‘Stop!’ She held up her hand, incensed. ‘Mother of God, Benois, you talk about my…me…as if I were a commodity, or something ugly to be dealt with. How can you be so coarse…so crude?’
His eyes glittered in the darkness, spiked chips of ice. ‘Because that is what I am, Tavia, a rough, crude soldier. You seem to have trouble accepting that idea.’
She thumped her hand against the rock, grazing it, ducking her head so he wouldn’t see the frustrated tears flood her eyes. Shame washed over her, blinding, hot. ‘So you just wanted me for my body, then?’ Her voice, when it eventually emerged, was thin, jerky with hostility.
‘You’re an extremely desirable woman, Tavia. What were you expecting? An offer of marriage?’ The neutrality of his tone infuriated her.
‘Nay,’ she blasted back, ‘but maybe something a little kinder than outright rejection!’
He winced at her words, covering the movement with a shrug. It was better this way, he kept telling himself. It was better she knew what kind of man he was before it was too late.
Tavia balled her fists by her sides, flouncing across the cave to stand over him. ‘My God, Benois, you really had me fooled, didn’t you? There I was, thinking we were sharing one of the most in credible experiences of my life and you squash it with your foul words, take all the beauty from it, and distort it into something ugly and disgusting. Thank you very much.’ There! She’d said it. She’d told him the truth. It wouldn’t matter anyway, as he seemed so keen on shoving her away, he may as well know how she felt.
Mouth slack with astonishment at her words, Benois jumped to his feet, towering over her once more. He had never heard a woman speak like this, ever, with such energy, such naked truth, such passion. Her face, flushed with agitation, lifted up to his, searching for answers.
‘Stop trying to change me into someone that I’m not,’ he whispered. ‘I’m not some court dandy who’ll shower you with flowery verse and tender phrases.’
‘I’m not asking you for that,’ she replied simply.
A peculiar sensation gripped his innards. He seized the top of her arms, almost lifting her bodily from the ground, hauling her slight frame up against him. ‘Then what is it that you want from me?’ His voice boomed about the cave, probing, questioning. ‘What is it you want from me?’
Her eyes, fringed with long wet lashes, widened, locked with his. In the ringing silence, her clear, bell-like tones sang through the high recesses of the cave. ‘You know, Benois. You know.’ I want your love. The words echoed, bounced in her mind, but remained unspoken.
But he knew what she asked of him, knew what she wanted. ‘You ask what I cannot give, Tavia,’ he replied bitterly. ‘You ask too much of me.’ His eyes slid beyond her to the cave entrance. ‘The storm has passed,’ he announced coldly. ‘We must return to Dunswick.’
Her heart closed up with sadness.
Tavia sunk deep into the wooden bath tub, allowing the hot, steaming water to engulf her shoulders, her neck. The tightness of her muscles began to slacken and stretch, languishing in the delicious sensation. She curled her toes, feeling the soft linen at the end of the bath, linen that had been placed over the rough wood of the tub before the water had been poured in. Rose petals floated on the water’s surface, the heat allowing the flowers to release their heady scent. exhaustion dragged at her eyes, her limbs, a bleak wretch ed ness that she couldn’t wholly attribute to physical activity. A raft of sadness welled up, unexpectedly, and she sank deeper, willing the water to wash away the pain, the heart ache, just for a moment.
They had ridden back to Dunswick in a stony, unbroken silence, her borrowed mare plodding docilely behind Benois’s restless stallion. They had only spoken when it was necessary and then each word was beset with a polite, guarded formality. With each passing moment, Tavia regretted her blatant outspokenness towards him, her careless lack of thought as she blurted the truth out. She had shamed herself before him, lost her dignity, not once, but twice, and now…now there was nothing. The horses had walked through the woods lit once more by filtered evening sunlight, branches drooping heavy with rain water, each catching the light to create a spark ling net. As the horses brushed through on the narrow path, some branches sprang up, let free of their weight of water, releasing their load into an arc of shimmering droplets.
