‘My aunt, Lady Margaret of Birchlea, and her companions, Lady Constance and Lady Germaine.’ Beatrice made haste to bring forth the older ladies, being matronly of both figure and face, manoeuvring Joanna away from Remy.
‘Why, Beatrice, whatever have you done?’ Aunt Margaret touched her fingertips to the faint swelling and bruise on her niece’s cheek.
Beatrice launched into an explanation of their journey, and there was much exclaiming, fussing and gallant praise for Remy’s swift and bold action. Then her aunt took charge and ordered a tub of hot water to be drawn and for someone to fetch her medicine chest from her chamber.
‘Beatrice, you go first, while I tend to Sir Remy, there’s a good girl.’
Seeing that Elwyn hovered nearby and was anxious to greet her, Beatrice left the hall to make her way to the curtained-off alcove beside the great hearth in the kitchen. She embraced Elwyn and they exchanged murmurs of heartfelt enquiry and affection.
A large wooden tub stood ready and waiting, steam rising from the water tipped in by the bucketful. With the kitchen fire going day and night it was a warm corner and, once Elwyn had drawn the curtain, Beatrice looked forward to bathing in the hot water, fragrant with her favourite infusion of vanilla, lavender and rose petals. She stripped off her clothes and stepped into the tub, unbraiding her hair as she sank with a soft sigh into the water.
‘Oh, my lady,’ moaned Elwyn, ‘look how thin you are! Why, one gust of wind and you’ll blow away.’
‘Nonsense.’ Beatrice smiled, leaning back and submitting to the soothing motion of Elwyn’s fingers as she washed her hair with camomile and rosemary scented soap. ‘Have you been well, Elwyn? Has all been quiet here at Ashton?’
‘Oh, aye, very quiet. What with my lady gone, and then the master and all our knights, why, ‘tis been like a grave round here. Glad we are to have you home, and with Sir Remy.’
Elwyn chuckled. Beatrice opened her eyes and looked up at her maid, with a little frown creasing her delicate brows. ‘Now what is that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, my lady,’ said Elwyn slowly, with great importance and vastly pleased to have a tale to tell, ‘the first night you were gone and the men came home, very late, mind, tired and hungry, well, Sir Remy, he goes and asks your father, in front of everyone, for your hand.’
‘My hand?’
‘In marriage!’
‘What!’ Beatrice sat up, slopping water on the floor with her sudden movement. ‘My father, what did he say?’
‘Not a lot. But he sent Sir Remy flying across the room. Knocked him out for a moment or two, he did. They was shouting at each other and then my lord had Sir Remy thrown out of the hall to cool him off.’
At the sound of footsteps and voices Beatrice cautioned Elwyn to silence. Beyond the curtained sanctuary they could hear several people, the scrape of chairs, a low laugh. Then suddenly the curtain swished back and Aunt Margaret exclaimed, ‘Come now, Beatrice! Sir Remy waits for his turn. ‘Tis the least you can do considering how well he saved your life.’
Her aunt had always been lax about privacy and Beatrice started, hunching her shoulders and crossing her arms over her bosom, as half a dozen interested faces caught a glimpse before the curtain was jerked shut again. Among them had been Joanna, and Remy, sitting at the table and stripped to the waist while Sir Kendall’s squire shaved him. Beatrice gave her aunt a scowl as she snatched at the soap and washed. She stood up so that Elwyn could rinse her with a bucketful of warm water.
‘Beatrice,’ said Aunt Margaret slowly, stooping to pick up her discarded kirtle from the floor, ‘there is blood upon your gown.’
”Tis a common fact, Aunt Margaret, that men bleed when they are killed by an arrow. Or a sword. And a spurt of blood can travel surprisingly far.’
‘Nay. I see that upon your sleeve, but here…’ she held up the seat of her skirt ‘…there is a patch.’ Her aunt speared her with a sharp glance. ‘What have you been up to, girl?’
Beatrice blushed fiercely, both angry and embarrassed. She realised that the headache and belly-cramps plaguing her all day heralded the start of her monthly flux, and she wondered how to explain that to her aunt, without everyone else overhearing. Beckoning to her aunt to come closer, she whispered in her ear.
‘Ah. I see. Elwyn, fetch your mistress a clean robe. And her monthly linens. Quickly now.’
