Yearning Heart (22 page)

“You purchased me as a chattel, Sir Stephen. That I refuse to be. I was an innocent, but no more. I learned by living that men are loud braggarts, egotistical adulterers, loving no one but themselves. My manuscripts are wrong. Being a man's possession is not romantic.” Rebecca watched him unsmiling. “You went as King Henry's messenger to soothe his queen's feeling, but he sent no love to her. He sends you whilst he has women in every city.”

“You cannot argue the king and queen's business, Rebecca. That is not for you to question.”

With chin lifted, eyes smoldering, Rebecca refused to answer.

Finally, Stephen said, “Your voice. You never sang at home.”

“You were never there, my lord. How wouldst thou know? I was but a chair to be pushed aside when not needed for your male greed. One cannot hear a chair sing when one sits upon it.”

She could not bring herself to mention Malvina, his lover. Some things cannot be spoken.

“Not so, Rebecca.”

Stephen tried to remember the things Rebecca accused him of, but he recalled only the warmth of her body, how it was to hold and possess her. Anger built, not at Rebecca as much as at himself. Why had he not realized how much she meant to him? Why had he not known that he would not want to live without Rebecca?

His voice grew stern.

“You are my wife, and you will journey to Salisbury with me. I will return within the hour. Prepare yourself straightway.”

Stephen stalked away, his temper rising with each step through the muddy arena where the jongleurs still carried on merrily for the French audience. Damn the woman, he thought. She is mine, and she will return to my keeping.

Doubts beset him.

Had she met men who gave her attention? Who said romantic words to her that he had never thought to give? Only when her body gave him satisfaction had he spoken tender words, and even then, the words were only in the heat of the passion she caused to burn in him. His mind had known what he should say, but he had, in his arrogance, ignored them.

Regrets. He had many regrets.

His clothing was packed, already waiting for Aubin to put aboard the carriage, which would take them to the ship for sea passage. His purchases were to be shipped later and would go to Glastonbury.

A knock came at his door and Stephen barked, “Come.”

Aubin stepped inside. “My lord.”

Stephen motioned to the cases and boxes near the door. “Make these secure and then return to me.”

While Aubin heaved and stored his merchandise, Stephen stood at the window, staring towards the arena where wagons and carts made a circle for the minstrel performers. He could not realize Rebecca traveled with such persons, rowdy, dirty, living in hovels on the road, in tents. She was used to a gentle life with her needs taken care of. With servants to do her every bidding, a husband to care for every expense she wished to make.

How dare she? he fumed. How dare she insult me by preferring their company to mine? Why would she leave a comfortable abode and live as a gypsy in a cold and barren world?

He slammed a big fist into his open hand. I should have dragged her with me here.

A maddening thought came. Suppose she runs away again? She's capable of it. Suppose she ... oh, yes, if Rebecca wished to disappear, she would, as she had proven she could do.

“Aubin!”

Not waiting for an answer, he was through the door and on the street. His manservant stared from beneath a huge box.

“Sire?”

“Make haste to follow me,” Stephen said, and strode off across the muddy tracks towards the minstrel's tent. At the opening, he stopped, swallowing to prevent his fright from showing, fright that she would be gone. Aubin puffed to a stop behind him.

“Monsieur Benet?” Stephen said.

The tent flap lifted.

“My lord.” It was Margaret, not Hugo, who stood there.

“I would see the Lady Rebecca,” Stephen said.

“Rebecca will not...”

“It is well, Margaret,” Rebecca said from behind her.

She had had time to think since Stephen's departure, and she knew what she must do. She would go with him. There was no other way. Should she fight to stay with Margaret and Hugo, Stephen could—and would—make trouble for them. He had the power to stop their performances, the means by which to cause them financial distress, and this she would not willingly do. She could not hurt the only friends she had. They had taken her in when she was penniless, had fed her when she was hungry, had paid her for appearing in their shows for royalty as well as peasants. They were real friends who would stand by her no matter the danger.

She stood now in the doorway of the tent, not inviting Stephen inside, with no pretense of politeness to King Henry's favorite manorial officer. Nobleman with a cause. Her lips curled in scorn.

