Читать книгу My Lady's Choice - Lyn Stone - Страница 11

Richard propped his elbow on the chair arm and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. But he knew that nothing he did would make this particular ache subside.

His wife, he hoped, had not yet put together the fact that this Alan the True and Alan of Strode were the same man. Richard had heard his brother called both by the family.

Of course, it was possible—even probable—that Alan had ceased using the English name of Strode. It was a place-name, though it had evolved into a surname long before his time. Alan had not been born there, nor had he ever lived at Strode. He might call himself Alan of Byelough now that he was lord of that estate, or simply Alan the True, a name earned by reputation.

Alan had declared himself a Scot, both by birth and loyalty, having had a Scots mother and lived in the Highlands with her family for a score of years. Their English father loved him well, despite that. Even Richard could understand why Alan, more than twenty years his senior, had chosen as he had.

He barely remembered the man. They had not seen each other since Richard was less than three years old. He was not even certain whether what he had of his half brother constituted real memories. His parents had spoken so often of Alan during Richard’s childhood, the recollections could easily be their own and not his at all. But Alan’s letters were genuine, and frequent, considering the difficulty of getting them delivered.

Somewhere in those hills across the border nestled Byelough Keep, the home Alan had gained through marriage to the widow of his friend after the Battle of Bannockburn. Richard wondered if times had grown so hard there that his brother must now raid the English to support his family.

Should he tell this wife of his about the kinship? She stood there anticipating his promise that he would slay this dragon for her. He decided to wait and see what would happen. In any event, she could not expect him to do anything about it in his present condition.

“He has attacked other properties,” she was saying now as she began pacing to and fro. Her action annoyed Richard, for he wished to do the same and could not. She continued, “Though my sire is the only noble he has slain, so far as I know.”

Somehow, Richard could not equate the man who wrote such witty and loving missives to his English father with the brutal knight she described, one who would put to death Lord Simon of Fernstowe and then brag of it to all and sundry.

Stealing to survive or taking an enemy for ransom, Richard could comprehend. Senseless killing, he could not.

Though this brother of his had slain a number of Englishmen on the field, the man had been renowned, even among his enemies, for holding to a knight’s code of mercy when given a choice.

Richard decided there was surely more to this tale of murder than he had heard thus far.

“So, you will find and destroy him?” his wife asked, interrupting his thoughts. “That should put an end the raiding. I would have done it myself did I possess the skill.”

“Make no mistake, I shall find him,” Richard answered, glancing up at her.

He did not expect this marriage of his to offer anything in the way of happiness. That would be a foolhardy hope, indeed. But if Sara did not already know, he had to wonder what this bloodthirsty wife of his would resort to once she discovered the man who boasted of killing her sire was her husband’s brother.

Sara fought to control the feelings that rose in her breast each time she thought on her father’s death. Lord Simon had been the best of men, undeserving of a horrid death at the hands of the marauding Scots. Had she been a man, they would all be dead now. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, regaining her calm.

Her husband appeared preoccupied, but no longer unduly angry. Now might be as good an opportunity as any to attempt the establishment of a friendship. The task would be hers alone, for he would never initiate such a thing.

There was an excellent basis to build upon, however. They had a common enemy and like goals, even if his had been set for him by the king.

Though she wanted more from Sir Richard than he would give, all willing, Sara knew she would get nothing at all if she did not befriend him first.

She reached inside herself and drew out a smile she did not feel. Over the years she had learned that even a forced display of contentment did much to help dismiss agitation within herself.

“I would caution you again not to move too quickly in taking up your duties as lord, lest you overtire,” she said. “But I can see that you must feel better since you have dressed yourself. Would you take your meals in the hall with our folk come the morrow? We could speak more then of gathering the men and planning our strategy.”

“Um,” he answered, still lost in other thoughts, troubling ones by the look on his face.

“You might sit in the pleasuance a while and take the sun, if there is any to be had. What think you?”

“What?” he asked, finally abandoning his distraction, whatever it had been.

Sara laughed a little. “My, but you do turn a woman’s head with all of this attention!”

He attended her than, surveying her head to toe and back again. Only when his gaze held hers once more did he speak. “You seek attention, do you? Of what sort?”

Sara sat down again and smoothed her gown flat over her knees. “Whatever you wish to give, Richard. I demand nothing of you.”

He rested his head against the back of the chair and regarded her through narrowed eyes. His long fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrests. “Then let us clearly mark what I demand of you.”

