At His Command-Historical Romance Version (12 page)

He shook his head to make himself ignore the effect her beauty had on him, to clear fond memories of their days at Castle Rising and concentrate on what they were saying. And gleaned that he’d arrived in time.

“Lady Winfield, if I may interrupt, I’ve just come from the king and must speak with you.”

He sensed Belinda bristling with curiosity as Amice paled.

“Of course,” she said. “Belinda, I’ll see you anon.”

Pathetic that he was glad for any excuse to speak to her. He trained for the rigors of battle and had survived. How would he gird himself against the lure of Amice?

They crossed a vibrant patch of purple and blue irises toward a secluded clump of hawthorn bushes. At that moment, Nicholas’s message took priority over his concern for propriety. He had to worry about Amice more than who might spy them walking off alone and what gossip might erupt.

“I must tell you before you hear the news from someone else. As unwelcome as it may be,” he said.

Amice looked out over the rolling hills. She lifted her chin, obviously bracing herself. “Tell me, then. Who is he?”

“Who is who?” Nicholas asked, perplexed.

“You said you came from the king. I assumed he’d finally announced who I am to marry.”

Her loveliness at that moment, with late afternoon sun casting a rosy glow on her face, eyes as green as the leaves behind her and glinting defiantly, the breeze filling the air with her sweet rose scent, overwhelmed him. He didn’t want to tell her about Belinda. He wanted to tell her how much he cared. That he wanted her more than he’d wanted any other woman. The words hovered on the tip of his tongue.

This could be their last moment alone, ever.

“No, no, not yet,” he began. “I did come from the king, but that was merely an excuse to get you away from her.”

“Lady Belinda? She seems quite friendly.”

He wanted to take her hand, both to reassure her and just to touch her, but didn’t. “Seems is the key word. Belinda wants to wed with me and has for years. She was, well, we used to….”

Amice gasped, stifling the spears of jealousy stabbing her.

She’d thought she’d made progress in her quest to stop caring about Nicholas, at this moment striking as a knight depicted in one of the queen’s novels. Clearly not. Forgetting him would be far easier if she didn’t see him hither and yon, sparking her memories and dreams. Making her long to create more.

“She was your mistress?” she whispered.

“Yes. But there is nothing between us now. Nothing at all.”

“Why are you telling me? Your amours or lack thereof can be of no import,” Amice hedged, unbidden images of Nicholas and Belinda together, laughing, talking, bodies entwined, filling her mind.

“I trust very few people, and she isn’t one of them. I wanted to alert you to the truth in case she’s befriending you for the wrong reasons.”

Her stomach churned afresh. How could she tell who was sincere and who wasn’t? “Thank you for the warning. I assure you I’ll be careful.” She relaxed her shoulders, which she hadn’t realized she’d tensed. “Nicholas, what is the purpose of life?”

“For me, to serve God, king and country.”

“And for me?”

Amice noted his answer to this question did not come as quickly.

“To serve God and king also, and to serve the country by producing heirs for your lands. Each of us must do what he or she can.”

“‘Must do.’ You believe what you said the night of the storm. To choose our own way is wrong. Forbidden. The king has not only the power but the right to choose for me. For us.”

“Marriages are often arranged thusly among the nobility,” he agreed. “’Tis rare for either the bride or groom to have a say.”

Amice cringed. Nicholas seemed so matter of fact, impersonal. Their interlude of closeness had ended. There was no point telling him she’d been drawn to him almost from the first moment she’d seen him. That she wanted to return with him to Castle Rising and continue the life they’d barely begun. Bringing her feelings out in the open, baring her heart to him, could only lead to greater despair when she wed another.

He plucked a purple flower and handed it to her with a smile. Warmth flooded her. The simple gesture, the petals soft as silk against her fingers, meant more than it should, because it was the first thing he had given her.

She was promised to another. What she felt for Nicholas was of no consequence to her duty. What did a few conversations, a few brief embraces truly mean? Amice lifted her chin, her face set, hardening her gaze, hoping her eyes were as green as marble.

He couldn’t know how difficult these days at court had been, the irksome dejection that had drained her spirit at seeing him talk to others but not her. To occasionally be part of the same group or at the same table, knowing though they were feet apart, the gulf between them was miles wide. She had to get away before her will dissolved into her feelings and she threw herself at him, begged him to find a way to marry her. Her need for this man would be her downfall if she let it.

She gathered her skirts to leave.

Nicholas grabbed her elbow. “Amice, wait. You don’t understand….”

In spite of her resolve to be strong, tears filled her eyes, for in his voice she heard despair as deep as hers. Amice sensed his frustration with what must be as she felt his desire for her flowing from his body. She couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to him, taking the opportunity to feel his arms around her once more. One last kiss to remember always.

Nicholas enveloped her in his strong embrace, his hard-muscled arms holding her close. He ran his hand through her hair. In that moment, everything felt better. Felt right.

Her heart soared high as the birds she’d seen in the forest on their way to court. Amice wanted to laugh, to sing out her happiness.

He bent closer, closer, until she felt his breath. Their mouths melded with ease, as if they were meant to touch. The searching heat of his kiss stunned her, overwhelming bittersweet knowledge that this was all they would ever share. Warmth flooded her from fingers to toes. She wanted to savor every second. If only this moment could last forever.

But he ended the kiss and released her. Amice wanted to laugh, to sing out her happiness. As she wished for another, she saw passion in his eyes. Beyond that, was there love?

Chapter 7

Fotheringay, Northamptonshire – June 1453

Belinda arrived in Richard Plantagenet’s receiving chamber to find the third Duke of York pacing furiously. The train from his fur-trimmed robe snapped as he turned. The Earl of Salisbury, the duke’s brother-in-law who had arranged this meeting, also named Richard, waited patiently in an elaborately carved armchair, thick fingers folded over his substantial paunch.

