Chosen for the Marriage Bed (12 page)

Richard forced himself to do a lot of hard thinking, with unpalatable results. When the flames of his righteous anger had died to a mere flicker, common sense began to hold sway. It was not in Elizabeth’s nature to use poison. The sharp blade of a knife, perhaps, but not poison. So where did the guilt lie? Was it not obvious? A short stout figure holding a pair of wax figures, and having the knowledge to take care of them, to dispose of them…

Mistress Jane Bringsty.

She had the skills, of that he was certain. What her motive might be—how could he be expected to know what motivated such a woman? The key question now was, did Elizabeth know what her serving woman was about, had she given her per mission? But did Mistress Bringsty need her mistress’s per mission to apply her black arts? Richard’s new sense of moderation wavered at the thought that they might be in collusion, and then settled under another brisk dose of common sense. Even after a short acquaintance, he knew beyond doubt that Mistress Bringsty was perfectly capable of acting on her own initiative, and to the devil with the consequences. Elizabeth, he supposed, finally, had acted from some sort of misplaced honour to protect her servant. Whereas he had been intolerant and judgmental. He had been neither kind nor understanding…

So much for their original pact to deal openly with each other, to deny the opportunity for outside pressures to divide them. How rapidly they had fallen into a morass of distrust and wounding accusations. And since the first harsh words had been his own, the burden was on his shoulders to make his peace with her. A vague unease churned in his gut. It was worse than going on campaign against a chancy enemy.

God protect him against difficult and opinionated women.

Richard found Elizabeth in her chamber. He knocked, allowed her the time to bid him enter, or go away, closed the door quietly at his back. It was a time for careful strategy if this contest of wills was to be laid to rest and peace restored.

She was sitting in the window seat, half-curled on to the wide cushioned ledge with an open book on her lap, the cat curled and asleep at her feet. He could see from the doorway that it was a little Book of Hours, gilded and painted in bright jewel tones, its binding tooled in rich leather. He got the distinct impression that her attention was not on the devotional pages. She raised her head as he came in, but did not speak, did not move. The light was behind her, touching the edges of her veil with soft shadows. He could not see her face, her reaction to him, so fell back, as he must, on instinct and an innate integrity to deal with her as she deserved. Perhaps it would also ease the knot of guilt in his own gut. He walked slowly forwards to stand before her, but halted before she could think that he would intimidate, deliberately keeping his voice even, unthreatening.

‘The book. It is very fine.’

‘Yes. It was a gift to me from the Prioress at Llanwardine when I left.’ Elizabeth smoothed her fingers over the black script, taken aback since she had expected more bitter recriminations. ‘She said that I had no calling to the life of a religious, but perhaps the words, the beauty of it, would bring me solace.’

‘And do they? Bring you solace?’

‘No.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘They bring me no ease.’

He took a step nearer. ‘We promised to talk to each other, Elizabeth. To be honest as far as it was possible.’

‘Yes. How impossibly long ago that seems.’

‘Why did you not tell me the truth? Why did you not tell me it was your woman’s doing?’

Sharp surprise jabbed at her. She closed the book, put it aside and stood so that their eyes were more nearly on a level. ‘How did you know?’

‘When I finished being furious with you, I knew you could not have done it. So there was only one other possible, obvious source. Why did you not tell me?’

And Elizabeth answered with devastating candour, ‘Because Jane is mine, which makes me responsible. And because you believed me guilty before you even knew there had been a crime. You can’t deny it.’

No, he could not. So he made the apology. ‘I was at fault. I misread the signs between you. I was entirely wrong. I have no excuse.’

Silence stretched between them. Elizabeth stood with her hands at her sides, at a loss.
Now what do I say? What does he want of me?
Until Richard inclined his head with solemn formality. ‘My judgement was amiss. Will you forgive me, my wife?’

‘Yes.’ Her heart shivered uncomfortably at his words, but still she could not admit to the flicker of relief. ‘But Jane still did it. And your cousin suffered.’

