The Lady Series (54 page)

“It’s the villagers,” the footman said as he came. “There’s a brawl. You’d best come, Master Wyatt.”

His news provoked a happy growl from the male half of Graceton's servants. Just as Jamie hoped they were just drunk enough to think a good tussle was a fine way to finish the night. As for Jamie, he liked this part of his plan best of all. The havoc he created tonight would not only protect him but make trouble for the village's bailiff Robert Northfield, a vicious bitch's son and one of Cecily's most vocal detractors.

“My thanks for your warning, Richard,” he replied. “But surely the bailiff can see it ended without my intervention.”

“I fear not,” Richard replied, dancing from foot-to-foot in the pretense of urgency. “Master Northfield is at the center of it all and for that I must take the blame. Being an outsider, I had no way of knowing I erred when I mentioned the Bywards. I’d earlier heard them talking of buying up the miller’s fields.”

That was all it took. The feud between the Northfields and the Bywards was legendary, extending back for generations in Graceton's history. Eager to join a familiar fray, Graceton's menfolk ran for the door. Their woman followed, some to throw punches for their chosen side, others intending to pick up the pieces.

Jamie set his fists on his hips and sent his best frown after them. “May God take them all, now we're truly in for it,” he growled, shooting an apologetic glance at Sir Edward. “Pardon sir. There’s no help for it. I must go to the village. I fear I have no idea how long I might be.”

Sir Edward groaned at that. “No more delays,” he almost pleaded.

“You misunderstand me,” Jamie said, holding up his hands to protest an innocence he didn’t own. “The squire places high value on his village and his folk. As much as he might like me as his witness this night, I know he'll not object to my absence given the circumstances. Please, let the bedding go forward without me.”

Giving the knight no chance to object, Jamie turned and strode swiftly across the hall, Richard at his heels. As he walked, Jamie reconsidered his belief in some sort of Heavenly Master. There was no way he could have achieved this much without some sort of Divine intervention.

Once he and Richard were in the darkened yard, the wind tearing at them, the footman came to walk alongside his new steward.

“My thanks,” Jamie told him, heading not toward the postern gate and the village, but to the tower door Cecily used to enter the gallery.

The man sent him a smiling sidelong look. “And my pardon for the delay. It took awhile to reach the bailiff, busy as he was trading kisses with another man's wife.”

They stopped at the tower’s foot. Jamie laid his hand on the man's narrow shoulder. “Now, go back to the village and seek out the minister. Coward that he is, you'll need to prod him into the role of peacemaker. Just keep telling him how much Graceton's squire depends on him to preserve the village. Should anyone ask after me, say you know I’m about the village lanes because you came to the village with me.”

“As you will Master James,” Richard said with another smile and a nod.

As the footman strode off toward the postern gate, Jamie opened the door to the tower and climbed the stairs. He cracked the door to the gallery then peered around its edge down the corridor's length. Bathed in the golden glow of candles, Belle and the few maids who’d remained to see her into what should have been her marriage bed were entering Jamie’s apartment. Looking neither right nor left, Sir Edward followed at their heels. When all were inside, Watt shot a glance toward the gallery's end and where he supposed Jamie was. Then he stepped in after them and shut the door behind him with more force than was necessary so Jamie was certain to hear it close.

Wishing he had a cloak to catch around him, Jamie waited a moment then slipped into the corridor. Down its length he crept, passing his own apartment door to enter Nick’s. A single candle burned on the mantelpiece. It was light enough to show him that Watt, John and Tom had done no more than clear a pathway in the destruction.

Jamie opened Nick’s bedchamber door. As he’d instructed for both this room and his own, the flames on the hearth had been encouraged to die back to embers until the room was almost cloaked in shadow.

He glanced at Nick’s bed. They’d removed the torn curtains. Without them, Nick’s bed looked barren indeed. A new coverlet lay upon the mattress. Instead of Tom, it was John who leaned against the frame. When he saw Jamie, he came forward to help Jamie disrobe.

“Where's Tom?” Jamie whispered, when the man was close enough.

“With Lord Nicholas in Master Kit’s chamber,” the man replied, his voice just as low.

At Jamie's command Nick had been moved into the neighboring apartment for this night. It wouldn’t do for Sir Edward to hear coughing coming from more than one man.

“How was it with Lord Nicholas? Did he fight you?” Jamie hissed.

John shook his head. “Nay, he slept through it without waking. Tom stays because the lord's breathing isn’t easy and he's more familiar with what needs doing.”

Jamie breathed in his own relief at the news that Nick still lived then cursed himself as an idiot. It wasn’t possible for a man to will himself to death in one night. Was it? As he shed his doublet, breeches and stockings he promised himself that on the morrow he’d go to Cecily and convince her to return.

