by Tamara Leigh
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Twenty-one years.
A long time to learn what had become of Ricard Soames—so long Lothaire had abandoned wonder, accepting that just as a father was lost to him and his sister, a husband lost to their mother, and a lord lost to the people of Lexeter, never would he know the reason for that loss.
It did not surprise it was murder, certain as his mother was Ricard had been a victim of foul play. What surprised was she had also been right in believing the Rodelles were involved.
Involved. A gross understatement.
Holding his gaze to those whose faces reflected horror, Lothaire stepped from the corridor that led to the priest’s living quarters and into the light provided by a score of candles upon the altar.
“I think you must agree ’tis even more imperative we wed,” he said as he continued forward. “For me, because the heiress of Wiltford is the least owed my family for our loss, for the Rodelles, because your family would not wish it known the blood of a murderer courses your veins—nor suffer punishment for being a party to that crime, Baron Rodelle.”
Lothaire’s betrothed, whom he had not previously found so disagreeable, stepped toward him. “Baron Soames, whatever you heard—”
“All of it. Of that I made certain by sending the boy for the priest so I might sooner return to learn the lie told by your parents. So I have. And shall use it well.”
His betrothed’s wet eyes brightened further, but he hardened himself against pitying her, the same as he had done his wife, who would have used such weakness against him. Beata Rodelle Fauvel was not to blame for his father’s death—she was also a victim—but her family was, and the price of Ricard Soames’s life was restoration of his family’s wealth that would not have declined had he lived to administer Lexeter.
“Baron Soames,” her father found his voice as Lothaire halted before him, “I cannot say how sorry I am.”
“By your silence you can. Pray, keep it, for all is decided. Though your daughter’s fortune will not make right my father’s death, it will soothe the financial pain. And that is something.” He looked to the church doors. “Now where is that priest?”
Too late, Durand’s heart pronounced, and as its ache burned through him, the voice he should have heeded as if it were God’s rebuked, Did I not say not to hold tight to that which you long for? Have you not learned far less it aches to have it slip through your fingers than be torn from your grasp?
Anger, so keen that were it given form it would prove deadly, shot up from his depths. “Not too late!” he shouted and pushed his destrier harder, putting more distance between him and the knights who had given chase moments earlier.
Those before the church turned—the priest who had been about to enter the sanctuary, Rodelle where he stood behind the one who had this day become his son-in-law, Soames who had just lifted his bride onto his mount, and Beata who sat sidesaddle.
Having known he might find this, he was prepared. Until her marriage was consummated, Beata belonged to no man.
You least of all, that voice reminded.
Soames had drawn his sword. The hank of hair cut from its tail lifting in the cool air, he strode forward to meet his opponent.
Though he was fairly easy to put down, no time would Durand afford him with the knights of the two barons seeking to aid their lords.
He veered wide as if to go around the church, then jerked the reins, guiding his mount left again and setting his sights on Beata.
So here we are again, he thought as she snapped her head around.
Hair slipping free of what remained of her braid, she raised a hand and shook her head. But as then upon Henry’s French lands, now upon Henry’s English lands, Durand answered to another. Thus, he slowed his horse just enough to keep control as he came alongside her and, as he had done once before, hooked an arm around her and dragged her in front of him.
“Nay!”
“Behave, Beata!”
Still she strained away, and he did not need to look around to know her added weight and struggle were allowing their pursuers to gain on them. The first he could do naught about, but the second…
Since their only chance of escape lay in subduing her, he growled, “Do you continue to fight me, this time when you go to ground, I go with you. And do not think the barons’ men will not use the opportunity to ensure my accident is permanent.”
He was not sure that was true, but he needed her to believe it.
She stilled. “Oh, Durand, you know not what you do.”
“I do the queen’s bidding, and that is all that matters.”
She slumped against him.
Now to escape their pursuers.
He was not holding her to him, but neither was he letting her out of his sight.
Staring at Durand across the distance she had put between them after they entered the wood and took cover in a hollow to see their pursuers past, Beata hurt so much she wanted to cry and pound her fists at being made to pay for another’s sins.
Though aware of her writhing depths, she had mostly been numb throughout the exchange of vows with Lothaire Soames. And for a long while she might have remained thus, but Durand had come for her as she should not have wished him to do for how hopeless—now dangerous—her family’s circumstances.
Far better it would have been had she not seen him again, nor felt his touch or the strong movement of his heart that matched hers during the ride. Better numb than this which, no matter how many times she turned the ring on her finger, would not wear away.
Durand stepped from alongside his destrier, and as he strode toward where she sat on a fallen tree, unstoppered his wineskin. “Drink, Beata. Please.”
She wanted to insist she was not thirsty as twice she had done in the hour since their dismount, but her mouth was parched.
She reached and was not careful enough to avoid exchanging touches. Berating herself for the shiver of awareness now forbidden her, she held his gaze as she put the spout to her lips and drank deeply.
