Sebastian leaned against the wall near the dais and watched Beatrice, laughing and graceful, dance with John. In the last week he had wooed her, speaking soft flattery, seducing her with gentle touches and, when he could claim them, gentler kisses, trying to gain her trust. Every night he left the hall or the solar certain he had breached her defenses and had only to exploit his advantage to win her. Every morning he found she had repaired the walls she held against him, so that he had all his work to do again.
He shifted his weight, his gaze following them as she and her brother moved in the dance’s intricate figures. How could the kisses that made his head spin and his flesh burn fail to move her? How could he come so close to winning her and yet still fail? Was she wary of him because of her previous mistakes? He saw in his mind’s eye Beatrice in Conyers’s arms, clinging to him, kissing him. Anger stirred in his depths, anger that would wreck his efforts to win her if he did not master it.
Swearing under his breath, he closed his mind’s eye to his memories and pushed away from the wall to find another resting place, watching Beatrice as he went.
The beat of the music gathered speed. With John as her shadow, Beatrice turned with the rest of the dancers, her eyes shining as she leapt and spun. The light from the candles and torches licked over her skin, glinted on her teeth and gleamed on her lips. Desire bit him, hard. Even if he could not persuade her to love him, his gnawing appetite demanded that he bed her. He could never contain himself until Michaelmas; he must win her.
When she is your wife, you will be able to take her as you list.
But she was his wife now, or nearly enough that it made no difference. Despite her watchfulness, she responded to his caresses with a heat that fired his own. Though she tamped her response down as quickly as it flared up, she must surely yield soon...
John said something that made her glance flick to Sebastian and away. Why did she fight the desire he knew she felt? Did the past have so great a hold on her? Whatever images came to torment him, the past was done. He was not Conyers and she was not Thomas Manners’s wife. If he could see it, why could she not?
With patience he could wear down her resistance, but he feared he did not have it in him to be patient. He looked at Beatrice, laughing with her brother as they whirled by. By’r Lady, he did not know if he had the patience to wait out the night, never mind wait out her fears.
The dance ended. Sebastian straightened, ready to follow Beatrice wherever she went. If he could not kiss her nor caress her, he might still hold her hand, speak to her, turn and move with her in the public intimacy of a dance. She put her hand on John’s arm; John turned toward Sebastian. Beatrice looked at him and, despite the distance, he could see doubt and something else cloud her eyes. John turned, said something, then he and Beatrice crossed the hall to Sebastian.
“I bring you a fair lady,” John said.
“Fair indeed,” Sebastian said, looking at Beatrice.
She tilted her head in acknowledgment of the flattery while the musicians began a slow pavanne.
“And now, having done my duty by both of you, let me find my wife,” John said and left them.
“Will you dance with me?” Sebastian asked.
Her eyes met his. “Gladly.”
He led her to join the other handful of dancers, her fingers curled around his. For a minute or two they simply danced, no words spoken.
“You looked as if you enjoyed dancing with John,” he said at last.
She smiled. “I did. I should have lost my place if he had not aided me.”
“This is very different.”
“But pleasant, too.”
“Yes.”
They moved forward, back and forward again.
“I like dancing at home better than I did dancing at Court,” she said suddenly, and it was a measure of his success in wearing her down that she had begun to offer information rather than waiting to be asked for it.
Still, the remark surprised him. She had spent her time at Court surrounded by admirers. If he had thought them unworthy of her, she had still seemed to enjoy their attentions. “Why is that?”
She sighed, her brow faintly creased. “Because I need not be so on my guard at home. When the men at Court flatter a woman, half the time it is in aid of a plot to do her an ill turn.” She glanced at him sidelong. “You may flatter me, Sebastian, and I may wonder why, but I do not think you are trying to harm me.”
“Do you not? I see you doubt me.”
She laughed but the sound was as skeptical as it was amused. “I still wonder at your kindness to me. I wonder when it will end and I wonder what it is in aid of.”
“Have I been so unkind?”
“Yes.”
He stumbled a little, surprised by her forthrightness.
“You asked, Sebastian. I would not have said so otherwise.”
“I have not been unkind since our betrothal.” It was all he could say.
“No, no, you have not.”
He let the dance move them through the hall without answering, trying to absorb what she had said. In any other woman, he would interpret frankness as a weakening of defenses, the first intimation that her walls were coming down. With Beatrice he could not be so sure.
If you will give me leave to say so, I do not think we truly know one another.
He heard her voice again, speaking soberly, almost sadly. He had agreed with her that day under the tree because it had suited him to do so, not because he had put any thought into what she said. Yet every day he spent with her only underlined the truth she had spoken. She was a mystery to him, unknown despite the years they had been acquainted. Would he ever know her? He could not be sure of anything she might do and if the uncertainty made him angry, it also made her alluring.
