Forbidden Lord (23 page)

Eleanor looked at him, knowing it was true. He was the first man she had known and the only man. He had put his masculine mark on her and she was his until death. He knew it and so did she, but it was futile. Martin was her husband and she could see no way out.

William observed her face was flushed with some emotion. ‘What is it?' he demanded to know, his voice harsh with disappointment. He had expected her to comply to his wish that she divorce Martin Taverner, delight, even, that he wanted her for his wife, not what oddly looked like offence. Just as he had thought everything was going to be all right, that she was going to agree on what he hoped for, despite the furore and scandal that would ensue, she had turned truculent and he was damned if he could see why. She was carrying his child. It was right that she should divorce Taverner and marry him.

Eleanor looked ahead at the royal barge and the splash of the oars as the rowers kept pace to the soft beat of a drum. William said he wanted her for his wife and how easy it would be to agree to all he suggested, to let him take charge of everything and put things right, but why, oh, why did he not tell her he loved her? Why could she not feel he was doing it for her and not the child that had been conceived out of their need for each other?

‘As usual, William, in your high-handed belief, you are taking it for granted that I must give up on my marriage and marry you, is that it?' Her voice was flat and empty.

‘Is there something wrong with that?' His voice was mocking and his eyes gleamed sardonically, though he was white lipped with anger. ‘Am I to have no say on the matter on how my child is raised?'

‘What is there to say?' She felt him withdraw from her and his face registered outrage.

‘Are you telling me you will stay with him? What the devil for? You don't love him.'

‘Very few husbands and wives do, and since we cannot agree, William, I am going to talk to Lady Durban. There is to be a banquet later, followed by a masque and dancing—and even a fireworks display. Will you be there?'

‘I have more important things to do that hang about Whitehall,' he ground out.

‘Very well. Please excuse me.'

His anger fierce and knife-edged, loving her, hating her, wanting her, sweeping her a shallow bow, he turned his back on her and went to speak to an acquaintance, well away from her.

E
leanor was disappointed that William didn't attend the lavish banquet in the Stone Gallery later, where guests could look down upon the river and when darkness fell would watch the fireworks display that was planned. Suddenly the sparkle had gone out of her day.

She found the banquet long and tedious and the masque, heralded by a slow peacocking pavane, dull, and so, tired of watching nymphs, imps and shepherdesses and a temple of gods posing and stepping gracefully to the strain of the music, and in no mood for dancing, she was about to slip away when a page boy brought her a note telling her that, if she would take a turn in the privy garden, she would find a surprise awaiting her. The note was unsigned, but she did not need a signature. Feeling certain that the note was from William, her spirits revived and she hurried outside.

Dusk was falling and the gardens were deserted. Walking quickly along the paths, she gazed about her, looking for William. When the tall, lean figure of Sir Richard Grey suddenly appeared from behind a yew tree, she stopped and stared at him with dismay.

For a moment she was paralysed. ‘Sir Richard! You startled me.'

‘Forgive me, Lady Taverner. It was not my intention.'

His voice was silky smooth and it sent a chill down Eleanor's spine. ‘If you are looking for my husband, I last saw him enjoying the dancing.'

He was watching her, his brown eyes intent, his head tilted slightly to one side. ‘I know. On this occasion it is you I wish to see, not Martin.'

Eleanor looked at him coldly. ‘You sent me the note.'

He nodded.

‘Why?' Her voice was frankly sceptical and impatient.

‘Don't be impatient,' he said in a bored voice. ‘I thought it was time you and I had a talk.'

‘Talk? Really, Sir Richard, I hardly think you and I have anything in common to talk about.'

‘You are wrong, we have much in common, you and I. When you married Martin I found it difficult to believe you were the same Eleanor who graced Fryston Hall. Who could have imagined—'

‘—that the daughter of a traitor would finish up at the Court of Queen Elizabeth? Neither my stepfather, your uncle, or I, certainly. But here I am. Destiny is a strange thing, is it not, Sir Richard? Please tell me why you have brought me out here. Somehow I don't think it's for a friendly chat.'

Sir Richard did not flinch. His face remained expressionless, though his eyes were hard. ‘I will speak plainly. You asked Martin to stay away from me.'

‘That's right, I did.'

His lips curled in a sarcastic smile. ‘Why? You're hardly likely to suffer a broken heart merely because you sleep alone every night.'

‘You're right, I won't.'

Richard Grey was completely at ease as he addressed her in a bell-like voice that held a blend of dislike and reproach. ‘I do not have to tell you that Martin's happiness is a first with
me. To achieve this, I would do and say anything I wish to make quite sure that you understand me.'

Eleanor lifted her head, her eyes flashing with indignation. ‘I do not care for your words, sir. Say what you have to say. I am impatient to go back indoors.'

‘Martin and I would like you to go to Devon. We think it would be for the best.'

