Rexanne Becnel (6 page)

Only she did not have to leap any longer. Neither her father nor the overbearing Lord Blaecston could force her to do anything at all. For the first time in her life she was truly her own woman, free to make her own choices.

And she chose St. Theresa’s.

Joanna looked up through the high window of the carrel. All she could see beyond the stone frame was the tops of the trees and the sky beyond. That same sky arched over Oxwich, she thought. And beyond Oxwich Castle, the whole of England and even farther. There were days she wished to search out the end of the sky, to find that mythical place where the blue of the heavens touched the green of the earth. The birds that glided over the priory and on, out to sea or else inland, could no doubt tell much of the world had they but the tongues to speak on it. Yet despite her frequent yearnings, she knew it was only childish daydreams. The wide-reaching sky captivated with its ever-changing colors and exquisite cloud forms, but a person could not cling to the sky like she might cling to a sturdy stone or the solid earth. In the simple buildings of the priory she had found security. She would never risk losing that, no matter how appealing the outside world might sometimes appear.

On that firm note she folded her embroidery into an oak-split basket and wove the two needles into a cross at one corner of the cloth. She might as well face the determined Lord Blaecston and be done with him once and for all. Perhaps this time when she again declined his offer of passage to Oxwich he would believe her.

When Joanna came into the priory yard, she was unprepared for what met her eyes. Winna, ever bold where male visitors were concerned, was standing beside Lord Blaecston, her face turned prettily up to his.

“… Alas, but she refused your summons, my lord. It tries my soul to see you so rebuffed, however, so I hope you will accept my humble company in her stead.” Winna averted her face as she made a little curtsey and in so doing spied Joanna. She promptly slanted a smug smile at Joanna, but when she straightened up, her attention was focused entirely on the tall man before her. “St. Theresa’s houses several inspiring relics that you may care to see. They are kept in a basement tomb. Where a person may find absolute privacy for his contemplations,” she added in a huskier tone.

Joanna did not hear his response to Winna, for his face was tilted away, but when Winna stepped nearer him, Joanna was certain he had encouraged her. Winna would surely not contemplate the same familiarities with this man as she’d shared with the fowler! Armed with righteous indignation that the pair of them could be so bold within the very priory walls, she charged forward.

“Thank you for informing me that Lord Blaecston awaited me,” she said to Winna, trying to sound civil and failing completely. At Winna’s haughty glare, however, Joanna’s temper nearly boiled over. Had the girl no self-respect? she wondered furiously. It should not fall to
her
to protect the hussy from her own foolish actions.

“Ah, Lady Joanna,” Lord Blaecston said as he turned toward her. When he saw her frowning countenance, his glance shot briefly to Winna, but then he turned his full attention on Joanna, smiling faintly as he did so. “I’m most pleased you can join me. Winna had informed me that you were previously occupied …” He trailed off, leaving his words a question in the air as his gaze held with her own.

“I … I
was
occupied,” she answered, trying hard to muster her suddenly unsettled emotions. It occurred to Joanna most uncomfortably that Winna’s bold behavior would not have concerned her had it been directed toward some other man, but she determinedly quashed that notion. As an aspirant to the veil, it behooved her to care for the behavior of everyone in the order. Sister demanded that they reveal any sin they might witness in order that they all might better achieve that perfect state of grace. Her anger at Winna’s behavior was part of her duty, she told herself. Somewhat better composed, she faced Lord Blaecston.

“Your friend had offered to show me the priory’s relics,” he began. “Now that you are here, however, perhaps we can have our talk and see the relics at the same time.” His well-formed lips curved up a little further, clearly mocking her as they did so. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said to Winna with a short dismissing bow.

He did not spare Winna a parting glance as she flounced away. Joanna, however, watched her departure with unwarranted interest as her own composure fled. Now that she was alone with the man, what was she to do with him? Something in her balked completely at the thought of taking him down the narrow stairs to where the bone of St. Theresa’s left thumb and a scrap of leather from her sandal were interred. The idea of being alone with him twisted her stomach in a nervous knot. Even speaking privately to him in full view of the yard was having a most disturbing impact on her.

