Sweet Bea

by Sarah Hegger

  Beatrice’s mouth dropped open. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said of her.

  “You keep that heart of yours,” Ivy said. “There are too few of those in this world.”

  “Come.” Garrett tugged at her waist. “All will be well.”

  “Tom?” Beatrice stepped out of Garrett’s light hold.

  “Go, Bea.” He managed a wan smile. “And Ivy is right. Do not let others change you.”

  Tears prickled behind Beatrice’s eyelids. “You are my best friend, Tom. I shall be mightily put out if you do not make a full recovery.”

  Tom went pink. “Only because you will have to tell my mother what you did to me.”

  “True.” She strode forward and cradled his face in her hands. Her heart swelled with love for the familiar, broad planes of his face, his clear blue eyes that she’d seen all her life. She pressed a quick kiss on his forehead. “Take care of him. And take care of yourself.”

  “God be with you.” Ivy pressed her hand.

  Beatrice took a moment to check Breeze had come to no harm. Her hands shook as she stroked the mare’s neck. Breeze quivered, still skittish, but otherwise well.

  They split the remaining food between them.

  Beatrice tried to insist it all be left with Tom and Ivy.

  “You do not know what you will find in London.” Tom pushed her half of the food back at her.

  “Come along.” Garrett stroked her cheek. His dark eyes were tender as he gazed down at her. “Let us get you to London before more adventure overtakes you.”

  Beatrice mounted Breeze. She hesitated a moment. Tom and Ivy were so vulnerable, huddled together at the side of the road.

  “Go,” Tom snarled at her.

  * * * *

  With only the two of them, Beatrice and Garrett were able to quicken the pace. Breeze took the lead and faithful Parsley slipped behind his lady. Beatrice concentrated on the steady hammer of hooves on the road beneath her, barely glancing up as the scenery flew past them.

  Beatrice wasn’t sure when it began, but it crept up on her slowly. It started as an uneasy feeling in her belly, radiated to her limbs, and set her fingers trembling on the reins. The road before Breeze blurred and Beatrice blinked to clear her eyes.

  The emotion inside her swelled so big, she ached. She didn’t want Garrett to see how weak and silly she was. Beatrice the Brave didn’t cry. Except the blasted tears wouldn’t cease. Now the danger was passed, the emotions building inside demanded to be heard.

  Tom was hurt. Fresh tears flooded her eyes. She blindly trusted to Breeze’s sight. Her best friend had been wounded and killed a man. How would she explain this to Nurse? A sob hitched in her throat. Garrett could’ve died. Ivy could’ve been taken. She could’ve ended up like Ivy. And all because of her.

  Cease being so weak. She was a whiney, mewling baby. Nothing had happened. She and Garrett were safe. Tom would recover and Ivy would see to it. Her mind tried to tell her heart, but her heart turned a deaf ear. It reminded her of how they had risked damnation by lying to a churchman, how she’d seen a woman raped and nearly suffered the same fate. Twice, Garrett had been forced to fight to save her. Blood had been spilled, for her.

  None of this had been part of her glittering vision of Beatrice the Brave, riding to London to save her family. And it should have. She’d blithely ignored the danger in her hazy dream of glory. There was nothing glorious about this. Pushing her beloved Breeze for speed, as they raced for her father. Behind her, a group of unknown men pursued and ahead of her lay uncertainty.

  Her grand adventure had become exhausting, dirty, and terrifying. It was built of blood and fear. When this was over, she’d return to Anglesea and take up sewing. She’d live out her days, safe in her father’s hall. Except, now, she wasn’t the blind, spoiled girl who saw only what she wished to see. Garrett had called her princess once and he was right. She’d been a princess. The misery and suffering she’d seen in these few days weren’t new. It had been there in Anglesea. If she’d opened her eyes wide enough to see it. No more. She dashed at her eyes with an impatient hand.

  Beatrice the Brave needed to retire to a disused corner and stay there.

  “Hey.” Garrett tugged on her reins. “Stop a moment.” He leaned over to clasp Breeze’s bridle.

