by Tamara Leigh
He had not thought she could go paler, but she did, and her eyes moved to the garden’s left corner where the back wall cast deep shadows.
Beata stared, and as she recalled what she wished was only a dream, heard a small voice say, “There.”
“There?” Durand reminded her she was not alone.
Nor had she been alone that day. Her mother had been here. And that man. Nay, two men, and they had not known she watched. But it was not a game of seek me she played, for which she was proud her stockinged feet made pretty whispers of her footsteps. No game at all. There had been an argument. And blood.
She caught her breath, told herself naught had happened here, and returned her regard to Durand. “Forgive me for needlessly worrying you.”
His lids narrowed. “Do not do this, Beata. I cannot help if —”
“I thank you, but I am of a mood, that is all.”
“That is not all.”
She lowered her chin, drew another breath of him from the mantle, and stood. “I would think you, so often in the company of the queen and her ladies,” she said as he rose beside her, “are accustomed to the peculiarities of women during their monthly time.”
That last she spoke in the hope it would make him so uncomfortable he would seek their parting. Instead, he blocked the walkway.
“So be it,” he said, golden eyes gone dark. “If you will not speak of what happened this day, nor what happened years ago, let us speak of your purpose at Heath Castle, which I do not doubt is the reason Count Verielle’s men sought to capture you—a forced marriage to gain your lands the same as was attempted with Queen Eleanor.”
“Pray, Durand, I am tired and—”
“You are your father’s heir, not the babe presented to me who belongs to the wet nurse.”
Beata closed her mouth against further lies. Considering the suspicion sown by Eleanor and fertilized by her father’s behavior, there was no benefit in lying. And all the more ill she would appear to Durand.
“To speak to that would betray my sire. That I cannot do.”
“He has already betrayed himself, Beata—more, you.”
She unfastened the mantle and handed it to him. “So he has, but no more than Eleanor betrays in denying me what she herself sought when she ran from those who wished to gain her fortune. A worse betrayal that.” She stepped around him, and with smaller than usual steps to counter the discomfort of the examination, walked to the kitchen door.
“Beata.”
She looked around and was struck by such longing to bury her face against his chest that she had to clench her toes to keep from returning to him. “Durand?”
“I know you believe it your duty to do your father’s bidding, but I cannot allow you to wed Soames. Do not fight me on this.”
Of course he knew. “It is my sire you ought to warn. Good day.”
She entered the kitchen and, ignoring the curious regard of the workers, traversed the sweltering room. Blessedly, none crossed her path in the hall nor upon the stairs.
But sympathy crossed her when she passed the solar and heard Lady Winifred weeping and Petronilla soothing her.
Oh, to be Queen Eleanor, possessing the strength and power to prove the equal of men in this man’s world!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“I can guess what was done her.” This from the troubadour knight, who had said little throughout the supper meal from which Beata had been absent.
Durand looked from the barons where they bent over a chessboard on the opposite side of the hearth to the one cradling a goblet in the chair angled toward his. “Then guess, Sir Elias.”
“Forsooth, ’tis more than a guess.”
Since the knight’s return to the donjon, Durand had sensed there was something he wished to say. And that it might be the cause of Beata’s distress once more gave rise to the temptation to balance out his bruised face. “The sooner you speak, the less likely you shall add missing teeth to your grievances against me.”
Sir Elias glanced at the barons, leaned forward, and further lowered his voice. “First your word.”
“For what?”
“You will not like what I tell, and it will be of no help to Lady Beata do you forget whichever lessons of restraint you learned at Wulfen Castle.”
I will more than not like this, Durand silently prepared himself. Lord, help me think first, then attack.
“I have that particular lesson in mind, Sir Elias. Now my patience thins.”
He set his goblet on the table between them. “Whilst you were with Lady Beata in the garden, Soames’s physician left the donjon in a stir—absent a mantle, arms flying, and stride so long for one short of legs it was quite the show.”
“Elias,” Durand warned when the knight paused as if to provide an opportunity to show appreciation for his tale.
“He made for his liege in the training yard, and though of what he spoke I could make no sense, he was more expressive than I in telling a tale—stomping his feet, pointing at the donjon, and flapping a hand at his face, one side of which was the color of an enraged woman’s slap.”
Durand’s hand went to the Wulfrith dagger, his eyes around the hall.
Elias leaned forward. “You gave your word,” he began, then grunted. “You did not. Regardless, stay your hand lest you disappoint Baron Wulfrith.”
He was right. And Durand was ashamed this one had to counsel him. He released the hilt, all the easier done in the absence of the physician.
“Good. And for the sake of our own plotting, put the murder in your eyes to the farthest reaches of your mind.”
As Durand returned his regard to the knight, his eyes glanced across those of Baron Soames and Beata’s father. With effort, he eased his jaw.
Sir Elias chuckled, and past a smile murmured, “Acting. A neglected area of your training. I may have to see to it myself.”
Durand narrowed his lids.
The troubadour knight bent nearer as if to share a joke. “Aye, neglected. At least where your lady is concerned.”
