Beatrice stared at Sebastian, her heart thumping in the base of her throat and striking with such force that her whole body shook.
“He pursued me,” she said, forcing the words past her heart. “You did not.”
That was only part of the truth, sauce on the meat of it. She had chosen to allow Conyers to touch and kiss her because he had plainly desired her and she had needed to be desired. Had Sebastian wanted her, as well? If he had, he had not shown it.
“It should have been me, Bea,” Sebastian said, a note in his voice that was both hard and soft. The sound of pain; she had made it often enough that she could not mistake it. Oh, Sebastian.
“Was I to chase you and offer myself to you?” she asked. “Whatever you may think, I am not a doxy.”
“You offered yourself to Conyers. If you had to offer yourself to someone, why could you not choose me?”
“I did not offer myself to Conyers. He came to me.”
“That does not answer my question, Bea. Why him?”
“Because he desired me.” How shameful it sounded, spoken aloud. If Sebastian believed anew that she was light-minded and lewd after hearing it, she could not blame him.
“I do not believe you.”
“Whether you believe me or not, I have told you the truth. Sir George was the only man I knew who wished to lie with me.”
“Aside from Lord Manners.”
“No.” Her throat closed; she fought it open. “Lord Manners found me—” She could not say it. Clenching her fists to drive her nails into her palms, she took yet another breath. “He did not desire me.”
Sebastian stared at her and shook his head. “He was an old man. If his flesh would not rise to the battle, it could not have been for lack of desire. You have mistaken the case.”
Mistaken the case? She could not have mistaken Thomas’s meaning at all. Impatience with Sebastian’s persistent disbelief freed her tongue. “He told me I sickened him.”
And with that, something inside her gave way and she was flooded with pain and shame, spilling through her on a tide of memory. She turned, walked to the other side of the room and pressed her forehead to the cool, rough stone of the wall. Thomas had been sick the first time he had tried to lie with her. He had put his cold hand on her breast and then had rushed to the pot in the corner of the chamber where he had vomited. After he was done retching, he had commanded her to cover herself. Shocked and bewildered, she had hesitated—and had been slapped for it.
She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut as if doing so would close out her memories, and wondered if there would ever be an end to them.
“What did you do?” Sebastian asked, his voice rough.
“You were at the wedding. Surely you saw me bedded.” What had she done to so disgust Thomas? She still did not know; nothing George Conyers had been able to say or do had erased the fear that she would repel him too.
“No,” Sebastian said. “When he said you sickened him—what did you do?”
Do? After that blow, she had dared nothing, attempted nothing, too shocked to do anything but nurse her cheek and stare at the aging stranger she had married.
“What could I do? He was my husband. I had no redress.”
“Did you not try to please him?”
“He was my husband, my master. How should I not try to please him? And yet I failed. I failed, Sebastian.” And the one thing she had been sure of, her beauty, her ability to waken men’s desire, had been shown for a sham. If she was not beautiful, what was she?
Footsteps crossed the room toward her and then fingers parted her hair, trailing along the back of her neck.
“Do not weep, Bea.”
“I am not weeping.”
His fingers caressed her neck and shoulder, gliding across her skin, gentle and soothing, offering more comfort than an embrace could have. Standing between her and the room, the stairs and the world beyond, Sebastian protected her, shielding her from her own memories, while his fingers massaged the tension from her neck and shoulders. As she relaxed, her body’s response to his touch changed, heat blooming under her skin, desire stirring. God help her that even half-distraught, she could not resist him.
“Manners was a fool. How could he not desire you?” His hands still moved over her skin. She wanted to lean closer, she wanted to pull away. She had no will, could make no choice but to stand still under his touch. Her eyes drifted close as he caressed her. “Bea,” he murmured and then his mouth was warm on her shoulder. She sighed and his mouth was on her throat. “Bea, please. I want you so much I ache with it. Lie with me.”
“You will scorn me,” she whispered, her voice and her will weak.
“I will not, I swear it.” His lips brushed her ear and she closed her eyes, undone. “Do not deny me.”
“Michaelmas...” Something about Michaelmas...
“I cannot wait.” His arms encircled her, pulling her against him and cradling her close. “Do not torment me.”
“Sebastian...” Her will was crumbling, her barriers falling. She wanted him so much that tears leaked from her eyes, slow as honey.
“Say yes, Bea, I pray you. We are all but married. There is no sin.”
“I do not...”
“Please.” His whisper was harsh in her ear, the note of pain sounding again.
Desire surrounded her, filled her, more hunger and longing than she could withstand. She nodded.