“Do me the courtesy of allowing me to say goodbye to my friends,” she said.

Stephen's temper soared.

“Rebecca, I will have thee...”

“If I am to accompany you to Salisbury, be kind enough to allow this farewell to the best friends I have.” Her wide blue eyes did not blink. “Please.” There was no entreaty in her ‘please’ but a disdain Stephen could not ignore.

“I will return shortly. Do not think to deceive me again, Rebecca.”

“No, my lord,” she said, curtsying.

* * * *

The trip across the water to England was no more pleasant for Rebecca than the first time. Indeed, less so, because this time, Stephen stayed by her side, scarcely leaving her for any reason. He did not touch her, but each time she lifted her head, it was to meet his eyes, calculating how far he could trust her, knowing he could not. His anger was such that she could feel it, knew that he ached to strike her to insure her attention, that he strained at the resentment he felt toward her, toward Hugo and Margaret. Toward anyone who had known her in the two years they had been apart.

Aubin guarded her door when Stephen was not about, his face wreathed in a happy smile to see Rebecca once more. He did not question her. He only did her smallest bidding before she ever made a sound. His big, rough hands were gentle as he held her shawl for her to wrap her head against the wet wind coming off the water.

“I have missed thee, Aubin,” she said. “Is Bundy taking care of Tor?”

Aubin grinned.

“Glastonbury has not been the same since thy departure, my lady,” he said. His smile vanished. “Sir Stephen was as a wild man when he found you gone.”

“Indeed? I did not think he would take notice.”

Rebecca watched the simple driver's expression as he struggled for words.

“ ‘Tis notice he took, for truth. He is unhappy and does not accept kind wishes from me or even Malvina. The servants cannot speak or move without he threatens punishment, my lady.”

Rebecca could not imagine Stephen beating anyone because of her, and it gave her a cold feeling to think she might cause such pain. Most of Stephen's servants she knew only by name, but Malvina and Aubin and Bundy had been as close to her as family, closer than Sir Oliver ever came to her. Even as dread filled her at what was to come once they reached Salisbury, she was anxious to see Stephen's household once more.

Salisbury. She had never seen the city.

“Salisbury is close by London, is it not, Aubin?”

Aubin was nodding by the door to the cabin where Stephen held her prisoner. He did not chain her, but his looks promised such if she dared disobey him in any way. Aubin gave her his sweet smile.

“Aye, ‘tis but two days from London, my lady. Sir Stephen stops by the wayside inn for the one night, then ‘tis an easy ride to Salisbury. ‘Tis easier for Sir Stephen to reach the king in case he summons him in the middle of the night.”

Of course. King Henry and his demands. When trouble threatened, Stephen was the only name the king remembered it seemed to Rebecca. Were not there other reeves, noblemen, and officers of great ilk who possessed talents that could be lent to their king? Was Sir Stephen Lambert the only name registered in the royal trouble book?

Rebecca sat on the small stool beside Aubin, her chin resting in both hands propped on her knees.

“What is it like, this manor home Sir Stephen is building?”

Aubin frowned, fumbling with words to describe the house for Lady Rebecca. His short arms, ending in thick hands and gnarled fingers, spread wide. His lash less eyes became round when he looked at her.

“ ‘Tis big. So big. The roof is steep with many chimneys. It has the kitchen over here and a great room across the wide hallway.” He was drawing in the air with his crooked fingers. “There is a staircase which goes in curves like so.” He made an S sign. “There are many big rooms up the stairs with wooden beds.” He grinned. “Real wooden beds with cloth mattresses that have feathers in them. Feathers shipped from Troyes.”

Rebecca could not imagine such. For more than a year, she had slept on rugs, wrapped in animal skins, and out in the open with nothing over her save a piece of cloth. The shuck mattresses in Stephen's house in Glastonbury were comfortable, but what would a feather one feel like against her body? It would be softer when Stephen's body pressed hers into it.

Her skin burned with the thought, and she turned away that Aubin might not see her flushed face. He would think her a fallen woman should he be able to see what she was thinking.

Aubin talked on.

