Berengaria began to relax once she was sure Richard was not going to quarrel with Bishop Guillaume, and she was grateful that he’d introduced a topic their clerical guests found so interesting. She’d feared that he might seem like a stranger after more than twenty-one months apart, but he seemed reassuringly familiar—the way he cocked a brow or tilted his head to the side when he was considering a question, the curve of his mouth when he was suppressing a smile, the sound of his laugh, how he gestured with his hands when he talked. This was the husband she remembered, the man who’d always treated her kindly even though she knew kindness was not an essential aspect of his nature. The other man was the stranger, the one who’d written her such impersonal, unrevealing letters and made excuses to keep them apart.
She was still hurt that he had not come to her as soon as he’d learned of her father’s death, but Joanna had almost convinced her that he could not interrupt a war and even Bishop Guillaume had not criticized him for that. She was pleased now when he began to talk about her father, saying how much he’d respected Sancho and reminding their guests that the Navarrese king had been known as Sancho el Sabio, Sancho the Wise. Richard caught the sheen of unshed tears behind Berengaria’s lashes and reached over to take her hand, saying again how very sorry he’d been to learn of Sancho’s death.
This was their first truly intimate moment since his arrival, and she smiled, speaking so softly that he alone could hear. “It is a comfort that he is with my mother now,” she confided. “And my brother finally admitted he’d been in pain for months, so I am thankful he is no longer suffering. I am sure that Sancho will be a fine king, and that helps, too. I just wish my brother Fernando will not have to hear such sorrowful news when he is so far from home, away from family and friends—”
She stopped abruptly when Richard jerked his hand away. “I had no choice in the matter. The German emperor demanded that Fernando be one of the hostages.”
She was dismayed by his angry, accusatory tone. “I know that, my lord husband.” Painfully aware that they were attracting attention, she said hastily, “I do not blame you, truly I do not.” He regarded her in silence before nodding and then reaching for his wine cup. She drank some wine, too, and the moment passed. But after that, she ate without tasting the food, disquieted by what she’d seen in his eyes—that he did not believe her.
BERENGARIA STUDIED HERSELF in a hand mirror, biting her lips to give them more color. Her women had brushed her long, dark hair until it gleamed and daubed perfume on her throat and wrists, and she raised her arms so they could pull her chemise over her head. Slipping naked between the sheets, she ignored their giggling and whispering, thinking they were acting as if this were her wedding night. Dismissing them, she settled down to wait for her husband, admitting that she was more nervous now than on that May evening in Cyprus. At least then she’d felt confident that Richard wanted to share her bed. Now she was not sure what he wanted.
When he entered, she felt a frisson that was an odd blend of excitement and unease. It seemed like a lifetime since they’d lain together. He was carrying an oil lamp and he set it down on the small trestle table not far from the bed. She’d have preferred darkness, not wanting him to see her blush, but she was not going to object, not after his flare-up during dinner. She closed her eyes in a silent prayer that this would be the night his seed took root in her womb and when she opened them, he was standing by the bed, watching her. She thought he looked very handsome in the lamplight and gave him a shy smile; she was not a natural flirt like Joanna, had never even been alone with a man until Richard, and she had a disconcerting thought now, wondering if he’d rather she be more worldly, be more like the other women at the royal court.
“You look lovely,” he said, catching her by surprise, for in the past, his compliments had been as specific as they were sparing, praising her eyes, her smile, her hair, and once, to her acute embarrassment, her breasts. Hoping that he’d not notice the color in her cheeks, she slid over to make room for him as he started to undress. As usual, he did it quickly, letting the clothes lie where they fell, and then, after nigh on two years, she found herself in bed with her husband.
In a corner of her brain, an unspoken resentment lurked, whispering that it was not fair for him to claim his marital rights until he’d offered an explanation, if not an apology, for his inexplicable conduct. But there had been no opportunity to talk privately with him since his arrival and she knew better than to initiate such a dangerous discussion now. She did not want to quarrel with him. She wanted him to make love to her, she wanted her husband back, and so when he pulled her into his arms, she came willingly, telling herself that there would be time for talking later.