Beatrice stepped quickly from the tub and wrapped herself in a large linen cloth, before Elwyn slipped through the curtain.
Mortified, Beatrice submitted to her aunt’s ministrations. She briskly rubbed at Beatrice’s hair with a linen towel and suggested a little arnica cream for the bruise on her face.
‘I thank you, Aunt, but I am perfectly well. It will be gone in a day or two.’
Her aunt sniffed. ‘A lady should take care of her beauty.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Beatrice, is something wrong?’
‘Nay, dear Aunt, nought is wrong.’ But that she had lost all hope of getting to know Remy, for he would surely not notice her with Joanna radiating her youthful loveliness like a beacon.
‘Mayhap I could make you a tisane to soothe your mood and your cramps. I know they have always been bad. I told your mother that regular intercourse and a babe or two would soon cure you of your affliction but—’
‘Aunt Margaret, leave me, please!’
‘I am only trying to—’
‘I am not a child. I can well manage to dry and dress myself. Please!’
As soon as Elwyn returned, with her nightshift and a robe of soft rose brocade, Beatrice dressed and steeled herself for the moment when she must draw back the curtain. In the kitchen Remy moved aside to let her pass. Her cheeks flagged red, as from the corner of her eye she noticed his broad chest, sun-bronzed and bulging with hard muscle, that only served to remind her of her own femaleness. With head ducked down, she all but ran as she fled to her chamber.
Remy hid a smile, intrigued by the revealing female intimacies that so obviously caused Beatrice deep embarrassment. He thought that someone should take her aunt to task, but that ‘someone’ would certainly not be him. In his pursuit of Beatrice he could not afford to make enemies of any member of her family, not even a meddlesome aunt whose tongue needed curbing!
Any hopes Beatrice had of solitude to console herself in vanished as Joanna followed her up the stairwell. They had always been close as children, despite the fact that they were not true blood cousins. Joanna had been adopted as a newborn babe when her own mother, a lady-in-waiting to Lady Margaret, had taken a fever and died. Often Beatrice had carried the baby Joanna on her hip and as they grew up it was only natural that the younger cousin should idolise the elder. Beatrice had been flattered, patiently accepting the incessant questions and constant shadowing that accompanies adulation.
Joanna put her arm about her cousin’s waist as they entered her bedchamber, which was warm and cosy, lit by a fire that Elwyn had carefully tended. The bedcovers were turned down and warmed by a hot stone that Elwyn pressed back and forth, her hands protected by linen wraps.
‘Forgive her, coz. She means well, but she does not hear the sound of her own voice.’
Beatrice smiled, turning to give her cousin an affectionate hug, ashamed of her own jealousy, that seemed so cruel in the face of Joanna’s gentle spirit. She sat down in a chair beside the fire and began to comb and dry her hair, gratefully accepting the mug of hot milk spiced with cinnamon and sweetened with honey that Elwyn had ready for her. Joanna was inclined to chat and she listened patiently, but saying little, too exhausted and disheartened to do more than nod and smile at the appropriate place. Elwyn, who had been maid to Beatrice since her mistress was twelve years old, was long familiar with her monthly woes, and massaged her back with firm hands while the cousins talked and the evening waned.
When her hair was completely dry Beatrice climbed into bed, snuggling down into the warm covers of the familiar and much missed four-poster bed. Joanna scrambled in on the
other side and turned to face her cousin.
‘I have something to tell you, Bee,’ whispered Joanna, glancing cautiously over one shoulder as Elwyn tidied things away and made ready to sleep in her own truckle bed at the foot of the four-poster, ‘but tomorrow. I’m too tired now…’ her eyelids drooped and she wriggled closer to Beatrice’s warmth ‘…only to say, I have lost my heart.’
Beatrice felt her own heart plummet. No doubt on the morrow Joanna would tell her how she had lost her heart to Sir Remy. He was so handsome that anyone would fall in love with him on first sight. Beatrice turned her face into her pillow and sniffed back silent tears.
It was late when Beatrice awoke in the morning. For some moments she lay still, listening. The household seemed strangely quiet. In the distance she heard the low blast of a hunting horn, and guessed, with the sunny weather, those who could and would had taken the advantage to go hunting.