“What has it all come to? What is it for? Must we continue to tear apart our own country?” York asked no one in particular.

She slid back the hood of her oversized black cloak. The duke gasped as her blond beauty was revealed. She acknowledged his admiration with a nod. As long as men responded in this way, she wasn’t yet old. She might find another husband.

“It was difficult for me to get away. And a woman traveling alone is such a rare sight,” she said. “I was stopped several times. I told them my husband abandoned me on the road and I sought shelter with my sister.”

“So you are good at creating tales, Lady Carlisle.” York settled in a chair opposite her and crossed his legs, the hem of his fur-trimmed robe pooling on the carpet. “Salisbury said you wished to tell me your story yourself. Please tell me why I am to entrust you, a woman, and one who can lie with ease, with my cause.”

Belinda bestowed one of her special, slow smiles upon him. “Your Grace, while attending the queen, I hear many things. But I’m certain you’re wondering why I’d betray King Henry to help you. My second husband, the only one I truly cared for, was killed during the Jack Cade uprising. I can’t forgive those currently in power for allowing rebellion.”

York would be the next king. She’d heard conversations at court, knew how lords feared and respected him, heard tell of his vast riches and power. Instead of drowning with Henry’s sinking ship, she hoped to join a captain on the rise. Then, when the Yorkists overtook the Lancasters, she’d be assured of a place in the new court.

Perhaps even a better one than she had now.

Belinda could produce tears on demand. She let her eyes fill, then struggled to keep the tears from falling, for if they did they might stain her silk gown.

The duke ran his fingers through his straight, cropped blond hair. “Are you an heiress? Do you have soldiers and knights at your disposal?”

“No. But I’m highly placed with the queen and can be discreet. I can pass on information about the king’s strategies. I can foment rumor.” The slight frown and shake of his head told her York wasn’t convinced. What else could she do? “I can seek out others to aid your cause.”

“What do you expect to gain? How do I know you can be trusted?” the duke demanded. He began to pace. “What reward do you expect for your services?”

Belinda kept her eyes on her hands. Why hadn’t she thought to wear a rosary? A pious façade might help sway him. “I ask nothing, my lord, but to know I am avenged.”

“I’ve been betrayed too many times to believe everything I hear,” York said. “But I will allow you one chance.”

He was looking at her mouth. She slowly moistened her lips with her tongue. “It’s a bit warm, might I have something to drink?”

“Of course, please forgive me. There is hippocras.” There were no servants present, so York himself walked to the pitcher on a side table.

Belinda studied him as he poured. Not quite as large as Nicholas. His hair was shorter, straighter…but he was quite attractive, and reputed to be the wealthiest man in all of England. Unfortunately, he was also married. But spouses came and went and not all men were faithful.

As he handed her the cup of heavily engraved silver, she made sure her fingers grazed his, very lightly. He started at the touch.

Belinda had come to offer information. But she could offer much more. Slowly, she took a sip, looking at him over the rim. She had to prove her intelligence and quality. No other man she knew was worth the effort. Except Nicholas, of course.

She took another sip. “This isn’t from Bordeaux.”

“A discerning palate. It is Mediterranean,” Richard said. “Even with the supposed truce with France, I’ll not drink from their cup.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, for the wine. Now, what would you wish of me?” She smiled modestly, as if unaware of the innuendo.

“Either you tell the truth or you are a very good liar. A pair of eyes as beautiful and insightful as yours ensconced in Henry’s court would be of value.” He drank, then set his cup on the small table. “Report any knowledge you think I might find of interest. Don’t bring or send documents. And if you should be discovered, of course we never had this conversation.

“The laws of primogeniture dictate that I am the rightful heir to the throne, as a descendant of an older son of Edward III than Henry. I will be king. Though I have no desire to resort to secrecy and spies, unfortunately such methods have proved the only means to obtain valuable information. And, as you said, foment rumor to cause uncertainty.”

“I understand, Your Grace. I’m honored to assist you however I can. And if you need more to come to your aid, I know of several who’d be willing.” She had no idea at the moment who those people would be, but it sounded like a powerful thing to offer. “There are many who believe, as we do, in your cause.”

“We are in agreement, Salisbury. Thank you, Lady Carlisle, for your offer. I look forward to hearing something of use from you soon.” He turned toward the window, dismissing her.

Belinda was fairly confident that she could persuade York to add her to his retinue after proving her usefulness through devotion to his political and perhaps personal desires. But to get him to accept Nicholas too, whom he knew to be devoted to Henry, would be much more difficult. Maybe that was the way, to persuade York that having one of Henry’s most respected men on his side would be to his benefit.

Belinda smiled like a satisfied cat. She’d found the way to get Nicholas away from Amice. Once he was free, he would turn to her.

And they would marry.

Amice was picking listlessly at an uneven stitch at the tip of a falcon’s wing when the page summoned her. Heart in her throat, mouth dry, she tossed the troublesome tapestry onto a velvet-cushioned bench and followed the boy.

The time is at hand.

Her temples throbbed as they traversed the corridors. She looked for Nicholas, in the futile hope he’d whisk her away or at the very least offer support. But he was nowhere to be seen, nor was he in the long, narrow Painted Chamber where Henry and Margaret awaited on their thrones.

After a respectful curtsy, she took a deep breath. The weeks of delay and fear of the unknown made the suspense all the worse. She hid her trembling fingers in the folds of her dark blue gown.

Willing nervousness away, she glanced at the many amazing biblical paintings. Those depicted with such piety seemed to mock her. She felt cold and empty inside, as if she’d been abandoned at the bottom of a dry well. Empty and alone.