by Tamara Leigh
El felt her throat tighten, but though she longed to apologize for all she had caused him to endure, she said, “You have been sleeping here on the floor?”
“Hardly godly, but perhaps for this I am oft out of favor with God, hmm? Unable to dwell long in His presence and show the respect due Him.”
Recalling the early months of her first marriage when, day after day, hour after hour, she had exhorted God to right the injustice done her, El did not believe the Lord was moved by how much time one spent in His presence. If He was going to bring one out of darkness, it seemed He did so only when He was ready.
“I must return to my prayers,” Bayard said. “Go, and I will join you within the hour.”
She brought his face back to focus. “For what do you pray?”
He hesitated, said, “For more things than a man who has struggled long to be near God should have to pray. But this eve, I pray that the mistakes of our first marriages will not continue to bleed into this one.”
El’s heart constricted. So spoke the man she feared to trust despite all evidence he was not and had never been what was believed of him.
Though tempted to return to the solar and bundle herself back beneath the covers, she said, “I shall add my beseechings to yours,” and set the palm of her uninjured arm upon the floor and eased down beside him.
“Your injury, Elianor!” He moved to rise.
“’Tis no strain.” She turned her face to his. “And I wish to be here. With you.”
He frowned. “You are certain?”
“Of being here with you, aye. Of prayer…” She smiled apologetically. “I do not speak much to God other than, in passing, to send prayers and pleadings His way—just in case He is near enough to catch what I cast and, for once, inclined to act upon it.”
“Murdoch,” he growled.
It was not the direction she wished to go, but Bayard deserved to know. Holding his gaze, she said, “I prayed as long as I could. Over and over, I called upon the Lord to deliver me, but there was only silence—as if He condoned what was done to me.”
Bayard’s hand closed over hers. “Never would He condone such evil, Elianor.”
“I do not wish to believe it, but then what am I to believe? That He did not hear my cries? That—” Hearing her voice rise, she said more measuredly, “That He was not there? Ever?”
“He was there, Elianor. He heard your prayers.” It was said with such certainty she could almost feel his arms that had earlier held her while she cried. “Though I sometimes fail to remember in the midst of trial, as when I feared Godsmere was lost to me, He is not ours to command. We must wait on Him, even though we be mired in the pain and anger of injustice for what could amount to many years.”
“It seems too simple an explanation for His silence.”
“It does,” Bayard conceded, then asked, “Do you feel He has yet to answer the prayers you gave unto Him while wed to Farrow?”
She swallowed. “I was freed—finally—but how am I to know that was the work of the Lord?”
“You cannot, but if He did not intervene, perhaps it was because, in knowing what would come to pass, He instead set to preserving you through the waiting.” He gently squeezed her hand. “And do not doubt you were preserved, Elianor, for are you not here with me this eve? A night distant from all those other nights?”
Far distant. Here was hope—on the chapel floor with this man who had once been her enemy.
“A night distant even from last eve when you could have been lost to me?” he pressed on.
How sweet that there was someone who might feel the loss of her. Sweeter yet, his words were laced with sincerity not unlike when he had spoken of his fear of losing Godsmere.
She relaxed into the smile his words coaxed from her. “I wish to believe it.”
“Do, if not from my lips, then Father Crispin’s. ’Tis as he oft counsels, much to his frustration.”
Within El arose a memory of the priest on the morn they broke camp to ride on Castle Mathe. He had said Bayard deserved better than her, and it seemed he was right. “Father Crispin has a care for you,” she said.
“He does. We have long been friends—since I was a boy of six and he served as a stable boy to the Foucaults.”
Another Foucault connection. Another family intimacy revealed. More hope. “I am glad.”
Bayard drew her hand to his mouth, kissed her fingers, and turned his face to the floor.
CHAPTER THIRTY
This time, Elianor was the one who gave herself over to sleep during prayer.
Having been too absorbed in his meeting with God to hear her breathing deepen and feel her hand slacken in his, Bayard stared at her profile and was tempted to run a finger across the tips of her lashes, down her small nose, over her bowed upper lip.
That was not all he wished to do, and not merely because she was lovely to look upon. Despite the near ruinous beginning to their relationship, and that she refused to trust him despite his struggle to exercise control over anger and frustration, he felt more for her than he had for Constance who had been just as comely when he had made her his bride. Though alarmed to feel so much so soon for his second wife, there had to be redemption in that he was drawn to her for more than her outward beauty. Indeed, he thought that even were he to lose all sight, he would be no less attracted to Elianor.
Dear Lord, he once more turned his thoughts heavenward, I would not ask that there be love between us, for I would not venture again to such pretentious depths of emotion, but I beseech that Elianor and I find mutual contentment in our marriage.
In the chapel that was spared darkness only by the fortitude of the few remaining candles, Bayard raised himself from the floor. Careful to avoid jostling his wife’s splinted arm, he gently turned her onto her back.
She murmured, but did not rouse when he lifted her and straightened.
Musing that he was making a habit of carrying her to bed, grateful this night was different from the night past when he had found her broken within the inner walls, he traversed the chapel and worked the door.
