It was at that moment the beat of hooves sounded on the path. William appeared astride his bay, reining sharply. His gaze swept over the three of them—Jane flushed and smiling, Margaret clinging to her side, Beaufort looking on with warmth—and something hot surged in his blood, sudden and ungovernable.
Without a word, he swung down from the saddle.
“William, William!” Margaret cried. “Do you know about Thomas Becket, the archbishop of Canterbury? Imagine me as a knight—I would have waited to hear the king’s mind, instead of storming off to do his bidding.”
William’s smile was tight. “When you are a soldier, you wait for official orders. You do not act on your commander’s moods.”
Margaret nodded wisely at this, then spoiled her gravity with a great yawn, rubbing at her eyes.
William stiffened. “How long have you been walking? A lady should not be left to tramp until she drops.”
“Not so very long,” Jane began, but he cut her off with a dismissive wave.
“You should take better care of your charge, Miss Ansley—no matter how preoccupied you are with entertaining my friend.”
Beaufort laughed. “I assure you, Miss Ansley has not neglected her duties. She has been teaching the child the whole way—and in a manner far livelier than any I knew. I was half bored out of my mind with history, until now.”
William did not seem convinced. “Margaret,” he said, his tone brisk. “Up with you.” He lifted her onto the bay’s back with practiced ease.
She gave a delighted shriek. “Oh, William! Now I am one of the knights!”
“And you, Miss Ansley,” he said, turning abruptly to Jane.
She blinked. “My lord?”
“You will ride also. Margaret may fall without someone to steady her. She’s used to her pony, not a stallion.”
Her eyes widened. “But—I do not ride.”
“You need not guide him. Only sit. Hold fast to her.” He gripped her waist, trembling where he touched her. He lifted her lightly onto the horse behind Margaret. She caught her breath, clutching the child as the animal shifted.
“There,” William said shortly. “Keep her steady.”
He took the reins and began to walk, silent, his shoulders tight. Margaret chattered gaily above, demanding more of the knights’ story. Jane’s heart still raced, her cheeks hot with the suddenness of it all.
Beaufort followed at an easy pace, smiling to himself. To him, it looked nothing but brotherly devotion: William leading his sister and her governess with protective care. He could not guess at the turmoil coiled behind William’s silence.
The moment they reached the house, William gave no words of parting. Once inside, he left them without so much as abackward glance. He did not stop until he reached the solitude of his chambers. There, behind closed doors, with no one left to witness the storm that churned inside him, he braced both hands against the mantel and bowed his head.
A wild, unreasonable urge consumed him—to drag Jane away, lock her from every eye but his own, hoard her laughter, her softness, her fire.
The force of it staggered him. Illogical. Shameful. He had never felt its like. The bile in his throat, the trembling in his limbs—what in God’s name was this?
And then he knew. Jealousy.
The word landed like a cannon shot, leaving him raw and shaken. He had never known it before, not in all his years. And now it sickened him, turning his stomach.
Chapter 18
The grounds of Westford Castle stirred with motion. Dogs strained at their leads, tails whipping, as the beaters formed their line. Grooms passed out polished fowling pieces. Two game carts stood ready. Brandy made the rounds in silver cups.
William, dark in his shooting jacket and boots, gave the briefest of nods to his neighbors.
Lord Crofford was already deep into a monologue about his new pointers. He scarcely paused to breathe. Lord Fovargue stood silent and trim, his French wife watching from a little distance, all feathers and hauteur. Mrs. Hughes inclined her head, her manner easy and familiar. She had brought her daughters—wide-eyed as foals—but Charlotte placed herself firmly between them and the men.
The air snapped with expectation. At a signal, the drivesmen advanced. They swept the coverts, long poles knocking brush and stubble. The first covey burst up in a flurry of wings. Barrels lifted. Shots cracked down the line.
Fovargue felled one bird clean, expression unchanged. Crofford missed twice, then launched into a lecture on wind direction. Ravensby’s gun went off a half-second too early, drawing startled barks from the spaniels. William fired both barrels in swift succession. Two partridge dropped clean.
