‘Your mother’s worked herself into a real state over you.’ Joan, her mother’s servant, appeared above her, slowly pouring another pail of hot water into the tub. The heated liquid trailed around her calves, her toes.
‘She’s always in a state about me, Joan.’ Alice sighed, trying to blot out her mother’s pinched, withering expression. Reaching for the cloth, floating languidly atop the water, she began to scrub herself with a fierce briskness. She didn’t want to talk about her mother now, or even talk at all, preferring to empty her mind of all thoughts, to drift.
‘She thinks something terrible has happened to you.’ Joan’s voice held a dramatic edge, no doubt fuelled by the gossiping women that surrounded her mother.
‘So she sent you to try to wheedle the truth from me.’ Alice grimaced at the shifting surface of the water.
Joan passed the empty pail to the boy who waited in the corridor to take it back to the kitchens, and closed the door. Turning, she wiped her wet hands down the front of her simple fustian gown. Her face was a little flushed; she had the grace to look ashamed. ‘Any mother would be worried when their daughter disappears for days…especially in the company of…that man.’
‘What? Lord Dunstan? He’s completely harmless!’ Alice buried her face in the cloth, knowing that nothing could be further from the truth. Even her protest sounded hollow, false; she hoped Joan wouldn’t notice.
‘Nobody in the castle knows him, so naturally people are asking questions, even the young Queen. She especially wants to know how he rescued you.’ Joan began soaping Alice’s wet hair, the pads of her work-roughened fingers digging into her scalp.
‘How he…?’ Mother of Mary! How had he actually ‘rescued’ her? Alice’s mind scrabbled about for details, spluttering slightly as Joan poured a pail of water over her hair, rinsing it. She and Bastien hadn’t even had the forethought to cobble a story together! Being quizzed by Joan was one thing, but Queen Margaret, with her incisive quick-wittedness, was certain to become suspicious if their stories didn’t marry. And if Bastien’s true identity were discovered, then her father was dead. Much as it galled her, it was her responsibility to ensure this didn’t happen.
Alice stood up suddenly, water sluicing from her slender limbs, the wet strands of hair clinging to her skin, iridescent as a pearl in the glowing candles that lit the chamber. ‘I will go and tell my mother the whole story, in detail, to stop all this speculation.’
‘It’s a good idea,’ Joan agreed, handing Alice a large linen towel.
Drying herself quickly, Alice ran to the oak coffer and began to dress. A square-necked blue silk kirtle covered her linen undergarments, followed by a high-waisted gown in a heavier green silk. Joan secured the leather laces at the back, fastening Alice tightly into the dress.
‘Let me sort your hair, Alice.’ Joan frowned dubiously at Alice’s tumbling mass of curls, already starting to dry in the heat of the room.
‘There’s no time.’ Alice was already bundling the thick strands into a tight coil at the back of her head, driving in long, jewelled hairpins to secure the bulk of it.
‘Here, cover your head with this.’ Joan placed a small headdress on top of Alice’s head, again, securing it with pins. A light, silk veil drifted down from the velvet padding that formed the U-shape. Joan stepped back, running an appraising eye over Alice. ‘You’ll do, as long as you’re just visiting your mother. Now go, before she worries herself into an early grave.’
Alice didn’t need telling twice.
Bastien would have been given a chamber in the west tower, she was sure of it. Closing her chamber door gently behind her, she leaned back for a moment, listening to the gentle puttering noises that Joan made as she tidied things away from Alice’s bath. She didn’t want Joan to see that she turned right down the corridor, instead of left, towards her mother’s apartments. Swiftly, she moved along the dimly lit passage, her bare feet making no sound against the wooden floorboards. In her haste to reach Bastien, she had forgotten her shoes and stockings—too late! Instinctively, her hand trailed lightly over the hewn stone wall for guidance; darkness had fallen outside, and the corridor only had one burning torch to light its length, throwing its flickering light from the far end, next to the door to the stairwell. Her hand made contact with the iron rivets, sunk deep into the grainy wood of the door, and she pushed through, on to the spiral staircase. Tiredness had been chased from her; revived by the bath, her mind ran with a cool determination. To create a plausible story with Bastien was her main aim; it would enable him to dampen whatever suspicions the Queen might hold of him, and facilitate his audience with the King.