‘Elwyn?’ called Beatrice. Hungry and thirsty, she called for her maid, but when there was no response she climbed out of bed and padded across the wooden floor.
She opened the door and called again for her maid, her voice echoing on the stone walls of the stairwell. But there came in response only silence. With a sigh Beatrice closed the door and crossed the room to open the shutters. Sunlight streamed in bright and warm and she basked in it for a moment. Then quickly she set to bathing, in water that was cold, and changing her shift and linens.
The second day of the curse was always the worst, but if she lay quietly in bed it would ease. Gratefully she climbed back up into the big bed and lay down again, feeling nauseous and a little dizzy. She called again for Elwyn, but obviously the maid had gone on an errand beyond the hall.
The sound of a knock on the door attracted her attention. Relieved that at last someone had responded, Beatrice called, ‘Come in.’
The door creaked back. It was not a servant who stood in the passageway, but Remy St Leger. She gasped, and pulled the bedcovers up to her chin, wide-eyed at his temerity.
‘I heard you call,’ he said, his glance direct, but he did not cross the threshold. ‘There is no one here, I’m afraid. They have all either gone hunting or to the fair in the village.’
‘Well,’ said Beatrice, ‘it was nice of them to wake me.’
‘Your aunt said to let you sleep. Is there something you want from Elwyn?’ he asked carefully, uncertain of the delicate needs of a woman and fearing lest they should both be embarrassed.
‘Only that I am parched from thirst and Elwyn has left me nothing to drink.’
‘Do you want to go downstairs? I can carry you, if—’
‘Nay! I am not crippled and could walk the distance, but if there is no one here…’ she shrugged pointedly ‘…well, then, I will wait. When Elwyn returns, be so kind as to send her to me. Please.’
He bowed and with a small smile withdrew, closing the door behind him. Beatrice sighed, tingling with pleasure from their encounter and somehow bereft at his departure. She closed her eyes and settled down to sleep, but soon she was staring wide-eyed at the sunshine slanting across the oak floorboards, her thoughts galloping one after the other. Restlessly she tossed and turned, moaning now and then at the pain gripping vicelike in her lower belly. Then came another knock and again she called, with expectant hope, ‘Come in.’
Remy opened the door and this time he came into her chamber, closing the door carefully behind him and bearing a tray. ‘I have brought you wine and some food. It may be some while before Elwyn returns.’
‘Thank you,’ murmured Beatrice, glancing shyly up at him as he set the tray down on a coffer beside her bed. ‘Were you not in the mood for hunting or fairs, Sir Remy?’
He was quick to note her formality. ‘Nay, I too am tired. ‘Tis a long trek from Wales.’
‘Forgive me, I had forgotten that you had ridden so far. Did you volunteer, or was it drawn by lots?’
‘Your father sent me.’ He smiled, but avoiding her eye, and turned to leave, aware that he would be severely reprimanded, if not worse, if he was found in her bedchamber.
Anxious to detain him for just a moment longer, Beatrice called out, ‘Would you be so kind as to close the shutters? The breeze has cooled.’
Obligingly he strode to the window embrasure and did as she asked. His glance fell upon the unfinished game of chess, set up on a small rosewood table inlaid with mother-of-pearl and flanked by two small stools, items that her father had brought home from his Crusade to the Holy Land when he was a youth. Seeing where he looked, Beatrice explained, “Tis a game my father and I have yet to finish.’
‘We…’ he hesitated ‘…we could…’ He waved his hand invitingly.
She smiled. ‘Have you not better things to do, Sir Knight? No doubt you have a sword that needs sharpening, or your horse to exercise.’
”Tis a day of rest. Come, ‘twill help pass the time.’
‘Very well. I am white, so you will have to be black.’
Picking up the small table, chessboard and all, Remy carried them over to the bed, and then returned for a stool, placing this on the far side of the table, opposite to Beatrice, who lay upon her side in the bed. He sat down, his great size dwarfing the table and leaving Beatrice acutely aware of his masculine form and presence, the warmth of his body emanating to her across the space that divided them. Thoughtfully he considered the board for some long moments.
‘I believe it was my turn next,’ said Beatrice and reached out one pale hand to move her Bishop.
‘If you do that,’ he warned, ‘my rook will move, so, and then my Queen can take you.’
‘Indeed?’ Beatrice considered her options, frowning, and then glanced up at his face, admonishing him, ‘You must not make it easy for me.’
