by Lynn Lorenz
“Let us see.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Shall I write back?”
Beth stood and walked to the small bed, kneeled, and brushed a ringlet of flaxen silk from the child’s face. “It would break my heart to be parted from her.”
“It would break mine to see you so parted, sister.”
“But the dowry? I won’t cost you another copper, Bas.”
“He asks for nothing, just your hand.”
Beth took a deep breath. “If I say no, refuse the offer, Brother, what would you do? You have the power to force me to my bridal bed.” She searched his eyes for the truth. They both knew without her own funds she was no better than his property, to do with as he wished.
“I won’t force you, sister. All I can do is point out the benefits of such a union to all of us.” He took a breath and continued. “I don’t want you to agree if you don’t want this, Beth. But if you think you could be happy…” He paused. “I want only what is best for you and Anne. I would have you here with me always—have no fear about that issue. But a duchess? I have seen Baymore Castle, and it is large and fine. Baymore’s lands are rich, as are his coffers. You would want for nothing.”
She seemed to think on his words, then drew herself upright. “Aye. Write the letter. Tell him of Anne. If he accepts her, I will accept him. What choice do I have?” She shrugged. “I would want for nothing.”
“Is that such a bad thing, Sister?”
She sighed. “No, it’s not bad. Neither is to be wed again. I would have preferred to choose my own husband, perhaps even find love, but those circumstances never offered themselves to me.” She nodded. “I’ll do my duty to you and to Anne.”
He stood, took her hand, kissed it, and left to write the letter for the messenger to deliver.
At last Beth would give up her thoughts and hopes of love. Those notions had abandoned Basil years ago, when he was a young and naive man. Now, almost forty, he had no illusions that somehow love would ever come to him.
But if she believed, God bless her in her dreams.
»»•««
Jackson watched as Will walked out the door of the hall, his morning meal uneaten, without so much as a word spoken between them. Jackson worried the heel of his bread, plucking at it with his fingers as he thought about last night.
Will had not joined him in bed for the fifth night in a row. Angered and puzzled, Jackson had placed himself between Will and Will’s door, ready to discuss the problem.
“It’s the boy. Your new page.” Will jerked his head toward the stair. “It’s best if we take care for now. Until we are sure we can trust him.”
In the dim hall, Jackson had seen Will’s point and agreed.
Now, in the morning light, Jackson wondered what exactly he had agreed to. Surely, Will hadn’t meant to keep himself from Jackson’s bed for much longer. Surely, Will suffered from the loss of Jackson’s touch, the same way Jackson suffered. Jackson missed Will, missed Will’s body next to his, beneath his. Will’s sweet breath as they kissed, the taste of Will’s skin, his cock, and his cream.
It had been five days and nights, and still no sign from Will that it would end.
Jackson frowned, and dropped the rest of his bread on the trencher, his appetite gone. Without Will sitting beside him, there was no joy in a meal. No joy in anything, really.
He didn’t know if he could live much longer without his sweet Will.
If Will did not come to him tonight, he would go to Will. On his knees if needs be, begging for the favor of his lover.
There was a small cough at his side. He turned and saw the source of his problem. Young Liam, his new page, stood next to the table, head down, and hands clenched at his side, his knuckles white as if in anger. Or fear.
Jackson grimaced at the thought the boy feared him. He had never spoken harshly, had never mistreated the lad, or raised his voice at him. And yet, his page trembled as he stood at attention.
“Your Grace? Shall I polish your riding boots?” The boy’s voice seemed to slip from between tight lips over gritted teeth.
“Aye. My riding boots.” Jackson nodded.
The lad nodded and turned to leave.
“Liam?”
He froze and turned back, eyes still on the ground. “Aye, Your Grace?”
“Is something troubling you? Does something prey on your mind?” Jackson softened his voice.
The child gulped and he shook his head far too hard. “Nay, Your Grace.”
“If there is, you can speak to me about it. I will listen.”
