Sebastian walked Beatrice back to the castle, unwilling to leave her by the pool without even a maid to attend her. She had smiled at him when he said so, her whole face lighting as if she were a candle. The sight made his heart squeeze, a painful clench beneath his breastbone he rubbed to ease. How long had it been since he had seen her smile like that? Years, no doubt—certainly not since her marriage to that caitiff, Manners.
The ache sharpened. She had been ill-used by the men in her life, himself among them. He had failed to claim her, her father had failed to protect her from Manners, Manners had failed to treat her with courtesy and gentleness, and Conyers had failed to honor her. How could she smile now, as if the sun had come out after days of rain, as if her heart’s desire had been granted her?
He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, covering her fingertips with his hand. Incontinent desire was one of the hungers driving his need to touch her, but it was not the only one. Touching her satisfied another hunger, one he could not so easily name, one he would not examine closely enough to name.
In the hall, they parted, Beatrice to go to her mother’s solar, he to join the earl in his closet. At the foot of the stairs, Beatrice turned as if to catch a last glimpse of him. Seeing him watching her go, her smile lit, candle-bright, and his heart clenched again. It took all his strength of will not to join her. Still smiling, she turned away and disappeared up the stairs. Freed by her absence, Sebastian went to wait on her father.
In his closet, the earl sat alone, his pen squeaking on the paper as he wrote. Sebastian entered the room and closed the door.
“Sir, I have come as you bade.”
The earl glanced at him, nodded and continued writing, scowling at the page, his mouth a thin line. After two more lines, he flung down the pen and shook sand over his handiwork. He scanned the letter, tossed it aside and looked up, his frown easing into a look of welcome.
“Come, sit down, lad.”
When Sebastian had settled in the chair he had taken on his arrival a fortnight ago, the earl spoke.
“I have received a letter from my steward, shortly to be your steward, at Herron. It seems that some kind of quarrel has arisen between two tenant families and it has grown past the poor fool’s ability to resolve. A month ago I should have ridden to Herron myself to knock sense into a few thick heads, but Herron will be yours soon. I think it wise that you accompany me and have a say in how this is resolved. You will have to live with the decision, not I.”
“I should be glad to join you, sir. When do we leave?”
“As soon as it is light tomorrow.”
So quickly? How could he leave Beatrice? “That seems very soon.”
“I do not wish to let this boil fester longer than it must. The sooner we leave, the sooner there will be peace on your land.”
The earl was right, wise in his decision-making. Sebastian had known that for a long time, but he did not want to be wise, not when wisdom meant leaving Wednesfield. Beatrice would be here, more than reason enough to stay.
But it was not reason enough to turn his back on the earl’s shrewd counsel.
“That is true, sir. I will be ready.”
“Good.” The earl sat back in his chair. “I have heard you and John indulged in sword play this morning.”
“As the cat and mouse play, sir. I am no match for him.”
“No doubt he will be able to teach you a trick or two.”
“I hope so, sir.”
“It’s a wise man who learns from anyone with something to teach and a proud man who thinks first of his teacher’s station and second of his teacher’s wit.”
“Yes, sir,” Sebastian said, puzzled.
“I am saying you are wise to learn from John despite disapproving of the way he acquired his skill.”
Ah. Surely this was John’s doing; he had always preferred being frank, whatever the cost, to dissembling. Well, let Sebastian be equally frank. “It is not seemly for an earl’s son to hire his sword out as if he were a common man.”
“No.” The earl sighed. “It is not. However, unseemly or no, he has an uncommon skill. And he has come home to England to live as a good Englishman. I will not repine over what may not be amended. Nor should you.”
“I do not, sir. I am glad he is home.”
The earl looked away, his eyes bright. “Not as glad as I, lad, not as glad as I.”