Sara bristled, but she thought she hid it well. Was this a test of some kind, or did he mean to order her life as though she were a servant? Many noble women lived as such, she knew. Her own mother would have been one of those had not her father been disposed to kindness.

“Make your list of dictates, then. Are they in such number as I would need to write them down?” she asked, idly twisting the end of her corded belt.

One corner of his mouth rose in a half grin. “You have a sharp tongue, Sara of Fernstowe. Rather cutting when you wish it to be. Unfortunately, that is too often. You might keep it behind your teeth, for a start.”

“I might,” she said, not committing to it.

He raked her clothing once more with a look of disdain. “And I should not like you garbed in rags again now that I see you possess better.”

“As you wish,” she agreed. “However, ’tis not thrift in any measure to ruin good clothing. I only dress so modestly when I am about those tasks as require hard work.”

One eyebrow rose in question. “Tasks? Such as?”

She smiled sweetly. “Tending the wounded, for an instance.”

He did have the grace to show chagrin at that, assuring her he did have a conscience. “Point well-taken. I have not yet thanked you properly for tending me. Be assured, you shall have a gift.”

“The king gave me one,” she replied with a lift of her chin. “You.”

With a quick exhalation of what seemed disgust, he turned his gaze away, blinked hard, and then looked back again. “I repeat, I would you attire yourself appropriately whenever possible.”

“Of course.” Sara had not thought Sir Richard a man of vanity, but she supposed most men would not like to have their wives give cause for embarrassment should they have unexpected company. What would he have thought if he had seen her dressed for their wedding? A grin escaped her at the imagining.

“What amuses you so?” he demanded, his voice brusque with offense, as though she were laughing at him. Sara supposed she was in a way, but also at herself.

“Life becomes unbearable if you overlook the ridiculous,” she advised him with a knowing look. “I would have leaped from the tower years ago had my good humor deserted me. Why so glum?”

Richard scoffed and shook his head. “You need ask?”

“Oh, come now. You say you have property, wealth. Now you have added mine to it. You have children, a great king to serve. Your health improves by the day. A homely wife is not the end of the world, you know,” she admonished, still grinning. “I might not set any hearts athump with passion, but I can converse as well as any man. What say we strike a companionship here instead of suffering over your dented pride?”

He watched her for a time as he sat there all unmoving. “You are sadly misinformed as to your appeal, madam. And a bit mad, I believe,” he finally stated.

She laughed outright and let it die to a chuckle. “Aye, with that dour disposition of yours, you would think me daft. What has made you as you are, I wonder? Tell me, have you never a cause for levity?”

Those dark eyebrows made a V over his eyes. “Now and again, but not since I came here.”

With a long sigh and a shake of her head, Sara rose from the stool and approached him. “Then we must find you one, for I would see you smile.” She reached out and dared to touch his brow, brushing away the lock of dark auburn that had fallen out of place. “Can you not?”

With a move quick as lightning, he grabbed her wrist. “Do not touch me.”

While his grip did not hurt, it was quite firm. “Very well,” she whispered, not missing the unexpected flare of hunger in his eyes. It gave her hope enough to persist. “But how are we to manage a marriage between us if we never touch?”

Carefully he moved the wrist he held so that it rested against her own body, near her hip. Then he released her, his fingers unclenching slowly and closing in upon themselves as his hand retreated.

In a measured tone, his desire now well concealed, he replied, “I shall fulfill the king’s wishes on the matter of the Scots. And I will see to your estates as if they were my own, so long as I remain here.”

“But we are not to cohabit as man and wife, is that what you are saying?”

He nodded once, his hands gripping the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. “You wish me to be blunt? Very well, I shall be. You made a bad move wedding a man who wants no wife.”

“What of children?” she offered hopefully.

“Another excellent reason to abstain. I already have some.”

She lowered her eyes. “And I do not.”

“So be it. You’ll have no cause to bemoan the state of your ruined body or your lost hours of idleness.”

Sara placed her hand over his, the one that had gripped hers only moments ago. “That wife of yours must have wronged you foully, Richard. I would not.”

“Leave me,” he ordered, and jerked his hand away. “And do not broach this matter again, for I would not speak of it further.”

Sara shrugged. “As you will. But, be that as it may, we could be friends, could we not?”

He did laugh then, bitterly. “Good God in heaven, you are the strangest woman I have ever met! And the most determined. Have you no pride at all? Here I have said that I will not bed you! I have denied you children! And still you want to be my friend?”

