The Faithful Heart (15 page)

“Don’t say that, Jack.” She reached out a
hand and put it on his arm.

“Why not, it’s true,” he charged on, wishing
he was spilling his guts to Madeline. These were the things he
longed to tell her and no one else.

The fight washed out of him and he dragged
himself across the room to sit, dejected, on the bed. A dull throb
of depression had every muscle in his back and shoulders knotted in
pain. He ran his hands through his hair then let them drop so he
could stare at the rosary wound around his wrist. There was only
one thing in the world that he really wanted, that he had ever
really wanted.

Lydia slid onto the bed next to him, crawling
to kneel behind his back. “Relax, Jack.” She kneaded his tense
muscles. “The council is over. It’s done Forget it ever
happened.”

An ironic smirk twisted its way onto Jack’s
face. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the feeling of
Lydia’s hands kneading the tension from his back. Shame drained all
energy from him. He let his arms drop, hand leaving the rosary.

Lydia worked her hands down his arms and up
again to his shoulders, starting down his back. He felt her lean
closer against him, her fingers digging their way along his spine
and spreading out over his lower back. He could feel the warmth of
her so close to him, smell her soft, feminine scent and hear her
breathing near his ear. Heat radiated from her hands along his
sides. She slid those hands back up his spine and to his shoulders.
One hand followed the line of his neck up into his hair while the
other slid forward over his shoulder and dipped inside of the neck
of his shirt and across his bare skin to his chest. He squeezed his
eyes tighter as they began to sting.

“Please don’t,” he begged her, unable to
move.

“Ssh,” she whispered in his ear, cradling the
side of his head in her hand as its weight pressed helplessly
against her palm. “Everything will be alright.”

No it wouldn’t, his soul cried out inside of
him. He was too tired to fight the one thing that felt good, the
one thing that was horrifically wrong. Her hand continued to caress
his chest without mercy and his body responded to her touch without
pity. “Lydia, no,” he choked.

“Yes,” she insisted, withdrawing her hand and
pulling him down to his back. His gray eyes met her heavy-lidded
gaze and for half a second he thought she felt sorry for him. But
not sorry enough. She threw her leg over his hips, straddling him
and reaching for his face with both hands. “Yes,” she whispered
again before bringing her mouth down on top of his. She kissed him
with coaxing passion, nibbling at his lower lip until he opened his
mouth in response to her. He was reluctant, but she was patient.
She threaded a hand through his hair to hold the back of his head
while the other trailed its way back down to his tunic and shirt so
that she could work the fastenings open.

“Don’t do this to me, Lydia,” he pleaded,
shutting his eyes when she released his mouth to brush her lips
across his cheek to nibble on his earlobe.

She ignored his protests and reached down to
grab his cock with all the mercy of a blood-thirsty fox. “I want
you, Jack,” she whispered, working him with expert hands. “And I
know you want me too.” She pulled the ties of his chausses loose
and yanked his smallclothes aside to free him, slithering down his
body.

He squeezed his closed eyes, panting with
desire and fear and crushing guilt as she closed her hot mouth over
his hard shaft, teasing and sucking. She knew what she was doing,
drawing him in so deep she could swallow him. He balled his fists
in the bedclothes. The pleasure was overpowering and he could do
nothing about it as much as he wanted to. He couldn’t even move,
only feel what she was doing to him. The horror of it made him want
to scream.

He could only manage a moan of feeble protest
as she licked and kissed the tip of his cock then snaked her body
up along his to kiss his lips again. He wouldn’t let her. He turned
his head. She wasn’t deterred. She slipped her hands under his
shirt and tunic, spreading her fingers along his abdomen. The heat
between them was dizzying, black and spinning like being thrown
into an abyss. He tried to twist away from her.

“Stop struggling!” she hissed, pushing his
chausses down over his hips. “You know you want this!”

Tears stung at his eyes as she closed her
hand around his rebellious cock. “No, no I don’t!”

Panic drained his strength as he swatted at
her. He couldn’t outright hit her. She was still a woman, after
all.

