by Lynn Lorenz
The utter defeat of her words stabbed him.
He should feel relief—instead he felt as trapped as she must, as desolate as her heart at the loss for a chance at love.
He might never have felt love before, but he’d certainly felt its lack. To be so close to the dream, and then have it snatched away, stolen from you by a piece of parchment and the signature of two men.
It was the only way.
“Go to bed, Beth. Get some sleep, if you can. Tomorrow we’ll strike camp and make for Baymore’s castle.” He let her go and went to the drape.
“Aye, it’s late. Good night, Basil.”
He nodded and stepped out of the tent.
The temptation to go to Marcus and beat him senseless almost overpowered Basil. He turned and took off in another direction, away from the master of arms’ tent, anywhere he didn’t have to see the reminder that in his well-meaning for his sister, he had doomed her to a life of longing for a love that could never be.
»»•««
Beth threw herself onto her cot and let the tears fall. Might as well get her crying over and done with. Once they reached Baymore, and her new home and husband, tears would only bring questions she had no answers to. At least, not answers anyone wanted to hear.
How could she do it? Marry Jackson, but burn for Marcus? He’d be there in the castle, every day and night a reminder of where her heart longed to be.
Free.
Free to choose, free to love, just like any man.
Women of her rank had many privileges, but freedom wasn’t one of them.
Oh, but that she were of humbler origins. She rolled over onto her back and stared up at the ceiling of the tent. That she were but a peasant, free to love the boy down the lane, the son of the blacksmith, or the brother of the baker.
She would have a small wedding, her hair wreathed in spring flowers, wearing the dress her mother had embroidered for her, maybe even a pair of fancy slippers bought from a shop in town.
He would wear the wedding shirt his mother had made for him, finely embroidered and sewn. He’d come for her with a small borrowed cart, the pony dressed in garlands and ribbons, with all their friends and relatives following along beside and behind them.
A simple wedding. A simple life. In a small cottage, with a man who loved her and her child.
Tears filled her eyes and spilled over, running down into her ears and hair.
There had to be another way out of this.
If she didn’t think of something, she’d be sold again in marriage, to another man who didn’t love her, but would bed her and put a child in her.
Only this time, he’d be a duke and not a second son. Whether he lived or died, at least she’d be valuable, as the wife of the duke, and mother of the heir, if not for herself.
She would have Baymore. A fine castle, lands, and wealth.
It should be enough.
But it wasn’t. She was greedy, spoiled by the touch of a man, by his kisses, by the unspoken promises he’d given her. Promises of love and freedom.
Her hands clenched and she let the rising anger at her situation and her lot in life sweep over her. She’d gone happy and willing to her first husband, more than content with him and their marriage. She’d been young and it had been her duty. When little Anne had been born, the happiness she’d felt rivaled any she’d ever known.
Why should now be so different?
Why should she be so hungry for love, when she’d been without it before in a marriage? This was nothing new, and she knew it. Women of her rank married whom and when their families decided. None were free.
She’d been fortunate Basil had found any titled man, much less a duke, to take her. With no dowry to offer, older and saddled with another man’s shame and child, she was no prize, and she knew it.
She rolled over, wiped her tears with the sleeve of her gown, and then folded her hands under her cheek.
Tomorrow, she’d meet Jackson Baymore, and in three days’ time, become his wife. Anne would have a father, and she’d have a grand keep, servants, and lands. Enough money to have any finery made for her that she desired.
Marcus would be there, just outside her grasp, reminding her of all she didn’t have and never would possess.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The rays of the morning sun played across the floor of the great hall, giving some warmth to the stones. Jackson of Baymore sat in his chair in front of the hearth, as Liam sat on a small stool against the wall.
“Lad. Find Lord Holcombe for me. I need his opinion.” The duke waved his hand toward the door. “He’s about somewhere.”