Silence, easy and peaceful, fell between them. As she did whenever he had a moment’s ease, memories of Beatrice filled him. Crying out as she reached joy. Confessing that she had never known the kind of pleasure he had given her. Nestling in his arms, sweet and warm. Dressing in blue again as if his pleasure counted with her. Her skin had glowed pearl-pale against the dark blue of her gown; seeing it, he had remembered its softness against his own and it had been all he could do not to carry her away right then. Somehow he had thought he would desire her less once he had lain with her. He had been wrong. He had not known what sweetness she had to offer before; now he craved it as a drunkard craves wine.
Old feelings stirred, longings he had thought dead and gone. He wanted to lay the world at her feet, to offer her silks and brocades, jewels and gold, beautiful things to adorn her beauty. He could afford to do none of it. If his finances were in a better state than they had been when he had inherited his estate, they were still not rich enough to do all he imagined. And even if he were rich enough, would he do it?
“I could wish John had not married a foreign woman,” the earl said suddenly. “I fear me that Jasper’s heir will be his brother’s half-Italian get.”
“Is there no sign Jasper’s wife has quickened?”
“No, no sign, and I do not look for one.” The earl sighed. “Enough of that.”
“John’s son shall be raised an Englishman,” Sebastian offered. The earl had never spoken so frankly to him, nor had he ever revealed his concerns. What could he do in response but offer what comfort he might? “Surely that will be enough.”
The earl shot a hard stare at him, the stare proof that Sebastian had startled him. Abruptly the earl grinned. “There are some that say I am a Welshman, born at Pembroke as I was,” he said as if it were a matter for pride. “If I am English enough for this title, my grandson shall be too, whatever his mother is. I thank you.”
“It was my pleasure, sir, though I do not know what I did.”
“You reminded me of what counts in managing this estate. You waste your cleverness here. If you will take my advice, you will think again about returning to Court where that kind of wit has uses.”
“It is costly, sir, and I gain less than I spend.”
“You will be my son-in-law. That alone will make a difference. I am serious in this, Sebastian. You could be of service to me.”
On those terms, how could he refuse? It would mean long partings from Beatrice, for how could he trust in the morass of Court? When I have tired of her, I will go, he thought.
“I will consider it, sir.”
“Do not forget Beatrice. She was well beloved of the queen when she was in the queen’s household and if she returned with you, she could be of great assistance to you. Do you but say the word and I will obtain posts for you both.”
He could not refuse the earl outright, but he would not put Beatrice’s fragile honor at risk. “I pray you, let me marry Beatrice before I make any decisions.”
“Very well,” the earl said agreeably. He sat forward and picked up his pen. “I wish to leave at first light and I have much to do. You have my leave to go.”
Sebastian rose. “Yes, sir. How long shall I plan on being away?”
“A fortnight, perhaps longer. While we are there, I thought you might wish to inspect the property and refresh your acquaintance with your past tenants. There is no need to hurry any of that.”
Everything he said was ripe with good sense, yet Sebastian’s heart sank. As much as he had once wanted to see Herron again, he did not want to leave Beatrice for so long a period of time. A child wishes things might be different, he thought. A man bows to necessity.
That evening, Sebastian told Beatrice of the plan to go to Herron as they danced a pavanne, stately and slow, in the hall after supper. “We leave at dawn.”
“Tomorrow?” Beatrice whispered. A frown shivered across her face, breaking her composure for an instant. “Why so soon?”
“The sooner we go, the sooner the quarrel at Herron will be amended. So your father said. I think he has the right of it, Bea.”
“Will you come tonight?”
“Nothing could keep me away.”
She glanced at him as the dance moved them through the hall. “I did not think I should ever act this way,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“How?”
“Welcoming you to my bed in secret.”
Welcoming a man to her bed in secret had been the sin he had condemned her for. Her words ought to wake that old anger but did not; despite her past mistakes, she was not wanton, not light-minded. She lay with him now because she believed, as he did, that they were married before God.
Abruptly he realized that they were married, whatever the truth of that confused promise made so long ago. The vows they had exchanged at Coleville House, solemnizing their public betrothal, and their lovemaking last night had married them as finally as if they had spoken vows before a priest. Something in his chest shifted and settled as if the world, that had been narrowly off-balance, had righted itself. Unwilling to consider the implications of the sensation, he let the dance carry them away.
