Sweet Bea (25 page)

One shoved a dirty rag in Garrett’s mouth.

Nay.

Garrett retched and tried to spit it out.

The man tied it behind his head. Tightening the knot with a vicious twist.

Garrett’s eyes beseeched her over the top of the gag.

“Let me tell you my story first.” Godfrey shook her to get her attention. “And then we will see if you still care for your sweetly whispering bastard.”

“I love him.” If Godfrey understood that, he would stop hurting Garrett.

“How unfortunate, for you.” Godfrey’s smile made her shudder. “Alethorpe is the name of the keep your father razed when King John first came to power.”

“Garrett?” She had no idea who or what Alethorpe was. Why did this matter now?

Godfrey squeezed her upper arms and forced her to look at him. “It belonged to Sir Wulfric.” He nodded toward Garrett. “His father. But Sir Wulfric had some trouble with loyalty to his king. He did not have any.”

What was he talking about? She didn’t need a history lesson.

Godfrey’s grip bruised. “My brother was sent to deal with him and he did. Did he not bastard?” Godfrey raised his voice over the last.

Garrett grunted against the gag. He struggled to free his arms, but the knee in his back prevented him from rising. The men yanked his arms tighter behind him.

“Why are you doing this? Stop it. You’re hurting him.”

“Listen, Beatrice.” Godfrey pushed his face toward hers. “Arthur razed the castle and banished the inhabitants. Including Wulfric’s favorite leman and his bastard son.”

Godfrey’s face swam before her. Her father wouldn’t do that. Her father was a good man, a kind one. Godfrey lied, but why?

“Your father was much younger then.”

Godfrey tormented her with his lies.

“He did not always think when his blood ran hot. You know what that is like, do you not, Beatrice?”

“Why are you telling me this?” Beatrice didn’t want to hear anymore. She didn’t understand any of it. The only thing she understood was something was terribly wrong and Godfrey’s men were hurting Garrett.

“Listen, Beatrice.” Godfrey shook her. “The leman became a common whore and her son vowed to have his revenge on the man who had rendered her thus. Are you beginning to understand now?”

“Nay.” She shook her head to dislodge her uncle’s words.

“Aye, Beatrice. Who appeared in your life, sniffing about your skirts and whispering sweet words into your ear? Did he tell you he loved you, niece? Did he say he would die if he did not have you?”

“Garrett does love me.” The words caught in her throat and sounded small and uncertain.

“He does not love you, you silly girl. He hates your father. It is not you he sees at all. When he is swiving you, he sees your father.”

A scuffle broke out.

The men struggled to contain him, but Garrett fought them.

“Garrett?” An awful tendril of fear took root in Beatrice’s belly. She didn’t want to feel it, and she tried to snuff it. “Is this true?”

“Do not be stupid, Beatrice,” Godfrey said.

Garrett struggled wildly. Harsh noises rasped through the gag.

“Let him speak.” Garrett would tell her true. He would explain this all and make it well again.

“And if I do, he will tell you the same lies he told you to get beneath your skirts in the first place. You cannot trust a word he says.”

Godfrey released her.

Beatrice’s vision darkened. She swayed on her feet. “Garrett?” Her neck was stiff, like an old woman, as she turned to Garrett.

Garrett surged to his knees. His shoulders bunched, color staining his face as he shouted through the gag.

“What are you doing?” She turned on her uncle. “How dare you treat him thusly?”

“He deserves no more.” Godfrey took out his kerchief and wiped each finger with meticulous care. “This bastard came looking for his revenge. He came looking for you, Beatrice. What better revenge than to render a cheap whore the daughter of the same man who had done as much to his mother. It is almost poetic in its simplicity.”

“Nay.” Beatrice didn’t believe it. She wouldn’t believe it. Godfrey lied. She blinked at her uncle. Why did he tell her these lies? The awful, horrible lies that churned like bile in her stomach and made her want to be sick.

“Thus is how I met him.” Godfrey dropped the kerchief to the floor.

It lay there, like a broken bird against the rough stones.

Garrett strained against the men who held him. The gag pressed into his face, his skin white around the edges.

“I did not think he would get it right. It appears I underestimated him,” Godfrey said.

