Bessie

by Jackie Ivie

“Perhaps we’ll just make his night so miserable he’ll sleep through the entire affair. Would that suffice?”

  “Send his bath water unheated, too,” Bessie instructed.

  “Would you like the West Wing? It’s barely habitable.”

  “Devon is a Hildebrand. It’s more than he deserves from the Stansburys, isn’t it?”

  “The old earl would have been proud.”

  “I care little for what my late husband would have wanted. You know me that well. As it happens, the inclination suits my own, though. Not only do I desire Lord Hildebrand to be uncomfortable, I want him to find this stay the worst of his life. That’s why I wished him participating in the joust. I’d like nothing better than to see him unseated and his dignity upended. I didn’t think of the harm that might come to him, though.”

  “Lord Hildebrand? You tell me he knows nothing and yet call him Lord?”

  “Her Majesty gave my husband a title not two days earlier. Unfortunately, she didn’t see to settle a productive estate on him at the same time.”

  “You demean us with your words.”

  “I didn’t mean Stansbury! I was not lying. He knows nothing of me, or any of my holdings. I don’t wish him to know, either. Why, if I think on it, MacClaren is too good for him. If I could see Devon bedded down in the stables, I’d do it.”

  “He’s upset you that much?”

  “He thinks me ugly and spares my feelings not a whit on the observation.”

  Her comment startled him. Bessie could tell by the way his eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly as he stared at her.

  “Does he have...eye trouble?”

  Sir Geoffrey was reddening again. The heightened color didn’t emphasize what handsomeness he possessed, rather the opposite. His championing of her didn’t gratify her. It made her angry with herself for manipulating such a response. Bessie looked to her hands, and wondered once again why she hadn’t the sense to bring her sewing with her.

  “Oh. No. He definitely has excellent eyesight.”

  She longed to take the words back as Sir Geoffrey’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. What was the matter with her? Devon Hildebrand deserved to be thought a sightless clod, didn’t he?

  “You may think it odd of me to ask, but might I ask the obvious? Why is it that he’s not seen you? Word is you wed yesterday.”

  “I already told you. It was against his will, too.”

  Bessie found it difficult to believe she was sitting here, defending the husband she’d left in the carriage. Devon would probably find it just as mystifying, if he ever found out.

  “Ah. The Hildebrands are descended from the Dutch, I’ve heard. It explains the man’s lack of sense.”

  “He shows uncommon sense, actually.”

  “Then why do you wish MacClaren to assist him? Answer me that, if you will.”

  “He rejected me last eve.”

  Bessie whispered the words and turned back to the fire. The moment she said them, she wished them unsaid. Her failure hurt worse than it did this morning, when she’d been curt with her staff. Bessie glanced back at her companion, and was disgusted at herself. It wouldn’t do for Sir Geoffrey to harbor animosity toward his new master.

  It was strange, but when she’d first invited Sir Geoffrey to sit, she’d wanted an accomplice to her plans. Now, she felt disloyal and miserable.

  “MacClaren is too good for the man. Allow me to see to his needs, instead.”

  Bessie had created this anger. It didn’t make her feel better. In fact, she longed to kick herself. “No. That would never do.”

  “He’ll not know my station, I vow it.”

  Bessie put up her hand. “It’s not that. It’s just—I don’t know anymore. I think now I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have set up a fair and a joust for the morrow. It was stupid of me. I can’t have you disliking him. He’ll find out eventually, and we’ll all have to obey him.”

  “You forgot to tell me, my lady.”

  Sir Geoffrey didn’t wait for permission to stand. Bessie frowned. He was acting the servant, again.

  “Forgot to tell you what?”

  “That you’ve feelings for him.”

  “Have my husband shown in, will you?” Bessie carefully chose her tone. If she were that transparent, it was a good thing the netting hid her.

  “With distinct displeasure, my lady.”

  Bessie turned back to the fire, reattached her veil and awaited her husband’s presence. She hadn’t long to wait. His voice preceded him into the Hall. She smiled toward the flames as she heard him.

