by Anne O'Brien
And still, in spite of that, because of that, he loved her…
Loved her?
No! Love had no place in his emotions. Love weakened a man, compromised his choices. Life with Elizabeth was far simpler if based on respect, affection even.
But his heart thudded against his breast bone. What he felt for Elizabeth was far stronger than affection, far more forceful than a desire to protect. But when had this happened? He had no idea. Richard was still reeling from the shock of that one incontrovertible fact, of that ultimate acknowledgement, when her first words met him, as subtle and conciliatory as a punch to the jaw.
‘Before you say anything, I wish to make it clear, Richard. I can go to Bishop’s Pyon if I choose, when I choose. I do not need your per mission.’
He knew he should mind his temper, bite his tongue. She was his love, was she not? But the latent fear got the better of him. It still had him by the throat. But he would try to remain calm, reasonable, even if she would not. Like hell he would! His reply mirrored his tumultuous thoughts. ‘Not if it puts you in danger, lady. You are not free to risk your life and safety as and when you choose. You will do as I say.’
‘In danger? I was in no danger!’
‘From robbers. Brigands. Any of the riff-raff who swarm over the county in its present state.’
‘Surely you trust Simon to escort me.’
‘Yes. But are you aware of the target you would make?’
She raised her chin again. A gesture that she thought might just set light to his temper. A wicked impulse urged her on. She was in the mood for lighting a few flames. Elizabeth firmed her mouth against a little smile as she watched her lord struggle for control.
‘For God’s sake, woman. Are you not aware of the value of your person as a hostage? Or even for the simple matter of robbery. Did you even think about the value of your cloak? That damned brooch that I was foolish enough to give you. The horse flesh. Law and order hardly exists in the March with the King under armed guard, and with the marauding Welsh thrown into the mix it’s impossible to keep travellers safe. And you would deny the existence of danger!’
‘Well! I had not thought.’ Elizabeth was furious that he was right. Touched by his concern for her.
‘When did you ever?’ Fury compromised his control so that he felt it slipping through his fingers, so that Richard found himself spilling the words he had determined to keep to himself. To paint for her the horror that faced him when he heard she had gone to Bishop’s Pyon alone. ‘This day I saw the terrible result of such a robbery not five miles from here, on my own lands. Shall I tell you? Naked bodies in a ditch, innocent travellers, women and children as well as their men, stripped of all dignity, hacked and de spoiled to remove jewellery. Robbed of their lives. That’s what I feared for you.’
Her heart clutched. But she would not back down. Here was no cold distancing, no deliberate stepping back. Ripe fury vibrated, his eyes alive with it, his whole body primed for action. As if he would spring forwards, a hunting cat on its quarry. They faced each other, focused and hissing as cats on the stable roof, whilst her own animal, coward that she was tonight, re treated to crouch beneath a rush chair. The air in the room positively crackled. Where had seduction got her? Now defiance! This was far better for causing a conflagration. Even though she might tremble at the outcome, even though she might be consumed by it.
‘You will not put yourself in danger,’ Richard continued, face vividly ablaze. ‘I expect you, as my wife, to be discreet. You don’t know the meaning of the word discretion. The Malinder’s Black Vixen is the talk of the March.’
His control was now balancing on the narrowest of edges. Elizabeth sensed it. ‘I shall do as I please.’ That should do it. She waited, breath held.
Richard swooped, hands gripping her shoulders. ‘No, you will not. Not when it puts you in danger. Not when your loyal ties conflict with mine.’ He shook her, but was still sufficiently in command, just about, to temper his strength.
‘Ah, so that’s it.’ She frowned. ‘Did you think I was going to join my uncle, to engage in Yorkist plots against you with my de Lacy family?’
‘No. Of course not—’
‘How completely unwarranted!’ So where was fairness now? ‘How dare you dishonour me.’
‘Be silent—’
‘I will not!’ She wrenched herself from his grasp to sweep across the room, from where, at a safe distance, she turned to glare. ‘I have had enough silence from you these past days. It’s time you talked to me and told me what is making you as ill tempered and edgy as an autumn wasp amidst a glut of apples.’
