by Robyn Carr
“Tess,” he said huskily. “A woman barely blooming, but that doesn’t make it right to—”
She drew his hand to her breast. “Will you deny that you know of my love for you? I have loved you always. As I was a child awaiting your return...I loved you.”
“And what of your betrothed?”
“He is a good man but I do not love him. Have no fear, John, I will be a good wife to him and I will not betray you. I will spill you no bastard, for the wedding will be set after this—my father will see it done. If I am lucky even I will never know...But John, however I love you it can never be. But I can know the truth to what I feel this once, and I will never regret it.”
“A pretty romance,” he said bitterly. “A lovely fornication, truly. God, how low can you bring a man?”
“To touch me is so low?”
“Oh, Tess,” he groaned.
“Why do I want you still? You are not so gallant! Pirate, thief, rapist, murderer...there is nothing about you to love! You ride to us in the dark of night as some mongrel knight, sneaking about with no thoughts of goodness but a vengeance burning in your blood and a lust for your due! You have no silk or wig like yon baron. No lace falls under your chin or over your wrists. Sir John, knight without a lady, knight without lands! You are not so grand! Can I have nothing of you but pity?”
He came down on her mouth, bruising and crushing her lips angrily. He groaned deep inside his throat at the robust pleasure the taste of her mouth brought. In the cold night, in the dark of the barn with no bed but that of hay, the gentle maiden yielded to his cruelty with softness. Repulsed by duty he tore the bodice of her simple dress and bit at her breast. He growled in strange madness as his desire grew even as he hated himself for wanting her.
“Dear John,” she whispered. “Do you hate me so? If there is any tenderness in your heart for me...do not hurt me until you must.”
His wall crumbled and a choked sob escaped him as he found her mouth again, softer this time, tenderly, gently lowering himself against her and holding her carefully. Her small hands, roughened from her toils, were gentle on his back. Her skin was soft where it had not been exposed to the elements and burdensome toils. Her breasts were full and round, her hips the perfect size for a man’s hands.
He found her as he knew he must and accomplished the thing hard and fast, feeling the resistance give way. She made no cry, there was no tenseness in her small form. “There had to be pain,” he muttered thickly.
“There was pain,” she breathed. “Fear is pain. I was not afraid. I have never been afraid of you, my darling.”
“Tess, don’t. You’ll make it worse.”
“Please,” she murmured piteously. “If it can never be so in truth, let me pretend you love me tonight...”
“Then pretend,” he relented. “I’ll help you pretend. I love you, Tess. I want you, darling.”
With a sob she clung to him, straining against him and moving with him. His large practiced hands brought every touch to thrilling heights, fulfilled every expectation. He didn’t have to really love her; he did truly want her. He didn’t have to pretend this, the exhausting labor he worked on her. She climbed to the fevered pitch she knew he held effortlessly.
For long moments they lay entwined and touched each other with curious fingers. Loving strokes as the embers cooled, the blaze dead while the warmth lingered. His lips touched her throat and ear and he tasted the salt of tears.
“Why do you weep?”
“At dawn’s first light Shayburn’s men will come into the town to take rent and goods from the people. Little good would come of letting them find a lovers’ tryst. They must find ashes and blood. You know it must be, John.”
“Who is your betrothed?”
“Stephen Kilmore, farmer.”
“A decent man,” he admitted. He kissed her again.
“Tarry no longer. The truth is hard enough without delaying it.”
He paid her no heed. He touched her again with passionate intent. Again she submitted unselfishly. She closed her mind to what would come in the morning, her whole life’s dream bent on now, tonight, this forbidden lover who was hers for a brief space of time. This she might never have known had it not been for Shayburn’s merciless attack on Lord Bollering years ago.
And when this man who so tenderly loved her was seated again in the Bollering manor she would know him only as master, ruler, lawmaker of his land. Her husband would bend to his demands and yield his coin for rent, tax and tithe. But John would be a fair and just lord and would protect their shire from villains. They could live in peace instead of pain. There would be contentment to replace their fear. And her contribution to this effort was that she should have this gift of love.
When he stood to pull on his cloak she shivered with the cold. He was again as she had seen him most often, self-confident and strong, his features hard and sure. Tenderness was his concession to her on this night, but in truth he was not a gentle man. He was a warrior.
He reached down and grabbed the cloth of her skirt sharply. When he made love to her he had gently lifted the hem, but now he gave it an angry jerk, leaving her exposed. She saw the white of his teeth in the darkness as he smiled.
“You’ve submitted bravely, lass,” he murmured, his voice deep and gruff. “There is more of a sacrifice you must make to this cause.”
“If it be in my power, Sir John...”
“Do not give yourself in marriage to this Kilmore boy.”
“It is done. Our fathers have pledged it.”
His hand came out hard against her face and she yelped in surprise and pain. Half her face was frozen from the blow and her nose and lip bloodied. Her eyes clenched, she did not see him wince as he struck her. When she opened her eyes to look at him again she saw that same sure face, hard and impassive.
