"Good day, my lord!" the younger man said, adding a welcoming gesture that would hardly be feigned, and with a nod Beren acknowledged the man's passing. Then, he turned back to Crispin, his dark brows lifted in query.
"Those who don't know you may bow and scrape to Edward's lackey, but no one wants you here," the old knight fairly snarled. "I told you that things have changed, so you might as well be gone! And lest you think the lady of Brandeth still pines for your presence, she came to her senses long ago and curses your name as well as any other!"
With that, Crispin turned on his heel and marched away, though he had not been given leave to go by his lord. Beren stared after him, too stunned to dispute his dismissal. Guenivere pining for him? He shook his head, unable to believe it, but he knew Crispin was not clever enough to spin such a lie. Despite his best judgment, hope leapt to life within his breast, and Beren knew that he must discover the truth ere he left Brandeth.
And there was only one way to find out: by asking Guenivere.
Although he had again avoided dinner, that night Beren took supper in the hall, and he had to wonder just what had kept him away. Besides Crispin, who sent him dark looks, none other there seemed to harbor ill feelings toward him. And if some older resident bid him recall the past, Beren simply changed the subject. Indeed, that was an easier task than trying to explain away the absence of his bride. He suffered a few good-natured, if ribald, comments concerning her condition.
Beren let them go, enduring even more when he left the table early to seek his wife's chamber. And yet, eager though he had been to confront her, his steps lagged as old doubts assailed him. What would he say? Even as he wondered, Beren was well aware that the past he so denied might rise up to smite him.
Still, he could not bring himself to leave Brandeth without knowing this one truth, and so he entered their chamber, finding her seated on the settle before the hearth, staring into the flames as if the weight of the world sat upon her shoulders. And in that moment, Beren realized that he had done her ill. She had asked for his aid, and though nominally providing his name, he had thought of nothing but his own pride, ignoring her woes and worries, the burden she carried of her father's loss and the responsibility of holding her lands together. Even if she cared naught for him, Guenivere deserved more than his petulance.
Slowly, Beren approached her. This time, when he dropped to his knee, it was not a gesture born of duty, but one heartfelt. Memories nudged at him, but he ignored them and drew a deep breath. "How may I serve you, lady?" he asked, bowing his head.
To Beren's astonishment, Guenivere burst into tears. Confused, he watched helplessly, then lifted a hand toward her, though he was not quite certain how to provide comfort. But she moved out of his reach before he could touch her. Rising to her feet, she dashed away her tears, yet there was no hiding her heightened emotions.
"Do not mock me!" she said, turning upon him, and Beren was stunned to see the passion that she usually withheld glowing like a brand. "Would you destroy everything that I once held dear?"
"What is it? What have I done?" Beren asked, bewildered and yet aroused by this woman, alight with an inner flame he had never witnessed before. She was grown now, and not only in body, and Beren's blood heated in acknowledgment.
She glared at him, a flush rising in her cheeks, her fury evident. "You? You have done nothing, of course!" Then, as swiftly as it had come upon her, the rage faded away, leaving her looking so lost and forlorn that Beren felt his chest constrict.
"I am at fault," she whispered. "For I placed all my hopes and dreams and love in the hands of another, who failed me."
She turned away from him then, and hid her face in her hands and wept once more.
Beren stood staring in shock, for until today, he had never seen Guenivere in tears. In her youth, she had been too contented, too composed to cry over slights to her happy existence. And now, as a woman grown, she had seemed too cool and remote to be touched by such fierce emotion, but there was no denying her distress.
Something inside Beren jerked to life, and feelings long buried rose to match her own. Who had done this to her? Moved beyond all caution, he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders, drawing her back against him. But the comfort that he intended was hampered by his own anger and jealousy. "Tell me, who stole your dreams? Who failed you? Who…"—Beren nearly choked on the words—"spurned your love?"
