by Tamara Leigh
Boursier put a hand beneath her jaw, lifted her chin. “And so we begin,” he said.
There was not enough light to see him clearly, but she saw his head lower and felt his breath across her face.
“You need not do this, not now,” she pitched her voice low so those outside would not hear. Such was her pride—born from humiliation earned in Murdoch’s household when, as a new bride at the age of ten and six, she had pleaded for aid in subverting his cruelty. Her efforts had earned her the pitying regard of women servants and the taunts and sly glances of Murdoch’s men. “I give you my word that my virtue is long gone, that were I examined, no maiden would be found.”
His mouth brushed hers, and he pushed the mantle off her shoulders.
“Bayard!” she gasped.
The hand that searched up her side laces stilled. “Now I am Bayard to you?”
“Bayard,” she said again, hoping her concession would give him pause long enough for her to convince him to further delay consummation.
He laughed, then swung her up against his chest and strode to the rear of the tent where he lowered her atop a pile of blankets.
Finding herself on her back and unable to rise for the man above her, she tried to roll to the side, but he returned to the place between neck and shoulder that, on the night past, had done something nearly as devastating as his kiss had done this eve. And it was happening again, easing the tension from her and loosing her breath on a small, voiced sigh.
In that moment, she knew the traitor in her would yield. And in the midst of the pain to come, Bayard Boursier would gain indisputable evidence there was nothing virtuous about her. But proving him wrong could be bittersweet if the blame for her barren womb was Murdoch’s and she found herself with child—she who was not Thomasin and, thus, not truly wed to this man.
The hopelessness of it caused her eyes to pool. Alarmed, she squeezed them closed, for tears had never served her well with Murdoch. Indeed, he had liked them so much that one of her first acts of defiance had been to wield their absence against him. It had not stopped him, just as her struggles had little effect, but there had been some satisfaction in lessening his enjoyment.
Still more tears squeezed from beneath her lids, evidencing the past three years under her uncle’s protection had been too kind. Then a sob slipped past her lips.
Bayard lifted his head. “Thomasin?”
Wondering at the concern in his voice, she struggled to keep further sounds of distress from escaping, but her chest convulsed with another sob.
He drew back, asked again, “Thomasin?”
Was it possible a woman’s tears affected him in a way they had not affected Murdoch—that rather than rouse him, they stayed him? If so, had her aunt made use of them?
Continuing to suppress her own misery, she tried to fathom Bayard’s face above hers, but it was too dark to determine if anything in his expression reflected what was in his voice.
Deciding she had little to lose and, perhaps, much to gain, she did not hold in the next sob, nor ease the tremble in her voice when she said, “Pray, do not do this. As God is my witness, I have no innocence left to plunder.”
In the silence, she was struck by the thought that even a woman wed twenty years who had birthed a handful of children would have more innocence about her than the one who had been Murdoch’s wife for only two years.
“I am tired, Thomasin,” Bayard said. “More than I want you, I want my rest, and could we do this another night, we would.” His sigh warmed her face. “But you are my wife, you are a Boursier, and no matter if we battle ’til the end of our days, ours is a marriage. It lacks only proof you are no longer a maiden.”
Then tears would not dissuade him.
He lowered his head, and his mouth touched hers so gently it nearly made her forget she was trapped beneath him and would soon be reacquainted with pain such as she had not known in years. Nearly.
Panic welled, and she thrust her hands to his chest, causing his mouth to loosen. “There is proof aplenty I am no maiden,” she said and should have stopped there, but she could not contain her desperation. “In the most unholy manner, I have been defiled. Time and again and again!”
Bayard drew a deep breath. “Let us be done with—” He jerked as the meaning of her words unfolded. Though earlier she had boasted of numerous lovers, this was no boast. This was dark. And ugly.
Which was the lie? Or might both be lies? Both true? He had heard that before her mother dispatched her to her noble father three years past, Thomasin had labored in the household of a great lord. And some nobles believed it was their right to bed women who served them, willing or otherwise, even those as young as Thomasin would have been. Had that been her fate? One ravishment after another?
Anger roused by the possibility she had suffered such, he searched backward through his experiences with her and stopped upon what she had spoken on the night past when she had come up out of her dream threatening to kill the one who stalked her behind her lids.
You are not the man of my dream, she had said. That one is dead. And rather than regret, she had exuded something between relief and satisfaction.
If it was true she had been abused, not merely another attempt to secure forfeiture of his lands, it would explain much about her—so much he was inclined to believe her. And it made him feel like a cur for trying to seduce her so the vanquished might yield up what she feared to yield. Indeed, what she might ever fear to yield if he did not more carefully handle this woman with whom he was destined to spend his life.
Peering at her face below his, he wished there was enough light to make out her features. “Thomasin?”
He heard her swallow, felt her chest quake.