  He would fall for sure with his poor riding skills. Beatrice drew to a halt. Shame stained her cheeks. She hated that he saw her weakness. “We dare not stop.” She kept her face averted from his knowing glance. “We need to reach London.”

  “There is time enough for this.” He slid off Parsley and walked to Breeze’s side. “Get down.”

  “Garrett, we need to press forward.”

  “Get down.” He held up his arms.

  She didn’t want to, but his expression was set. With a groan, Beatrice slid into his waiting arms.

  He lowered her to the ground, bearing most of her weight until she rested against him. “What ails you, sweeting?”

  His gentleness undid her. Beatrice blinked rapidly to prevent more tears.

  “Beatrice the Brave does not cry,” he said.

  “She does.” It burst out of her like a river overrunning its banks. Once the flood began it wouldn’t stop. Huge, gasping shocks racked her. “I am not b-brave at all.” She hid her face in her hands, but Garrett snared her wrists and wrapped them around his waist. Beatrice dropped her face into the sweet spot where his neck met his shoulder. “I got T-Tom stabbed. Tom has never been stabbed. The only thing he wants is a farm and some pigs and chickens to raise. I do not want to be Beatrice the B-brave. I want to go home and be a good daughter and take care of my mother and never do anything like this ever again.”

  Garrett murmured something against her hair.

  It sounded kind and gentle and it made her cry harder. “I was stupid to think I could ride off to L-L-London and everything would be fine. I am a stupid, thoughtless, ridiculous girl and I have n-nearly got everybody killed.”

  “All right, then.” Garret took her by the shoulders. He set her slightly apart from him and stared into her eyes.

  * * * *

  She was a soggy mess. Her eyes were swollen and her nose bright red. Straggling bits of hair clung to her damp cheeks. Her bottom lip quivered as she gave another loud sob.

  “Enough.” Garrett gave her a small shake.

  She raised her wounded eyes to him and his heart turned over.

  “I think you have punished yourself enough for one day.” He pushed back the damp tendrils of hair and tucked them behind her ears. With the sleeve of his tunic, he attempted to dry her sodden face. “You are, without doubt, the sweetest thing I have ever encountered.” He wrapped his arms around her.

  She nestled like a chick against him.

  Garrett felt twenty feet tall as tucked her beneath his chin. “You are warm and generous and too trusting for your own good. Aye, you can be a touch impulsive and we have not been short of excitement. Or company.”

  She snorted against his tunic.

  “But, Beatrice.” He drew her away from him. He needed to see her eyes and be sure she understood. “I would not have changed one moment of the last few days.” He pulled a face. “All right, for Ivy, I would change the past, but not for the rest. I have never felt so alive.”

  “You are being kind.” She blinked at him mistily.

  Garrett threw back his head and laughed. Jesu, if only she knew. “There is nothing kind about me, except this girl in my arms and she is so kind, it makes my head hurt.” He surrendered to the temptation and touched his mouth to hers.

  “What of Tom?”

  “Tom will have a fine scar to show the girls.” He kissed her hot, wet tears off her cheeks. “And a grand tale to go along with it.”

  She sniffed and scrubbed her cheeks with her palms. “We could have died.”

  “But we did not. Now.” He squeezed her arms. “Get back on your horse, stop torturing yourself, and let us f
ind your father.”

  “Aye, Garrett.” She peered up and gave him a shy smile.

  Garrett thought his chest might burst wide open.

  Chapter 19

  Garret had no more interest in why. His plan had changed and that was all that mattered.

  Beatrice rode hard on his tail as he led the way to London. And he was going to London. Straight to London with no more delays along the way. He would take Beatrice to her father. The man whose life he’d sworn to destroy. How would it feel to look on Sir Arthur again, after all these years?

  His recollection of the man was that of a small boy. Sir Arthur had seemed huge and terrible astride his great destrier as he shouted the orders for the castle to be set to the torch. Garrett could recall the play of the flames across his features as Sir Arthur watched it burn.

