by Alexa Aston
Raynor broke the kiss. Beatrice gasped for air as his lips glided down her throat and then across to her ear. His teeth teased her earlobe, lightly tugging on it. Her quick intake of breath and low moan brought a smile to his face.
Gradually, he brought his mouth back to hers, wrapping her in his arms, drawing her near. Time stood still as he feasted upon her. Both of their hearts beat rapidly as their bodies touched. His hand cupped her breast, kneading it before dragging a finger across her nipple.
Raynor’s heart warred with his mind. It had to stop. This woman belonged to another, no matter how much he wished it could be different. He could go no further. Reluctantly, he dragged his lips from hers, ashamed at how quickly he’d given in to temptation.
But Beatrice was having none of it. Her fingers locked tightly in his hair and she yanked him back to her. Her tongue invaded his mouth. Raynor clutched her. He would enjoy this moment for what it was, drink it in and treasure it always. On those lonely nights when his need for her burned, he would remember these precious kisses.
Because it would be all he had of her—of them—and their time together.
“Enough,” he said gently. He took ahold of her arms and eased her away from him.
Beatrice’s eyelids could barely stay open. She wore a hungry look, as if she danced on the cusp of satisfaction but had not quite obtained it. More than anything, Raynor wished to be inside her.
Honor prevented him from acting upon his strong desire.
“Raynor.” Her voice was ragged, pleading.
“Beatrice,” he said softly, still holding her at arm’s length. “You must go to your betrothed unspoiled. I have taken far too many liberties with you. We can never do this again.”
“Never?” The word echoed in the room. It reverberated in his mind.
“Nay,” he told her. “’Tis wrong in so many ways. You are the most beautiful, most desirable woman I have known—but you belong to another. We must end this, here and now. We must never be alone again.” He gave voice to the plan he had formed only three days ago, the one he had neglected to follow through with. The plan he must adhere to now.
Tears welled in her eyes. As was her habit, she began nibbling on that full bottom lip. Raynor caught his breath and stopped himself from lowering his mouth to hers once again.
“I will fulfill my duties at Ashcroft. I would ask that you continue to improve matters within the keep during that time. Then, I will see you safely to Brookhaven as I have promised.”
Once last time, he cupped her cheek. “But I can no longer be near you in any way, Beatrice. My resolve weakens every time I see you. Smell you. Touch you. Taste you.” His thumb brushed gently against her trembling lips. “You have cast a spell upon me, Beatrice Bordel. I fear I shall never find happiness with any woman.”
Tears slid down her cheeks. Raynor wanted nothing more than to kiss them away. Silently, her brown eyes begged him to change his mind. Instead, he bent and chastely kissed her forehead. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment. The feel of her. The scent of roses. The smoothness of her skin.
Raynor lifted his head. “I can’t speak with you anymore, Beatrice. I don’t trust myself around you. There’ll be no more lessons or conversations. I will take meals in my room.”
His hands dropped to his side. A coldness, deeper than any winter he’d experienced, filled his soul. “I’ll let you know when the time comes to escort you to Sir Henry’s.”
Raynor took her small hand in his. He raised it to his lips and pressed a fervent kiss upon it. “Adieu, Beatrice.”
He turned away from her. It took all his will to put one foot in front of the other. When he reached the door, he fought the urge to look back at her. Raynor opened the door and hurried down the corridor, heading straight for the chapel.
At this time of day he found it empty, silent as a tomb. Wordlessly, he fell to his knees and then prostrated himself on the floor. Every part of his body called out to return to Beatrice though he knew it was wrong.
Banishing all thoughts of her from his mind, he humbly asked Christ Almighty’s forgiveness for having been such a weak sinner and poor knight. He prayed for strength in body and in character. He renewed his vow to serve the king, protect all women, and be an instrument of the Church.
Spent, he rose slowly—determined to stay the course and continue on a path of honor.
