by Robyn Carr
The man looked at her with some compassion. “Then I wish you well, Maid Jocelyn.”
“And I pass the same to you, Cross,” she said, a slight catch in her throat.
He turned to leave her and she spoke to his back. “You’ve given me new hope.” He turned to her with a look of confusion. Her eyes were filled now with tears of reminiscence and longing. Her family seemed so far away, her life and future such a distance from where it might once have been. “I never thought I would hear words of kindness and devotion—especially from you.” A small sob escaped her. “You’ve done me a good turn, Master Tyson. You allowed me a moment to feel cherished. I will be forever grateful.”
And with that she turned and walked toward the house, not turning to wave as she heard him call his helper and start the horses. In her heart there settled a heaviness that she had never felt before. It was almost as though she had loved and lost. It was certainly the first time in her life that an honest proposal born of true feelings had ever been made to her.
She paused before the grand house and looked at it again, differently now from when she saw it upon her arrival. She silently prayed that these halls would be kind to her and that she, in her simple fashion, would not bring too much darkness to the doors.
Jocelyn took it upon herself to alert Enid that Trent was returned and asked for the drawing of a bath and preparation of a swift and hearty meal. When he gained his bedchamber, she was putting out fresh clothing and the tub was steaming before a glowing hearth.
“I thought you would like a bath,” she said, her voice nervous and strained.
“Aye,” he returned.
“Food is being brought to you,” she added.
He mumbled something and swung his greatcoat around his shoulders and dropped it on a chair.
“Milord?” she questioned.
“Nothing.”
“Your business was successful?” she ventured.
“Why was he here?” he asked, the storm behind his eyes quickly gathering strength.
“He inquired of my well-being and brought news that my family is well.”
“And that is all?”
“It has been nearly two months since there has been any word,” she said, pleading.
“He still seeks your hand in marriage?”
She dropped her eyes, failing to see the need for this badgering.
“I asked you a question, wench,” he stated harshly.
Her head shot up and confusion filled her eyes. He had never used such a tone, nor had he addressed her so disrespectfully. That he would speak so and rob her of any pleasant moments she might have gained from Cross seemed unusually cruel. “He only seeks to give my father peace. They are old friends.”
“Do you honestly believe he makes a sacrifice for your father’s peace of mind?” he asked. There was a brief knock and the door opened. Avery entered, stopped by the sight of them. Though their voices were not raised, they stood apart and their faces were set in quarrelsome lines. He sheepishly placed a tray of food on the table and moved quickly out of the line of fire.
“Tell me what his proposal was,” he demanded of Jocelyn.
She sighed heavily. “Please, milord, ’twas nothing at all and I—”
“Have a care, Jocelyn. Don’t lie to me. Don’t ever lie to me.”
Her eyes suddenly blazed, alert to his words. How dare he warn her against lying when on at least two occasions he had not spoken the truth. “You warn me, sir?” she asked. “Pray tell me what you would have done had I declined your bed that first night. Would you have delivered my brother back to Stephen Kerr?”
Trent walked slowly toward her. He reached out a hand and touched the thin hairline mark that at one time had been an obvious scar. “Your old lover did not protect you nor ease your family’s plight. Had you taken this mark from Kerr’s whip to him, would he have made any effort on your behalf?”
“But you tricked me,” she exclaimed.
“Did I? I made no confession, nor did I promise anything in return. Who tricked you, Jocelyn? You made your own choices here.”
“You could have told me—”
“And demanded your body in payment?” His question boomed. “And would we stand here now and speak of my gentlemanly persuasion?”
“But I could have left here intact,” she argued.
“And found your request granted. Tell me that I am a rogue and liar,” he returned, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
Jocelyn was flustered by his skillful arguing. The fact remained, he had been less than honest with her and yet had the audacity to demand the truth. “What of the night in the stables, milord? Will you tell me again that you were not there and you did not hear Sir Troy for yourself?”
He looked at her with a new curiosity. He contemplated her and then a half-smile graced his handsome lips. “When did I tell you I was not there?” he countered.
“You implied that you—”
“Implications are not lies. Refusing to take confidants are not lies. And what makes you suspect I was in the stables?”
“You told me that if you crept closely to listen, you would not be so foolish as to make yourself known upon leaving, as I had. You heard me leave!”
“When did you draw this conclusion?” he asked.
“Not very long afterward. On that very night I was too shaken to make sense of it … and you knew it so well. Tell me, sir knight, did it not serve you well that I was fearful and grateful for your presence in my bed? Is that why you did not tell me the truth?”
Untroubled by her new knowledge, he simply threw it off, not fully aware of the impact his words might have. “It is not a habit of mine to seek counsel with women, nor to bare my soul to my whore.”
She felt the sharp insult of his words as if they had slapped her in the face. Her lack of value to him was most clear. Behind her eyes she felt the sting of tears but promised herself she would die before she cried in his presence. And though her throat was constricted and aching, she clutched at composure and would not answer him.