He drew in a deep breath. ‘But why? What could possibly have been her motive?’ When Elizabeth would have looked away from the embarrassment of it, he placed his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to face him. ‘You must tell me.’

Elizabeth sighed. ‘It is just that—’ Well, she would tell him, whatever the outcome between them. ‘Anne sets herself in your way to catch your attention, to my detriment—which I admit is not difficult. Jane is jealous for me, and sought to teach her a lesson.’

Richard was surprised into a bark of laughter, amazement evident. ‘But she is my cousin. A mere child, even if she is a nuisance with her airs and consequence. She enjoys fine clothes and the attention of those around her. As the only girl in her family, she was always indulged and petted. I have known her for ever. A child, surely.’

‘Then you have not looked recently, Richard,’ Elizabeth responded with a decided edge, yet she was conscious of the warmth of reassurance from this blind admission, the casual rejection of Anne’s charms. ‘She is a child no longer, as she frequently informs us!’

His brows arched. ‘I thought your complaint was that perhaps I had looked
too
closely!’

‘I would not so accuse you.’ For in truth she had never seen him encourage the girl. ‘That does not mean that Anne does not have an eye for you. She flirts—you cannot be unaware.’

‘No. I see it. But it’s a silly girl’s foolishness.’

‘I could not be half as skilled.’ Elizabeth looked down at her fingers, twined them together to still them. ‘I understand she is very like Gwladys in colouring. She is very beautiful.’

‘Yes, she is,’ Richard admitted, accepting the consequence of his own thoughtless acceptance of a girl he had known from childhood. ‘And, yes, Anne has the look of Gwladys, more so as she has grown. They were related, of course. Did you suspect me of trifling with her, within weeks of our marriage?’ He was unsure whether to be flattered that Elizabeth cared enough, or annoyed that she would misjudge him. Until the deep sapphire eyes that took and held his left him in no doubt of the depths of pain caused by Anne’s sly behaviour and his own carelessness. He should have known. He should have seen what was happening. He smiled at Elizabeth, a little sadly at the hurt he had caused, then lifted a hand to draw his fingers down her cheek. A most tender gesture that, if he had known it, melted the final ice crystals of Elizabeth’s resistance. ‘I am innocent of all charges, Elizabeth, except for an appalling naïvety in allowing the situation to go un checked. Anne is no danger to you. Will you believe me?’

She tilted her head to watch him, then nodded. ‘Yes. I am sorry for the things I said.’

‘And I. I did not murder your brother.’

‘No. You made an oath that you did not.’

‘But it still hovers there between us, a dark entity of mistrust, doesn’t it?’ he acknowledged. ‘Elizabeth?’

It struck her that he was frowning at her, even a little unsure, as if searching for the right word. ‘What is it?’

‘Was it Anne who told you I had a mistress in Hereford?’

‘Yes. Joanna.’

‘I did once. I have had no dealings with Joanna since long before you came to me. I ended the under standing between us.’ Faint colour slashed his cheek bones. ‘You are my wife. I would not hurt you or humiliate you by keeping a mistress. I promised to honour you. My vows, despite your accusation, are intact.’

‘Oh. I thought that…’

‘Well, now you do not need to think. I have told you the truth.’

‘Yes.’ Words were difficult for her, but a strange, sweet relief pulsed through her. ‘I hated it,’ she admitted despite her usual reticence. ‘I could under stand your need…but, I hated it.’

‘I regret our estrangement,’ he said, his smile a little sad. ‘When I came home I found myself looking forwards to seeing you. And then found myself dragged into an un expected drama. It’s not what I would have wanted.’ He lifted her hands to enclose them warmly, palm to palm, within the shelter of his, a reverse of his gesture on their first night together. Infinitely reassuring. Then stiffened a little as her sleeves fell back from her wrists. He saw the fading bruises.

