Читать книгу Battle-Torn Bride - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 7

Beatrice Somerton found herself face–to–face with the last man in the world she expected to see here. The man whom she had not set eyes on since that day in January, now well over two years ago, in the royal palace at Westminster. A face that haunted her sleeping and waking hours.

Lord Richard Stafford. A supporter of the legitimate Lancastrian claim of King Henry VI. A man with a notable reputation for his skills as a knight, both in the mock warfare of the tournament and in the grim reality of the battlefield. Men spoke of his prowess at Ludford Bridge when the Lancastrians had swept all before them and the Duke of York had been driven into exile in Ireland. Lord Richard had become recognised as one of the foremost adherents to the Crown, close relative of that most powerful aristocrat the Duke of Buckingham, who was the Commander of the king’s armies.

And now that Lord Richard stood before her, she was lost for words beyond the most distressingly mundane. At last, aware of some interested glances around her and through sheer force of will, she resorted to the polite smile and polished manners of the Lady of Great Houghton Hall.

“Lord Richard. Welcome. Some ale, I think.”

Whilst Lord Richard Stafford equally grasped at his disordered senses. With a perfectly bland expression he found enough presence of mind to execute a formal and graceful bow to the lady who had just dropped the tray on the table from unusually clumsy fingers. She was looking at him as if she were facing an other–worldly apparition in her home. He could not read the emotions that darkened her eyes and drained the delicate color from her skin.

“My thanks, Lady Beatrice. Ale would be most acceptable.”

Beatrice collected a jug of ale and a pewter cup. Then by common consent the lady and gentleman moved a little aside to the relative privacy of a window embrasure. The newly installed glass and enlarged openings, indicative of Sir William’s wealth and position in the locality, awarded them a most attractive view over the informal gardens that Beatrice loved and tended. The tumbling blooms of Rosa Mundi, the sweet upturned faces of the gillyflowers might waft their heady perfume, the lilies might flower with regal grace. But neither Lord Richard nor Lady Beatrice was aware. Neither did they so much as glance through the window at the tempting scene. She poured the ale and presented the goblet with lowered gaze. He accepted it, his eyes never leaving her face. If his hands should brush her fingers, the slightest of caresses in the acceptance, no one would notice or find room for comment. But Beatrice noticed, held her breath as the butterfly wings of physical awareness fluttered in her belly. For him the effect was a powerful blow to the gut. Desire for her, strong, unexpected, shuddered through him.

“Beatrice,” he murmured after a gulp of ale to ease the dryness of his throat that had nothing to do with the heat of the day. “Are you well?”

“Yes. And you?” Now she looked up. “As you see.”

And he looked amazing. He filled her whole horizon so that she could not take her eyes from him, all other in the room fading into insignificance. Tall and loose–limbed with the well–toned muscles of a soldier, Richard stood before her with all the elegant grace she remembered as being so characteristic of this man whom she had met at a Twelfth Night celebration at the royal court. His hair was the same dark brown with rich glints of gold and russet when caught in the sun’s rays. It fell heavily to wave around a face not conventionally handsome. Narrow and austere with a straight nose and firm chin, it was the face of a man who would command his own destiny and who would command others. A face of sharp angles and flat planes. There was the touch of arrogance she recalled so well. The dominance and the aura of controlled male power. And also the carved aestheticism, almost the face of a scholar, but the body of a man of action. A lethal combination for those who would look and admire. Beatrice found her eyes drawn to his once more. Clear and piercing beneath dark brows, their depths, somewhere tantalisingly between grey and green, gleamed with golden lights. Ah, yes. Just as in her dreams. So fierce and direct as they were, guarded by slightly heavy lids. An arresting face, to be sure. To draw the eyes of any woman and make her wonder.

“Are you happy?” His voice was also as she remembered. Cool and deep. Beautiful. Its silken tones stroked her senses so that memories shivered along the length of her spine to spin her back into the past. But this must not be! Shaking her head, she forced her mind to concentrate on the meaning of his words.

“Are you happy, Beatrice?”

She could not answer. Shook her head. Then, because honesty demanded it, replied, a little sharply because it touched on the heart of the matter between them. “I must not complain. Life is comfortable enough here. I have all I need and more. I lack for nothing of material wealth.”

There was a little silence that hung in the warm air.

“Have you married?” she found herself asking. His answer could not possibly have any bearing on her life, yet she found herself tensing against his reply.

“No. I have not.” Then, “Your parents. Are they in good health?”

