Yearning Heart (11 page)
“I suppose so.”
She frowned and turned to look out the window at snow-covered fields, a lone sheepherder's shack with a thin gray plume of smoke the only dot on the desolate land. After a long moment, she turned to find Stephen's eyes on her.
“I would not like to live with you and quarrel all the time. I would not like you to have a lady friend.”
His eyebrows climbed and formed jagged peaks above his eyes.
“We will not quarrel as long as you do as you are told and are a good wife, Rebecca. Nor do I need a lady friend as long as you are in my bed.”
Heat colored her cheeks, and she could not meet his eyes. It seemed lately he came often to her bed, and there were times she waited for him, her body alive and longing for his touch. He had taught her how to respond to him, and she believed she was getting good at it. It felt so good to give her body to him. He was mostly gentle except for those times he seemed to want her so badly he could not take time to be gentle. Even those times were enjoyable and made her feel as though her body were alive, really alive.
Was he saying Malvina did not interest him as a woman? What of the nights he went to the locked bedroom down the hall?
“Does the knowledge make you happy, Rebecca?”
“Yes, my lord,” she said, then quickly, “Yes, Stephen.”
He laughed—a deep sound in his chest beneath the embroidered neck of his chainse. The fur-lined pellice opened enough so Rebecca glimpsed the width of his shoulders. He was a strong man, her husband, but even with his strength when he struck her bare bottom, he had not hurt her. Still, she did not care to incur his wish to take such a liberty with her in the carriage with Aubin sitting above them.
“You will learn, my lady,” he said.
They stopped for the night at a crossroads tavern. The old woman who showed them to a small room separated from the great room where other travelers slept grinned at them to show toothless gums.
“ ‘Tis clean,” she said, her words not quite plain. “'Tis small, but clean,” she repeated, then added, “Bread and cold lamb will be served should you want food, my lord.”
“Thank you, Madam,” Stephen said, holding the door for the old woman to pass through.
She stared at him, unaccustomed to politeness coming her way, especially from someone who was unmistakably from the upper class. Mumbling to herself, she shuffled down the hallway and down the stairs.
Rebecca sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing a little to make her feet touch the floor.
“You are tired?”
“No, Stephen. I am happy.”
He frowned as he looked down at her. “And are you not always happy, Rebecca?”
Her hands had been sliding back and forth over the bright squares of the bed cover but now they ceased their movements. She stared at her slippers, muddy from walking through the courtyard of the tavern with puddles from a recent snowmelt.
How could she tell him she liked being with him away from Malvina? How could she say how glad she was he saw fit to let her travel with him this time? Would he scorn the feelings of warmth she felt when he took her arm to help her into or out of the carriage?
“Yes, my lord,” she finally answered and looked up to see the familiar glint in his eyes. She smiled and slid from the bed. “Stephen, my husband,” she said and curtsied.
He swooped her up in his arms, kissed her soundly on the mouth, and put her down once more. “I am starving, woman. Let us go eat before they feed it to the dogs.”
Chapter Seven
Stephen had never seen the queen look lovelier, nor had he noticed before the lines gathering near the intensely alive gray eyes. She still shared her coquettish smile, showing small white teeth, with royalty and burghers alike, favoring them with looks designed to bring them to their knees. Stephen was no exception. After six children, her body was tight and slim with firm breasts, and he found it hard to imagine her youngest son had been born only the previous September.
Queen Eleanor was partial to the man who looked after her husband's vast holdings, and she was not ignorant of the fact Sir Stephen played a big part in keeping peace in the royal family. Now, she looked down on Stephen's bowed head, at the thick blond curls lying along the collar of a chainse of black, embroidered with red and gold silk threads. Few men could wear black and look well. Stephen could.
“Sir Stephen.” The queen watched him rise. Beside him was Lady Rebecca, his wife of little more than a year.
