FLAME OF DESIRE by Katherine Vickery Page A

realization of what had nearly happened, he felt self-disgust. She had saved his neck when Northumberland’s cronies were after him, had saved him from an untimely death, had nursed him, had even taken on his duty to bring forth Mary’s letter, and he had come close to repaying her by stealing her virtue with nary a second thought. If she had been a tavern wench, one used to men before, it would have been a different story, but well he knew her to be an untried maiden. Her reaction to his bold touch was confirmation of his premise.
    Heather saw the dark look which swept over his face and wondered at the cause. Did he think her the wanton? Was he disgusted by her lack of constraint? What had she done to cause such a sour look?
    The silence grew between them as each was tortured by doubts and shame. It was a long while before she could bring herself to look at him, and her voice was barely a whisper as she asked, “Are you in pain?”
    “No,” he answered, all too quickly, looking at her then turning away again. She was meant to wed a handsome young man who would cherish her and bring forth many children from their union. He could not offer her marriage. His love would only bring her shame.
    “Richard….” She called out, but he did not look at her. She reached out to him but he recoiled at her touch, knowing well that he could easily be again consumed by her nearness. Turning his back upon her, he lay upon his hard bed and closed his eyes. It was as if happiness beckoned to him, only to taunt him all the while.
    “Richard…” she whispered again. His eyes met hers for only a moment, then quickly glanced away again. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, why he had pulled away from her, but the words stuck in her throat.
    At last she said, “You are tired, so I will leave you for now. If you want me or need anything, Perriwincle will be nearby.” Her eyes swept over him as she donned her farthingale.
    He didn’t answer. All his strength and passion seemed to have drained out of him with the realization that she could never be his.
    Heather fought against the pain his rejection aroused in her as she stood up and walked toward the door. She wanted him to call her back, ask her to stay, but he did not and she realized that she had best hurry into the house. Surely her father would already be angered by her long absence and perhaps her mother as well. Casting a glance at the figure on the straw bed, she hastened away.
     
     

Chapter Twelve
     
     
    Sitting amid the stack of ledgers and logs, Heather felt like a condemned prisoner. How could she concentrate upon sums and numbers when every fiber of her being longed to be with Richard Morgan? Closing her eyes, she remembered every word they had exchanged, every gesture, the way he had kissed and caressed her. Why had he suddenly changed toward her? What had she done to make him suddenly stiffen and draw away from her? Was it because he had been in pain?
    Over and over again in her mind she sought out every detail, finding herself blameless of anything that might have angered or offended him. Had she been too free with her affections? Did he find her shameless to so abandon herself to their passion? Or was she just being too sensitive and foolish?
    And there was another matter which plagued her mind. What would happen when her father learned of her bold entry to the Tower? That he would be livid with anger, she was certain. What if her impetuous actions brought forth punishment upon her father’s household? What if Stephen Vickery were found out and under torture told all, implicating her in the delivery of the letter? At the thought her hands shook so violently that she dropped the quill from her fingers.
    “Heather!” Coming up behind her, Thomas Bowen nearly shattered any shred of composure that Heather could maintain.
    Turning to look at him, her gray eyes wide, she saw him reading a letter and she thought at once that the time had come when she would be forced to