Once Jamie had removed his shirt, John pulled Nick's bulky robe from the bed and handed it to his steward. He then gathered up Jamie’s clothing and started from the chamber to put them in Nick’s antechamber. That left Jamie to shrug into the robe, thankful for the fact that he and Nick were of a height.

Donning Nick's gloves, he caught up the velvet mask. With nothing to do but wait for Watt’s summoning knock, Jamie turned the thing in his hands. Save for its fine fabric it didn’t look much different from what executioners wore. A chill shot up his spine. This was an omen, a promise of where this ruse would lead him if Sir Edward uncovered this ploy.

His nerves stretched to their breaking point. Ach, this wouldn’t do at all. If he didn’t catch hold of himself, he was certain to do something idiotic

When John stepped back inside, Jamie caught him by the sleeve. “Is there wine?” he croaked quietly.

John nodded and turned to the hearth. Jamie hadn’t noticed the cup and the jug sitting on Nick’s mantle. When John handed Jamie a full cup, he offered at a whisper, “Tom thought you might need it.”

Jamie drained the first cup without tasting it. By the time he’d finished the second cup, a pleasant warmth had taken the place of the knots in his stomach. Watt's knock sounded on the hidden panel as Jamie was halfway through the third cup.

It was time. Drawing a bracing breath, Jamie pulled Nick’s mask over his head. His world closed down to only what he could see from its narrow eye slits. It was a strange and cloying sensation, leaving him more than grateful for John's arm as they moved to stand before the hidden doorway.

The door opened. As per Jamie’s plan Watt immediately stepped inside to take Jamie's other arm. Jamie let himself sag between them and shuffled like some oldster into his own bedchamber, grateful that Nick had told the knight he couldn’t walk unaided. A single long step could be their undoing, as Nick’s robe would open to show Sir Edward strong, healthy legs where they should be bird-thin.

His bedchamber was cooler than Nick's but not as dim. Carefully turning his head, Jamie scanned the gathered witnesses. The chambermaids had backed into the doorway. In their faces fear mingled with their perverse desire to see their scarred and reclusive master. Peg stood at their fore, the now sleeping Lucy draped in her arms.

Sir Edward stood near the hearth, the grimness Jamie had seen earlier tonight again affecting the man’s fine features. Perhaps it was the narrow focus of the mask that did it, but Jamie saw now that the sharp-edged interest the knight had displayed throughout the whole of the wedding's planning was gone.

Jamie shoved aside the worry this caused him. All that mattered right now was to get past the bed curtains while revealing as little skin as possible.

His head shifted until he found his bed. Belle stood near its foot. Her hair was loose around her, falling in gentle waves to her hips, its color gleaming like spun gold in the fire's low glow. She'd traded her summer bed robe for a thick woolen affair the color of ripe plums. Yellow embroidery decorated its front. The garment parted near her knees to reveal smooth calves and slender ankles. In the room’s low light her bare skin looked like fine marble.

Desire stirred in Jamie. He fought it. A ruse, he reminded himself, this was nothing but a ruse.

He and the footmen halted at the bed’s head. Rather than wait for the announcement, Belle simply released her hold on her robe. The garment slipped from the slope of her shoulders to pile into soft folds around her feet.

Jamie forgot about queens and knights, lords and squires. Her legs were slender, her arms graceful. Outlined by seductive shadows, her full breasts gleamed in the room's low light. Lucy's bearing had left no mark on the curve of her belly while it was the promise of pleasure he saw in the roundness of her hips and the golden curls that cloaked her womanhood.

His shaft filled. Only then did Jamie realize this plot was the worst mistake of his life. It was all fine and well to love Belle when he thought the satisfaction of his desire impossible. It was quite another to face the potential of that satisfaction and know that touching her without the speaking of vows was disrespectful not to mention dangerous.

But God save him, how was he supposed to lie beside the woman he loved and not touch her?

As Belle let her robe fall a wondrous, whispery warmth filled her. The need to touch Jamie within the close confines of yon bed grew until she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. It wouldn’t do to have Sir Edward think her so eager to join a scarred and—gauging by Jamie’s portrayal of him—incompetent man.

“I find no flaw,” her husband said. His voice was hoarse and flat, a fine mimicry of the scarred man’s manner.

Since there was nothing for Belle to view and accept she did not speak. Instead, she nodded at Watt. The servant pulled back the bed curtains, then, between them, he and John lifted the supposed invalid and wrestled him as far back into the bed as possible. With all concealed behind their turned backs and the drape of the curtains, they set to disrobing her husband.