‘Elizabeth, I warn you. I’ll not tolerate—’
‘Will you not, Richard?’ Elizabeth stalked back across the room, took hold of the furred neckline of her lord’s tunic, tugged and kissed him full on the mouth. ‘Will you not? What is it you will not tolerate?’ Again she took his mouth with hers.
It took them both aback.
Elizabeth recovered first and spoke what was in her mind. What had she to lose? ‘I care about you. I care that you are troubled and unhappy. I hate that you are distracted and preoccupied. I hate that you shut me out as if we mean nothing to each other, even if it is only that we share a bed and disagree over who should wear the crown.’
She kissed him again. Fast and fierce. ‘So, what have you to say now?’
‘Ah…very little.’ His thoughts had scattered into the air. ‘Elizabeth…’
‘Richard!’ She scowled at him, still not satisfied.
And Richard found himself trans fixed by the brilliance of her eyes, and was suddenly speaking the words and thoughts that had distilled in his heart on his ride back to Ledenshall. That had driven him to unreasonable fury when he discovered her absence.
‘Do you not realise that I love you?’ How should you. When I did not even know it myself? ‘That the thought of losing you or allowing harm to come to you destroys me. It’s not your politics or your family allegiance that drives me to intemperance. I care not whether you are Yorkist or Lancastrian. If you were attacked, harmed, I would be wounded, too. If you were killed—living with out you would be too painful to contemplate. I love you…’ It was unnerving to hear it spoken aloud into the silent room. Unnerving to watch her response.
‘Ah, Richard…’
He could read nothing in her face, which became care fully guarded. She touched her tongue to lips gone suddenly dry. He closed his hands firmly over hers, held them wrapped close. ‘I love you, Elizabeth. Why I should find a need to love a woman so opinionated and wilful, I have no idea.’
‘The same reason I should love a man who is arrogant and dominant and would command my obedience, I suppose.’
He heard her reply, lethal to the heart. Took a moment to take in so astonishing an avowal of love. Much as his had been for her. But Elizabeth again recovered the faster. She huffed a breath, her exasperation more evident than her professed love. He still did not seem to take her meaning. Why was he so slow? So she would make it plain enough, to hammer a nail into a plank of wood!
‘I love you, Richard Malinder, God help me! I dare you to remain silent now.’ She shook her head. ‘You fool, Richard. You beloved fool!’
And then she was in his arms and they were closed fast around her. Who moved first was unclear, but the outcome was the same.
‘I am filthy.’
‘I don’t care. So am I.’
They tumbled to the bed.
‘I was afraid for you. I could not bear to lose you. I love you.’
‘Show me. Show me now!’
‘I can do that.’
Minds played little part in what followed, only touch, demand answering demand. Only an unspeakable need, a fire to burn hot between them, to scorch and consume all their differences. Desperate kisses, a fast race of hands, a furious dragging away of garments until there was nothing to separate them. Elizabeth’s hands, smooth as silk on chest and belly, over hips, wrapping around his hard erection, all but
robbed him of control.
‘No…! Not yet!’ A harsh intake of air as he struggled to command his body.
Capturing her wrists, Richard pinioned them above her head as his mouth ravaged hers, his tongue seeking and discovering that dark, inner sweetness. Then, anticipating that same hot sweetness between her thighs, and because he could resist her no longer, with one thrust he entered her, hard, sure.
‘Richard…’ Elizabeth’s voice hitched on a ragged breath, her body arching in demand as sensation bloomed to make her shiver on the edge.
‘Watch me, Elizabeth. Stay with me.’ The kiss he placed on her lips was all tenderness, all delicacy, despite the tumult that had brought them to this moment.
‘Yes.’ She gasped as he began to move within her, to fill and own, and she shuddered beneath his weight, his urgency. ‘I know who you are, Richard.’ She returned the gentle caress in some thing akin to awe.
‘As I know you.’
It was the last softness, the last words between them for some time. Richard proceeded to drive them both to mindless oblivion before burying his face into her newly grown hair.
