Beatrice stopped abruptly and turned to her daughter. “You recalled the workings of bake house and buttery. Shall we visit the pantry and kitchens next? You must be sure to remember what to lay in store, how to keep fresh goods, as well as how to direct the cooks to prepare diem.”
Mara took a deep breath-only because she was tired, however, not because she was averse to her mother’s suggestion. Since meeting Stephen, she’d found herself taking genuine satisfaction in knowing the practical aspects of running a manor. She would always rather visit a litter of puppies in the kennels, or inspect a new hawk in the mews, but caring properly for a household; a husband; had taken on a more special meaning.
At the moment, however, what Mara really wanted was a long, cool drink of ale and a cool, damp cloth on the back of her neck. But she smiled gamely. “Whatever you think, Mother.”
There was a smudge of dirt on Mara’s cheek-probably from the brewery, where she had been so fascinated by the process of ale making she had pushed up the long sleeves of her tunic and assisted the ale master. Beatrice found herself smiling and shaking her head at her daughter.
“Actually, my dear, I think it’s time to rest and take some refreshment. In the garden, perhaps? We’ve gone over a great deal this morning, and there is time enough later to attend to the remainder of our tasks.”
Mara nodded gratefully and, arm in arm, she and her mother strolled from the dusty yard back to the welcoming shade of Lady Beatrice’s garden.
The walled area, attached to the keep, ran its length and extended out to the parapets. Under Beatrice’s care for many years, it was lush with flowers both domestic and wild; pink, white, and red roses, both in beds and climbing the stony walls; the harbingers of spring, bluebells, cowslips, tulips, and maggiellis; and even a small fruit orchard.
In the shade of a pear tree whose buds were ready to burst, a stone bench had been placed. Beatrice and Mara sat side by side on it and enjoyed for a few minutes the fragrant serenity of the retreat.
The loyal and ever-present Trey lay near his mistress’s feet, forepaws extended, panting beneath the warmth of the midday sun. His eyes were half dosed, and with each breath the dog’s head moved a fraction closer to the ground. A bird sang from atop the wall, and from the stables came the distant whinny of a horse.
The peace of the day was a balm, a gift, a rare wine that flowed warm and smooth through the veins. Mara felt her own eyelids grow heavy.
Gently, Beatrice took her daughter’s hand. “It’s hard to believe you’ll soon be leaving,” she murmured. “I’m going to miss you, Mara.”
“Mother, I-”
“Do not misunderstand,” Beatrice said quickly. “I do not say this with sadness or regret. It is a simple statement of fact. Your father and I will miss you.”
“As I will miss you,” Mara whispered. There was nothing more to say. There was only a huge lump in her throat that made it nearly impossible to breathe, much less to speak. The prospect of leaving her home had become very real, all at once. She was not just going to be married; she was going to leave everything, everyone she had ever known, behind. Unexpected and unaccustomed tears rose to her eyes.
Misinterpreting the reason for the tears, Beatrice dropped her daughter’s hand and put both arms around her shoulders. “Mara, dearest child, how well I understand your fears. But you and the baron have made a good beginning, have you not? You told me you have much in common.”
Dismayed by her own tears, Mara dashed diem away. “We do, yes,” she replied swiftly. “There couldn’t be anyone more. more kind or understanding than Stephen.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say that, Mara. Because there are other aspects of marriage that require a very great deal in common if husband and wife are to be truly one.”
Mara knew exactly what her mother referred to, and she felt a blush rise all the way to the roots of her hair. Since their meeting at the lake, she didn’t think there would be any problem with the “other aspects” of her and Stephen’s marriage, and she certainly did not wish to speak about it. Her mother was perceptive and might too easily access the realms of her secret heart.
“I think I understand,” Mara replied at length. “Among many other things, Stephen is as well educated as I-even in Greek. He. he even knew the meaning of my name.” Mara’s gaze lost its focus as she went back to that moment in time.