‘I did that.’ His eyes widened, bleak with regret.

‘Yes.’ But there was no condemnation in her reply. Instead she turned her hands so that her fingers might inter lock with his. ‘You were so angry.’

‘Forgive me,’ he murmured, horrified that he should have marked her without thought, and vowed silently that he would never do so again. ‘I would never deliberately hurt you. Even though it seems I have done so.’ He sighed, bent his head to press his mouth against the tell-tale shadows.

‘I do not fear you.’

‘There are no excuses.’

‘No. Not for either of us.’

Richard searched her face as once more he lifted a hand to draw his knuckles down her cheek. ‘Perhaps I can make amends.’

‘Perhaps you can,’ Elizabeth found herself replying in like vein, the flutters that had set up in her belly increasing with anticipation. Perhaps it was possible for the hurts to be mended between them after all.

‘The cat is asleep, I see.’ Smiling, he glanced down to their feet, a warm glint in his eye.

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll risk it.’ He pressed his mouth against the tip of each finger in turn before splaying her hands against his chest. ‘If you are a clever woman, you will notice that my heart beats hard. I have a need of you, lady, if it’s safe for me to come to your bed.’

‘I’ll welcome you there.’

In spite of her words, Elizabeth did not find it easy. Too much lay between them, too many angry words on both sides for her to open her arms and her mind to him in seamless intimacy. She shivered a little, muscles tense, aware all over again of her inadequacies in her relationship with this man. But Richard unlaced her gown with deft competence, velvet rubbing and catching against velvet, allowing it to fall when she might have clutched it to her, made love to her slowly, tenderly, inexorably when he felt her resistance. Used limitless patience to conquer her wariness, to over whelm the hurt he knew she must have felt. To heal her anxieties over the bitter seeds of in fidelity sown by Anne Malinder.

Until the residue of the clash of wills between them gradually softened, dissipated, dissolved under his slow caresses with hands and mouth. Soft touches, gentle pressures. A healing of the wounds they had both inflicted so that Elizabeth found she could sigh against him, melt into him. And confidence returned to her as the strains vanished under the heated glow of her skin.

‘I am so sorry,’ Richard murmured, his words muffled against her breast. ‘Sorry at my lack of trust. Sorry at my hard words.’

‘And I regret my temper,’ Elizabeth’s breath hitched as his tongue aroused a nipple. ‘My lack of faith in your integrity.’

There were no more words. Elizabeth’s mouth traced a path along Richard’s shoulder to where she could feel the heavy beat of his blood in the little hollow at the base of his throat. There she paused to savour the life-force that drove him as she allowed her hands to drift and mould the muscles of his back and hip.

Richard’s patience grew thin under her assault until it snapped.

‘Do we need the power of wax figures?’ His eyes were forceful, holding hers.

‘No.’ Elizabeth did not look away. ‘You need no power but your own.’

Sliding into her, Richard’s possession was forceful, thorough, outrageously satisfying, until Elizabeth found herself smiling, when she had thought she would never smile again.

Then physical desire flamed to blot out all harsh memories, all differences between them.

Chapter Ten

W
ith clear weather from the west, the garrison at Ledenshall took to training in earnest and with some relief. It might be hard graft, but the physical demands relieved the monotony of the winter months. The Malinder men-at-arms stretched and worked their muscles as they honed their skills with sword and dagger, pike and halberd, in hand-to-hand combat. Every room in the castle, Elizabeth decided at some time within the first week of this activity, rang with the clash of metal against metal, the bellowed orders of the sergeant-at-arms. The plates of armour, susceptible to damp and tarnish, were unwrapped, cleaned, polished, repaired. Bows restrung, arrows re feathered.

Inevitably it became dull work. A bright morning saw a series of straw bales dragged into the flat combat area outside the barbican and the setting up of an archery practice in the form of a contest, with, to inspire interest and a depth of concentration, some serious betting on the outcome. It would, as the Lord of Ledenshall knew, add spice to the proceedings.

