by Anne O'Brien
“Beatrice,” he murmured after a gulp of ale to ease the dryness of his throat that had nothing to do with the heat of the day. “Are you well?”
“Yes. And you?” Now she looked up. “As you see.”
And he looked amazing. He filled her whole horizon so that she could not take her eyes from him, all other in the room fading into insignificance. Tall and loose–limbed with the well–toned muscles of a soldier, Richard stood before her with all the elegant grace she remembered as being so characteristic of this man whom she had met at a Twelfth Night celebration at the royal court. His hair was the same dark brown with rich glints of gold and russet when caught in the sun’s rays. It fell heavily to wave around a face not conventionally handsome. Narrow and austere with a straight nose and firm chin, it was the face of a man who would command his own destiny and who would command others. A face of sharp angles and flat planes. There was the touch of arrogance she recalled so well. The dominance and the aura of controlled male power. And also the carved aestheticism, almost the face of a scholar, but the body of a man of action. A lethal combination for those who would look and admire. Beatrice found her eyes drawn to his once more. Clear and piercing beneath dark brows, their depths, somewhere tantalisingly between grey and green, gleamed with golden lights. Ah, yes. Just as in her dreams. So fierce and direct as they were, guarded by slightly heavy lids. An arresting face, to be sure. To draw the eyes of any woman and make her wonder.
“Are you happy?” His voice was also as she remembered. Cool and deep. Beautiful. Its silken tones stroked her senses so that memories shivered along the length of her spine to spin her back into the past. But this must not be! Shaking her head, she forced her mind to concentrate on the meaning of his words.
“Are you happy, Beatrice?”
She could not answer. Shook her head. Then, because honesty demanded it, replied, a little sharply because it touched on the heart of the matter between them. “I must not complain. Life is comfortable enough here. I have all I need and more. I lack for nothing of material wealth.”
There was a little silence that hung in the warm air.
“Have you married?” she found herself asking. His answer could not possibly have any bearing on her life, yet she found herself tensing against his reply.
“No. I have not.” Then, “Your parents. Are they in good health?”
“My father is dead, last year of one of the pestilent fevers. Ned, my brother, is now head of the family. He is settled at Mears Ashby with his wife and an infant son. My mother, Lady Margery, lives with them.” A deliberate hesitation to halt the rush of unimportant detail. Then in a low voice. “Ned would never have forced me to wed William Somerton just because his estate marched with ours.”
There was nothing Richard could say. He stretched out one hand as if he would touch her cheek, then let it fall. He could not. Too public. Too compromising.
“Does he—does Somerton treat you well?”
“He does not beat me.” Which said it all. Beatrice raised her head. Pride stiffened her spine.
“You deserve to be loved. Does he love you?” Richard persisted.
“No. He acquired an excellent dowry. And the Hatton connection. That is all he wanted. He has no need of me.” She could not prevent her fingers linking together. They were white with pressure but she was careful that her face should express no emotion.
Lord Richard knew he should not ask her—but equally knew that he must know the answer.
“Does he treat you with consideration?”
She looked up at him, taken aback at so forthright a demand. She knew his meaning, and answered with all her usual openness. She could not lie to this man who owned the very breath in her body.
“He does not come to my bed, my lord.” Her voice was low so that none other might hear, but her reply was devastatingly clear to him.
“Ah, Beatrice.” There were no words that could be said. Neither in pity for her caught in a loveless marriage, nor to explain the strange relief that relaxed the tension in his muscles.
How beautiful she was. The years had given her a gloss of experience and maturity, polishing those immature charms that had first attracted him. As Lady of Great Houghton, her dark hair was drawn back from her forehead, to be confined under an elegant and most fashionable transparent veil. He knew that if she released it from its confines, it would curl, would reach well beyond her shoulders. Would wind around his fingers if he allowed it. Soft as satin, strong as silver thread. Her height he considered perfect, reaching just to his shoulder. Her head could rest so comfortably there, his arms fit so easily around her slender waist. Her innate quickness and agility had first caught his attention in the foolish and energetic games at Twelfth Night. Her fair skin, which he wished to touch, was now flushed with delicate rose. Those dark eyes, almost the deep purple of the stately monkshood, with their dark lashes could appear quiet and composed, until they flashed with temper or passion, as he knew to his cost. Until she stared down that straight nose, as she had only minutes ago, with an hauteur that could sit so strangely with her youthful years. Not a meek and mild lady, then. No gently charming heartsease. He found himself wondering how she had responded to Somerton as her husband. Not well, he thought. She would resist his attempts to curb her energies and her spirit, would kick against the traces. As long as Somerton did not choose to apply the whip … Lord Richard turned his uncomfortable thought from such a direction. Beatrice’s relationship with her lord, elderly and coldly self–interested as he was, was not his affair.
He forced himself to focus on the lovely face turned up to his. A pretty mouth with a full bottom lip, quick to smile. To laugh. Her voice low and a little husky. The deep blue of her overgown caused her glorious coloring to glow.
He had wanted her then; he wanted her now. His body was hard for her, forcing him to take a breath against the hot urgency. But matters had not changed between them in essence. Her father had rejected his offer of marriage. Now she was within the dominance of her husband. There was no future for them. He must not even contemplate it.