Beatrice could barely lift the leaden weight of her legs. She did not want to believe and yet…

Garrett had appeared suddenly in her life, charming and winsome, and intent on her. She hadn’t questioned, at the time, that such a man could be interested in her, when other men merely overlooked her. Such a handsome, beautiful man and he wanted her. She thought of the times he had pressed her for more. Memories ran through her mind like beads on a rosary, slipping through her fingers as she counted them off.

“Tell me true, Garrett.” She sank to her knees on the floor before him.

His shoulders slumped.

She tugged the gag from his mouth.

Godfrey’s men shifted but made no move to stop her.

“Please, Garrett, no lies.”

He closed his eyes, as if to look on her hurt him. When he opened his eyes again, Beatrice read such torture in their depths.

Pain pierced her chest and she gasped at the sharpness.

“It is why I came,” Garrett whispered. “Wulfric was my father. That part is true.”

“Nay.” It made too much sense. The pain became almost unbearable. Her breath came in a ragged rush that caught in her throat.

“I came to avenge myself on your father.”

“Oh, God.” The sound was torn from her before she could stop it. Her being throbbed like a wound, open and raw.

“It is not why I stayed.” Garrett’s voice reached her from the end of a long tunnel.

It hurt so much. She could not contain it. Beatrice hunched her shoulders. If she could keep it inside her she might draw breath in and out.

“Beatrice.” Garrett’s voice was dim through the storm raging around her. “It is no longer about revenge. Remember what I said last night. Jesu, Beatrice, please remember.”

“Shut him up,” Godfrey snapped.

A
thud
and a cry.

A part of her registered the men hit Garrett and wanted to call out in protest.

A warm hand cupped her elbow. “Come now, niece.” Godfrey, warm and compassionate as he put his arm about her. The smell of him was familiar and real, lemon and silk. Here she was safe and she leaned against Godfrey. How many times had he eased her hurts when she was a girl? Made her laugh when she cried.

He didn’t love her. Garrett did not love her. Beatrice staggered and Godfrey righted her carefully.

How she loved him.

* * * *

“Can you ride?”

Beatrice nodded and clambered onto Breeze’s back. Her horse was solid beneath her. She kept her hand against the warm arch of the mare’s neck. They rode through a tangle of streets. Beatrice let them slip past, staring at the road before Breeze. Her mind revisited the past weeks. How could she have been so stupid?

Men didn’t pursue her. Men pursued Faye. Courters lay in wait for Faye and sent her secret notes and trifles. Not Beatrice. Beatrice was the plain sister, the sister who’d scared off three suitors. They sang verse to Faye, but they told jokes about Beatrice.

She’d always known this. She’d been vain and stupid and allowed herself to be blinded to the truth. A part of her had wanted desperately to believe Garrett was enamored of her, stricken by her beauty.

Garrett.

The place he’d occupied was a deep hole through her middle. He’d set out to seduce her, and she’d aided him with both hands. Dear God, she’d tossed herself before him with this journey to London.

And last night. Shame sheared through to the bone.

Tom had tried to tell her how foolish this was. But, nay, she would hear nothing of it. The only thing she’d wanted was to get to London and the consequences be damned.

She bestirred herself. London. She was in London.

“My father.” She turned in the saddle to find Godfrey riding silently beside her. They rode alone. She searched the darkness behind Godfrey for Garrett. She had no pride. Beatrice clenched her teeth in fury at herself. “I must go to my father.”

“I have already seen your father, Beatrice.” Godfrey sat straight and true in his saddle. Not like—

Nay.

“I rode for London the day after Faye came. I arrived here before you. It seems you went awry a time or two.” The gentle reproach on Godfrey’s face writhed within her. “Arthur is on his way back home.”

“On his way back home?” Oh, God, all of this for naught. Self-loathing piled around her head and settled onto her shoulders until the weight was nigh unbearable.

“Surely you did not think Henry or I would allow your family be sucked dry and tossed aside? Or calmly hand our fair Faye over to Calder?” Godfrey shook his head. “It is so like you, Beatrice, to go rushing in without thought. Now look what you have brought upon yourself?”

He was right. Beatrice’s shoulders slumped. She’d brought this on herself. With her foolishness and her willfulness and her refusal to listen. Her family knew her well. She was troublesome Beatrice, thoughtless Beatrice, and impulsive Beatrice. She had a new name for them, Beatrice the fallen woman. Beatrice the whore.

