Velvet Bond

by Catherine Archer

  His gaze went back to his wife, across the hall. Could he trust her to push no farther? Would she try to pry her way into the rest of his life, as his mother had done?

  Elizabeth was now directing a woman in the cleaning of a tabletop. When she shook her head and took the cloth, bending to finish the task herself, the fabric of her blue cote stretched taut over the gentle swell of her bottom. Raynor felt a tightening in his groin, and shifted on his seat. But he was unable to look away as she straightened and smoothed the raven curls that had escaped her braid.

  God, but she was beautiful, he told himself. There was no use in trying to deny it, even to himself—any man would find her so. But she was not some other man’s, she was his, though in truth he knew nothing of her. Then, unbidden, a strange thought occurred to him.

  Was it not odd that Bronic seemed to know so much of what Elizabeth was about? As soon as the thought was formed, Raynor pushed it aside in shame. He would not believe ill of his brother.

  * * *

  Elizabeth could feel Raynor’s eyes upon her like a touch. Since the afternoon they’d spent with Willow, there was a new intensity in the way he looked at her.

  She was near to screaming with frustration and confusion. What did he want from her? The heat of his gaze told its own story. But surely, if he desired her, Raynor would say so? She was his wife, and he had the right to take her when and where he would.

  It was especially hurtful for Elizabeth to know that though he did not even act upon his desire for her, he still seemed to love Louisa. What traits had that gentle damsel possessed that Elizabeth did not? Had she been more beautiful, more kind, more caring? Who could say what strange fusion of qualities brought about the love of a man like Raynor?

  Elizabeth knew she was jealous—oh, yes, without doubt, and of a woman who was near three years gone from this life. Though she did keep trying to remind herself that she should be gladdened to know that Raynor had loved Louisa. If he had been capable of loving once, then could he not come to care for her at least a little?

  Though the possibility was remote, it seemed not so much so as before.

  She knew that for Raynor to love her was beyond expectation. The circumstances of their marriage had seen to that. He would never be able to completely forgive her for what had happened. His pride and his need for the freedom to choose his own way were too strong for that.

  The question was, could he learn to respect and honor her? Even that much would be as near to heaven as Elizabeth could imagine.

  Long after she had left the hall and gone to her chamber for the night, these troubles would not cease plaguing Elizabeth. Her big bed sat ready, the heavy draperies pulled back invitingly on the warmth of the fire. Olwyn helped her to change into a sleeping gown of fine gauze, then left to seek her own rest.

  But even after Olwyn had left, Elizabeth could not stop thinking about Raynor. Her desire to make him see that they must learn to live together with some small trace of harmony would not be dimmed this night.

  Finally Elizabeth knew she could wait no more. There was never an opportunity in the day for her to speak with Raynor on any personal subject. Today, when they made the swing for Willow, had been the first time. And even then they had been within full sight of all who worked about the castle grounds.

  How could she ever hope to make him understand, if she had no opportunity to tell him how she felt, to make him understand that it was important to make peace? His actions today with Willow made her think he might be ready to try.

  Determined to act before she could change her mind, Elizabeth took her ruby velvet robe from the end of the bed and drew it on. She had no trouble locating Raynor’s chamber, for it was the only room in the keep that she had not yet entered.

  The chamber was bathed in the light from the fire, and she was surprised to see how neatly her husband lived. Two chests stood against the inner wall, their tops closed. Only a comb and a carefully folded cloak on one. The floor was bare, and there was no decoration save a coat of arms above the heavy curtained bed. The draperies looked clean, but the once-gold color had faded to dull yellow.

  Elizabeth was appalled at the spareness of the chamber, and knew an intense desire to set it aright.

  As baron of Warwicke, Raynor was deserving of some comforts. His people did not go without, as he cared well for them and made certain their homes and farms were in good repair.

  But knowing how Raynor felt about her interfering, she would not change things without consulting him. Elizabeth made a mental note to speak to him about getting new carpets and draperies, if naught else.

  But not this night. Tonight they had more important matters to discuss.

  As she came farther into the room, Elizabeth heard the sound of someone moving in the bed.

  She hesitated a moment, then squared her slender shoulders. “Raynor, it is I, Elizabeth.”

  A moment later, a head came out from between the bedclothes. It was not Raynor.

  A mass of pale blond hair framed the pretty female face that looked at her with shock. It was the very same serving woman who had looked at her so resentfully on her first day at Warwicke. That resentment was now explained.

  A blaze of red rose up to obscure Elizabeth’s vision, and a throbbing rage filled her veins, making her limbs shake. How dare he! When he would not so much as touch her, his own lawfully wedded wife!

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Elizabeth moved to the bed and jerked the curtains open. She was not surprised to find the slut unclothed.

  What did surprise her was that Raynor was not in the bed.

  Disappointment at not being able to vent her spleen upon him made her seethe. Killing him would simply have to wait until he returned. First she would deal with his leman. “Get up,” Elizabeth growled.

