Mistress of Her Fate

by Byrne, Julia

  He nodded and stroked his thumbs across the delicate line of her cheekbones, looking deeply into her eyes.

  “Rafe? Do you believe me?”

  “Aye,” he said instantly. “I believe you, and you’re right. It no longer matters. We—”

  Footsteps hurrying along the path beside the wall interrupted him. There was something urgent in the sound, she thought, suddenly uneasy. Rafe lowered his hands and stepped away from her as one of the Bishop’s servants skidded into the arched entrance where they stood.

  “My lord, my lady, thank the saints I found you.” The man paused for breath, then bowed low to Nell. “Your pardon, lady, but you must return to the palace at once. Your father has arrived and demands your immediate presence.”

  * * *

  They were approaching the bridge across the moat surrounding the Bishop’s palace when Nell realized that Rafe was deliberately not hurrying her. Whatever urgency had sent the servant searching for them in such haste, Rafe seemed singularly unimpressed.

  She looked up at him. “You’re not surprised by my father’s arrival.”

  “I had warning. Tom told me that when he and his men set out in pursuit of us, your uncle also sent a rider to Hadleigh with what tale we can only imagine. But it makes no difference, Nell. FitzWarren has no power over you now. We’ve said our betrothal vows before witnesses, and ’tis as binding as any marriage. A fact your father knows well.”

  She nodded. “What else did Tom say to you? Why did you kick him?”

  Rafe slanted an amused glance down at her. “He said something I didn’t like.”

  “Well, that was perfectly obvious, but what was it?”

  “Nothing important.” He stopped walking and raised her hand to his lips.

  “Nothing important? You nearly broke his jaw over noth— Merciful saints,” she added as her knees went weak. Rafe was brushing the backs of her fingers across his mouth, over and over, and now he pressed them closer, tracing the line between each finger with the tip of his tongue.

  “Stop that!” she ordered in a voice that barely carried to him. “’Tis not fair. Every time we argue about something, all you have to do is touch me or kiss me and— Oh, nay,” she groaned in mortification as she realized where her nervous babbling was taking her.

  But Rafe dropped her hand, turned her about, and propelled her rather abruptly through the open door of the palace.

  “You certainly pick the most inconvenient times to rouse a man’s baser instincts, princess,” he growled. When she looked back at him, he grinned wickedly. “But don’t worry. I’ll remember what you just said.”

  Her pulse was still racing like a hare when they stepped over the threshold of the solar where her father was waiting.

  * * *

  Nell wasn’t sure what she expected, but it wasn’t the obese, pallid man, clad in an ankle-length tunic of grey wool, who remained seated by the fire, watching them cross the room toward him.

  The solar was a cozy apartment, with woven rugs on the floor, tapestries depicting scenes from the religious life on three walls, and a fireplace set into the fourth. Two tall windows let in the light, and there were tables and chairs aplenty, but she was blind to these comforts. Her gaze was fixed on her father’s face while she searched for the reason her mother had loved this man so completely.

  He must once have been handsome, she thought, and, standing, he would be almost as tall as Rafe. But his height and the piercing regard of his hazel eyes were the only traces left of the young man who had charmed women so easily. Everything else had softened, gone to seed. The lines about his mouth were dissatisfied, his cheeks flaccid, his once-firm jaw slack. Deep pouches of dissipation pulled at his eyes and his skin had an unhealthy parchment hue. A life of self-indulgence and vice had taken its toll.

  “You don’t favor your mother much,” he remarked as she and Rafe halted on the other side of the fireplace. “Not in coloring nor meekness if I’m any judge. I notice you don’t curtsy.”

  “I owe you nothing, least of all meek, unthinking respect,” she returned, meeting his cold stare with one equally as indifferent. “As for my mother, I wonder you even remember her.”

  Her scorn was evident, but she spoke without heat. He’s naught, she realized.

  And suddenly the anger and bitterness she’d harbored toward her father was gone. She didn’t need it. Didn’t need to wonder if divine retribution would overtake him one day. The man sitting in front of her had destroyed himself.