Not even a glimpse of skin escaped. Belle's heart sighed in disappointment, even as her head accepted the necessity of secrecy. She would have liked to have looked upon Jamie.

Watt straightened, holding the discarded garments in his hands. John stepped aside, letting the bed curtains close a little. It was time.

Trying not to grin like a madwoman or race across the room like a child, Belle ducked into the draperies. Jamie was clutched to the far wall, his back to the room. She slid between the bedclothes as John dropped the curtain's edge.

Darkness claimed the interior of the bed. Belle turned on her side, her front to her husband's back, and savored the way his body’s heat reached out across the space between them. She smiled as his scent filled her lungs.

“Good night, my lady,” Peg called. The maids added their own faint farewells amid the dim tap of their shoes and rustle of their skirts marking their departure. The apartment door closed. From the sitting room came a quiet creak of wood as Sir Edward settled into the chair; Watt and John would stand.

Reaching out, Belle laid her hand on the bulge of her husband’s shoulder. His skin was smooth beneath her fingers. As she traced a line down the strong length of his arm, her heart lifted to a new beat. Oh, it was heaven to touch him and know she had every right to it!

With a shudder, he rolled onto his back. Putting the pillow beneath his head, he looked at her. His face was a pale oval in the dark, a bare gleam to mark his eyes.

“What are you doing?” His voice was but a shocked whisper.

Belle stifled her giggle. She’d been so busy with thoughts of touching him this past hour that she'd forgotten he didn’t yet realize they were wed.

“Why, nothing at all,” she teased, as she reached out to comb her fingers through his hair. It was thick and silky.

“Do not.”

When he jerked his head to the side, her hand dropped to his cheekbone. Belle was content to trace this line to his jaw, enjoying the way his skin took on a new texture where his beard began. A wondrous shiver shot through her as all disappointment over not having a chance to view him evaporated. Becoming acquainted with his body this way was just as nice.

As she found the curl of his lips, his mouth moved beneath her fingertips, as if to kiss them. Still Belle’s hand descended. Stroking her fingers over his chin, she followed his throat to his chest. As she smoothed her hand over its swell and fall, the sensation of the springy hair that coated him there tantalized her palm.

“Stop.” The command shuddered from him, making it sound more like a plea that she continue than a bid that she should halt.

Smiling at this, Belle set her fingers in the cunning dip at the center of his chest and traced that hollow downward to discover his belly was trim. A shiver wracked her. Down went her hand, until she found proof of his desire for her.

He gasped. His hand closed around her wrist. There was no strength in his grip as she traced a fingertip down the length of his shaft. That warmth in Belle grew hotter still, until her woman's core felt swollen with it.

“God save me,” he breathed, then shifted onto his side and thrust back from her. So sharp was his movement that the ropes supporting the mattress squealed. “I vowed. A pretense,” he said, his whisper hoarse with wanting her.

“So you did,” Belle whispered in return, smiling into the dark as she closed the gap between them. The ropes squealed in the quiet room.

With his back to the wall there was no escape for him. Hip-to-hip they lay, her breasts pressed to his chest, his shaft resting against the curls covering her womanhood. He groaned quietly then put a hand on her shoulder.

Belle’s smile widened. If he meant to push her away he’d have to do better than this weak-wristed touch. Resting a hand against his chest, she touched her mouth to his throat. As he’d done to her that night in the gallery, she laid tiny kisses along the length of his neck. His breath sighed from him. Beneath her palm she could feel his heart lift to a new beat.

Her lips reached his jaw then she touched her mouth to his. He sighed against her lips. His hand slid from her shoulder to her nape, his fingers threading into her hair. The movement of his mouth beneath hers was gentle. Ah, but it was the passion he’d shown her that night in the gallery Belle craved.

As he’d taught her then, she let her kiss deepen until her mouth slashed against his, so he’d know how much she wanted him. A quiet sound rumbled deep in his chest. Then his body tautened against hers, and his kiss deepened, offering her glorious proof of how much he wanted her in return.

As he realized what he was doing Jamie gasped and tore his mouth from hers. God help him, but he hadn’t expected her to try and drive him mad with desire. Or that she’d prove such a wanton despite that encounter in the gallery where her response to him had more than hinted at her passionate nature.

Capturing her taunting hands in his, he pressed her back into the mattress, wringing a loud cry of protest from the bed. With his thigh to pin her in place, Jamie braced himself on his elbows and lifted himself far enough above her to look into her face.

Her eyes were half-closed, her lips swollen from his kiss. A strand of hair trailed across her cheek. She drew a breath and her breasts shifted against his chest. He shuddered. Where their bodies touched small fires took light under his skin.