“Aye, Your Grace.” The boy nodded then ran off, up the stairs to Jackson’s room.
Perhaps Will had been right. Perhaps the boy couldn’t be trusted to keep secret anything out of the ordinary he might discover.
Jackson rose, emptied his tankard, and went to find his master of arms.
Chapter Twelve
Liam leaned against the wall of the upstairs corridor and sucked breath into his frozen chest. He didn’t know how long he could keep working for the man who’d killed his father and denied him his rights.
But His Grace had been nothing but kind to him. In the days he’d worked for the duke, Liam had been shown a gentleness from the big man that belied his obvious strength and power. Soft spoken, never arrogant, or cruel. The now duke of Baymore, the murder of his father, had given Liam every evidence of his goodness and worth. Not only in his dealings with Liam, but in the way he handled all the people of his service.
His hearty laughter had even brought Liam to the brink of a smile on more than one occasion. His concern for his men was plain when he conferred with his master of arms as they discussed the soldiers late into the night while Liam nodded on the bench nearby.
This was madness.
The confusion Liam felt bubbled in his mind, torturing him as he teetered on all too fragile emotions. He was unwilling to say the words in his mind, to admit to himself, or anyone else, the most horrible of betrayals—the image of his father that his mother had created in his mind over the span of long years.
He feared to speak the truth. He liked…nay, admired, the duke. In every sense of the word, the duke seemed a good man.
So if he had killed Liam’s father…
No, he wouldn’t think it. It would mar the memory of his mother to think she’d lied about the man she claimed had been his father.
But the words he’d overheard that night in the barracks as the men spoke of his father haunted him now.
“Aye. He was pure evil, I tell you. Pure evil,” the soldier had hissed.
It was unthinkable.
Liam’s cheeks burned with the heat of his shame. If they’d spoken the truth, his father had been a bad man, unloved by his men and perhaps his people. A terrible pain rose in his gut, and he doubled over with a sharp gasp.
“Page?” A woman’s sharp voice brought him upright.
“Mistress?” It was one of the chamber maids.
She held out a lit candle. “Here, take this and relight the fire in His Grace’s room. He’ll be up the stairs from his breakfast and need his warmth. I know you’re new, but you should have done it when he wakened and called for you.”
“Aye. I’ll be sure to do it every morn. ” He nodded and took the candle from her. She put her hands on her round hips and stared at him.
“Are you ill, boy?” A hint of concern softened her voice.
“Nay, Mistress.” He shook his head. “Mistress?”
“Aye, lad?”
“Did you work here in the castle, before? With the other duke?” He stared up at her face, afraid to give any of his secrets away.
“Aye.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered.
He didn’t want to ask, but he had to. It ate at him, not knowing the truth.
“Was he as bad, as evil, as they say?” He prayed she’d tell him no, that his father had been a good man, unjustly killed, his life cut short.
“A right demon, he was. Count your blessings it’s Jack
son you work for and not Hugh.” She tugged her shawl tight around her. “God smiled on the people of Baymore the day he died. Now, get along. His Grace will be up soon.” She waved her hands at him and he turned away before she could see the tears in his eyes.
He rushed down the hall, holding his hand in front of the flame to keep it protected, and then pushed into the duke’s rooms. Liam leaned against the door and forced it shut with a bang.
Tears formed a veil in front of his eyes, making all he perceived a shimmering shadow of reality. Pushing her words away with a hard shove that matched the one he’d given the door, he went to the hearth to light the fire. Nothing remained from the night but ashes, so he added new logs and tinder.
Once the flames caught, he sat back on his heels, placed the candle on the side, and buried his face in his hands, sobbing.
His father had been the evil one.
Jackson had rescued his people from him.
Everyone was happy Hugh was dead.
Everyone.
“Father!” He sobbed, as the shame of having such a man as Hugh be his father. His da. The image, like a sacred painting, of the man he’d longed to see, to know, to become, ripped and tore like a banner in a storm.