  “You say the master’s not in? Strange, that. I’ve a suggestion for you, my good man. Perhaps you’d best ask for my cloak. I’m not used to such surliness.”

  “Devon, it was like pulling teeth to have you escorted in. Must you repay it in such a manner?”

  “I’ll see it repaid on the field tomorrow. Against this fellow. You are jousting, aren’t you?”

  Bessie caught her breath. Sir Geoffrey was the only one who could have spoken of it. She was afraid of his answer.

  “Oh. I look forward to it, my lord.”

  Geoffrey bowed and left them. He didn’t look Bessie’s way again. He wouldn’t have seen her expression, anyway.

  She watched Devon look about the Hall, his eyes taking in every aspect of the furnishings. Then, he approached where she sat. Now was the perfect time to tell him, but something held her tongue.

  “I don’t know how you’ve managed it, Mistress.”

  He dropped into the same chair Sir Geoffrey had just vacated. Bessie had to avert her eyes. The negligent posture Devon was assuming altered her erratic heartbeat, as did the steady regard from his green eyes.

  Blast and damn your handsomeness, anyway!

  “How I managed what?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer. He raised his eyebrows and blinked slowly and deliberately. The swelling in his lip was highlighted by the fire’s light. That didn’t make the movement as he pursed them any easier to watch. Bessie betrayed herself by gasping.

  “A man might think certain things of you with the way you act. This is a spectacular room, isn’t it?”

  He’d stolen her voice and then asked her a question. Bessie was wondering if he knew of it, too.

  “Most ancient furnishings are relegated to storerooms and such. It’s strange of the owner to leave it thus, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps the owner...likes it this way.”

  “Without a guard about? What sort of castle has no guard? Perhaps that door man is sufficient. He’s off-putting enough to stop visitors.”

  “He’s the Sergeant-At-Arms. I believe he has an entire legion at his call should he require them.”

  “I should like to report him to the owner.”

  “I can arrange it.”

  “You can? Like you’ve arranged everything thus far? I’ve a notion to see you hanged as a witch, yet.”

  “I’ve already told you I’ve no calling for that.”

  “So you have, but still it’s strange. Have you made arrangements for a room for me, or must I accost Sir Gadfly again?”

  “Sir Geoffrey,” she corrected him.

  “Whatever.”

  He said it sarcastically and shrugged. The motion nearly undid her. Bessie had to look anywhere but at the man opposite her. He hadn’t shed his cloak but it barely reached to the bottom of his tunic, anyway. It didn’t cover enough of him. What she could see was threatening her breathing again. Devon Hildebrand was so beautiful and so aloof!

  “Greetings. I am...to see his...lordship to his...rooms. If ye...would be so good...as to follow me? I’ve also...seen to your bath...and your sup...as I was instructed.”

  If Bessie could, she’d have laughed aloud at Devon’s expression as he watched the old servant beckoning. The length of MacClaren’s sentence caused the old man trouble with his breathing. It was going to be a chore following him anywhere at the rate he probably walked.

  “More arranging, Mistr
ess?”

  Bessie caught her surprise at the whisper. Devon’s sidelong glance made her breathing stumble and her palms clammy.

  “I believe I’ll have my wife show me to my rooms, my good fellow. I may also find her services necessary when I bathe.”

  Bessie cried aloud at the surprise. Devon seemed not to notice as he stood and offered her his arm.

  “I...can’t,” she stammered.

  She was afraid of touching him. He may have a cloak, jacket, and Crump’s shirt sleeve shielding his skin from her, but she was certain she’d feel nothing but Devon. He unsettled the elements about her. She didn’t dare touch him. And she wasn’t helping him bathe!

  “I’m not asking you to bed me, dear wife. Rest assured of that nonsense. I’m merely requesting assistance to my chambers that will see me arriving before dawn. I need to get my rest. I’ve a joust to prepare for.”

  Bessie rose unaided, to stand beside him. “We don’t have time for such foolishness. Aren’t we due at Castle Hilde tomorrow?”