  He made a noise that betokened mocking agreement and looked at Rafe. “You’ll have your work cut out breaking her spirit, Beaudene. I’m surprised you still want her.”

  “Lady Nell will tell you that she is the mistress of her fate,” Rafe said coolly. He stood, half leaning against the chair opposite her father, his hand still clasping hers. “I have no intention of breaking her spirit.”

  “Hrmph. New-fangled nonsense, but I haven’t got time to argue about it. Have to get ready to meet my Maker.” He glanced at her and frowned. “Since ’tis obvious she’s taken no hurt, despite the Canterbury tale that fool from Langley poured into my ear, we can dispense with her presence.” His thin lips twisted in a parody of a smile. “No doubt you’ll want to discuss the marriage contract with me, Beaudene.”

  “Your concern for your daughter is touching, fitzWarren, but, aye, we do have something to discuss.” He smiled down at her and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “’Twould be best if you return to your chamber, lady. Have your maid bring you something to eat.”

  The warm gleam in his eyes belied the formality of his words, but Nell didn’t return his smile. Something was wrong. Something had jarred. She wasn’t sure what it was. A remark? A certain tension in the air? Nothing in the conversation struck her as strange, given her father’s disposition, yet she felt a sense of unease, almost of dread.

  “Rafe…” She half turned toward him, keeping her voice low so as not to be overheard, but he forestalled her, pressing a finger to her lips.

  “Hush, sweetheart. Let me handle this. ’Twill be all right, I promise you. Trust me.”

  She sighed. He trapped her with that every time.

  Worried, nerves fluttering in her stomach though she knew not why, she nodded and freed her hand from his. She looked once at her father, who was watching them with a cynical expression on his face, then, without a word to him of acknowledgement or farewell, she turned and left the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

  And halted before she’d taken more than a few paces.

  I’m surprised you still want her.

  Still want her?

  Why still? She frowned, trying to pin down the source of her unease. It wasn’t the word itself—her father likely meant it as a remark about her defiance, although he must have known that Rafe couldn’t break their betrothal short of a papal dispensation, even if he did take a dislike to her behavior.

  Did the ‘still’ mean a longer time-span? That was impossible, surely. There had been mockery, too, in her father’s tone. What if he hadn’t meant a subtle jab at her manners, but a direct strike at Rafe?

  Her hands began to tingle. She tucked them under her arms, hugging herself and staring blindly ahead as certainty struck her. ’Twas not mockery she’d heard, but malice. Her father had made that remark as if he’d known Rafe would still want her. As if he was sure Rafe would want her if she was pock-marked, shrewish, and lacking any manners whatsoever.

  As if Rafe would still want her even if she’d been the wanton he’d assumed her to be.

  She went cold all over. Without thinking, she turned on her heel and retraced her steps to the solar. She began to open the door, but she’d moved it only an inch or two when her father’s raised voice caused her hand to freeze on the latch.

  They hadn’t heard her over his angry tirade. She managed to unclamp her fingers from the latch, but that was all she was capable of doing. Unable to step forward into the room or to retreat, she listened.

  “I
f you hoped to force my hand in this by betrothing yourself to Eleanor before you returned her to me, you’re a fool, Beaudene. I don’t take well to threats of scandal. A lesson I thought I’d taught you nine years ago.”

  “You gave me this scar nine years ago, fitzWarren.”

  In contrast to her father’s voice, Rafe’s was calm, and as cold as death. “The only lesson I learned from that was to wait until I was in a position of sufficient power before going against an adversary who has no honor.”

  “You arrogant bastard! I—”

  “I’m no bastard. You of all men know that. My father was still alive when you seduced his wife, if you recall. Any bastards my mother might have borne were killed by the same evil means that took her life.”

  “Alyce made her own decisions,” fitzWarren blustered. “You can’t blame me for her death.”