The stairs were unlit, so finding Bastien’s chamber was easy; light flooded out from beneath the door, and she rapped sharply with her knuckles, three times. No answer. Confident that no one else was about, she called his name, softly at first, then louder. Again, no answer. Her fingers curled into her palms, impatiently. Why did he not hear her? The need to speak to him overrode her hesitancy; calling his name once more, Alice turned the handle on the door and stepped in.
Lit by several torches, the chamber blazed with light, and she blinked rapidly after the dimness of the stairs. A fire crackled strongly beneath a massive sandstone mantel, filling the room with a sweet, soporific warmth. The bed was made up, the horsehair-stuffed mattress heaped with clean linens and woollen blankets. A tunic and something white—it looked like a crumpled linen shirt—had been flung across the fur coverlet, gleaming in the firelight.
Too late she heard the sound of water splashing in the side room to the chamber. She checked her hasty stride, and halted, bare toes curling hesitantly against the sleek elm boards. Indecision coursed through her, then, in a moment, she spun around, intending to leave.
‘Alice?’
She turned back at the familiar voice. Head almost touching the stone lintel, Bastien emerged from the ante-chamber, linen towel scrubbing at his hair, rivulets of water running down the strong column of his throat and over the smooth, solid muscles of his torso, before disappearing into the low waistband of his chausses. A leather lace darkened with water swung from his neck, a golden ring swinging against the bare, honed skin of his chest, sparkling in the ambient light.
‘Oh…I’ll…’ Shocked, Alice stared, open-mouthed. A furious blush leapt uncontrollably to her cheeks; she put her palms up, trying to cover her face, to hide her reaction to him. A weakness surged over her and she staggered back, back, reaching her fingers behind her to grasp the door handle.
Bastien threw the towel on to the bed and stuck his hand in his hair, rumpling the glossy locks. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ he asked, eyebrows raised in question.
Alice swallowed, her mouth dry, arid. ‘I’ll…er…I’ll come back later.’ Mother of Mary, she could hardly speak properly, her breath emerging in short little puffs. The door handle refused to yield under her useless fingers; it wouldn’t turn!
Water droplets clung like diamonds to the muscled sleekness of Bastien’s skin, the sculptured muscles of his chest glowing in the warm light. Her blood fired; her fingers itched to touch, while her brain told her to leave, to go, now.
‘What is it?’ he asked, curiously. The maid seemed rooted to the spot. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ He took in the hectic skin of her face, her wild-eyed look. He walked over to her, and to his amazement, she shrank back, as if she was trying to disappear through the very wood of the door!
‘Alice, what is it?’ Concerned now, he reached for her hand.
‘Put…your…shirt on,’ Alice breathed out, both palms flat against the door for support. The honed steel of his chest was but inches away! Her eyes feasted on the beautiful sight before her, gulping in detail after beautiful detail. A fresh, invigorating smell lifted from him, the dampness from the water scenting his heated skin. His chest was covered with bronzed hairs, like burnished gold… Look away! her senses screamed. She ducked her eyes, only to be faced with the sight of his strong, flat stomach. In utte
r desperation, she closed her eyes.
‘What’s the matter…. haven’t you seen a man stripped to the waist before?’
Alice bridled at the taunt in his voice, eyes snapping open once more. ‘What? Nay, don’t be ridiculous, of course I haven’t!’ she blurted out.
His eyes moved over her flushed face. ‘Of course, my apologies. I forgot.’ Lord, but she was beautiful, standing before him, her delicate build framed by the rough-hewn oak of the door. The wide V-neck of her gown revealed an expanse of fragile skin below her neck, the dark fur edging the collar brushing against it. She had changed her gown, now wearing one that fitted her exactly; his eye traced the rounded curve of her bosom, the fine seaming that followed the indentation of her waist. Something knitted within him, deep within the kernel of his heart, igniting a delicious energy, a need. Inwardly, he groaned.
Alice frowned. Forgot? What was he talking about?