To his surprise, she laughed, a low gurgle that sounded more like despair than mirth. "Know you not, Beren? Then you must truly be as ignorant as Parzival."
Beren stiffened automatically at the mention of the legendary hero, then went even more still as the meaning of her words struck him. He drew in a sharp breath of both pain and disbelief. "If you think 'twas I, then I can only beg your forgiveness for any broken faith."
"Broken faith?" she asked, as if amused by his choice of words. "Nay, you made no promise to me, ere you left. 'Twas my own fault for foolishly clinging to hope for far too long." Beren's fingers tightened against her arms as his world shook, destroying not only his recent assumptions, but perceptions born of many long years.
"When I heard of your knighting, I rejoiced in your good fortune," Guenivere said. "At last, you had what you most desired! 'Twas your dream, and mine, too, for I had long held in my heart the hope that once knighted, you would ask for my hand." She gave a brittle little laugh that wrenched Beren's heart, and he bowed his head to touch her own.
"But when Father returned, 'twas without you. You went away, he said, to earn a name for yourself." Beren opened his mouth to protest, for it was money that he went to find, having not one coin to his name. But before he could speak, Guenivere continued, as if unable to stop the flow of words once begun.
"For a long time, I waited for a message. I knew that you could not read, but still I hoped for some sign, and I plagued each passing minstrel and packman, begging for news of you. And still there came no word, and I knew not where you were. I wrote letters to you nonetheless, waiting to send them once I learned your whereabouts. But the months passed, and then the seasons passed, and my hope grew dim."
She paused to draw a ragged breath that made her slender back shudder against him. "Then, at last, we began to hear of your deeds, a knight who had won many tournaments, who journeyed far, gaining great renown. Father was thrilled and proud, but my happiness was tempered by selfishness. Had you forgotten me in your quest? Would you ever return?"
Beren felt her pain, as well as his own, dredged up beyond all hope of reburial. He slid his hands down her arms and around her waist, pulling her in to him as if to deny all that had happened. And still she spoke.
"Although I had never divulged my hopes, my father had been patient with my lack of interest in marriage, until, at last, he began to press me. I understood his concerns for the future, and yet, I balked, unwilling to surrender the last shred of my folly. And though outwardly I had given up waiting alone at night, I dreamed that you would ride up to Brandeth to claim your lady."
Beren's arms tightened around her even as she uttered the accusations he could not deny. "And that is why you broke the betrothal," he said. Although he knew he ought to assume guilt for that, instead he was flooded with a primitive surge of possessiveness. Again, he was glad that she had felt no love for another, and now he rejoiced to know that she had waited for him for so long.
"I didn't intend to stay away," Beren said. He drew in a deep breath, knowing that he couldn't ignore the past any longer, or at least the part of it that was Guenivere, and, oh, how much of it she was. "At first, I only wanted to stay alive in the battles. Then, when the fighting ended, I could think of little except becoming a proper knight."
Beren paused to carefully phrase his words. "But, as I soon discovered, 'tis not the occupation of a poor man, a small fact that is made little of in the romances." He hesitated again, unwilling by long habit to admit the truth even though he knew she deserved it. "I needed money not only to live, to feed myself, but for mail
and weapons, and most expensive of all, a good destrier," he admitted.
"But Father would have—"
Beren interrupted her with a rough sound. "Clement had done enough. 'Twas up to me to make my fortune." He drew another deep breath. "I could not return to you penniless, a beggar at the door of the castle, raised up to knighthood, but with nothing to offer you."
Beren felt Guenivere stir within the circle of his arms, but he held her fast, finding himself loath both to let her go or to face her. "All I wanted was you!" she protested.
Beren shook his head sadly. "But I would have been no measure of a knight, or even a man, had I come to you with naught."
"What nonsense males take into their heads," Guenivere muttered. Beren smiled at her outrage, even though he knew he could have done nothing else.
