Margaret Moore (12 page)

“This mattress is an outrage,” he muttered.

“At least it doesn’t have fleas.”

“No doubt they could not take the discomfort.”

He got out of the bed. In the moonlight, naked, his arms akimbo, he looked like an outraged god of war before he headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To complain to the landlord,” he whispered fiercely.

“Without any clothes?”

He paused, then slowly turned back. She tried to keep her gaze on his face.

“I daresay that would not be as effective,” he said, and his voice held a hint of amusement.

“He’s probably sound asleep.”

“And men of his girth are often very sound sleepers. There is probably little chance of waking him tonight short of screaming ‘fire!’ As tempting as that may be, I daresay the other people sleeping here would not be appreciative.”

“Are you
trying
to wake Will up?”

“Not at all.” He put on his breeches and his shirt and came back to the bed, once again joining her beneath the generally clean coverings. “There. That is a bit better, I suppose. Nevertheless, I will speak to the landlord in the morning.”

Elissa didn’t doubt it. “Good night,” she said softly, turning onto her side again.

She tensed as he inched closer. “Can you not
feel those thousand slivers through your chemise?” he whispered in her ear.

“Not if I keep still.”

His hand came to rest on the curve of her hip. “I do not want you to keep still. Lady wife, you and your clever lawyer have reduced me to almost nothing rather than lord and master. However, a husband does have certain rights and I would like to claim the one you have left me.”

It would be so easy to give in to his seductive advances! She had never felt such excitement and pleasure as she had known in his arms last night. In spite of that, and the sensations his touch was arousing, she feared that if she were not strong, he would soon be able to bend her to his will.

Like a weak fool she had believed herself in love and allowed William Longbourne to do what he would. Now, she must be strong, for her son’s sake.

“I am tired and very sleepy,” she lied, for she had never felt more awake in her life. She rolled over onto her back. “And my son is too closeby.”

A wry grin curled his full lips. “Can you not be quiet?”

“Yes. Can you?”

How cold and stern she sounded, and a fierce frown crossed her features before she turned her back to him.

After that moment of mtimacy in the coach, Richard had hoped for a more welcoming reaction than that.

He forced himself to think rationally and ignore his disappointment.

She believed him to be a lascivious, immoral libertine. If he persisted now, likely she would take his selfishness for confirmation of his lustful nature. She was also right in that her young son was very nearby.

Better on all counts, then, to leave her alone.

If he could.

Of course he could. He was not a slave to lust. He could control his appetite.

To prove that to himself, and to show the lady that he would not simply obey her commands, he pressed his body along hers. He again ran his hand over her slender hip and this time, continued upward, caressing her soft, supple breast and gently teasing her nipple with his fingers.

Her breathing quickened.

He brushed back her thick hair, which smelled of country flowers, and pressed a kiss to the smooth skin of her neck. Putting his arm around her, he pulled her back against him. The softness of her buttocks surrounded his rising manhood and, with a low moan, he buried his face in her hair.

“Do what you must, but please try not to wake my son.”

*   *   *

As the coach rolled along the muddy road, Elissa wondered if Richard were going to talk to her at all, or only converse with Will for the rest of the journey.

He was obviously angry with her and had been ever since her warning not to wake Will last night. After that, he had abruptly rolled over and presumably gone to sleep.

She had tried to subdue a sense of disappointment as well as a nagging twinge of guilt. As he had said, he was not William Longbourne, yet to be honest, she was not giving him much of a chance to prove it.

It was for that reason, she supposed, that she had not voiced an objection to his request to have Will sit beside him as they continued their journey, or to let Will hold his baldric and sword.

Tonight, they would be nearly to Owston in Leicester, which was close to Blythe Hall. It would have taken them a mere three days, compared to the seven to get to London when she had answered the king’s summons. There was no denying that this coach was a more comfortable mode of transportation, too.

“Tell me about a duel,” Will asked, and not for the first time that day, as he tugged on Richard’s sleeve. “You promised you would.”

“I never promised,” Richard replied, ceasing to watch the slowly passing countryside and smiling at her son.

“But you said you would!”