  “Nay. I know, none better, that even a sewer rat like you draws the line at outright murder. But it didn’t stop you and my mother forging the deeds that gave you title to Hadleigh Castle.”

  “Fiend seize you, I had right. Who helped your mother run the place after your father died?”

  Rafe made a scornful sound. “The man who posed as her paid seneschal, but was really her lover. The man who couldn’t marry her because he was already wed to another. The man who used lies to banish me from my birthright after my mother died, leaving me with nothing except the clothes on my back.”

  “I could hardly help being wed to another,” fitzWarren muttered sullenly. “Until Eleanor was born I thought the woman was barren. But, curse it, she was still my lawful wife. What could I do?”

  “You could have divorced her on the grounds of her inability to bear children. But you didn’t want that, did you, fitzWarren? A wife in the background left you free to dishonor other women without the worry of having to marry them. On the other hand, you’d already wasted your wife’s marriage portion and most of her inheritance, so you needed another source of easy wealth.”

  “Don’t run away with the idea that Alyce was a young innocent, Beaudene. There she was with a husband twenty years older who expected her to produce a brat every year. That wasn’t for her. She was a ripe plum waiting to fall into my hands.”

  “And you made sure you caught her.”

  “A man has to grasp opportunity when it presents itself.” Her father laughed, as though suddenly more confident. “But why drag this up again? Nothing has changed. When Henry was put back on the throne nine years ago your claim was thrown out because you’d sided with York. And ’twill be no different now Edward is in power.”

  “You think not?”

  “I know not, Beaudene. For the simple reason that you have no proof of forgery and never will. Our last meeting was conducted without witnesses and so is this one. ’Tis your word against mine. Edward’s father might have plucked you out of the stews of London where I…mislaid you, shall we say? But he couldn’t help you when I held title free and clear, and nor will Edward. He wants a peaceful kingdom, an end to threats from the red rose. He’s not going to hand Hadleigh Castle back to you, leaving me with an excuse to help finance Lancaster’s next rebellion. That’s why he sent you to Langley to look Eleanor over. That’s why he suggested you marry her to settle any dispute. And though I agreed at the time, I’m not so sure…”

  “Don’t stop there, fitzWarren,” Rafe encouraged silkily. “Take as much rope as you want.”

  Her father laughed. “As you wish. I haven’t made up my mind to the match yet. You’re no better than the adventurer I was. That estate York deeded to you is smaller than Hadleigh, and you can’t have amassed a fortune putting down rebellions for Edward. Now that I see how Eleanor’s grown to be a beauty, I might look for a better alliance.”

  “You’re forgetting what I said about positions of power, fitzWarren. The balance has shifted. I’m no longer a rebellious seven-year-old child you claimed had run away, or a fifteen-year-old youth burning too hot over past injustice to fight successfully for his future. You can look all you like for another match but ’twill avail you naught. You see, ’tis not merely your honor at stake here, a commodity you don’t possess in any measure, but—”

  “You’re bluffing, Beaudene.”

  “But your immortal soul,” Rafe continued relentlessly. “How do you feel about losing everything and then burning in hell for all eternity, fitzWarren?”

  If she listened to anything else she would be ill.

  She had to get away before someone came into the hall and found her standing here, ashen and shaking.

  Her father was shouting again, but she was concentrating too hard on backing away from the door for the words to make sense. She couldn’t think, could scarcely breathe for the vise-like fist clutching at her throat. Her heart felt as if a sharp dagger had been plunged into it, and the blade was twisting…twisting…

  The pain was unbearable. She could hardly move. The effort of putting one foot in front of the other was almost too much for her. The stone staircase leading to her chamber appeared before her and she put a hand on the wall for support while she dragged herself upward.

  When she finally reached the haven of her chamber one hand was pressed to her breast as if to stop her heart from shattering. She could barely focus her burning eyes enough to close the door.

  There was still the ante-chamber to cross, but she could go no further. Leaning against the wooden panels at her back, she let herself slide downward until she crouched on the floor, doubled over in silent, unrelenting agony.