"Clement suggested I make a living by tourneying, and I managed to do well for myself," he said. "I defeated many others, winning the value of their horse and mail in ransom, and I began to hoard a tidy sum."
"And what amount would have been enough?" Guenivere asked him, a trace of bitterness in her voice. "When would you have amassed enough to return?"
Beren didn't reply, for he was not sure of the answer himself. Never for a moment had he forgotten her. Guenivere had been there with him always, his anchor and his talisman, the reason for all he did. And yet, even when Edward chose him, Beren had been no more than a bachelor knight, without lands to call his own. Would he come back and claim Brandeth? By what right? And so, he had always put off his return, thinking that he must do more, have more, be more.
He swallowed against the tightening of his throat. "Lords began to notice me and take me into service, until finally Edward himself, who loves the tournaments, bid me join him in his war against Wales. 'Twas then that I heard of your betrothal," Beren said. And his anger had sent him pounding into battle, forging through the ranks of the enemy like a lance, earning him a renown that he no longer sought. And when finally the fighting was over and Edward had gifted him with lands, Beren had imagined her already wed to another. He had buried his hopes, along with a good part of himself.
"And why didn't you come for me then, when you heard of my betrothal?" Guenivere asked.
"We were headed into battle," Beren answered. But there was more to it, as they both knew, and he could not tender that excuse. He blew out a low breath in admission. "What right had I to interfere with your happiness?" he asked.
"And so you left me to a stranger, absolving yourself of any concern, without even wondering if I were well and content?" Guenivere asked, her voice rising.
"And neither did you send any of these letters you claim to have written, to commend me or command me or inform me that you still even remembered my name!" Beren countered.
"I had my pride!" Guenivere said.
"As did I!" Beren answered.
The room fell into silence then, until at last Guenivere spoke again. "So we both suffered for it," she said. "And now it is too late."
"Is it?" Beren asked. How could he believe that when he could rest his chin upon her bright hair, smell the fragrance of her essence, and feel her supple body pressed against his own? As he turned her in his arms, reveling in the miracle of her closeness, all the years fell away. And if any doubts lingered from his long exile, Beren ignored them in the rush of joy that swept through him.
When she was facing him, he lifted her chin and saw that her lashes were sparkling with the moisture of her previous tears. Kissing them away, Beren let his mouth wander over her beloved features, brushing kisses against her finely arched brows, her pale cheeks, her lips…
When Guenivere met his mouth with her own, tentative but eager, Beren felt his body jerk to life. He groaned, drawing her closer even as her arms slipped around his neck. And then somehow he was carrying her to the bed, laying her among the linens. This time, when he stood over her, she pulled him down to join her.
He was trembling, Beren realized, as he moved over her, so long had he waited for this moment, dreaming helplessly, hardly daring to hope. He looked down into her face, no longer cool or accusing, but tender and yearning, and the last of the walls he had erected between them came crumbling down.
"Guenivere," he whispered, consumed by awe and desire and the love that he had kept so carefully guarded all these years. And every sight, every sound, every touch was a feast for his starving senses, a wondrous treasure. He hovered over her, drinking in the vision, then he lifted his hand. It hovered for a long moment and then fell to the shining length of her hair. The bright strands were like silk under his fingers, rivaled only by the softness of her skin when he touched her slender throat.
"Beren," she answered low, with an underlying urgency that set his blood thundering. Then she pulled his head down to hers and he kissed her with a mixture of the passion and love that flowed through him, drawing her bream into himself.
It was so much more than he had ever dared hope that Beren might have been content to kiss her all the night long, dwelling on the lips that had haunted his dreams since childhood. But she moved against him, beneath him, setting a fire in his loins that must be quenched by his man's body.
So he touched her, running his hands along the fall of her golden hair, along her side and the hip that pressed to him. He sucked in a harsh breath, lifting her to him, feeling the press of her soft belly against his hardness. He fought against the desire to lift her gown and bury himself inside her, seeking to catch some errant thought that might bring him back under control.