“Aye, Your Grace.” Liam jumped up and trotted across the hall to the stairs. There was a good chance his lordship was still upstairs in his room, tending to the castle’s business. He hadn’t been at the morning meal and the duke had eaten alone, putting him in a bad mood. He shouldn’t be, because this was the day he would meet his bride.
Liam ran up the stairs and down the hall, skidding to a stop at Lord Holcombe’s door.
He rapped on it twice. “My lord, the duke wishes you attend him,” he called through the thick wood.
The door swung open and he looked up at William Holcombe. Not as tall as the duke, he was still a big man, and Liam’s neck craned back.
“Liam, is it? What does he want?” Holcombe leaned in the doorway, as if in no hurry.
“He needs you to make a decision, he said.”
“Probably which outfit he should wear to greet his new bride.” Holcombe’s lips twisted in a sneer. He didn’t look happy at all.
Liam shrugged. It wasn’t his place to speculate about His Grace’s desires.
“Well, I must finish my work. Tell him I’ll be down in good time.” He straightened, then went back inside and shut the door.
“Aye, my lord,” Liam said to the wood. He spun on his heels and headed back down the hall, took the stairs two at a time, and then raced across the hall to his duke.
“Your Grace! Lord Holcombe bids you wait until he’s finished his work.”
The duke frowned. He growled deep in his throat, but it wasn’t a hard, menacing sound at all. It sounded warm and happy.
“He bids me, does he?” The duke chuckled. “Tell him I shall not wait. Tell him I command he attend me now.” He winked at Liam and shooed him away, then settled deeper in his chair.
Liam nodded and took off. Across the hall. Up the stairs. Down the corridor.
He rapped again. “Lord Holcombe!”
The door swung open again. “What?” Holcombe clung to the door frame, leaning out.
“His Grace says you are to come now.”
“Now, eh?” Holcombe grinned and scratched his chin.
Liam puffed out his chest. “He commands you.” There. Let the man deny His Grace, if he dare.
Holcombe’s eyebrows rose. “Commands, you say?”
“Aye!” Liam nodded. “Your duke commands you.”
His lordship’s eyes narrowed and Liam felt the heavy piercing weight of his stare. Holcombe leaned down, putting his face at the same level as Liam’s. Liam’s stomach dropped out with the sick certainty he’d made an awful mistake.
“My duke?” he whispered, one eyebrow cocked up, then straightened. “Aye, he is my duke. Mine more than any man here. He is my duke, my friend, my companion. Now, it seems he will have a new companion.” His eyes grew sad as he gazed across the hall at the duke’s door.
Liam didn’t know what to say. Even to his young mind, Liam knew Lord Holcombe wasn’t happy about this wedding. Perhaps he feared being usurped by the new duchess in the duke’s favor?
He bounced his toe on the floor. “Are you coming?” Liam whispered.
“No.”
Liam jerked back. “What?”
“Tell Jackson if he wants to see me, he can come to my room.” Then Holcombe disappeared behind the door, leaving Liam in the hall, confused and frightened.
What would the duke say when he repeated the messag
e? Would he take his wrath out on his page? Just the thought of the duke’s huge hands curling into fists and striking him made Liam’s knees shake.
But the duke had never raised his hand to Liam, or anyone in the short time Liam had been there.
He turned away, taking his time as he went down the hall, his mind spinning through just how he would tell His Grace of Lord Holcombe’s impertinence.
Another man might have beaten the bearer of such a message, but not Jackson Baymore. From the beginning, he’d treated Liam better than his own father had, and for that Liam was grateful.
At the bottom of the stairs, he halted and watched the duke. He sat in the chair, his head back, eyes closed. Liam approached and cleared his throat to make his presence known.
“Aye.” The duke didn’t open his eyes.
Liam cleared his throat again. “His lordship says…”
“Hmm?”
“His lordship says…”
“His lordship says what, lad? Spit it out.” The duke tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.
“For you to come to him if you want him,” Liam blurted out, then clapped his hands over his mouth.