  Rafe had lied to her. Lied! Asking all those questions about her inheritance, showing concern for her safety, but only because he needed her alive to take back his lands; knowing all the time that he was the husband her father was considering; passing judgment on her. Looking her over.

  The knife twisted again, cruelly, and she whimpered. How long would it last? This anguish. This terrible sense of betrayal. Surely pain this crippling would have to ease. People didn’t die because their hearts were torn apart from loving someone who intended to use them. She would have to go on living, have to function normally.

  But not yet. Dear God, not yet! She wasn’t capable of returning to the hall, of facing Rafe and acting as if nothing had happened, as if happiness was still possible. She needed to think. Her mind felt almost as shattered as her heart, but she needed to think.

  Her father. What had he done?

  Nell covered her face with her hands, blocking out sight in an attempt to clear her mind. If she had heard aright, her father had caused his lover to betray both her husband and her son and after her death he had taken that son—sweet Jesu, a child of seven—and abandoned him in the stews of London to fend for himself. He had stolen and lied and committed felony after felony for his own gain.

  Her father was the thief Rafe had faced as a boy, the man who had stolen from him, who had almost taken his eye when confronted by the victim of his crimes. Her father was the man Rafe had sworn to defeat, his first step being his petition to the King. And Edward’s answer had been to look her over.

  She was nothing more to the man she loved than an instrument of revenge and justice. The daughter of his bitterest enemy. The one woman he could never love.

  Her hands fell from her face and she slowly straightened so she was sitting against the door. Through the half-opened doorway to the inner chamber she could see a corner of the curtained bed and the table beside the window, flanked by two high-backed chairs. A flask of wine, a trencher of bread and meat, and a dish of plums were laid on the table.

  She quickly averted her gaze. Even the thought of food made her sick, but she took a shuddering breath, clenched her hands, and forced herself to her feet.

  She would not grovel on the floor, bemoaning her fate.

  An anguished little sound escaped her and she almost doubled over again. Her fate? That was a jest. Rafe had probably laughed himself silly when she’d claimed she was mistress of her fate. And then, without a second’s hesitation, without so much as
a hint of anything permanent between them, she had surrendered in his arms.

  She cringed inside when she remembered how easy had been his conquest. He hadn’t even gone to the trouble of seducing her. He had looked, reached out, touched. And she had given herself completely.

  Had he ever really wanted her? Her. Nell. Or was physical desire another weapon wielded cold-bloodedly to further his plans? Was she more correct than she knew when she’d described his loss of control yesterday as a reaction to the danger they’d faced? And had he then turned it to his advantage? Giving her all those reasons for marriage when all the time—

  Someone rapped imperatively on the wood at her back, shattering her thoughts, and making her heart lurch violently.

  She wheeled, backing away from the door as if a specter from hell loomed on the other side.

  “Nell!” Rafe, his voice sharp with command. “Open the door.”

  She shook her head and continued backing into the other room. Had she locked the door? She couldn’t remember, but she knew she couldn’t face him. Not like this, not filled with pain and the agony of betrayal; not torn apart by hurt pride, understanding, rage, love. She needed to think. She needed to decide what to do, and—

  The door crashed open under the impact of an impatient fist on the latch and Rafe strode into the ante-chamber. He took one look at her face, slammed the door shut and locked it, then reached the solar in three long strides.

  She went utterly still, freezing like a hunted animal in the presence of danger.

  He stopped just clear of the doorway, his face set hard, eyes blazing with implacable determination.

  “How much did you hear?” he demanded, and slammed the second door shut with the flat of his hand.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Nell backed away so rapidly she was up against the window before she knew it.

  “How did you know…”

  Her voice was too choked with unshed tears to continue. She hadn’t expected the sight of him to affect her so badly. She needed to be calm, but hurt was battering at her defenses and crying to be free. She wanted to scream, to throw herself at him, clawing and kicking, to relieve the awful pressure of pain and rage and despair building inside her.