Easing his weight off her, he lifted a hand to her face and felt moisture upon her cheek. “I did not know,” he said, then slid an arm beneath her, rolled onto his back, and pulled her atop him.
She gave a little cry and tried to scramble off, but he held her there, and after some moments, she rasped, “Wh-what are you doing?”
“Taking a risk in giving you time to become accustomed to my person and my touch.”
“Then you will not… I will not be made to pay the marital debt?”
“Marital debt,” he muttered with distaste. “Nay, not this eve.”
Where she lay trembling atop him, head raised as if she might better peer into his face than he had been able to peer into hers, he felt suspicion spring up alongside fear, and he was fairly certain of its source.
“Agatha and her lies have no place between us,” he said gruffly. “Leave her where she is.”
Hearing her teeth click, hoping it was from chill and not fear, he reached to the side, grasped the blankets they lay upon, and pulled them over her. “Sleep, Thomasin.”
“If I must lie with you, can it not be at your side?”
“So you shall, but this is where we begin.”
“I do not understand.”
“As told, you must become accustomed to me, and I can think of no better way to accomplish that and gain your trust than this.” At least, for as long as he could bear being so near her. Were he not fatigued—more, disturbed by what she had revealed—it might be unbearable now.
After some moments, she scooted down him, causing him to grit his teeth, and gingerly settled her cheek against the hollow of his throat and her hands to his shoulders. Not unbearable, but close, especially with the mussed hair atop her head tickling his chin and her breath feathering his collarbone.
Determinedly, he turned his thoughts to the one who had committed the atrocity against his wife such that she viewed lovemaking as no more than what the Church named the marital—or conjugal—debt. How would he render justice were the man not dead as told? Such brooding proved a good distraction until Thomasin pulled him back to an awareness of her body against his.
“I know you hate Agatha,” she whispered, “but she has been good to me. Indeed, I may even owe her my life.”
He doubted
that.
“You will not let her die, will you, Bayard?”
Deciding it best not to discuss the woman, he said, “Go to sleep.”
“But—”
“To sleep, Thomasin.”
For what seemed hours, he stared at the canopy overhead and twisted his thoughts around the one who had defiled her. Throughout, she remained tense, evidencing sleep also eluded her—until he removed his arm from her waist to draw the blankets closer against the chill winter air.
The breath shuddered out of her. Though he had intended to hold to her throughout the night, he lowered his arm to his side. Minutes later, her breathing turned slow and deep.
Wondering if he would ever be able to intimately touch her as a husband ought to be able to do, he joined her in sleep.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Someone was sighing.
Wonderfully warm, happily muddled, El wondered if it was her. The next softly voiced breath confirmed it. But what was so pleasurable that she was sighing in this space between sleep and awakening?
That you are safe, said the soothing voice it had taken a year to come near to believing. That you are alone in your bed. That there is no threat of Murdoch coming to you. That all you need do is rest and float and worry not what lies in wait. Safe, El. Now and evermore.
“Evermore,” she whispered, and frowned when her lips brushed something. Or had something brushed her lips? The latter, she realized as it lightly traced the lower curve, then the bow above.
Not safe, a voice railed against the soothing one. Not alone. What cruel game does Murdoch play?
“Thomasin, I must needs rise.”
This time a sharply indrawn breath sounded from her. Not Murdoch. Not her name spoken.
She lifted her head. In the bit of light that told the new day had dawned, she met the gaze of the man who lay beneath her.
All that had been forgotten in sleep tumbled back. Though she was hardly safe and certainly not alone, she nearly laughed with relief to see it was Bayard Boursier with whom she shared a bed. “Oh,” she said, becoming aware of the sounds of an awakening camp. “Is it over?”
“Over?” His frown was more heard than seen.
She moistened her lips. “Your attempt to accustom me to your person.”
“Aye,” he drawled, “for now—though my attempt, as you call it, proved most effective.”
She was afraid to ask, but said, “How is that?”
“You are still here, are you not? And without me holding to you throughout the night.”
There was no disputing that. Though she had awakened to his touch upon her lips, she was not anchored to him in any way—had made of him her pillow the whole night. Discomfited, she said, “Certes, I was tired.”
“And content,” he said, this time with what sounded like a smile.
“I was not!”
He chuckled, a sound she did not expect. “Where are your arms, Thomasin?”
Up around his shoulders, hands clasped behind his neck.
“Though you made yourself quite comfortable,” he continued, “such comfort was denied me. Despite giving me little reason to rejoice in taking you to wife, it cannot be said you are undesirable. For that, I attempted to move you to my side partway through the night, but you would have none of it.”
“I do not believe you.” She hated herself for the retort that was pitifully disproved by the fact she had yet to loosen her hold on him.
“I assure you,” he said as she slid her hands from his neck to his shoulders, “I am not in the habit of torturing myself.”
