His obvious referral to the hoped-for child chilled her. Yet it was not that but his very calmness, his inability to lose himself in her, in them, that frightened her so much. Her voice was more husky than she intended. “You need come to me no more Benedict. Your purpose has been accomplished. I am with child.”
Benedict felt the words hit him with the force of a blow. The loneliness in her voice, the strangeness of her withdrawal, which had come so closely upon a moment of such deep connection and wondrous pleasure, deadened him for a moment to the sheer import of her words.
And then, in spite of his confusion and concern, the words penetrated his mind. Raine was with child.
With child. Saints be praised, he was to have an heir, possibly even a son who would carry on the family name.
Pride swelled inside him like a newly ripened apple left out in the warmth of the sun. For a moment he was filled to overflowing with the unlimited joy of that news.
But then it was completely overshadowed by her other words. He need not come to her again. Regret filled him, replaced his ecstatic emotions with indescribable sadness.
Though he had not felt a repeat of that mystifying experience he had known with her in the woods, he had felt a tenderness and care that he had never imagined. And now, she was sending him away.
He did not wish to feel such a close and tender bond with this unpredictable hoyden. Without a word, Benedict rose from the bed. In spite of the warmth of the spring night outside the open window, he felt chilled as he never had before. Quickly he reached down and took up his clothing.
When he looked around again, Raine had moved to gaze out the window. The rigid line of her back did not invite conversation.
Even as he watched her he was again assaulted by misery. They were to have a child. He wanted to go to her and hold her in his arms, kiss her, cry his joy into the heavy curtain of her hair. Wanted to again experience that moment of complete joining.
He wanted to ask her what had happened, what had made her turn from him this way, but he could not. Not when her rejection had come so completely without warning, or warrant. Unless she had some notion of repaying him for his perceived wrongs against her, in which case he could not allow her to think she could use her whims against him by reacting to this.
She had made her feelings very clear.
So be it. She would have this her way. Spinning on his heel, he left the chamber.
Chapter Thirteen
Restless, Raine paced the stone floor. She could not sleep, could not sit, could not reason. The realization that she was in love with Benedict played over and over again in her mind—the impossible, irrefutable reality of it. As did her horror at this devastating fact. She was ever reminded of just how firmly Benedict was entrenched in his role of lord defender to all at Brackenmoore.
Every dreadful detail of their conversation and lovemaking came again and again, relentlessly—along with Maeve’s assurances that Benedict would take care of her as he did everyone else. Raine did not wish to be cared for in that way. She wished to be loved as she loved her husband, with all her heart and soul. If only what he offered could be enough! If only she did not wish so badly, in that deep, secret place inside herself, that Benedict would love her.
Yet it was not enough. Raine did wish he loved her, could not accept any less. Not if she wished to retain any self-respect. How could she accept so little when the yawning ache in her heart told her that she had already given so very much?
Raine groaned, running a hand through her tousled hair. The heavy silence of the keep seemed to close in upon her in the dark here alone. She could not spend another entire night this way. If only she had something besides her troubles to occupy her mind. A sudden and unexpected image entered her mind. The library. Never in her life would Raine have imagined so many books in one place.
Without thinking, she took the lit candle from the table and moved to the door. There she hesitated.
The library was obviously Benedict’s sanctuary. Her husband had appeared very much at home in that carved wooden chair. He would not welcome her intrusion there.
Immediately she drew herself up. What cared she for Benedict’s opinion? She was his wife and was due some deference. He had repeatedly insisted that Brackenmoore was her home. If he begrudged her entry to his library it was no concern of hers. She jerked open the portal and made her way down the hall.
The castle was so still and dark at this hour. Filled with self-righteousness as she was, Raine was glad she did not have to go through the great hall to get to the library. She would not have wished to try to explain why she was wandering the keep in the dead of night, even though she continued to assure herself that she had the right to do as she pleased.
When she reached the closed library door, Raine paused, wondering if it would be kept locked when not in use. Shrugging, she turned the handle. It swung open on well-oiled hinges, and she told herself that it had been foolish of her to think otherwise. Benedict was far too self-assured to worry about locking anyone out of his room.
Once inside she looked about, seeing how the shelves full of books cast eerie shadows all around her. She realized that her one candle did not shed sufficient light for her purpose. She went to the table, certain that there would be more candles there. Her assumption proved accurate. Quickly she lit the two candles she found.
It was only as she was placing the second down on the table that her gaze came to rest on a sheet of parchment that lay open upon its surface. Before she even realized she was doing so she read the name that was signed with great flourish at the bottom: Alister Harcourt.
Somehow that name seemed familiar, and she searched her mind for the reason. Finally the answer came. It was the name of the man Benedict had spoken to King Edward about the first time she had seen him. Biting her lower lip, she moved closer, curiosity getting the better of her.
Quickly she read the document. A troubled frown knit her brow as she took in the threatening and angry tone. Obviously the king’s intercession had been for naught. The man was demanding to be met on the field of honor.