“I do,” she admitted. “It makes more sense than not.”

He blew out a huff of frustration, or perhaps disbelief. “You ask for a man’s death in one breath and laugh in jest the next. You leap from slayings to beddings without pause to breathe. What am I to think of you?”

“So long as you do think of me,” Sara declared. “Your anger will fade eventually. I would be a wife in truth, Richard. One who will love you if you let me. Your children, those you have and those we might make, would provide great joy for me, not cause for complaint. Think me mad for that, if you will,” she said reasonably, “but do think of me.”

She watched his face as he took in all that she had said. When his expression offered her no hope of succeeding in her mission today, she quietly turned and left him alone.

He would come around to her way of thinking, she decided. It would take time and great effort on her part, considering how wronged he felt, but she would not give it up.

He spoke of her having no pride, and she supposed it must seem so to him at the moment. If he only knew that pride of hers. It would be the thing that kept her at him until he admitted to himself that he needed her. He might never love her as he had loved that first wife of his, but Richard did need her. She had seen it in his eyes.

Think of her? That request certainly unleashed all the dormant humor within him. He felt like laughing uproariously at the moment. At himself. Here he sat, hardly able to rise from the damned chair unassisted, and yet his traitorous body was raging with lust.

Did she know what she had done to him with her uninvited touches? Could she see the turmoil she aroused in him with her passion for justice, that she compounded it with merry laughter, even though at his own expense? And that offer of love, so sweetly made, her crowning touch. Witch.

Richard allowed himself a groan of agony as he pushed out of the chair. The pain in his chest ought to take his mind from his other ache, but it did not. He made it to the bed and lay down. The fullness of his body still mocked him. Richard cradled his head on his hands and stared at the canopy above.

Of course Sara knew her effect on him. Women learned such things early on. They were female weapons, those enticing tricks. Evaline surely had used hers well enough when it suited her. A man could excuse his gullibility when he was but eighteen or twenty. However, Richard had believed himself immune to those devices at the age of twenty-seven.

Again he studied the length of his body, willing himself back to a normal state. Control the mind, control the action, he thought to himself.

The long year of celibacy had no doubt prompted the reaction to this new wife of his. After that one unplanned coupling with a willing chambermaid last Michaelmas at a Dover inn, he had sworn off altogether. Unlike a noblewoman, a common wench might be pleasurable and pleasured, but Richard always regretted such occurrences afterward.

He worried that such women would feel that he took advantage of his station as a noble. He had done that once, prior to his first marriage. The resulting child, labeled a bastard, had suffered for his mistake, even if the mother had gained by it.

His own mother had been a commoner, a former servant of his father’s first wife. Richard knew well that the indomitable Janet never let any man use her ill, noble or otherwise. She had wed his father to look after the man, fulfilling a deathbed promise to her lady, Alan’s mother.

Though the marriage had proved long and successful, Richard had not failed to note the barbs his mother suffered because of her former status. He had decided never to wed a woman not of his station and cause her that kind of hurt.

Neither had he intended to wed another of his own kind. Without exception, they were either power mad and conniving like the ones he had met at court and in his travels with the king, or else they were like the angelic Evaline.

She had been perfect, of course. Chaste, above reproach, serene and so lovely it hurt to look at her. Evaline had possessed a cool, passionless nature, which everyone knew was a most admirable trait in a noble wife. By all rights, he should have loved her beyond all reason. Instead of appreciating her natural reserve and dignity, Richard had thought her aloof and cold. He had been at fault, not Evaline. He only realized that after she had died.

Because neither class of woman suited him as wife, Richard had intended to remain unwed forever, but that intention lay in ashes now. And this wellborn wife seemed to be of the conniving ilk. She was in no way reserved, that was for certain.

Question was, what did Sara of Fernstowe want so badly that she would offer her body? Her enemy vanquished for one thing. She had admitted it, but she must know he had no choice about that with orders from the king. A son to inherit her lands? So she said, but he could not imagine a woman suffering so when she would never hold the profits in her own hands. What, then?

His body ached to give her what she asked, for whatever reason she asked it. Why not succumb to her wish and bed her?

Because she would loathe it, that was why. As all noble daughters were taught, Sara would believe it degrading, a necessary evil for begetting. And Richard knew he would hate equally a pretense that she liked it, or a cursory avowal that she did not. Better to do without.

Unfortunately, he did lust after Sara of Fernstowe. If she affected him this powerfully when he felt so weak from a wounding, how the devil would he manage to resist her when he grew strong again?