‘What you really mean is that
you
think it would be for the best if I were out of the way.' She smiled thinly. ‘I'm afraid not. Before I acquired a taste for life at Court, the idea of leaving London held some appeal for me. But no longer. I'm happy here.'

‘That's a pity.'

‘Is it?' She tilted her head to one side and looked at him coldly. ‘Do you feel jealous of me? Do you feel so threatened by me, a mere woman, that you must put a distance between my husband and me?'

‘Not in the slightest. I merely want you out of the way. You—could be forcibly taken down to Devon.'

Colour flooded into her face. ‘Do you dare to threaten me?'

‘I would not presume. Say rather that I am warning you.'

‘Warning me of what, Sir Richard?'

He smiled. ‘There are some unhappy people, madam, men and women,' he said, his tone menacing, ‘who have paid with their freedom—and some with their lives—for offending me. You should remember that the Taverner estate in Devon is very remote, and unpleasant things can happen in remote places.'

Eleanor paled. ‘Martin would never be a party to anything so base, so—so vicious.'

He shrugged. ‘Maybe not. He is a gentle soul, is he not? But I would, should you prove difficult.'

Eleanor observed the hard glitter in his eyes and her own snapped as a cold shiver ran down her spine. She repressed a grimace of disgust. ‘You would harm me?'

‘Believe me, I would not hesitate. But of course there is a
way to avoid any unpleasantness. If you were to go to Devon, there would be no reason why you could not take a lover. Martin would have no objection, and neither would I.'

‘How dare you! What I do has nothing to do with you.'

‘Martin says you would like children.' He looked at her coldly. ‘That's unfortunate.'

‘It is?'

‘Martin is incapable.'

‘Is he? And how would you know that?'

‘Because he has an aversion to women—in that way, you understand.' A salacious smiled played on his lips. ‘Come, Eleanor, you must know all about him by now.'

‘Oh, yes, I do know and I understand. But it is not for you to say how Martin and I conduct ourselves in our marriage.'

‘It is when Martin's happiness is at stake.'

‘Then how do you account for the fact that I am with child?' The divulgence was reckless and the second the words had left her lips Eleanor regretted them, but it was too late to withdraw them. ‘Do you really know Martin that well, Sir Richard?' She laughed derisively, tossing her head haughtily, her dominant self-respect springing into life. ‘I really do wonder about his taste in friends.'

Sir Richard's eyes narrowed, his lips drawn tight against his teeth, and he glared at her with fierce eyes. ‘You lie.'

‘I do not, sir. Martin is delighted, naturally. You must ask him. Oh, dear,' she remarked, her eyes dancing with ironical amusement, ‘it would seem Martin has made a fool of you—and on his wedding night, too,' she lied uncharacteristically, but because his manner riled her she was unable to resist the jibe. ‘I wonder why he didn't tell you—unless, of course, he's afraid of you, afraid of what you'll do.'

His mouth became set in a bitter line, his eyebrows drawn in a straight bar across his furious eyes. There was utter silence. He stared at her and for one brief moment Eleanor sensed his overpowering jealousy and rage. All trace of bland
ness was wiped from his face and she saw the violence shimmer in every line of his frame. It was then that fear struck her, a fear so profound that she froze when he took a step towards her.

‘It was you, wasn't it—you who tempted him, you bitch.'

‘I didn't have to. A man is entitled to make love to his wife, is he not?' Her speech was cut short by the sound of a woman's laughter close by. Others had come out to stroll in the gardens before darkness fell. ‘Smile, Sir Richard. We are being looked at.'

A flash of cold anger in his eyes, he smiled, but it was a forced smile and he hissed at her between his clenched teeth, ‘You think you are clever, don't you, and that you can outwit me. Think again, madam. I shall not forget you.'

Eleanor smiled her sweetest smile, even though she felt her face would crack beneath the effort. ‘You are too kind. For my part, I shall make sure I forget you.' And with this parting shot, she walked off, a slender, graceful figure disappearing into the twilight, her saffron silk gown swirling out behind her like a wave.

But despite her outward calm she felt a deep disquiet. As she had turned from Richard Grey, there had been something about his expression that caused her heartbeat to accelerate. Suddenly she was frightened for Martin and she found that fear, in the person of Sir Richard Grey, still went with her. Quickening her steps, she was annoyed to find her legs were beginning to tremble.

She fully intended finding Martin to warn him of the danger, but when she entered the Palace she was thrown off balance when William, in a midnight-blue doublet with a short cloak hanging from his left shoulder, stepped in front of her. His sudden appearance sent everything else from her mind.

‘You,' she gasped.

Mocking silver eyes gazed back at her, glinting like hard metal. ‘Yes, Eleanor. It is indeed.' Suddenly William's face
took on a look of gravity. ‘I came to find you because I have some news to impart that concerns you.'

‘Oh?'

‘Atwood is dead, Eleanor. He hanged himself.'

