by Tamara Leigh
“Forgive me,” she said.
“As we find ourselves in dire circumstances, Lady, I believe we can be pardoned for behavior beyond our wishes and good sense.”
“Beyond,” she murmured, though he was not sure it was in agreement. “You are a rare man. Many of your sex would not concern themselves over compromising a willing lady, even one so undesirable.”
Did she hope he would gainsay her? Assure her she was desirable? “I but aspire not to stand repentant before God more than already I shall.”
Beata considered the figure of the queen’s man. Hating that she felt the distance between them, she lightened her tone. “As I can attest, an aspiration well within your reach, Sir Knight.”
“I thank you, Lady.”
It bothered that he eschewed her given name—and more so after what had just happened. “Pray, Sir Durand, cease calling me Lady.”
“It is done out of respect.”
“I think not. Though at court you spoke the names of ladies alongside their titles, with rare exception, you deny me the same. For what I do not understand, but it is impersonal and dismissive, especially after…” She caught back what need not be spoken. “I am Lady Beata. As it seems we are to share company for a time, afford me that small measure of warmth.”
After a long moment, he said, “Lady Beata. Now as you wish to be better known, tell me about the great heiress you may be.”
She tensed. She had been appalled at betraying her father’s confidence when faced with this man’s anger over the loss of lives that might include Baron Wulfrith, but only until realizing it was already betrayed by the drastic measures taken to deliver her to England.
“Lady?” he prompted, then added, “Beata.”
She liked even better her name spoken that way—liked being simply Beata to him. And wished she did not. She was not immune to attraction. Though faith, loyalty, and love of Conrad had prevented her from being tempted to act on it whilst wed, never had it so tightly wound through her. But it was folly to feel such for a man who felt only with the loins when he kissed her.
“You said mayhap you are an heiress,” he pressed.
Grateful there was too little light for him to read her face, she said, “I did, but there is naught to tell, so slight is the possibility.”
Feeling his disbelief move him toward anger, she longed to return to the relatively comfortable place they had landed following their intimacy…wished she could confide in him. But if what her father feared came to pass, she would further betray him, denying him time and space in which to free himself of the queen’s plotting. And Beata a say in her future.
Tears pricking, she prayed that if the Lord once more denied her father an heir from his second wife, her clergyman brother could be persuaded to leave the Church. Did Emmerich relent, she would return to France and withdraw to her dower lands where she could laugh as much as she was moved to laugh, discuss whatever she wished to discuss, and determine the tasks and pleasures upon which to spend her life.
It was as Conrad had provided so she would not become chattel. True, she would grow old alone, but better hobbled by a heart with empty rooms than crushed beneath a man’s heel.
“After all that has gone,” Durand finally said, “I do not believe the possibility is slight. Certes, what you yielded to the queen is far different from what you yielded this day—that you do not know if you are an heiress but ’tis possible enough to merit mayhap. Thus, as eager as you are to answer your father’s summons, it follows your infant brother has passed the same as the two birthed before him and your priest of a brother does not wish to leave the Church.”
“My infant brother lives,” she exclaimed. It was no lie, since she could not know if that truth had altered since Sir Norris had crossed the channel to bring her home.
“Perhaps he did, but does he still?”
She drew a deep breath. “Though I know not the babe, should ill befall him I shall grieve, and more deeply shall my father. Thus, I will speak no more on this.”
In the long silence, she eased, then he said, “To make our wait on the storm’s passing tolerable, let us speak of the dream you think not a dream.”
She floundered, and happening on fading memories of what she had further revealed, almost wished to talk of her father’s heir.
“You spoke of leaves and a secret to keep unto death.”
And clinging to him, she had repeated the desperate words spoken to a little girl—Tell not! Not her nurse, not the children with whom she played, most certainly not the priest. Then glimpsing the leaves beneath the topmost layer, their curling spines and fingers speckled with crimson, she had begun to cry—softly, so none would hear and ask questions that might make her break the word given her mother.
“You feared the leaves would rot away.”
And reveal what lay beneath. Beata drew her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and told herself she could comfort away her fears as well as Durand had done.
“You said you could not allow that. Why?”
She shrugged. “’Twas but a dream—one that has mostly flown away.”
“You did not think it a dream.”
“I must have been in that middle place between imaginings and reality.” Again, not truly a lie. Though those imaginings were more real than any dream she could recall, far more resembling something carved from life than bits and pieces thrown against the walls inside her head, it had to be a dream just as her mother and father had assured their little girl.
“Only a dream,” she said and determined that if they were going to speak, it would not be about her. “What of the gallant monk? I am certain that tale is more fascinating than a pile of leaves.”
“It is not. The queen but enjoys raising questions more compelling than their answers.”
She smiled against her knees. “But not without merit. Not without truths. So what is yours?”
“Only that I can be trusted with ladies of the court.”
“And those not of the court. If ever you require a witness to vouch for restraint that extends even to women who seek your attentions, you have but to summon me.”
