She propped herself up on her elbow and stared into his face. “Is this really true, Mark?”
He chuckled. “Cross my heart, chou-chou. He took you in his arms and hugged you until you protested with a howl. When the laughter died down, he held you aloft so that the whole court could see you. ‘Behold the fairest maiden in all England,’ he cried out.”
Belle shivered in Mark’s embrace. “I did not know that part.”
“And from that day to this, you have been the darling of his heart. And that is God’s own truth, Belle.”
She sighed. “Poor dearest Papa! I have led him a merry jig.”
Mark relaxed further into the mattress. “That you have, chou-chou.” Now that the ticklish storytelling was over, he allowed himself to drift toward sweet slumber. Curled next to him, Belle felt so comfortable, so right.
“I knew I had been born in a convent,” she suddenly remarked, jarring him. “I was always afraid that the family would grow tired of me and send me back there. Could you imagine me as a nun?”
“Never,” Mark murmured.
“That is why Bodiam is so important to me. Tis my safeguard against exile into oblivion. Tis my only refuge. Can you understand that, Mark?”
He tried to pay attention but his need for sleep proved too powerful. “Understand…” he mumbled.
Just before he completely lost consciousness, Belle whispered in his ear, “Thank you for telling me, Mark, even if parts of your story were very pretty lies.”
Chapter Fourteen
Belle settled into the crook of Mark’s slack embrace. His heavy breathing told her that he had slipped into a deep sleep. The fire in the hearth burned itself out, yet she still lay awake pondering the mysteries of her childhood. Only when the night’s chill penetrated her clothing did she rouse herself. She unfolded one of her spare blankets and laid it over Mark. She had not realized how tall he had grown until she noticed that his boots hung over the bottom of the bed. Gently she pried them off and set them side by side on the floor.
A few embers still glowed, casting a feeble orange light. Belle stood over Mark’s sleeping form and gazed down at the man she had teased and exasperated for so many years. In slumber, his face appeared more youthful. His boots reminded her of the time she had poured honey into his new shoes. In return, he had tossed Belle into the moat. After Papa had fished her out of the green waters, he had ordered Mark to trudge around the courtyard while carrying a heavy log on his shoulders. Mark’s punishment had lasted three hours, though the fault had been hers entirely. Though his shoulders ached for a week, the squire did not breathe a word of her prank—not that day nor ever after, but she would never forget the angry look in his eyes. No wonder Papa had had to bribe him to come for her!
Belle swept an errant brown lock from his forehead. How many times had she watched her young nursemaid run her hands through Mark’s thick hair? How they both had laughed! How Belle had longed for Mark’s warm glances cast in her direction instead of at silly Polly! The insidious green worm of jealousy coiled around her heart.
Belle put her cool hands to her flushed cheeks. Why am I mooning over this wastrel? He cares nothing for me except for the reward Papa will give him. But her soul rejected this easy rationalization.
She untied her gown, pulled it over her head, then laid it across the chair. If Mark had been her lover, he would have merely dropped her clothing on the floor. What was Mark like as a lover anyway? Despite his hot pursuit of all Kat’s serving maids, Belle had only caught him twice in the very act itself—both times with the shameless Polly. Belle snorted. What a wanton nursemaid she had been! Belle could have fallen down the well for all Polly cared as she wriggled and giggled under Mark.
Would I wriggle and giggle like that? Despite Belle’s highest hopes, she had never experienced such joyful abandon in Cuthbert’s embrace. Poor man! He did try to please her but he had had the passion of a wet fish and the endurance of a firefly. Belle had hoped that with time and practice things would get better in the bedchamber—but they hadn’t. Then her young, fumbling husband had sickened and died.
A suffocating sensation tightened her throat. I shall never be truly loved as Papa loves Kat. Sitting down next to Mark, she lifted one of his hands and fitted her palm against his larger one. What would it be like to hold hands while they walked in the riverside meadow on a golden summer’s day? She laced her fingers though his, palms pressed close together and intertwined as lovers entwined around each other. Her yearning for that intimacy swelled within her breast.
