by Alexa Aston
“My . . . my lady,” he whispered, his voice low and hoarse. “I . . . am . . .”
The knight struggled to find words. She longed to reach out and touch him. Beatrice wanted to stroke his cheek. She needed to place her head against his chest and listen to his beating heart.
Raynor finally found his voice. “I am sorry for the distress I’ve caused you,” he said brusquely. “It will not happen again. I give you my solemn oath.”
Before she could reply, he left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Beatrice brought her fingertips to her lips, touching where his mouth had been locked against hers. Everything she had ever thought she’d known had shifted as sands did when the tide rolled in and out. No longer did she feel simply indebted to this knight, thankful that he’d rescued her and brought her to the safety of his family’s home. Instead, Beatrice acknowledged the growing attraction to him stirring inside her—something that could be dangerous to act upon.
She realized now why such a look of concern had crossed Raynor’s face. He thought he’d violated his code of chivalry. Knights were sworn to protect the honor of women. By kissing her, Raynor had betrayed her trust in him and taken advantage of a betrothed woman. Beatrice longed to run after him and explain that she was unattached. She wanted to tell Raynor that she cared for him and was free to return any feelings he might have for her, for surely the knight’s kiss told her he also sensed the connection developing between them.
But how could he trust her after she had lied to him?
A river of hot tears came and she thought she might be sick. She wanted to curl up and die from humiliation and loneliness.
Then the practical woman she’d long been forced her tears to subside. Of course, she didn’t want to die. She was young and had many years of life ahead of her. Her grandfather would have been ashamed of the way she’d behaved.
A few nights ago on the road, though, she could have lost her life. The highwaymen who’d ransacked their cart had killed Tolly and they could easily have killed her, as well. Beatrice was alive—thanks to good fortune bringing Raynor Le Roux her way at a critical moment. Raynor deserved an honest woman with an ample dowry, not a penniless liar such as herself.
Beatrice decided that she must act as a knight on a mission and repay the Le Roux family for the kindness Raynor had shown to her, a complete stranger. When done, the keep would shine. It would be a place that Raynor, his brother, and all the people of Ashcroft would be proud to live.
More importantly, her longings would remain unspoken. She would not encourage Raynor Le Roux in any way. It didn’t matter that his kiss made her feel utterly feminine. No more dwelling on his beautiful, green eyes and burnished hair. She’d ignore his towering, muscled frame and, when the time came, allow him to escort her north to Brookhaven.
Most importantly, Beatrice would never let him see her cry again.
She composed herself and then returned, unseen, to her chamber where she washed her face with cool water before she headed to the great hall.
As she expected, the women had finished with the tapestries. They had borrowed Donaldus from his duties so he could climb the ladder. With the women’s help, he hung the third of the four tapestries. She watched from the doorway as the final one was put into place.
“You’ve done excellent work today,” Beatrice praised. She was happy to see the pleased looks upon the servants’ faces. “Hilda, take two of the women to the herb garden. Have them pick the herbs we discussed earlier. The rest of you may return to the kitchen to help Cook. She’ll have need of you in preparing the evening meal. The workers coming in from the fields will be hungry. Tonight, we will all gather in the great hall for our evening meal.”
“What’s next, my lady?” Hilda asked.
“I plan to spend the rest of this afternoon touring the keep. I’ll note what is stored and what should be replenished, then visit the occupied chambers to see what should be done in them. Those will be our first priorities, then we can work on the empty rooms. We can meet after we break our fast tomorrow. You’ll receive your duties then.”
Beatrice watched as Hilda selected two women for the herb gathering from the garden, while the rest returned to the kitchens. Donaldus had already gone back to work on the furniture. She decided to see how far he had gotten.
“How do you fare, Donaldus?”
“Right well, my lady. ’Twere only a few places that needed to be evened out today. I should be finished in the next hour or two.”
“I appreciate your hard work,” she told him.