His arms tightened. “I will come to you tonight.”
“Wait...”
He turned her, cupped her face and kissed her as if he drank deeply. “I cannot, Bea. Do not ask it of me.”
“Promise me.” She was drowning, drowning in him.
“Anything.”
“Promise me you will not abuse me for it later.”
“I promise you I will not. There is no sin.”
“Then come.”
“Sweeting,” he said roughly and pulled her into his arms.
His mouth was hotter and hungrier than before; she responded like dry tinder devoured by flame, consumed in an instant. His arms were hard around her ribs, his thighs hard against her thighs. Released from restraint, her desire for him burned down to her bones, and she knew why she had chosen George Conyers over him. No matter the risk, she would never have been able to say no to Sebastian; she would have lain with him without a thought for the danger. She pushed her fingers into his hair, its heavy waves silky against her palms. He broke the kiss, his breath ragged in her ear.
“Sebastian,” she whispered, her mouth against his throat, his pulse beating against her lips, swift and hard. Or was it her own? “Oh, Sebastian.”
“If we do not stop now, I will not be able to stop later,” he said. “I must go. I cannot stop touching you if you are near.” There was a shaken note in his voice, as if somehow this kiss had destroyed his composure in a way the others could not.
“Then go,” she said softly. Stay, she thought, do not leave me. But he must, she knew that. She watched him leave until he could not be seen below the floor. A moment after he disappeared, the door creaked open and banged shut, and she was alone, bereft, afraid and exhilarated.
The memory of Sebastian’s mouth, ardent and demanding, on her own, sent a wave of heat cascading over her skin, scalding and sweet at once. A voice inside her cried, This is madness! It was madness, but she could not abjure it. Something within compelled her into Sebastian’s arms, made it impossible for her to say him nay. Perhaps it was the work of the devil, but would the devil bid her lie with her husband?
She was a fool, but there was no helping it. Desire for Sebastian, the knowledge that they were married, both conspired to weaken her, undermine her defenses, allow her lesser nature command her. If she had any strength, she would deny Sebastian.
She had none.
Sebastian crept through the sleeping castle toward Beatrice’s chamber, his candle barely able to penetrate the darkness. His heart pounded with excitement, desire and trepidation intermingled, yet he went on, moving through the night. He had gone too far to back out now.
When he came upon Beatrice’s door, he opened it without hesitation and slipped within. A candle burned on a table by the windows, casting vast dancing shadows across the curtains shrouding the bed in the center of the room. Despite the candle, the complete silence in the chamber made him wonder if he was all alone. Had Beatrice fled this meeting? He stepped further into the chamber. A floorboard squeaked underfoot.
The curtains drew back from the corner of the bed and Beatrice’s head poked out. “Who goes—Sebastian...”
“Yes, Sebastian.” He blew out his candle and crossed the room to set it on the table, deferring the moment he joined her.
She had disappeared when he turned back to the bed. His heart’s pounding redoubled, he began to undress, unlacing and stripping off his doublet, untying and dropping his bases, kicking his shoes off his feet. He pulled his shirt free of his trunk hose and grasped its hem to pull it over his head before pausing thoughtfully. The first time he and Beatrice made love was going to be awkward enough without thrusting himself on her naked at the outset. Let him woo and seduce her first. He had promised her pleasure, not discomfort.
And all the while, a little voice in the back of his head cried jubilation that this moment had come at long last.
He parted the curtains at the foot of the bed. Another candle stood on a little shelf above the bed and cast yellow light over Beatrice, her hair spilling loose and bright over the mounded pillows. Shadows gathered in the folds of her nightshift, concealing the curves of her body, one shadow jumping in the hollow of her neck, steady as a heartbeat.
Across the distance separating them, their eyes met. She said, “I am afraid.”
“So am I.”
Her eyes widened. “You are? Why?”
“I promised you I could give you pleasure and now I fear I shall fail. What do you fear?”
Her gaze lost its doubt and became thoughtful, reminding him of the garden in London, when she had weighed him and found him wanting. He held his breath.
“I fear pain. I fear I shall disappoint you.”
“You cannot disappoint me,” he said and climbed onto the mattresses. The ropes underneath creaked under his weight and the bed shook as he crawled to its head, approaching her. She waited, biting her lip, her eyes growing wider the closer he came. He reached her and sat on the mattress beside her, his weight trapping her under the coverlets. This close, the linen of her nightshift was thin, thin enough that he could glimpse the shadow of her breasts. He swallowed.
“Do you wish me to lie down?” she whispered, her hands knotted together in her lap.