She flinched and Breeze moved restlessly beneath her. “I would like to go home.”

“Soon. But the gates are still shut for the night.” He reached across and patted her knee. “Rest first, Beatrice, and I will take you home in the morning. You have suffered a shock.”

Godrey’s kindness brought tears to her eyes. She didn’t deserve his compassion.

“And this,” he gestured the road behind them, “will remain our secret. There is no need to burden your father or your mother.”

Oh, God, her mother. Guilt licked at her like flame. Her mother would be ashamed of her. And her father? She couldn’t imagine her father’s reaction.

“It is done.” Godfrey broke into her thoughts. “You cannot undo it. So, put it aside.”

* * * *

Godfrey took her to a large manor within the city. She was settled in a room and a warm bath prepared for her. Beatrice dismissed the maid sent to assist her. She didn’t want the other woman to witness her shame. It must be writ across her, clear and bold, for all to see. The bath eased her sore muscles, and she scrubbed her skin to wash away the taint of Garrett.

Ivy’s bath had been cold. Garrett had known what to do. He’d known because of his mother. He’d brought the water for her, so Ivy could wash the stain of those men from her skin.

A tear plopped into the bath. Her image wavered on the water. It was a pathetic sight, with her droopy mouth and sad eyes. Her hair hung around her face in wet tendrils.

Ivy hadn’t crumpled like a linen napkin. Ivy had put back her shoulders and set her eyes forward. Beatrice hadn’t suffered what Ivy had suffered, nowhere near the horror. She had a broken heart. It would mend. Nurse always said hearts mended easier than spirits. Beatrice wished Nurse were here. She missed the calm good sense that Nurse spoke.

Or her mother. Beatrice gave a huge sniff. The bath smelled of roses, Lady Mary’s scent. She scrubbed at her cheeks with her fingers to take away the tears. She’d never wanted her mother more. The thought of her mother almost brought the tears back again. Beatrice pressed her palms into her eyes to force them away. How could she talk to her mother? Her mother would be disappointed in her. She didn’t think her mother would cast her out, but there would be no more talk of betrothals. She was used and spoiled now, like last week’s bread.

Enough.

Beatrice pulled a face at her woebegone reflection. This wouldn’t kill her. When she left London, she would rebuild her life. Without Garrett. She pushed the hurt away.

She would ask her father for a small cottage on his demesne. Somewhere she could keep a cow and a pig and a few chickens. Tom would come and fix things for her and do the heavier chores. Mayhap, Ivy would like to come and live with her. Ivy didn’t judge. They’d grow old together in their self-styled convent, where men were not allowed. When Nurse grew infirm, she could come to Beatrice’s cottage to be cared for by the two younger women.

She would grow wise in her cottage. She’d learn to be patient and perhaps, as time passed, young girls might bring their tales of secret love and bitter heartache and be guided by her. Kindly, she would warn them from charming men intent on lifting their skirts, steer them away from the liars and the cruel ones. An image of this future rose in her mind and Beatrice cheered a mite.

The girls would whisper of her in secret. They’d wonder at the sadness in her eyes and the way her smile always held a hint of melancholy. She’d be called “The Lady of the Hills.” Or, better yet, “The Lady of the Weeping Willows.” There was a spot down near the river where the willows grew thick and green. That would be the place for her and her cow and her pig and her chickens. And mayhap Ivy, if she wanted to.

Beatrice climbed out of the tub. A large bed almost filled the room. The heavy woolen draperies had been drawn back and the linens turned down. She padded over to it. The crackling fire warmed the bare stones beneath her feet. Clean clothes had been laid out for her. The cheery red of the bliaut seemed obscene against the gentle vision of The Lady of the Weeping Willow. The Lady of the Weeping Willows wore gray. Beatrice pulled on the chainse, wrapping a towel about her wet hair. The problem with gray was it made her complexion look pulled. Blue. A soft blue was a much better shade for her. Or green, mayhap, to match the willows surrounding her.

Garrett liked her in blue. The thought popped her imaginings like a soap bubble and the sadness crept back. Beatrice shrugged on the bliaut. The wool was fine against her skin. She had been dressing rough for days now and the beautiful fabric caressed her skin.

Like Garrett.