Liam lay on the floor, curled into a tight ball, his fists mimicking his body, his teeth chattering as he shivered.
»»•««
Will, holding the letter from Duke Basil accepting the marriage contract, climbed the stairs and trudged down the hall, his feet dragging along the floor.
It was done. No going back to where they were now.
He’d told Jackson of the acceptance earlier at dinner, and of the small complication of the woman’s infant child from her late husband. Jackson had brushed it off, saying it proved she could give him an heir.
Jackson’s enthusiasm had nearly killed Will.
If he went to Jackson, he’d only put off the pain to come. Best if he stayed his course and distance himself from his lover.
It would only get harder, that he knew.
Once the woman arrived, and the marriage was performed, Jackson would take her to his bed and drive Will from him forever. Keeping their love a secret from everyone in the castle was hard enough, but to keep it from a wife? A man could keep a mistress, by some it was even expected, but no woman would put up with her husband’s male lover, that much he was damned sure of.
Either Jackson had lost his senses if he thought they could maintain their relationship, or he had no plans to continue it. Jackson had chosen a wife and family over Will, his lover.
Will groaned with the pain of that knowledge and stepped inside his room, then shut the door.
He undressed, every movement slow and precise. For days he’d fought the depression threatening to engulf him like the black maw of some horrible creature that had crawled from the pits of Hell. There were duties to attend to, farms and herds to manage, the castle to run. There was no time to give in to such foolishness. Such weakness. Such matters of the heart.
His heart might be broken, shattered by Jackson’s request, but the life of the castle and all inside it went on. Will had his duty. He would do it, no matter what.
He may have failed as a lover in giving Jackson all he’d ever wanted, but he wouldn’t fail in his duties as Jackson’s steward.
Will stumbled to the bed and fell, naked, on top of the quilts. His body burned for his lover, the man who held his very life and soul in his hands.
The man who had crushed them both.
A heat, familiar and unwelcome, flushed through Will’s body. His need for his lover had burned in him these many nights as he’d denied himself and Jackson of their couplings.
Will’s channel ached for the fullness that only Jackson could bring—he ached for the big man’s strong arms around him, and for the sweet poetry of his lover’s words as they tickled his ears.
Now, denied all that, Will burned with the memories of him and Jackson. Their time in the hut on the side of the mountain. Their loving the night Will took Jackson for the first time. Their days of peace and happiness since claiming Baymore for Jackson.
Now it would all be destroyed.
“I need an heir.”
Nothing could have destroyed Will more thoroughly than the request for a wife, and that Will be the one to find her.
Was he no better than a procurer of women for His Grace?
No longer a lover?
No longer adored?
He moaned as he grasped his stiff, aching flesh. Damn, so long denied its pleasure, it seared his hand with its heat as he stroked it, coaxing the drops of pearls from it. Would Jackson ever touch him again? Ever take Will’s staff in his mouth and pleasure him?
Would Jackson give up his quest for an heir?
Will knew the answer, as surely as he knew he’d never stop loving the big man.
Rapid, quick jerks brought Will to the edge of release, but without Jackson, it failed to resolve. Will hung, suspended over a black chasm, unable to reach that place where all his passions and emotions were fulfilled.
With a low groan, Will fell back against his pillows. His body taut and quivering, his rod long and hard, its tip full and aching, as his body hummed its emptiness.
»»•««
Jackson came down the hall and paused at Will’s door. He’d sent the page to bed, a pallet on the floor of one of the small rooms used by the upstairs servants. He stood alone in the corridor.
He rapped on Will’s door as he cast about, searching for signs of life in the hall. Jackson’s brow furrowed as he stared at the door, willing it to open. Will had to be inside. Why would he deny Jackson access?
Jackson brought his fist up to pound the door and the cry bubbled up from his throat, demanding to be let in, but he choked them both off. He rapped twice.
The bar slid aside, the door opened, but only a small way.