It had the desired effect of a holiday festivity. The sun shone, lifting pale winter spirits. Benches were provided for those who would be an audience, Master Kilpin offered to record the bets and a keg of ale miraculously appeared. The servants who could escape their tasks ventured out. Elizabeth dutifully took her seat. Mistress Bringsty stood behind with arms folded. Even Anne drifted down from her chamber, despite the keenness of the wind, well muffled in winter furs, knowing they would enhance her beauty.

The contest began. They used the longbow, much loved for its accuracy, speed of delivery of the long flight arrows, its power when delivering the final blow. Six arrows each to be notched, sighted and loosed at the distant, but distinct, splash of colour. Shoulder and arm muscles flexed and stretched to pull the impressive yew bows with their notched horn tips and bow strings of plaited hemp. Robert Malinder proved to be more than good and preened with typical, but charming, lack of modesty and an extravagant bow. His appreciative audience applauded after much informed betting on his achievements. His expertise was well known.

But Elizabeth wanted to see Richard, drawn to compete towards the end. A little thrill of anticipation shivered over her skin. It mattered to her, ridiculously so, that he should win, should prove himself in victory. How foolish she was! But that did not stop her waiting and hoping.

Only to be disappointed. Elizabeth quickly realised that Richard would never win, nor was it expected. Even the man himself admitted it with a negligent shrug as he flung himself down on the bench beside her to watch and cheer on his garrison. Archery was not his sport, never had been. His lack of the ultimate skill was accepted with tolerant good humour. After all, none could doubt the excellence of the Lord of Ledenshall with a sword and his ability with a lance astride a horse in the formal jousts. Ah, now there was a knight who could hold his own in any company.

In the end it did not matter. Elizabeth watched him as he took his stance, sideways to his selected target, as he ignored Robert’s enquiry as to which target he intended to hit and should they all take cover. Watched as the planes of muscle flowed and rippled under his tunic, smooth as water, as he pulled back the bow to full stretch, thighs braced, and sighted the yard-long arrow, as his dark hair was lifted by the light wind. Saw the utter concentration on his face, in his narrowed gaze, as he aimed and loosed the arrow. Saw and heard also his self-deprecating good humour, his hand some features vivid with laughter, as he failed to hit the centre.

Elizabeth saw and heard, allowed her eyes to linger on the long, lean lines of him and sighed. Her blood ran hot, her cheeks flushed. She thought, with a little puff of breath, that she was even more foolish than she had realised.

The contest came to its end. Master Kilpin stepped forwards to oversee the payment of the bets and Richard looked round the assembled crowd. ‘Does anyone else here wish to test his skill? Per haps we have a champion not yet discovered.’

On her bench, Elizabeth fidgeted as her fingers itched to hold a bow again, to feel the taut strength of the bow string as she notched her arrow. It had been so long.

‘My mother would forbid me,’ Anne murmured softly, disparagingly, as if she sensed her intention. ‘So presumptuous! I wager Richard would not approve.’

Which settled it. Elizabeth stood.
‘I
will. I will take part,’ she stated, raising her voice. ‘If someone would be willing to risk a coin or two in a small wager on me hitting the target.’ She looked around her, caught the interested glances, the sly nudges.

‘Well, now… This I had not expected.’ Richard held out his hand and beckoned her forwards. ‘I presume, in the face of such a challenge from my wife, that I must be the source of the wager.’

Elizabeth walked forwards to the line, de lighted with his response, tucked her veil back into the neck of her gown out of the way, already having shrugged out of her cloak. Richard selected for her one of the smaller bows. Picked out six well-fledged arrows, sleek with their grey-goose feathers, and stood at her side. His lips curved, his eyes gleamed, caught up by the unexpectedness of the moment. Elizabeth took the bow, yet made no effort to face the target.