The carpenter laughed. “And I appreciate even more that you asked me to work with my tools. Harvesting is hard. All that bending and swinging of the scythes. You saved my poor back, at least for these past few days. I shall return to the fields tomorrow.”
“Do you believe the benches and trestle tables are in good condition then? Or do new ones need to be built instead?”
He cocked his head in thought. “It would be wise to replace some, though most are fine. Oak is a durable wood.”
“Then I would prefer you start work tomorrow by crafting the replacements. And I may find more for you to do once I have toured the keep.”
Donaldus gave her a quick nod. “With pleasure, my lady. I much prefer working with wood any day.” He frowned. “Are you sure Sir Raynor will agree to this? He said every able-bodied man should be in the field.”
“If he truly meant that, then he would have sent all those soldiers there to help. Don’t worry. You’re excused from the harvest. If you finish what I need done, only then will you rejoin the serfs in the field.”
“Aye, my lady.” The carpenter bent his head and returned to the bench before him.
Satisfied with the progress made in the great hall, Beatrice climbed the stairs to the top of the keep. She found a turret room that seemed unused, with thick layers of dust covering every surface. She shook her head at its horrible condition, wondering why Raynor’s brother hadn’t been a more reliable baron. Why hadn’t the nobleman married again? Why did he vanish for days on end, not living up to his responsibilities?
If the roles were reversed, she believed Raynor would never have let the estate fall into such disrepair.
Beatrice descended the stairs and viewed the next floor’s chambers. It soon became apparent that no one occupied any room on this floor, so she proceeded to the next level. This was where she stayed. Beatrice investigated each room carefully and knew instantly when she came upon the one Raynor had slept in the night before because his scent filled the air.
Walking around the room, the smell was uniquely his. She paused in the center of the chamber and closed her eyes and relived their kisses.
One had led to another—and another—as he took command of her mouth. Just the memory of his body next to hers, his lips on hers, their tongues swirling, mating, brought back a deep sense of satisfaction.
And desire.
Being in Raynor’s presence was the first time she’d experienced male companionship. She opened her eyes, marveling over the surge of new feelings she’d experienced in his presence. The knight continually occupied her thoughts. She could hear his hearty laugh. Feel his strong, calloused hand as it covered hers. Taste his essence. See his chiseled cheeks and piercing green eyes.
Beatrice stomped her foot in frustration. Raynor would most likely avoid her after what had happened between them and only speak to her when necessary. He’d do his duty and see that she journeyed north to Sir Henry’s, but he would never kiss her again. His knightly code would see to that. Yet, a part of her wondered if he would feel differently knowing she had no betrothed awaiting her at Brookhaven.
For a moment, Beatrice gave in and imagined telling him the news and seeing his reaction, picturing the look of disappointment as he watched her. Raynor Le Roux was a man marked by honor. He would not look lightly upon her lies, no matter the reason behind them.
And when had she become such a liar? She had written a falsehood to
Sir Henry Stollers when she told him that she and her grandfather would soon visit him. She had lied to Amfrid and told him she had a future husband who would pay for the return of her mother’s necklace. Then she misled Raynor into believing she would soon be married. It frightened her that these lies would soon catch up to her. Though she couldn’t recollect ever telling a lie before, now her life seemed to be made up of nothing but untruths. Even if she’d done it to protect herself, she didn’t recognize the woman she’d become.
Beatrice lifted a tunic the color of rust from Raynor’s bed. She brought it to her nose and inhaled as she held it against her and stroked it. This was as close as she would ever get to him. The thought brought a stab of pain to her. She quickly placed the tunic on the bed again and thoroughly inspected the bedchamber, deciding what must be done to make it clean again. After that, she visited the remaining rooms on the floor, finding most of them in similar shape.