“Come to him?” the Duke bellowed, sitting upright. He swung his head around and he stared at Liam.
“Aye.” Liam nodded.
The duke opened his mouth, but instead of shouts, he laughed. A great roaring laugh, accompanied by several slaps of his hand on his thigh. Liam couldn’t help but join in the laughter, despite not understanding the jest.
“William, you devil!” he bellowed, still laughing. “Come to you, must I? So it shall be!” He pushed out of the chair and took off, then halted. “Wait here, young page.” He pointed to the chair and Liam sat in it.
Then the duke strode through the hall, took the steps two at a time, and disappeared.
Liam at last let out his breath, amazed he’d come out of whatever game the men played unharmed. It had been a game, he could see that now. The duke ordered and Holcombe denied, back and forth with Liam caught in the middle, their go-between, as if they were a couple of courting…
Liam laughed, then clapped his hand over his mouth. That was so foolish. He looked around to see if anyone had seen him laugh, as if they would know his thoughts and call him on them.
The duke and his lordship were friends, old friends of good nature, teasing and rousing each other to vexation. Nothing more.
Liam sat back in the large chair and stared into the fire. His hand ran along the embroidered velvet cushion, worn from wear. Even so, it was finer than any chair he’d ever sat on.
If he were duke, this would be his chair. He’d order new fabric to cover it, something with birds embroidered on it, or maybe a stag. And stars. Bright yellow stars in a dark blue night.
But he wasn’t the duke, and it was all his father’s fault. If Hugh Baymore had been a better man, like Jackson Baymore, then he’d still be alive. Still be able to come to Liam’s village, ride up to his cottage, and claim his mother and him, and bring them here to live with him. His mother would still be alive, not burned in a foolish accident. Liam’s eyes filled with tears at the last memory of her—gasping, blackened, and struggling to tell him what to do.
It was all his father’s fault.
»»•««
Jackson leaned against the side of the door and knocked. What game was Will playing? This might be the last day they had together, without a woman standing between them, and Will chose to spend it vexing him.
“Who is it?” Will’s muffled voice drawled, barely heard.
“It is I, the Duke of Baymore.”
“Who?”
Jackson rolled his eyes. Oh, that game. He chuckled.
“The Duke of Baymore. Your duke.”
“My duke?”
“Aye. Your most beloved duke.”
“Beloved?”
Jackson looked up and down the corridor, and thanked God it was deserted.
“My dear Lord Holcombe, may I come in?” he whispered.
“My dear Duke Baymore, no.”
Jackson swung toward the door, pressing his mouth to the crack. “Will, open for me.” His hand caressed the rough wood as he longed to caress Will’s smooth skin.
“You want me to open for you?” Jackson heard the tease in Will’s voice, and smiled at the suggestion.
“Please.”
“Do you entreat?”
“I do.” Jackson nodded, even though Will couldn’t see him.
“Do you beg?”
“If needs be.” He growled. Will pushed so hard sometimes, knowing it only inflamed Jackson’s desire.
“Needs be, Your Grace.”
“Then open the door and I shall beg of you, my lord.”
Silence. Then the bolt slid, unlatching the door. After taking a deep breath, Jackson lifted the handle, pushed, and the door swung open.
Will stood in the center of the room, dressed in only a loose robe wrapped around his body, his long hair falling over his shoulders, and anger burning in his eyes. Jackson entered, then closed the door behind him, and threw the bolt home.
Christ, Will looked beautiful. Jackson desired him for his beauty, for his spirit, and for his love.
“How will you beg, Your Grace?” Will arched an eyebrow upward.
Jackson unbuckled his belt and let his sword slip to the floor. He took a step forward, but Will held his ground, his blue gaze boring into Jackson’s.
“As an unarmed man, my lord.” He held out his hands to show they were empty. Then he slid his vest from his shoulders and pulled his shirt over his head. They joined the sword on the floor.
Will’s gaze never left his, not once.