His hard calluses scraped against her soft skin—calluses from years of wielding a sword. Belle studied Mark’s forearm. She had noticed that he often rubbed it while he talked with her. She laid her hand over the site of the ancient injury. In her memory, she heard again that chilling crack when his bone broke; heard his scream of pain. Belle shuddered at the recollection.
That bright April day had been so full of promise. She had just turned thirteen and was eager to test the new womanly powers that stirred within her. Without a thought of any dire consequences, she deliberately beguiled Mark and led him into Bodiam’s apple orchard. Delicate pink blossoms showered down on them as she climbed one of the trees, knowing that Mark followed close behind her. Sitting on a thick bough high over the lush green grass, she tempted and teased him until Mark leaned forward to claim a kiss.
Over his shoulder, she saw Papa coming toward them. If he caught sight of Mark’s bold move, the young man would certainly pay a painful price. In a panic, Belle did the first thing that popped into her head. She pushed her would-be suitor off the limb. For once, Mark’s cat-like reflexes failed him. Instead of landing solidly on his feet, he stumbled, then fell heavily on his left arm, his sword arm. His look of pain and betrayal was one that had haunted her nightmares ever since.
Brandon was at Mark’s side in a flash. For one of the few times in Belle’s life, her father had placed the blame squarely where it belonged—on her shoulders. While Mark writhed in his agony, Brandon banished his daughter to her chamber. Vowing not to show her distress, she had marched back to the castle with her head held high and her eyes dry.
Only in the depths of her pillow did Belle weep her remorse for Mark’s pain and the loss of the fragile bond that had stretched between them for so short a time. She had wanted to go to Mark’s bedside to explain what had happened, but she didn’t dare risk Papa’s further displeasure; he might send her back to France. She ought to have written Mark a note but no words of apology seemed adequate. By the time Kat allowed her downstairs again, Mark had already gone back to his parents’ home to mend.
He never returned to the Cavendish household. A year later under Brandon’s sponsorship, King Henry knighted Mark and sent him immediately to Ireland. Belle never expected to see him again. Over the years, she had tried to forget the horrible incident. Now it poured back into her mind with every detail in clear relief.
“I am so very sorry, Marcus,” she whispered in the darkness. She leaned over and brushed his lips with hers.
“Mmm,” he hummed in his sleep. His mouth twitched.
A daring idea presented itself. Just this once, I’ll do it. Belle knew she would never get another opportunity to sleep next to him without a stitch of clothing on her. Mark would never be her lover, she knew, but for the remainder of this night she would lie next to him—and pretend. Belle kicked off her house slippers, then peeled down her wool stockings. She pulled back the bedcovers on her side, then drew her shift over her head. The cold air encouraged her into the bed. She pulled the sheet and blankets up to her chin, then turned toward Mark, who still lay fully dressed on top of the coverlet.
“Good night…my love,” she whispered in his ear before she laid her head on his shoulder. Even through the bedclothes, his body warmed her.
Mark snored softly.
A pewter half light filtered through the window and the rain still pattered against the thick panes of hand-blown glass when Mark opened his eyes. He yawn
ed. In a half-drowsy state, he wondered why he was still dressed in last evening’s clothes. He stretched out his arms—and soundly thumped the woman sleeping beside him.
“Hell’s bells!” she groaned. “What’s amiss?”
Mark rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Tis dawn,” he began, glancing over to Belle. “You were supposed to—” He broke off in mid-sentence as he stared at her naked shoulders with growing shock. “God’s teeth!” he bellowed. He leaped out of the bed still staring at her as if he had never seen her before in his life. “What are you doing there?”
Belle swept her tousled hair out of her eyes. The coverlet slipped a notch lower. “What do you think I would be doing?” she retorted with a trace of sarcasm.
The blood pounded against his temples. “Are you…naked under that?” She couldn’t be! His heartbeat quickened at the speculation.
Belle pulled herself a little more out of the protection of the bedding and lay back against her pillow. The covers slipped further down to reveal a hint of the shadow between her breasts. Mark’s breath came out in short gasps.
