Chelynne (33 page)

In the small burgh of Bratonshire a young maiden ran through the snow with her cloak pulled tightly around her. She looked over her shoulder a number of times to be sure that no one followed her and then crept into a barn that was near the outskirts of the town. She nestled into a small mound of hay to keep warm while she waited.

Little sounds in the night alerted her to false dangers again and again. She was on edge and nervous, yet steadfast in her decision to go through with this plan. At long last the door to the barn creaked open and she caught her breath in anticipation.

“A fine summer’s night,” came the voice in the darkness.

She let out her breath in audible relief. “And hear the nightbird’s song,” she whispered back.

“Ah, sweetheart,” John Bollering breathed, coming forward. He deeply regretted the dimness in the barn and the necessity to have no light. He would have dearly liked to look on the lovely face of the young woman who waited for him. “You did come. And early.”

“And you.”

“Are you cold?”

“No more, John. There’s time...” She gulped, steadied her voice. “All is ready.”

“You shouldn’t have come, Tess. It will hurt me to hurt you.”

“I know what must be, John. It happened in truth to many here when Shayburn took this shire. Our play will come to good ends.”

“Has your father agreed to this? He knows you’re here?”

“Aye,” she lied. She had been forbidden this, but managed as she knew she must. The woman who had agreed to be the victim of this attack was a little frightened and easy to persuade. Tess was supposed to be at the home of a neighbor, and in the confusion of getting ready for this event her father had neither the time nor the inclination to be sure of her whereabouts. “I would ask one thing of you, if it can be.”

“What then?”

“For just a little while...before you hurt me...hold me? Please?”

“Sweet child, I know the limit to my courage when I think of smiting your lovely face.”

“Take me gently, John...”

“Tess, it need not be. A bruise here, a tear or two...tell them what you will.”

“Nay, it cannot be. It must be done.”

“Tess,” he groaned suspiciously. “What are you telling me?”

“There is no gallant way to rape and beat a maiden,” she said softly.

“What’ve you done!” he cried angrily. “You may have ruined it all! We planned it carefully. There was to be a woman well advised, married if possible, waiting here for me! Now what’ve you done?”

“John Bollering,” she sighed. “Must I seduce you as well?”

“Damn you! I won’t do it! You’ll go to your betrothed for your evidence!”

“That is not the answer, John.”

“You’re promised to another!”

“There are not many to be trusted here. Not because they are loyal to Shayburn but because of their fear. My father would accept no one but his own kin. My betrothed will take me as I come to him.”

“Nay! Go back home. Tell Rath again in a fortnight. I will not have you on my conscience!”

“Sir! My mother has smuggled small pieces of clothing in bread baskets to her sister as she would dare, hoping to save some goods for our family after our home is plundered. She has buried her possessions in the earth believing she will dig them up in the spring. Our neighbors will touch the torch to their homes at the sound of my screams. Do they do all this so you can tell them to wait? Have they not waited long enough?”

“Tess, dear Tess, you’re a dream-struck lass. You’ve come with thoughts of love and tenderness that are not for me to have. The young heart oft cries out for what it is denied. No, darling, I will not ruin a maiden.”

“And so you do not,” she breathed.

“You’re an innocent child—”

“Child who called after you night upon night? Dream-struck lass who chilled your ale and loved you from afar for months? Foolish heart who chased you down in the dark of night for one small chance to feel your touch? No, you do not believe that John, because it is not so.”

“Tess,” he said huskily. “A woman barely blooming, but that doesn’t make it right to—”

She drew his hand to her breast. “Will you deny that you know of my love for you? I have loved you always. As I was a child awaiting your return...I loved you.”

“And what of your betrothed?”

“He is a good man but I do not love him. Have no fear, John, I will be a good wife to him and I will not betray you. I will spill you no bastard, for the wedding will be set after this—my father will see it done. If I am lucky even I will never know...But John, however I love you it can never be. But I can know the truth to what I feel this once, and I will never regret it.”

“A pretty romance,” he said bitterly. “A lovely fornication, truly. God, how low can you bring a man?”

“To touch me is so low?”

“Oh, Tess,” he groaned.

“Why do I want you still? You are not so gallant! Pirate, thief, rapist, murderer...there is nothing about you to love! You ride to us in the dark of night as some mongrel knight, sneaking about with no thoughts of goodness but a vengeance burning in your blood and a lust for your due! You have no silk or wig like yon baron. No lace falls under your chin or over your wrists. Sir John, knight without a lady, knight without lands! You are not so grand! Can I have nothing of you but pity?”

He came down on her mouth, bruising and crushing her lips angrily. He groaned deep inside his throat at the robust pleasure the taste of her mouth brought. In the cold night, in the dark of the barn with no bed but that of hay, the gentle maiden yielded to his cruelty with softness. Repulsed by duty he tore the bodice of her simple dress and bit at her breast. He growled in strange madness as his desire grew even as he hated himself for wanting her.

“Dear John,” she whispered. “Do you hate me so? If there is any tenderness in your heart for me...do not hurt me until you must.”

His wall crumbled and a choked sob escaped him as he found her mouth again, softer this time, tenderly, gently lowering himself against her and holding her carefully. Her small hands, roughened from her toils, were gentle on his back. Her skin was soft where it had not been exposed to the elements and burdensome toils. Her breasts were full and round, her hips the perfect size for a man’s hands.

He found her as he knew he must and accomplished the thing hard and fast, feeling the resistance give way. She made no cry, there was no tenseness in her small form. “There had to be pain,” he muttered thickly.

“There was pain,” she breathed. “Fear is pain. I was not afraid. I have never been afraid of you, my darling.”