Everything inside her froze. Although she felt no exultation, overwhelming relief flooded through her, leaving her weak and thankful. ‘I am surprised. But why would he take his own life?'

‘If that is what he did.'

‘What are you saying? That someone killed him?'

‘It's possible—and made it look like suicide, although there was no evidence to incriminate anyone. It is widely known that he had many enemies who wished to see him dead.'

‘God knows I would not have had him die, but, whatever the truth of it, I cannot feel regret that he is dead. While ever he lived, the threats he made would not go away.' She looked at William, wondering what was going through his mind. ‘But what of you? You had a score to settle with him, as I recall.'

He shrugged. ‘It is better this way,' he said tonelessly. ‘He—or someone else—has saved me the trouble of killing him. He's paid dearly for his villainy.'

‘What will you do now? Will you leave London?'

‘I intend to, but his death does not mean it is over. There are still matters I have to take care of—one other as evil as Atwood to dispose of.' He looked at her, moving closer, his eyes holding hers. ‘There is one other urgent matter to be settled. It would seem you are under my skin, my love, because I could not leave with this thing unresolved between us.'

‘William,' she cried, ‘how can it be?'

‘By God, Eleanor, it can be and you will listen to me,' he said fiercely. When she was about to walk away, his hand shot out and clamped tightly about her lower arm, halting her. ‘Do you think I like doing this to you? If it comes to hurting Martin Taverner or denying myself what is rightfully mine, then Taverner can go to hell. He is not the father of the child
you are carrying. I am, and I want my child. I will have it no other way.'

‘But he cannot be dismissed so lightly or so easily. He is my husband and he will say the child is his. William, where is the proof that it is not?'

‘If you think Taverner can get past me to separate me from what is mine, then let me assure you that he will not yet have seen such a fury that I would display should he try.'

Eleanor bent her head in a gesture of absolute despair, her hair falling across her pale face. William moved forward and, lifting her chin, placed his lips gently on hers.

‘I'm sorry to be such a brute, my love. Come with me now to my apartment and we will talk sensibly. It is at our disposal and I can guarantee we will not be disturbed.'

She stared at him, her mind empty of all but the thought of William—alone with her in his apartment. A place where no one would intrude—empty of anything other than them.

Taking her hand he quickly led her through the maze of corridors of Whitehall Palace, away from the royal festivities. Courtiers swept by and bowed in their direction, but William paid them no heed.

His apartment looked out on to the river, where crafts of every description sailed to and fro despite the falling darkness. Eleanor looked around the room they were in, with its gilded furnishings and the high bed with its embroidered crimson-and-gold hangings and valances.

Locking the door and lighting the candles, William turned and faced her, and before she knew it she was in his arms, the long days and weeks of separation finally ended. He touched her face, then cradled her cheek, then he kissed her and there was a trembling deep inside. The smell of him, the taste of his mouth, overwhelmed her. It felt as if the endless weeks of their being apart, weeks of aching loneliness, fell away in the space of mere seconds.

Releasing her, William quickly unfastened his doublet and
removed it. Eleanor stood in silent fascination, watching him. He glowed with energy, strength and vigour, his muscles flexing beneath his white lawn shirt, his broad chest covered with dark hair. She could feel the heat of his body close to hers as he stood looking down at her, and her whole being reached out to him, yearned for him to take hold of her in his powerful arms once more and possess her as he had before.

Without words or questions and with the infinite patience of a true lover, slowly and gently he began to undress her, patiently unfastening the lacings on her stiff bodice and removing the wire hoops that supported the skirt of her gown. Then he knelt before her and removed her shoes before rolling her silk stockings down her long legs, sighing over every inch of flesh as it became exposed and placing tantalising kisses here and there, before he laid her back on the bed.

Resting his arms of whipcord strength on either side of her he leaned over her, his wonderful silver eyes caressing every curve of her body, expressing his obvious delight in the gentle curve of her belly where their child was growing.

‘You are so beautiful,' he whispered huskily, lowering his body to hers. Her skin tingled as his flesh pressed to hers just as she remembered it. ‘You are just as beautiful as I remember—more so now you are with child.' He sighed deeply. ‘We have all the time in the world, so let us take advantage of it.'

Reaching up to brush his lips with a kiss, she let her hands slide up over his chest, a finger tracing the line of his strong jaw. His mouth touched hers again, at first demanding, then sweet and achingly tender. She closed her eyes in rapture and her neck arched backwards when she felt his lips on her breasts. They tingled and swelled at his touch, the ripe nipples rising to meet his lips, eager for him. She raised her hands and her fingers slid to the back of his head and gripped the thick cap of his hair with pleasure before one hand stole over his shoulder, halting at the feel of a raised scar on his back. It was
a healed wound, and how and when he had acquired it she had no idea, but, reluctant to explore further, she fastened her hand in his hair once more.