A Whisper of Rosemary

Chapter Fifteen

Three months later

“’Tis only his right that the king requires my presence at court,” Maris told her mother wearily.

“But your papa has been gone for a mere three moons,” Allegra wailed, her ever present handkerchief fluttering to the face that seemed much more weary and old since her husband’s death. “Can his majesty not leave us in peace until we have finished mourning?”

Maris shook her head in frustration as she pulled a bolt of finely woven linen from a trunk. In a terrible twist of fate, her father had been slain by a loose arrow as his men prepared to besiege Breakston—at a time after she’d already made her escape.

The irony and horror that she’d already been safe when her Papa was killed had sat like a heavy black stone in her belly for months.

“Mama, I must go to the king to pledge mine own fealty to him as heir to Langumont. ’T has been more than time enough since Papa’s passing in King Henry’s eyes, and it’s my duty as his vassal.”

“I’ll not go,” Allegra told her.

“Aye, Mama, you’ll not. ’Tis I who must pledge to my lord. You’ll stay here.” Maris didn’t think that her frail mother would last the journey to London. In the last few moons, her grey streaked hair had become almost pure white and the lines that creased her face bespoke of a great weariness and worry.

“Aye. An’ I’ll offer a score rosaries a day for your papa’s soul.” The words came out in a moan.

“Agnes, this green linen I’ll have for an over tunic,” Maris announced, turning from her mother with relief. She handed the cloth to the woman who’d become an invaluable support since her return to Langumont and the death of its lord.

Taking the bolt, the maid added it to a growing pile of other fine cloths. If the Lady of Langumont was to be summoned to court, she’d be dressed in all the finery and fashion that her position warranted. The seamstresses had been working night and day since the missive from Henry arrived two days earlier, and still Maris delved into the stores of imported fabrics held in Langumont’s storage chambers. Most of her gowns would be made whilst she was at court to be certain that they were of the latest fashion, she thought to bring her own fabrics rather than pay the higher price most certainly demanded in London Town.

As Agnes took the cloth, a corner fell and something clattered to the floor. “Peste!” Maris exclaimed in surprise, reaching under the stool for the object. It was a dagger—one she’d never seen before—and she examined it with interest.

Allegra, brought from her trance of woe by her daughter’s unladylike language, sat upright when she saw the small weapon. “I’d forgotten. . . .” she murmured, reaching to take the ornate dagger from Maris.

“How did this come to be in a trunk of cloth?” Maris hadn’t taken her eyes from the delicate but lethal dagger, replete with filigree and carved roses on its handle.

“It was your papa’s,” Allegra said dreamily, turning the wicked looking knife around in her hands.

“Papa’s?” Maris couldn’t imagine her father owning something so feminine and delicate.

“Nay, ’twas a gift of his to me,” her mother explained.

“I’ll take it with me,” Maris said, knowing she might very well be in need of protection. The small weapon would be easily hidden and transported, yet would do very nicely slipping betwixt the ribs of a thief or other danger. She suspected that court could be more dangerous than a battlefield…with its dark, dank hallways and ears that listen betwixt the walls.

She leaned over and pressed a light kiss to her mother’s worn face. “God willing, I’ll see his majesty and return to your side before two moons,” she told Allegra.

London!

Maris straightened in her saddle, straining to take in every detail of the bustling city. The streets were narrow, beaten paths, lined with buildings and strewn with refuse. Hawkers selling their wares crowded between the people on foot and darted out from under the hooves of well reined mounts.

It was even louder than she’d expected, and much dirtier. But, to Maris’s innocent eyes, there was beauty in the variety of people that filled the streets. Since she rode Hickory, she had no concern of treading in the garbage that was everywhere. Instead, she gawked like the country girl she was as Raymond of Vermille led the entourage from Langumont to the king’s palace.

When he rode up beside her, she beamed upon him in a smile rare since her father’s death. “’Tis wondrous loud,” Maris commented. “And it seems as if it will never stop moving.”

“Aye, my lady, loud and filthy,” Sir Raymond responded. “And unsafe, Lady Maris. You’ll not venture out without several guards.” His words were the merest tentative, for he well knew that she was used to coming and going as she pleased. “I’ve sent Sir Garrek with the news of your arrival to his majesty. ’Twill be some days before the king will see you.”

“Aye. Then I shall have time to settle and learn my way of the court. I hope to have chambers within and near the other ladies.” Maris’s attention was drawn to a vendor dressed in unusual garb: dusty, draping clothing and a headdress of cloth wound around his head and face. He reminded her of Good Venny, for he had the same dark skin and her mentor had worn similar clothing. The man’s wares did not interest her, but the small furry creature that perched on his shoulder caused her to rein in Hickory for a closer look. “Sir Raymond, look you at that creature!”

The knight paused beside his mistress, “Aye, my lady. ’Tis called a monkey and comes from afar, mayhap from Jerusalem itself.”

The other men at arms drew themselves near Maris and Raymond, causing a large blockage of the street. “My lady,” Sir Raymond said, attempting to pull her attention from the creature that held her fascination, “let us go on to the castle. We can return to the market when you wish, and, I vow, you’ll see more than a mere monkey.”

Maris nodded in agreement. She could gawk and stare at the sights of London Town at another time. Now, alas, she must heed Sir Raymond and proceed onward.

The party gained entrance within the bailey walls of Westminster, and Sir Raymond helped Maris alight from her mount. Inside the castle, of which the great hall had been built by William the Conquerer himself, the steward greeted the Lady of Langumont and directed her to the chambers she would inhabit near the other wards of the king.

“Ward of the king,” Maris muttered to herself, her full lips flattening into a frown. ’Twas the first time she’d realized the reality of her new position, and its implications shook her composure.