It was his love for her that slowed his pace as, breathing heavily, Beren lifted his head and looked into her face. There he saw wonder and desire, the sweet reflection of his own emotions, whether real or imagined, and his heart pounded with his own exhilaration. Loosing a sigh, Beren took her hand and kissed her fingers, drawing in a deep breath to still the thundering of his blood.
"My lady, will you have me?" he asked. "As your husband in truth?" He watched her, his lips upon her knuckles as he waited a heartbeat for her answer.
"Aye, Sir Knight, I will take you," she said, and she smiled, though her eyes seemed curiously moist, her voice atremble.
And so Beren carefully stripped the gown from her body, each inch of flesh a new wonder, a new precious find that he must worship with his eyes and his fingers and his mouth, until at last she lay before him naked, slender and white, but he had only a moment to feast his gaze upon her, for she tugged at his tunic until he tossed it over his head, then she sat up to press kisses along his chest. Beren groaned, catching her against him, and they both went down upon the linens as he dragged away his braies.
The feel of her skin against his own was almost more than he could bear and he shuddered, seized by both a driving need for completion and a desire to remain thus forever, body to body and heart to heart. But Guenivere was sliding against him, a siren call he could not forbear, and he moved over her, laying claim to the prize he had spent his life trying to win.
When at last he entered her body, Beren felt as if he were home at last, and it had nothing to do with the lands granted him by the king or even with the windswept crags of Brandeth. Here, with this woman, he found both peace and challenge, both beauty and wit, both the past and the future.
Beren wanted to speak, to put some of what he felt into words, but they were beyond him as Guenivere enclosed him, and his only thought was to give them both pleasure even as he strove past her maidenhead. She cried out then, and he did his best to soothe her, plying her with pleasure until, at last, she called out once more, this time in celebration, rather than loss. And Beren joined her.
He was slow to recover his wits, so overwhelmed had he been by the force of his release, but gradually he came to his senses, rolling to his side, so as not to crush her slender form, and pulling her close. Now was the time to unburden himself, to tell her all that was in his heart, yet even as his arm tightened around her, Beren heard her breathing, deep and even, that told him she slept.
As well
she should, he thought, tenderly drawing a covering over her. Beren was weary as well, but loath to sleep, lest he wake up and find it all a dream, both his marriage and its consummation. So he held her to him, but even within the confines of his current bliss, he felt the nudge of old doubts, the bane of his existence, and his heart beat feverishly within his chest until his body roused to full awareness.
Beren realized that once was not enough, that he needed Guenivere again, to drive away all uncertainty, to assure himself that she was his, now and forever. His hands began moving over her, exploring every part of her until she awoke, already dazed with desire. And Beren marveled at each gasp of surprise and delight as he learned her pleasure spots even as he fed his own excitement.
And so he continued, unable after his long wait to deprive himself of one moment in her arms, with the force of his passion pushing the darkness far away into the night until at last, exhausted, he slept and dreamed no more.
* * *
five
Beren's first hint that all might not be well was waking up alone. To his dismay and disappointment, Guenivere was gone from their bed. For a long moment, he thought his memories of the night before might be only phantoms of some long-ago dream. But the scent of their lovemaking lingered in the air, as did the imprint of her body beside him. Why had she left? To groom herself privately or attend her duties? Beren tried to convince himself such was the case, but it was barely dawn. And strive as he might, he knew he could not account himself a good judge of Guenivere's feelings, else he would have been here long ago.
By what right? Beren wondered, and the doubt he had thought banished assailed him anew. For all the passion that had raged between them, Guenivere had never spoken of her love aloud. Perhaps now she regretted what had happened between them, her absence speaking more eloquently than the words that were so difficult between them. Beren exhaled harshly, all of his pent-up emotions rising up to seek an outlet. He rubbed a rough hand across his face, as if to change his features, himself.
Simmons, Deborah - The Bachelor Knight Page 5