“Beatrice. I must not speak what is within my heart. It would not be honorable.”
“Then I will speak what is in mine.” There was the confidence he remembered, the spark of light in her eyes, the bright spirit that had charmed and intrigued him. She would not hesitate to declare her love. For a moment Beatrice glanced away across the garden. But when she turned back there was no pleasure, any love in her face obscured. Her lips were compressed into a thin line, her eyes full of pain and anger. Her reproachful words were as a sharp slap against his flesh.
“I loved you. I looked for marriage with you. How could I have been so mistaken? You betrayed me, Richard. You betrayed our love.”
“Betrayed? What is this …?”
“I have had a long time to think about this—and I think you never loved me at all.” Her voice broke a little, then was quickly controlled. There were certainly no tears in those snapping eyes. “I think it was simply a Twelfth Night flirtation for you.”
“Beatrice. How can you think that?” He was astounded. “My heart is yours—has always been yours.” He seized her hand, regardless of those who might see.
The lady was unimpressed. The slap became a sharp blade twisted in his heart. “I expect you forgot me as soon I was out of sight. I expect my family was not sufficiently important for you to pursue the connection.”
“Never that!”
But she was implacable. Dragged her fingers from his clasp as if his touch burned. “My mother warned me that it would happen. I should have known that men are not to be trusted.”
The blood ran as ice in his veins—over a shiver of righteous anger. “How can you make so outrageous a claim? How can you think so little of me?” He sought in his mind for something to say to prove his love, to extricate himself from this bottomless crevasse that had yawned before his feet without warning. Thrusting his hand within the furred neck of his tunic, he drew out a small velv
et–wrapped package. He held it out, the velvet falling away.
“If I did not love you, Beatrice, if I do not still love you, why would I carry this next to my heart? Why have I treasured it and kept it by me if the giver meant nothing to me?”
It was a swan, small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, large enough to see clearly the clever workmanship. It had been fashioned of ivory, now warm and cream with age. Its feathers on wing and breast had been carved by the hand of a master, a delight of soft curves and hard edges. A masterpiece of observation and skill. Gold had been used to pick out its beady eye, its beak and feet: its neb and claws were equally striking in black enamel. It was a Lancastrian piece, intended for one who would support his Majesty for the swan proudly bore around its neck a golden crown. Whilst attached to the crown was a heavy gold chain, perhaps a symbol of the binding of its wearer to the cause. The chain ended in a ring for securing to a garment with a pin, as a safety device.
A wonderfully distinctive jewel, as suitable for a man as for a woman.
“I remember the day you gave this to me. A Hatton legacy, you said, and yours to give. You gave it to me as a symbol of your love. I have kept it—a priceless keepsake from the lady who holds my heart in her hands.”
“So do I remember. But I did not know that my devotion would outlive yours.”
“Beatrice!” Lord Richard was astounded. “You are the light of my life. Do you not know that?”
But Lady Beatrice Somerton would not be soothed. “No, Richard. What use in denial? If that is so—if you truly loved me—how could you abandon me to marriage with a man such as William Somerton? You promised that you would come for me—and yet you did not.”
“No! That is not so …”
But she would not listen, the misery of two years of blighted marriage a tight band around her chest. “You have broken my heart, Richard Stafford!”
“Beatrice …”
What more Lord Richard would have said in his own defense Beatrice was not to know for there was the sudden eruption of movement, the heavy impact of booted feet, of opening and closing doors, and then Lord Grey strode into the Hall already pulling on his gloves. His lips were tight–pressed, his spine rigid, his eyes alight with temper but he kept a grip on his words. His gaze searched the room.
“Stafford!” He signaled Lord Richard to his side. “The horses. We leave immediately.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Lord Grey beckoned in impatience when Richard would have hesitated beside the lady, then turned to his host. “I must thank you for your hospitality, Sir William.” His voice denied his words.
“It was my pleasure, my lord.” But anyone seeing Somerton’s expression would not think it. “I am sorry that my reply was not to your liking.” Stiff disapproval sat weightily on him.
“No. It was not. I clearly misread the strength of your sentiments. I trust you will not come to regret your decision.”
“My decision is not final, my lord, as I made clear. I have to consider carefully where my duty might lie—and my loyalty.”
“As do we all,” Lord Grey bit off the words. “I trust that you will also consider carefully where your best interests might be. It would be a foolish man who aligns himself with the losing side.”
Sir William remained silent in the face of this enigmatic response. Then, “Are you so certain that there will be a battle, my lord?”
“Without doubt. In two or three days.” Lord Grey gestured sharply to the gentlemen who still watched and listened with ill–concealed interest. “The two armies are too close to retreat.”
“Is negotiation not possible?”
“Warwick might, but Buckingham will not allow him near the king.” Lord Grey made no attempt to hide his contempt for King Henry. “Our anointed king is, unfortunately, not always in charge of his wits.”
Sir William ignored so treasonous a comment but his reply remained conciliatory enough. “I shall make my decision, my lord, and inform you of it.”