She folded her hands over her stomach. “Of course. What did you expect?” she replied.
God save me! Mark backed farther away from the bed and nearly stepped into the cooling ashes of last night’s fire. What did I do to her? “Wha…what happened?”
Belle’s pink lips puckered with annoyance. “Methought you would awake happier than this. After all, I gave you what you most desired.”
“Sdeath!” Why couldn’t he remember what had transpired? “I swear upon my honor—”
Lifting one eyebrow, she cocked her head. “Tis a fine thing to talk of your honor…afterward!”
Mark’s stomach heaved. Sweat broke out on his brow. “Belle, forgive me! I must have drunk too much wine at supper. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
Belle twirled a lock of her hair. The cover dropped to reveal the tops of her creamy breasts. “Methinks tis a little late to tell me that now.” She shrugged. A pink nipple winked at him for a split second. “I expected you to be at least grateful for what I did for you.”
Mark’s knees turned to jelly; his loins lit up. “Sweet Jesu, Belle, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never do that to you. I didn’t mean to…did I take you? That is, did we go…uh…beyond…?”
He stopped his gibbering when he spied a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. Blast the minx! He strode to the bedside and glared down at her. “Exactly what did you give me that I so desired?”
Her lips curved into a wicked smile. “A good night’s sleep, of course! What else could you possibly want so late at night?”
Humiliation and anger followed closely on the heels of his relief. Mark planted his hands on his hips and glowered at her. “Thank you for a most interesting crack of dawn, Belladonna! Forgive me if I stop groveling at your feet.”
His cheeks burned, his throat burned—and his arousal burned. He searched for his boots and when he found them at the foot of the bed, he snatched them up and started for the door.
“Tut, tut, Marcus,” said the little witch. “You were always such a poor sport. Prithee, is the idea of making love to me really that loathsome to you?”
He stopped in his tracks. Pivoting on his heel, he glared at her. A mistake! With a mocking challenge in her blue eyes, she flipped down the covers baring herself to the waist. Arching her back, she lifted her firm ripe breasts for his inspection.
He moaned under his breath. With her hair in fetching disarray and her eyes half-closed, Belle looked fit to be ravished. His desire for her set every nerve in his body on edge. With the greatest reluctance, he turned his back on the tempting sight. He gripped his boots until his knuckles turned white. His lungs screamed for air. “If you were an eager nursemaid, or a wanton tavern wench or a frisky Irish lass in a barnloft, I would not hesitate for a moment but to take you at your word.”
Mark leaned his forehead against the window panes and sought balm for his heat from the cold glass. “If you were a bored matron at court or a worldly-wise courtesan, I would strip off my clothes and join you for a merry romp.” He paused to gather his strength and wits. Her nipples turned a dusky pink and their nubbins hardened in the cold air.
He drew in a deep breath, “But of all the women in this wide world, you are the only one I would never bed!” He mopped his streaming face. “And for pity’s sweet sake, cover yourself before you…uh…catch cold.”
Belle’s expression turned thunderous. “I see,” she spat. “I am not good enough for you because I am a bastard.” She yanked the coverlet up to her chin.
Mark closed his eyes for a moment. “Nay, tis the very opposite.” He glanced at her. His flaming passion cooled to something more gentle. “Because you are a Cavendish, a member of the family that I hold dearer than any other. I would die rather than bring dishonor upon any one of you.”
Belle blinked at him, rubbed the side of her nose but said nothing.
“Your family made me one of their own. Lady Alicia nursed me through fevers and homesickness. The Earl plopped me on the back of a fat pony and took me on my first hunt just as if I had been one of his own sons. Your Uncle Guy taught me to read and write in both English and Latin while his patient lady wife made speaking French as natural to me as my mother tongue. And your father?” Mark’s chest swelled with pride.
“There is no greater knight in this realm than Sir Brandon Cavendish and I count it a supreme honor to have been schooled in the arts of chivalry and warfare by him. In return, I have struggled all these years to obey the only vow that he ever placed upon me.”
Belle moistened her lips. “What was that?” she asked in a faint voice.