As expected, Rollo was alert where he stood in the corridor.
“I thank you for keeping watch over Lady Elianor,” Bayard said low. “She is my responsibility now. Gain your rest.”
The big man eyed the woman whose head rested on his lord’s shoulder. “This ‘un will stay, milord?”
The question was not unexpected, for Rollo had once been fond of Constance, her betrayal and removal from Adderstone having caused him to become morose for months thereafter. Of course, that aura had been well seeded by Bayard and Quintin who had suffered more deeply and longer as a result of Constance’s faithlessness.
Bayard looked to Elianor. “She will stay and be mother to my sons and daughters.”
“Wee ones,” Rollo said with a crooked smile.
God willing, once their marriage was consummated. But now, with her injury…
Bayard assured himself there was time aplenty, said, “Good eve, Rollo,” and stepped forward.
The man’s ability to quickly maneuver his great bulk always something over which to marvel, he reached the solar first and opened the door. “God eve, milord,” he rasped and quietly closed the door behind his lord and lady.
As Bayard crossed the chilled, shadow-draped chamber, he set his mind to kindling the fire once he had Elianor abed. But when he lowered her to the rumpled sheet, her softly parted lips moved him to an inopportune awareness of his body, and moved him further when he recalled her responses to his mouth upon hers.
He did not doubt that she wanted him more than Constance had wanted him. But was it desire only? Could it be something more?
“Bayard?”
He raised his gaze to Elianor’s half-opened eyes. “Aye, ’tis me,” he assured her. “Rest easy.” As he drew back, she swept her uninjured arm up and curled a hand around his neck.
“Stay,” she whispered.
“Worry not, lady wife, I shall be here when next you
awaken.”
“That is not what I mean. I would have you more than stay. I would have you…” She drew a deep breath. “I would be your wife in full.”
“Your arm,” he reminded her in a voice so strained he hardly recognized it.
She pushed her fingers through the hair at his nape. “Surely it is not needed?”
It was not. Imagining the taste of her mouth so near his, he said, “You truly wish this, Elianor? This night?”
“I do.”
“Out of obligation?”
“Nay.”
Feeling the pound of his heart, he gave her one last opportunity to reconsider. “To make children?”
He knew the moment she took hold of that one, for though the space between them remained constant, he felt her lurch away.
“There will be a better time,” he said and would have withdrawn if not that her hand gripped his scalp and he caught the glitter of her tears. “Elianor?”
“When you thought I was Thomasin, you told that among the reasons you had not taken Elianor of Emberly to wife was because she had not provided her first husband with an heir.”
As understanding moved through him, she continued, “Though often enough he—” Her breath rushed out and back in. “Many were the times I could have grown round with child, and I did not. Perhaps because ever I prayed I would not birth a child made to suffer him for a father, perhaps because he was incapable of sowing children, or perhaps because my womb is barren.” A sob escaped her. “You want and need an heir, Bayard.”
Her anxiety—and the pain behind it—was so sincere he felt his heart strain against the walls he had fortified on all sides of it.
Elianor eased her hand from the back of his head, drew it down his jaw, dropped it to her chest. “A far better match I would have made for Griffin de Arell who already has his heir. Had you wed Lady Thomasin, she would likely bear you children, and your sister…”
Bayard tensed.
“Any sons born of her union with De Arell will be of less consequence than the son his first wife gave him.” She searched his face. “Had I not imprisoned you, your sister would have wed Magnus and been the mother of his heir.”
Bayard did not want to think about Quintin who, despite what Elianor believed, could prove better wed to De Arell. He did not want to ponder the need for an heir that, in that moment, seemed of little consequence. And he certainly did not want any woman other than this one in his bed.
And with that last silent admission, he realized that what he felt for Elianor was like—and yet not like—what he had felt for Constance.
Impossible. But if possible, foolish. And if foolish, dangerous.
Not impossible, he accepted, and though he knew he ought to be ashamed, there was only the truth. He had not dared pray for there to be love between Elianor and him, and perhaps there was not. But it was present on one side of them.
Lord help me. Once more I am a fool. I love this woman.
“I fear I have ruined all, Bayard. Could I change what I did—”
“I would not have you change it,” he said gruffly.
“But—”
“It is in God’s hands.” He lowered his head toward hers. “Let Him do with it as He wills.” He touched his mouth to hers, and when she allowed that small intimacy, angled his head and deepened the kiss.
She was still so long he feared she would not be roused again, that though he might share the bed with her, their backs would be turned to each other. But then, tentatively, becoming bolder with each replenishing breath, she gave back. And when he moved to her ear, she whispered, “I so like your kisses. They are far different from…”
He nearly growled her first husband’s name, but he would not have the knave any more present than already he was. “My word I give, Elianor, what comes after the kisses will also be far different—not merely payment of the marital debt.”
Her answer was nearly all breath. “Show me, Bayard.”
He straightened, drew off his tunic, and dropped the garment to the rushes.