‘I’m not!’
‘You are. My father gives me no warning if I make a bad move.’
‘I am not your father.’
‘I know.’ She smiled. ‘You are a knight and you feel ‘tis chivalrous to guide me. Not so?’
Remy flushed beneath his tan, his handsome mouth thinning to a grim line.
‘Then, my lady, I will be utterly ruthless and give you no quarter.’
She laughed. ‘Engage, Sir Knight!’
They paid no heed to the passing of time as they fought their battle of wits upon the small wooden checkerboard. Triumphantly Beatrice seized his last remaining knight and lined it up with the other black pieces she had won. All that remained were a Bishop, two pawns, his Queen and his King. She watched with interest to see what his next move would be, and then gave a low moan as pain knifed through her belly. She stifled the sound quickly in the palm of her hand, aware that he had looked up from the gameboard and was staring at her.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Aye,’ she whispered, flushing. She longed to rub her hand over the ache in her belly, but was too embarrassed.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked softly, hating to see the pain that shadowed her soft brown eyes and made them sharp, bruised beneath by shadows. He reached for the cup of wine and handed it to her, ‘Here, drink this. It may help.’
She knew it would not but reached out and took it, sipping slowly before placing it back on the coffer.
‘In Aquitaine,’ he said softly, ‘I have two sisters, both younger than me. Mathilde and Pierette. My mother often used to rub their backs and…’ he hesitated ‘…their…’ he cleared his throat and muttered ‘…fronts.’ Then he smiled at her, ‘Now I understand why. Not that I do not know,’ he rushed to clarify, ‘about how a woman’s body works.’
Beatrice folded her lips upon a smile, uncomfortable at the intimacy of his words, her eyes lowered, and yet amused at his endearing concern. By rights she should have long ago banished him from her chamber, but she found that she wanted his company. Wanted to look upon his handsome face and hear his husky voice, and breathe in his delicious male smell. Her cheeks grew hot as he rose from his stool and knelt beside the bed.
Greatly daring,
aware that at any moment she could censure him, he leaned over and laid his hand in the small of her back. He began moving it in slow, small circles. His hand was much larger, stronger, and seemingly even warmer, than Elwyn’s and Beatrice closed her eyes. A soft sigh of pleasure escaped from her parted lips, as the motion of his hand helped to ease the pain that gripped her insides.
They neither spoke nor looked at each other as he performed this service for her. She seemed to be under his spell, mesmerised by the heat and pressure of his hand. Her body felt like it was floating on a cloud. She wanted him never to stop. And yet, in the same instant, she wanted more.
Beatrice made no protest when his other arm slipped beneath her ribs, and she kept her eyes tightly shut as he pulled her closer. She gave a low murmur of exquisite pleasure as his right hand continued its circling in the small of her back, softly, slowly, with a delicate touch that astounded her, from so big and powerfully built a man. Yet she shivered as his left hand worked independently, his fingers gently tracing her spine and then back again, moving between her shoulder blades until he found the tender nape of her neck, warm and soft beneath the swathe of her hair.
Watching her, as she lay with eyes closed, Remy drank in the vision of her loveliness. His eyes roamed over the pale white skin of her throat, where two thin blue veins forked at the hollow. Her lips were soft and darkly pink, the curve of her cheeks so smooth he imagined them to be like peaches if he touched them. Her hair was unbound and waved about her shoulders and arms in a wanton mass of honey brown. Slowly, so very slowly, he leaned closer, until his face hovered just an inch above her own.
Beatrice felt his warmth, and his bulk, as he leaned down. She felt the pressure of his hand behind her neck as he urged her to lift her head. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. She read in his face the desire he felt, and she smiled. Taking this for consent, he laid his mouth on hers and kissed her.
His kiss was soft and sweet. His circling hand stilled. She felt his stubble scrape her chin, and shivered again with pleasure. With a soft sound her arms lifted from her side, and her fingers found the hard, smooth column of his neck. Her fingertips explored his skin, his hair, his ears, his rough jaw. With a growl Remy gathered her closer, his arms sliding around her slender body and pressing her to him. His mouth opened hers and his tongue skimmed her teeth, the cavern of her moist sweetness, before finding her own tongue and delightfully playing with it.
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