Knight's Move. Jennifer Landsbert
my lady, for instance. The passage of ten years has done much to change you,’ he continued, his voice a deep whisper in the shadows.
‘I was a child when you left.’
‘That is the picture I have kept in my memories.’
‘You thought of me?’ Hester demanded, leaping on the idea. It had never seemed likely that she would have featured in his thoughts. The gawky girl foisted on him in marriage, the last thing he could have wanted. Why ever should he think of her when he had run away to escape the doom of being married to her against his will?
‘Yes, of course I thought of you,’ he replied, a breathless urgency in his voice. ‘I thought of you very often. I wondered…’ He hesitated.
‘What had become of me?’ Hester supplied, as lightly as she could manage.
‘Not only that. I wondered what we might have become together…’ and as his words evaporated, he was lifting her hand to his lips. Hester expected the usual kiss on the back of her hand, but, as he lifted her hand upwards, he turned it lightly in his fingers, so that his lips fell upon her palm and lingered there. She felt the roughness of his bristled skin, but also the softness of his lips in a gesture so intimate that the rest of the world seemed to disappear. Suddenly she and he seemed to be alone in a sensual world, in which the sensation of his lips against her skin was all that mattered. She could feel it taking hold of her, taking control.
‘Oh, yes, I have thought of you,’ he whispered, his breath tingling against the soft skin of her arm. Hester could feel herself sinking into his words, into the depths of that voice, its velvety darkness enveloping her.
She felt his other arm close around her waist and realised he was pulling her towards him. The scent of the wine on his breath filled her nostrils as he lowered his head towards hers and she knew in an instant that he intended to kiss her. As if a bolt of lightning had illuminated the night, she suddenly saw again all his faults and wrongdoings, which somehow he had managed to conjure out of her mind.
So, he thought he could return after ten years, ten years in which there had been no word to say whether he was dead or alive. Ten years through which she had striven to bear the humiliation of his absence; years through which she had struggled to keep Abbascombe alive. He thought he could come back now, the returning hero, to take what he wished from the demesne and from her.
In a flash Hester saw again the bridal linen which Maud had laid on her bed, smelt its lavender scent, felt its smooth freshness against her bare skin, felt his hot flesh against hers, and she knew she could not bear it. Could not bear to give in to him, could not bear to allow him his rights after all he had done. The years of desertion, the pain, the emptiness. She could not give herself up to him, to be torn apart again by his callous disregard. He might want her now, at the end of his journey, a homely possession to be reclaimed. But what of tomorrow or the day after? What would he want then?
With dazzling clarity, she knew that she must escape him if she were to save herself from obliteration in his arms. His proximity seemed to have sapped the strength from her limbs, but the gathering terror in her mind concentrated all the energy back into them. With one swift movement she pulled herself out of his grasp, her hands braced against his broad chest. Her eyes met his for an instant, looked into those dark pools, as he murmured, ‘Hester?’
She hesitated an instant. Then she summoned the final ounce of strength necessary for her escape. She stepped away from him and, as she left his touch, the spell was broken. She turned her back on him and she was away, running across the hall and up the staircase, not daring to look back now in case he followed her.
She was sure she could hear footsteps close behind. She must reach her solar in time to slam the door in her pursuer’s face and shoot the bolt home. Her feet were on the landing, she had reached this far without feeling those powerful hands pulling her back. And now she was at her door. She darted inside, slamming the door behind her and shooting the huge bolt home across the thick, solid oak.
She pressed her ear to the wood, listening for the footsteps, but all she could hear was her own laboured breath panting with exertion and fear while the blood seethed in her head.
She waited, every nerve and muscle in her body tense with anticipation as she held her breath, trying to hear what was happening outside. There seemed to be silence. Was he creeping up on her? The element of surprise? It didn’t matter, she told herself, there was no way he could get through this great, heavy door. She pushed at the bolt once more to make sure it really was secure. Yes, it was absolutely fast. She had nothing to fear.
She slumped on her bed, her nerves quivering and her ears still listening for tell-tale sounds. Then, as exhaustion washed over her, it submerged her fear, and swept her into a dark, troubled sleep.
Chapter Three
H ester woke early the next morning. She always woke early, but this morning she felt weary and heavy after her troubled night.
Guy had loomed in her confused dreams, chasing her down dark tunnels and across wintry landscapes, hissing that he had come to take what was his by rights. She had seemed to be running all night, always only one step ahead of him, so that whenever she looked over her shoulder, his face was there, close behind, dark and nightmarish, with that scar tugging eerily at his eye.
Hester shuddered at the thought of it as she flung back the bedclothes. She needed to get out into the open, where the fresh sea breeze could blow away these morbid thoughts.
She hastily pulled on the green woollen dress she had discarded the night before and hurriedly fastened the laces of the bodice. Over this she tied her workaday brown girdle, fresh from the wash, and hitched her long skirts up into it, allowing her to move as freely as the women from the village who wore their dresses in exactly the same way.
Of course, it wasn’t the done thing for the lady of the manor to emulate their example, but Hester didn’t care about that. Practicality was all important. She wasn’t some doll to sit at home and look pretty, nor would she be turned into one, no matter what her husband might wish.
Her husband… Hester knew she would be expected to stay in the house and see to breakfast for him and his friends. But after last night she knew she couldn’t bear to look at him again so soon. She needed to gather her strength before facing him.
Gently, she slid back the bolt on her door and crept out of her room. No one seemed to be about. Hester hesitated for a moment, listening, then tiptoed down the stairs in her stockinged feet, clutching her clogs in her hands.
At the door, she slipped her feet into the heavy wooden shoes; then she was out, clomping across the courtyard, secure in the belief that none of her unwelcome ‘guests’ were yet awake. Well, she couldn’t hang around waiting for them all day, she reasoned to herself. If they couldn’t be bothered to get up at a sensible hour, they would have to manage without her. After all, she had a farm to run. She couldn’t lie around in bed all day in the luxurious manner of a knight.
Hester knew William was planning to start work on the vines now that the corn was sown. She began to make her way to the vineyard, then stopped in her tracks and turned back. No. First, she must tell the bees.
It was the custom, an important one, always to tell the bees when something happened. If the keeper omitted to tell them of a birth or a death, so the folklore went, they would all fly away, leaving their hives empty and taking their precious honeymaking skills with them. Hester had been looking after the bees almost since her arrival at Abbascombe. The old lord had considered it a good task to give his new daughter-in-law, hoping to reawaken her interest in life after the traumatic turmoil which had brought her to his demesne. He had been right. She had learnt the bee-keeping skills quickly and easily, and had grown to love the work. And the bees had thrived in her care, producing more honey than ever before, and multiplying their numbers so that now she had eight hives, where before there had been only five.
Every now and then over the past years, the possibility had flitted through her mind that one day she would have to inform them of Guy’s death. If word had ever arrived of him, she would