  “There’s a thousand pounds sterling riding on it! Just think of it! Jousting tournaments are rarely held anymore, and yet here I am, lucking into one. I will have a fortune with me when I arrive home.”

  “How do you know you’ll win?”

  “I always do.” He smiled down at her, as if it was obvious.

  “Please don’t enter, Devon.”

  “Why not? Will you worry over me?”

  She was afraid to nod. She lifted her shoulders and dropped them, instead.

  “You could pray for my demise, you know. You’d be a widow again. The thought should bring you pleasure.”

  “No.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she looked to him. It didn’t help. She could swear the green of his eyes deepened to the aqua color of the sea. There wasn’t much of him that wasn’t making her heart beat faster.

  “The next thing you’ll be saying is that you’re warming toward me. Rest assured, I wouldn’t let that sway me, either.”

  “Please, Devon.”

  “Tell me you are wealthier than my wildest dreams. Make me believe it. If you can do that, perhaps I’ll agree.”

  “Per...haps?”

  “I’m very good at a tourney, Mistress. I look forward to proving it.”

  “I will not watch you make a fool of yourself.”

  “Oh. Enough compliments. You’ll turn my head. Come, show me to my chambers. I need my sleep. I could also use a comely wench. But we already know what that means, don’t we?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It did no good to berate herself, none whatsoever.

  It was her own fault that she was in this position. She’d been too sure of herself and just where had it gotten her? She looked at the adjoining door to her husband’s chamber, too embarrassed to attend to him as he’d insisted that she do.

  Devon had been given one of the lesser chambers. It was situated on the third level, overlooking nothing but trees. It was drafty. Unwelcoming. All of which Devon had commented on the moment she’d opened the door. Bessie was hard-put not to chuckle at her husband’s discomfort before she left him.

  The staff had seen that a fire had been lit in her chamber. Devon hadn’t the same luxury. The fire was dispelling most of the gloom about her, but it hardly dented the unused odor about the place. Why, if she weren’t teaching Devon Hildebrand a lesson, she’d move to her own chambers, don her own nightclothes, and sleep in her own bed!

  Oh! What good did it do to think such thoughts?

  She still had to attend to her husband and play-act like the sight of him did nothing to her pulse. A horrid chore, no doubt, especially given the words he’d described his chamber with when he’d first seen it.

  What was he complaining for, anyway? His castle wasn’t known for luxury. Visitors often complained of it when forced to seek shelter there.

  Bessie rolled up the sleeves of her nightdress and sniffed about. The West Wing hadn’t been cleaned and aired since last season. It smelled it. The fresh rushes spread about helped a bit. Devon was making do with old ones. He wouldn’t take kindly to that nuance of his rooms, either.

  Bessie had given Roberta the brown dress to prepare for the tourney. The maid hadn’t said anything. Bessie knew how much that meant. She didn’t care. She was being stubborn, but she already knew it. She had every sort of gown available to her, not forty paces from the front door. Why, all she had to do was pull a rope and the staff would see to it that she had every comfort available to her. Servants would also be ordered to bathe and cosset her husband.

  “Damn and blast your thick-headed beauty, anyway!”

  She addressed the closed door. She’d never let another woman bathe him. Never. Why...it might lead to other, unknown things that were hers by marital right. She already knew how proficient he was at them, too. He’d as much as told her so.

  “Damn your over-bearing sense of vanity, too!”

  It was his fault she was staying in the West Wing. It was his fault she’d arranged a joust. Furthermore, it was his fault that she’d made that ridiculous statement last eve. It was to be her bed or celibacy? If she had to force him to her side, did she truly want him?

  Oh! She refused to answer that! Even to herself.

  Bessie glared at the adjoining door, willing away images of Devon. She’d known him but a day, and already her body was tormenting her with this stupid emotion that had to be passion? This was terrible. What would it be like when she was denied longer? What would it seem like when Devon suited word to deed about it and avoided gracing her bed forever? And why couldn’t she hate him just a little over such a rejection? Why must her every thought be of his handsome face, muscles no padding could enhance, and brilliant, emerald-colored eyes? And why was she sentencing herself to a dungeon of exquisite denial with her obstinacy?