*
Beatrice sat in her chamber, awaiting the meal that Hilda would bring her on a tray. She had tried to eat in the great hall, but sitting by herself was lonely. Raynor never took a meal in her presence. They had only passed each other in the corridor twice in the weeks since he had given up all contact with her. Both times she received a curt nod as he went by, but no words had been spoken between them. She had also caught glimpses of Peter from time to time, but he never acknowledged her presence.
Her rare conversations with anyone had been with Gobert, the steward. Needing coin for goods in order to refurbish the various bedchambers, she’d gone to him on a few occasions.
Beatrice’s gaze went to the lute that sat in the corner and she picked it up. She hadn’t played the instrument once since the deaths of her loved ones. That seemed so long ago, though only two months had passed.
She’d had a silly fantasy since Raynor began avoiding her. In it, she took her lute down to the great hall to sing and play for the people. Raynor would walk by, drawn to the music. At other times, she fancied that she would be playing the lute in her room late at night. He would stop, listening outside her door. Rapping lightly, she would admit him and sing and play as never before. Her musical skills would capture his heart. He would sweep her into his arms and kiss her as she longed for him to do.
No. ’Twould never happen—thanks to her lies.
The last time they had been together, his kiss had convinced her that she must finally tell him the truth. Explain fully why she had lied. There had been no time to do so. He pushed her away and told her he could no longer be in her company just as she’d been ready to confess her sins and beg for his forgiveness.
And now? Weeks had passed, so it was much too late to share the truth with him now. He might even think that she lied again. If he finally believed that she had no betrothed awaiting her at Brookhaven—even if he could forgive her deceit—she knew they couldn’t wed. His brother had expressed an interest in her, wanting to somehow break her imagined betrothal and take her for his wife. In the hierarchy of the nobility, Raynor would be obligated to step aside and allow Peter to lay claim to her. As the eldest son and Baron of Ashcroft, Peter retained all the power.
That was the last thing Beatrice wanted, for it would drive Raynor away from Ashcroft forever.
She learned from Gobert that Raynor had sent a messenger to Brookhaven. Beatrice knew of no reply that had been received and she felt certain the steward would’ve shared with her if one had come. She wondered how Raynor had worded the missive to Sir Henry and if he mentioned more than escorting her north. Had he referred to her as the betrothed of Edwin Stollers?
Beatrice sank onto the bed, setting her lute aside. She feared after her arrival at Brookhaven, she would be trapped by the lies and then humiliated once the truth came out. Would Sir Henry be willing to help a liar?
More importantly, Raynor would feel so betrayed.
Where would she go?
Bitterness and guilt filled her. A convent would take her in. She could donate the few gold coins she had, sell her lute, and give them her mother’s ruby ring. Then she would spend the rest of her life hoping God would forgive her.
Beatrice needed forgiveness. She had killed a man. Nightmares of that night still haunted her. She dreamed of holding the ax in her hands as the robber brutalized her. Each night, she killed him over and over as the flames surrounded them, the screams of the other thief burning to death echoing in the distance.
Beatrice would wake, drenched in sweat and shivering with fear. The images continued to haunt her and they prevented her from falling b
ack to sleep. Because of that, she found herself listless at mass each morning and her appetite had dropped off. Hilda encouraged her to eat each time she brought a meal to her bedchamber, but she only picked at the food.
A knock sounded at the door. Beatrice admitted Hilda, who brimmed with energy.
“My lady, tonight is the harvest home celebration. Would you care to join in?”
“Nay. I need to pack for my journey north. Gobert gave me word today that I leave tomorrow morning.”
Hilda set the tray down. “Do you need any help? I’d be happy to stay.”
“It’s not necessary. I don’t have much to gather. Go and enjoy yourself. I want to get as much rest as I can.”
“If you’re certain.” Hilda waited a moment, but Beatrice knew she would not change her mind. She ushered the servant from the bedchamber.