She pushed off him, dropped to her knees beside him, and shed the blankets as she rose to her feet.
Boursier was nearly as quick to rise. As he straightened, he gripped his right shoulder and began kneading the muscles. “Unfortunately, I am the one who shall pay for your lesson.”
Guilt rushed through her, but she turned from him.
“Remain within,” he said and stepped away. He tossed back the tent flap, letting in a gust of chill air that made her shiver. “Thomasin?”
El looked up.
“Do not inconvenience me by making me chase after you again.”
Inconvenience. That was all her efforts had amounted to. Thus, this day he would learn the truth about the woman he had not truly wed. If there was any good in it, it was that there would be no further opportunities for her to humiliate herself by clinging to him through the night and returning kisses she did not want.
She sighed. “I shall aspire to take myself in hand.”
He glowered, dropped the flap, and left her to her dread.
How her conscience recoiled—so much it angered her. She should not feel remorse for the blow Boursier would be dealt this day, not after what he had done to her aunt. And yet…
The man who could have worked such wicked things upon her, and justified them to himself, had time and again pulled back from that edge, almost as if it was one with which he was unfamiliar. Or, perhaps, he no longer was. But people did not change that much, did they?
Tell him, her cautious side urged. It will not bode well, but it will be far worse if you hand that honor to Griffin de Arell.
She released a billowing breath, glanced over her shoulder at where Boursier conversed with his knights.
She should tell him. But what if, by some miracle, she were able to escape and save Magnus the misery of her recklessness? Even if it could be proved he knew nothing of her plan, as her guardian he would also pay a price.
“I cannot tell him,” she whispered and caught the sound of footsteps amid the clank and jangle of armor.
She did not need to look around to know it was Boursier. Though she had avoided his gaze since exiting the tent a short while past, she looked across her shoulder as he drew alongside.
“’Tis time,” he said.
El stared at what the light of day lit that the dark of night had not. His eyebrows and the hair at his brow were singed as if he had drawn near a flame.
“The fire!” she blurted. “You did come for me.”
His lips thinned. “You are my wife.”
Hating that he did not make it easy to loathe him, she murmured, “I am grateful, and I…” She drew a breath. “I am sorry my behavior placed you and your squire in danger.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Dare I hope that means you will not behave rashly in future? Or is that too much a part of you, Thomasin?”
Not Thomasin, as he would soon learn. Elianor, as he would also learn unless she somehow kept her identity hidden. Regardless, great anger and dishonor he would know when he once more found himself reduced to a fool.
Tell him, the voice came again. Tell him while there is still time.
Leaving his question unanswered, she lowered her gaze down his figure that was outfitted for battle should the drawing of blood prove necessary to bring his sister home. But even in the absence of so much plate and chain mail armor, he was imposing, his presence alone commanding respect.
Respect that will be trampled when he learns of his error, the voice came again. For a man such as The Boursier, that could prove a fate worse than forfeiture of his lands.
El struggled to stay the course, but regardless of his past sins, she could not ignore that he had not added to them since divesting her of her role as captor, though she had certainly given him good cause to sin against her. There was nothing she could do about his lands, but she could at least spare him the public humiliation of having been duped by a woman.
“I will help you mount,” he said and turned away.
“Bayard?”
He looked across his shoulder. “I am pleased I am still that to you.”
Her use of his Christian name had not been intentional, and she wished it did not come so easily. “There is something I must needs tell you. Something that will spare you looking the fool.”
His gaze narrowed. “What do you play at now?”
“Naught. When you captured me, you assumed I was Thomasin de Arell
, and I did not set you right.” She swallowed hard. “I should have.”
He stared at her, growled, “I am full up with your games. Like it or nay, this day your father learns who is your lord.”
El pulled a hand from beneath her mantle and closed it around his forearm. “I vow, De Arell is not my father, and if you attempt to present me as such, all you will gain is scorn and laughter.” She shook her head. “I would not have that.”
A muscle in his jaw jerked. “I am to believe you have a care for me—for my pride?”
“I should not, but I do. Your lands may be forfeit, but there is no reason to make matters worse by presenting to De Arell a woman who is not his daughter. Nor your wife.”
His nostrils flared.
“’Tis true, Bayard. The marriage is invalid, for it was not Thomasin de Arell with whom you spoke vows.”
“Then who?” he demanded, though his singular gaze told he did not believe her.
Inwardly, El squirmed. She knew escape was less possible now, but there was nothing to gain and could be more to lose by revealing she was Magnus Verdun’s niece. She raised her chin higher. “Not Thomasin de Arell.”
He pulled her hand from his arm and lifted it before her face. It was the ring he showed her. “Aye, Thomasin Boursier. And there is naught you can do to change that. As long as the king demands it, my wife you shall remain.”
El stepped nearer him. “Pray, Bayard—”