The dance ended, the music silenced. He kissed her mouth lightly, then lifted her hand, palm up, to be kissed, as well. Under the chatter of the other dancers, he heard her gasp as clearly as if the room had been silent. He looked up in time to see heat flare in her eyes. Encouraged by it, he lifted her other hand and pressed his mouth first to the center of her palm and then to the inside of her wrist.
“Do not,” she whispered, but she left her hand in his.
“Why not?” he whispered in reply.
“I...” She swallowed. “I should liefer you did not.”
“Do you dislike it?”
Her eyes met his, full of entreaty. “No. I-I like it too well.”
“You said you do not believe I will do you harm.”
“I said I do not believe you try to do me harm. There is a difference.”
“Words,” he said. Was it words that came between them? Was that the source of his difficulty? If he ceased using words, set them aside in favor of action, would he breach her defenses? Would she yield to him?
“Words that speak the truth,” she said.
“Words conceal, as well.”
“Yes,” she said. “I only dare judge by actions and even then I cannot be certain.”
“Then let my actions speak for me.” What else could he say? The music began again, a livelier tune. “Dance with me.”
She turned her hand in his, her acquiescence answer enough.
Later that night, Beatrice turned over onto her side in her wide, empty bed and stared into the darkness. Just under her skin, tension thrummed, keeping her awake. How could she sleep when she could not relax into the deep comfort of her bed, when she kept feeling Sebastian’s touch, his hands and his mouth on her, when she kept seeing his eyes, dark blue and intent, stare into hers? Desire drove away sleep, gnawing, maddening desire such as she had never known. Whatever she had felt for George Conyers, it had been no more than a trickle to this flood.
She turned again, the ropes underneath the mattresses creaking faintly, and sighed. If it were only her own desire to fight, she would vanquish it. If it were only Sebastian’s, she would resist it until he gave up his siege. But to successfully combat her desire and his? She did not know if she had the strength. With her appetite working from within and his from without, how long until her defenses were breached, her walls undermined and collapsing? Even now, she could feel herself weakening, hear the little voice in her depths whispering softly that it would be better to yield and have done. She was his wife, was she not? Or at least so nearly that it made no difference...
Give me strength. Give me wisdom.
She did not know what to do, caught in a fever of lust and longing. She ached for Sebastian, the tooth of her desire sharpening day by day. Would she yield in the end simply because she could not endure the pain of denial any longer? Please God let it not be so. Sebastian would never understand how he had driven her to it, nor believe that he alone could have brought her to such a pass. She feared that if she yielded to him, all his new kindness would disappear, replaced by anger and contempt. She feared he tested her without knowing that he had power over her that no other man in the world had. He was the one man she feared she could not resist.
I do not know what will become of me. Beatrice sighed and turned once more, rolling onto her back. She folded her hands over her stomach, staring into the blackness above. Let sleep come, let her have surcease from the endless mutter and complaint of her fears and doubts. She closed her eyes and sank into darkness...
...A minute or an hour later, awareness returned. Had she slept? And if she had slept, for how long? The longing in her depths had not abated, its edge still sharp. What would it be like to turn and find her husband with her? What would it be like to turn to him and welcome his touch?
Do not think of that, do not. She would make herself mad if she did not learn to master her wayward thoughts. If she was going to keep from thinking of Sebastian, she would have to think of something else, anything. Plan the garden at Benbury, she thought. That is something. She turned onto her side, letting her eyes close. Rosemary, rue, lavender and sweet marjoram...
... Adrift in the bed, she opened her eyes. Her garden...No, she had not been thinking of the gardens. She had been thinking of something else, something that unsettled her. What...?
Hands. She had been dreaming of hands, only these had not been Thomas’s hands, they had been Sebastian’s, and everywhere they touched, she burned, so hotly that even now, remembering the dream, desire drowned her in long red waves.
She pushed her face into her pillow, trying to blot out the memory. When it would not be driven away, she sat up, drew up her knees and pressed her forehead against them. Her hunger for Sebastian grew and grew, without let or hesitation. He robbed her of sleep, of sense, of certainty. Knowing the high price of having him only made her want him more.
What is to become of me?
His hands, his mouth, hot and sweet as they brought her delight... Beatrice moved to sit on the edge of the bed as if the dream lingered in the place where she had lain. Through the gap in the curtain, she could hear Nan’s faint, steady breathing. She slid her hand into the gap, parted the curtain and eased her feet onto the floor. The night candle guttered in its dish, casting flickering light across the walls. In the windows, the sky was a deep gray rimmed with red. How much sleep had she had? Her eyes were gritty as if she had not slept at all.