“There are chandeliers from every ceiling with many candles. Some windows have wooden shutters, but most have the glass that shows the outside garden. It is most beautiful, my lady. You can work there for many days when the weather turns warm and dry again. The roses, milady, they will bloom most beautiful for you.”

Aubin leaned towards Rebecca, the gentle smile he reserved for his very favorite person lighting his pudgy features. “And, best of all, my lady, Malvina is there to care for you.”

Rebecca stiffened, and although she was suddenly cold, her body was bathed in sweat. Malvina. Stephen had moved his lover into his new manor house. He desires his wife
and
his lover in the same place for his pleasures. Aubin could not know the anger and hurt his words brought forth.

By God's eye, Stephen has his nerve.

* * * *

“I will see the king and queen to relay news of Princess Alix, Rebecca,” Stephen said.

They were to stay one night at an inn just outside London before journeying to Salisbury. Aubin remained on guard outside her door.

Rebecca curtsied.

“Indeed, my lord, I would expect it of you even as the king demands it.”

Stephen stepped into the room.

“Rebecca, I forbid you to speak of his royal highness in this manner. We are his subjects and it is our duty to serve him.”

“It is
thy
duty to serve him, my lord, and do not forbid me to speak whatever I wish. I cannot say thus as your wife, but as Rebecca Lambert I can voice my own thoughts. You cannot stop me.”

Stephen reached her in one long stride, and his hands closed on her upper arms. He yanked her close to him, staring into the taunting eyes, lips parted in a matching half smile. He meant to chastise her, to order her to rethink her statements, but he forgot what he was about to say. He forgot everything except the woman in his arms.

He bent his head, finding her soft mouth yielding and moist.

He went mad with wanting her, his body reacting to months of denial of manly desires, all because of Rebecca. He had not wanted another woman while she was gone, his mind unwilling to accept she would not return to him.

Rebecca could be faulted for all of his pain.

His hands moved down, taking Rebecca's blouse with them. The cotton material ripped easily in his strong fingers, and his wife stood before him with her outthrust breasts bared to his vision. He moaned, bending his head to place his mouth over the brown nipple, sucking wetly. His body rose in wonderful torment as shock after shock of wanting showered his body.

She smelled of honeysuckle and rose petals, of the tall grasses that grew along Moon Cliffs, of freshly bathed skin and simply woman. Smelled of nights when her love filled him, when he filled her body with his own needs. The scents belonged to him as her body belonged to him. She smelled of sunshine, of flowers, of love.

She smelled like Rebecca.

There was to be no stopping him now, his body burning with such heat that even a summons from the king would be ignored. Everything, his duties, his loyalties, his love, was centered in the arousal that threatened to explode ere he could claim her.

Rebecca fought the flood of feelings threatening to overcome her. At Stephen's touch, she melted inside, but still she struggled to hold herself away from him. His mouth, hard and demanding, started a fast beat in her chest, and when his lips closed over her breast, she could not stand straight. Her blouse material disappeared beneath his roaming hands, and Rebecca leaned against him, moving her body so that he could push her skirt away.

Somehow, Stephen had her on the bed, both of them naked, the words he spoke making no sense to her at all. She tried once to push him away but he whispered hoarsely, “Nay, Rebecca, I will have you. Do not fight me.”

And she did not.

She did not fight, and she tried not to respond. It was as though fighting the wind over the rough sea waves they had just sailed. And just as useless.

So many nights she had dreamed of Stephen's arms, his lips tender and speaking words that turned her heart over and made her love him all the more. There were no words of love now, but the sounds she heard were hot and demanding and ruthlessly taking what Stephen considered rightfully his.

He knelt over her, and Rebecca opened her eyes to see his face, beads of sweat formed on his forehead, wetting the heavy hair that had fallen over his brows. His breathing came short through parted lips. Eyes, bluer than skies over Dover, stared with fiery intensity into hers. His hand slid between her legs, pushing them apart, as he guided himself into her. She clung to him while his body pushed harder into hers.

His entrance was not easy. It had been a long time since they had made love, and Rebecca was small and tight. Stephen gained entry partway into her, and then he stopped, looking into her face where he could read nothing. No response, no desire, no denial.