Beatrice knew all about tonight’s celebration. The servants talked about it constantly since the reaping had finished and the tying and winnowing had been completed. She heard them describe the food that Cook had prepared, the bonfire being built, and the dancing that would take place. But Beatrice had no reason to attend. She couldn’t force any food down and had no one to dance with. And if she did decide to go and saw Raynor dancing with another woman in his arms? It would be the end of her. She refused to ruin the celebration.
A trunk had been sent up earlier in the day, probably Raynor’s doing. Since she knew he would insist that she take some of his sisters’ old clothes, she sifted through them again. She selected three cotehardies of purple, blue, and gold and a few kirtles and smocks. Tomorrow would be a day to wear her own clothing. She bent and touched the hem of her garment to reassure herself that the gold coins sewn into it still remained. Her fingers also went to the pocket that hid her mother’s ruby ring.
She hoped Raynor remembered that she would refuse to ride a horse and would have a cart ready for the long journey. Beatrice glanced at the food and left it untouched. Instead, she curled up on the bed and cried herself to sleep.
Chapter 15
Raynor pulled the currycomb through Fury’s coat as he readied the horse for travel. He’d thought long and hard on whether he should venture on this trip with Beatrice but, in the end, she was his responsibility and he would see that she arrived at Brookhaven without any problems.
It puzzled him that no missive had come in return to the one he’d sent to Sir Henry Stollers. As always, he was brief when he wrote since he had no patience for letter making. He’d told the nobleman that Beatrice’s mother and grandfather had fallen ill and passed away and that he was charged to deliver her to Brookhaven in time for the wedding.
Despite no response, Raynor knew he could no longer hold her at Ashcroft. The estate was already in good shape. All the wheat had been collected, and he’d put John in charge of the sowing and milling. The women would weave their baskets and spin the wool to make clothing. Raynor had left detailed instructions with Gobert as to what tasks should be accomplished during his trip north. By the time Raynor came south again, hunting and butchering would have started and the meat would be salted, smoked, and stored.
“My lord?” Brice, the young stable boy, stood with his hands hidden behind his back. They’d spent many hours together and enjoyed each other’s company. The lad soaked up Raynor’s words about how to care for horses and a trust now existed between them. Fury also liked the boy and the horse did not freely show affection to many people.
“Since you’re leaving, I brought Fury a treat.” Brice pulled an apple from behind his back.
The horse dipped his head. The boy held the apple up to him. Fury made short work of it.
“You’ll take good care of the other horses while I’m away?” Raynor asked.
Brice nodded eagerly. “I know what to do. I won’t let you down, my lord.”
“Good. I’ll see you upon my return.”
“Will you be gone a long time? As before?”
“Nay.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “I intend to return to Ashcroft as soon as possible and plan to stay from now on.”
Brice’s face lit up. “’Tis good news indeed, my lord.” He ran off.
Raynor resumed brushing his horse and, out of habit, began speaking aloud to Fury.
“We’ve got a journey north, fellow. I’m afraid I’ll need to hold you back on the way there, but we’ll gallop to your heart’s content when we return. Lady Beatrice fears horses, so we must take our time in getting to Brookhaven.”
He grew wistful. “I wish I could change how she felt about your kind,” he told the horse, unburdening his heart. “I wish I could change many things. Especially when it comes to Beatrice.”
“So you love her?” a voice asked.
His brother stood at the entrance to the stall. Not the disheveled version he’d seen when Raynor first arrived at Ashcroft, nor the one who had shaved and dressed in his best clothes when he proclaimed he wanted to marry Beatrice. This version was somewhere in between.
“Truthfully? I do love the lady,” Raynor admitted. “I think I have from the beginning.” Finally, he’d voiced what had been in his heart—and what he could never tell Beatrice.
Peter leaned against the door. “Tell me.”
Continuing to brush Fury, he said, “I doubt she told you much about the night we met. I was riding to Ashcroft from Kinwick and came across an awful scene in the woods. A burning cart. Bodies strewn about. One was her servant that a trio of highwaymen had killed.”
“And the others?”