Breathing settled, blood cooled. Their minds took longer to recover, stunned at the explosion of passion that had swept all before it, carried them with it. Until the underlying scents tickled Elizabeth’s senses. She wrinkled her nose. Dust and horse, leather. It was not unpleasant, but she now thought longingly of scented water. Even so she had no desire to move, so turned her cheek against Richard’s chest, enjoying the sensation of his heart beating strongly beneath her ear.
‘I love you, Elizabeth. I could worship the ground you step on. Why did it take me so long to see it?’ Richard lifted her more firmly against him as his mind took control from his body once more. He had lived with her, argued with her, God knows he had disagreed with her. And at some point he had simply fallen in love with her. Cradling her face between his palms, he took in every beloved feature. How had he not seen her beauty beside Gwladys, who had blinded and wounded him against other women? And there she was all the time, hair silken soft against him, eyes dark, mysteriously enchanting. A beauty all her own. Why had he not seen it, acknowledged it, until now? Her delicious curves, firm yet soft. Seductively smooth under his hands, his mouth.
‘Because you did not want me,’ Elizabeth answered gruffly, truth fully.
‘I don’t think I knew what I wanted. But now I do.’
‘I didn’t match up to Gwladys.’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘You can’t deny it.’
‘No. You are nothing like her, thank God!’ Richard placed his fingers lightly on her lips when they parted to ask. ‘No. No more about Gwladys tonight. Have I told you how beautiful you are?’
‘No.’ She would have looked away if he had allowed it. ‘No one ever has. And I was a poor thing when I came to you.’
He touched her mouth with his own, whisper soft. ‘Then it is for me to tell you. You shine as the sun on my horizon. You glitter as the most costly of all my jewels. You are more precious than all my lands, all my estates. You are my whole life.’
Elizabeth could not reply, too full of emotion, satisfied to lie beside him and drift for a little time in a sea of immeasurable contentment. So they loved each other. A miracle, as bright and precious as her Book of Hours. One that she could not quite believe—but had he not said the words? So had she. Had he not proved it with his body, that hot possession? As she had responded. Elizabeth felt the deep flush stain her skin at the knowledge of her response. She tucked the delight away to take out and study, to think about later. But the business was not done. She would not quite let the Lord of Ledenshall off the hook yet, even if he could worship the ground she stepped on.
Had he really said that?
‘Richard—tell me why Henry’s defeat troubles you so. Why you cannot—will not—support York, if we have to accept a Yorkist Plantagenet king.’
‘Hmm?’
Elizabeth prodded his ribs, achieving an instant wince. ‘I need to know.’
‘When did you ever not?’ he murmured. ‘I thought you were asleep. I was.’ He stirred enough to plant a slide of kisses along her shoulder. ‘But now I’m not,’ he murmured, his breath warm against her neck.
‘Richard!’ She shivered, was tempted to abandon every plan but the one clearly in his mind—but set her will to resist. ‘Richard—will you tell me? What troubles you. Why is York an anathema to you as king in place of Henry? Both can claim royal blood.’
Richard groaned. ‘I see love hasn’t mellowed you.’ But he cur tailed his kisses. And because it was in his mind and because some thing had loosened round his heart, he told her the whole. His despair over Henry’s in stability, his in ability to rule the country. The wanton destruction of law and order in his own lands. All the concerns that had made such uncomfortable travelling companions on his ride through the March. All of which she knew. But then, what she had no presentiment of, he told her of the Duke of York’s outrageous actions after the battle at St Albans, laying it all out for her to examine and judge. When Richard Plantagenet, the then Duke, had ordered the execution of Sir Thomas Malinder, Richard’s father, ordering the striking of his head from his body in bloody retribution.
‘There was no need for my father to die,’ he finished. ‘He could have been imprisoned, ransomed, as were the other Lancastrian leaders. Instead he was dispatched like any common criminal. It was a political murder to remove a rival in the March. Vindictive and bloody. I cannot forgive it, but forgive me for shutting you out. It’s a habit—keeping my thoughts close—not sharing them.’