Then she reached what had to be the solar. The manor house she’d grown up in did not have one due to its smaller size, but vague memories of the solar in the castle where she’d been born flashed in her mind. She knocked on the closed door, wondering if the Baron of Ashcroft might be inside since Raynor said his brother had returned, though she hadn’t caught sight of him. No one answered, so Beatrice pushed the door open.
The large room had a high ceiling. A long table with benches on each side sat in the center of the room. This would be where the family could retire for a more intimate meal. Other chairs and small tables were scattered about. A chess set rested upon one of them. Picking up a rook, she found the playing piece covered in a layer of dust. Obviously, no one had played any games for some time.
She crossed to another closed door and knocked, doubting anyone was inside. Opening it, she discovered the largest bedchamber in the entire keep. Even if she had put the three bedchambers at the manor house together, they would have fit inside this one with room to spare.
Beatrice walked to the bed and drew back the curtains and fingered the bedclothes. Though worn, they seemed clean. The pillows needed to be replaced, as did the curtains, but she could tell someone cleaned the solar on a regular basis.
“Who are you?” a voice demanded.
Startled, Beatrice turned and found a man standing in the doorway, his face in shadows. He stepped forward, looking unkempt, wearing tattered clothing, and sporting an untrimmed beard.
No one needed to tell her that Peter Le Roux stood before her. The baron was a pale shadow of Raynor, different in many ways. Though tall, he was still shorter than his younger brother. Lord Peter was also thin, where Raynor was muscled. Still, the baron had the Le Roux skin and hair. Despite his angry tone, his eyes appeared dull and lifeless. They had none of the spark of fun and mischief that Raynor’s possessed.
Beatrice curtsied to him. “Lord Peter. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Lady Beatrice Bordel. Your—”
He marched toward her and captured her upper arms in his hands, his fingers digging into the tender flesh. “I don’t care who you are. What are doing in my bedchamber, dragging in your filth?”
She glanced down and saw how soiled her clothing had become from beating the dust from the tapestries. “I am . . . that is . . . Sir Raynor brought me here. He came—”
“He dares to bring one of his whores here? And you enter my solar, where . . . my beloved wife . . .” His voice cracked. He flung her aside.
Beatrice stumbled back, the edge of the bed prevented her from falling. This nobleman’s violence caused her temper to flare.
She stood tall and faced him. “I am no leman, my lord,” she proclaimed. “Sir Raynor saved my life several nights ago. I was accosted by highwaymen who killed my servant. Sir Raynor brought me to safety here at Ashcroft. And though he spoke fondly of his home, even I could see his embarrassment at what this place has become.”
The nobleman’s eyes widened in surprise. Beatrice knew not to speak to a lord in such a rude manner, but she couldn’t stop herself.
“The great hall stank of piss and dung and rotting food. Your soldiers are lax and undisciplined. The autumn harvest has barely begun. You were nowhere to be found.”
Beatrice shook a finger at him. “You should be ashamed of what you haven’t done. How you’ve left your people struggling. Sir Raynor has organized the serfs and begun the harvest in earnest. He’s met the men in the training yard and is making sure your soldiers will protect Ashcroft. To repay him for saving my life, I told him I would help make improvements inside the keep. That is why I am in your chamber, my lord. I’ve been to every room in order to see what must be done to restore Ashcroft to a clean and comfortable home. Once I’ve completed my tasks and the harvest is collected, I’ll be gone from your sight.”
Lord Peter sucked in a breath.
Beatrice pushed on, this time softening her tone. “Aye, I know you lost a wife and your precious newborn. No man should have to face such sorrow. But the people of Ashcroft depend upon you, my lord. Your brother depends upon you. Rouse yourself from your stupor and be the baron that they need.”
Beatrice folded her arms against her protectively, suddenly afraid she’d gone too far. This nobleman could have her severely punished for simply raising her voice to him. She bit her lip to still the trembling of her mouth. Her defiance died as her temper cooled.
Peter Le Roux closed his mouth and studied her for some time. Then he said, “You are the woman I have been waiting for, Beatrice Bordel. The one who would wake me from this living death.”