“My father is dead, last year of one of the pestilent fevers. Ned, my brother, is now head of the family. He is settled at Mears Ashby with his wife and an infant son. My mother, Lady Margery, lives with them.” A deliberate hesitation to halt the rush of unimportant detail. Then in a low voice. “Ned would never have forced me to wed William Somerton just because his estate marched with ours.”

There was nothing Richard could say. He stretched out one hand as if he would touch her cheek, then let it fall. He could not. Too public. Too compromising.

“Does he—does Somerton treat you well?”

“He does not beat me.” Which said it all. Beatrice raised her head. Pride stiffened her spine.

“You deserve to be loved. Does he love you?” Richard persisted.

“No. He acquired an excellent dowry. And the Hatton connection. That is all he wanted. He has no need of me.” She could not prevent her fingers linking together. They were white with pressure but she was careful that her face should express no emotion.

Lord Richard knew he should not ask her—but equally knew that he must know the answer.

“Does he treat you with consideration?”

She looked up at him, taken aback at so forthright a demand. She knew his meaning, and answered with all her usual openness. She could not lie to this man who owned the very breath in her body.

“He does not come to my bed, my lord.” Her voice was low so that none other might hear, but her reply was devastatingly clear to him.

“Ah, Beatrice.” There were no words that could be said. Neither in pity for her caught in a loveless marriage, nor to explain the strange relief that relaxed the tension in his muscles.

How beautiful she was. The years had given her a gloss of experience and maturity, polishing those immature charms that had first attracted him. As Lady of Great Houghton, her dark hair was drawn back from her forehead, to be confined under an elegant and most fashionable transparent veil. He knew that if she released it from its confines, it would curl, would reach well beyond her shoulders. Would wind around his fingers if he allowed it. Soft as satin, strong as silver thread. Her height he considered perfect, reaching just to his shoulder. Her head could rest so comfortably there, his arms fit so easily around her slender waist. Her innate quickness and agility had first caught his attention in the foolish and energetic games at Twelfth Night. Her fair skin, which he wished to touch, was now flushed with delicate rose. Those dark eyes, almost the deep purple of the stately monkshood, with their dark lashes could appear quiet and composed, until they flashed with temper or passion, as he knew to his cost. Until she stared down that straight nose, as she had only minutes ago, with an hauteur that could sit so strangely with her youthful years. Not a meek and mild lady, then. No gently charming heartsease. He found himself wondering how she had responded to Somerton as her husband. Not well, he thought. She would resist his attempts to curb her energies and her spirit, would kick against the traces. As long as Somerton did not choose to apply the whip … Lord Richard turned his uncomfortable thought from such a direction. Beatrice’s relationship with her lord, elderly and coldly self–interested as he was, was not his affair.

He forced himself to focus on the lovely face turned up to his. A pretty mouth with a full bottom lip, quick to smile. To laugh. Her voice low and a little husky. The deep blue of her overgown caused her glorious coloring to glow.

He had wanted her then; he wanted her now. His body was hard for her, forcing him to take a breath against the hot urgency. But matters had not changed between them in essence. Her father had rejected his offer of marriage. Now she was within the dominance of her husband. There was no future for them. He must not even contemplate it.

“Beatrice. I must not speak what is within my heart. It would not be honorable.”

“Then I will speak what is in mine.” There was the confidence he remembered, the spark of light in her eyes, the bright spirit that had charmed and intrigued him. She would not hesitate to declare her love. For a moment Beatrice glanced away across the garden. But when she turned back there was no pleasure, any love in her face obscured. Her lips were compressed into a thin line, her eyes full of pain and anger. Her reproachful words were as a sharp slap against his flesh.

“I loved you. I looked for marriage with you. How could I have been so mistaken? You betrayed me, Richard. You betrayed our love.”

“Betrayed? What is this …?”

“I have had a long time to think about this—and I think you never loved me at all.” Her voice broke a little, then was quickly controlled. There were certainly no tears in those snapping eyes. “I think it was simply a Twelfth Night flirtation for you.”

“Beatrice. How can you think that?” He was astounded. “My heart is yours—has always been yours.” He seized her hand, regardless of those who might see.

The lady was unimpressed. The slap became a sharp blade twisted in his heart. “I expect you forgot me as soon I was out of sight. I expect my family was not sufficiently important for you to pursue the connection.”

“Never that!”

But she was implacable. Dragged her fingers from his clasp as if his touch burned. “My mother warned me that it would happen. I should have known that men are not to be trusted.”

The blood ran as ice in his veins—over a shiver of righteous anger. “How can you make so outrageous a claim? How can you think so little of me?” He sought in his mind for something to say to prove his love, to extricate himself from this bottomless crevasse that had yawned before his feet without warning. Thrusting his hand within the furred neck of his tunic, he drew out a small velvet–wrapped package. He held it out, the velvet falling away.