Her betrothed had come to the hall shortly before dawn, from the gate tower where he and his odd little servant had spent the night, to take leave of her. His road was long, he had said, and his haste great. He had much to do to prepare for the wedding and its accompanying festivities, all of which would take place in Bellingham castle, his home. Further, he wanted to make well and truly certain the Scottish rebels had been put down.
“For, if I will not suffer insult or injury to the least of my people, how can I abide even the vaguest of threats to the greatest?”
Mara smiled at the memory of Stephen’s words.
“When I am certain the rebels are crushed, then will I return to escort you and your parents to my lands in the north. My proximity to the Scottish border must in no way ever tempt them to come south again. I must know my bride will be safe.”
The time of parting arrived. Her parents had drawn away to afford them a private moment. They would have been alone, however, had they been surrounded by an army of knights.
“I shall miss you,” Stephen had murmured.
“And I you.”
“I’ll not be gone long. Sooner than you think I’ll return for you and take you to Bellingham.”
For our wedding, Mara thought silently. She’d feared a heated blush would roar to her cheeks, but it had not. She’d returned Stephen’s gaze steadily, confidently.
“Mara. Amarantha,” he had whispered then. “It’s from the Greek, isn’t it? It means immortal.”
Mara nodded, delighted but not surprised by his knowledge.
“As our love is immortal, Amarantha,” he had murmured, his dark gaze reaching so deeply into her own that it was as if she felt him touch the very wings of her soul.
He had almost reached to touch her then, but had stayed his errant hand. Soon enough Mara would know the power of his touch, the pressure of his lips. Soon the amazing man would be hers.
Soon.
He had left swiftly, with a final farewell to the lord and lady of the keep. Mara had watched him ride away on his great chestnut stallion, Jack trailing on his plump brown mare. Jack had waved his plumed hat once as they crossed the drawbridge.
Then Mara’s father had ordered the gates closed, as he had promised Stephen he would keep them. Mara would be kept safe, safe from Baldwin, safe from any harm until Stephen returned to claim her.
Beatrice watched her daughter’s faraway gaze and decided there was really nothing more to say. Nothing of importance, certainly. Not compared to the message she had just read in her daughter’s dreamy countenance.
So that is how it is, she thought. As it was with Ranulf and me.
Beatrice kissed her daughter lightly on the cheek and left the girl to be alone with the bud that was slowly and surely blooming in her heart.
The warmth and beauty of the cloudless day had helped to maintain Baldwin’s unusually fine mood, although he was generally unaffected by weather of any kind. He had strolled his castle grounds leisurely, hands clasped behind his back, a faint smile curving his mouth. He knew such tours made everyone nervous, and he reveled in them. All applied themselves a bit more diligently to their labors when he made such rounds.
Truth be told, though, this time he had barely noticed the people he passed. His mind had been elsewhere, honing his scheme, planning for contingencies, anticipating the sweetness of revenge.
Now he was ready, and he went to his thronelike chair at the head of his hall and eyed the twenty knights who were his personal guard and the mainstay of the small army he could summon at will. The same smile he had worn all day remained with him, and he noticed more than one
man fidget nervously. He chuckled inwardly. Outwardly, his expression was grim.
“Wulfric!” The earl’s hard stare pinned a large man who stood near the back of the group. “And you and you.” His nod appointed two others. “Set away your armor and find something. common to wear. Try to blend with the masses, if it’s not too great a strain on your intellect to figure out how, and ride to Ullswater. Take small arms only. I want you to be inconspicuous. Do you understand?”
The three men nodded.
“Good.” His quirky little smile reappeared, and Baldwin steepled his fingers. “Watch the castle and learn its routine. Note its strengths and weaknesses. Particularly its weaknesses. Have you got all that?”
Again the three men nodded.
“How unusual,” Baldwin quipped. “Well?”
Three sets of brows rose in nearly perfect unison.
“Well. get on with it, you idiots!”