As soon as they had ridden into the inner bailey, Benois had dismounted, stalking off without so much as a back wards glance. She had wanted to shout, to yell after him, to accuse him of running away, but she knew it was too late; she had declared her feelings for him, and he had shoved them back in her face. Better to cherish the memory of that time in the woods together, to keep it safe within the sanctity of her heart, and hold it there for ever.
‘Where have you been?’ Tavia jumped as Ada burst into the chamber without knocking. So much for having time to lick her wounds. Ada plonked herself on the bed, eyes gleaming with an avid curiosity. She ran her hands experimentally over the bed furs, glossy in the candle light, a sly look entering her eye. ‘Ferchar’s been going mad.’
Tavia squeezed the flannel, watching the drops fall back into the water. ‘There was a storm,’ she intoned dully. ‘We couldn’t return until it had passed.’
‘Ferchar was most put out when you didn’t come back.’ Ada leaned forward conspiratorially.
Tavia pinned Ada with a fierce stare. ‘But why…? He knew I wanted to spend some time in the woods.’
‘Tavia, you were gone for hours…’ Ada widened her eyes dramatically ‘…and you were on your own, with Lord Benois.’
Despair seeped through her. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘What of it? Ferchar agreed that Benois should stay with me, for protection.’ She lowered her head, grimacing at the irony of the word. She couldn’t have been more vulnerable if she had tried—a veritable lamb to the slaughter.
‘Something happened while you were away.’ Ada slid off the bed, padded forwards to the side of the tub in her soft, leather shoes. Tavia brought the flannel along her arm slowly, alert to the sharp ness of Ada’s tone.
‘King Henry has told Ferchar that he has no claim on your fortune, despite the fact that he is now, by rights, your guardian. Those jewels belong to you, Tavia. Just you.’
Benois ate hungrily, loading his plate with floury bread rolls, thin slices of ham, trying to concentrate on the conversation that wrangled good-naturedly between Ferchar and King Henry along side him. He failed completely, his mind continually walking the same path, returning to an idyllic scene in a magical forest with a beautiful maid. His mind and body seemed utterly bewitched, despite his determined efforts to push her from his thoughts. The bread roll broke into bits beneath his tanned fingers.
‘So you’ll make sure the soldiers are ready leave on the morrow, Benois?’ At his side, Henry slapped him genially on the back.
‘Leave?’ Benois frowned at his king, un comprehending.
‘Aye.’ Henry laughed. ‘Have you heard a word that I said, Benois? Our job here is done; Ferchar and I have agreed the new border lines between Scotland and England, so there is no reason for us to stay.’
Maybe I have a reason, thought Benois suddenly. A reason that lights up my world with her incisive blue eyes, her quick intelligence, brings a warmth and softness to my rough, hard existence. Her words from the previous day echoed in his brain; she thought him capable of love…could it be possible?
‘Besides, we must allow Ferchar to sort out…er…more domestic issues.’ Henry frowned slightly at Benois’s disinterest.
‘Tavia of Mowerby, to be precise,’ Ferchar grunted through a mouthful of smoked trout, small slivers of pink fish falling down on to his chin. He wiped the debris away with the back of his hand, leaving a faint smear of grease.
‘Does she need to be…sorted out?’ Benois asked lightly.
‘Your king here…’ Ferchar gestured with his knife ‘…has decreed that the contents of the dead earl’s coffer belong entirely to her. Al though I can’t see why.’ He stuffed
another piece of fish into his mouth, hurriedly, as if he were trying to hide it away. ‘The chit could easily lead a com fort able life on a quarter of the amount in the coffer.’
Henry sighed, leaning back against the carved oak of his chair. ‘I’ve told you, Ferchar, it’s not my decision, it’s the law. Although as her guardian you are in a position to offer any advice, remember. But the only person who has any claim on that money is Tavia and…her husband, should she choose to marry.’
‘Aha!’ Ferchar’s eyes lit up, and he all but bounced in the chair with excitement. ‘Should she choose to marry’, he repeated Henry’s words, rolling them around his mouth as if testing them.
In a corner of the great hall, a motley collection of musicians began to play a melody. The delicate sound of the lyre, mingling with the lighter warbling notes of the flute, lifted into the air, and the knights and ladies looked at each other and smiled, beginning to push back the trestle tables against the stone walls of the hall in anticipation of an evening of dancing.
