long-lashed eyes were wide, and, in the sun-dappled forest, more green than hazel. She looked as if she wasn’t sure whether he was going to beat her or kiss her.

  But he knew what he wanted to do.

  His fingers tightened around the delicate bones of her wrist so he could draw her closer.

  She didn’t make a sound, not one whimper, but her lashes flickered and she tensed.

  Rafe went still, his eyes on her face. He reached out with his other hand and pushed the long sleeve of her gown halfway to her elbow. A single glance was all he needed to see the bracelet of dark bruises circling the tender flesh of her wrist. He cursed softly and shifted his grip to her hand.

  “Did I do that?”

  “Nay,” she said huskily. “’Twas the soldier.”

  “I should have killed him.”

  She laughed shakily. “Just for bruising me?”

  He raised her hand to his lips and pressed his mouth gently to the inside of her wrist. “For bruising you. For frightening you. For daring to touch you.”

  Her hand quivered in his. “W…we should go, my lord.”

  Rafe frowned as his gaze went to the pulse beating wildly in her throat. She was afraid, he realized with a jolt. This time there was no trace of desire in her eyes, nothing but doubt and fear, and even a hint of tears. It wasn’t an act. No one could suddenly turn pale to order.

  Stunned, he released her. “Nell?”

  “The others will be here in a minute.”

  “Richard will take a different route back to the camp,” he said. But she was right. They needed to get away from this place. They would continue the conversation later. He was determined on it.

  Nell drew in a ragged breath when Beaudene turned away to untether Samson. She wasn’t sure what had just happened. For a moment there, she could have sworn he was as puzzled and uncertain as she was herself.

  She could hardly blame him. After the blatant way she’d thrown her supposed past in his face, she was now acting like a terrified rabbit whenever he came near her. Worse. She was teetering on the brink of telling him the truth, of telling him everything. The longing to do so almost overwhelmed her, warring so fiercely with her natural caution she felt torn in two.

  Caution won, of course. It was too ingrained for her to abandon it on the impulse of a moment. But now she felt more alone than ever. Utterly alone, and desperately uncertain.

  She moved restlessly, trying to throw off the feeling, and the vials in her basket clinked together.

  Beaudene turned his head, his gaze sharp. “What do you have in there?”

  She managed a shrug. “Herbs. Medicines. What we came for.” Glad of the excuse to avoid his intent scrutiny, she peered into the basket to check that nothing had broken during her struggle with the soldier. “Fortunately, they’re still intact.”

  “Put the basket down,” he said, his voice curt. “I’ll hand it up to you when you’re on Samson.”

  She obeyed without a murmur, gripping the saddle and putting her foot in Beaudene’s cupped hands so he could lift her onto his horse. He returned the basket to her, gathered up the reins and mounted behind her. His arms came around her, guiding Samson in the direction of the camp.

  Nelly almost leapt straight back out of the saddle. How on earth was she going to endure the ride? To be so close to Beaudene, caged between his arms, was more than her overwrought senses could bear. Against her back he felt warm and hard, overwhelmingly big, reassuringly strong; threat and safety; danger and protection.

  Her see-sawing thoughts threatened to make her head spin. She wouldn’t last a yard riding like this, let alone a couple of miles. The fragile hold she had on her emotions would crumble like so much dust, and she would do something completely stupid, like turn and cling to him. Beg him to hold her and never let her go.

  “Could I not ride behind you?” she asked.

  “The way you attract trouble?” he muttered. “I’m keeping you where I can see you.”

  To her everlasting relief, the urge to fling herself into his arms vanished like smoke. “By the Rood! How much trouble can I get into on the back of a horse?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  Nell turned her head to stare up at him in astonishment. It was a mistake. He was far too close. Her cheek brushed his shoulder and his mouth was only inches from hers.

  Wonderful. Now she was beset by the temptation to touch him. To rest her head on his shoulder, to trace the chiseled line of his upper lip and press her fingertips to the full curve of his lower one.

  “Keep looking at me like that, princess, and I’ll demonstrate precisely what I mean. Is that what you want?”

  His rough tone brought her back to reality with a thud. She jerked her face to the front while she searched frantically for a change of subject.

  “How did you get the scar on your face?”

  Behind her, Beaudene went rigid, his hands clenching on the reins. Even the air around them seemed to turn ice-cold, sending a chill down her spine. She could only count her heartbeats and watch his hands until he relaxed them again. And wish she could be struck dumb.

  “’Tis a long story,” he said at last.

  Nell blinked, hardly able to believe he’d answered her.