“Very well. I advise you not to disappoint me.” Lord Grey turned his back. “My lady.” A brusque bow in the direction of Lady Beatrice. “Gentlemen. Come.”
Without another word, Lord Grey turned on his heel and strode to the door, leaving his words to echo and re–echo in Beatrice’s mind. A battle. Within the week and close at hand.
“So you will be engaged in the fighting?” Her heart told her to go to Lord Richard, to touch him, as he gathered up his sword and cloak, to follow him to the door. But she would not. Could not. Had she not told him that her heart was broken and he was the cause?
“Yes.” The bite in his voice struck home.
“It will be dangerous. You could be hurt.”
“Undoubtedly.” The edge in his reply became more intense. “I would like to think that you cared. I am no longer certain.”
For a long moment she closed her eyes to erase the terrible images. How was it possible for her to want him to touch her and yet at the same time to accuse him? Yes, he had broken his promise to her. But for him to be in danger in battle within an arrow shot of her home, perhaps to be taken prisoner, to be wounded, even suffering a lethal blow that would cost him his life. And she would not know of it. It was almost more than she could bear.
Richard saw her conflict but was at a loss. Her husband and Lord Grey had both made their way out to the courtyard. The horses were being led from the stables, the escort already mounted. He could hear Lord Grey’s raised and impatient voice calling his name, demanding his presence.
He stopped in the doorway, looked back over his shoulder. “I must go, Beatrice. But I cannot leave it like this. We need to talk. There is no time now. But after the battle, God willing, I will return.” Too late now. Too late for explanations. “I neither betrayed nor abandoned you. I would that it were possible for us to be together. That I could find a way to make it so.” No. By God! He would not leave her with this matter lying so viciously between them.
Against all the dictates of common sense he strode back across the room to face her, to curve an arm around her waist and drag her close in a kiss. It was not a gentle meeting of lips, contained no tender reminiscence or soft promise of fulfillment for the future. Rather it was a devastating statement of need. At first Beatrice resisted, pushing against his shoulders, her mouth cold and unresponsive, indignant that he should treat her so. But he would have none of it. His hold tightened pressing her close, breast and thigh, until she was aware of nothing but the hard strength of his body against her softness.
“Beatrice, I want you …”
And she knew it, trembled at the raw physical response in his body that was instantly mirrored in her own. Relentless, shockingly intimate, his mouth claimed and owned, until her lips warmed and parted beneath his demand. It was an assault of sheer ungoverned passion, speaking wildly of pain and loss and a terrible uncertainty. Of a possession that could never be. Of a divide that scored both to the bone. It seared through his veins to hers, to the very heart, leaving them both scorched by the heat of it. Then he released her, as suddenly as he had claimed her, afraid to prolong the intimacy.
“I will come to you. I will not allow this misunderstanding to remain between us. Remember this, whatever the future holds. My love and devotion are yours. On that promise, I shall keep the Hatton swan.”
Then with a curt bow of the head as his only acknowledgment, he placed the velvet–wrapped brooch back into the breast of his coat and strode from the room, unable to say more.
“Richard.” Anguish heavy in her breast, Beatrice stretched out her hands, swamped by a need to beg forgiveness. But he was gone beyond her recall.
Which left her with no choice but to stand and watch, his words etched in her mind, as he seized his reins from one of the grooms and swung into the saddle of his splendid dark bay destrier. Richard turned the animal and without a backward glance rode through the gates and across the moat. Against her better judgment she climbed quickly to stand on the battlement walk, to conti
nue watching as the cloud of dust gradually swallowed up the little party of horsemen in the distance.
She pressed her fingers to her lips as if she would retain the memory of the imprint of his mouth on hers, the bright fire of it. It still burned there, as it did through every inch of her body. She could taste him in the lingering heat. The threatened tears came at last, only to be quickly wiped away. She would not weep, neither for herself nor for him. But, “I am afraid for you,” she murmured. “I love you, Richard Stafford,” she admitted. Because in spite of everything, she could not deny that she still wanted him, still longed to be with him to feel the power of his body, experience his bold caresses. And that made his casual desertion of her so much worse. Now he had left her. She doubted that she would ever see him again. She had not even bidden him farewell, only left him with the memory of her harsh words and bitter accusations.
I will come to you.
God grant that he would. Because he had kept her gift and his kiss spoke to her heart. All she could do was hold tight to the hope that his love for her was as strong as ever.
“Beatrice!”
All emotions quickly governed, her face a blank mask, she descended to the courtyard where Sir William waited for her. His temper had clearly not improved. If anything, it was stoked by some occurrence in Lord Grey’s visit to an even higher temperature.
“Bring more ale to the parlor. And a flagon of the best Bordeaux. Quickly now.” Then as he stalked inside, “Tell Lawson to bring it. I have no need of you.”
Without a word she went to do as she was bid. It no longer seemed to matter. Nothing very much mattered when measured against the loss that gripped her heart in its painful fist.
Lord Richard Stafford rode away from Great Houghton, the grooves beside his eyes and mouth very much in evidence. His mind was full of nothing but the woman who had just questioned his honor and integrity.