Richard fixed his inscrutable, dark-eyed gaze upon Elissa. “My lady, have you any objections?”

It was a simple question, surely intended to refer to Will’s request alone and to have nothing to do with what had happened the previous night, yet she blushed as if he had demanded that they take up where they had left off, Will or no Will.

Her son regarded her with no such inscrutability. He wanted to hear about a duel so much, one might think his very existence depended upon it. “Very well, as long as it was an honorable duel.”

“Madam, I assure you I indulge in no other kind,” Richard replied as he turned toward Will. “There was a Frenchman who made the mistake of insulting the king’s sister, whom he adores. Fortunately for the Frenchman, the king himself did not hear the remark. Unfortunately for the Frenchman, I did.

“Now, whatever one may think of our monarch, his sister is indeed a delightful, charming, and honorable lady.”

Elissa told herself she would not be jealous of the king’s sister, no matter how her husband spoke of her.

“Naturally, since this is so, I could not let the insult pass.”

“What did the Frenchman say?” Will demanded.

“I would not sully my lips by repeating it.
At any rate, I challenged him, and we agreed upon a time and place. It was to be at dawn in a farmer’s field outside of Paris, where we could fight our battle in private.”

“Did Charles know of this?” Elissa asked.

Richard frowned. “Of course not. How could he be told without repeating the insult?”

“He did not know you were risking your life in defense of his sister’s honor?”

At that question, Richard smiled ruefully. “I must confess I did not think myself in any serious danger. Pierre was no expert with a sword.”

“And you are!” Will cried triumphantly.

“I was certainly better than Pierre. However, it had rained in the night, and the grass was slippery, so I suggested a postponement.” Richard’s tone hardened. “Regrettably, Pierre would not agree.”

Elissa suspected the Frenchman had made the mistake of implying that Richard’s reason for suggesting a delay had nothing to do with the weather, and it did not take much imagination to believe that Richard Blythe would not take kindly to any implication of cowardice.

“So there we were, in the dim light of dawn, both tired, because it’s difficult to sleep before a duel. Pierre had been attempting to find his courage at the bottom of a bottle—”

“At the bottom of a bottle?” Will asked, puzzled.

“He was drunk,” Richard said simply. “Drunk and tired and young and afraid.”

“You weren’t afraid,” Will said with conviction.

“No, because he was drunk, tired, young, and afraid,” Richard replied. “Now, as I said, it had rained heavily, so the trees dripped all around us. The ground beneath our feet was as slippery as ice, and over in the field beside us was one of the nastiest-looking bulls I have ever encountered. Still, we were to fight, so his second gave the signal to begin.”

“Who was your second?” Will demanded.

“I did not have one.”

“You didn’t have one?” Elissa repeated incredulously.

“As I have already said, I didn’t want the king to hear about it, so the fewer people involved, the better.

“We drew our swords and began to circle one another,” Richard continued. “Pierre was somewhat anxious and impatient, I fear, and after a few moments of this, he lunged at me.

“Sadly, he had forgotten the wet grass, and that his arms were shorter than mine. The poor fellow fell flat on his face, his sword out before him as if he were offering it to the gods if they would only spare his life. I would have ended it there, except that Pierre got to his feet and came at me again. I could see the only thing that would stop him would be to wound him, so I fought him until I did so.”

“Did you kill him?” Will whispered, awed.

“No, I cut his cheek. He should have a scar to remind him how he should speak of a lady, I thought.”

“You didn’t kill him?”

“No, but he died all the same.”

“He did?” Elissa and Will gasped simultaneously.

“Yes. He caught a chill from the wet grass and never recovered. Not a very glorpious result, wouldn’t you agree, Will?”

“You upheld the honor of the king’s sister.”

“The man was an idiot, but he didn’t deserve to die because of it. I have wounded many men in duels, yet never killed one. And,” he finished, “other men have wounded me.

“I saw no scars,” Elissa cried impetuously, aghast to think he had been ever hurt dueling—a useless, stupid pastime, as this story aptly demonstrated.

“You have not seen my body in a good light,” her husband replied evenly.