‘What is your wager, my lord?’ A solemn enquiry.

‘What is your intent, my lady?’ Equally solemn.

‘To hit the target every time. Otherwise I would not put myself on display here.’ Now her lips twitched.

‘Do I detect the sin of pride here? Then I’ll wager a gold noble that you cannot do it, my lady.’ He turned his head, raised his voice. ‘Master Kilpin. Do you hear?’

‘I do. For shame, my lord! The lady deserves your support.’

‘And so much for faith in my talents. Only one, my lord?’

Richard looked at her for a long moment, at the suddenly flirtatious curve of her lips, of the down-sweep of dark lashes. So many hidden facets to this woman whom he had married simply because she would bring a strong alliance in the March, hoping for an easy, tolerant relationship for political ends. Hoping that at best they would not dislike each other. Yet here she challenged him and he did not dislike it at all. What he felt for her was… Well, he wasn’t sure. But it was far different from easy tolerance. Then she glanced up at him, over the deadly weapon she held with such assurance, and his heart thudded, a strong bound in his chest, enough to take his breath.

All he could see, all he could think of, in that moment, was the indigo depth of her gaze that drew him in, then seemed to swallow him whole until escape was beyond him. He drowned in the rich blue sensation of sweetness. The warmth of the sun on his shoulders, the ripple of conversation around him faded. Her lips were parted as if beckoning him to take and taste. And did he not know how softly seductive they could be? They were all but a breath away, whilst her body was close enough for him to savour the sharp herbal scents she used in bathing, to feel the warmth of her skin as if the layers of linen and silk did not exist. Desire punched at his gut with astonishing speed. The muscles of belly and loins tightened uncomfortably, shocking him into an awareness of his very public surroundings.

‘Richard…?’ Elizabeth prompted.

Taking himself to task with a grimace, he bowed with formal acceptance. ‘Pride goes before a fall, Elizabeth.’ His breath was warm against her face as he whispered in her ear, setting up a trail of shivers along her spine. ‘Very well!’ he announced for the benefit of the crowd. ‘Two gold nobles that you do not strike the target.’

Indulgent laughter rippled around them. Confident, assured, Elizabeth took her stance, lifted one of the arrows, notched it, pulled the bow string to her ear as she had indeed been taught. Focused on the target. And let the slender missile fly.

It hit the straw bale. Of course it did. She had not a doubt of it.

A silence settled on the little crowd.

She could feel Richard’s eyes on her. With an outward serenity she took another arrow, dealt with it in exactly the same manner. Then another, and another. Calm, controlled, perhaps the slightest toss of her head when she came to the final arrow, until all six were buried in the straw. And two of them within the red mark. A roar of appreciation rose around her. Elizabeth turned to Richard, flushed, bright eyed, successful. Victorious.

‘You lost, my lord. You owe me two gold nobles.’

‘So I do. And I will pay my debts.’ He took the bow from her, sliding an arm around her waist as he did so. ‘It seems that I need not fear for the defence of my home in my absence.’ Then he leant close and surprised her by kissing first her cheek, then her astonished lips most publicly, which made her flush even more. She had won his notice, his ad mi ration. His very public approval. ‘So who taught you so masculine a sport to such effect?’

‘It was Lewis,’ she replied simply. Elizabeth refused to drop her gaze when she saw the bright humour suddenly quenched, saddened that her brother’s name should cast them into a quagmire again, but refusing to allow the raw misery as memories flooded into the happy event. ‘Lewis taught me,’ she repeated. ‘He de lighted in angering Sir John. Lewis was very good. Better, I think, than Robert.’

‘And so are you, very good. I think Lewis would have been proud of his pupil today. And of her courage.’

Richard could not, Elizabeth thought, have spoken better. He took her hand, palm against palm, allowing the warmth to soothe her sudden grief.