‘Guard your tongue, Ferchar,’ Henry warned. ‘The women approach.’
A burst of colour at a side door to the great hall heralded Ada and Tavia’s entrance. Ada hung from Tavia’s arm, dragged at it even, laughing and chattering as they moved forwards through the throng of people towards the high dais where the nobility sat. Tavia’s face remained un responsive, despite Ada’s attentions. Her face, white and drawn, was set with tension.
I’ve done this to her, thought Benois, intricate her graceful approach, shocked by the weary nature of her steps. A surge of guilt rushed over him. I’m the one who’s pushed her away, torn apart the beauty of all that we’ve shared. How her appearance differed from how she had been in the woods—there, she had smiled, laughed with him, dressed only in her threadbare shift, the skin of her feet a pearled nakedness against the forest floor. Now, her beautiful hair had been secured into a great number of braids, looped into a complicated pat tern about her crown, whereas before the tresses had spilled out over her shoulders in complete abandon. Her gown, fashioned from expensive cloth, trailed along the floor behind her, slowing her movements. She looked trapped, beaten down by circumstances. The sooner he was out of her life, the better.
‘Come, sit and eat.’ Ferchar raised himself laboriously from his seat, indicating that the ladies should join them at the table. Tavia hung back slightly, so that Ada would take the empty seat next to Benois. She didn’t feel strong enough to with stand his hostility this evening; she felt wrung out, crushed. If she avoided him completely, then he wouldn’t be able to make her cry.
Slipping on to the bench beside Ada, she kept her head lowered, staring forlornly at her pewter plate, looking on doubtfully as Ada placed various items of food before her. To her eyes, the fare appeared limp, unappetising; in the flickering light of the hall, the fish gleamed with a slick film of grease, the bread appeared dry, stale. Her stomach churned. Ada’s shoulder jogged constantly against her own as she talked animatedly to Benois, who replied every now and again with a series of detached grunts. God in Heaven, thought Tavia, as she chewed and chewed on the brittle lump of bread, how much longer would she have to endure his presence? Every glance, however fleeting, every nuance of his voice, sent her heart springing hopelessly with joy, only to be withered a moment later by the grim reality of her situation. She loved him, but he didn’t love her. She had to face up to practicalities, and admit that she had allowed her head to be carried away by her heart.
‘I suppose Ada’s told you the good news, my lady?’ Tavia jumped as Ferchar’s voice boomed along the table towards her. She grabbed at her tankard, the dull metal of the pewter winking in the candle light as she lifted the vessel to her lips, gulping down the unpalatable crumbs of bread, before turning in the regent’s direction. ‘You’re a very rich young woman, now.’ Ferchar’s smile stretched wide across his yellow teeth.
Tavia inclined her head in acknowledgement at Ferchar’s revelation, endeavouring to avoid her eyes alighting on Benois’s brooding presence. The fortune meant nothing to her, nothing at all. All value, all purpose, had been deleted from her life, as if brilliant sunshine had disappeared suddenly behind a cloud, to leave everything grey and subdued. Without warning, the kindled ash of Benois’s eyes fastened to hers. Her breath hitched, snagged by the intense beauty of his face, so familiar to her now that it should not have caught her unawares. How unfair it was! Why could she not will her foolish body to remain in different to him, instead of flowering traitorously under every storm-wrecked glance. She twisted her eyes away from his powerful perusal, biting her lip as she fought to concentrate on the colourful ebb and flow of the dancers below.
A hand, warm and strong, curled around her shoulder. His hand!
‘Come and dance with me,’ Benois said from a point high above her head. The words rapped out as a command, not a request.
‘Oh, but she’s barely touched her…’ Ada started to protest, her words fading to a whisper as she noticed Benois’s expression. ‘You’d better go with him, Tavia.’ Ada leaned into her, whispering, ‘He looks really angry.’
‘My lady?’ Benois held out his hand, his fingers tanned and cal loused from years of handling horses. Tavia took a deep breath, knowing that to refuse him here would be to draw attention to herself, and slid her small hand into his, feeling the ridged edges of his scar press into her skin as he helped her up from the bench.