  Beatrice resembled her father. The strong, sharp lines of her face were barely softened by her mother’s beauty. Beatrice had a beauty of her own, both fierce and gentle at the same time. She didn’t deserve to pay for Sir Arthur’s sins.

  Sweet Jesu. He was in trouble so deep, he couldn’t see the end of it. Somewhere along the line he’d become trapped by his own coils and held fast. And he’d pay the price for his arrogance. When this was done, he’d have to leave her. There was no future for the Lady Beatrice and the son of a traitor and a whore. She wasn’t for him. Her lineage aside, Beatrice had a goodness that had nothing to do with piety or kind deeds. It shone from within her and if he didn’t leave her, he would dull the purity of who she was. His last thought was almost more unbearable than the idea of not having her.

  There’d been nothing in his life to compare to her. She’d be his one good deed, his one moment of nobility. She’d realized none of this. Beatrice took the day as it came. She didn’t fret over the future or agonize over past mistakes. If she was happy at this time, she was happy. God, he envied her.

  And he loved her.

  He feared this lay at the root of the matter. Had some part of him loved her before this began? Had it been disguised as lust, only to raise its head and refuse to be denied now? There could be no other explanation for the other night. He could’ve taken her. She’d wanted him to take her. And yet, he’d held back, like some callow boy with stars in his eyes.

  The road became more congested and they were forced to slow their pace. Ahead, like a great, dirty smear on the horizon lay London, the end of their journey. Where he would leave her. Garrett struggled to draw breath.

  * * * *

  Beatrice eyed the throng around them. There were so many people trying to cross one bridge. And yet the flow kept moving forward.

  “London.” Garrett gestured unnecessarily.

  Beatrice twisted in her saddle to take it all in. Dwellings and shops piled up along the bridge like a child’s building blocks. All jammed together and seeming to fight their way toward the sunlight. The noise of so many people near deafened her as she tried to catch the various shouts and calls ringing in the air. The smell threatened to empty her stomach. She breathed through her mouth as she stayed close to Garrett.

  Somewhere in this mass was her father. She hadn’t given a moment’s thought to how to find him. Her plan had been to race for London and find her father. Such was the extent of it.

  A cart stopped in the middle of the bridge, forcing the flow of people to trickle around it. Beatrice heard words that made her cheeks burn.

  The mighty walls of the city loomed before her, casting her in shadow as she drew closer. She marveled at their thickness as they passed through the gate. Surely, these had been many years in the making. She saw men at arms among the crowds, relaxed, watchful but not wary. She searched their surcoats for Anglesea colors, but saw none.

  At the far side of the bridge, the city split into a myriad of lanes, leading every which way. Garrett picked a quieter one and followed it.

  The smell worsened on this side of the bridge and Beatrice put her hand over her nose. She let Breeze pick her way through the rotting food and human debris littering the way. A boy darted across the street, right before Breeze’s hooves, and Beatrice forgot the stench long enough to calm her horse. Breeze and she were alike. They were used to wide-open spaces and clean air. Not the choking fugue of smoke hanging everywhere and pressing the stink against their nostrils.

  Garrett moved toward a small square before a church and stopped. The back of the church abutted the city wall and opened onto the square at the front. Smaller dwellings huddled around the open space, jealously guarding the scant patches of sunlight that managed to breach the pale stone fortification towering above everything.

  Garrett dismounted and waited for her.

  Beatrice eyed the ground before sliding off Breeze. She placed her feet carefully amongst the befouled cobblestones.

  He led the horses to a deep animal trough and let them drink. The horses were sweat-stained and tired. Beatrice gave them both a pat.

  “We can start here.” Garrett hauled her closer to him as a group of priests, head bent in prayer, jogged toward the church. Their sandals slapped against the cobbled ground. “The city is littered with churches and they are our best chance for information. I do not know London well, but if you give me your father’s direction, I am sure we can find someone in that church to guide us.”

  Beatrice looked toward the church. A yellow stone structure with a steeple rising high into the afternoon sky. All manner of people clustered around the doors. She kept her gaze on the church as Garrett waited beside her. The time to confess had come and he wasn’t going to be pleased. She watched the shifting sea of faces and thought rapidly how best to phrase it.