“Tess, don’t. You’ll make it worse.”

“Please,” she murmured piteously. “If it can never be so in truth, let me pretend you love me tonight...”

“Then pretend,” he relented. “I’ll help you pretend. I love you, Tess. I want you, darling.”

With a sob she clung to him, straining against him and moving with him. His large practiced hands brought every touch to thrilling heights, fulfilled every expectation. He didn’t have to really love her; he did truly want her. He didn’t have to pretend this, the exhausting labor he worked on her. She climbed to the fevered pitch she knew he held effortlessly.

For long moments they lay entwined and touched each other with curious fingers. Loving strokes as the embers cooled, the blaze dead while the warmth lingered. His lips touched her throat and ear and he tasted the salt of tears.

“Why do you weep?”

“At dawn’s first light Shayburn’s men will come into the town to take rent and goods from the people. Little good would come of letting them find a lovers’ tryst. They must find ashes and blood. You know it must be, John.”

“Who is your betrothed?”

“Stephen Kilmore, farmer.”

“A decent man,” he admitted. He kissed her again.

“Tarry no longer. The truth is hard enough without delaying it.”

He paid her no heed. He touched her again with passionate intent. Again she submitted unselfishly. She closed her mind to what would come in the morning, her whole life’s dream bent on now, tonight, this forbidden lover who was hers for a brief space of time. This she might never have known had it not been for Shayburn’s merciless attack on Lord Bollering years ago.

And when this man who so tenderly loved her was seated again in the Bollering manor she would know him only as master, ruler, lawmaker of his land. Her husband would bend to his demands and yield his coin for rent, tax and tithe. But John would be a fair and just lord and would protect their shire from villains. They could live in peace instead of pain. There would be contentment to replace their fear. And her contribution to this effort was that she should have this gift of love.

When he stood to pull on his cloak she shivered with the cold. He was again as she had seen him most often, self-confident and strong, his features hard and sure. Tenderness was his concession to her on this night, but in truth he was not a gentle man. He was a warrior.

He reached down and grabbed the cloth of her skirt sharply. When he made love to her he had gently lifted the hem, but now he gave it an angry jerk, leaving her exposed. She saw the white of his teeth in the darkness as he smiled.

“You’ve submitted bravely, lass,” he murmured, his voice deep and gruff. “There is more of a sacrifice you must make to this cause.”

“If it be in my power, Sir John...”

“Do not give yourself in marriage to this Kilmore boy.”

“It is done. Our fathers have pledged it.”

His hand came out hard against her face and she yelped in surprise and pain. Half her face was frozen from the blow and her nose and lip bloodied. Her eyes clenched, she did not see him wince as he struck her. When she opened her eyes to look at him again she saw that same sure face, hard and impassive.

“I am the law of this land, wench,” he said harshly. He bent to one knee and touched the cheek he had just bruised and his voice was strangely subdued and low. “And no one shall have you but me.”

He rose after placing a swift kiss on her cheek. He towered above her, his hands on his hips and his feet braced apart. His laughter rang out in the small stable, vicious, frightening laughter. He appeared to her as some majestic and horrible beast, godlike in his immensity from where she lay on her bed of hay.

“Never question my ways, wench, but heed them true. For every time you let another man fondle you the lash will fall once upon your back!”

Her mouth stood gaping as her wide eyes questioned his sanity. He laughed again, that same laugh that reminded her of an animal cornering his prey.

“Was your fantasy worth your pretense, maiden?”

“Yea,” she said bravely, though she was frightened of him now.

He bent from the waist, bringing his face down close to hers. With a strained whisper he said, “I was not pretending.”

He straightened abruptly, strode the distance to the door, and whirled around to face her one last time. “Mark my words, Tfess. Never betray me to another.” He laughed again and was gone, leaving only the sound of his rapidly departing footfalls ringing in her ears.

Tess lay there stunned, making no sense of him at all. Would he give her these parting threats to ease her disappointment? To lessen the burden of her guilt and give her false hope? Would he have her wait in truth and take her as his acknowledged mistress?

Silence. She sat up and listened. The dark night was frighteningly silent. There was no sound of horses’ hooves; no one stirred. She screamed, a practice scream, and the sound of her own voice chilled the night and she was suddenly half out of her mind with fear. The warmth from her brief touch with love was gone and she screamed again, and again, and again, blood-chilling screams that could frighten the stars out of the sky.

Voices insulted the night. Running and hammering and more screams split through the little village as if armies battered them. Horses were loosed and ran wildly away. Tess moved hesitantly near to the barn door and peeked out to see the street alive with light and smoke. Women rushed madly about, tearing their hair and weeping in fright.

Hysteria gripped her from the reality of the play. The baron would be convinced, for it was enough to convince her. John had seen Joanna Todd and her two small children safely delivered to London and housed there while the bodies of three not long dead were placed in the house that Gaston Todd set fire to himself. One rape, three murders, many precious things stolen and several houses burned. There were several hundred residents in this little burgh and only a few dozen knew of this plan.

Neighbors, ignorant of the circumstance, comforted Todd as he sank to his knees and wept real tears over his loss while his family lived in the finest house they would know in a lifetime.

Talbot Rath rushed to where she stood and stared down at her with disbelief in his eyes. He held a torch in one hand and studied her closely. The voices of the people seemed distant to them both now. Tess could read her father’s mind. She had defied him. Betrayal. Talbot threw the torch into the barn and lashed out at Tess, striking her hard and knocking her down. He had never in his life hit her before now.

The barn took light quickly and he bent to gather her up in his arms, holding her close against his chest as she sobbed from the agony of his blow.