Last Christmas, he had come alone, but this year he had asked permission to bring Rebecca. Graciously, the queen agreed, but now wasn't certain she had done the right thing. Stephen's time would not be all hers when she needed him. With Henry's newest ladylove settled into the best rooms in Woodstock, she needed all of Stephen's courtly attention. Henry had long since forgotten she was his wife of many years, but chose to bring his new lovers even into the home that had once been her favorite. No more. The queen's heart twisted. She would never live in Woodstock again because it would always have the smell and feel of one of Henry's many lovers. Her chin elevated. She would not weep any more over a faithless husband, even if he were the king.
“Bring Lady Rebecca to sit with me, Stephen,” Eleanor said. “You may go play games with your king while we talk as women will.”
Stephen realized he was being dismissed, but he hesitated a second, his glance straying to Rebecca. He took a second look. Instead of the shy woman-child who did not care for strangers and who claimed to be unable to talk to royalty, his wife gazed in open admiration at her queen. Her eyes were bright with questions, and he had no doubt that Queen Eleanor was in for a lively conversation, that she would have to pay attention to keep up with Rebecca's quick mind.
He could only hope Rebecca would refrain from mentioning the king's obsession with women other than the queen. If he let himself wonder, he might spend an uneasy evening in the presence of the king.
He seated Rebecca, careful of the long silk skirt of purple he had purchased only the day before and spread it so it would not bind. He straightened, looked at Rebecca then at Eleanor, thinking Rebecca is lovelier than the queen. And has a much better temper. Of course, if he had to put up constantly with King Henry's moods, he would not be easy to live with, either. At least he could leave the royal company and go home when his business with the king was finished. Nor did he have to wonder if Rebecca were waiting for him. She always was, and though he wouldn't care to admit it to her, his first thoughts upon arriving at Glastonbury were of Rebecca.
Now Stephen bowed, murmured his goodbye which neither woman heard, so involved were they already in female subjects. He found his way to the great room where he knew a game of chance would be in progress. He glanced around, happy to find Sir Oliver was not among the gentry gathered for the Christmas celebrations. He wished Rebecca to enjoy her stay in London, and having Lord Oliver there would not be to her liking.
“When do you move into the new manor house, Rebecca?” Eleanor said.
Her maidservant had just placed tea and pastries in front of them, and she watched the younger woman study the tempting foods. She glanced down at her waistline that had expanded after giving birth to six children. Then she looked at Rebecca's slender frame and sighed with envy.
An adorable child, she thought. But Stephen deserves such a wife after losing Lady Mary many winters ago. He is too young not to have a good wife. Still, he had not lacked for female company and, she was sure, a bed companion as well. She herself, thought at one time ...
Eleanor leaned back in the gold velvet chair designed especially to enhance her coloring and smiled at Rebecca.
“Stephen says the manor house will not be ready soon if he does not find the time to...”
Rebecca raised guilty eyes to the queen. She had been about to say ‘time to oversee the ordering of stone.’ Stephen had once grumbled that King Henry's demands left little time to tend his own affairs.
Eleanor nodded because she agreed with Stephen and did not find fault with the complaint.
“You will be closer to London, so you may come more often with Stephen.” She leaned forward. “Tell me, does Malvina still reside at Glastonbury?”
“Yes, Your Highness, she is my maidservant.” She did not add her misgivings about the woman's attention to her husband. Stephen would not like her to gossip with his queen. Especially about Malvina.
“She quite often accompanied Stephen and Mary when they came to court.”
Mary, Stephen's dead wife. He never mentioned her and the one time Rebecca asked Malvina about Mary, she had seemed loathe to talk about her.
“Stephen's wife. What was she like?” Learning about Mary surely would not be considered idle gossip.
“Mary was beautiful. Red hair and green eyes. A gentlewoman. Stephen did not soon get over her.”
If Stephen still loved her, Rebecca should, at the least, know the woman she could never replace.
And what about Malvina? Rebecca wanted to ask of her queen, but that would be gossip, which Stephen forbade.
“Come, let us talk about happy times. Minstrels will gather at evening meal to celebrate. I have a friend who is a troubadour, and he will read for us.”
Rebecca forgot Malvina. Not since school had she heard a reading of poetry and her heart speeded up at the thought of enjoying it once more.
“Oh, I will so love it,” she said and was rewarded with Eleanor's approving smile.