“Yes you do, my lord.” She squeezed him to
the point of pain. “I can feel how much you do.”

He heard the rustle of her skirts being
hitched up and felt her climb across his hips to straddle him.

Something snapped in his soul. “Get off of me
you whore!” he shouted, using all his strength to sit up and shove
her. His muscles ached but his effort was enough to send her
toppling backwards off the foot of the bed. She thumped to the
floor with a yelp. He shot to his feet, pulling up his chausses and
shrinking away from her, shame burning his face. “Get out of here!
Get out!”

“But, my lord!” She wobbled to her feet and
lunged towards him, “John!”

He grabbed the first object to come to his
hand, a candlestick, and brandished it at her. The crucifix of
Madeline’s rosary swung loose and flashed in the firelight. “Get
out! Go away before I….” He didn’t want to say it. He knew he
wouldn’t strike her if it came to it. Even if the world had turned
upside-down.

Lydia stood gaping at him. The shock in her
eyes morphed to sharp, bitter hatred. “I should have known,” she
hissed, brushing her hair back from her face, puffing out her
chest. “I should have known that a filthy peasant like you wouldn’t
know what to do with a real woman in your bed.”

Her insult was just another in the pile that
had been hurled at him. “Just go!” his voice failed him. He pointed
at the door with the candlestick, “Leave!”

She pulled herself up to her full height and
smoothed her hands along the front of her kirtle. “You’ll be sorry,
John Kedleridge! You’ll curse the day you turned me down!” He
didn’t have to order her to leave again. She spun on her heel and
stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

“Tanner!” he wheezed after her, throat
constricting, “It’s Jack Tanner!”

He didn’t realize he was shaking until he’d
dropped the candlestick. He couldn’t hold himself together for a
moment longer. With a sob he sank to the floor, his chausses and
shirt loose, his stiff cock still hanging out like the dog that he
was. He clutched the rosary around his wrist, hugged it to his
chest, and wept.

Lydia stormed down the stairs and into the
main hall. She didn’t care that she knocked one of the castle pages
over as she made a bee-line for the front door. She’d never been so
insulted in her life. Not even the leering glances of the nobles
whose heads she turned as she flew through the door and down the
stairs towards the castle gate offended her as much as my lord
peasant Jack’s refusal. And she had been looking forward to riding
him raw.

Outside the gate she crossed the street and
slapped her hand against the wall of an inn, cursing in
frustration. She turned and threw her back against the wall,
crossing her arms and glaring up at the tower. She had been sure
Jack was an easy target, a sure thing to get her to where she
wanted to be. How dare he throw her out.

“Excuse me, good lady,” a round man in a fine
tunic sidled up to her. “I couldn’t help but notice your stunning
and beautiful presence at the council session.” She turned her head
and met his eyes. He jangled a small purse of coins next to the
bulge in his chausses. “Perhaps we could become better
acquainted?”

She huffed out a growl and pushed away from
the inn and the disgusting man. Her face burned with the heat of
fury and humiliation. But she wasn’t done yet.

She switched directions, taking the road that
would lead out of the city walls towards the forest. She had one
more idea, one more chance to snatch the power and influence she
wanted along with a hearty helping of revenge.

Chapter Eight

Kedleridge Manor was quiet without its
master. By the end of a week spent there as a guest Madeline was
itching for something to do. At the convent every moment of her
time had been scheduled. At Kedleridge she was restless.

“Has there been any word from Jack?” she
asked Simon as the kitchen maid Alice cleared away her breakfast
with a yawn.

“None, my lady,” he shook his head. “Though
with the Earl’s departure yesterday I can only imagine he will be
home soon.”

“I suppose,” she sighed, reading through
Simon’s stoic exterior to see his concern for Jack and for her.

“If you’d like I could send a messenger to
Derby to determine the cause of his delay.”

“No, no that’s alright. Thank you, Simon.”
She stood from the table but had nothing to do but glance absently
around the room.

“It is a fine morning, my lady, and the
orchard will not be in full bloom much longer. You may want to walk
there while you can.”