‘Richard!’ Anne Malinder, in sis tent despite her pale and beautiful fragility, was suddenly beside them, her elegant long-fingered hand on Richard’s arm to draw his attention away from Elizabeth. ‘I was impressed with your skill. I thought you were magnificent.’

Breathless, Elizabeth waited. Would he see what Anne was doing? Would he still be oblivious to her talent for flirtation?

Richard laughed. ‘Then you must be blind, Anne. Here is your champion of the day. Not I, but my wife.’

A little line marred Anne’s smooth forehead, her eyes widened. ‘But is it seemly for the Lady of Ledenshall to promote herself in such a manner?’

‘Undoubtedly it is. My wife was the magnificent one in this contest.’

His smile was for Elizabeth alone and she breathed out slowly in a moment of intense and blinding clarity. Somewhere between his wagering gold against her skill, and this blatant compliment, she had… Well, what? What was it that she had done? Had she fallen in love with Richard Malinder? Elizabeth had no experience of love, but it was as if the arrows had struck her heart, wounding her for ever. Elizabeth might step back from an open avowal of love, but the realisation of strong emotion quivered through her, swamped her, filling her mind and her heart. But in a sudden moment of despair, it also kept her lips sealed. For how could she burden Richard with an emotion he did not want from her?

‘Then perhaps you will teach me, dear Richard?’ Anne persisted, dark lashes sweeping down to hide the emerald gleam of pure jealousy.

‘No, cousin. Your brother would do a far better job of that than I.’ Stepping back so that Anne had perforce to remove her hand, Richard raised Elizabeth’s fingers to his mouth, a deliberate act of owner ship, answering all her insecurities. ‘Let us go in and celebrate your victory in a cup of wine.’

And, turning their backs on Anne Malinder, they walked together.

Perhaps it was the foolish achievement. Perhaps the warm acclamation. Or even the pride in her husband’s face. For whatever reason Elizabeth opened her arms and her bed to her lord with a rare confidence and a light spirit. When he offered to demonstrate the accuracy of his own aim in fields other than archery, she encouraged him without reticence. Under the slyly skilful investigations of his hands and his mouth she discovered a whole tapestry of sensation of which she had no experience, and a lack of control that was un thinkable. Immediately, she struggled to free herself.

‘No! You must stop…’

‘Not in this life. You might even enjoy it.’ Richard’s tongue continued to slide along the edge of her collar bone to the swell of her breasts where he lapped at the swelling peak of a nipple. As for his finger tips—they knew no limitations as they dipped and tasted the dark wet heat between her thighs.

‘I might…’ If she had but known what
it
was. Elizabeth held her breath as his teeth grazed along the soft skin of her belly. Her fingernails scored into his shoulders as she clung on.

‘Unknown territory,’ Richard murmured, his breath heating her skin, setting off little ripples. ‘Look on it as an adventure. Afraid, Elizabeth?’

‘No. Never…’

And Elizabeth found herself driven to grasp Richard’s long-suffering shoulders even more fiercely as the shivers built in her belly, hot and sweet, to explode with bright light, like the tinted illustration of a shooting-star in one of Jane Bringsty’s more questionable documents, all fire and sparkle.

‘Oh!’

‘A true under statement,’ Richard remarked on a ghost of a laugh, still holding her safe, close guarded, as the tremors died away. Then with breathtaking speed he moved so that his body pinned her to the bed and she could not wriggle and escape. Not that she had the energy to do so until she re covered from the glory of it.

‘You look very smug.’ Elizabeth informed him, still shivering with the splendour of her discovery. His lips curved, his eyes gleaming in the soft darkness.

‘So I do.’ He pressed his smiling mouth to the shallow valley between her breasts. ‘And now, my Amazon, you can use your womanly wiles to torture me beyond bearing.’

Elizabeth did so, with most satisfying results, overcome with her new-found confidence. Whilst Richard, roused and pain fully ready, surrounded by her, driven to shattering completion by her, could only marvel at the depth of desire this complex woman distilled in him.