  Bessie didn’t need Roberta to tell her. She already knew only a lunatic would continue hiding behind her veil.

  “Where the blazes are you, Mistress?”

  Devon was shouting, or the words wouldn’t have penetrated the door. Bessie tossed her hair covering on, attached her veil and made a face at her mirror image before fastening it. Devon was shouting? He’d best remember where he was.

  “I’ve half an inkling to come and fetch you!”

  “Stop shouting, Lord Hildebrand. I—”

  She was incapable of saying more as he glowered at her from across the room. Steam should have been rising from the tub, making the odor of the room more noticeable, but it wasn’t. Bessie didn’t have to dip her elbow into the water to find the temperature. She knew the water would be tepid. She’d ordered it so. She had to do something other than gape at her husband, though.

  “The water’s as cold as your heart. Stirring it about won’t change anything.”

  His observation was accurate, for the more she moved the water, the colder the bottom felt. She was having trouble disguising the shaking of her hands. Devon had shed his hose, the codpiece, and his doublet, leaving only his ruffled tunic to shield him. It wasn’t enough.

  “I’m surprised they’d treat a member of the realm this miserly, Devon. I wonder what the world’s about.”

  “Oh. Wonder not, Mistress. It’s obvious you had a hand in it. Even a dense fellow like me can see that. Why, I’ve nearly decided to make you bathe in yon bath afore I attempt it.”

  Bessie pulled her hands from the water so quickly droplets dusted the floor about her. He was probably trying for just such a reaction with his words. She cursed herself for giving it to him.

  “Have you...been drinking...again? I fail to understand your meaning otherwise.”

  He chuckled, and she reddened behind her covering.

  “Help me off with my garment and I’ll show you what I mean. If the water’s not too frigid, that is. Cold water does unmanly things to a fellow, I’m afraid.”

  Bessie started back, tripping on her robes.

  “Such a reaction does much for my musings, Mistress. Do not fret. I’ll
not whip you, despite a suspicion that your hand is behind my miserly accommodations. What is it now?”

  She shook her head from the safe concealment of the veil and hid her hands in the folds of linen about her. It wouldn’t do if he knew her shaking wasn’t due to any threat. It was a reaction to being near him. She wasn’t going to allow Devon to ever find out. Let him think as he liked, and she’d not argue.

  Is such torment mine from now on?

  “I see the thought has occurred to you. Rest easy, Mistress. I’ll not see you beaten, nor would I ever strike a woman, regardless of cause. That isn’t a very manly thing to do, either.”

  His voice lowered. She bit her lip. She had to find a way to harden her heart against him. With the look of tenderness on his face at the moment, he made it worse. Couldn’t he give her anything?

  “I’ve had my fill of this shyness of yours. You found it necessary to banish all women from my sight, even servant women. So, be it. See to it you’re available to me when I ask and leave off this foolishness.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. There wasn’t any answer to what he was saying. He stood.

  “How did you make it so? I ask it of myself. Then, I further annoy myself by wondering why I bother to ask. Isn’t it enough to be wed to a witch, without wondering over the how of her spells?”

  His bare feet didn’t make any sound as he approached her. Bessie backed until the wall stopped her, and then she put her arms out. Devon placed both hands on the wall beside her head and leaned toward her. Bessie’s palms met his tunic and the ridges of muscle beneath it. She could feel his heart beating. She had to shut her eyes for a moment in order to keep from swooning.

  She’d never swooned before. That reaction was for the faint of heart and those foolish enough to actually believe in passion. She wasn’t joining their ranks simply because she touched her new husband. A hole could open up and swallow her whole before she let herself swoon!

  “Have you cast such over me, Mistress? Is that why I ponder the method by which you do so?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  Devon moved nearer, filling space, warming air that had seemed chilled a moment before. Bessie’s arms flexed as she supported his weight. She couldn’t move her eyes. Devon hadn’t any idea what he did to her. He couldn’t, or he’d not be bending his head toward her, trying to pierce the secret of her veil.