Fortified by the wine, his need for her set to leaping. Even as it tore great chunks from his control, he knew he had to tell her nay. They had no choice.

“We cannot do this,” he whispered. Then, just in case Sir Edward was listening more closely than he should, Jamie forced a cough.

Belle waited until he quieted. “Of course we can,” she told him. “You are my husband.”

Jamie frowned. Was she daft? “I am not,” he replied, his voice a bare breath.

“You are,” she insisted. Beneath his thigh, she lifted her hips, just a little. However small the movement, it was provocative enough to make him bite back a groan.

“You say I can’t be married to the squire,” she whispered.

He wasn’t quite certain how she did it, but of a sudden one of her hands was free. She lifted it, traced the length of his nose then rested a fingertip on his lips. He couldn’t help himself. He kissed it.

“Well then, if I'm not married to him, I must be married to you. Was there not a minister? Did you not give me your private vow? As for me, I never spoke the squire’s name in the giving of my vow.” The earnestness in her voice said she was utterly convinced what she told him was the truth.

Logic insisted it wasn’t that easy. Even if she wasn’t married to Nick, couldn’t be married to Nick, the complications ran so deep it would take a court decision to confirm it.

Still, she was right. They had traded their own vows. Nick
was
married to another.

Jamie’s thoughts whirled as he sought some sort of rebuttal. God help him, but between the wine and her touch it was impossible to think. Nor did he want to refuse her. This was the woman, his soul whispered, who was his wife. She would bear his children, adoring and respecting them the same way she did Lucy. It was her uncomplicated world he craved, for in her honesty he would find the same happiness Nick knew with Cecily.

With Nick's name came the reminder of the bedding’s purpose. Jamie banked his desire. Outside this chamber a man listened, expecting to hear an invalid's paltry thrusts and gut-wrenching coughs. That wasn’t the sort of lovemaking he craved to share with his wife.

Trying to set himself firmly into the course he knew he must take, Jamie shifted across Belle. With a sigh, she leaned against him. The need to enclose her in his embrace and hold her forever next to his heart filled him. Then she lifted her head and touched her lips to his ear.

Desire shot through Jamie, blinding in its intensity. Her mouth was on his jaw line. Although he swore he wouldn’t do it, his head turned. His lips found hers. Their kiss was achingly soft.

His eyes closed as he breathed in her scent and tasted her with his tongue. He smoothed a hand up the length of her slender arm. Her skin was like silk against his fingers. The heel of his palm found the roundness of her breast.

Even as he told himself he mustn’t, his fingers moved. He cupped her breast. She gasped against his mouth.

Across the room the bedchamber door shut with a definitive thud. Jamie's eyes flew wide. That was Watt’s sign that Sir Edward had left the room

He lifted his mouth from Belle’s lips caught her face in his hands as he looked down at her. “Love me, wife.” It was a hoarse command.

Belle laughed. “I do,” she replied and lifted her hips to take him within her.

They gasped as one as he entered her. Then he lowered himself to lie full atop her. As his lips toyed with hers, his hand slipped between them to find her breast. What he did sent a ripple of such passion through her that Belle arched against it.

With the movement came a strange pressure. Caught in its grip, Belle's need to move again grew. Her husband seemed to sense this, for he began to move in slow and steady thrusts.

A quiet moan left her. She felt more than heard his laugh. “Shh,” he warned against her lips. “You’re supposed to be bedding an invalid barely capable of walking. Try not to enjoy this too much.”

With a grin she caught him by the hips and lifted, forcing his shaft deep into her. Air rasped from him in what was almost a groan. She took his mouth with hers, plying him with taunting kisses. Pleasure's pressure grew, and again she rose beneath him.

“Stop,” he pleaded, nigh on shaking against what she did.

“Why?” she asked, astounded by the command.

He groaned. His mouth slashed across hers. Passion's ripple became a wave, driven by his movement within her, each thrust carrying her ever higher. His breathing grew ragged, his rhythm quickened.

All at once, Belle exploded into a joy so great she was certain her heart would burst with it. Arching beneath her husband, she let his seed fill her. With that, tears pricked her eyes in the ultimate satisfaction as in that instant their silent and spoken vows were transformed into a true marriage.

He came to rest atop her. Tearing his mouth from hers, he kissed her cheek, her brow, the tip of her nose. “Lord, how I love you,” he whispered, his words filled with such astonishment that Belle laughed.

She touched his mouth with hers. Against the ebb of need, this new emotion shuddering through her was soft and infinitely sweet. So this was what it felt like to love a man. No wonder some women gave way to their emotions and let loose their hold on virtue. She gave thanks that she was already married to him, else Belle suspected shed be a hopeless sinner.

“And I you, my husband,” she told him.