“Thank you.” Beth didn’t think medieval women were as body conscious as women in the future were. At least, the peasant women weren’t. Any muscles built here were built through manual labor.
“And, too, she lacked your strength of will,” Robert continued. “Eleanor was a timid girl, her feelings easily injured by a mistress cruel enough to take advantage.” His voice hardened at the end.
“Why are you telling me this, Robert?”
“I wanted to wed her, Beth. It mattered not to me that I was nobly born and she was not. I wanted her for my wife. Even more so after she bore me a son.”
Beth bolted upright. “You have a son? You’re a father?” How had she not known that?
He tugged her back into his arms. “Let me finish.”
Her imagination exploded with images of a child-sized Robert racing about as she rapidly estimated the boy’s age and bit her lip to keep from asking Robert where he was. Didn’t they foster children out or send them off to be raised by someone else in medieval times?
“Eleanor was afraid to wed me. The countess knew of the love we shared and took great delight in filling Eleanor’s innocent ears with horrific tales of the torture she would endure at the hands of my family, were I to take her home with me.”
Beth frowned. “What kind of crap is that?”
Robert shook his head. “Had she not already heard rumors of Dillon’s cruelty—”
“I thought you said—”
“He is not.”
“Oh.”
“Bounteous gossip said otherwise, however, and reached Eleanor’s ears ere the countess poisoned them further. It took me until two months after our son Gabriel was born to convince her that all would be well if she returned to Westcott with me.”
“I don’t get it. Why did the countess want to prevent your marriage? Did she want you for herself or something?” He was pretty damned irresistible.
“Nay,” he said, his voice like flint. “She simply thrived on the wretchedness of others. The countess was never so happy as when those around her, including her husband, were miserable. Even had the differences in our stations not been an issue, she would have sought ways to prevent Eleanor and me from finding happiness together. And she delighted in spreading foul rumors and speaking poorly of others.”
“Oh. One of those.” Beth had met people like that in the past. There seemed to be far too many of them in the world. “Robert, I’m beneath your station. Why wouldn’t it be a problem with me?”
“Because all will believe me when I tell them you are a noblewoman from another land.”
Beth considered that. “With no way to disprove it, I suppose they would take your word for it?”
“Aye.”
“So what happened with Eleanor? Did you marry her?”
Robert tightened his arms around her and took a deep breath. “Nay. Eleanor and Gabriel both drowned three days after she agreed to return to Westcott with me.”
Shock swept through her. “Oh, no. Oh, Robert.” Wrapping her arms around him, she hugged him tight. “I’m so sorry, sweetie,” she whispered.
His hands fisted in her hair. “I have always regretted not wedding her when we had the chance,” he said, voice thick. “I do not wish you to leave me with the same regrets, Beth. Whether you remain here with me in this century or return to your own time, I want you for my wife. I love you.”
Nodding, Beth wished in that moment that she would not have to leave. “I’ll marry you, Robert,” she agreed softly.
His arms tightened around her. “Because you pity me?”
Beth leaned back so she could look him in the eye. “Because you’re right. Because I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. And, whatever happens, I don’t want to have any regrets.” Reaching up, she cupped his lean, stubbled jaw in her hand. “Because I love you and want you to be my husband.” She pressed a light kiss to his lips. “I want your face to be the first one I see in the morning when I wake up and the last one I see at night before I fall asleep. And I want your voice to be the first and last I hear every day we have together.”
Turning his head, he kissed her palm. “I love you, Beth.”
“Always.”
Chapter Sixteen
Every living thing fled in terror as the Earl of Westcott and his massive destrier tore through the village toward Fosterly. Women crossed themselves. Children froze in place, watching his approach with round eyes until their mothers scurried forward, wrapped them in protective arms, and led them safely out of sight. Men trembled, ducked their heads, and breathed sighs of relief once he had passed.
Dillon was accustomed to their fear. ’Twas the same everywhere he traveled. Even the damned minstrels sang tales of his ferocity and savagery on the battlefield, exaggerating them to include monstrous acts off the field that fascinated and horrified listeners and reduced most to shaking, stuttering lumps in Dillon’s presence.
Such had only worsened since he had wed a woman whose supposed sorcery terrified even the king.