In spite of the fact that Benedict was more than capable of looking after himself, she felt a trace of anxiety. Yet she knew he would not thank her for it, would likely think her a fool. She sighed heavily, regretfully.
As she did so a sound behind her made Raine start. She looked up, into the coolly assessing eyes of her husband.
It was only long after he had gone to his bed that Benedict realized he had left the letter from Alister Harcourt lying open on the table. He did not wish to believe that his sleeplessness had anything to do with the way Raine had sent him away after telling him that they were to have a child. Nor did he want it to have anything to do with the strange longing that gripped him each time he thought of the tenderness he had felt as he made love to her.
Nay, it was only because of the letter. He did not wish for anyone to see it, as he had shared none of the ongoing conflict with anyone but his steward, who had arranged for the letters to be carried back and forth between them.
Benedict did not want others to know because he did not want Tristan to learn of it, even inadvertently.
When he arrived to find the library door open and a light coming from inside, he paused. But when he stepped through the opening and saw his wife standing bent over the very letter that had brought him from his bed in the dead of night, he felt a scowl mar his brow.
Raine, who had no care for him nor anything he stood for, was the last person he would share such a problem with. But then she sighed, a heavy, lonely sigh, and he felt an unexpected sense of regret, his own breath escaping in an answering sigh.
At the sound of it she looked up and met his gaze, giving a start. Putting her hand to her lips, she looked down at the letter, then up at him again as she backed away. “I…excuse my intrusion. I did not mean…” At his continued silence she drew herself up and spoke haughtily. “Your letter was lying there and I…You should not have left it if you did
not wish for others to see it.” She shrugged off-handedly, making it clear that she considered it entirely his fault that she had read it.
Benedict was not quite prepared to accept this. If there was one thing he did know, it was that Raine had been completely aware that she was trespassing when she read the letter. Her guilty start had been proof enough of that.
Yet he doubted very much that she would ever admit it. He moved forward to take the missive into his own hands, rolling it carefully. “I did not expect anyone to sneak in to read my private correspondence behind my back.”
She stiffened, her body as rigid as the steel of her will. “I did not sneak in here behind your back. Would not lower myself to do such a thing.” She gestured about them. “I but came for a book, if that is not overstepping myself too greatly.”
Benedict felt his irritation ease slightly. However intentional she had been in reading the missive, she had not come here for the express purpose of doing so. He sighed again. As she’d so helpfully indicated, it had been he who had left it out. Fairness made him say, “Your pardon, Raine. I do believe you. As you said, it is through my own fault that it was lying here. Anyone could have come upon it.” He registered her obvious surprise at his words even as he went on. “I ask only that you do not talk with anyone of what you have read.”
With a grimace of sudden animosity she said, “And whom would I tell? Aside from William I am alone here.”
Now Benedict frowned, starting forward. “You are not alone here. Why do you persist in speaking this way? Why must you declare yourself the outsider at every turn when it is by your own will?”
Her mouth dropped open in obvious shock, even as she took a step toward him. “What say you? That I am alone here by my own will? Pray tell me why I would believe this, when you display to me on each and every day that I am nothing to you?”
He shook his head. “You are making no sense. It is you, Raine, who wishes to keep yourself separate from all here, including me. I have tried to make concessions to you, to our marriage. You know that I have responsibilities, that I cannot simply put aside all that I stand for in order to please you. It is you who wishes to continue a conflict between us. You sent me away from you after speaking of our child, the heir to all I hold dear, as if it were no more than a vexation to you, simply to revenge the slight you felt I had given to you. I understand why you were upset with me…I did not treat you as I should, but I did all I could in begging your forgiveness and hoping to start afresh.”
Her eyes narrowed as he went on, and she folded her arms tightly across her chest. Her reaction gave Benedict a growing sense of unease. When she spoke again he realized that his discomfort had only just begun.
Raine felt the anger that she had been trying to suppress since the previous night rise up inside her in a rushing tide. She could no longer withhold her resentment. “You have made concessions? I am vexed at the fact that I carry your child? You see all as it relates to you and Brackenmoore and nothing else. You care nothing for me. Yes, I was angry with you for the way you treated me. You, who put your hands upon me that night in the forest, made love to me as if the world were soon to end, then walked away from me. But that is not why I cannot rejoice in the coming of my own babe—” Her voice broke, but she recovered immediately, her gaze hard on his. “Can you expect anything else when you have made it abundantly clear that your one continuing interest in me has been that of getting me with child? It is true, Benedict, that I do owe you much, but I do not owe you all of myself when you have naught to give in return.”
She saw the chagrin that colored his face before he quickly tried to hide it behind that damnable mask of reserve, but the mask slipped again as he replied in a too husky voice, “That is not what I meant to…”
Raine watched in amazement as, for the first time since she had met him, Benedict seemed to lose the tight hold he had over his emotions. “Raine, I am…forgive…it was not my intent…Dear God, Raine, please forgive me for the way I treated you.” He halted, running a hand over his face.
