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 deny you gave him pleasure yet you admit you lay with him.”
“I admit nothing.”
“Did you lie with him? Was I mistaken?” The echoes of his cry clanged against the walls of the chapel, his fury escaping into the open at last.
She turned to face him, her eyes wary. He had a brief, bitter memory of her as a girl, as easy to read as a primer. Now he could no more decipher her expressions than he could translate Greek.
“It does not matter whether I lay with him or not. I will be faithful to you. I would promise it if you asked it of me, but a promise does not matter. I will never betray you because I refuse to risk my immortal soul to give any man living a moment’s ease.”
She looked away and stood. “Let us talk no more, Sebastian. I am weary and say what I ought not. If you will excuse me, I shall retire now.” She walked toward the door.
His anger died as if it could not survive her absence. He scrambled to his feet and followed her. “Do not go, Beatrice.”
She turned to face him. “Why not? We only brangle whenever we meet. Perhaps, given time, we shall be able to live together without quarrel. But that time has not come.”
He held out his hand, no longer clenched in a fist. “I do not want us to part like this.”
She sighed. “Nor I, but I do not see how else we may part.”
He moved closer to her, his hand still outstretched. “If I say I believe you…”
“Do not lie for so small a reason, Sebastian. It does not matter enough.”
His hand dropped; the two feet that separated them might have been twenty. “You are changed.”
Her chin went up. “Perhaps I was never who you thought I was. Perhaps what you see now is the truth.”
“Is it?”
Her mouth curled in a bitter smile. “You cannot leave anything alone. I cannot answer that question, I cannot allay your fears. I can offer you no comfort. This is what we suffer for our sins.” She turned away from him and crossed the distance to the door. Opening it, she turned to face him. “Good night and God be with you.” She disappeared, shutting the door behind her.
Without her, the chapel walls crowded around him, the air chilly and damp. The light on the altar flickered and danced, spilling shadows and golden light against the dark stone walls. Sebastian returned to the altar and knelt, casting about in his empty mind for a prayer, any prayer.
If he could, he would release Beatrice from this marriage. Not because he wished to marry any woman but her, but because she was right when she said they did nothing but brangle when they met. He did not want a turbulent marriage. Like Beatrice, he wanted peace, but when he was with her he could not find it for himself nor would he leave her be to discover it for herself.