She swallowed at his statement. While you
can. It was folly to assume that she would stay there forever, that
Kedleridge would be her new home. “You’re right.” She drew in a
deciding breath. “I will.” She gave him a smile as she crossed past
him and headed outside.

She wandered around the side of the house and
over to the spreading orchard that Jack loved so much. The trees
were still mostly white but green leaves were now showing through.
She smiled and took in a deep breath, closing her eyes. She
imagined Jack wandering up and down these rows. She could see him
smiling and laughing as if he was with her.

The memory of his body pressed to hers, the
taste of his mouth, his hand caressing her most intimate places,
both warmed and jolted her. She snapped her eyes open, wishing Jack
would hurry home and settle things.

Her path took her through the orchard to the
back end of the property and a small, square field where the grass
was clipped short. The area was bordered on all sides by wild
fields and a few scattered oaks. She smiled when she saw five rows
of bee hives in the square. This must be Jack’s apiary. She took a
few steps closer to the hives. A bee buzzed close and she jumped
with a shriek that turned into a laugh and ran through the hedge at
the side of the apiary to avoid being stung.

Her laughter vanished when she saw the row of
crosses on the other side of the hedge. A hand rushed to her heart.
One large cross stood alongside five small ones. The crosses were
wooden and weathered. She approached with cautious reverence. The
large cross was carved with the name “Constance McFarland” and the
dates 1159 - 1190. She blinked. The mound of earth in front of the
cross was thick with grass but it was still a mound. The smaller
cross next to Constance’s bore the single date 1190 as well, but
its mound was so tiny that it brought a lump to her throat. The
name “Daniel” was carved in tiny letters above the date. Taking in
a breath she glanced at the other crosses. “Rebecca, 1188”, “Isaac,
1183”, “Nathaniel, 1180”, and finally “Simon, 1176”.

She backed away, throat constricting and
tears coming to her eyes. Five tiny crosses, each with only one
date. She couldn’t imagine it. Babies died, but to carry that hope
for so long only to have it dashed five times? How could anyone
bear it? She turned and rushed back into the orchard, heading for
the house, hands folded and raised to her mouth as she said a
series of quick prayers for each of the crosses. But praying didn’t
ease the tightness in her throat. She couldn’t forget the name on
the last, oldest cross.

As she brushed out of the orchard and into
the yard by the side of the manor house she glanced up and saw
Simon at work, directing a young man with a bucket of pitch up a
ladder to the roof. Her heart squeezed in her chest at the sight of
his stern, blank face. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she
approached him.

He blinked when he saw her and his shoulders
dropped. “Carry on, Clive,” he told the young man climbing up the
ladder and left his position to walk across the yard to her. “My
lady, are you well?”

“I’ve just been walking,” she spoke, voice
hoarse, glancing over her shoulder. “In the … in the apiary.” His
whole body went rigid. Jack had told her that Simon never so much
as hinted that he was human, but in an instant his defenses dropped
away and she saw a man scarred by loss. “Didn’t any of them
live?”

For a moment she thought he would turn and
run. Instead he forced his face to steady into a mask. “One,” he
answered.

One. She drew in a slow, painful breath. Only
one. “Where is he? Or is it a she?”

He took his time answering. “Roderick is in
the forest.”

“Oh,” her heart sank. “With Ethan?”

A flash of surprise cut through his blank
expression before settling again. “I suppose Lady Aubrey told
you.”

“She told me about Ethan and his gang. I
don’t think she knows Roderick is your son. Does Jack know?”

He opened his mouth to speak but cleared his
throat instead. “Excuse me, my lady.” He turned and walked into the
house.

Madeline watched him go, puzzled and wishing
there was something she could do for him.

“He don’t like to talk about his son, my
lady,” the man fixing the roof, Clive, called down to her. “Turned
out bad, he did. Very bad.”

“I see.” She nodded.

“Broke his mother’s heart, it did, and killed
her,” Clive continued. “Well, that an’ her last little ‘un. I never
seen Simon so upset. Loved his Constance, like no man ever loved
before.”

“I … I had no idea.” Madeline swallowed the
lump in her throat.