“Lady!” he said sharply. “Too much your husband indulged you. Now that you are in the real world and no longer under his protection, you must temper your tongue and behavior. Do you not, men like Sir Oliver will happily teach you hard and painful lessons.”
Beata set her teeth against argument. She resented the truth that made her long for her dower lands—and more determined to persuade her brother to stand as heir should that duty fall to one of them. But how she would do that, she did not know, it being many years since their tearful parting.
“Methinks it best time pass slowly, Sir Durand,” she said and turned her back to him, lowered to the floor, and pillowed her head on the crook of her arm.
It was hours before he spoke again, and only then to rouse her from fitful dozing and inform her the storm had passed. It was time to make their way inland.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Death might await them there. Were he alone, he would not allow the threat to keep him from Brighthelmstone, where he could sooner discover the identity of the second ship and more easily secure what was needed to reach Wiltford. Unfortunately, the scavengers likely hailed from that town, and attention would fall on any who, disheveled and presenting injuries, possessed enough wealth to equip themselves with worthy mounts and supplies.
Thus, they must travel farther inland before starting for Wiltford, a journey made longer for the decision to go around London to sooner reach the renowned fortress where he had received his knighthood training.
Silently cursing the circuitous route that might not be necessary could he learn Baron Wulfrith’s fate, Durand turned from the town that beckoned.
“Scavengers?” Lady Beata asked when he started past her.
Once again, he was grateful she was not delicate, especially since his injured leg would protest supporting her. “Aye, the town is too near the
wreckage to risk entering it. Hence, we have many leagues to go if we are to find an inn ere nightfall.” Hearing her stomach rumble, he added, “And food.”
She gripped her mantle closed at her throat, doubtless to keep the cold air from slipping inside. “I worry for your leg.”
“It does not bleed—merely aches.”
“But—”
“My lady, the only thing with which you should concern yourself is giving me no more trouble so I may sooner discharge my duty to deliver you to Wiltford.”
Her lids flickered. “I shall be as a lamb.”
That was not possible. Wondering what she planned, he peered into her pale face and quickly moved past softly parted lips that showed the small gap between front teeth he had not found—did not find—appealing. Though her countenance was visible with her hair drawn back into a single braid, it revealed naught, but that did not mean she did not scheme.
“We keep to the wood as much as possible,” he said and swept his hood over his head.
Rain that had earlier soaked the ground, turning dirt to mud and low places to small pools, made negotiation of the wood and occasional field troublesome.
Only twice was Durand moved to bring his sword to hand, and he was well enough aware of the advance of others that he and the lady had time to take cover.
At last, teeth aching over how hard he ground them to counter his leg’s discomfort, he sighted a brown haze against the dusky sky. The small town beneath it boasted a tavern with lodging abovestairs. Though two rooms were available, he secured one, sacrificing propriety and comfort for keeping safe—and close—the lady he claimed was his wife.
Fortunately, The Vestal Widow’s surprise over that was revealed only by her startle felt beneath the hand with which he guided her forward. Still, the tavern owner eyed his guests with interest, lingering longest on the husband’s battered face.
Durand would sleep half-awake.
Though he preferred to secure horses and supplies ahead of the morrow to allow them to depart at dawn, his possession of the amount of coin required to do so would increase their chances of being set upon, especially while they were more vulnerable in an enclosed space. The morning was soon enough to risk it when he would have more room in which to wield his sword.
As he closed the door of the pitifully appointed but clean chamber, Lady Beata turned to him where she stood at the center of a room barely large enough to contain its small bed and thinly laid pallet.
“My lord husband.” She fingered the tail of what remained of her braid. “It has not quite the sound it did with my first husband.”
“As it should not,” he clipped. “But do you suspect my intentions are no longer honorable, know I but keep you near to ensure your safety.”
And that I cause you no more trouble, Beata silently added. Wishing her belly were less vocal so she might sooner huddle beneath the pallet’s threadbare covers, she said, “Be assured, I do not suspect you of anything untoward. I know what you do.”
He inclined his head. “The bed is yours.”
“But your leg—”
“Do not grieve me, Lady…Beata. I shall take the pallet.”
She sank onto the edge of the bed to await the arrival of brazier coals, water, hand towels, wine, and viands. The first three were delivered promptly, the last two much later. But the chill was chased from the room and filth cleaned from hands and faces when Durand bolted the door behind the retreating tavern owner.
“Eat.” He nodded at the platter set on a stool between bed and pallet, then removed his mantle to reveal sword, dagger, bulging purse, and fine garments rendered tattered, bloodied, and begrimed. And that which he had used to secure them to the wreckage.
“You brought my girdle.”
He glanced down. “Lest it prove necessary to bind you.”
When he had believed she had fled him.
“I am pleased it has not been necessary,” he said, “thus far.”
Resenting his threat, she unfastened her mantle and let it fall to the straw-stuffed mattress. As she reached to the viands, Durand stepped alongside. He remained standing, picking over pulls of surprisingly succulent chicken, wedges of mold-speckled cheese, slices of shriveled apple, and slabs of brown bread—all of which seemed, in that moment, the finest of foods.
