The Passionate Brood by Margaret Campbell Barnes Page A

By the time I get back my father will probably have had John crowned.”
    She had never seen that harshness on his face before. It made him look older and square-jawed and somehow frightening. “But your own father, Richard! Surely you can trust him?”
    Probably she pictured him as some genial counterpart of her own parents. She had never known a harsh word. She had never seen disillusionment widening with the swinging inward of a bedroom door. Ah, well, he couldn’t tell her about that…Better she should think him unnatural, grasping…“I never wanted to be King of England,” he said slowly. “But now—don’t you see the difference it makes?”
    “I see that you are now a very important person,” she said soberly.
    He beat palm with fist, staring at her as if the whole of life were opening up before him. “Important enough to make it possible!” he cried.
    Berengaria was too honest to pretend to misunderstand him; but, woman-like, she wanted confirmation. “To make what possible?” she asked.
    He seized her hands impulsively, drawing her towards him. “To keep our private lives. To have happiness, love, ecstasy—like any common craftsman. We’re both young, and you’re so beautiful. Can’t you see that I am hungry with love for you, Berengaria?”
    “So soon?” she whispered laughingly.
    “Almost since I first saw you, I suppose—with your soft skin and your roses. Oh, I know I can’t expect you to care like that about me—in a day, or a few hours. But at least I could save you from marrying a lustful beast like de Barre or some senile old death’s-head like Sicily.”
    He was so impetuous that in order to think she freed herself and turned away. “Oh, Richard, don’t torture us both!”
    “Then you could care?”
    She answered him obliquely. “There is always Ann.”
    For him there would always be just two kinds of woman. The wanton, behind closed doors, and the soft-eyed saint bending above him with giving hands. Ann’s laughter had done that to him. And even Berengaria would never be able to give him back belief in any imperfect, household mate between.
    “Ann be damned!” he stormed. “Nothing will make me marry her now.”
    “But what about your father and Philip?”
    It was true that his father might no longer force him to marry Ann, but he would probably do his utmost to prevent a union with Navarre. But with Berengaria caring—and he could swear she did—Richard’s natural optimism knew no bounds. “By God’s throat, I’ll bribe Philip somehow!” he cried, and took her in his arms.
    He had so little time and no legal claim—nothing but passion with which to bind her. Briefly, fiercely, against the dividing years, he kissed her. Instead of international pledges and discussions about dowries, he held her against his heart and felt her unresisting body his. In that quiet room he staked an impossible claim against the diplomatic scheming of all Europe. Raging against leaving her, he knew that unless he was acknowledged heir to England he would not be considered important enough to get her. He hoped desperately that she would wait until his despotic father gave up some of the power. Had he been more experienced, he would have known that the very incompleteness of this hour might hold her. When other suitors came she would make comparisons. She would remember his unfinished kisses and care only that his hands were tender and his young mouth hard.
    “They are coming back with my roses,” she whispered at last. “They mustn’t find you here.”
    “If only I were free to begin negotiations with your father before I go! But I am afraid Philip will be still more tenacious of me as a brother-in-law now.”
    “I will talk to my father. You know how kind he is. I will beg him at least to let me wait—”
    Reluctantly, Richard released her and drew on his leather gauntlets. “It may mean years. You know I’m pledged for this next crusade?” He took a turn across the room,