“Well?” he prodded. “Take my arm, Joanna, and be my guide to the wonders of St. Theresa’s.”

“You are not in the least interested in our relics,” she snapped as he offered her his arm.

“Never think such a thing,” he replied with a grin, lifting one hand to his chest in mock horror. “Do you question my faith?”

“Your faith?” Joanna stared at his sardonic expression and arrogant carriage, and her opinion of him crystallized. “I believe you are one who can live just as easily under his Holiness Pope Innocent’s interdict against celebrating the sacraments in England as you lived before he made that ruling,” she retorted. But though she meant it as the worst sort of insult, he only grinned.

“I was baptized in the faith long before the interdict, and I expect not to require extreme unction until long after Innocent’s interdict is lifted. In the meantime, like any good Christian, I abide by my pope’s ruling.”

Joanna’s back stiffened at such a casual dismissal of the other sacraments. Christian indeed! But it was not her intent to argue points of religion with this man—this blasphemer—she reminded herself. He had summoned her to encourage her to assume responsibility for Oxwich. She had only to hear him out and turn him down once more. Then he would be on his way and she would not be bothered by him again.

“You summoned me for a reason, Lord Blaecston. Please speak your piece. I’ve other matters awaiting my attention,” she said with a forced air of bored indifference.

“Ah, yes, your embroidery.” He nodded gravely as if he considered needlework of paramount importance, but Joanna knew he mocked her yet again. It took all her willpower to prevent a mighty outburst of anger. But though she waited in determined silence for him to begin, he seemed equally determined not to be pushed. As her gaze clashed angrily with his, her stomach tightened in some innate recognition of him. He spoke quietly. He moved calmly and without any hint of threat. Yet she knew in her woman’s soul that he was a man to be wary of. For a long moment she stared into his lean face, seeing the barbarian length of his dark hair and noting the deep sapphire color of his eyes. Then, unable to bear such intense scrutiny one moment longer, she glanced away, toward the open yard beyond him.

It was only then that he spoke, as if he knew he’d won some battle with her. But to her surprise, his voice was deep and sincere, with no trace of triumph in it.

“I would like to restate my case to you, Lady Joanna, regarding the demesne of Oxwich which title now lays with you. Do not speak,” he hastened to add when she turned at once to face him. “Hear me out, I ask. Just hear me out.”

Once more their gazes met. This time, however, Joanna did not let herself be drawn into another silent battle. She could afford to be gracious, she told herself. She could politely hear him out—hear all the ridiculous reasons he would put forth in an effort to sway her—for she knew they would be in vain. He would reason and she would turn him down. It was as simple as that.

At her nod of assent he smiled. “Let us walk anon as we talk.” Then he took her elbow and steered her away from the yard.

Joanna was at first dismayed. His hand held her arm so confidently; he guided her toward the open gate so effortlessly. But she beat down the flutter of alarm that rose in her stomach at the warm strength of his touch. It was only for a little while, she reminded herself. Once she made it clear she would not abandon the Gilbertines, he would leave her alone. No doubt he would depart in disgust, she imagined smugly. For it was unlikely he would accept his defeat very graciously.

They walked in silence past the unguarded gate and down the dusty road. Far to the right the sound of the ever-constant sea carried across the open moor. Day and night the waves waged their endless battle with the chalk cliffs, battering them yet receiving only a fragment of gain. Though the sea stretched forever and the tides seldom relented, the towering cliffs never gave way. So might this man beat at her defenses, she thought fancifully. But like the ancient cliffs, she would ultimately persevere. And she would remain at St. Theresa’s long after he had departed.

“You’ve been here many years,” he began, turning to look down at her.

“Yes, and it’s my home now,” Joanna answered. She stepped away from him on the pretext of picking up a broken piece of gray chalk and pocketing it, but her true purpose was to free herself from his disturbing grasp.

“’Tis a beautiful place.”

At that surprising statement Joanna straightened up and stared at him. With the wind at his back and his long dark hair ruffling in the strong gusts, he seemed strangely in his element. The stark land and bright sky beyond him lent his silhouette an even more powerful aura, as if he might tame the wind if he so desired. By contrast, she felt almost buffeted by the sea breeze. It whipped the free ends of her hair and tugged the hem of her skirt against her ankles as if it would pull her whither it would.