Nor would she sleep now. She could not remain in her bed, tormented by memory and longing. Moving quietly, she went to the press and pulled out her plainest clothes, a bodice and skirt she could get herself into without Nan’s aid. She dressed quickly and tucked her plait into a simple coif. If she went to the garden to see what she might like to plant at Benbury, she would still have time to return to her room and dress properly before the sun was well up.
Outside, the air was chill enough to bite, raising gooseflesh on her arms when she stepped through the door. After the fever of the night, the cold was welcome. She took a deep breath and lifted her head to look at the lightening sky. The stars had faded and the gray and scarlet she had seen from her window had become sapphire blue faintly tinted, over the top of the wall, with rose and peach. The garden was full of shadows, the corners of the walls blurring into darkness. As she stared, one of the shadows moved. Her heart jumped, slamming against her ribs. The shadow moved closer. She stood still, poised to flee, yet not truly frightened. No one could enter Wednesfield in the middle of the night, nor would any within its walls harm her. A bird called indistinctly, like the voice of a man half-awake, and was answered by another call, as drowsy as the first.
The shadow became Sebastian and if one tension relaxed, another tightened. Why was he here? Had he, too, spent a sleepless night, wrestling with a hunger that would not abate? He drew closer, so close she could see the blue shadows under his eyes.
“Good morrow, Beatrice. What do you here?”
“Good morrow,” she said and took a deep breath, trying to calm the riot under her breastbone. “I could sleep no more, and...And I thought I might find ideas for the garden at Benbury here. What of you?”
“I do not know why I am here, except I could not sleep either.” He smiled and stretched out his hand. “Since you are here, will you walk with me?”
How could she resist that smile, crooked and full of sweetness? She slid her hand into his, his palm hot against hers in the cool morning air.
He drew her with him as he retraced his steps into the depths of the garden. For a while they walked in silence broken by the crunch of their feet on the path and the songs and calls of the birds, growing in volume as the day brightened. When they reached the bottom of the garden, where the deepest shadows lingered, Sebastian halted. As if this was what she had agreed to by joining him, he lifted the hand he held to his mouth, turning it to press one kiss into the center of her palm, another on the inside of her wrist, the same caress as the night before. Once again, pleasure cascaded through her; once again, she gasped. His mouth drifted from the point where her heart beat against her skin, nibbling the skin of her forearm. She shivered as slow waves of delight traveled from hand to breast. Sebastian pushed her loose sleeve up and kissed the bend of her elbow. A wave of heat crashed in her lower belly as if he had put his wandering mouth there. Her face burning, she put her free hand between Sebastian’s mouth and her skin, the only denial she could bring herself to make. He seized her hand and pulled it away, pulling her into his arms in the same movement. She looked up into his eyes, unreadable in the half-light, and at his mouth, at the curves of his upper lip and the corners that always seemed ready to smile.
Please, she thought. The heat of his body, long and strong against hers, pushed through her bodice and shift to caress her skin. Without the armor of her pair-of-bodies and her petticoats, there was almost nothing between them.
No. Break free of him. That was wisdom, drowning.
Sebastian, please.
As if he heard her thought, his eyes narrowed. She saw the kiss in them before he lowered his head, his mouth open and hot on hers. She wrapped her arm around his neck so she would not fall when her knees gave way and parted her lips for him. Heat surged through her, blurring thoughts, wishes and good intentions into a red, dark haze. The world narrowed to Sebastian’s arms across her back, Sebastian’s mouth devouring her, Sebastian’s body pressing against hers, so close nothing could come between them, and yet too far away.
He lifted his head and kissed her eyes before resting his chin on her head. “Beatrice,” he said softly. She clung to him, mazed by the speed and heat of the fever he raised. “We cannot stay here, sweeting, where anyone may come upon us.”
Come upon us and see what they ought not. Come upon them as Sebastian had once come upon her and George. Beatrice pulled away to stare at him, uncertain of his intent and afraid of her own.
He cupped her face in his hands. “I cannot stop touching you.” He kissed her gently, but underneath the gentleness, he burned. “Please, Bea, come away with me to a place where we will not be disturbed.”
His mouth was on the corner of her lips, the corner of her eyes while his fingers brushed her throat, her ears. Her desire leaped to meet his, burning, burning. The walls she had built against him collapsed and with them went her ability to resist him. She nodded, afraid and exhilarated, lust itching beneath her skin with such ferocity that if she did not soon scratch, she would run mad. When Sebastian pulled her toward the old tower, his hand tight on hers, she followed despite a voice in her head crying, This is madness. Say him nay. It was wisdom, but she could not heed it. She wanted to be strong, but was weak; she wanted to be honorable and chaste, but was wanton. She ought to care, but did not.
Sebastian could do with her whatever he wished.