Yearning Heart (26 page)

“Dost not know how to keep from getting with child?”

Rebecca yet tasted bitter regret, a distant grief, over Stephen's words when he learned she would bear his child. Since then, she had heard ways to prevent such, but she had not the proof it would do so. No man had touched her—before or after Stephen—to challenge such precautions. Until now. She would have to wait and see.

Margaret had offered what Rebecca thought the best advice.

“If thou wouldst truly prevent getting with child, Little One, you will not sleep with a man,” Margaret had said one day when they talked, as women will. “That is the only way to be certain.”

Rebecca believed her, but she had not to worry. Men approached her in towns and villages, their bawdy remarks plain in their meaning, but Hugo or Gerald had been there to frighten them away. They were never allowed to get close enough to talk with her much less to touch. Rebecca had always laughed at them. She had no desire to give herself to a man.

Stephen took what he wanted, and he had taken her then left her alone and, she supposed, that was all he wanted of her.

She sighed, tested the stew and called one of the servants to take over the stirring. As she passed a bench, the baby she had noticed moved into her path. Rebecca stopped, then reached down and picked up the child. Her face was dirty, but a wet smile spread over her tiny mouth, and a finger came up to touch Rebecca's cheek.

A tremor ran through her as the baby's exploring hands played with the lace at the throat of her blouse. She had forgotten how empty her arms were, the sense of loss at not holding her own child. She had thought to put behind her the desire to love Stephen's child, but no, cuddling the warm body to her own, Rebecca knew failure. Would the feeling never go away?

“Nay, my lady, ‘tis dirt she will put on thee,” a voice said, and a young woman reached for the baby.

Rebecca smiled but released the child to its mother, watched her retreat, speaking quietly to the infant. Her throat felt tight, her eyes burned, and there was a deserted feeling somewhere deep in her chest. She would get over it. Hadn't she always? There was no choice, so why punish herself?

She turned, walked towards the gallery off the kitchen, passed through the arched walkway, and looked up to see Stephen leaning against the stairs, watching her. His eyes, for just a moment, strayed into the great hall where she had placed the baby in its mother's arms, and then he looked back at Rebecca. She could not read anything in his face.

He looked tired, his hair still held flakes of snow, and he removed rough gloves from reddened hands. Rumors were that Stephen worked with the rock masons in the cellar where a well was being dug to provide more water for all the rooms of New Sarum when it was completed. She had seen the trap door for entering such, but no one save those who worked there was allowed inside.

Rebecca was not of a mind to go below ground, so it did not bother her to be forbidden to do so.

“Good evening, my lord,” she said and walked past him up the steps.

“Rebecca?”

Stephens’ voice was weary and, she thought, a bit uncertain. It was not like Stephen to be unsure of himself, and she wondered at the reason. Mayhap trouble in the royal palace. Or discontent among the king's subjects who objected to higher and higher taxes. Or the queen complained of too many lovers in her husband's life.

Poor Stephen. Such a cross to bear.

“Rebecca?”

Midway of the steps, she turned to look down at her husband.

“My lord?”

“Malvina tells me you have helped with Christmas baskets for the peasants, and that you have worked with the servants so that no one would be cold or hungry this season. You are most kind.”

He slapped the gloves across his hands and watched her for some response. She made none.

Stephen spoke again. “Christmas is two days’ hence. I would invite you to the revelry for the household on the morrow. The celebration begins early.”

And what are we celebrating? The birth of a holy child or that we have survived one more year? That you have brought home your erring wife? That you have nearly completed this monstrosity of a house so as to remain close to your beloved king?

She trembled with sorrow for what she did not have and with regret that what she wanted was not to be.

“Aye, Stephen,” she said. “I thank you for asking me.” She curtsied and continued on to the orchid room.

* * * *

Rebecca sat on Stephen's right. Across from her was Father Umbreth, the same young minister who had performed the marriage ceremony when she and Stephen wed. His habit of thrusting long, thin fingers through the straight hair resulted in removing a part of it. She could see his pale scalp when he bent over his plate. More than four years since she had seen him. It didn't seem possible that she had been Stephen's wife that long but had only lived with him two of those turbulent years. And had never been loved.