“Yes, it is a beautiful place,” she agreed. “Flamborough Head is wild and alone, and the priory is safe and private.”

“So that you will be undisturbed in your endless stitching?” His dark brow lifted in question as he eyed her speculatively. “I should not have thought that would be the goal of a young well-born woman like yourself.”

Joanna stared at him suspiciously. “What other choices does a noblewoman have?”

“To be mistress of your own demesne would surely provide you more challenge—and more reward—than the quiet seclusion of this place.”

“But I would never truly
be
mistress of Oxwich. My eventual husband would become Lord of Oxwich. I would only be his wife. There’s a great difference between the two,” she added bitterly.

His expression did not alter save for a slight narrowing of his eyes. “Your husband would indeed be Lord of Oxwich, but that is to the good, Joanna. A man labors long to improve his estates and protect his family and his people. As his helpmate you would have the respect of all, and rule a fine household in any fashion you wished.”

“In any fashion my
husband
would wish,” Joanna countered, recalling her mother’s quaking fear of her own husband. “I do not need a husband, for I have everything I need here. I come and go as I please. I have my duties and, of course, my prayers. But I wander these moors and the woodlands near the fens at will. ’Tis all I want from life.”

She turned away from him abruptly and faced back toward the priory, at its gray squat buildings perched on the barren promontory. Why had this man come to upset the fragile peace she’d found here? Why must he pry and prod at the painful wounds that still lay so near the surface of her mind?

Then he moved to block her view of St. Theresa’s and addressed her in a warm and sincere voice. “You need not fear the man who would be your husband, Lady Joanna. A man would be a fool to do other than please a bride of such surpassing beauty.” His eyes slipped over her and the warmth in their deep-blue depths unexpectedly heated her wherever they passed.

“You have only to smile upon him to have your way—to offer of your sweetness to gain whatever you might desire.”

Joanna’s eyes widened at his surprising words and her heart began an unsteady rhythm in her chest. Yet despite the sudden rush of warmth over her, she knew his words were wholly improper—as was his bold gaze. Added to that, he spoke on behalf of another, as-yet unspecified man. That knowledge, however, did nothing to calm the disturbing knot in her stomach.

“All I desire,” she began nervously. “All I desire is to be left alone. Nothing you can say—”

“What of children?” he interrupted. “A woman’s fondest desire is a full nursery. Do you forsake that so easily? For once you take up the veil, you shun that part of your life forever.”

Joanna lifted her chin and tried bravely to ignore the lump in her throat. What good had it done her mother, that desire for children? She’d wanted a son above all things, yet God had not seen fit to send her one. Instead she’d suffered the abuse of her husband until she could endure it no more. And now, even though the idea of a babe of her own was sweet, Joanna shook off the possibility. Wanting a thing—even praying for it night and day—did not ensure its deliverance. She could bear witness to that, although she was convinced this Rylan Kempe could never understand it.

With a slow shaky breath she stared up into his impatient face. “I shun it all—children, a husband, and especially Oxwich Castle.”

The air between them was fraught with tension at her angry words. Yet to his credit, Sir Rylan did not respond in equal anger. Even in her tumultuous state, Joanna saw fire leap in his eyes. When he spoke, however, his voice was quiet and steady.

“’Tis plain I have upset you, and that was hardly my intention. But I am hard-pressed to understand your fear of Oxwich—for that is what you feel, is it not? But why?”

“I fear nothing,” Joanna snapped, even more unsettled by his calm in the face of her emotional turmoil. “I simply do not wish to … to change my plans.”

“There’s more to it than that, Lady Joanna.”

“My reasons are my own!” she cried.

She saw his jaw clench. “And what of your duty to Oxwich? No matter what your feelings for the place, you have a duty to Oxwich and to England to continue your family line.”

“My family line?” she scoffed. “It may die out with me as far as I am concerned. Another will gladly take my place at Oxwich. Besides, this is none of your concern. Why should you care who is lord at Oxwich?”