Sweet Bea. Sarah Hegger

said. “But you tempt me beyond bearing, when I know what I must do.” He looked deep into her eyes, as if he could see right down to the secrets of her soul. His sigh whispered through the air. “Very well.” He kissed her hands again. “I cannot leave you, not today, but soon.”

      “But not today?” She would find a way for them to be together. She didn’t know how, but she would. She only needed more time.

      “Nay, sweeting, not today.”

      Chapter 2

      Beatrice entered the castle through the postern gate to avoid being noticed by the guards. The main gates were kept tighter than Henry’s braies. With their father and older brothers away, Henry treated his responsibility for Anglesea with his usual, infuriating zeal.

      She slid along the curtain wall to the entrance of the inner bailey. Guards on the outer wall had their backs to her, their eyes trained outward. There were far too many people about for this time of day. Bodies swarmed everywhere beyond the open inner gate. She jerked back into the gatehouse shadows.

      “Damn.” She couldn’t stay here either. Someone was sure to pass through the gate and notice her. Holding her breath, she inched around the gate tower.

      Beatrice ventured a few steps into the bailey then darted behind three horses a boy was leading to the stables. She stuck to the castle wall shadows, gliding from one to the other until she made it to the keep entrance.

      A guard stepped in front of her.

      Beatrice froze, her heart in her throat.

      “My lady.” He bowed his head and turned away, scanning the busy bailey.

      Her knees sagged in relief. She hurried into the keep, avoiding the hall. Fisting her skirts in her hand, she dashed up the stairs. Once she made her chamber, she would be safe from prying eyes. They were lucky at Anglesea to have the top floor so divided. If she were in an older keep, she might have to make a dash for safety across a wide-open space.

      She threw open the door and slipped into her chamber.

      “There you are.” Nurse pounced.

      Beatrice screamed and clapped her hand over her mouth.

      Hands on her ample hips, Nurse glared from below her wimple. As usual, Nurse’s wimple rested just above her eyebrows and pressed her face inward. “Where have you been?”

      Beatrice needed a story, something to explain her absence. Her mind emptied.

      “Saints,” Nurse shrieked. “Is that your new silk?” Nurse’s sharp eyes narrowed on the hemline. “And is that dust on your new silk?”

      “What is all the bustle?” Beatrice tried for distraction.

      “You should well ask.” Nurse charged toward her. “Your uncle has sent word he arrives in time for the evening meal.”

      “Godfrey?” That would explain all the people about. “Do you think he brings word from London?”

      “How would I know such a thing?” Nurse folded to her knees with a sigh. She grabbed Beatrice’s hem and examined it minutely. “Why have you got grass stains on your gown?”

      “Leave it.” Beatrice wrested the material from Nurse. She wanted to hear more about Godfrey and what was happening in London.

      “I will not.” Nurse held firm. “I cannot abide to see a fine fabric ruined. Stand still and I will brush these out. What are you doing wearing your best gown, anyway?”

      “I merely wanted to wear it.” Beatrice waved an airy hand. She looked toward the embroidered flowers clambering the silk of her bed curtains. Anywhere but at nurse and those bright, beady eyes.

      Nurse yanked on her skirt, forcing her closer. “Where have you been that demands your best gown and you leaving the keep?”

      “I went for a walk. That is no sin, is it?” The lies were piling up in her throat, faster than flies on bad meat, waiting to gush out of her mouth.

      “You went for a walk?”

      “Aye.”

      “Where?”

      “To the beech thicket.” Heat crept up her face, and she cursed mentally.

      Nurse sank back on her heels and studied her. “And what was there in the beech thicket that had you all dressed up like a dog’s dinner?”

      “Nothing.” Beatrice threw her arms up. “I wanted to wear the dress. Then I got bored and went for a walk.”

      “Hmmm.” Nurse pursed her lips. “You are keeping secrets, my girl. I can see them on your face.”

      “Why do you think Godfrey comes? He must know how father fares in London.”

      “Saints have mercy.” Nurse shook her head. “Here we are chattering away and you could be called to the hall at any moment.” She gave the skirt a hearty shake.

      Air rushed up Beatrice’s shift and cooled her. Nurse mustn’t find out about Garrett. Nurse would tell her mother for sure. Then, her mother would tell her father and—Beatrice shied away from the direction her thoughts were taking.

      “Your uncle brings a party with him.” Nurse waved a pudgy finger at her. “There could be a young knight amongst them. A young knight desperately needing a wife.”

      “He would have to be desperate, indeed, to come courting here.” Men looking for a wife stayed clear of Anglesea and the Lady Beatrice. Three failed betrothals took care of that.

      “You will never be wed if you think like that.” Nurse never gave up. “Your sister, bless her sweet heart, stood always ready to receive her suitor.”

      Beatrice rolled her eyes. It wouldn’t do any good to interrupt. Nurse would have her say. The sun was still high, forming patterns on the gleaming stone floor.

      “And Lady Faye was ready, looking pretty as can be, when ill weather blew the Earl of Calder into the keep. And what happened?”

      “He fell in love with her,” Beatrice recited.

      “I know not of love.” Nurse stopped fussing with the hem and swayed to her feet on a lusty groan.

      Beatrice held out a hand and steadied her rise.

      “But what I do know is Lady Faye was ready, looking every inch a nobleman’s wife.”

      “Faye was born looking that way.” Beatrice couldn’t quite control the surly note to her voice.

      Her sister had been married for seven years and still Nurse carped on about her perfection. The entire kingdom knew of the beauteous Lady Faye. No less than eight ballads were written in her honor. Eight. Beatrice snorted. What was any sensible girl to do with eight ballads caroling her beauty?

      “Faye never snorted like some vulgar trollop.” Nurse snatched up her brush from the oak chest in the corner. “And Faye did not go traipsing around the countryside wearing her best gown, sneaking back home with her pretty eyes full of secrets.”

      “Faye was a saint.” Beatrice glared back at Nurse.

      “And she still is.” Nurse nodded. “She is the image of her mother.”

      “She is my mother, too.” Beatrice winced as Nurse dragged the brush through the snarl the breeze had made of her fine, straight hair.

      “That she is.” Nurse tugged at a stubborn knot. “And you should make it a point to be just like your mother.”

      Beatrice tried, she honestly tried, to be demure and mild-mannered and tranquil. But there was an awful lot of sitting about to being a lady. Sooner or later, the itch would start somewhere within and end in her breaking for freedom as fast as her legs could carry her.

      She yelped as Nurse hit another tangle and pulled. It was hard to be the family disappointment.