Durand put his face nearer the other man’s. “She is not my lady.”
Elias arched an eyebrow.
Durand glared.
A heavy sigh. “Be assured, no attempt was made to ravish her, only to ascertain if, following your unchaperoned journey across sea and land, she remains worthy of wedding a baron in want of a virtuous woman and in need of an heir.”
Durand’s hands convulsed, but with effort that made his innards quake, he denied his fingers the hilt.
Of course that was what had been done her. Of course she could not speak of it. Of course she could not bear to sit at meal with the perpetrator—nor those whose orders the physician but followed.
He looked to where Rodelle’s hand hovered above a chess piece, then Soames.
The latter watched Durand. And continued to watch. Then he inclined his head and returned to the game.
“You are not very convincing,” Elias muttered. “Were he not already wary of you, he is now.”
Silently conceding perhaps he could benefit from acting instruction, Durand said, “I shall take first watch.”
Sir Elias nodded. “I will linger awhile, perhaps play the weary, sodden knight and doze. Who knows what might drop into my ears?”
Durand stood and nodded at Baron Rodelle, who wished him a good rest. Anticipating hours beside the door to his chamber, listening for those who would try to take Beata from Heath Castle to wed her to Soames, he ascended the stairs.
He passed the silent solar that was not always so. Twice he had heard weeping there. Though muffled, it differed greatly from that of a babe. Also heard had been Petronilla’s attempt to soothe the bereft lady. Regrettably, until the threat of Durand was removed, the village woman could not return to her husband and other child.
As Durand neared Beata’s chamber, he guessed from the light shining beneath the door she was not yet abed—might even be dressed for night travel to do her father’s bidding. Which would not happe
n while Durand watched over her. Before his duty to the queen was done, Baron Rodelle would like him even less.
He meant to continue past that chamber, but something made him halt—that something at the center of him he had locked away as was best for one given to betrayal and the sacrifice of honor.
As he stood unmoving, knowing he would look the fool should any find him there, he realized he would not appear just any fool. Quite possibly, a besotted fool.
He closed his eyes. How had this happened? Never should The Vestal Widow have been a danger to him. Not one who, upon first acquaintance, had at best amused him. Indeed, over and again Beatrix Fauvel had given him cause to be annoyed, offended, and angered. Not besotted. Not enamored. Not…
He opened his eyes, stared at the door that stood between him and the woman who, though she would not belong to Soames, would belong to another.
He loved. Again. And would be denied. Again. But there was a difference between Michael D’Arci’s Beatrix and his Bea—
Not mine, he berated thinking which would more cruelly test him. And therein lay the difference. This Beatrix felt for him. This Beatrix would also know loss.
“God help us,” he breathed. And caught the creak of a floorboard. Not from behind or either side of him.
Her footsteps. Then a shift in the light across the floor.
He looked down, and his heart convulsed when her shadow slipped through the seam and covered his feet.
Though when she opened the door he should not be standing here, her shadow upon him was almost as intoxicating as the absence of breath ere the touch of lips.
What did she on the other side? he wondered when she remained as unmoving as he. Did she think him her father? Soames? Was she afeared?
He stepped nearer. “If you have not locked the door, do so and open it for no one this eve.”
Beata caught her breath, pressed a hand to the door to brace herself, the other to her chest to feel the thud of a heart that had leapt when footsteps paused outside her door.
She had feared it was her father come to deliver her to the man who had required that vile thing of her. But it was the one she wished it to be.
“I know you are there, Beata. You will do as I say?”
She reached to the bolt.
Do not, warned the dutiful, the inevitable, the unavoidable. It will only make what you are called to do more difficult.
But if this night they came for her and stole her away… If never again she saw Durand…
She slid the bolt, wrenched the handle, and stared at all that was everything to her woman’s heart.
Durand held her gaze, then slowly moved it from her hair down around her shoulders, to her throat, to her chemise whose ties hung loose upon her breasts, to her waist, hips, and hands at her side.
His lids narrowed, and she knew he noted the absence of Conrad’s ring she had removed, certain she would soon wear another’s.
His gaze resumed its journey, moving down her legs to her bare feet peeking from beneath her chemise’s hem, and when it returned to her face, emotion shone from eyes that seemed as raw and vulnerable as hers felt.
Gripping the edge of the door to hold herself inside, she said, “I hoped it was you.”
His jaw tightened.
“I felt ’twas you.”
His nostrils flared.
“I am—” A sob slipped from her. “I am so glad ’tis you.”
“Beata,” he rasped, and it seemed he would come to her, but he drew back. “Do as I say. Lock your—”
She collided with him, and as he stepped a foot behind to keep his balance, she threw her arms around his neck and from her lips spilled what she had promised herself she would not speak. “I love you. If you feel the same…and if I could and you could…”
He drew his hands up her arms and gently unlaced her fingers. “I but paused to—”
A door opened, and as their hearts bounded as if to cross from one chest into the other, they snapped their heads around.
