Storm clouds broke towards dusk and it rained heavily. By the time Beatrice reached the Red Lion she was soaked through to the skin. The downpour was so heavy that the yard of the inn was transformed into a quagmire and the men trudged ankle-deep in mud. There was much shouting as Radley, Baldslow and Montgomery steered the men-at-arms into their makeshift field quarters, Grenville and Fitzpons took charge of her coffer and Beatrice looked helplessly about for assistance. Her eyes encountered a fiercely blue male gaze and, instinctively, her own dropped. But Remy St Leger dismounted and was striding through the mud to Willow. He reached up, seized Beatrice about the waist and hauled her down from the saddle, carrying her easily across the yard to the inn. He slipped once, and with a small cry Beatrice clutched at his shoulders, feeling beneath her fingers the bulk of his muscular frame. His eyes flashed at her, with a mocking smile. He jiggled her weight closer against his chest and held her more tightly as they continued their precarious journey.
Within the flagstoned doorway of the inn he set her down upon her feet and Beatrice had to tilt her head back to look up at him, for he was very tall.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured and, remembering her conversation with Sir Giles, looked into his eyes. And backed away. His features were indeed handsome and pleasing, but Remy St Leger was not the sort of man that a maiden would trifle with.
Despite several attempts by the landlord to ingratiate himself with Lady Beatrice of Ashton, he saw nothing more than the top of her head, as she was swept upstairs to the finest chamber in the house, surrounded by five knights who seemed gigantic and armed to the teeth.
Beatrice breathed a sigh of relief as she was shown into her chamber for the night. It was small, compared to her own room at home, but more than adequate for one night. There was a four-poster bed hung with dark blue damask, a roaring fire, two chairs placed before the hearth, a table set with plates of food and a flagon of wine. The windows were well shuttered and Beatrice flung off her sodden cloak, draping it over the back of a chair. A tap at the door made her pause as she reached to pull off her boots.
‘Come in.’
Sir Giles entered, bearing a large pitcher of steaming water, followed closely by Sir Hugh carrying a bowl. They placed both on the hearth before the fire, checked the supply of logs, food and wine, and then turned to Beatrice with a deep bow.
‘Is there anything else my lady requires?’ asked Sir Giles.
‘Nay, thank you. I have everything I need.’ Rubbing her aching backside, with a rueful grin, she added, ‘I will sleep like a babe this night.’
‘You will not be disturbed, my lady.’
They left her then and Beatrice knew there was no need to bar the door, for there would be a guard all night long. Returning to the hearth, she stripped off her clothes and boots and stood naked to wash. The water was deliciously hot, but the room wasn’t and Beatrice finished quickly, reaching to wrap a blanket around her while she fumbled in her saddlebag and drew out her nightshift. Long-sleeved and tied about the neck with a silk ribbon, she warmed the garment before the fire flames, then slid it quickly on. Sitting in a chair, feet curled beneath her, Beatrice took her time unbraiding her hair and smoothing it out with her fingers.
Then she ate some of the hearty fare laid out for her—chicken and ham pie, roasted capon, fresh white bread and crumbly Leicester cheese, plum cake and spiced apples—but, inevitably, there came a time when she could no longer busy herself. She sat idly, staring at the fire, alone with her thoughts. Very alone. The reality of tomorrow suddenly came upon her and she was swamped with fear and doubt.
Her father’s words echoed again and again within the confines of her mind—’…you will never know the joy of being a wife and a mother.’ With a sigh Beatrice rose from the chair and padded barefoot across the wooden floor to the bed, pulling back the covers.
For a moment she surveyed the broad expanse of mattress, set with two pillows. A bed made to accommodate two people. Husband and wife. Lovers. Tears pricked her eyes. She climbed in and lay down, drawing up her knees into the warmth of her own body and away from the cold linen. After a while she turned on to her back, staring up at the ruched canopy.
Why? she wondered. Twenty-nine years old and she could find no man worthy enough to claim her love, loyalty and respect. Always she found fault with the men who pursued her hand, for there had been no shortage of offers. Of course, now she was too old. Except for obnoxious Baldslow the offers had dwindled away to nothing.
When she had been sixteen she had been betrothed to a young man that Beatrice had found acceptable in every way, but William de Warenne, a respected knight, handsome and brave, had been killed. The pain of his death still ached in her breast and she wondered if she had truly ever recovered from his loss. Her mother had warned her against holding on to a love that was long gone, that its grip would become so fierce that she would never be able to love again.
Many years had passed since that anguished time, but time had not erased the pain completely. It was dull, but not gone. Mayhap she should reconsider Baldslow. He was old, but experience and wisdom were not to be scorned. Beatrice cringed, however, at the thought of his rough, scarred hands touching her, and here she came to the crux of the matter. She could not give her body to a man she did not love. The mere thought made goosebumps rise upon her flesh.
She had raged furiously over William’s death and laid the blame at only one door—God’s. After a time she had been ashamed and guilt-ridden, taking as penance a pious devotion to God and the church that her parents had questioned and misliked, but had been unable to alter.