He put his hand over that knot and brushed his thumb across the back of one hand. “We have time, Bea. We have all night.”
He waited, thumb rubbing the back of her hand until her clasp loosened, her fingers parting company. He laced his fingers with hers, willing to sit quietly with her until she grew used to his presence and relaxed. As much as he wanted her, he could wait.
With her hand in his, he felt it when she eased. He waited a moment longer, then lifted her hand to look at it. “Such pretty hands,” he murmured and lifted the hand he held to his mouth, sliding his fingers free so he might kiss her pink palm and then nibble the length of her fingers one by one. He watched her to gauge her reaction.
She sighed beside him, her lids lowering to veil her eyes. From her hand he moved to her wrist, resting his lips against her pulse point long enough to feel her blood beating against her skin. He pushed her sleeve up and followed it to her elbow. He licked the inside and scraped it with his teeth, and heard her gasp. His groin tightened.
All night, all night, we have all night. But he wanted her now, he wanted her to lie down, lift her nightshift and let him ease himself. He had waited too long for this—years of desire pressed against him, clamoring for release.
Wool, he thought. Think about wool. How great will this year’s yield be and how much gold will it fetch?
The hard edge of his lust dulled, though its weight still pressed him. This last, short wait while he readied her was almost too much to bear. But he would bear it because without it, she would have no joy of this night. And that he would not accept.
From her arm he moved to her neck, placing one small kiss on the tender spot under her ear. He turned her face to his with a gentle hand so he might kiss her, kiss her sweet, hot mouth until the blood roared in his ears and he could think of nothing but the burn of his lust and the hungry discomfort of his arousal. He reached for her breast and a groan shook him when the weight of it filled his hand, her nipple hard against his palm. He caressed her, his hand lifting her, and she tore her mouth from his, her breath harsh and fast in the enclosure of the bed.
Forgetting all his resolve he pulled her into his arms, across his lap, shoving the coverlet aside when it threatened to keep her from him. Her hair spilled silk across his hands as she pressed her forehead against his neck, allowing him to explore the warm, soft contours he had only guessed at before.
He could not stop touching her, caressing her. His free hand wandered to the hem of her nightshift and slipped underneath, sliding up her shins to her knees and beyond to her hot, silky thighs. In the back of his mind he waited for her hands to reach down and stop him as they had before when he had touched her so. Instead they clutched his shoulders, gripped his hair. She trembled in his arms, her breath coming in little sobbing gasps that made his desire pulse hard in his flesh.
Wool. Wool. Think of...
Her hip was round and satin-soft under his hand, sloping inward to her waist. He spread his hand across her belly, across the cradle of her hips, dizzy with hunger.
“I cannot wait anymore,” he muttered. “I need you.”
She turned his head and kissed him, her mouth hot and wanton on his, the kiss demanding and ardent. Was she ready? She kissed him as if she was, but he wanted to be sure. He let his hand drift downward, to touch her to be certain. His finger slid between her thighs, to slick heat. She tightened her thighs, stiffening in his arms.
“Sebastian...” she whispered. Her voice sounded shocked.
“Has no one ever...”
“No.”
“Relax. Let me please you.”
London. Think of London, the stink and the noise and the expense. He remembered everything he hated about the city, about Court, concentrating on his distaste and scorn. The fire in his blood subsided, enough that he could touch Beatrice without being overwhelmed by the desire to throw her down and have her, to end the endless waiting.
She relaxed, letting him touch her and stroke her. He kissed her mouth and her eyes and her face, swallowing her moans and gasps. She frowned, biting her lip, moving under his hand in short, jerky bursts.
“Oh. Sebastian, Sebastian...” She put her hand over his. “Please. I cannot bear it. Come to me.”
London burned away, consumed to ashes in an instant. He lifted her away, stretching her out over the mattress and stood to strip away his hose, points ripping in his haste. He tore his shirt off and, naked, crawled back onto the bed. He pushed her nightshift up, exposing her white flesh, her round breasts, tight rosy nipples. His mouth went dry. If he had thought her beautiful clothed, it was nothing to her magnificence now.
“Take it off,” he said, his dry throat hoarse.
She knew what he meant without further explanation, pulling her shift off and flinging it aside. Her glance dropped to his hips and she swallowed, blushing so intensely that it was visible in the candlelight, the color spilling to the tops of her round breasts. He leaned over and licked the edge of the color, then settled over her. She parted her legs for him, releasing heat that bathed him and beckoned to him. It took every bit of restraint he possessed not to thrust into her immediately, to hold himself back long enough to kiss and touch and stroke her until she bucked underneath him.
