Battle-Torn Bride

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 she did. And he had been drawn to her, the sharp tingle in his blood giving him no rest. Until the archery contest when he had made his first approach, encouraging her to respond to his subtle flattery, enjoying her innocent response. Being captivated by the indomitable life force, the translucent charm. Vivid and unquestionably beautiful, she had drawn all eyes, but it was to him that she looked. On him that she smiled and granted her hand in the succession of round dances.

Now as he rode from Great Houghton, Lord Richard found himself remembering her as she had sat between her smiling mother and glowering father, watching the dancing, her desire to participate clear in every line of her body, the tapping of her foot against the tiled floor. She had been wearing, he recalled, a high–waisted gown of figured silk trimmed with fur at hem and low neckline. The full skirt, which flowed into a train, would not make dancing an easy task but that would not hinder her with her gifts of grace and agility. Her hair had been covered by a long veil secured by a jeweled band, that did everything to emphasise the lovely clear oval of her face as the pale silk drew attention to her glorious eyes.

Then the music from flutes and horns and drums had struck up a popular tune and Richard had known that he must dance with her. So he had approached Sir Walter Hatton, stern and forbidding despite the lighthearted occasion.

“I would ask your daughter to partner me in this dance, Sir Walter. With your permission.”

Sir Walter had frowned, pursed his lips in sour thought, misliking the smooth elegance of the young courtier who bowed so gracefully toward Beatrice. But he could not so openly refuse without comment. Stafford had powerful connections. Besides, Lady Margery smiled her agreement and Beatrice gave a little tug to her father’s sleeve. So he would comply, if grudgingly.

Sir Walter hunched his shoulders. “If she wishes it, sir.”

Of course she did. Her face was alight with it. She was on her feet before her father could change his mind, her hand in Richard’s as he led her to join the other dancers.

“Did you think I would refuse?” Her fingers curled into his, her teeth glinted in a smile of sheer delight.

“No, lady. But I thought your father might.”

She glanced over to where her father continued to grimace at the merriment in general and at her and her partner in particular. “He has no love for the Court. He is here out of duty only, and in loyalty to the king. He suspects all courtiers of empty smiles and false words. But why would he refuse something so trivial as a dance?”

“He might have other ideas for his beautiful daughter.”

Her brow furrowed in a little frown. “I do not take your meaning, my lord. Ideas other than what?”

“Of you being my lover. Of being my wife.”

Her eyes flew to his face. Her pretty lips opened in a perfect O of shock.

“My lord … Indeed …”

“I would never have believed it possible for me to fall hopelessly, helplessly in love with you—with any woman—with so little acquaintance. But now I do, Mistress Hatton. What do you think? Can such a thing as love at first meeting exist?”

“I … I think you flatter me, my lord.” She turned away from him in the dance, only to return a moment later, to put her hand trustingly into his.

“Of course I flatter you,” he continued, noting the deepening color in her cheeks with appreciation. “How could I not flatter so lovely a lady? But it comes from a heart which you hold within these pretty fingers.” He tightened his clasp on her hand as they moved closer together in the dance.

“Lord Richard!”

“Mistress Hatton!”

Perforce they separated again. But she never took her eyes from him. And then they were together once more, one of his arms firmly around her waist as they trod the lively steps.

“I think I have fallen in love with you. What do you think?” He whispered the words against her ear.

She glanced up. “Is your heart beating as fast as mine, my lord?”

“Undoubtedly, lady. It beats for you.”

“Then I think you could very well be right.”

And he had been. Somewhere between the festive carol–dance and the intricate steps of the sprightly pavane, he had fallen in love. As effortlessly and completely as that.

It had presented a soldier adept in military tactics with no difficulty at all to organise any number of private meetings with the lady. Where eventually he could persuade her compliance in a kiss, a close embrace. Although, as he recalled, she had needed little persuasion, only reassurance for her innocence. Her emotions were as engaged as his and they had yearned for more than a stolen kiss. He had wanted marriage, and so had she.

They had discovered one particular gallery, little more than a corridor between one reception room and another in the vast Palace of Westminster. But it was blessed with window seats, and too cold for most to brave except through necessity. It had been witness to their exchanged vows of love. When she had shivered in a brisk draft he had taken off his fur–lined cloak to wrap it round her, to envelop her in its heavy warmth. She had sighed with pleasure and leaned in to him. Until a lady and gentleman had walked past, with slanted glances, knowing smiles.

“We must go. I think I should not be alone here with you. My mother would not approve.” She had tightened nervous fingers on his arm.

“And your father would probably have me whipped from the palace!” He had smiled his understanding. “My lovely Beatrice—will you grant me one privilege before we go?”

“I might.” Her teeth gleamed in the shadows.

“Your hair, lady. Will you let me unpin your hair?”