“So you think you know the truth. I will warn you but once: any conclusions you may have drawn without my aid, you will keep completely silent. And when it suits my mood to explain the happenings of that night, I will do so. Until then, your life depends on your discretion.”
“Am I to draw my experience at discretion from your teachings, my lord?” she asked flippantly.
“Don’t play coy with me, Jocelyn. Matters that don’t concern you will only endanger you. You are forced to trust me.”
“It would be easier to force a wild boar through a keyhole,” she countered.
His eyes were dark and there was a scowl on his face. “I’ll hear of Master Tyson’s proposal now. And take care with your words, love. I am most impatient from a long ride home. I fear I could easily lose my temper.”
Jocelyn considered that fair warning and chose not to taunt him any further. She wanted only to have this entire conversation behind her, lest she find herself whipped or otherwise abused. “He brought word of my family; they are well. He offered marriage as a means to bring my father to a civil temperament, even though my virtue is a question.”
“That is the truth?” he asked.
She nodded once.
“And your answer?”
“That he deserved a pure bride and I would not shame his good name by accepting marriage with him now.”
“But you are tempted, are you not?”
“No, milord. He would soon regret his unselfish offer.”
Trent seemed satisfied with her answer and sat down to pull off his riding boots. “You are better off without the fool,” he chided. “Any man who would claim a bride based on her father’s temper doesn’t know what he buys. Were he the culprit who stole your maidenhead, ’twould be an honorable gesture. But this proposal of his shames you worse than mine.”
“Methinks it the noblest thus far,” she argued in his defense. “And the only decent proposition I’ve encountered.�
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“To marry so that his friend—your father—might be eased of insult?” he laughed. “Where is his concern for you? Or for himself?”
“Some men do not concern themselves with only their own base desires, milord, but have a care for decency and honor.”
“Ah, honor,” he said, rising from the chair. “And chivalry and wholesomeness. Don’t you know that men who speak of such ties only mean to enslave you to their cause? Trust me, Jocelyn, you are better off faced with a man’s honest wants. You at least know you’re not being trapped within a web of feigned scruples. Now, I’ve been hard upon the road for days and dreamt the whole while of some warmth from my mistress upon my return.”
He moved toward her and easily slipped his arms around her waist. She let her arms dangle and turned her face away from his. She was limp and passive in his embrace as he tasted the flesh of her neck and nibbled at her ear. Her senses threatened to stir at the closeness. She was quickly reacquainted with the feel and smell of him, but inside she hurt from his uncaring words and she couldn’t let herself show the slightest response.
“I fared better than this before leaving you,” he murmured.
“As did I,” she countered coolly.
“Come, Jocelyn, I weary of begging your favors.”
“How so, milord?” she said, her voice catching uncontrollably on her words. “You are a man to be firm and honest with your wants. Why worry about a lowly whore’s reluctance? You will simply take what you want. After all, I suppose rape is more honest than trifling with feigned scruples.”
He set her from him abruptly. The darkness in his eyes clearly defined his tense mood, but he rather slowly turned away from her. “Perhaps I have not coddled you as your scorned lover has, Jocelyn, but neither have I raped you. Not once did I meet with resistance from you. Inexperience, true. A timid acceptance born of some fears and unknowns, perhaps. But had you once fought me, you would instantly be free of my embrace. You may paint any picture of me you choose; say that I use you, say that I take great pride in showing you how to forget yourself, but you may not say that you were raped.”
He moved toward the table and poured cold ale from a pitcher into a tankard that was brought with his meal. He drank a good share, slamming the cup back onto the table. Jocelyn was still and humbled in her place, trying to hold on to the anger that had given her the courage to speak out, but already convinced not to turn her waspish tongue loose again.
“My business in London was sour and ill-timed. But while I awaited my moment to return, thoughts of a warm and wily mistress sustained me. I thought to return at least to some measure of hospitality in my own house, but rather I find you more scornful than when I left you. I had hoped to return to the comforts I had missed, but rather I found my mistress with her former betrothed, the two of you wet with emotion. Well, I am too tired and beset by greater worries and will only become more angry if I attempt to duel with you now. It is plain he has put you in a mood to think you have some cause to hate me for my indecency and selfishness. Go,” he said. “Do whatever it is that women do to soothe their injured pride and restore a softer character. When you have a kind word and gentle embrace for me, then you may return.”
Chapter Eleven
The tears that Jocelyn had bravely swallowed when in Sir Trent’s chamber found full bloom when she was alone in her own room. She wept at first in anger, raging internally at his cruel treatment.
“How dare he throw blow after cruel blow and then bid me cool my heels and soften my nature. He demands my most private thoughts be spread on a table for his view and then tells me simply that it is not his custom to confide in his whore. The blackguard would have me blithely choose a life as a harlot, and calls the only decent man I’ve ever known a fool for making some wholesome proposal to me. And has he once whispered words of love or devotion? Ha! He does not know the meaning of love. He thinks himself honest and noble for not forcing his affections, yet the very roof over my head lies in the balance and, if that is not force …”
She cried her bitter tears of anger, pacing about her chamber and muttering every curse upon his head that she could devise. And when somewhat exhausted of her rage, she began to weep tears of total confusion over her conversation with Cross.