“If I did not love you, Beatrice, if I do not still love you, why would I carry this next to my heart? Why have I treasured it and kept it by me if the giver meant nothing to me?”

It was a swan, small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, large enough to see clearly the clever workmanship. It had been fashioned of ivory, now warm and cream with age. Its feathers on wing and breast had been carved by the hand of a master, a delight of soft curves and hard edges. A masterpiece of observation and skill. Gold had been used to pick out its beady eye, its beak and feet: its neb and claws were equally striking in black enamel. It was a Lancastrian piece, intended for one who would support his Majesty for the swan proudly bore around its neck a golden crown. Whilst attached to the crown was a heavy gold chain, perhaps a symbol of the binding of its wearer to the cause. The chain ended in a ring for securing to a garment with a pin, as a safety device.

A wonderfully distinctive jewel, as suitable for a man as for a woman.

“I remember the day you gave this to me. A Hatton legacy, you said, and yours to give. You gave it to me as a symbol of your love. I have kept it—a priceless keepsake from the lady who holds my heart in her hands.”

“So do I remember. But I did not know that my devotion would outlive yours.”

“Beatrice!” Lord Richard was astounded. “You are the light of my life. Do you not know that?”

But Lady Beatrice Somerton would not be soothed. “No, Richard. What use in denial? If that is so—if you truly loved me—how could you abandon me to marriage with a man such as William Somerton? You promised that you would come for me—and yet you did not.”

“No! That is not so …”

But she would not listen, the misery of two years of blighted marriage a tight band around her chest. “You have broken my heart, Richard Stafford!”

“Beatrice …”

What more Lord Richard would have said in his own defense Beatrice was not to know for there was the sudden eruption of movement, the heavy impact of booted feet, of opening and closing doors, and then Lord Grey strode into the Hall already pulling on his gloves. His lips were tight–pressed, his spine rigid, his eyes alight with temper but he kept a grip on his words. His gaze searched the room.

“Stafford!” He signaled Lord Richard to his side. “The horses. We leave immediately.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lord Grey beckoned in impatience when Richard would have hesitated beside the lady, then turned to his host. “I must thank you for your hospitality, Sir William.” His voice denied his words.

“It was my pleasure, my lord.” But anyone seeing Somerton’s expression would not think it. “I am sorry that my reply was not to your liking.” Stiff disapproval sat weightily on him.

“No. It was not. I clearly misread the strength of your sentiments. I trust you will not come to regret your decision.”

“My decision is not final, my lord, as I made clear. I have to consider carefully where my duty might lie—and my loyalty.”

“As do we all,” Lord Grey bit off the words. “I trust that you will also consider carefully where your best interests might be. It would be a foolish man who aligns himself with the losing side.”

Sir William remained silent in the face of this enigmatic response. Then, “Are you so certain that there will be a battle, my lord?”

“Without doubt. In two or three days.” Lord Grey gestured sharply to the gentlemen who still watched and listened with ill–concealed interest. “The two armies are too close to retreat.”

“Is negotiation not possible?”

“Warwick might, but Buckingham will not allow him near the king.” Lord Grey made no attempt to hide his contempt for King Henry. “Our anointed king is, unfortunately, not always in charge of his wits.”

Sir William ignored so treasonous a comment but his reply remained conciliatory enough. “I shall make my decision, my lord, and inform you of it.”

“Very well. I advise you not to disappoint me.” Lord Grey turned his back. “My lady.” A brusque bow in the direction of Lady Beatrice. “Gentlemen. Come.”

Without another word, Lord Grey turned on his heel and strode to the door, leaving his words to echo and re–echo in Beatrice’s mind. A battle. Within the week and close at hand.

“So you will be engaged in the fighting?” Her heart told her to go to Lord Richard, to touch him, as he gathered up his sword and cloak, to follow him to the door. But she would not. Could not. Had she not told him that her heart was broken and he was the cause?

“Yes.” The bite in his voice struck home.

“It will be dangerous. You could be hurt.”

“Undoubtedly.” The edge in his reply became more intense. “I would like to think that you cared. I am no longer certain.”

For a long moment she closed her eyes to erase the terrible images. How was it possible for her to want him to touch her and yet at the same time to accuse him? Yes, he had broken his promise to her. But for him to be in danger in battle within an arrow shot of her home, perhaps to be taken prisoner, to be wounded, even suffering a lethal blow that would cost him his life. And she would not know of it. It was almost more than she could bear.