She watched Father Umbreth, deciding that he, like she, had aged a good bit in those years. He seems hungry, Rebecca thought. He is thin, he eats quickly, and a servant had refilled his plate on three occasions. Mayhap his ministry did not pay well.

She turned to look at Stephen, surprising his eyes midway down the front of her gown.

Had she dropped sauce on herself?

Rebecca looked down but saw nothing to draw his attention. She blushed when she realized the gown emphasized the small outthrust of her breasts, the obvious curves of her body in the tightly buttoned, gold satin bodice. She picked up her glass and held it in both hands so that her arms hid the curves Stephen eyed so boldly.

Stephen chuckled, but when she looked up again, he was leaning to hear Father Umbreth's words. Both men stood and Stephen waited for Rebecca to rise before turning towards the stairs.

Rebecca had not been up the second set of stairs where Stephen's rooms were. Now, as he guided her with a hand on her right arm, speaking to Father Umbreth who walked ahead of them, she took in the comfort and luxury afforded here.

A vaulted ceiling covered the width of the rooms, a circular gallery with buttresses contained padded stools and velvet chairs in shades of red. Scattered on the wooden boards of the floor were bright rugs, some round, some square. Matching hangings graced the walls where there were no windows.

She had not seen so many windows in a room, and she wondered what a spring day with flowers blooming outside, birds singing, and a warm sun would do to the open space. Wall sconces, wreathed in fragrant rushes and filled with glowing candles, gave the room the semblance of day. Against one wall stood a harp, its strings glimmering in the light.

Rebecca stopped when she saw the harp, and Stephen was forced to stop with her since she was holding his arm. Father Umbreth continued on to stand by the fireplace, holding his hands out for warmth.

“How is it that you are not at the royal court tonight, Stephen?” Father Umbreth asked.

Stephen urged Rebecca forward, led her to the straight-backed couch and waited until she was seated before he answered.

“I paid my respects and gave Queen Eleanor news of Princess Alix ere we journeyed to New Sarum, Father. The king does not expect me to return for a fortnight yet.”

“Good. ‘Tis good.”

The minister's questioning glance rested on Rebecca.

“ ‘Tis well thou art home for the yuletide, my lady,” he said, and then stammered an apology. “I do not mean...”

“Thank you for your welcome, Father,” Rebecca said and smiled at his discomfort. She well knew his feelings. How many times had someone spoken of her being home, and then was stricken at his own words. “'Tis a comfortable place to be during the cold season.”

Stephen spoke of other things, and Rebecca lost interest as the men drank wine and discussed business. She leaned back in her chair and studied the results of Stephen's long days and weeks of labor on New Sarum.

The rooms they were in boasted rushes and sweet smelling herbs for the celebration of Christmas. Somewhere in another hall, voices were raised in song. The smell of baked breads, pies and cakes filled each floor of the big house. Outside, the wind blew and snow fell in big, feathery flakes.

Rebecca thought of Hugo and his band of jongleurs. They were to be in London for the yuletide season, but there had been no room in the royal houses because so many guests would be there. So the entertainers for Queen Eleanor and King Henry would be in the arena grounds where the wind whistled through tents and the ground would be frozen solid, and cold would cut through their blankets. Hugo and Margaret would not mind. Their arms would warm each other.

In the cozy comfort of New Sarum, Rebecca envied her friends.

“A prosperous and happy Christmas, Father Umbreth,” Rebecca said along with Stephen as the hour past midnight came. The young man went off to bed, and Rebecca started towards the door of the great hall.

“I would have you wait, Rebecca,” Stephen said.

She stopped but did not turn.

“For what reason, my lord?”

“It is Christmas. You must needs have a gift for the occasion.” Before she could say nay, he was by her side, holding out a small parcel wrapped in red-and-green satin ribbons.

When she only looked at the package, Stephen said, “Open it.”

“I did not purchase any such gift for you, Stephen.”

“Indeed, it is not needed, Rebecca,” he said, his voice impatient.

Rebecca bent her head. Even in this, Stephen hurried to get finished with her. Malvina must await his pleasure.