Now, he thought and eased into her.
He encountered resistance. Beatrice stiffened, gasping as if in pain. He pushed harder and she clutched his forearms, her fingernails digging into his skin.
“What...?” And then he knew. As unbelievable as it was, Beatrice was a virgin. He would be the first after all.
“Do not stop,” she whispered. “Please.”
Her plea, the drive of his body toward release—both overwhelmed him, impossible to resist. He could not stop; his hips moved. The barrier gave and he was enclosed by her, tight and hot. He shuddered, the pleasure of her clasp intense. It blotted out thought as desire possessed him and carried him under its red flood, driving him into her, bearing him furiously toward climax.
He exploded, his release a fierce convulsion. He burned down to the marrow of his bones, leaving nothing but ash. When he came back to himself he was shaking, hollowed out. It had been a long time since he had lain with a woman, a lifetime since he had begun desiring Beatrice.
And what of her? How had she fared? He lifted his head and looked down into her face. Her eyes were closed, wet lashes shining, silvery tracks trailing from the corners of her eyes into her hair. Remorse stung him and he withdrew as gently as he could. He had not meant to hurt her.
“Oh, Bea. Why did you not tell me you were a virgin?” he whispered.
“I thought you knew. When you wondered if I had ever...”
What had he asked her that could have led them both so far astray? He thought hard of what had gone before. His hand had reached up to the juncture of her thighs, those thighs had tightened...
“I was asking if you’d ever been touched,” he said.
“Oh.” She wriggled beneath him and winced. “You crush me.”
He rolled off her. “I did not want to hurt you.” If he had known, he would have been more gentle. “But you should have told me.” One man’s wife, another man’s mistress, and still a virgin—if he had not felt the evidence himself, he would have thought it impossible. But, inconceivable or no, it was true and something deep within him exulted. He had been the first, the only man, to know her with such intimacy.
She sat up, reached for her shift and pulled it on. “I thought I had.” The shift enveloped her in thin folds, concealing her.
As if it had a will of its own, his hand reached out to her, fingertips grazing her hip under the soft linen. “If I had known, I could have lessened the hurt.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes unreadable. “It does not matter.”
Though he had possessed her, she still had the capacity to lift her guard against him. He sat up, pulling the coverlet over his hips, clothing himself because she was clothed, however inadequately. “How can you say it does not matter? You let me believe you had lain with Conyers. You lied to me.”
“You never asked me what I was about. You should have known better but you condemned me without a hearing,” she said, gathering her hair into her hand.
“You should have told me the truth,” he said.
“Would you have listened to me if I had tried? Or would you have accused me of lying to you?”
Unexpectedly, she had struck home with her question. He had done everything in his power to avoid her after discovering her with Conyers. By doing so, he had made it impossible for the truth to be aired. Instead of knowledge, he had had to make do with unreliable anger and imagination.
“If you will tell me now, I will listen.”
She turned to face him and for a moment, as she had in the tower, she looked like her proud, fierce mother. “Are you certain you wish to hear this?”
He did not want to hear her out, he wanted to pretend she had never lived as Manners’s wife, never dallied with Conyers. But the things she had not told him kept ambushing him, the surprises unpleasant even when they overset his unkind assumptions about her and her behavior these past few years. She had kept her mysteries long enough. Let there finally be plain speaking between them.
“I am certain. Tell me.”
“Very well.” She sighed and tilted her head back, her eyes closed. “I told you I disgusted Thomas. What I did not tell you was that when he attempted to lie with me, I so sickened him that he vomited.” Her voice was flat and hard, as if she dared not allow expression in her voice. Had she also closed her eyes so she might not see how he heard her? Curiously, he wanted to comfort her, yet he feared that if he touched her, she would fall silent and no amount of cozening or commanding would compel her to speak of this again. Or least not until the next time she sprang one of her traps. “He tried to lie with me almost the whole of our life together. When he failed, it angered him. He beat me for it.”
She fell silent. She had flinched in the garden in London, throwing her hand up as if to protect her face from a blow. How many times had Manners struck her that she reacted without thinking? He did not want to know. Let him hear what he needed to hear and no more.
As gently as he could, he asked, “And Conyers?”
She did not open her eyes. “I wanted to know I did not sicken every man I met. Sir George desired me greatly. It addled me so that I gave him everything he asked, save my maidenhead.” She opened her eyes and looked at Sebastian, her gaze unflinching, as if she challenged him. “I would not risk getting with child.”
“Why risk anything at all?”