“I am the law of this land, wench,” he said harshly. He bent to one knee and touched the cheek he had just bruised and his voice was strangely subdued and low. “And no one shall have you but me.”
He rose after placing a swift kiss on her cheek. He towered above her, his hands on his hips and his feet braced apart. His laughter rang out in the small stable, vicious, frightening laughter. He appeared to her as some majestic and horrible beast, godlike in his immensity from where she lay on her bed of hay.
“Never question my ways, wench, but heed them true. For every time you let another man fondle you the lash will fall once upon your back!”
Her mouth stood gaping as her wide eyes questioned his sanity. He laughed again, that same laugh that reminded her of an animal cornering his prey.
“Was your fantasy worth your pretense, maiden?”
“Yea,” she said bravely, though she was frightened of him now.
He bent from the waist, bringing his face down close to hers. With a strained whisper he said, “I was not pretending.”
He straightened abruptly, strode the distance to the door, and whirled around to face her one last time. “Mark my words, Tfess. Never betray me to another.” He laughed again and was gone, leaving only the sound of his rapidly departing footfalls ringing in her ears.
Tess lay there stunned, making no sense of him at all. Would he give her these parting threats to ease her disappointment? To lessen the burden of her guilt and give her false hope? Would he have her wait in truth and take her as his acknowledged mistress?
Silence. She sat up and listened. The dark night was frighteningly silent. There was no sound of horses’ hooves; no one stirred. She screamed, a practice scream, and the sound of her own voice chilled the night and she was suddenly half out of her mind with fear. The warmth from her brief touch with love was gone and she screamed again, and again, and again, blood-chilling screams that could frighten the stars out of the sky.
Voices insulted the night. Running and hammering and more screams split through the little village as if armies battered them. Horses were loosed and ran wildly away. Tess moved hesitantly near to the barn door and peeked out to
see the street alive with light and smoke. Women rushed madly about, tearing their hair and weeping in fright.
Hysteria gripped her from the reality of the play. The baron would be convinced, for it was enough to convince her. John had seen Joanna Todd and her two small children safely delivered to London and housed there while the bodies of three not long dead were placed in the house that Gaston Todd set fire to himself. One rape, three murders, many precious things stolen and several houses burned. There were several hundred residents in this little burgh and only a few dozen knew of this plan.
Neighbors, ignorant of the circumstance, comforted Todd as he sank to his knees and wept real tears over his loss while his family lived in the finest house they would know in a lifetime.
Talbot Rath rushed to where she stood and stared down at her with disbelief in his eyes. He held a torch in one hand and studied her closely. The voices of the people seemed distant to them both now. Tess could read her father’s mind. She had defied him. Betrayal. Talbot threw the torch into the barn and lashed out at Tess, striking her hard and knocking her down. He had never in his life hit her before now.
The barn took light quickly and he bent to gather her up in his arms, holding her close against his chest as she sobbed from the agony of his blow.
“There, lass, ‘twas not in anger. Good John could not hurt you enough to convince the baron. And I cannot strike my own dear again.”
He carried her toward the village, where there was a mad scurrying to put out the fire, those holding the buckets taking care not to extinguish it too quickly. The pounding of horses’ hooves increased the action of the townspeople and the effort looked real, for it was safe now. There was little left to save.
Tess looked up into her father’s face and saw in the darkness a slow smile grow as he looked on the holocaust all around him. Success.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rain was a daily affair as winter threatened to leave England early. A heavy cover of drab clouds and constant drizzle caused the thick smoke from the cooking fires to hover over the city and mingle with the gutter waste to offend the senses. Coaches moved at a faster pace and people darted about the streets swiftly to keep dry. Every cloth felt damp and mold grew thick on the stone walls until it had to be chiseled away.
If the sun shone through for a brief time great throngs of people filled the London streets to shop and barter and gossip. Popular lampoons were passed around and crowds gathered to enjoy the latest slander. Rumors and character assassinations were ever the popular sport. Only last spring the king’s sister had visited and when she returned to France she found her death. Minette was the only woman on earth Charles had truly loved, and her death brought him much misery. It was said that her husband’s homosexual lover poisoned her in a jealous rage. Charles was inclined to believe it, though it was not proven. His remorse was matched only by his anger. In an effort to placate the sovereign, Louise de Keroualle had been sent to the English court from France.
Charles seemed not too displeased with his gift. He had admired Louise during Minette’s visit. And Louise, who had been raised among nobility, slid into her position as the favored mistress to the king without trouble. It seemed to matter little to her that the people of England disliked her for being French, Catholic and regal. What did matter was that the king’s other mistress, Nell Gwyn, the opposite of Louise in every way, often harassed her regal counterpart.
Rumors of divorce were as popular as ever, many wishing the king would be done with his barren queen and remarry, getting at least one legitimate heir for England. But, as in the past, nothing materialized, for Charles was not a man to treat a lady unkindly.