‘I forgot you were an innocent,’ Bastien answered her unspoken question. His voice was like silk, flowing over her, low, husky. He stepped a little closer, his knees brushing against the gathered folds of her gown, rustling. In the soft, white hollow of her neck, he could see her pulse, beating rapidly.
Her blush deepened. ‘Stop teasing me. And go and put your shirt on!’ Her palms sprang forwards, lay flat against his chest to push him away. Beneath her trembling fingers, his skin was hard, yet warm. He took a deep, unsteady breath, the green of his eyes threaded with gilded desire.
‘You should have known better than to enter a man’s chamber without knocking.’ His voice was rough, husky. Unexpectedly, he leaned into her, over her, one hand above her head, palm flat against the door behind her. The warmth from his skin swept over her, tantalising, tormenting. Her heart squeezed, then accelerated, the blood hurtling around her body. Her innards dissolved in a flaming whirlpool of desire.
‘Nay,’ she breathed suddenly, quivering beneath him, sensing the change in him, her voice a whisper. ‘Don’t do this.’ But even as the words left her lips, her treacherous body craved his caress.
His fingers grazed her cheek; a shiver of desire pulsed through her at that single contact, thrilling her. He bent his head, and she slanted her mouth up to him, knowing what she did was wrong, but desperate to quell the raging flames within her, eager to find out what before she could only have guessed at. Her senses scattered, logic deserting her to be replaced with a keen, ravening hunger.
His cool firm mouth descended, met her lips with a fierce longing. Wave upon wave of desire crashed through her at the unbelievable sensations bombarding her body. Her hands moved over his chest, clung to his shoulders for support as his lips moved over hers, slowly, languorously. Her mouth opened, like a flower in bloom, and he moaned, pressing his muscled length against her, wedging her up against the door, hard, as the kiss gained in intensity. In one savage, devastating movement, without his lips ever leaving hers, he lifted her up, pinned against the door, so her head was level with his, so her stomach pressed against his stomach, her soft thighs against his. He drank deep, and she gave, willingly.
‘Lord Dunstan!’ Someone banged on the door, loudly, insistently. Startled, Alice jerked against the door in fright, fear bolting through her, breathing fast. Bastien held her tight, her feet still dangling above the floor, lifting his mouth from hers reluctantly to put a finger to his lips.
‘My Lord Dunstan, I have been sent to bring you down to the great hall!’ the voice demanded from the other side of the door.
Alice wilted visibly. Edmund! It was Edmund who spoke through the door. Only the thickness of a plank of wood separated her from shameful discovery! She began to shake her head at Bastien, eyes wide with panic, drumming her fists against his chest, trying to tell him without speech that under no circumstances should he let the man in! Oh good Lord, what had she been thinking? Her body still hummed with the onslaught of Bastien’s kiss, her lips felt bruised, her hands shook as she brought them to her face, ashamed.
‘Who is it?’ Bastien dropped his mouth to her ear, but she jerked her head away, unable to contend with his nearness, struggling to be free of his hold. She let out a deep, shaky breath as he let her slide to the floor. ‘It’s Edmund,’ she hissed. Bastien looked blank. ‘My betrothed!’ she explained, moving to the safety of the centre of the room. ‘For God’s sake, don’t let him in.’
To her utter chagrin, Bastien chuckled, the wide grin splitting his face with mirth, before he turned and opened the door a crack. ‘I’m a little busy right now,’ he explained to the person outside. ‘I thank you…and I’ll make my own way down.’ Listening to directions, he nodded once or twice, then shut the door, turning the key with a satisfying clunk.
At the sound of Edmund’s footsteps fading down the corridor, Alice crumpled back on to the bed with relief; her legs would no longer hold her. ‘Oh, Lord, what have I done?’ She dropped her face into her hands, humiliation churning in her insides.
Bastien approached her, studying her bowed head, the gossamer veil from her head-dress spilling forwards over her neat shoulders. ‘Was it really so terrible?’
She wrenched her face from her hands, eyes wide, pools of translucent periwinkle blue. ‘Nay…aye! It will be if Edmund finds out!’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ She frowned up at him. ‘Because this marriage to Edmund has to work…for my parents’ sake. They’re desperate to see me settled, cared for, especially now, as…’ Her voice trailed off as she smoothed her palm across the bed furs, thinking of her absent brother. ‘It’s possible that I’m all they have left.’