Trembling fingers moved over the ribbons, tangling them, but finally they fell away. In her hand was a flat crystal bottle with decorated top, a pale golden butterfly etched into it. The writing was in French.

Perfume.

She almost dropped the bottle, but bit into her lower lip and tried to work her fingers. The top came off. Already, she could smell the scent, like the outdoors in spring, like the wild violets near Richard's house across Papa's lands, like the honeysuckle and roses growing along the stone walls she and Aubin tended in Glastonbury.

It did not smell like the bottle Malvina gave her on her wedding night.

“Thank you, Stephen, and good holidays to you.”

“Is that all? Mayhap a kiss for the season.”

“I ... no, it is perchance not the time for...”

One hand curved around her arm, the other lifted her chin as Stephen moved against her.

“I will not be denied this,” he said and bent his head.

Rebecca clasped her gift to her as Stephen's arms closed around her. She would not respond. Let him have his kiss. For such an expensive perfume, he should have one kiss as payment, but she did not have to kiss him in return. She held herself stiff, willing herself not to feel anything, not to wish for that which she could not have.

Stephen's mouth was warm on hers, and she tasted the wine he had drunk. He kissed gently, rubbing his mouth over hers, letting his tongue touch lightly. She shivered at the feelings tumbling through her body, just at such a brief caress. She squeezed her eyes closed, clamped her lips together and refused to let Stephen's tongue inside her mouth. He kept nibbling, breathing his warmth into her. One hand moved over her hips, up and down, with each movement pressing her more closely to him. She tried to back away, but both hands cupped her buttocks, forcing her to stay as he pushed himself against her.

She tried to say no and opened her eyes to give Stephen an angry look, but his eyes were closed, dark gold-tipped lashes lying on his cheek. She saw the heavy lock of hair falling to peaked brows, the straight line of his nose. She pushed on his chest with both hands, the bottle still clasped between them. Her efforts were useless.

She opened her mouth to speak.

Stephen's tongue instantly thrust between her lips, and one hand left her hips to fasten at the back of her head, holding her so there was nothing she could to do avoid his kiss. His tongue, hot and wet, slid along hers to the back of her mouth, striking gently at her throat. She shuddered as a hot feeling twisted from his seeking tongue to the place between her thighs.

“Ah,” Stephen whispered. “Ah, Rebecca.”

His mouth moved from hers to her ear where he bit the edge, and then his tongue slipped inside.

She whimpered, wanting relief from the heat of her belly and from the emptiness inside. She wanted Stephen, wanted his body to take hers, to give her joy as he took joy from hers. She wanted love from Stephen.

Her mouth opened to cry out, to beg him to stop, but Stephen was not to stop. His mouth closed over hers, his tongue forced her lips farther apart, flicked inside her mouth, along the edge of her teeth. Her dress felt tight over her throbbing breasts, and she wished for Stephen's mouth to take them and suck as only he could suckle, driving her from her mind.

Stephen groaned, and then suddenly, she was away from him.

The perfume was still in both hands, held in front of her as though to protect her rigid nipples. She stared up into his face; saw the tightened lips beneath his mustache, the stiff set of his shoulders.

“Goodnight, Rebecca,” he said. His voice was even and unruffled. His reaction that of one who had just kissed a child.

Her body grew cold in that instant, and she lowered her gaze to hide any feelings mayhap reflected there.

“Goodnight, Stephen. Thank you for the perfume.”

She turned and left him.

* * * *

Aubin came in and extinguished the candles save one on the distant wall near Stephen's bathing room. Stephen bade him a good yuletide and went to stand by the window, staring into the cold, windy, snow-filled darkness.

His body was taut, his arousal blood-filled and needing release. Release into Rebecca's body, wanting to fill her belly with his seed. He was losing his mind over his wife, his desire for her, his wish to talk with her, laugh with her as they did those years past at Glastonbury. He wanted her with a fierceness heretofore unknown, wanted to know that she loved him as he loved her. How long he'd waited to admit, even to himself, that he was madly in love with Rebecca. If he admitted to her that his love had grown and multiplied over the years, what would she say?