This hysteria was typical of London, of the court and its people. The earl of Bryant watched his wife receive her very liberal education. He had no idea what she was making of it. It seemed she closed her eyes to it, pretending everything was on the square when truthfully nothing was fair or decent or honorable. He pondered as he rode toward his home in the city that he had helped her in a way. He had set her aside, publicly as well as privately, and so many assumed her to be unimportant and harmless. She was left alone then. She was not drawn into their way of life or their perversions.
A matter that troubled him in no small way was his king. Charles paid Chelynne much courteous attention. The countess seemed flattered to be even noticed, as if completely unaware of her rare beauty. Charles, true to his reputation, was gallant and chivalrous, but he looked at the young countess with something other than platonic intent. He was not a man to be troubled with a rule, a husband or other such trivialities. He was moving cautiously and Chad was keen to the fact that it had nothing to do with him. It might be because Chelynne was somewhat retired, because Mistress Gwyn and Louise kept His Majesty occupied, or because Charles liked the chase as much as the conquest.
When Chad arrived home he went directly to his study, threw off his coat and wig, and went after the task of clearing off a large accumulation of papers on his desk. There was a letter to his overseer to be answered, letters to merchants, friends in America, a message sent to Bess, who would see it got to John; a thousand things burned in his mind. He couldn’t seem to juggle his thoughts and arrange them in a more suitable order.
He had not accomplished much when he answered a light tapping at his study door with a curt and exasperated consent to enter. Chelynne stood timidly in the frame of the door, twisting her hands nervously as she judged the scowl on his face.
“If this is a bad time...” she started.
“Never mind. What is it?”
“Well, there have been some invitations I would like to speak with you about.”
“Yes, yes.”
She pointed to his desk and said softly, “They’re all there. I don’t know which you’ll want to attend.”
He gave an exasperated grunt and fished beneath his pile of papers in search of the invitations she spoke of, annoyed with this trivial nonsense. She sensed his agitation and moved to the desk to find them and put them before him. In doing this she bent over him, brushing his shoulder with one full, round breast and leaving that bounty clear to his chance gaze. She straightened after accomplishing this and found she was slightly dizzy from the brief contact. His eyes were glued to her bosom, his hand straining to rise against his will and fondle one of those delicious breasts.
Reluctantly he looked over the invitations, idly leafing through them and throwing them back down. “Is there something here you cannot live without attending?” he asked with impatience.
“N-no, sir,” she stammered. She took a breath and attempted to enlighten him. “There’s a dinner at Whitehall. The king will be there and he remarked the week past that he sees little of you...” She was leaning over him again, fishing for that invitation, her perfume encircling him and her lovely body altogether too near. Finally she found the piece she was after and placed it on top of the pile, straightening again. Chad found more with each passing day that he could not be in the same room with her without misery. She was so ripe for the picking, so damnably desirable. He needed to have her out of his study, out of these cramped quarters, before he lost control. “I don’t know if I shall be able to attend or not,” he said brusquely.
“Should you like me to go even if you’re not able?”
“I don’t care.”
“Shall I make arrangements for an escort? I could perhaps ask you again tomorrow and see if there is a change in your plans.” She took a seat, perched on the edge of the chair directly opposite his desk, staring at him with that sweet, innocent face of a child, those heavy breasts threatening to spill out of her dress. The door was closed, there were no servants around, and she seemed to have no intention of leaving.
“Yes, ask me tomorrow,” he said, turning back to his work and brushing the invitations off to one side. Her presence seemed to surround him.
“There’s an invitation to go with the king’s party to the theater. I put it on your desk several days ago.”
�
��I haven’t been here,” he said almost angrily. “I’ve had too much to do at the wharves to even come home. Didn’t I tell you there were ships coming in?”
He had mentioned it in passing. “Yes, but it’s just that the invitation is for today and I didn’t know—”
“Well, madam, I can hardly give it my attention when I’m not here, now can I?”
“No, but—”
“And if it’s for today I cannot go! I have work to do...or did you perhaps think I was writing lampoons?”
“No, sir,” she said softly. She rose to leave and he gave an audible sigh of relief. “Should you like me to go in your stead?” she asked from the door.
“Madam,” he snarled, tossing the quill into the well and stabbing her with the sharp gleam of his eyes. “I don’t care.”
“If you would not be pleased to have me abroad without—”
“Chelynne! For the love of God, do what pleases you. You’re not a child to need me as a constant chaperone. Now if I didn’t have work to do I would be pleased to escort you, but as you see, I cannot. If you wish to go, then go. If you wish to stay home, then do that!”
He turned to his work again, but sensing that she had not left even now, he looked up to where she stood by the door. “It’s only that I enjoy your escort on occasion,” she said softly.
“Then you should have married someone who has nothing to do but attend parties. My life’s breath does not rest on seeing a play!”
The door closed behind her quickly with that, and Chad turned again to his letter. He started anew several times, making a foolish error or wording it wrong repeatedly. Finally he threw down his quill in exasperation and rummaged through his desk for some tobacco. Smoking was not a particular pleasure of his, but he filled the study with the rich and heavy odor just the same. Then he took up the quill again, but the sweet, enthralling scent of roses lingered.