  The girl cowered there for a moment. Then, as if she suddenly realized she was fighting for her very position as Raynor’s harlot, she raised her head, tossing her hair back from her shoulders to expose swelling breasts and a narrow waist. “I am waiting for my lord.”

  Elizabeth was not impressed by this view of the wench’s charms. Ripping one of the bed curtains down, she tossed it to the little trollop. “I said get up!”

  The girl cringed, but did not move. “You have no right to send me away. My lord Warwicke wants me in his bed.”

  Elizabeth felt a stab of pain in her belly at the knowledge that the words were true, but they did not sway her. She leaned closer. “On my authority as mistress in this keep, I order you to get out of that bed. Does my husband wish to rut with you, he will take you in the stable, or somewhere equally fitting. You will not now, nor ever again, venture into a place that is mine and mine alone.”

  The girl quaked, grabbing up the curtain and holding it over her nakedness, but she had not lost all her fight. She jumped down, standing with her head high, though tears streaked her pale cheeks. “Don’t mistake, Lady Elizabeth. Everyone knows you don’t share my lord’s bed. 'Tis a disgrace that you won’t have him, nor will you let him have another.”

  Elizabeth would have laughed, had the situation been less volatile. Did they really believe it was she who rejected Raynor?

  If only the truth were known.

  At that moment, she heard her husband’s voice from the doorway. She spun around, ready to tear him to shreds with her tongue.

  But the furious expression on his face, and what he said, made her tirade die aborning. “Hyla!” He strode toward the serf. “Get you from my chambers, and do not come back!”

  The serving woman started toward him, dropping the cover so that he could see the voluptuous fruits she offered. “My lord...”

  He simply picked the curtain up and threw it at her, the ice in his eyes freezing her where she stood. Raynor indicated Elizabeth with a sweep of his hand. “This lady is my wife, and the baroness of Warwicke. Do you ever again speak to her as you just did, I will have you whipped.”

  She shrank away from him with a gasp of denial. “Nay.” Sniveli
ng as if she had been struck, Hyla ran from the room.

  Elizabeth was beyond speech. One moment she had been ready to berate her husband for not showing her the respect of keeping his leman from her own home, the next she was overcome to hear him speak of her with such deference.

  Raynor rounded on Elizabeth, his anger a dull flame in his eyes. And in spite of the way he had just defended his wife, he seemed little pleased to see her. “To what do I owe this honor, wife?”

  She pulled herself together, standing tall as she remembered that Raynor had actually been upholding her position as his baroness. Not Elizabeth herself. It was his fault that there was any need to do so. If he hadn’t made his unhappiness with the marriage known, there would be no need. “I but came to speak with you, and inadvertently found your doxy in your bed,” she answered resentfully. “Is there some reason I should not come to your rooms if I desire? I have more right to be here than that woman. You set me up to ridicule by sending her here.”

  He spoke slowly and carefully. “I did not send for her, nor any other. I have not in the time you have been at Warwicke.” He finished quietly, “Though I know not why.”

  The last part was lost to insignificance as Elizabeth heard the truth in his statement. Raynor would not lie to her about this. He would not demean himself to do so.

  Unaccountably she felt a strange flush of happiness. He had bedded no other. That was something, was it not? Though honesty told her the situation would not go on indefinitely.

  At least he would not be rutting with Hyla. After what Raynor had said to her, she would not have the courage to place herself in his bed again. But Elizabeth knew the woman who replaced her would be no more acceptable in her eyes.

  Thinking to have it out in the open at last, Elizabeth moved closer to him, her gaze catching his in the light of the fire. “Raynor, did you know that they all think I will not have you in my bed?” Her voice was low and uncertain. “What would the castlefolk say if they knew that it is you who will not have me?”

  “Elizabeth...” he began, as if to stop her from going on.

  But she was not to be halted. “Why do you keep yourself from me? I am your wife, Raynor. We are wed in the eyes of God and man. If you desire a woman, why can it not be me?”

  She was so close she could feel the heat of him, and it was hotter and more radiant than the fire at her back. How she wanted this man, wanted his lips on hers, his arms around her.

  He stood looking down at her, his expression strained as if he fought some inner battle, his hands clenched at his sides.

  Their long-suppressed desire was a real entity between them, called to pulsing life just by Elizabeth’s speaking the words. Her bated breath came from between parted lips. Her lids felt heavy as she looked into the darkening pools of his eyes.

  Then it seemed he no longer had the will to resist her, or himself. Raynor reached out. Slowly, but without hesitation, he pulled her close. It was as if the inevitable had been accepted, then welcomed as his lips found hers.

  She opened to him immediately, more ready for this moment than she had been for any in her life. Their previous encounters had done nothing but fuel this flickering desire that made her pulse race and her senses whirl. As he drew her tongue into his mouth, she groaned, a sweet ache pooling in her lower stomach.

  With eager fingers, she pulled at the bottom of Raynor’s tunic, wanting to feel his naked skin.