Beatrice turned over onto her side, a dozen thoughts jostling for favour. With a low, frustrated moan she flung back the covers and sat up. If only she had thought to pack her Bible close to hand, instead of in her coffer, then she would be able to read, until her mind was soothed and she fell asleep.
She left the bed and poured a goblet of wine, taking it and a wedge of plum cake to sit before the fire. She wondered what her father would be doing now; no doubt dining, as she was, and packing his gear for the venture to Wales. And tomorrow, tomorrow she would be at the convent.
The fire warmed her and Beatrice glanced down at her feet, peeping out beneath the long hem of her nightshift. William had said she had pretty feet, on that one occasion by the river when he had found her paddling in the cool water, and had almost kissed her. Almost. Within a few days he had ridden off to war, and within a few weeks more he was dead.
Beatrice wondered, as she munched on the sweet crumbly cake, what it would be like to be kissed by a man. Her mother had always complained that her father’s beard tickled and Beatrice thought she would prefer a face cleanshaven. Into her thoughts intruded the image of a handsome male face, with bright blue eyes and dark blond hair long at the neck. Remy St Leger. She could not recall how his mouth had been, but she was certain he had no beard.
Eventually Beatrice went back to bed and, at last, fell asleep. But it was not for long. She woke again, and the night was dark and still. The logs had burned down to ruby embers. She lay for a long while, listening to the sigh of the wind rustling in the treetops, the creak of roof beams, an owl hooting. She snuggled down deeper into the warmth of the bed, meagre as it was, and then she thought it might be wise to pile on a few more logs to keep the fire going until morning.
She padded silently across the floor, lit a candle and reached for a log, laying it carefully in the grate, and then another. She found a poker and stirred up the embers, and then jumped back with an exclamation as the topmost log rolled and scattered tiny burning coals upon the hearth. One hit her foot and she yelped with pain.
At once the door flung open. A knight charged into the room, his sword half-drawn, looking about him with eyes narrowed in question.
‘Be at ease, sir,’ Beatrice called, and then gasped as she turned and faced Remy St Leger, her voice sinking to an uncertain whisper. ‘There is no one here who does me harm, except my own foolish self.’
Beatrice stepped to one side, watching his broad back, the taut line of muscular thigh and buttocks as he knelt to tend the fire. She felt a heat of colour sweep over her cheeks. Then he turned and, taking her elbow, indicated that she should sit down.
A man of few words, thought Beatrice, complying, mystified at his intention. She flinched as his fingers touched her, and he lifted her foot into the palm of his hand. As he examined it carefully, his action caused her nightshift to slide up to her knees. Quickly Beatrice snatched at the hem and pulled it down to cover her legs. By the flick of his eyes she knew that he had noticed her reaction; then she was startled by the sound of his voice when he spoke, in clear English charmingly accented by his native French, the timbre of it finding a place deep within her soul.
‘I will fetch a little goose-grease and a bandage.’
‘There is no need!’ Beatrice leapt quickly from the chair. Too quickly. Her knee connected with his chin and a resounding crack echoed about the room, ‘Oh, I am sorry! Are you all right?’
He regained his balance by grasping the chair, trapping Beatrice between his spread knees and arms. She looked down at his ash-blond head, breath tensely held, for she had never been so close to a man, and was acutely aware that she wore nothing but her nightshift. He rubbed his chin, and then rose slowly, his full height dwarfing Beatrice, who barely reached to his collarbone.
‘I have taken worse than a tap from a maiden’s knee,’ he said, hands on hips, smiling down at her in a way that was almost insolent.
Beatrice had nowhere to retreat, standing so close to him and with the chair against the back of her knees. She sensed the impropriety of their position and would have been further outraged if she had known that from his vantage-point of greater height he could see down through the open neck of her shift, and his eyes fell upon the soft swell of her breasts.
Beatrice found it hard to believe that this man was a full five years younger than she. It was she who felt the awkward youth. She glanced up at him, and in that moment saw for herself where his eyes lingered. Quickly, with a clumsy trip, she stepped over his boots and presented him with her back as she clutched at one ornately carved bedpost, suddenly feeling a little dizzy. In a voice cool as ice, she said, ‘You may go.’
His footsteps thumped across the floor, and then she heard the snap of the door as it shut. Whirling round, Beatrice let out a gasp and stared at the dark planks of the solid oak door. How dared he! The insolent knave! Her father would most certainly hear of this!
Then Beatrice remembered that she would not see her father come morning, that mayhap she would not see him for many months, and that she would soon be committing herself to life as a nun. Remy St Leger would be the last man ever to look upon her in such a way, as a man looks upon a woman.
Did he like what he had seen? Her hands flew to both hot cheeks, horrified at the sinfulness of her thoughts. His mouth had been wellshaped and not too wide, his jaw cleanshaven…
No! No! Beatrice ran to the bed and dived beneath the covers, pulling them over her head. In the muffling darkness her gasps for breath sounded like the panting of a wild animal. Her body felt different—her breasts ached, her legs felt weak. The male smell of him was still in her nose. He seemed to have invaded her every sense, every pore…One part of her sternly berated Beatrice for being a weak human being, another cajoled that she was only as God had made her—a woman.