When Sebastian slipped into Beatrice’s room, the bedcurtains had not been drawn, revealing Beatrice, gold and white, against the pillows. As he had the night before, he blew out his candle and set it on the table in the corner. He unlaced his doublet, aware of the tension under his skin. If he had been visiting her chamber openly as her husband, he would be clad in his nightshirt under his robe. If he were here simply to lie with her, he would remove everything. But he was not here in either guise, for either reason. He wanted the pleasure of seducing Beatrice though he was certain, given her willingness to meet him, that she would not refuse him. He glanced over his shoulder at her; she watched him, her expression impossible to read at this distance, in this light.
He pulled his doublet off, crossed the room to the bedside and leaned forward to kiss her. At the touch of his mouth, her lips parted and the kiss deepened. As if freed by that small touch, lust roared through him, obliterating everything else. He hauled Beatrice into his arms, crushing her close, one hand in her hair, the other pressing her hips to his. In response, she arched against him, arms around his neck, her mouth hot, her kiss maddening. He pushed, she pulled and they fell together onto the mattress. His thigh thrust between hers; her legs wrapped around his waist. She moved against him and sank biting kisses into his throat, her breath harsh and quick in his ear, her wantonness overwhelming him. If he did not have her now, it would kill him; his hunger was too vast, too sharp to be contained a moment longer. He lifted himself to fumble free of his clothing and sank into her.
The shock of pleasure was as stunning and abrupt as a plunge into cold water; he groaned, driven nigh to delirium.
Beneath him, Beatrice murmured, “Oh,” then louder, “Oh!”
She tightened around him, eyes closed, mouth twisted in a grimace. Then, in a rippling cascade that sent hot shivers to the base of his spine, the spasms of her release clenched him, grasping him in waves. He burst in one great pulse, the pleasure of it shaking him to marrow of his bones. More pulses. More pleasure. He heard himself groaning through a red and roaring torrent of sensation, as if a flood swept through him and into her.
When he came back to himself, his arms and legs shaking and weak, it was all he could do to lift himself onto his elbows to keep from crushing her. He looked down at her. Her eyes were still closed, a small smile playing with her lips. Her skin gleamed, glowing like a pearl under a sheen of moisture. He threaded his fingers into her hair and lowered his head to kiss the corner of her smile, the rounded point of her chin, the velvety hollow of her shoulder.
“Forgive me that I did not wait,” he murmured. He thought he had satisfied her, but if he had not...
She half-opened her eyes, her look seduction. “I could not have endured to wait.”
He kissed her mouth, losing himself in the sweetness of it. “Do I crush you?” he asked when he could speak.
“No. Do not go,” she answered and pulled his head down for another kiss, intoxicating as mead.
The kiss lingered, spinning out endlessly like a dream, like the moment between waking and sleeping when the day was new and anything was possible. Beatrice was round and soft beneath him, warm around him; he could stay here forever, entangled with her, kissing her. He shifted his weight onto one elbow and with his free hand cupped her lush, heavy breast for the simple pleasure of it. She gasped into his mouth and stroked the length of his back to slide under his shirt and stroke upwards on his naked skin.
He felt himself begin to harden again in response. Beatrice must have felt it too; she moaned softly, her hand clutching his shoulder. His legs still trembled with weariness; he did not have the strength for this. Beatrice quivered and he responded, his body reacting as if he had not been wrung dry a scant fifteen minutes before.
“Sebastian,” she whispered and licked his neck, scraping it with her teeth.
He groaned. “Do you trust me?”
If the question surprised her she gave no sign. “Yes.”
“Good. Do not fight me.”
Gathering the dregs of his strength, he clamped his arm around her waist and rolled with her, coming to rest when his back was against the mattress, Beatrice above him straddling his waist, their bodies still joined. Her eyes were wide with shock, her mouth wide in a delighted grin.