Raine did not know what to say to this. She had thought Benedict indifferent to her, but his reaction to her diatribe made her wonder if he was not completely unaffected by her sorrow.
He buried his face in his hands. “Forgive me, I did not know what I had done.”
The very depth of his uncharacteristic display told her that this discussion was achingly painful for him. Something was dreadfully wrong for him to become so overset by what she had said, and she could not believe it was because of her. Yet whatever it was ran deep. She sank down in the chair behind her, for her legs felt suddenly as if they would not hold her.
Shock made her forget she did not wish to give away her own hurt and anxiety. Her voice was no more than a whisper as she asked, “Why, Benedict, why do you treat me thus? I thought…”
He shook his head. “I cannot explain. Only know that I did not mean to hurt you, had not realized how much my actions had affected you.”
She raised her hands in question. “How could you not see? You just…” She flushed, realizing just how much of her hurt and shame she was giving away, but unable to stop herself as she went on. “I have given myself to you as my husband. And I thought that we might be making a start on more than one occasion. Yet…”
“I have wanted that, too, but things have been…” His face hardened to granite even as she watched. “You would not understand. I have told you repeatedly that I cannot forget who I am, what my responsibilities are.”
Raine did not know what he was talking about. She was not asking for him to forget anything, knew that nothing would ever come before Brackenmoore in his mind. She had wanted only a small place in his life, his affections. Yet he denied her that without even being aware of it.
He interrupted her painful thoughts with a roughly voiced query. “What would you have of me, Raine?”
Angrily she answered in kind. “I ask you to give up nothing for me. I accept what must be, which is why I sent you from me. There is no real place in your life for me.” Her voice broke as she continued, “You—you say you wish to have a family, an heir, but you have nothing left over to give them.” She gestured wildly toward the letter, which he held so tightly, so protectively in his hand. “I believe that it is your own fault. You place yourself as guardian and keeper over all. That is not your responsibility or even your place.” She met his gaze directly. “Do you believe your brother would thank you for this? He is a man. A man who has the right to defend himself and his family. As I see it you are guilty of the crimes you made me realize I was committing in the name of protecting William, and he is merely a boy.”
Benedict’s blue gaze turned to ice before her very eyes. “You do not know of what you speak.”
She raised her chin, not willing to give an inch even though something told her that the thick wall Benedict had erected around his emotions was very close to giving way completely, and when it did he might not be able to control his actions. “I do know more than you imagine. Maeve has told me of your parents’ deaths, of the weight you took on your shoulders. Truth to tell I find your actions admirable. But the time to let go has come. Your brothers, with the exception of Kendran, are men. You need not bear all of their troubles. You have a right to your own life.”
Benedict’s dismissive gesture cut the air sharply. When he replied, his voice was hard and filled with more rage than she had ever heard him express. “You understand nothing. The last time I saw my father he spoke of his faith in me, his trust that I would look after my brothers in his stead. Nothing and no one could make me put aside my father’s faith in me. Not even a wife.” He glared at her, his breathing coming quickly from his chest, which seemed to have swelled to twice its normal and not inconsiderable width. His large hands clenched and unclenched around that piece of parchment, and she could not help wondering if it were her own throat he was imagining that he held. Seeing the path of her gaze, he threw the parchment on the floor and pounded his fist against the w
all of his chest. “Do you not think I wanted to lie down the day I learned of my father and mother’s deaths and grieve until there was no more grief in me? Do you imagine that I did not wish that it were myself rather than my father who died? He was as near a god to me as has ever walked upon this earth. I did what I knew he would wish for me to do. I went on. He put Brackenmoore first and I can do no less.”
Her heart ached at his anguish. But she could not speak of it. Had she ever actually wished for him to lose control, to become angry?
Raine now realized that she had been a fool to hope for such a thing. For he was more than slightly intimidating in his rage. She refused to show her anxiety as she replied, “And my father asked the same of me. It was none other than you, Benedict, and rightly so, who helped me to understand that I have done my duty to my brother by finding someone to care for him and teach him to be a man. Someone who had successfully reared three brothers of his own.” She stood, throwing her arms wide. “I conceded then and now. You were right. William was not aided by my coddling. Nor was my father honored by my holding on. I see that life must go forward.”
As Benedict continued to glower down at her she faced him with unwavering regard, in spite of the shiver that ran down her spine at his looming size, quickly drawn breaths and black scowl. “You must, for the sake of your child, if not for me, follow the advice of the wise man who told me to let go when it is time. Your fatherly duty to your brothers is done. Letting go will not mean putting aside your other responsibilities. Yet it might help you begin to see that there can be more to your life.”
He answered through tight lips, and she could feel the barely controlled heat of him as he leaned even closer. “My duty to them will never be done. You think I have a choice in my life? Do you not imagine that I would not wish to simply be Benedict, that I would not wish to lie with a woman in the spring rain and feel her soul merge with my own? I felt myself become a part of you. But that sort of weakness is something I cannot allow myself. I am not just a man. I am Brackenmoore.”
The Bride Of Spring Page 22