* * *
The first evening of their reunion did not drag on as William had feared. Beaufort’s open dislike of Ravensby—and his pointed remark that they all needed rest after their travels—brought matters swiftly to a close. It gave William the chance he needed to make his way toward Jane’s chamber, where he knew she would be waiting for him, soft and pliant, their shared pleasure a slow fire humming in his blood.
But halfway down the corridor of the guest wing, he stopped short. A dull, rhythmic thud, muffled gasps—the merciless tempo of coupling—echoed from behind a door that had not been latched properly. The sound chilled him. He knew it too well. Against his better sense, he pushed it wider.
The sight made his stomach lurch. Ravensby had a scullery maid bent over the edge of the bed, her cap askew, skirts hitched indecently high. He gripped her hips hard, driving into her with untempered force, each stroke punctuated by a grunt of satisfaction. The girl bit her lip, her face flushed scarlet—not with ecstasy, but with mortification at being caught.
“How dare you abuse my servants,” William snapped, voice cutting through the sordid sounds.
Ravensby only laughed, breath ragged. “Abuse? Hardly. Every fine house has its light-skirt, Blackmeer. I thought I taught you that. You don’t have to plunder innocents—you find the ones already willing. How do you think these creatures get by? This one was mounted by a footman not an hour ago when I found her. And I’ve paid her more than she earns in a year.”
He gave a sharp thrust, making the woman beneath him hiss. Then, leaning to her ear, he smirked: “You don’t mind, do you, darling?”
The maid stammered, “No, my lord… It is an honor to serve you.”
Ravensby grinned, his brow damp with sweat. “There, you see? All parties satisfied. I’m close now—have a go when I’m done. You always liked them slick, didn’t you? Easier to fit.”
William’s insides knotted. He had been this man—drunk, careless, rutting where he pleased. God, how far he had sunk, if this was how it looked. The sight of it now filled him with loathing.
“You disgust me,” he said coldly. “You are a married man. I thought you left this behind.”
Ravensby ignored him. With a growl, he dragged the young woman upright, manhandling her into the position he wanted. Her eyes flicked to William, wide and ashamed, as Ravensby forced his final, brutal strokes. With a shout he spent himself, slumping forward as though emptied of everything but vulgar laughter.
He turned, still buttoning his breeches, grinning like a drunkard. “What do you think the marriage bed is for men like us? My wife did her duty—flat on her back, staring at the ceiling while I planted my seed. She gave me two sons. That is all. Whytorture us both with duty when there are prettier pairs of thighs willing to open for me?”
The words struck William harder than a shot to the chest. For one horrifying instant he pictured Jane—sweet, daring Jane—reduced to such a bed: passionless, numb, eyes fixed on nothing. The thought twisted his gut.
Because what he had with her was not this. It was blazing heat, not transaction. Devotion, not duty. She took him with hunger, gave herself with delight. She asked nothing but his touch, sought nothing but their mutual joy. No payment. No schemes. No shame.
He turned from Ravensby in disgust, bile rising in his throat.God damn him. And God damn the man I once was.
And Heaven help him—he needed Jane now, more than he needed air.
* * *
Jane’s chamber glowed with the warmth of the fire. A deep-backed chair stood near the hearth, well-cushioned, with space enough to sit at ease and read. She was curled there when William entered, a book in her hand, the flames brushing her hair with gold.
She looked up, smiling faintly. “I thought you would not make it tonight.”
Rising, she stepped to him and lifted her mouth for a kiss. But William caught her gently, pressing his lips to her brow instead. A chaste touch, tender but restrained. He drew her against him with a ragged breath.
“Let us just sit together,” he murmured.
He sank into her chair and pulled her into his lap, burying his face against her neck as though seeking refuge. Her warmth, her scent, undid him.God, I love this. And I am damned for it.
Ravensby’s words still rang in his ears—wives flat on their backs, dutiful, lifeless. Was that his future? And what then ofJane? He could never give her up. Yet was he not vile for taking her like this, knowing he could never make her his wife?
Jane felt his heaviness and tried to lighten it. “You should never have told Margaret she could be a general. Now she applies every lesson as if preparing for campaign. She says she may be Margaret the Conqueror. It does make her study her history, though—so perhaps this fancy is not so bad.”
William lifted his head. “You are good with her,” he said softly. And in that moment he thought:She would be a good mother, too. And I’ve stolen that from her. Who would marry a ruined woman? No one. And I would never let her go to another—God, the thought of another man touching her—
His thoughts must have shown in his face, for Jane tilted his chin, making him meet her gaze. “What is it, my lord?”
The honorific stung like a slap. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just thoughts that will not let me rest.”
“You can tell me,” she whispered. She kissed his lips lightly this time, but he barely answered. Her mouth trailed down his cheek, his throat, her hand sliding lower across his chest.
“Please, Jane—don’t. This is what torments me. Tonight I saw—God help me—I should have protected you. Instead… I took. I had the power, and I abused it.”