“Sebastian!” she cried and giggled.
The sound of her laughter went through him like a blade; how long had it been since he had heard it? He pushed the thought away before it could make him weep. “Use me as you will. I do not have the strength for anything else.”
Her eyelids lowered in a look of mingled calculation and allure. “Then I control our play.”
“You do.”
“Oh, Sebastian,” she murmured. “I think I shall like this very much.”
She leaned forward and kissed him, a long, lingering kiss. Through her shift and his shirt, the hard tips of her breasts pressed into him; where shirt and shift had rucked up, the silky skin of her lower belly slid against him. Her hair fell around them in a curtain of gold, soft as feathers against his neck. He was submerged in sensation, soft as her hair, her flesh, all of it pressing down into his groin. Beatrice straightened and stripped off her shift, revealing herself to him. Color tinged her cheeks and she eyed him with a mixture of trepidation and triumph.
He let his gaze travel the length of her body. Candlelight burnished her firm white flesh with gold, shadowing her round breasts and rounded belly, the long curves of her thighs gripping his waist. Her beauty took his breath away. He lifted a hand to cup one of her breasts because he could not stop himself; her eyes closed and she licked her lips. He caressed the curve underneath the side that met her ribs, the rosy point. Slowly Beatrice began to rock her hips, moving against him. He slid his free hand up her thigh and eased his thumb into the slick center of the apex. Her eyes opened and she smiled at him, a smile of great sweetness. He stroked her and watched pleasure flare in her eyes before she closed them again.
He gauged her response to his caresses by the way she gasped and softly moaned, the way she arched her back, the way she moved against him with increasing speed and decreasing grace. In the same moment he felt the first clutch of her release, tears spilled from her eyes. Startled, he removed his thumb.
She opened her eyes and whispered. “Do not stop. Please.”
He returned his thumb, resumed his caress, and let her climax draw on his own. Slow as honey, hot and sweet, it came on, an endless easy series of spasms. In the candlelight, sweat gleamed between Beatrice’s breasts, along her full, swollen mouth; tears shone on her cheeks.
When the last shudder died away, she opened her eyes, drenched lashes glittering. She leaned down and kissed him, then nestled her forehead in the crook of his neck. He stroked her back. There had never been anything like this in his life; whatever he had imagined making love to Beatrice would be like, he could never have imagined the reality.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured. It seemed both strange and right to use the endearment. “Why did you weep?”
“Joy,” she said, her mouth against his skin moving like a kiss. “Pleasure. It was too much.”
His arms tightened around her. Too much. It had been too much; it had not been enough.
“I do not want to leave you,” he said. Her hair was soft under his hand, waves rippling against his skin.
“I wish you would not go,” she said, still speaking against his throat. “Must you?”
“As much as I wish otherwise, I think your father is right to bring me with him.”
“Then you must go.” She lifted her head and tried to smile, the effort plain in the trembling of her lips. “By going, you give us the sweetness of reunion.”
“Oh, Bea.”
Wisdom dictated that he should leave, lest they be discovered, but he could not be wise, he could not let her go. He would leave her all too soon, and when he left he would not see her again for far too long.
He held her all night while she drowsed, unwilling to sleep because morning would come all that much sooner if he did. Despite his effort and his prayer that the night might never end, dawn came quickly, filling the panes of Beatrice’s windows. The light was still gray and dim when he eased Beatrice out of his arms and tucked the coverlet around her naked shoulders.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Is it dawn already?”
“Close enough that I must go, sweetheart.”
Her mouth trembled until she clamped it shut. She nodded.
He touched her face. “If I can I will write to you.”
“My father will send messengers to my mother once a week, sometimes twice,” she said gruffly. “When my mother sends her replies, I will send letters to you.”
The offer surprised him. As a girl, Beatrice would have done anything to avoid pen and paper. “Do you still dislike writing so much?”
She met his eyes, hers determined and steady. “I will write to you.”