Battle-Torn Bride. Anne O'Brien

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      “As do we all,” Lord Grey bit off the words. “I trust that you will also consider carefully where your best interests might be. It would be a foolish man who aligns himself with the losing side.”

      Sir William remained silent in the face of this enigmatic response. Then, “Are you so certain that there will be a battle, my lord?”

      “Without doubt. In two or three days.” Lord Grey gestured sharply to the gentlemen who still watched and listened with ill–concealed interest. “The two armies are too close to retreat.”

      “Is negotiation not possible?”

      “Warwick might, but Buckingham will not allow him near the king.” Lord Grey made no attempt to hide his contempt for King Henry. “Our anointed king is, unfortunately, not always in charge of his wits.”

      Sir William ignored so treasonous a comment but his reply remained conciliatory enough. “I shall make my decision, my lord, and inform you of it.”

      “Very well. I advise you not to disappoint me.” Lord Grey turned his back. “My lady.” A brusque bow in the direction of Lady Beatrice. “Gentlemen. Come.”

      Without another word, Lord Grey turned on his heel and strode to the door, leaving his words to echo and re–echo in Beatrice’s mind. A battle. Within the week and close at hand.

      “So you will be engaged in the fighting?” Her heart told her to go to Lord Richard, to touch him, as he gathered up his sword and cloak, to follow him to the door. But she would not. Could not. Had she not told him that her heart was broken and he was the cause?

      “Yes.” The bite in his voice struck home.

      “It will be dangerous. You could be hurt.”

      “Undoubtedly.” The edge in his reply became more intense. “I would like to think that you cared. I am no longer certain.”

      For a long moment she closed her eyes to erase the terrible images. How was it possible for her to want him to touch her and yet at the same time to accuse him? Yes, he had broken his promise to her. But for him to be in danger in battle within an arrow shot of her home, perhaps to be taken prisoner, to be wounded, even suffering a lethal blow that would cost him his life. And she would not know of it. It was almost more than she could bear.

      Richard saw her conflict but was at a loss. Her husband and Lord Grey had both made their way out to the courtyard. The horses were being led from the stables, the escort already mounted. He could hear Lord Grey’s raised and impatient voice calling his name, demanding his presence.

      He stopped in the doorway, looked back over his shoulder. “I must go, Beatrice. But I cannot leave it like this. We need to talk. There is no time now. But after the battle, God willing, I will return.” Too late now. Too late for explanations. “I neither betrayed nor abandoned you. I would that it were possible for us to be together. That I could find a way to make it so.” No. By God! He would not leave her with this matter lying so viciously between them.

      Against all the dictates of common sense he strode back across the room to face her, to curve an arm around her waist and drag her close in a kiss. It was not a gentle meeting of lips, contained no tender reminiscence or soft promise of fulfillment for the future. Rather it was a devastating statement of need. At first Beatrice resisted, pushing against his shoulders, her mouth cold and unresponsive, indignant that he should treat her so. But he would have none of it. His hold tightened pressing her close, breast and thigh, until she was aware of nothing but the hard strength of his body against her softness.

      “Beatrice, I want you …”

      And she knew it, trembled at the raw physical response in his body that was instantly mirrored in her own. Relentless, shockingly intimate, his mouth claimed and owned, until her lips warmed and parted beneath his demand. It was an assault of sheer ungoverned passion, speaking wildly of pain and loss and a terrible uncertainty. Of a possession that could never be. Of a divide that scored both to the bone. It seared through his veins to hers, to the very heart, leaving them both scorched by the heat of it. Then he released her, as suddenly as he had claimed her, afraid to prolong the intimacy.

      “I will come to you. I will not allow this misunderstanding to remain between us. Remember this, whatever the future holds. My love and devotion are yours. On that promise, I shall keep the Hatton swan.”

      Then with a curt bow of the head as his only acknowledgment, he placed the velvet–wrapped brooch back into the breast of his coat and strode from the room, unable to say more.

      “Richard.” Anguish heavy in her breast, Beatrice stretched out her hands, swamped by a need to beg forgiveness. But he was gone beyond her recall.

      Which left her with no choice but to stand and watch, his words etched in her mind, as he seized his reins from one of the grooms and swung into the saddle of his splendid dark bay destrier. Richard turned the animal and without a backward glance rode through the gates and across the moat. Against her better judgment she climbed quickly to stand on the battlement walk, to continue watching as the cloud of dust gradually swallowed up the little party of horsemen in the distance.

      She pressed her fingers to her lips as if she would retain the memory of the imprint of his mouth on hers, the bright fire of it. It still burned there, as it did through every inch of her body. She could taste him in the lingering heat. The threatened tears came at last, only to be quickly wiped away. She would not weep, neither for herself nor for him. But, “I am afraid for you,” she murmured. “I love you, Richard Stafford,” she admitted. Because in spite of everything, she could not deny that she still wanted him, still longed to be with him to feel the power of his body, experience his bold caresses. And that made his casual desertion of her so much worse. Now he had left her. She doubted that she would ever see him again. She had not even bidden him farewell, only left him with the memory of her harsh words and bitter accusations.

       I will come to you.

      God grant that he would. Because he had kept her gift and his kiss spoke to her heart. All she could do was hold tight to the hope that his love for her was as strong as ever.

      “Beatrice!”

      All emotions quickly governed, her face a blank mask, she descended to the courtyard where Sir William waited for her. His temper had clearly not improved. If anything, it was stoked by some occurrence in Lord Grey’s visit to an even higher temperature.

      “Bring more ale to the parlor. And a flagon of the best Bordeaux. Quickly now.” Then as he stalked inside, “Tell Lawson to bring it. I have no need of you.”

      Without a word she went to do as she was bid. It no longer seemed to matter. Nothing very much mattered when measured against the loss that gripped her heart in its painful fist.

      Lord Richard Stafford rode away from Great Houghton, the grooves beside his eyes and mouth very much in evidence. His mind was full of nothing but the woman who had just questioned his honor and integrity.

      Some two years or more before, he had by chance attended the traditional gathering at King Henry’s court at Westminster. And there he had set eyes on Beatrice Hatton. How long had it taken him to fall in love with her? As long as it took to plunge headlong into the depths of her violet–blue eyes, as soft and velvety as a pansy, and willingly drown there. He had watched her, distantly at first, admiring her joyful participation in the dancing, her fearless skill when riding a horse to the hunt. Her shining happiness in all that СКАЧАТЬ