The earl slapped his palms down hard on the arms of his chair; his eyes bulged and there was a brief scramble for the door. The men who remained in the hall shuffled their feet edgily. Baldwin had never been known as the sanest of men, and his behavior of late had been more erratic than usual. When he began to giggle to himself, they exchanged glances and, one by one, slipped quietly away.
It was a long time before Baldwin even noticed he was alone.
Chapter Fifteen
Stephen awoke in a cold sweat. He threw back the covers and sat up, legs over the side of his bed. With his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands. Unfashionably long, dark hair fell forward over his shoulders.
It wasn’t the dream again. But what was it? What was wrong with him? He walked to the bathroom, ran the cold water, and splashed it on his face. He stared into the mirror.
A two-day stubble darkened his angular jaw. He hadn’t felt like shaving. He hadn’t felt like doing much of anything, as a matter of fact, except going to see Millie. Since he seemed to be improving, Amanda didn’t mind. But was he still getting better? Stephen continued to stare into the mirror, as if mesmerized.
Within the past twenty-four hours something had changed, gone wrong. It wasn’t like before, not that god awful feeling of hopelessness and depression. It was more like. Anxiety, he supposed. Yes, that was it. Anxiety. Apprehension. Something was going to happen. Or, he feared something was going to happen. But what? And to whom?
The intensity of Stephen’s stare into the mirror was so great his eyes burned. He hadn’t even blinked. But his thoughts focused.
He had promised. As he had told Millie, he had promised to keep someone safe, someone he cared about very much. But he was worried now. Worried. Why?
Even though it was well after midnight, the urge to call Millie was almost overpowering. Stephen actually found himself looking for his robe so he could go down and use the phone in the kitchen.
But he couldn’t do that. Millie was already having second thoughts about regressing him. He couldn’t risk putting her off completely. It was too important to be able to keep going back.
Why?
And what was wrong?
Feet planted wide apart, Stephen stood in the middle of his room and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He had to think, to remember. Amanda had told him once that people could actually regress themselves if they concentrated and tried hard enough. She had told him the story of a friend of hers.
The woman had been terrified of flying. No traditional therapy had been able to help. A past-life regressionist had been unable to help her access a previous life trauma, either, so the woman had been advised to concentrate, meditate, every time she flew.
The woman realized she felt differently when flying over water as opposed to land. She was only afraid while over water. She concentrated on that aspect of her fear. Then one day, coming in for a landing over water, she slipped into a previous existence. She’d been a World War II fighter pilot, a man. She’d been flying in formation off the west coast of England. Her plane had developed engine problems, and she’d gone down. Although she’d survived the impact, her canopy would not open. She’d drowned. She remembered it all clearly then.
Stephen concentrated with all the power of his being, concentrated on his fear. He feared his promise might be broken. He feared. what? He feared. leaving her. That was it. He feared having to leave her alone for a time, until he could return to her. But he had to ride away.
Chapter Sixteen
By the time she was three, Mara had been able to competently ride a pony; by six she could handle a horse; at ten her instructor declared he had nothing more to teach her. She had learned the art of falconry on her father’s knee and the lore of weaponry by the time she was eleven. She could pick the best pup from any litter, accurately judge a fighting man’s mettle, name all the kings of England, and draw an accurate map of her country. She could read both Greek and Latin. At the moment, however, she was completely bewildered.
Her formerly neat, somewhat austere sleeping chamber was a scene of chaos. Mara sat cross-legged in the center of her bed and looked about her in dismay.
Under Lady Beatrice’s instruction, two of her serving women went through each item of Mara’s apparel. Clothes were strewn everywhere, over the bed, the modest chest, the window seat. Beatrice examined each piece, discarded some and passed others, created a third pile that consisted of items in need of repair.
“Oh, Mara.” Beatrice held up a linen chemise with a large, three-corner tear, and shook her head. “I had no idea your wardrobe was in such a state. Here, Agnes.” She handed the chemise to a woman who had entered the room bearing needle and thread. “Start with this. Ordinarily I’d throw it away, but there’s so little left already.” Beatrice sighed. “My dearest child. I have been remiss in my duty as your mother, haven’t I? I had not realized you had so little.”