Wide-eyed, she lowered her gaze from his face to his throat, lingered. Considered his shoulders, drew a deep breath. Moved her eyes down his chest to the waistband of his chausses, swallowed hard. But as he started to join her on the bed, she said, “Pray, would you add to the fire?”
It was as he had meant to do when he had carried her inside, but he did not think it was only the cold she wished to allay. The shadows were likely of greater concern—her wish to see clearly it was he who came to her.
He crossed to the hearth, and when he returned minutes later, light ran up the chamber’s walls and flickered across the ceiling.
Wordlessly, Elianor scooted to the center of the bed.
Bayard lowered to the mattress, propped himself on an elbow, and peered into her face.
She slid her tongue over lips that tentatively rose toward a smile, face flushed so deeply there was no masking the color of her discomfort.
He brushed the backs of his fingers across her heated cheek and, feeling her startle, asked, “Are you sure you are accustomed to me, Elianor?”
Her smile softened. “Speak my name again.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Elianor.”
She momentarily lowered her lids. “No one has ever spoken it the way you do. And never have I liked it better.”
Why the revelation should make him desire her more, he did not know, but he put his mouth to her ear and said more slowly, “Elianor, wife of Bayard Boursier of Castle Adderstone upon the barony of Godsmere. Elianor.”
She turned her face to his. “I am accustomed,” she murmured, and loosened the belt and parted the robe.
The gesture was so beguiling—so sensual—he was grateful for the chemise beneath that aided in keeping his passion in check.
Slowly, he reminded himself. There is only one first time, and if she is to leave Farrow behind, you must be Bayard to her. Only Bayard.
He claimed her lips, and later, when she softened and whispered his name and returned his kisses, he slid a hand inside the robe.
She allowed it, and he ventured further.
Knowing that never again would he don the robe without remembering this night when the woman who was not yet ready to trust him in full, had trusted him enough to yield the gift of her body, he began to unclothe her.
First, the robe—momentary tension, barely perceptible startles. Next, the chemise—prolonged tension, evident startles.
He kissed her eyelids. “I can stop, Elianor. You have but to speak.”
She opened her eyes. “I do not wish you to stop. I want to know it can be like your kisses.”
“That is not asking much,” he said, then hoped he had not spoken too loosely. Despite the intimacy of giving one’s breath unto the other, it did not compare to what happened when two became one—providing she could be moved to feel something near what he was certain he would experience with her. More, providing she did not feign to feel what she did not, as Constance had done.
Bayard nearly cursed to find that other woman here, resented that she and Farrow conspired to deny Elianor and him their long-awaited wedding night.
Determined to shut them out, he said, “My word I give, I will not hurt you.”
She smiled. “This I know.”
He moved his gaze down her, next his hands. Pausing often to allow her bouts of tension to ease, he lingeringly touched her throat, chest, and abdomen—all the way down to the soles of her feet. He lightly caressed her ankles, thighs, and hips—all the way up to her fingers that meshed with his. Restrainedly, he kissed her neck, jaw, and ear—all the way in to her soft mouth.
And when her body asked it of him, he made her his wife in full.
“It did not hurt.”
El gasped, but it was too late to catch back words that were childishly full of wonder, for already they were in her ears, meaning they were in Bayard’s—unless he had been taken by sleep.
It was hope without merit. Against her back, where he ha
d drawn her into the curve of his body after making love to her, she felt a break in the rise and fall of his chest.
Closing her eyes upon the chamber that the slayer of shadows—the fire Bayard had kindled—refused to yield to the night, El prayed her thoughtless words had not spoiled what they had shared. Unlike with Murdoch, from whom she had learned how sensitive a man could be regarding his prowess upon the sheets, she had not spoken in hopes of dousing Bayard’s desire. It was relief-induced contentment that had set her thoughts upon her tongue.
He lifted his hand from her hip, brushed her hair aside, and swept her ear with his breath. “I am glad, Elianor. But there is more to joining one’s body with another’s than merely the absence of pain. I would have you also enjoy it.”
Warming in remembrance of how patient he had been, of the places he had touched, of her name upon his lips—and his upon hers—she said, “Pray, forgive me. Though I know I did not feel what you did, you awakened in me things heretofore unknown. Things most…pleasant.”
He parted his body from hers, turned her onto her back, and leaned over her. “’Tis I who should beg forgiveness.” His husky voice warmed the space between them. “I did not stay the course.”
She moved her gaze from his patched eye to the one that reflected light. “What course?”
“To go slowly. And I did, for as long as I could, but you are much too desirable. Had I waited—”
“I did not wish you to wait any longer.” She laid a hand to his stubbled jaw. “You promised it would be different from…”
Memories, unlike those made this night, slipped through, seeking to splatter their darkness upon this moment.
“Elianor?”
She returned Bayard’s face to focus, slid her thumb across his lips in the hope he found her touch as pleasing as she found his. “It was different, but not only in that it did not pain me. I speak true when I say I was moved. Indeed, were I never to feel more than that with which you gifted me, I would ever be content to share this bed with you.”