He closed the gap between them and placed his hands upon her shoulders.
“I want to take you to wife.”
Chapter Twelve
Raynor finished riding the border around Ashcroft. After he’d fled Beatrice’s company, he had spent the rest of the afternoon on Fury, touring the remaining parts of the estate he hadn’t seen since his return home. Already, he noted that the storage barn needed shoring up, as did the hen house. He found numerous places in the fence that needed mending. Soon, he would take more time to thoroughly examine the cottages where the workers lived, but first he would address these more pressing repairs.
Raynor climbed down from Fury and began to pace, thoughts swirling through his mind. He’d always found comfort in movement. Striding across the meadow, he looked to the castle in the distance. In the silence, he reflected on what he’d deliberately pushed from his thoughts all afternoon.
That kiss.
From the moment his mouth touched hers, he knew that it was a mistake—yet that awareness hadn’t stopped him from plundering the rich sweetness of her. Raynor had kissed his share of women.
None had the effect on him that Lady Beatrice Bordel did.
With Beatrice in his arms, Raynor had felt as if he could conquer the world. He came alive as never before, unmitigated awareness coursing through his veins.
Yet, he feared he would never have her because she belonged to another. For that reason alone, he would miss out on the life he’d always dreamed of.
He pulled the ever-present blue garter from his pocket, the one he had removed from Merryn’s leg on the day of her wedding to Geoffrey. Geoffrey had told his bride that his cousin would give the keepsake to a special woman one day, one that Raynor would swear to love and be faithful to always. More than anything, he wanted the garter to belong to Beatrice.
Raynor knew it was foolish to dwell on such a hopeless situation. She was an innocent and a betrothed woman. Above all, he was a knight of the realm, pledged to support his king, honor women, and dedicating himself to God. If he compromised Beatrice’s reputation and became derelict in his oath, he would be worthless.
As he paced, Raynor remembered that he had neglected to send a messenger to Sir Henry Stollers. What greeted him upon his arrival at Ashcroft had driven the thought away. So much about his home still had to be addressed, yet Raynor needed to let the nobleman know that Beatrice was safe and that he would escort her to Brookhaven in due time for her wedding.
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He toyed with the idea of sending her to Brookhaven tomorrow in the company of others, but who could he rely on to protect her during such a long journey? At this point, few men in the soldiers’ ranks had gained his trust. It was important for those men to remain at Ashcroft in order to aid him as he trained a new force to protect the castle and its inhabitants. It was up to him to lead the castle’s knights and soldiers by example. Leaving now to take Beatrice north wasn’t a choice.
Raynor also knew Beatrice to be an honorable woman. She would feel an obligation to repay the debt she believed she owed him. Even if he insisted she leave in the morning, she would be stubborn enough to defy him and demand to stay until Ashcroft was returned to its former days.
Stopping in his tracks, he knew what he must do—push aside his romantic feelings. After all, he would only see her briefly in the mornings at mass and while they broke their fast. They would attend to separate duties throughout the day.
Only at night, when they dined together, would he have to spend much time in her company. The thought of sharing a trencher tore at his gut. He swore then and there never to be alone with her again. When they were thrown together in the company of others, he would keep their conversation light and only speak of inconsequential matters.
He would need to approach the situation as if he marched into battle. Just as he armed his body with protective armor to repel his enemies, he must now arm his heart against letting Beatrice into it any deeper.
Raynor mounted his horse, determined to hold fast to his plan.
*
“You wish to . . . marry me?”
Shock reverberated through Beatrice. This nobleman wanted to wed her? For a brief moment, she considered it, tempted by how it could change everything.
She had no home and no one to protect her. She had only a few gold coins that wouldn’t last for long. She would soon embark upon a journey to the estate of a man she had never laid eyes upon. If Sir Henry had no need of her—or outright rejected her—her future was one of uncertainty.