She lowered the skin, fit the stopper. “You must take me back to Soames—” She drew a sharp breath, corrected, “You must return me to my husband.”
He set the skin on his belt and dropped to his haunches. “I must not. What I must do is that with which I am tasked—prevent your abhorrent father from giving you to a man without the queen’s consent.”
Her laughter was brittle. “If my sire is abhorrent for asking me to wed a man of benefit to our family, what does that make Queen Eleanor who would wed me to one of benefit to her? What does that make you?”
Regret shone from his eyes. “One who keeps his word and his honor.”
“Even though he ought not give his word when what is required of him is without honor?”
“I like it no better than you—”
“Do you not? You are not the one who, for the queen’s pleasure, may once more be matched with an old man who will not eschew his rights and will make of me—”
“Beata,” he groaned.
She swallowed hard. “At least Soames is of a good age, younger even than you, well mannered, and pleasant to look upon. I could be happy with him.” That she did not believe, but if it persuaded Durand…
He cupped her cheek, tempting her to clap a hand over his to hold him to her. “As happy as you believe you could be with me?”
A sob hurtled forth, but she tightened her throat, and when that grief sank down, said, “Never has Eleanor’s gallant monk been a choice. And even were he, ’tis too late. You may have stolen me from Soames, but we are wed.”
He lowered his hand. “Not irreparably. Lacking consummation, a marriage can be annulled.”
Were hers, Soames would reveal his father’s murder. “I do not want it annulled. I vow I do not!”
His lids flickered.
Finding hope in what seemed hesitation, she said, “Eleanor need never know you reached me ere the marriage was consummated. Thus, it is upon my family and husband the blame will fall,
not you.”
“Do you truly think you could be happy with Soames, Beata?”
Then he cared enough for her he might yield?
It was hard not to swallow the lump in her throat, but fearing it would go down so loudly he would not believe her, she said around it, “Methinks I will grow to love him.”
Nostrils flaring, he searched her face, then his lids narrowed. “As you love me?”
Once more, the sob rose. Once more, she pushed it down. And lied. “Surely you cannot think you are the only man I have loved?”
He smiled sorrowfully. “I believe I can. That is not to say you could not love another, but as I will not soon forget you, nor easily turn my affections elsewhere, I do not think you shall, Beata.”
Her heart leapt, stumbled over its landing, fell on its face. If he but returned her feelings in half measure, being denied him made her sacrifice all the more tragic.
“Nor do I believe you will feel as deeply for Soames as you feel for me,” he continued, “even if it is only because I do not wish to believe it.”
The sob broke free, parted her lips.
“Beata.” Drawing her onto her knees before him, he lowered his face to the tearful one she turned up. He touched his mouth to her brow, kissed her nose, brushed his lips across hers.
Though she could not forget all that had happened this day that made this wrong, she did not pull away. But neither did she respond as her heart and body longed to do. Not with Lothaire Soames’s ring on her hand.
Durand ached. He was certain Beata wanted this as much as he, could feel the tension in her that held her from kissing him as she had wanted to do on the night past. But if he pressed her, that tension would snap and she would be his. Never would she belong to Soames, who had humiliated her to ensure her purity. That marriage need not be undone by lack of consummation. By this it could be undone.
Drawing her nearer, he opened his mouth on hers. An instant later, her breath rushed into him and she wound her arms around his neck and partnered in deepening the kiss.
How it could be so sweet and yet insatiable he did not understand, but soon he would lie her down and—
Ruin her, the same as you ruined Lady Gaenor when she fled marriage to a man she did not believe she wanted, rebuked the voice penance had refined these past years. Once more you make mutual grieving into a dangerous embrace, turn an innocent’s feelings into kisses and caresses, and now you move this intimacy toward something of greater sin.
Next came Abel’s words—No matter what you are moved to do, if you truly believe yourself in the right, ask for help. And not only from God.
But still he wanted what he wanted. With a last, desperate effort to pull back from the edge upon which he held so fast to Beata he would take her down with him, he reminded himself, Do not hold tight to that which you long—
Struck by the realization there was something that would serve him better in doing what was right and best for this woman, he reshaped his oft-repeated beseeching into a prayer.
Lord, let us not hold tight to those earthly things we long for lest You be torn from our grasp.
He lifted his head, pressed Beata’s beneath his chin. “All is wrong,” he said, “but this more so.”
“I know.” She trembled. “How I know! Thus, you must return me to Soames.”
He almost wished he could so he might sooner seek healing for what was bleeding inside him, but that was not best for her. Nor him, for also in that direction lay betrayal of his liege.
Though Eleanor more grievously trespassed against Beata than did her father, the Rodelles and Lothaire Soames did not take seriously the queen’s wrath that would be all the greater once she learned of the trickery worked on Elias and her man. Royalty needed no definite proof to dispense punishment. It was their prerogative to determine guilt based on their own needs and desires.
Thus, he must send word to the queen of what had transpired and allow her to decide whether to permit Beata’s marriage or seek dissolution on grounds of coercion and non-consummation. And he would include a plea that Beata be provided the greatest chance at happiness.