‘I’ll forgive you—but only if you don’t do it again.’ Elizabeth kept the moment light, even as it touched her heart that he should share so personal a burden of bitter residue of loss and grief with her. She stroked a hand across Richard’s chest, as if she could smooth out the rough edges for him and make the future plain. The old Duke had been killed at Wakefield back in December, his title inherited by his seventeen-year-old son, Edward, Earl of March. ‘I think we can only wait and let it play out. Perhaps Edward, the new Duke, will be an easier man to follow.’
‘Perhaps he will.’
Richard captured her hand, to press his mouth to her palm in a wave of gratitude. Elizabeth under stood. Why had he held back for so long? But he would not tell her of the ambush set for him. Nor of his suspicions of its instigator. They were still uncertain, and now was not the time to burden his new love with such fears for his safety.
Chapter Sixteen
Yuletide festivities. Elizabeth was now certain. She carried a child. She had said nothing yet, as too often a child was lost before its existence was even recognised, but her monthly courses had stopped and although she suffered from no unpleasant or obvious symptoms, thanks to an infusion of sweet balm leaves steeped in wine, she knew.
‘Did I not say so?’ Jane smirked as she helped her mistress into a sumptuous gown of jewel-like amethyst brocade with over sleeves to sweep the floor in luxurious extravagance, lacing the low-necked bodice, looping the beaded girdle. And Elizabeth forgave her. It was a very precious knowledge and she could not but rejoice. So, she decided, it could be in the way of a Twelfth Night gift for her lord. It pleased her to wait a little longer and to anticipate his pleasure.
At the feast, they drank, exchanged cups, drank again, lips claiming the imprint of the other’s lips in deliberate possession, as eyes held and expressed every emotion they did not put into words. A loving cup such as was never shared at their wedding feast.
Then, leaving those who would to drink and roister until dawn, they withdrew to their chamber. Elizabeth poured the wine and came to sit beside him, bringing with her the pewter goblets and a carved and inlaid box, smiling as he raised his brows in query.
‘I have a Twelfth Night gift for you, my lord.’ She smoothed her hand over the fine wood of the box on her lap.
‘Have you now? And what might that be, my lady?’
‘When we were wed you gave me gifts. I wanted to giv
e you some thing. As a symbol of my love.’
With a brush of lips against her hair, Richard took it from her, opened the ornate lid. Turned back the soft velvet wrapping and lifted out, to sit on the palm of his hand, a little ivory chess piece, cunningly carved into the shape of a knight astride his horse, arms raised to grasp sword and lance and shield. Perhaps, looking at the intricately worked mail coat and carved folds of a linen surcoat, a crusader from years past. It was beautiful and a mere herald for the exquisite castles and bishops and pawns that followed to be lined up on the table at his side.
‘They’re magnificent.’ Richard turned the figure of the king in his hand, complete with crown and sword and staff of office, his robes swirling in stiff folds to his feet. ‘York or Lancaster, do you suppose?’
Elizabeth sighed and leaned against him. ‘In truth, I don’t know. And at this moment—dare I admit it?—I don’t know that I care.’
‘What a conformable wife you are tonight!’ He placed the king next to his stiff-backed ivory queen with her severe and unsmiling expression. ‘Now, what should I give you in return, my wife?’
‘You’ve already given me a gift.’ Her lashes hid her smug complacence from him for a little time yet. But not much longer. She burned to speak out.
‘Apart from the cloak and the brooch. I gave you those before I came to love you.’ His arms slid smoothly round her so that she fit against his hip.
‘That’s not my meaning.’ She eased her dry throat with a sip of wine, put down the cup. Then looked up, gaze open on his and steady. ‘You have given me a child. I carry your heir, Richard.’ The emotion built as she saw the realisation of her words strike home, to his very heart. Her smile lit her face with joy, an inner glow that brought a flush and a sparkle, as if she had won a victory in battle.
‘A child!’ There it was in his face. The delight. Then the quick concern for her safety. How she loved him for that. ‘How long…? How long have you known?’