Elissa, however, felt anything but calm. Impressed, admiring, embarrassed, even lustful at the memory of his naked body—but most definitely not calm.

“The Barmaid’s Arms!” the driver called out as the coach rolled into the yard of an inn.

Richard looked out the window, glad to be distracted from the memory of the pathetic
Pierre. “The Barmaid’s Arms. Still here after all this time.”

“Why is it called that?” Will asked.

“I have no idea,” Richard replied.

He was fast realizing his stepson was curious about everything and everybody. He did not fault him for that, for it was evidence of a lively intelligence. Spare him the child with no spark of curiosity or mischief!

Spare him the wife who could utterly unman him with a few words, and yet enflame his desire simply by looking at him as he told a story!

The coach rocked slightly as Richard disembarked and surveyed the half-timbered building before him. It seemed as if nothing at all had changed since the last time he had been here, when he was fifteen years old and going to France. The structures had aged, of course, so the timbers were somewhat darker, but the number of buildings had not increased or diminished. The same oak tree stood in the yard surrounded by a stone wall, except for the portion across the back, where the river ran. Here willows bent over the water like maidens looking at their reflection.

Over there by the stables, he had bid farewell to his father for what had been the last time.

He put away that unpleasant memory and glanced back at his pretty wife, a wry smile on his face. “If I can feel this pleased about returning
to an inn, I hope I do not disgrace myself with an emotional outburst when I first see Blythe Hall.”

Elissa thought of the Blythe Hall she had left, and the Blythe Hall he was expecting to see. She would do well to prepare for an outburst of a rather different sort than he was anticipating.

“Ah, Mistress Longbourne, ye’re back!” a woman’s throaty voice called from somewhere closeby.

Richard spun on his heel to see Mistress Hutchley, the landlady, who also looked as if she had not changed in these many years, standing in the door of the kitchen, her large hands on her broad hips, and a wide smile on her friendly face.

Will ran eagerly toward the woman. “I’ve been to London and Mama saw the king and I’ve got a new papa and have you made any more cake?” he cried, the words a happy jumble as he came to a skidding halt before the landlady.

“A new papa?” she declared as she embraced the boy. Her surprised gaze passed from Elissa to Richard and back again. “A new papa?”

As she repeated her shocked ejaculation, a very pretty, plump young woman appeared behind her at the door to the main room of the inn. It is Martha, Mistress Hutchley’s daughter, Richard thought, remembering a little girl
with that same rosy complexion, bright blue eyes and merry smile.

Martha was a little girl no longer. She was a very well-developed woman who regarded him as if he were a particularly toothsome morsel.

“It’s true,” Elissa said evenly. “I have been married to Richard Blythe, now the Earl of Dovercourt.”

“Richard Blythe, the one who writes the plays and grew up near Owston?” Mistress Hutchley demanded, gazing at him incredulously. Then her lip curled with disgust. “By God, yes! I should have known those black eyes anywhere! Ye’re the image of your father.

“Inside, Martha,” she ordered sternly. “Get some food for our guests and cake for the young man here, eh? Be quick about it!”

The young woman hurried away, while Mistress Hutchley took Will’s hand and led him inside as if she thought he must be protected from contagion.

Richard had indeed been wounded many times, but every cut and gash was as the prick of a pin compared to the pain of the realization that he had been a fool to hope that the old rumors would have died out by now.

Wondering at the woman’s scornful reaction, Elissa turned to look at Richard. He merely smiled his sardonic smile and calmly noted, “I see my family is still remembered, and apparently my literary fame has penetrated
even this remote corner of England.”

“Are you not ashamed to be so notorious?” she asked incredulously.

Not wishing to explain, Richard started walking toward the inn. “I cannot help that my success has made me notorious.”

“Mistress Longbourne!”

At the shout of greeting, Richard turned to see a slender, fair-haired man rush from the stable, his not-ugly face wreathed with smiles and open admiration. The fellow must be a person of some wealth, for while his clothes were nothing fancy, they were well tailored and made of obviously fine wool. His bucket boots were plain, and made of expensive and highly polished leather.