  “And not pleasant hearing,” he added gruffly. “Suffice to say I tried to recover something that was stolen from me, before I was old enough to fight for it.”

  Hardly daring to breathe, afraid that even the slightest wrong word might rob her of this chance to know more about him, she made her voice very soft. “Someone robbed you when you were a child?”

  “Aye. And then the thief tried to take my eye when I confronted him. Not a very heroic tale, is it, lady?” His tone was mocking, but she heard the bitterness and pain behind the mockery.

  “You were a child,” she said gen
tly. “But what of your father? Could he not—”

  “My father died before I had any memories of him. But since he left everything in my mother’s hands, even when he was alive, I doubt I missed much.”

  “’Tis difficult for a woman alone. I’m sure your mother would have fought for you if she was able.”

  He gave a short laugh. “Before you start wallowing in sentiment, princess, you should know that my mother helped the thief in his enterprise. Fortunately for her, she died before I knew any robbery had taken place.”

  Nell was silent. She longed to speak, longed to tell him that she knew what it was to be betrayed like that. But instinct warned her that he would reject any sympathy with brutal dispatch.

  No wonder he distrusted women. It sounded as if Beaudene’s mother had manipulated her husband to the advantage of a lover—why else would a woman conspire to steal from her own son. It was also clear that he considered both York and Lancastrian queens to be manipulative. And when he’d first seen her, she’d been juggling men right and left. How could she blame him for misjudging her, given the evidence at her farewell banquet?

  “You intend to fight this man again, don’t you,” she said, in an effort to shake off the gloom threatening to descend on her. “Was that why you were at court?”

  He laughed again, a sound without humor. “You’re very perceptive, princess. Aye, my petition is one of many piling up on Edward’s table these days.”

  “Will he grant your right to whatever it is?”

  She felt him tense again. When he spoke, every word sounded as if it was being hacked from a chunk of ice by a lethally sharp sword.

  “Whether he does or not, I will take back what was mine and be avenged, one way or another. I have sworn an oath on it.”

  “Well…” She shivered inwardly. God send that such an implacable desire for revenge was never turned on her. “I wish you good fortune, my lord. If my determination equals your own, we should both succeed in our quests.”

  “If you’re about to mention Wells again, let me save you the trouble. The answer is nay.”

  “But last night you said—”

  “I said we would stay here for one day. That was the extent of our bargain, lady.”

  “In that case, I wonder you didn’t chase after me on the road to Wells this morning,” she retorted. “Instead of going directly to the fair.”

  “There was never any doubt about that,” he said. “You gave Bess your word. But if what you’re wearing was meant to be a disguise, it failed dismally in its purpose.”

  Nell turned to stare at him again. Beaudene trusted her word?

  “I thought you hadn’t noticed my clothes,” she said at last.

  “Oh, I noticed, princess. The trouble is, so did every other man at that fair, as you discovered to your cost.”

  “But I changed my clothes so I wouldn’t be noticed,” she spluttered. “This dress is nothing like the one I was wearing. And it even has a surcoat over it.”

  “That fits you like a second skin.”

  “Well, I can see there is no pleasing you, my lord. First you threw my headdress to the four winds. Yesterday you slew the points of my shoes. And now—”

  “I didn’t say I dislike the dress.” His gaze, glittering and intent, moved over her with a look of such intimacy she almost glanced down to make sure she wasn’t naked. “Your other gown was an invitation to look.” His voice lowered to a soft growl. “This one makes a man want to touch.”

  Every bone in her body threatened to melt in the heat flooding her senses. A strange fluttering started deep inside her. Beaudene hadn’t so much as touched her, was even now watching her with that strange assessment she’d seen last night—yet she was quivering with anticipation.

  “You forget yourself, my lord,” she got out, tearing her gaze from his. “You are supposed to be my bodyguard.” She had certainly forgotten that. “Whatever your opinion of my clothes, my person, or…or my actions, I will thank you to keep them to yourself.”

  “And I,” he answered beneath his breath, “am beginning to think I don’t know much about you at all, despite your clothes, your person, or your actions.”

  The rest of the ride was accomplished in a silence that stretched Nell’s nerves to the limit. In an effort to distract herself, she brooded for a while on the second discovery of the day—that her bodyguard knew the outlaw leader well. The situation should have made her uneasy; the fact that it didn’t turned her thoughts, once more, to the question of trust.

  She trusted Beaudene with her life, with her safety, but he threatened her in some way she could only sense. He trusted her word, but still believed her to be wanton.

  They were at an impasse, she realized, with a little shiver of awareness. And to overcome it, one of them would have to do something neither had done since childhood.