“That he found me pretty and smart … when the kindest word that ever passed his lips was that I would make for good breeding? What sodden mind thinks a maid would turn her head to a harsh and often indifferent man? Where was his devotion when I faced the lash of Master Kerr? Or when the younger children were frightened in Bowens Ash and he would not marry me before they were old enough to be without my care?”
“What horror in an earlier life did I commit against men that the only ones I come to know are either cruel or selfish or too foolish to speak their minds? Oh, Cross, would that you had spoken true, and a child conceived in tenderness and love, to be born to parents filled with happiness, could be growing in me now. But fool who courted in my father’s fashion never let me know I was wanted.”
Her pace slowed, and while the tears did not cease, they turned quite naturally to a despair born of self-pity. The next man to be the victim of her silent raging was John Cutler.
“And in all the years of struggle to please, not once did I merit any kindness. Indeed, my alleged misdeeds were drawn so perfectly for me that it came as no challenge at all to play the whore and sacrifice my virtue. I was told often enough how I would. Where, Papa, in my childhood did I offend you so brutally that you could not ever be proud of me or think me good? What horrible sin did you witness that prevented you from ever thinking me worthy of your love? Is my ‘death’ a comfort or a loss? Are you happier with my absence than you were as I struggled to please you? Oh, Papa … why have you hated me so?”
The sun was low in the sky before Jocelyn felt her tears and pain begin to fade. She calmed and washed her face, finding herself very tired and troubled, but less angry. She noticed the evidence of an afternoon spent weeping as she sat before the dressing table to brush her unbound hair. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her nose was pink.
“I have given more energy to tears since I’ve been in his house than I did the whole number of years my father berated me. How is it I’ve become so weak of character?”
She considered that Trent was accurate in one thing: she was more distressed by Cross’s visit than he. It was as if she’d dreamed all the impossible turns her life had taken and had been completely unaware of what the people who influenced her were thinking. She had never known that anyone watched her, that the men in the village found her pretty or the women worried that she was a threat. She wondered with great frustration if she might have somehow known she was cared for had she paid closer attention to the look in Cross’s eyes or his mannerisms when he called. And how would he have dealt with her if she had gone to him, as her father suggested?
It was at least partially a feeling of regret that caused her to speak so shrewishly to Trent. Until she heard Cross plead his case, she was excited about Trent’s return, and indeed, he would have been pleased at her welcome. She had dreamed many nights about his strong arms and inspiring kisses, and though she lacked the courage to seduce him, he would not have found her resistant.
But then the farmer had visited and laid bare his feelings, letting her know that she might have had a lover’s devotion and a proper marriage. She could have had a life in which she could go to her own village, proud of her status, and be welcomed in her father’s house. Perhaps John Cutler would never have been warm and loving, but he might have been civil. It could have been better than being considered dead.
“But instead, Sir Trent took the virtue I offered and still saw me well housed and clothed. He withholds not a crumb from his table and bids me use his purse to dress myself. I bemoan a life of virtue and resent the only man who gave me shelter, warmth, and protection when I was in need. Should I not thank him for his generosity? I protect the one who would not raise a hand in my defense, and chastise the one
who would not let me be used against my will. I crumble and sob over words of love spoken too late, and in the same fashion do not tell the one man who would be pleased to hear those same words how I feel. Indeed, I am chilled to the very touch that first warmed me.”
Thinking now that Trent had every right to send her from his presence, she set about thinking through her apology. She walked the chamber again, trying out words on her tongue, all of which seemed inappropriate and foolish.
As she paused by her window, she saw that it had begun to rain. It was a soft, gray drizzle that would chill and turn to sleet by night, since the angry winds of winter were just around the corner.
Below her she could see the courtyard, the gardens, and the stables. There was a burial plot for the Wescott family within her range of view. She had been given a brief tour of that place along with everything else, although she paid little attention to it then. Trent’s grandparents, his mother, and a baby sister that had been born dead were all buried there. When she inquired about the old master, Lord Wescott of Braeswood, she was told simply that he was killed in the war and his body was interred elsewhere.
Now the sight below was grim and alarming. The iron fence had been pulled down and a few men were digging. Sir Trent and Avery stood to the side and watched. A large wagon bearing wooden coffins stood nearby and a burial was taking place. She had no idea what to make of it.
She saw Trent turn to leave the site, while Avery stayed, braving this cold rain to see the chore finished. Jocelyn waited patiently to hear Trent’s familiar footsteps on the stairs and in the hall outside her room, but when none came, she found her cloak. She would first ask Avery the meaning of this dreadful scene, and then, regardless of how much he may resist her, she would attempt to make some amends to Trent.
“Mum, you shouldn’t be about in this wet and cold,” the old man said upon seeing her.
“Avery, will you tell me? Whom do you bury here?”