“You eat well,” the queen’s man said as he bent to the platter again.
She stilled. Did he mean too well? She looked up and found his golden eyes nearly level with hers. More disconcerting, he moved them to her mouth, and only then did she realize the pad of her thumb was on her tongue. It was coarse to lick the juices from one’s fingers, behavior in which she did not normally indulge.
“I am thinking”—she lowered her hand to her lap—“you are a man who prefers ladies as small of figure as they are of speech and laughter.”
He straightened. “I suppose I do.”
Beata did not understand why his agreement bothered her so much. She was attracted to him, but that was all. Her heart was not a participant, and well it should not be since she was no fit for him. Though she did not carry excess weight, neither did she peck at her food like a bird.
Recalling an encounter with a visiting nobleman whose attentions she had spurned, and who sought to convince Conrad he only sported with the young lady of ten and six, she wondered if Durand thought her fat. It was as the nobleman implied when he assured his host he would not seriously pursue one so distant from slender.
Beata had been heavier then, having not entirely shed her girl’s body nor attained her full height, but not fat. And Conrad had concurred, first with a fist that broke his guest’s front teeth, then assurances to his young wife she was becomingly curvaceous as he would have her remain.
She raised her eyebrows. “Further proof that, where you are concerned, Sir Durand, I need not worry over my virtue?”
He frowned. “I did not mean to imply you are…”
“Nay, I am not fat. But I am quite curvaceous, hmm?”
His jaw shifted.
“Certes, I am not effortlessly flung over a man’s shoulder.” She wrinkled her nose. “Nor am I easily snatched from atop a moving horse and subdued. Now were I—”
Blessedly, her tongue did not keep pace with her thoughts, for she had almost compared herself to Baron Wulfrith’s petite sister with whom she was to believe she had only a name in common. As the possible loss of the baron burdened Sir Durand, it would not do to make it more felt.
“Aye, not easily subdued,” he murmured and raised the eyebrow above his bruised eye that showed the advantage of being of good build. Then he drained his cup of wine, stacked a piece of bread with other foodstuffs, and put as much distance between them as possible—the three feet separating bed from pallet.
Though Beata’s appetite waned, she continued eating.
Afterward, with the black of night filling the cracks in the window’s shutters, Durand moved to the flickering lantern hung on a hook alongside the door. Though she expected him to extinguish it, he removed his boots. Then with his back to her, he raised the hem of his tunic and rolled down the hose of his injured leg.
She rose. “Does it bleed?”
“No longer.”
“It should be cleansed with wine and dressed with a fresh bandage. Will you allow me to tend you?”
Durand wanted to decline, further discouraging her interest in him as he had done in agreeing he preferred women of smaller stature and behavior—even more imperative than discouraging Eleanor’s ladies, none of whom he had kissed. But if infection set in, healing would be prolonged, and despite her inexperience with stitching flesh, she had proven capable and strong of stomach.
“Aye, tend me.” He crossed to the pallet and removed his sword belt, then lowered and put his back to the wall.
Beata retrieved her wine cup and a towel and sank to her knees before him. Though her touch was impersonal, it disturbed him more now that his mouth knew the fullness of her lower lip into which she pressed prettily
gapped teeth as she unwound the bandage.
Prettily? Inwardly recoiling, he told himself he was too fatigued to think right.
“It looks worse than it is,” she said, then poured wine on the towel and cleaned away the dried blood. “You pulled through two of the stitches, but the others hold and the swelling is slight.” She glanced up. “Methinks you will suffer no lasting effects—providing horses are secured for the rest of our journey.”
“On the morrow.”
She lifted the skirt of her gown to show the chemise beneath. Its hem was stained by mud that had dragged at their feet as they made their way inland. “First I shall have to cut away the fouled cloth. May I use your dagger?”
He passed it to her.
“’Tis beautiful.” She turned it around. “And well earned, I am sure.”
Reminding himself he was once more worthy, he said, “Be of good care. It is sharp.”
As she sliced through the linen whose color was distant from the white above, he glimpsed her knees and averted his gaze.
She dropped the soiled fabric beside her. “Almost done,” she said, but a moment later gasped. Blood spotted the unsullied linen she had begun to cut.
Durand snatched the dagger from her. “What have you done?”
She peered at the slice across the base of her thumb. “I forgot your warning of how sharp the blade. Blessedly, it does not go deep.”
He caught up her hand. The cut would not require stitches, only bandaging. He cut a long strip of linen, poured the remains of her wine over the wound, and secured the bandage.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I was to tend you.”
“And so you shall. Stand and raise your gown.”
She did so and slowly turned as he cut a swath of chemise that exposed shapely legs up to her lower thighs. Once more uncomfortably aware of her, he handed her the bandage, and she bound his leg.
“I thank you,” he said and looked up to find her face near his.
Lord, he silently beseeched, was it You who gave me so great an appetite for the carnal that I am attracted to a woman who should not appeal?