‘And what about you?’ Bastien asked calmly, the brilliant emerald of his eyes shining over her. ‘What do you want?’ His voice contained the husky edge of desire, nudging at her, reminding her.
She laughed, a hollow sound. ‘What I want doesn’t come into it, Bastien. I have to see that my parents are provided for in their old age. Marriage to Edmund will fulfil that.’
‘Do you love him?’
She lifted her wide periwinkle-blue eyes up to his, her cheeks still burning fire from the impact of his kiss, her lips bruised. He knew the answer.
‘Please don’t make this more difficult for me.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was a kiss, Alice,’ he explained mildly, crossing his big arms across his chest. ‘Nothing to get worked up about, nothing to worry about. But don’t fool yourself it was all my doing. You were a willing participant.’
The vivid hue in her cheeks deepened as the memory of the kiss, vibrant, exciting, burst into her mind. She ducked her head, plucking at a loose thread on the embroidered skirt of her gown. He was right—she was just as much to blame as he was. Her flesh throbbed, pulsed from his touch; it was as if he had plundered the very core of her, turned it inside out and set it back differently. She had tasted the edge of danger in that compelling kiss, the promise of something more, and she ground her fingers into the soft fur of the coverlet to quell her heightened feelings. He had said it was nothing, and that was how she must think of it.
Alice flinched as Bastien reached past her, picking up his shirt. A golden ring, resting against his chest, spun forwards on a leather lace, snagging her gaze. Inadvertently, her fingers lifted towards it, touched the cool metal.
‘A betrothal ring?’ she stuttered out, anxious to deflect the attention away from what had just happened.
‘You could say that.’ Bastien yanked the shirt over his head.
‘Who are you planning to marry?’
‘No one. The girl I intended to marry is dead.’ Bastien studied Alice’s startled features, her forlorn, drooping figure. He would do well to remember Katherine now, the cool, linear beauty of his first, his only, love, and recall the agony of her loss. He would do well to remember the strict boundaries of his self-imposed restraint, locked into place at her death. Yet this kiss had surpassed those limits, sneaked through when his guard was lowered, carrying with it the promise of immeasurable desire, of love. This kiss had scared the h
ell out of him. He had told her it was nothing, a mere passing dalliance to assuage his physical attraction towards a beautiful woman. It should have meant nothing. In reality, the kiss had pillaged feelings he had thought long since laid to waste, and breathed new life into them. At the press of her rosebud mouth, the iron-bound shackles around his heart had begun to slip.
Chapter Ten
Edmund tripped carefully down the spiral staircase, smirking to himself. Lord Dunstan had a girl in his chamber, of that he was certain. Not in the castle above two moments and already he was dallying with one of the maids. Good luck to him! It was none of his business what Lord Dunstan did; only unfortunate that the Queen had spotted him doing very little in the great hall, and had asked him to escort the new visitor to the evening meal. He grimaced, his mouth curling down to a sharp little pout. Queen Margaret treated him like a servant, when she knew full that his father was a knight, albeit not a very rich one.
Once he received the money from his uncle, things would change—the Queen would have to treat him with more respect; why, he’d probably be richer than her! Poor Alice had no idea to what she had agreed; naturally, she trusted him, believed in him. He had all those years of friendship to thank for that; he hoped it would be enough to persuade her to elope with him. Only yesterday another message had arrived from his uncle; the man was growing impatient for his prize and would not wait for ever. Now Lady Beatrice was aware of the plan, it would make things easier; he had taken a chance by telling her, but she had agreed readily, believing her daughter, over time, would see the sense of it.
Edmund held his sleeve away from the gritty stone wall as he descended; a snagged thread on his tunic was the last thing he wanted. Soon, soon he would be able to buy all the fine new clothes he could possibly wish for, but for now, he liked to take care of the few garments in his possession. Rounding the bottom of the stairs, he scanned the corridor, ensuring it was empty. He smoothed back his floppy chestnut hair, a secret joy bubbling in his chest; with Lord Dunstan having no need of him, there was time to meet Beatrice. Now Alice had returned, they needed to discuss what they were going to do with her.
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