He eased her arms from around his neck and, as he drew her to standing, said, “We should go.”
“To Soames?”
“Nay.”
She gripped his tunic. Eyes large with what seemed fear, she said, “If you truly care for me—for my future and that of my family—you will return me to my husband.”
“Beata—”
“Do you care for me or nay?”
His harsh sigh warmed the air between them. “You know I do.”
“Then do this for me.”
She seemed more desperate than when she had confided her sacrifice would spare her father’s wife another attempt at conceiving an heir that could see the woman into a grave. And he did not think it only because she had exchanged vows with Soames.
“You will do it?” she pressed.
Certain lulling her was the only means of learning what she held close, and regretting his deception, he said, “I understand your wish to do your duty, just as I know it is wrong our sovereign wields such power over our lives, but I am well enough acquainted with that power to know defiance will cause you and your family more misery than acquiescence.”
Her upper lip trembling, drawing his gaze to the slight gap between her teeth that had once lacked appeal, she said, “What will it take to move you?”
He wanted to say naught, but whatever she hid would not see light if he trampled her hope. “A very good reason, Beata.”
She released him, turned away. For some minutes she remained with her head down, then she came around. “This day the leaves proved not a dream.” Her voice was tight with tears. “It happened.”
As thought. He motioned her to the fallen tree and lowered himself several feet distant.
With stops and starts, suppressed sobs and winding tears that made him long to comfort her, she told of Soames’s murder that brought to mind Sir Elias’s comment their first night at Heath that were they to weave in a chase, a murder, and no hope of lovers reuniting, quite the tale they would have. And so they did, but at its end, it had the opposite effect Beata sought.
More than before, Durand was determined to keep her from Soames. Though he had sensed the man was not without honor, revenge could warp the good out of a person—so much it seemed likely the baron would ill treat Beata. Thus, Durand would have to place his trust in the queen.
Beata looked up, and as her tear-streaked face more deeply pained him, said, “Though I thought myself without choice before, ’tis now absolute. To protect my family from reprisal and scandal, I must return to Soa—” Her lids fluttered. “I must return to my husband.”
He inclined his head. Though she might hate him for what that gesture led her to believe, better he forestall as long as possible the fight she would give him when she discovered her revelation had not moved him.
“I thank you,” she said with more sorrow than gratitude and stood.
Blessedly, they were not long into the ride before all of her relaxed. In the hope she would remain oblivious to their destination, allowing him to keep a good watch for pursuers, Durand slowed their pace, tucked her more securely against his chest, and drew his mantle around her. And with regret, he accepted that even were they able to maintain a brisk pace, it would be impossible to reach Wulfen Castle before midnight.
However, there was sanctuary between here and the Wulfriths’ stronghold. Long before they had taken cover in the wood, they had traversed that baron’s lands.
But had Lady Gaenor and her husband departed the barony of Abingdale to join the Wulfriths’ Christmas celebration?
“God willing,” he breathed and set their course.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“This is not Heath Castle. I know not this place.”
Though Durand’s hope Beata would not awaken before they reached their destination was granted, not so his prayer that the baron and his wife were absent, as
evidenced by the one summoned to the outer walls as Beata had stirred.
The giant of a man who strode alongside Durand’s destrier into the torch-lit inner bailey looked up. “Well come to Broehne Castle upon the barony of Abingdale, Lady Beata.”
She stiffened further, swung her face to Durand’s. “You lied!”
“I beg your forgiveness.”
Her hand shot up, but though he thought she meant to slap him—and he would have allowed it—she thrust off his mantle he had pulled around her. “To be forgiven, one must truly regret their deception,” she snapped, “and as this is not the first time you have delivered me elsewhere, you cannot possibly regret it.”
“Then I regret there was naught for it.”
“Naught for it because you are so blindly loyal to Eleanor you do not do what is right.” Her nostrils dilated. “I should hate you.”
Durand glanced at Christian Lavonne, who had graciously shifted his attention to the donjon. “Yet one more thing I regret,” he said.
She turned forward, and when he lifted her down before the donjon, she strained against his grip.
He pulled her near. “Behave, Beata. We are guests—”
“Behave! ’Tis your solution to my every annoyance. Not mine!” She jerked free, whipped up her skirts, and ascended the steps.
“Almighty,” Baron Lavonne said. “I need know no more about your charge to pity you the handful—or should I say armful?”
The bit of a smile gifted by one who had been wronged nearly as much as his wife, was a balm to Durand. Though years since they had seen each other, the last time being when Lavonne himself delivered tidings that Henry and Eleanor had absolved Durand of his offenses, it seemed he had not lost ground. His prolonged absence might even have gained him more.
Above, the porter opened the door for Beata and quickly closed it to keep out the winter.
“Give your destrier into my squire’s care.” Lavonne motioned to a young man. “I fear my wife will not know what to do with your lady.”