‘You’d better have a good explanation for this,’ she hissed as he pulled her down the wooden steps and into the body of the great hall.
‘Wait.’ He frowned at her to be silent as he led her into the dancing. All about them, smiling people twirled and bounced energetically, their faces flushed with the challenge of the steps and the up lifting chords of the music. Tavia knew the dance, and so, it seemed, did Benois. For a large man, he was surprisingly light on his feet, as they began to weave in and out of a chain of people. Then the demands of the dance meant people broke into couples and he caught her up into a slower circular movement.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Tavia managed to squeeze out, puffing a little with the exertion of the steps.
‘Because I want to talk to you, without them listening.’ His rapier glance sought out Ferchar and Henry on the dais. His hand moved from her waist and they clasped each other’s hands, taking one step away from each other.
‘It must be serious,’ she mocked him, still smarting from his cold behaviour towards her. ‘I would have thought dancing was the last thing you would want to do with me. Wouldn’t you prefer to be killing someone?’
He frowned at her scathing tone, taking one step forwards, so that they came together once more. ‘I realise you have every right to hate me.’ Her eyes flashed agreement at his words before his arm clamped around her waist to spin her around. For a moment, she lost all sense of time and space, knowing only the strong, muscular feel of his arm in the small of her back and the brawny smell of him emanating from the woollen tunic that he wore. ‘But you must listen, Tavia. You need to watch your back,’ he whispered in her ear as he began to lower her feet to the ground.
She pushed at his forearms, trying to unlock the steel manacle of his hold about her body, raising her eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ she shot back, her voice sharp with a sarcastic lilt.
He pulled her force fully towards him. ‘Ferchar is planning to marry you for your money.’
‘You…what?’ she gasped, shocked by his revelation.
‘Keep dancing,’ Benois ordered. ‘They watch us the whole time.’
‘How can you know this?’ Tavia moved away from him, linking arms and turning with several partners before coming back to Benois.
‘Something I over heard. Ferchar will not give up your father’s money without a fight.’
Tavia crossed her arms behind her back, mimicking Benois’s movement. Their fingers connected, held, as they followed the line of dancing couples. ‘He can’t marry me if I refuse. No one ca
n force someone to marry them.’
‘Don’t bet on it.’ Benois drew his thick eyebrows together. ‘You need to take your money, Tavia, and get away from this place.’
‘I can think for myself,’ she chanted back at him, defensively. An icy knowledge soaked through her bones—he wouldn’t be there to help her. She sighed; she had relied on him too much—now, she was on her own. ‘But thank you for the warning,’ she added, more formally this time.
‘Shh. Keep your voice down.’
The musicians in the corner finished the dance with a magnificent crescendo. Everyone bowed formally to their partners, faces flushed and excited from the exacting demands, both physical and mental, of the dance. Benois grabbed Tavia’s hand instinctively, aware that they had more to say to each other, but one glance over to the corner of the hall told him the musicians were taking a break, fetching their drinks and finding a seat. They had no choice but to wend their way back to the high dais, a slow process through the crowd of people.
Watching Benois’s handsome figure walk along side Tavia’s fresh beauty, Ferchar experienced the sting of jealousy flaring in his heart. He leaned towards Henry. ‘This isn’t the first time your man Benois has been at Dunswick.’
‘Really?’ Henry gulped back the contents of his goblet, grimacing as the dregs of wine hit the back of his throat. ‘I’m surprised.’
‘Aye, it was before…’ Ferchar waved his hand lazily as if to indicate some time in the past. ‘Tavia came here demanding money. Benois pre tended to be her husband, apologising for her brash behaviour. I saw right through it, of course.’
‘I see.’ Henry waved his arm at one of the serving girls, a signal for his goblet to be filled with wine.
‘There’s more than first meets the eye between those two.’
‘Aye, you’d be right there,’ Henry agreed, remembering the passionate parting kiss he had witnessed some days earlier in the court yard. ‘I’d make haste with your wedding plans, Ferchar, if you’re not to lose a wife, and I’m not to lose a good soldier.’
The Warrior’s Princess Bride Page 20