Friendship, indeed! A gust of laughter broke free and Richard was infinitely glad Sara was nowhere near to hear it, for he knew it might please her. That was the last thing he wanted to do.

The next morning, Sara halted just outside her husband’s chamber. She smiled to herself as she leaned back against the wall and waited for him to immerse himself in the tub Eustiss had brought and filled for him.

Through the partially open door, she had caught a brief glimpse of him unclothed before she stepped back. It would take her a moment to still that wicked heart of hers. Richard’s was a finely wrought figure, even viewed from the back.

In a few moments Eustiss came out and passed her with a look of silent amusement. Sara immediately marched in humming and plunked down a fresh change of clothing on his bed, garments of her father’s that no one else at Fernstowe could wear.

“Here. Have these. Except for the hunting clothes, which were ruined, yours are much too fine for—”

“God’s breath!” The abrupt slosh of water and his shout interrupted. “What do you here?”

Sara walked to the tub, hands on her hips, grinned down at him and leaned over. “Attending your bath, of course.”

He had clasped his hands over his manhood, scowling as though she’d come to relieve him of it. “I can bathe myself. Now, leave me!”

Sara tossed her head back and stared at the ceiling as she spoke. “I’ve seen all you have there, husband. No need to play coy.”

“Coy? Have you no thought to a man’s privacy? Or is there such a thing in this place?”

“Not much of it, I do admit,” Sara said, laughing. She scooped up the soap and cloth from the bathing stand by the tub. “Lean forward, I shall wash your back. Mind you keep that wound dry.”

“Devil take the wound. Go away.” But he sounded less adamant and he bent forward just as she’d instructed.

Sara dipped the rag, soaped it and began scrubbing circles on his back. She dug hard into the bunched muscles. He bit off a groan of pleasure, but not before she’d heard it. Sara smiled, enjoying the small success.

“What do you mean you’ve seen everything?” he asked carefully. “I thought Eustiss did the bathing before.”

“Eustiss? Ha!” Sara exclaimed. “That one rarely bathes himself, much less anyone else. Swears it brings on agues and fevers.”

Richard remained silent after that until she had finished cleansing the long, muscled length of his back. Then she tilted back his head and poured water over his hair, working the soap into the thick chestnut waves. How silky it felt trailing through her fingers!

Not until she had rinsed his hair and handed him a length of linen to wash his face did he speak. “Why do you do this?”

“To get you clean, of course,” she said in a bright voice. “Will you not feel better now? I know I do!” Seeing her husband’s body recovering its strength did her heart good. “You are more than pleasing to look at in any case, and ’tis wonderful to see you up and about.”

She walked on her knees around to his side and again soaped the cloth, intending to bathe the uninjured portion.

He quickly reached out and snatched the wet linen from her hand. “I shall finish this.”

“Fine. I’ll just watch.”

“You’ll just leave!” he demanded.

She paid no heed to the order. Instead she boldly peeked over the edge of the tub and grinned. “Ah. You truly are up and about, my friend! We can remedy that soon enough.”

“Sara!” He sounded perfectly appalled at her words. But it was the first time he had used her Christian name and it pleased her to hear it on his tongue. She was definitely making progress.

“Well, if you do not wish me to do it, I could call Darcy. She might be more to your liking. Not a bad sort, though not the canniest lass you’ll ever meet.”

“Good God, woman!” he blurted in a half-choked voice. “You’d thrust me into another’s bed? What of my vows?”

Sara took that as a refusal. Richard not only sounded appalled. He clearly was. “Never mind, then. ’Twas just a thought,” she said pleasantly as she pushed herself to her feet.

Richard’s restraint gladdened her. She could hardly believe any man would turn down a chance to take his pleasure when he was so obviously in need of it.

Her own father had never been terribly discreet about tumbling a wench now and again. Sara knew that doing so had little or nothing to do with the regard a man held for his lady wife, for her father had truly loved her mother. But still, she felt immensely pleased that Richard would not bed the flighty Darcy.

Of course, he would not bed his wife, either, Sara thought. However, if he believed so strongly in those vows made all unknowing, Richard would soon remember duty. His pride would mend. So would his body. And if he would have none of the round-heeled wenches who worked about Fernstowe, then he must eventually come to her own bed.

Unable to resist, she watched him soaping his mighty arms furiously and refusing to look at her.