Richard saw her conflict but was at a loss. Her husband and Lord Grey had both made their way out to the courtyard. The horses were being led from the stables, the escort already mounted. He could hear Lord Grey’s raised and impatient voice calling his name, demanding his presence.

He stopped in the doorway, looked back over his shoulder. “I must go, Beatrice. But I cannot leave it like this. We need to talk. There is no time now. But after the battle, God willing, I will return.” Too late now. Too late for explanations. “I neither betrayed nor abandoned you. I would that it were possible for us to be together. That I could find a way to make it so.” No. By God! He would not leave her with this matter lying so viciously between them.

Against all the dictates of common sense he strode back across the room to face her, to curve an arm around her waist and drag her close in a kiss. It was not a gentle meeting of lips, contained no tender reminiscence or soft promise of fulfillment for the future. Rather it was a devastating statement of need. At first Beatrice resisted, pushing against his shoulders, her mouth cold and unresponsive, indignant that he should treat her so. But he would have none of it. His hold tightened pressing her close, breast and thigh, until she was aware of nothing but the hard strength of his body against her softness.

“Beatrice, I want you …”

And she knew it, trembled at the raw physical response in his body that was instantly mirrored in her own. Relentless, shockingly intimate, his mouth claimed and owned, until her lips warmed and parted beneath his demand. It was an assault of sheer ungoverned passion, speaking wildly of pain and loss and a terrible uncertainty. Of a possession that could never be. Of a divide that scored both to the bone. It seared through his veins to hers, to the very heart, leaving them both scorched by the heat of it. Then he released her, as suddenly as he had claimed her, afraid to prolong the intimacy.

“I will come to you. I will not allow this misunderstanding to remain between us. Remember this, whatever the future holds. My love and devotion are yours. On that promise, I shall keep the Hatton swan.”

Then with a curt bow of the head as his only acknowledgment, he placed the velvet–wrapped brooch back into the breast of his coat and strode from the room, unable to say more.

“Richard.” Anguish heavy in her breast, Beatrice stretched out her hands, swamped by a need to beg forgiveness. But he was gone beyond her recall.

Which left her with no choice but to stand and watch, his words etched in her mind, as he seized his reins from one of the grooms and swung into the saddle of his splendid dark bay destrier. Richard turned the animal and without a backward glance rode through the gates and across the moat. Against her better judgment she climbed quickly to stand on the battlement walk, to continue watching as the cloud of dust gradually swallowed up the little party of horsemen in the distance.

She pressed her fingers to her lips as if she would retain the memory of the imprint of his mouth on hers, the bright fire of it. It still burned there, as it did through every inch of her body. She could taste him in the lingering heat. The threatened tears came at last, only to be quickly wiped away. She would not weep, neither for herself nor for him. But, “I am afraid for you,” she murmured. “I love you, Richard Stafford,” she admitted. Because in spite of everything, she could not deny that she still wanted him, still longed to be with him to feel the power of his body, experience his bold caresses. And that made his casual desertion of her so much worse. Now he had left her. She doubted that she would ever see him again. She had not even bidden him farewell, only left him with the memory of her harsh words and bitter accusations.

I will come to you.

God grant that he would. Because he had kept her gift and his kiss spoke to her heart. All she could do was hold tight to the hope that his love for her was as strong as ever.

“Beatrice!”

All emotions quickly governed, her face a blank mask, she descended to the courtyard where Sir William waited for her. His temper had clearly not improved. If anything, it was stoked by some occurrence in Lord Grey’s visit to an even higher temperature.

“Bring more ale to the parlor. And a flagon of the best Bordeaux. Quickly now.” Then as he stalked inside, “Tell Lawson to bring it. I have no need of you.”

Without a word she went to do as she was bid. It no longer seemed to matter. Nothing very much mattered when measured against the loss that gripped her heart in its painful fist.

Lord Richard Stafford rode away from Great Houghton, the grooves beside his eyes and mouth very much in evidence. His mind was full of nothing but the woman who had just questioned his honor and integrity.

Some two years or more before, he had by chance attended the traditional gathering at King Henry’s court at Westminster. And there he had set eyes on Beatrice Hatton. How long had it taken him to fall in love with her? As long as it took to plunge headlong into the depths of her violet–blue eyes, as soft and velvety as a pansy, and willingly drown there. He had watched her, distantly at first, admiring her joyful participation in the dancing, her fearless skill when riding a horse to the hunt. Her shining happiness in all that she did. And he had been drawn to her, the sharp tingle in his blood giving him no rest. Until the archery contest when he had made his first approach, encouraging her to respond to his subtle flattery, enjoying her innocent response. Being captivated by the indomitable life force, the translucent charm. Vivid and unquestionably beautiful, she had drawn all eyes, but it was to him that she looked. On him that she smiled and granted her hand in the succession of round dances.