  Trust blindly.

  She shivered again as the next logical question occurred to her.

  Why would she want to break such an impasse in the first place?

  * * *

  The task of caring for the wounded took up the rest of the day. Nell was grateful for the work. It kept her from contemplation of a deed that was making her feel colder inside with every passing moment, until now, with the sun hovering low in the sky, fine tremors seized her hands and she felt sick to her stomach.

  Bess seemed not to notice her increasing preoccupation, but followed her advice and instructions with close attention. Nell wished she knew the girl well enough to mention her liaison with Sir Richard, if only to offer comfort, but all she could do was brood on the inevitable result of a relationship between an outlaw girl and a knight of the realm—even if he did have a price on his head.

  Another woman at the mercy of some man, she thought angrily, even knowing her resentment might be misplaced. Bess was certainly capable of making her own choices, but Nell remembered the betrayal in the other girl’s eyes and knew she was in love with Sir Richard.

  Holy Mother, she demanded silently, isn’t there one male among them who can behave honorably when a woman is involved?

  A fleeting memory of Beaudene at their first encounter, scornful and uncompromising, flashed through her mind.

  One man. And he believes me to be dishonored.

  Pushing the thought aside with an effort, she paused outside the hut next to Bess’s cottage and handed the basket of flasks and linens to her companion.

  “There is naught to do here except dispense what comfort I may,” she said. “You’ve been nursing the wounded day and night. Why don’t you rest a while before we eat?”

  To her relief, Bess nodded. “An hour’s repose would be welcome,” she said in weary agreement. “But more important—” She touched Nell’s hand in a shy gesture of friendship. “Thanks to you, lady, I will sleep easier tonight knowing the children will live.”

  Nell stepped into the dim, quiet hut with those words pounding in her head.

  Aye, the children would live. Except one. A child who might not even exist, she told herself, as she moved closer to the bed.

  She stood there for a very long time, watching the girl who lay asleep on her side, her head turned away from the door.

  Why was she hesitating? Hadn’t she already decided on her course of action? The task was simple. Terrifyingly simple. The powder was prepared. All she need do was mix the dose with a little syrup of wine, wake her patient, and hold the cup to her lips. The girl would drink before she was fully awake; unknowing, innocent of any wrong, free to live her life without the reminder of fear and shame and brutality.

  But still she waited, shaking visibly. And cold. So cold she could barely feel the little bag of powdered herb clenched in her hand. She could not feel anything except the churning sickness in her stomach and the tightness in her throat.

  There might not be a child, she reminded herself. And if no child existed there would be no harm done. No one would know what passed here in any event. But if there was a child… If a babe lay snug in that
fragile vessel, not yet living, but surely deserving of life; created by violence, but an innocent victim also; a soul belonging to God, but denied salvation—

  “Oh, blessed Mother, I cannot do it!”

  She sobbed aloud and immediately clapped her hands to her mouth to stifle the sound. The bag pressed against her cheek and she lowered her hands again to stare at it. The sight of it made her almost physically ill.

  “Dear Lord,” she prayed in a choked whisper. “Help this innocent soul, for I cannot.” And ’twas not of her own soul that she thought in that moment. She simply couldn’t kill.

  Unable to think beyond that fact, she lifted her skirts, groping blindly for the pouch still tied beneath her gown, and stuffed the little bag of herbs out of sight. Then, moving very carefully, she turned and opened the door.

  Beaudene stood outside, not two feet away. It was the first time she’d seen him since they had returned to the camp in silence.

  “Bess told me you were here.” He hesitated, frowning at her. “Come and rest. You’ve been on your feet all day tending these people.”

  She couldn’t meet his gaze, but gave a jerky nod, gazing past him to the fire. She needed the heat of the flames. Desperately.

  “Nell?” He stopped her with a hand on her arm as she went to go around him. “What’s amiss?”

  ’Twas as well she felt frozen. The note of concern in his voice did not affect her at all. But his hand was warm. Warm and strong and alive. She could feel the pulse beating in his fingers as they pressed against the softness of her inner arm. Or mayhap ’twas her own pulse…or both…two hearts linked, beating as one.

  “I’m just tired.” She pulled her arm free and almost ran toward the fire, noticing too late that Sir Richard was already seated there, leaning against a log. She could not turn back now; Beaudene was at her side and she didn’t need to look at him to know his intent gaze was focused on her face.

  Richard got to his feet and smiled at her. “Mistress Nell. Bess tells me you’ve saved the lives of our wounded. I hope you know that if I can ever repay you, no service would be too great to ask of me.”