Petronilla appeared in the solar’s doorway. As Durand extricated himself and Beata stumbled back, the woman gasped, “Pardon!” and started to close the door. A moment later, she reappeared. Eyes wider, she pointed to the stairs.
Hardly did Beata catch the sound of boots ascending than Durand spun her around and pushed her into the chamber. And followed.
She turned at the center of the room and watched him quietly seat the door and restrainedly push the bolt.
“Snuff the candle,” he hissed.
She moved more quickly than she would have believed possible and blew the flame into smoke.
“I am sorry,” she whispered across the darkness. Had she not opened the door and flung herself into his arms, he would not be trapped with her.
“Quiet,” he rasped as footsteps bypassed the solar. Moments later, they stopped where, minutes earlier, he had stood.
The door was tried, causing the bolt to rattle in its loop, then came muttering—likely a curse—and silence.
Her sire? A moment later, he called low, “Beata!”
Finding a thumbnail between her teeth, she clamped down on it.
He spoke her name again with more urgency, but no louder, obviously believing Durand was near. Entirely ignorant he was closer than thought.
Would Petronilla tell what she had seen? Beata did not think so. The woman had warned they were soon to be discovered.
Her father tried the door again, cursed without question, and retreated. Not to the solar but the stairs. To inform Baron Soames it would not be this night they stole away his bride?
Though the words he exchanged with someone on the stairs could not be understood, he had not gone far enough to allow Durand to slip from her chamber.
A moment later, she nearly yelped when a hand curled around her arm.
“Get some rest,” Durand said. “When it is safe, I will leave you.”
Selfishly…foolishly…she hoped it would never be safe. “Petronilla?”
“Fear not. From my service upon Wiltford, I know the mother of the babe your father wished me to believe is his son. She is a friend.”
Relief fluttered through her, but dismay scattered it, and she stepped back into the bedside table, toppling a cup that silenced the voices on the stairs.
“She told you!”
“Hush!” He pulled her close and pressed her face to his chest. And though shame made her long to distance herself, there she remained as footsteps once more traversed the corridor, the bolt rattled, and her name was spoken through the door’s seam.
When her father retreated, it was to his solar, as told by the slam of its door.
Then Durand’s breath was in her hair, sowing shivers across her scalp and down her spine. “She did not tell me,” he whispered.
“But you know.”
“Sir Elias is most observant.”
More shame.
His arms tightened around her. “Forgive me for pressing you to speak of it, and if not for your sake, for mine put it from you.”
“Your sake?”
“Once was enough to dishonor my Wulfen training and my family’s name.”
Then for her he might again? She closed her eyes, and tears wet her cheeks and his neck. “I love you.”
His chest expanded, then he scooped her into his arms. But before she could savor being cradled like a lover, he stepped alongside the mattress and lowered her to it.
She reached to him, but he swept the covers over her, then his lips were on her brow. “Were you mine…” He sighed. “But you are not and can never be.”
Such hopelessness, and all the more painful knowing he felt at least some of what she felt, wanted what she wanted, would be denied as she was denied, would know longing she would ever know.
He straightened. “I shall be at the door.”
And I shall ever wish you here holding me, lamented her heart as she pressed her mouth into the coverlet lest a sob escaped.
Durand stood there, wishing there
were no temptation or danger in holding her, then turned away.
By the dim moonlight penetrating the window’s oilcloth, once more he negotiated the chamber by memory. At the door he removed his sword from his belt and lowered to sitting.
As he listened for the donjon to quiet, two sets of footsteps minutes apart sounded. The first belonged to Soames, as told by the length of corridor he traversed, the second to Sir Elias, who would be curious over Durand’s absence from their shared chamber.
Time creeped by and silence descended outside Beata’s chamber. And within. When he stilled his breathing, he barely heard hers, and hers seemed not of sleep. Thus, he was not surprised when the bed squeaked and her feet padded across the floor.
He lifted his head from against the wall. “Go back to bed,” he whispered as her dark figure approached.
When she continued forward, he shifted nearer the door to ensure she did not stumble over him. Then she was at his shoulder.
“Do not,” he said as she sank against his side.
She reached behind, curled her fingers over his, and drew his hand around her.
“Beata…”
She wiggled closer and settled her head on his upper chest. “Durand.”
“You should not be here.”
“’Tis no different from when we were in the cave,” she said softly, then added, “where we began.” She threaded her fingers through his. “Or did we begin sooner? Upon the ship? Upon the stairs when you stopped Sir Oliver? Upon that frozen field when first you saved me?”
“It is far different, Beata.”
“Only because now we know what it is.” She released his hand and set hers on his cheek. “Kiss me again.”
“What you ask could be the ruin of us.” His voice was so tight it did not sound like his. “Now return to bed.”
He felt her hurt, but in his state, it could prove too much temptation to kiss her.
“I will not.” She leaned up and pressed her lips to his jaw.
Something between a sigh and a growl sprang from him. “Then sleep.”
“I cannot whilst you are here. Talk to me.”