What would it feel like to lie in his arms? To feel his hard, muscular body moving against her softness? Heat flooded her and through all her thoughts pounded one drumbeat—tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
Beatrice was certain that she would have only this one night to learn of things that would never be a part of her life. Why, she had never been kissed, let alone bedded! What harm would it do? She would still go to the nunnery a chaste virgin, except for one kiss. That was all she wanted. All she asked. And Remy St Leger would be the one to kiss her, Beatrice decided impulsively. No doubt the ‘hot young blood’ would not cavil, and even if he did she would remind him of his sworn duty to Lord Thurstan and his family to do as he was told!
Throwing back the covers, Beatrice leapt out of bed and hurried to the door. Her hand reached out to open it, and then drew back, checked by her natural sense of caution. She turned away, chewing on her knuckles, pacing, darting many glances at the impervious door, a frown creasing her brows.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow… Resolutely, she turned back and quickly jerked open the door, before she could change her mind again.
He sat opposite upon a three-legged stool, leaning his back and broad shoulders against the wall. In one hand he held a dagger, in the other a whetstone. Looking up, pausing in his task, he eyed her with one brow raised in question, before bending once again to sharpen the dangerous blade.
‘I wish to speak with you.’
He looked up. ‘My lady?’
‘Privately. In my chamber.’
Again the stone rasped along the gleaming steel. ‘I think not.’
‘At once, Sir Remy!’ Beatrice resisted the temptation to stamp her foot. She had no wish to appear any more of a child that she already did.
‘Very well. ‘Tis late and I would not wish your voice to waken the entire inn.’
Beatrice flushed painfully at his censure and then stepped back as he rose from the stool and came into her chamber. She closed the door and moved past him, to stand before the fire, with her back to him.
‘My lady?’ prompted Remy, hands on hips, enjoying her silhouette and knowing full well that he should not be here alone with her.
‘As you know, I am on my way to join the nuns of St Jude.’
‘Aye.’
‘I will dedicate my life to God.’
He bowed, in silent acknowledgement of her great sacrifice.
‘I…’ she hesitated ‘…of course I am…’ again she could not say the words ‘…I go…chaste. Untouched.’
Remy St Leger shifted uncomfortably, staring at his boots, wondering where this strange conversation was leading. He took a step backwards, to the door.
‘I am twenty-nine years old, Sir Remy, and I have never been kissed. Properly. By a man. Not a relative. If you know what I mean.’
He squinted a look at her, the light suddenly dawning.
‘I can expect to live twenty, maybe thirty, years as a nun. Alone. Unloved. I would like to know…that is…will you kiss me?’
He stared at her, silent.
‘So that I may know what it is like. And take that memory with me.’
He shook his head. ‘I cannot oblige you. ‘Twould be more than my life is worth. Your father—’
‘He will never know! I promise. No one will know.’
‘Nay.’ He turned to go.
‘Wait! Please. I will grant you any favour in the future, and use what influence I have with my father in granting such favour, should needs be. Please. Just a kiss, ‘tis all I ask. I hear men are most willing to kiss maids.’
With his back to her he smiled, and then wiped that smile from his face before turning round to face her, looking her up and down with a penetrating stare that made her heart beat faster. He walked slowly across the room and stopped when he was but a sword’s length away from her.
‘Mayhap you are not aware that a kiss can lead to other things. Things which you know nought of.’
‘I am aware of what a kiss can lead to.’
He controlled his surprise and met her eyes stare for stare. Of course, even though she was so small and looked s
o young, she was not. No shrinking violet, this maiden. Was she even truly a maiden? he wondered.
Beatrice dropped her gaze to her fingers, twisted one around to the other against her chest. ‘I shall rely upon your honour as a knight to make sure that…we…you…shall refrain from…that.’
He laughed then and closed the space between them. Boldly he laid his hands about her waist. ‘There is no need to be coy. We both know what it is you want. One last tumble before donning your habit?’
‘What!’ His hands upon her were a new experience, yet his blunt words astonished her even more.
‘Surely you do not expect me to believe that a woman of your age has never been bedded?’
‘Nay! I have not.’
His eyes challenged her, and she glared back.
‘Very well. My lady commands a kiss, so a kiss my lady shall receive.’ He closed the space between them and she gasped as his hands slid up along the curve of her ribs, slowly traced the outline of her breasts and then travelled over her delicate shoulders. His fingers lingered on the line of her collarbone, so fragile, and then he slid his hands up into her hair and cradled her head.
Beatrice felt her breath stop in her throat and she stared up at him, wide eyed. His shoulders stooped, his body solid and warm against her, and then his head descended and she closed her eyes, waiting. She felt the warmth of his breath and then the cool touch of his lips on her lips. Her hands slid between them, resting on his chest, leaning on him for support. He held her gently while his mouth moved on hers and he persuaded her lips to part for him.
A shock of surprise shivered through her body as his tongue slid into her mouth, moist and hot. He tasted her, savoured, and his jaw moved more quickly. He lifted his head and slanted his mouth the other way over hers, his kiss driving harder and deeper. Their mingled breath came in pants and Beatrice felt sheer excitement flood through her body.
The Knight's Vow Page 2