it before, I know it now.”
Because of your sins. Again anger rose in him; again he pushed it down. He had not followed her to abuse her about the unchangeable past. Or had he? Fool that he was, he did not know why he had followed her, except that he could not stop himself.
“Do you pray to be delivered from our marriage?” He spoke without thinking and immediately wished he had said nothing.
Her face shuttered. “There is no deliverance.”
He had thought her furious refusal to accept the betrothal earlier in the day had been shock. The way she had looked at him again and again at supper had given him hope that she would not go into the marriage furious and cold. Her bleakness now withered that hope.
“How can you know?”
“Because you are not pleased. If we were delivered, you would be happy.”
That surprised him. He had not thought she would interpret his behavior so. “Do you think I should be pleased to be delivered?”
A frown creased her brow. “How not? You would be free of me then, free to marry Cecilia.”
He did not want to marry Cecilia. He might not trust Beatrice, but he would not choose her sister over her. The realization was another surprise, as were the words that spilled from his mouth.
“You are not a bad bargain, Beatrice.”
Her frown deepened and she dropped her gaze from his. “You do not know that.”
“I know.”
She smoothed her hands over her skirt, talking to the floor. “You cannot.”
She spoke so softly he had to move closer. He stopped when the hem of her skirt brushed the wide toe of his shoe. “You are wellborn, well dowered. And you have been a wife before. None of marriage will be strange to you.”
She looked up at that, speculation in her eyes as they searched his face. He waited for her to find what she sought.
“I have not been your wife nor do I think my dead lord’s ways are your ways.”
Pain sparked at the reminder. Just as he did not want to remember her dalliance with Conyers, neither did he want to think of her life with Manners. “I am a man, as he was. How different can we be?”
Some bleak memory stirred; he could see its shadow in her face before she turned away. “Not all men are the same,” she murmured.
As you well know, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. He clamped his mouth shut lest he speak the words aloud. Despite the anger that would not remain at bay, he would not fling accusations at her, chastising her for sins he imagined, all of them greater than the one he had witnessed.
When he did not reply, she turned back to him, the question in her expression fading as her gaze traveled over his face. Understanding flickered in her eyes as if she saw what he wished to hide and then it was only the candlelight gleaming in their blue-gray depths while her face smoothed to blankness. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Beatrice had somehow vanished, leaving her body to face him.
Come back to me.
“Beatrice,” he said softly.
“My lord?”
Do not hide from me and name me as if I am a stranger to you. You know I am not.
“Call me by my name.”
Her eyes met his and in their depths he saw Beatrice return, the distance between them melting like spring snow. She searched his face as if she had never seen him before.
“What do you want of me, Sebastian?”
“Nothing,” he said. He could not say what he wanted. All he knew was that she could not give it to him.
She folded her hands. “I do not believe you.”
He crossed his arms. “Does it matter?”
“I wish to know what you desire, so I may prepare myself to provide it.”
“Do you think I will ask anything you do not know how to give?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why? What have I ever done that you should think that?”
“You are a man. That is all you need.”
“Do you think so ill of men?”
“Think ill of them? No, Sebastian, I do not. Men are what they are, not to be ill or well thought of for it. I only ask so I may be all you desire in a wife.”
“It does not matter. You can never be all I desire in a wife.” You lost that ability when you let George Conyers into your bed. He clamped his jaw shut before he could speak the words. Anger ached in his chest, burned in his throat. If he was not careful, he would begin to curse her and there would never be peace between them.
In a quiet voice she asked, “If I can never be the wife you desire, Sebastian, will you not tell me what I can do to make the best of this bad bargain?”
“Anything you do will be well enough.” Anything she did would have to be enough. They were knotted, not to be parted in this life.
She sighed and lowered her eyes. “I do not believe you.”
“We cannot undo the past, Beatrice. You cannot undo your dalliance with Conyers and I cannot undo what I have said about it. From now, all I need is your obedience, and I do not doubt I shall have it.” That much, at least, was true. He would make certain of it.
“If we cannot undo the past, I at least am willing to let it rest.” She looked up at him, her clear eyes catching the candlelight. “Can you say the same?”
He eased his gaze away from hers, unable to withstand her scrutiny. “I do not care about the past.”
“Do you not? You cannot leave it behind. I have done penance for my sins and promised never to commit them again. For my immortal soul, I will not so dishonor myself. You can neither forget nor forgive. How shall we ever live together, Sebastian?”
“We will because we must,” he said.
She walked away from him, toward the altar. He followed.
“What do you want of me, Beatrice?” he asked.
She crossed herself and knelt, folding her hands. He knelt beside her.
“Tell me what you want.”
Looking at the rood screen, she said, “I want to be at peace.”
“I cannot give that to you.”
“I know. No man can.”
No man? Memories danced before his mind’s eye: Conyers with his hands on her, Conyers with his mouth on her. And Beatrice allowing it all.
“Did Conyers?” he asked, his voice harsh and flat in the silence.
She closed her eyes, her mouth flattening, and then said in a weary voice, “Sir George Conyers wanted nothing more than an hour or two of pleasure.”
“And you gave it to him.” He did not want to talk about Conyers, but he could not stop prodding her. What ailed him?
She shook her head and opened her eyes, staring up at the rood screen once more. “I do not think so.”
“Are you saying I was mistaken in what I saw?”
“What did you see?”
“I saw him touch you where no man but your husband should.” The muscles in his arms and shoulders tightened, and behind his anger was pain, so fierce it did not seem a memory but agony renewed.
She murmured something, her voice too low to be heard, then said, “You are not mistaken in what you saw.”
“You speak in riddles, Beatrice. You