Mark swallowed with difficulty before he continued. “When your father brought you home to Wolf Hall, he made me swear on his sword that I would always and forever honor, protect and cherish you. And I have tried my damnedest to do just that in spite of all your tricks.”
Belle turned white. She cleared her throat. “Cherish?” she whispered.
“Just so,” Mark snapped. “And that means I will not rape, seduce, or meddle with your virtue. You, LaBelle, are forbidden fruit to me. Have I made myself clear?”
She flashed him a look of disdain. “Marvelously much! In that case, go! You have tarried too long in my virtuous bower.” She slid further under the covers.
Tucking his boots under his arm, Mark unlocked the door. Before he lifted the latch, he glanced back over his shoulder. “By the way, chou-chou, in case you wondered, you have a lovely pair of titties.” He skittered out the door before her flung pillow hit its target.
Once in the icy gallery, he released a long, audible sigh of relief. Without bothering to put on his boots, he padded down the mid-tower stairs. Leaving his boots on the dry bottom step, Mark strode out into the courtyard and lifted his fevered face to the cooling rain. He stood motionless, allowing himself to be soaked to the skin before he retrieved his shoes and splashed across the courtyard to his own bed in the south wing. To his surprise, Kitt awaited him with a hostile expression.
“Tis nearly dawn,” the boy chided. “Where have you been with your boots in your hand and why soaking wet?”
Mark snatched up his shaving towel and dried his dripping hair. “Heaven defend me from Cavendishes!” he groaned. He needed more sleep.
Kitt folded his arms across the chest of his nightshirt. His mild blue eyes flared with his family’s quick temper. “Have you…used my sister in a wanton fashion?” His chin quivered with his anger.
Mark sat on a stool and unbuttoned his sleeveless overcoat. “On my honor as a consecrated knight, I have not touched Belle in any manner whatsoever, though if you will pardon me for saying it, she desperately needs a good spanking.” He balled up the sodden coat and tossed it across the chamber.
Kitt’s rigid posture relaxed a little. “Then what were you doing?”
Mark untied the laces at his wrists and neck of his linen shirt. “Catching up on my sleep, if you must
know, but, Kitt—” He gave the boy a stern look. “Learn this most important lesson: if you intend to live a long and healthy life, never ask anyone, man or woman, exactly how and where they passed the night. A great deal of blood has been spilled over that simple question.”
Kitt studied his bare toes while he digested this piece of wisdom. Mark pulled down his breeches and hose, then kicked them into a heap. With a prayer of thanksgiving under his breath, he crawled between the cool sheets of his bed.
Kitt glanced at the piles of damp clothing with disgust. “You are going to sleep now? Methought you just said—”
Mark yawned widely. “I need my strength to push Mistress Griselda through another dancing lesson—unless you would care to do it for me.”
Kitt made a face. “I am content to play the music. You can keep Mistress Griselda all to yourself.”
Mark punched his pillow into the shape he preferred. “Methought as much. Wake me in time to dress for dinner. And, Kitt?”
His little squire replied with a quizzical look.
“Pray tell me, do you know how to carve up vegetables?”
Kitt gaped at him. “Tis work for a kitchen scullion.”
Mark grinned. “Not any more.”
Chapter Fifteen
By an unspoken mutual agreement, Mark and Belle avoided each other as much as possible over the next few days. Mark left Kitt to attend to his sister’s needs, and Jobe continued to shadow her on her increasingly bolder jaunts throughout the castle. Mark made it a point not to speak directly to her, not to look into those bewitching sapphire eyes and, most of all, never to be alone with her. Belle had no idea how close to the precipice she had pushed his fortitude. The sooner he concluded this madness, the happier Mark would be.
As All Hallows Eve drew closer, activities around Bodiam, both innocent and haunting, accelerated in frenzy. Mark functioned on less than five hours of sleep each night and the strain of maintaining his pose as Griselda’s ardent suitor frayed him to the quick. His deluded lady-love played the wanton jade during the daylight hours, but she fled to the safety of her bedchamber immediately after supper, for which he was most thankful.
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