Jackson inhaled and flexed his muscles, his arms swelling in size and girth. His nipples hardened, as did his cock, pressing against his breeches.
He loosened his strings and slipped his hand inside, grabbing his cock. But instead of pulling it out, he kept his hand there, squeezing his flesh, denying Will the sight of it.
“Not completely without weapons, Your Grace.” Will’s gaze dropped to Jackson’s groin, then flicked back to his face.
“You want me helpless? Vulnerable?”
“Aye, and at my mercy.”
“So it shall be.” Jackson didn’t move, his hand stroking his aching rod.
“A man who wishes mercy asks for it on his knees, Your Grace.”
Jackson went to his knees. “Mercy.”
Will shook his head. “Oh no, Your Grace. For you, it shall be on hands and knees.”
Jackson leaned over and placed his hands on the floor, then looked up.
“And bare-assed.”
Jackson sat back and pushed his breeches down to his knees then stretched out on his hands. The chill of the room brought bumps up on his exposed cheeks, but his cock and sac hung heavy between his legs.
Will strode around him, his dressing gown trailing behind him, as he inspected Jackson as if he were a prize steer at the village market.
“Well and good.” He stopped facing Jackson.
Will opened his hand. The gown slipped off his shoulders and pooled on the floor at his feet, revealing his naked body to his lover.
Jackson gasped at the glorious sight in front of him. On all fours, he was at the perfect level to take Will’s erect, beautiful cock in his mouth and suck it until Will came. His mouth watered at the thought, and his cock rose to brush against his belly. But he knew the look in his lover’s eyes, and it was not a cock sucking Will wanted.
“Ride me, my lord. I am yours to command.”
Will threaded his fingers into Jackson’s hair, then pulled his head back. Stretched upward, Jackson’s mouth opened, waiting and willing to be filled.
“Aye, your back is broad and strong enough for a hard ride, Your Grace.”
His lover bent down and took his mouth in a hard kiss, Will’s tongue slamming into his mouth, plundering, taking. And Jackson, unable to close his mouth, could only hold himself up and submit to it. His sac
tightened and he came close to spilling, but fought to control his body’s need.
Will pulled away at last, and let Jackson go. Jackson hung his head and licked his lips to capture Will’s taste. Between his knees, his cock’s clear cream dripped onto the wooden floor.
As Will paced around Jackson, he ran his hand over Jackson’s shoulder, down his back, trailing over his spine, coming to a halt at the cleft between his cheeks, and buried them there, in the soft fur of Jackson’s aching ass.
“If this is our last time together, my love, I will take you.” Will kneeled behind him now, and put his hands on Jackson’s ass, prying it apart. His warm breath blew across Jackson’s exposed entry, sending a shiver through Jackson. Will’s soft rumble and the sound of a well-oiled hand stroking over a thick cock, filled the chamber.
“Aye, sweet Will. No matter what happens, I’m yours.” Jackson shuddered, and his hole throbbed with the knowledge of what was to come. “Fuck me hard and ride me until I break.”
Will’s fingers dug into his hips hard enough to mark him. Heated flesh pushed against his opening, once, twice, and then as Jackson pushed back, his lover entered with a cry.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Basil had watched his sister and Marcus all morning. From the breaking of their fast, to the packing of the camp, and as she climbed into the wagon and Anne had been handed up to her. She and Marcus never spoke, never made eye contact, never came near each other.
That was bad. There was no banter between them, no show of friendship, or anything else. Mere acknowledgement proved too much for the pair, it seemed.
Perhaps he’d been mistaken in the advice he’d given his sister to marry the duke. But there was no time for second guessing, and certainly this was not the time to rescind the contract. Not with a dozen of Duke Baymore’s armsmen in his midst and but half a day’s ride from Baymore.
With the large wagon holding all of Beth and Anne’s belongings, a fast escape wasn’t possible. Baymore’s men would run them down, and Basil couldn’t afford to lose any men in a skirmish. Or chance that his sister and her child be injured.