Raynor shook his head, still amazed after all this time. “Lady Beatrice had disposed of two of the robbers, including one who died with an ax buried in his neck. I arrived as she fended off the last thief who attempted to steal her lute.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “She dispensed with two robbers? She actually killed them? But she’s a tiny thing,” his brother protested.
Raynor nodded without providing further details. He’d wondered if Beatrice had experienced any regrets.
“At first, I admired her courage and spirit,” he continued. “I’ve grown to appreciate her kindness and intelligence, too. And there’s not a more beautiful woman in England.” He paused, knowing words would never change the hopeless situation.
“And now you must take her to her betrothed.”
The brush froze mid-stroke. “Aye. I promised I would deliver her safely to Brookhaven. We leave today.” Raynor put the brush aside. “In fact, it’s time to depart.”
“You’re a good man, Raynor, and have always been a good brother to me. You’ve cared for Ashcroft and its people when I shirked my responsibilities. I am forever in your debt.”
Peter embraced him, and Raynor could not remember the last time that had occurred. He slapped Peter good-naturedly on the back and broke away.
“Godspeed.” His brother turned and left him with Fury.
Raynor saddled his horse and then braced himself for seeing Beatrice again.
*
Beatrice had not spotted Raynor at mass that morning. She feared the rift between them had grown so wide that he would charge others with seeing her safely to Brookhaven. Mass ended and she never found him, though he usually stood in the back and slipped away the moment the service ended.
She returned to the great hall to break her fast, wanting to see the grand room one last time. It buzzed with conversations and she assumed most of the discussion centered on last night’s harvest celebration. It warmed her heart that Raynor had brought back an Ashcroft tradition. Hilda told her they’d not held one in several years and that everyone had been thrilled to see the old custom revived.
Glancing to her left at the trestle tables filled with soldiers, it was easy to notice the difference in the group from the first time she had laid eyes upon them. The men sat taller than before and their new captain kept a watchful eye upon them. Beatrice could see the physical transformation in many of them, muscles honed by hours of training in the yard. If Ashcroft fell under attack for any reason, thes
e men would successfully protect it from harm—all thanks to their time under Raynor’s instruction.
By listening to those around her, she’d gleaned that he also spent part of each day in the fields, supervising the hands involved in the harvest, as well as burying himself in bookkeeping with Gobert. It filled Beatrice with pride to see his efforts recognized and she knew that Ashcroft was in good hands, despite the fact that he couldn’t claim to be its baron.
It saddened her that he’d refused to spend time with her during her stay in his home. Beatrice felt it a wasted opportunity. She would have enjoyed Raynor’s company even in the spirit of friendship, but she understood why he had broken ties between them. His absence should have prepared her for the day she would no longer see him, but Beatrice only felt the pain of a broken heart.
Lifting her cup, she swallowed the last bit of her ale and stood to leave. As she did, two of the soldiers left their group and came toward her.
A stout one with a blond beard spoke first. “Lady Beatrice, I am Timothy.” He indicated his companion. “This is Bobbit. We have been chosen to accompany you to Brookhaven.”
“’Twill be a pleasure to see you to your destination, my lady,” Bobbit added. He had dark eyes that looked as mischievous as a naughty child’s might.
Both men had a competent manner about them, but they also seemed friendly, much as everyone she had met during her stay at Ashcroft. She would be comfortable in their company.
“I have a small trunk in my bedchamber that will need to accompany me.”
“Lead the way, my lady. We’ll retrieve it and secure it in the cart,” Timothy said.
Beatrice took them upstairs, pleased to hear about the cart. She shouldn’t have doubted Raynor’s memory regarding her fear of horses.
They reached her room. She indicated the trunk that was going with them while she claimed her lute.
“You play the lute?” Bobbit asked.
“Aye. I haven’t played it for a while, but it’s very dear to me. I used to entertain my mother and grandfather with it, but they passed away recently.” Beatrice blinked away the tears that formed in her eyes.