  Hooking his hand over hers, Raynor stepped back and drew the garment over his head. He was bare beneath it, and Elizabeth’s eager fingers moved to touch the smooth flesh of his chest. He sucked in a quick breath of pleasure, his lids coming down to mask the passion in his eyes. But Elizabeth had seen how he reacted to her touch, and she gloried in it.

  Then he pulled her into his arms again, molding her to the hard contours of his masculine body. In complete abandon, Elizabeth threw her head back, allowing him full access as he pressed hot kisses to the column of her throat.

  Trusting Raynor with some instinctive part of her mind, Elizabeth leaned into him. She trailed her hands over the hard lines of his back and shoulders. God, but he was a wonder, so much a man and so very beautiful to her.

  How she had longed for this time, for the simple right to touch her husband, whom she desired beyond reason.

  Through the haze of her passion, Elizabeth became aware of a sound behind her. Distantly she realized someone had come into the room.

  Surely Raynor would send them away, make them realize they must not come into his chamber when he was here with his wife. But he simply stiffened under her hands, his supple muscles ridging with tension.

  Elizabeth took a deep, ragged breath and pulled away from him. When she looked at his face, there was no emotion there. Turning to find out who had come in, Elizabeth saw Raynor’s squire, Arthur.

  Arthur stood there, seemingly struck dumb by what he was seeing. Raynor’s sword hung forgotten in his arms. The boy seemed to come to his senses. “My pardon, Lord Warwicke. I did not know. I simply brought your sword....” Awkwardly he held the weapon up as proof. “I will go—”

  “Nay, Arthur, stay,” Raynor said at last, his voice devoid of emotion. “Lady Elizabeth was just leaving.”

  The words hit her with the force of blows. Even after what had just happened between them, she was being summarily dismissed. Once again he had shown how easily he could set her aside. As if she were nothing. Turning to look at her husband, her eyes on fire with anger and disillusion, Elizabeth raised her head high. Not for anything would she have let him see how much this rejection had hurt her.

  “Aye,” she said, “I was just leaving. My thanks to you, lord husband, for a lesson well learned.”

  As she left, Elizabeth remembered why she had gone to his room in the beginning.

  They had not talked, as she had hoped.

  Her hopes for a pax between them seemed foolish now, in the face of Raynor’s latest rejection of her.

  Chapter Nine

  Once again, Raynor found his gaze wandering about the hall, his attention drifting from the case before him.

  His fingers clenched around the arms of his high-backed chair. Where Elizabeth was concerned, it was as if he had no power over his own thoughts and emotions.

  The previous day’s events, the happy time they’d spent together with Willow, then the fierce eruption of passion between them in his room, had left them even more confused than before. He shook his head. Only Arthur’s interruption had kept him from taking her then and there.

  These events, and his growing attraction for his wife, his increasing desire to see her gentleness, honesty and forthright nature as genuine, made Raynor hope. And those feelings of hope were more terrifying to him than facing the fiercest foe in battle. For if he came to care for her, if he allowed himself to love her, it would be irrevocably.

  The pull of her was that powerful and all-encompassing, and Raynor dreaded losing himself in anyone else to that extent. So much so that he felt compelled to do everything in his will to prevent it.

  But was he not wrong for doing so? Was he a fool, as Bronic and Jean had told him? Was he tossing away a chance at happiness by continuing to reject Elizabeth?

  Raynor knew he’d hurt her last eve, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. No matter how wrongly, he had simply reacted out of a need to keep her from seeing how much she affected him. In all honesty, he was sorry, but he did not know how to make amends. For he was not ready to commit himself to trusting Elizabeth. It was easy enough for Bronic to say she was simply independent. He did not have to live with knowing that his wife could turn that streak of willfulness against him at any moment.

  He came back to reality when he realized he could no longer hear the villager talking.

  God’s blood, he thought. Today was his day for hearing his villeins' troubles, and he was attending nothing.

  “Well, my lord?” the stocky farmer asked, his blue eyes puzzled. “Am I to be allowed to graze my sheep on the common with
the others?” He nervously wiped a shock of sun-streaked hair from his forehead.

  Raynor held up his hand. He knew this was no petty problem for the man. Even among the lower classes, there was a hierarchy, and those from the more influential families managed to dole out the best grazing lands among themselves. “Aye,” Raynor nodded. “I will speak to John Marshal. If the warden has no objection of merit, you may.”

  With a smile of elation, the man bowed. “You have my thanks, my lord Warwicke.” He turned then and left the hall.

  Raynor looked to his bailif, a slightly rounded, neatly dressed man of no more than forty. The man spoke with a respectful nod to his master. “That is all for today.”

  The baron of Warwicke barely restrained a sigh as he rose and made his way from the room. He had no doubt that half the folk who had attended today’s judgments would be returning in the next month. He had heard little of what had been said, and thus could not have made the kind of definitive decisions he usually did.