“Your Grace?” Will looked up at him through the narrow opening.
“Will? What is this?” Jackson didn’t understand why Will hadn’t thrown open the door, pulled him inside.
“It’s late, Your Grace. Is there something you need?” Will’s voice was cool, yet courteous. Shivers ran down Jackson’s spine at the recognition of his lover’s tone.
Will was angry, no doubt about that. But what had he done to cause such a temper?
“You know what I need.” Jackson pushed against the door, but Will held it firm.
“Not tonight,” Will whispered, and leaned just a bit forward into the gap between door and frame. From what little Jackson could see, Will wore only his night robe clutched around his body as if fresh from bed.
Jackson inhaled, longing for just a whiff of his lover. Even from where he stood behind the door, Will’s scent carried to him. There was a sharp odor of sweat and sex in the air that flowed around Will.
Jackson glanced down, taking in his lover’s body, looking as he had so many times when he’d come to Jackson’s room prepared for making love. “Will?”
“Aye, Your Grace.” There was no hint of play in Will’s eyes, nor the usual smile on his lips. A shock of terror ran through Jackson with a single unthinkable, unimaginable thought—Will with another man.
Jackson swallowed, then forced the question out, knowing he didn’t want to know if the answer was nay. “Are you alone?”
Will’s gaze shot up to meet his and they held. Beautiful blue eyes searched Jackson’s, but Jackson had no notion of what Will desired. He didn’t seem to know Will at all these days.
“I am.”
“Then why won’t you let me in?” Jackson whispered as he leaned closer, pressing his body against the hard wood that stood between him and his lover. It took all his control not to smash open the door, throw Will backward, and take possession of the room and his lover.
“It’s late.”
“That has never stopped you or me before.”
“I’m not well. I’m very tired.” Will shrugged.
“What’s wrong, my lord?” Jackson
’s stomach rolled. As much as Will denied it, something was terribly wrong.
Will closed his eyes, exhaled, and then opened them. “I can’t believe after all this time you could ask me that question and not know the answer.”
“But…” Jackson paused, gathering his thoughts.
“Go to bed, Your Grace.” Will tried to close the door, but Jackson shoved his knee in the opening.
“Open this door now, Lord Holcombe. We must speak.” Jackson used his best Duke of Baymore voice.
Will exhaled, stepped away, and Jackson pushed in. He closed the door and stared at Will, standing in the middle of the room. Jackson took in the chamber, seeing Will’s rumpled bed, the hearth’s low banked fire, his desk overflowing with ledgers and parchments. Nothing was different or out of place. No wayward lover. That he could see.
Jackson smothered the urge to search Will’s room, fling open his chest, and get on his knees to peer under the bed.
“Tell me now, Will. I won’t be put off any longer. Why have you kept yourself from me? And don’t speak to me about the new page. He’s nowhere to be found now. Nor was he here last night.” Jackson advanced on his lover.
Will stepped back, his grip on his robe tightening. A fire burned in Will’s eyes as they narrowed and glared at Jackson.
“You are a dolt, Your Grace.”
Jackson’s eyebrows shot upward. “Am I?”
“Aye. A dolt. Thick headed and thicker boned. Speak the truth, Your Grace. Have you no idea, nothing that comes to mind?”
Jackson held out his arms and shook his head. “Please tell me so I can make it right and correct the wrong I’ve done you.”
“Correct the wrong?” Will straightened. “Make it right?”
“Aye. Tell me and I will set it right.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” Will nodded. He gathered the gown and stalked to his bed. His chin jutted upward, his shoulders back. “If you ever loved me, if you do still love me, rescind your contract of marriage and abandon your quest for an heir.”
Chapter Thirteen
Will locked his shaking knees and held himself up. More than his next breath, he wanted to go to Jackson and hold him in his arms. Throw off his robe and let Jackson have his way with his body. But he’d learned about begging lovers the hard way, and he had some small bit of pride left.