  “Beatrice? Your father’s direction?” Garrett turned her chin up.

  Beatrice gave a wan smile.

  Garrett’s face grew resigned and he dropped his chin to his chest. “London, right?”

  “Aye.”

  “When this is done, my lady,” a slight smile tilting the corners of his mouth upward. “We are going to have a long talk about planning and proper preparation.”

  “Aye, Garrett.” Her gaze wandered past him. There were just such a multitude of people to look at, a dizzying variety of different faces and garb.

  He dropped his hand.

  Beatrice missed the warm touch of his fingers. She pressed nearer to him. He was her rock amidst the churning waters of people swelling around them. “My father is known.” Beatrice grabbed his sleeve. She didn’t want to lose her rock.

  “So he is.” Garrett’s expression tightened. He turned away before she could question him further.

  She’d seen him do that before and it intrigued her. “Garrett?” She tugged his sleeve until he looked at her. “Do you know my father?”

  A glib smile slid over his lips.

  Beatrice almost stamped her foot. She knew that expression. It meant he would try to ease his way out of an answer with charm. She fixed him with a stern look. “Tell me true, Garrett.”

  The smile slid off his lips. Stark anger crossed his face.

  Beatrice took a reflexive step back. His expression didn’t bode well.

  “What is it?” She braced herself for the worst, not sure what it could be.

  “I know your father, Beatrice, but that is a story for another day.” He turned back to Parsley.

  Beatrice stared at his back. Outrageous. Did he think she would be content with such a meager scrap? His back remained to her. Aye, it was exactly what he thought. She would soon disabuse him of such a notion. “Garrett.” She put a spine of steel through her voice. “I would like an explanation.”

  The muscles in his back stiffened. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I brought you to London.” A knot jumped in the side of his jaw. “I will take you to your father. You will have to be content with as much.”

  Would she now? Beatrice glared at his back.

  “You there.” A rude voice interrupted her swelling objection.

  A priest strode
toward them. His robes flapped around his ankles as he walked, making him look like a straggly crow. “You cannot leave your horses there.” The priest waved his hands about, which sent Breeze sidling. Parsley merely rolled an eye at the man.

  “Aye, Father.” Garrett clasped his hands before him like a penitent. “We were not intending to leave them here. We were merely going to ask for directions.”

  “Directions to where?” The priest eyed them askance.

  “The Lady Beatrice is looking for her father.”

  Beatrice bent her knee in deference as the priest’s head swung toward her.

  His face was angular, color high on his cheekbones. Beneath the dark slash of his brows, his small, piggy eyes started at her toes and raked their way to the top of her head.

  She must look a mess. Her hair tangled by the breeze, her dress dirty and stained.

  “Lady Beatrice?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Aye.” Her cheeks heated. “Lady Beatrice of Anglesea.”

  “Very well.” The priest sighed and tucked his hands into his habit. “If Anglesea is truly your father, then he is one of those rebel barons running amok through the town.”

  Beatrice wanted to defend her father, but a warning look from Garrett stilled her tongue. They didn’t yet understand the lay of things in London. Tom would be proud of her. She was learning to think before she spoke. Dear Lord, she hoped he was recovering well.

  “The lady does not know precisely.” Garrett smiled at the priest. “But she is the daughter of Sir Arthur of Anglesea. He is well known throughout the kingdom.”

  Beatrice narrowed her eyes. Garrett’s voice changed when he spoke of her father. An undercurrent of something like anger laced it when he spoke of Sir Arthur.

  The priest rolled his eyes. “Anglesea is not in London.”

  “Aye, he is,” Beatrice said.

  “He is in Westminster.” The priest looked pained. “You do know where Westminster is?”

  “Aye.” Garrett shifted.

  The frown Garrett wore was not encouraging. Yet, Beatrice was greatly relieved not to have to admit her ignorance. This priest was nothing like Father Thomas who ministered to their needs at home.