Now as he rode from Great Houghton, Lord Richard found himself remembering her as she had sat between her smiling mother and glowering father, watching the dancing, her desire to participate clear in every line of her body, the tapping of her foot against the tiled floor. She had been wearing, he recalled, a high–waisted gown of figured silk trimmed with fur at hem and low neckline. The full skirt, which flowed into a train, would not make dancing an easy task but that would not hinder her with her gifts of grace and agility. Her hair had been covered by a long veil secured by a jeweled band, that did everything to emphasise the lovely clear oval of her face as the pale silk drew attention to her glorious eyes.

Then the music from flutes and horns and drums had struck up a popular tune and Richard had known that he must dance with her. So he had approached Sir Walter Hatton, stern and forbidding despite the lighthearted occasion.

“I would ask your daughter to partner me in this dance, Sir Walter. With your permission.”

Sir Walter had frowned, pursed his lips in sour thought, misliking the smooth elegance of the young courtier who bowed so gracefully toward Beatrice. But he could not so openly refuse without comment. Stafford had powerful connections. Besides, Lady Margery smiled her agreement and Beatrice gave a little tug to her father’s sleeve. So he would comply, if grudgingly.

Sir Walter hunched his shoulders. “If she wishes it, sir.”

Of course she did. Her face was alight with it. She was on her feet before her father could change his mind, her hand in Richard’s as he led her to join the other dancers.

“Did you think I would refuse?” Her fingers curled into his, her teeth glinted in a smile of sheer delight.

“No, lady. But I thought your father might.”

She glanced over to where her father continued to grimace at the merriment in general and at her and her partner in particular. “He has no love for the Court. He is here out of duty only, and in loyalty to the king. He suspects all courtiers of empty smiles and false words. But why would he refuse something so trivial as a dance?”

“He might have other ideas for his beautiful daughter.”

Her brow furrowed in a little frown. “I do not take your meaning, my lord. Ideas other than what?”

“Of you being my lover. Of being my wife.”

Her eyes flew to his face. Her pretty lips opened in a perfect O of shock.

“My lord … Indeed …”

“I would never have believed it possible for me to fall hopelessly, helplessly in love with you—with any woman—with so little acquaintance. But now I do, Mistress Hatton. What do you think? Can such a thing as love at first meeting exist?”

“I … I think you flatter me, my lord.” She turned away from him in the dance, only to return a moment later, to put her hand trustingly into his.

“Of course I flatter you,” he continued, noting the deepening color in her cheeks with appreciation. “How could I not flatter so lovely a lady? But it comes from a heart which you hold within these pretty fingers.” He tightened his clasp on her hand as they moved closer together in the dance.

“Lord Richard!”

“Mistress Hatton!”

Perforce they separated again. But she never took her eyes from him. And then they were together once more, one of his arms firmly around her waist as they trod the lively steps.

“I think I have fallen in love with you. What do you think?” He whispered the words against her ear.

She glanced up. “Is your heart beating as fast as mine, my lord?”

“Undoubtedly, lady. It beats for you.”

“Then I think you could very well be right.”

And he had been. Somewhere between the festive carol–dance and the intricate steps of the sprightly pavane, he had fallen in love. As effortlessly and completely as that.

It had presented a soldier adept in military tactics with no difficulty at all to organise any number of private meetings with the lady. Where eventually he could persuade her compliance in a kiss, a close embrace. Although, as he recalled, she had needed little persuasion, only reassurance for her innocence. Her emotions were as engaged as his and they had yearned for more than a stolen kiss. He had wanted marriage, and so had she.

They had discovered one particular gallery, little more than a corridor between one reception room and another in the vast Palace of Westminster. But it was blessed with window seats, and too cold for most to brave except through necessity. It had been witness to their exchanged vows of love. When she had shivered in a brisk draft he had taken off his fur–lined cloak to wrap it round her, to envelop her in its heavy warmth. She had sighed with pleasure and leaned in to him. Until a lady and gentleman had walked past, with slanted glances, knowing smiles.

“We must go. I think I should not be alone here with you. My mother would not approve.” She had tightened nervous fingers on his arm.

“And your father would probably have me whipped from the palace!” He had smiled his understanding. “My lovely Beatrice—will you grant me one privilege before we go?”

“I might.” Her teeth gleamed in the shadows.

“Your hair, lady. Will you let me unpin your hair?”