“Go below and have some food sent up,” he ordered. “When I’ve dressed and eaten, I would tour the keep and grounds.” Then he seared her with a glare and added, “Alone.”

“As you will,” she answered with a beatific smile and took her time in leaving. Her reason for intruding on his bath had been satisfied.

Surely, once Richard realized that she offered her friendship sincerely and without reservation, he would not mind her presence so much. And after he grew comfortable with that, who knew what might happen?

Richard found Fernstowe a better keep than he had hoped for in terms of defense. The curtain wall stood in good repair. The place boasted no moat, but the ground sloped away at such a steep angle war machines could not be levied close enough to do harm. If any brigand took the place, he must use either stealth or prolonged siege to starve them out.

“The problem with the reivers lies in the outer reaches of my—our—property,” Sara informed him as though he could not see that for himself.

She had accompanied him, despite his protests that she remain within. A light drizzle fell, though the weather remained warm as was usual for July. His luck, to get shackled to a woman without sense enough to get out of the rain.

Richard could not understand the woman’s motives for anything she did. First she had all but thrown herself—and failing that, the dim-witted Darcy—at him while he sat randy as a goat in his bath. And in this past hour, she had nearly convinced him she possessed more knowledge of this property than a steward would.

Unseemly, quite forward, and more than a little mad, Richard thought. But Godamercy, she stirred his blood, this woman.

He avoided looking at her after noting what the rain-soaked gown revealed. The soft, wet wool molded her proud breasts like a drape of clinging silk. He cleared his throat since he couldn’t clear his head.

“Have the Scots stolen many of your herds?” he asked.

“The cattle that were in their path they slew and left rotting. They were not after food.”

Richard halted and stared at her in disbelief. “What purpose in that kind of waste?”

“What does that matter? They murdered my father! Who cares how many—”

“I care and so should you!” Richard said, throwing up his hand. The instinctive gesture cost him, but he stifled the groan. “These raids are crimes of hatred, not of need. Or even greed for that matter.”

“Why should that surprise you? The Scots do hate us! They made that perfectly clear to me when they killed Father.”

“We should bring in those folk who live betwixt here and the border and do it right soon,” he suggested.

Sara pursed her lips and sauntered away from him. He knew she bit her tongue to prevent arguing.

“What? The plan’s not to your liking?”

She turned, one hand resting firmly on her hip, the other worrying her chin. “Those we bring inside the gates, we must feed. Our stores would exhaust within a week. Aside from that, I doubt they will come willingly and leave their homes vacant.” Her amber gaze pinned him with the question even before she asked it. “Why not simply kill the rogue who leads these marauders and be done with it?”

Richard took to strolling the perimeter of the inner ward again, so that she must abandon her challenging pose and follow. “I am but one man and none too hardy at present. Once I recover my strength, matters will be remedied.”

How could he admit to Sara that the man she spoke of was his brother? How could he believe it true? If Alan were responsible for the killing of Lord Simon, what was his purpose in doing so? The cattle were there for the taking, the people outside the keep vulnerable to sacking whenever it pleased the Scots.

Yet his wife would have him believe that Alan had lured her father out and horrified everyone along the length of the English border by killing the noble and bragging of it.

It was as though whoever did that deed had deliberately set out to incur King Edward’s wrath against him and all his kind. Were the Scots trying to instigate war?

That toady king of theirs had not the ballocks for it. All Balliol had ever wanted was the crown on his head, and Edward had been the one to let him wear it. No, Richard concluded, this was not a collective effort by the Scots.

The issue would not be solved right soon, so he decided not to dwell on it today. Instead, he headed back toward the hall where he could dry himself by the fire. If he went, so would Sara. The henwit looked like someone had thrown her fully clothed into the nearest river.

With a growl of impatience, he stopped her and pulled her cloak together where it gapped in front and framed those pert breasts of hers. The woman had no shame. Likely no one had been looking after her properly since she came of age.

“A wonder you don’t catch your death,” he muttered. “Go straight to your chamber and change, you hear?”

She beamed up at him, shining droplets caught upon her lashes and her lips. The breath caught in his throat as he watched her mouth come closer and closer still. Suddenly it met his own, brushed lightly and was gone on the instant.

Damn, he thought. He’d not had time to taste her.

Like a sprite tripping through a rainy forest, she gamboled up the stairs to the hall and disappeared inside.

For a long time, Richard stood there wondering how a woman of her height could move so gracefully, as though she trod upon air. And why the devil he should notice or care.