“I will send a maidservant to help you dress, my dear,” the queen said. “It is only fitting that Sir Stephen's wife have her own attendant.”
The queen inclined her head at Rebecca's sweeping curtsy and watched the graceful movements of the slender body as she walked away.
Ah, Stephen, she thought. I somewhat envy your young bride the times in your arms. Many are the moments I have spent thinking of such, but ...
“Henry's romantic thoughts seem only to surface at Christmas.” She had complained to Stephen in the few moments she engaged him in conversation. “I take great pains not to become with child again at my age.”
Stephen had nodded in agreement with her but didn't speak. Indeed, she did not wish an answer. This special reeve of his majesty was the only one she would speak her mind to and know he would not repeat her words. Her thoughts had been centered on other things as she went on speaking of Henry.
“He allows his own feelings to interfere with his duties, Stephen. I do not like Sir Thomas, but Henry appointed him as archbishop, and now he must live with his mistake. Sir Thomas thinks himself lord of all and above the kingdom itself. Henry is a hard man to understand in the best of times, but Thomas pushed him so it was certain to come to this. Now Henry tries to wreak childish vengeance on Thomas because he feels betrayed by someone he brought out of poverty to the highest honor. You have not seen rage such as when Thomas fled to France before Henry could bring charges against him.”
She seemed to shake herself before adding, “But somehow, Henry's feelings toward me have been a bit better since that time. Mayhap it took his friend's betrayal to let him know I am here.” She smiled at Stephen. “You must listen to our tirades each time you visit, so it is no wonder you wait until summoned before visiting the royal chambers.”
“I am at your service, your majesty,” Stephen said.
What Eleanor said was true. The only time he appeared in London anymore was when summoned or time for his reports came. He much preferred staying at Glastonbury, seeing to his lands, talking with the men who worked them—and going home to Rebecca at the end of each day.
“I am your friend as well,” he said.
That the queen sometimes thought she'd like him to be more than a friend never crossed Stephen's mind. She was his queen, she was royalty, and he did not think disloyal thoughts of either the king or queen.
He was happy the queen made no mention of the new lady in the king's life. It was enough that gossip of the mysterious Lady Rosamond passed among servants and attendants. He preferred not to contribute to Eleanor's misery.
“Yes, Stephen, you are a good friend, and I thank you,” the queen said.
Why could not Thomas be as Stephen—a friend as well as a loyal subject to King Henry? And why could Henry not desire her as Stephen's eyes said he desired Rebecca?
* * * *
The young woman Queen Eleanor promised her appeared to help Rebecca dress just as the bells began to ring heralding the beginning of the evening's festivities. The room given to Rebecca and Stephen was in the back of the castle with a wide window overlooking a garden, a garden now ragged and dark-streaked from yesterday's light snowfall.
Stephen told her he had used this same room on other trips into London so as to be near the king while giving his reports on royal holdings.
“I'm happy to have you with me this time, Rebecca,” Stephen said.
She stood in front of him to straighten the gold embroidered chainse. So handsome, she thought, as she secured a hook. Stephen is better looking by far than King Henry. She giggled. The king had this ring of rusty hair around the edge of ...
“And what is funny, Rebecca?” Stephen's hands came up and fastened on her hips.
She tilted her head back and looked into Stephen's eyes, so dark, with black lashes framing them. Oh, yes, very handsome. And he's mine. At least, all mine for this journey. She refused to think of Malvina waiting back at Glastonbury.
“Funny, my lord?”
His hands tightened and pressed her against him. He forgot what he'd asked her as he gazed into her laughing eyes. He wanted her with a sudden fierce heat that hardened his body.
“I haven't time, Rebecca,” he said. His breath was coming rapidly, and he opened and closed his fingers around her arms.
“Time for what, my lord?”
“Time for you.” He yanked her to him and closed his mouth over hers, slid his tongue inside her parted lips, and suckled.
She went limp against him, but her arms went up and she linked fingers behind his neck. Her body moved in sinuous rhythm with his, and she delighted in the feel of his arousal pressing into her belly. She sighed as he lifted his head.