She shook her head. “I do not know, except that after being told day after day that I was so foul no man should ever want me and seeing how I sickened Thomas, I lost my wits when I roused someone else to real desire.” Her mouth tightened and she looked down. “I was a fool and I am sorry for it.”
What could he say in answer to that? Unable to think of a single thing that was neither cruel nor dishonest, he reached out and took her hand, lacing her fingers with his. They sat in strangely companionable silence for a long, peaceful moment, their only point of contact their joined hands.
“Do you hate me?” she asked, not looking at him.
Did he? Had he ever? He did not know what made his heart ache, but it was not hate.
“No.”
She lifted her head and looked directly into his eyes. “I will never do anything that foolish again. I have learned the cost of that kind of folly and it is too high. You may not believe me, but I do not lie.”
He thought of every witless thing he had done in the last five years, everything he had learned by painful experience not to do. If he confessed them all to Beatrice and swore never to do any of them again, would she believe him? Or would she believe that if he had made a mistake once, he must by his very nature make the same mistake over and over again?
“I wish that you had not married Lord Manners, and I wish even more than you had not held yourself so cheaply before Conyers,” he said slowly. “I cannot forget either one. But I do not doubt you regret both and I think that will deter you should any man tempt you.”
“How should I desire a man enough to dishonor myself? I—Forgive me, Sebastian, but I found no pleasure in you.” Color, vivid enough to be seen in the uncertain light, filled her cheeks. “I liked your touch well enough before...I knew it should hurt, but not how much.”
He sighed, exasperated with both of them. If only he had known... “Will you not let me try again? I swear there can be pleasure. I have brought—” He bit the words off before he spoke them.
“Other women to pleasure?” Beatrice asked. “I pray you, do not tell me of these other women, however much you pleased them.”
“Do you now understand why it angers me to hear of Lord Manners and Sir George?” he demanded.
“You ask about them, so I must answer. I have not asked about the women you have lain with.”
“Because you did not find me with any of them.” He knew his annoyance was unwarranted, that he snapped at her because he was ashamed of himself for bringing his sins into this bed when he did not want hers there. Fool, fool, thrice-damned fool.
“I have not asked because I do not wish know,” Beatrice said, frowning. “You ask when you do not want the answer, you berate me when I keep silence and berate me again when I answer. I do not know what you want of me, Sebastian. I have not known for years. I have begun to wonder if the reason I do not know is that you do not know either.”
“I wanted a wife I might trust.”
“You have one, if you will but see it. Would it be better to marry a maid as heedless as I was, who trusts her virtue cannot be assailed for no better reason than it has yet to be tested? Or is it not better to marry a woman who knows how quickly danger may come upon the unwary and who guards herself, her honor and her soul accordingly? I am no longer so proud I think I cannot be led astray. I guard myself well.”
She shifted on the bed so that she half turned away and gathered up her hair. White fingers flashing in the candlelight, she separated her hair into three sections and began to braid it. “You ought to go,” she said without looking at him. “It will not do for you to be found here.”
She was right, but he did not move. As quickly as it had flared up, his irritation had died down. This room, this bed, seemed as if they held all the warmth and sweetness in the world, while all without was cold and dark. He did not want to go.
Her hair almost bound in a neat plait, Beatrice glanced over her shoulder at him, eyebrows lifted. “Do you not go?”
“No, I do not. Let me stay a while longer.”
Her eyes widened, her cool, stern expression giving way to uncertainty. “It is not safe,” she said, a faint breathlessness undermining the confidence of her words.
He leaned forward and, cupping the back of her head to hold her still, he kissed her, the kiss deepening as her lips parted under his. She twisted toward him, putting her hands on his shoulders, clutching him as if for balance. Her plait loosened, the waves of her hair clinging to him. Desire kindled, leaping from spark to flame in a heartbeat. He pulled her against him, to feel her soft curving body yield to his. She leaned into him, hands clenching and relaxing on his shoulders as if she did not know what to do with them.
He lay back, drawing her with him. The awkwardness of the movement broke the kiss. Beatrice lifted her head to look at him, gaze moving across his face.
“Sebastian...?”
“I will go before it is light. We have a few hours. Do not make me go.”
Doubt and longing, pushing her close, pulling her away, fought in her eyes. He reached up and brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
“Please.”
She lowered her eyelids, long lashes shadowing her eyes. “You have only to command me, Sebastian. I am your wife and must be obedient to your will.”
“Not for obedience,” he said softly, running the pad of his thumb over her soft, swollen mouth. “Only because you wish it.”