“In the way of feminine attire?” Mara finished when her mother faltered. “It is not your fault, but mine. It is I who wished to dress and act as a man.”
“And it is your father and I who allowed it. Think no more of it, Mara. I see already that you no longer rail against the fate that made you what you are.”
Mother and daughter exchanged a brief look, and Mara hung her head guiltily. Wardrobe, her appearance in general, had never been a priority. She supposed it must become so. She recalled how pretty she had felt in the tunic and chemise her mother had made for her. She had not missed the approval in Stephen’s expression each time his eyes had caressed her. She had liked it. She knew she would wish to dress carefully for him in the future.
Or would she need as little in Bellingham as she had needed here? She had her basic tunics and the leggings she wore for riding. What more would she need? The life they intended to live would be spent mainly on horseback during the day. And at night.
Mara squeezed her eyes tightly shut, as if she might banish the images that recurred all too often of late, but her inner vision would not obey. The images remained bright and vivid behind her eyelids.
Day’s end. Their chamber in his castle. A wide bed covered with furs. Stephen, his mail tunic gleaming with dull light in the candle’s glow. Her husband, drawing the armored garment slowly over his head, revealing to her hungry eyes once again that sculpted chest, narrow waist.
Restless beyond endurance, Mara uncurled from her position and slid from her bed. Trey leapt eagerly to his feet.
“Mara, where are you going?” “For a walk. I don’t know. To the garden.” Beatrice curbed the response on her tongue. So far Mara had been remarkably compliant, and Beatrice did not wish to tax her by demanding too much. The girl had been used to many freedoms. It wasn’t fair to curtail them all at once.
Only one thing really worried Beatrice. Baldwin. There had been no word from him since his last encounter with Mara. It was not like him. She did not trust the man’s silence.
She did, however, trust her husband, and Ranulf had done everything possible to make the castle secure. His dozen remaining knights, though aging l
ike their lord, were yet stalwart and trustworthy. Their armor had been polished, their swords and daggers honed. Servants who lived within the castle walls had been armed. Guards walked the parapets, and the stout wooden gate was opened only briefly once each morning and again at dusk. As long as Mara stayed within the walls of Ullswater, there was nothing to fear. Beatrice smiled at her daughter and waved the girl on her way.
The pear tree had blossomed. Its fragrant and delicate white flowers bobbed gently in the soft spring breeze. Bulbs planted along the edge of the flagged walkway had pushed up through the dark earth and waved like tiny purple and yellow banners.
Trey trotted ahead. He paused from time to time to look back expectantly at his mistress, but Mara ambled along slowly, hands clasped behind her back. What good was it to hurry? There was nowhere to go. Across the garden and back. To the stables, perhaps, or the kennel. A foal was due soon, and two litters of hound pups had recently been whelped. Two or three looked promising, and she wanted to keep her eye on them.
But those were sedentary activities. What she wanted to do was run, ride, swim.
A smile touched Mara’s mouth, a flush kissed her cheeks. Would it always be thus when she remembered mat instant by the side of the lake?
The thought, coupled with the fantasies that had disturbed her of late, did nothing to curb her already restless spirit and repressed energy. Mara’s step quickened. If only she could go out, leave the castle for an hour or so. What harm could there be? Despite constant vigilance at the walls and gate, no one suspicious had been seen; no unusual activities had been noted. Baldwin had obviously retreated to his lair to lick his wounds. Deep ones, she hoped. He probably wouldn’t come back any time soon. There was nothing to fear.
Yet she had promised Stephen she would not venture out And she couldn’t if she wished. With her own ears she had heard her father order the guards to let no one enter or exit without his permission. He would certainly never let her out, even for a ride accompanied by his men-at-arms. Unless, of course, she simply-
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