She followed a page through the intricate hallways of the castle, suddenly aware of how different her life could become. The king’s ward was his to do with as he wished, to marry to whomever he desired a political alliance with, or give as a reward to a faithful vassal. He could even, Maris realized, require that she remain a permanent member of the royal court until such time as he chose to bestow her person—nay, her lands—upon some greedy lord that was not of her choosing.

Yet….Her heart’s pounding slowed its breakneck pace. She was already betrothed, she was safe from that—was she not? If her papa had signed the betrothal contract, it would be no easy task for even the King of England to go against the Church and annul a betrothal agreement, even though no betrothal vows had been spoken.

Since Papa’s death, neither Victor nor Michael d’Arcy had come to Langumont nor sent any messages. Maris, enveloped with grief over her loss, and further distracted by the failing health of her mother, had hardly given it any thought. In fact, she’d considered it a boon of good fortune not to have to face her betrothed and her father. But now, she wondered on it.

Had the d’Arcys left the Langumont women alone to their grief? Had they needed to return to their own lands, and would return after some time had passed?

It mattered not to Maris, just so long as she didn’t see Victor d’Arcy. In an ironic sort of way, it was a good position in which she found herself: she was betrothed and thus not free to any other single man, but not yet wed. And her future husband was not there to order her about.

The page stopped at a large oaken door, drawing Maris from her unpleasant labyrinth of thoughts. She realized she had no idea how they’d come through the twisting halls of the castle to these chambers and turned questioningly to the page.

Before she could speak, the young boy said, “Here is your chamber. Your maid and trunks will be brought to you, my lady. When you wish to go to the hall for dinner, you have only to send for me or another of the pages and we will happily guide you within.” And then, with a little bow, he was gone.

Some time later, Maris smoothed the cloth of gold fabric of her wimple and swallowed hard. She hadn’t realized she’d feel so nervous before seeing the king—and her trepidation was heightened by the fact that she’d barely received the trunks in her chambers when Henry summoned her to his presence.

She could hardly believe the king had found time to see her so soon upon her arrival, and Maris couldn’t help but fear the reason for it.

The page who brought the message from His Majesty was not the one who’d escorted her only an hour earlier. He was slightly older than his predecessor—mayhap nine or ten years—and he wore his dignity about him like a bishop.

Despite her nervousness, Maris bade him wait in the hallway whilst she and Agnes tried frantically to make her presentable enough to appear in the royal presence. She had no time for the benefit of a bath to wash the dirt from travel, nor the opportunity to press the wrinkles from her gowns. As it was, apprehension spurred Maris to leave the chambers with her hair still merely braided and her traveling shoes still upon her feet.

Now, waiting just on the other side of the door leading to Henry’s court chamber, she regretted her haste. The wimple covered her simple braid, but the toes of her shoes were stained and worn and peeped from beneath the skirts of her best gown. The gown itself would do (although the brief glimpses Maris had seen of other ladies of the court told her that it was seriously out of fashion), for the fabric was a brilliant gold that shimmered as she moved, with long sleeves that opened nearly to the ground at her wrists. A dark red overtunic, complementing the garnets that she wore in a heavy necklet, fitted over the gown and displayed the talents of the seamstresses at Langumont, who’d labored over its gold and green embroidery for days. The gown had been intended for her betrothal ceremony and, in spite of its out-of-date style, was certainly fit for meeting her king.

Maris was just beginning to fidget nervously when the doors opened and yet another page gestured for her to enter. Standing regally, although her heart was pounding, Maris followed him into the room, praying that her knees would not give away.

Henry stood directly to her left near a large, gilt chair. He was a handsome man, she thought to herself, with his reddish hair and muscular build. Maris drew near, noting that the chamber was empty of people other than the king and the page who’d summoned her.

“My liege,” she murmured, sweeping into a full curtsey before him with her forehead nearly to the ground. Her skirts pooled around her and she covertly adjusted them to cover her shoes.

“Maris of Langumont.” The king’s voice was booming but kind. She could almost hear a smile in its timbre as he continued, “Rise, child, I’ve long waited to meet the daughter of the fine Merle of Langumont.”

Though he was a mere four years her elder, somehow it was appropriate that the stunning, powerful man before her call her ‘child.’ “Thank you, your grace,” Maris told him as she pulled lightly to her feet. “I’ve long wished to meet you as well, sire,” she said, emboldened by the warmth in his blue eyes.

“We were aggrieved to hear of your father’s demise,” Henry told her in his regal voice. “’Twas unfortunate that one of my most loyal vassals should die in an attempt to retrieve his kidnapped daughter. And in such a tragic manner.”

“Aye, your grace.” Maris’s voice was shamefully unsteady. “My father was well loved and ’tis a tragedy that he should be felled by a wild arrow during my rescue, most especially since I had already made my escape.”

“Ah, yes,” Henry nodded. “Most unfortunate, my dear Maris. Yet, I understand you were quite enterprising to have made your own escape.” Before she could respond, he beckoned to the shadows. “Well, Dirick, now you have seen that indeed the lady lives. Are you well satisfied?”

Maris froze. Her disbelief turned to mortification and annoyance as the figure stepping from a dark corner metamorphosed into the familiar person of Dirick de Arlande. The blood drained from her face and she felt a pounding in her temple take its place. Clenching her fists into the folds of her skirt, she turned to the king.

“With respect, my lord,” she said, keeping her eyes from the man who drew near the throne, “you harbor a traitor in these chambers.”

“Traitor?” Henry’s fine red eyebrows rose in question. “Treason is a very serious charge, my lady. Are you certain?”

“Aye, your majesty.” Maris darted an angry glance at Dirick, then returned her attention to the king. “’Tis this man who plotted with my captor after lulling my father into complacence during his stay at Langumont.”

The barest hint of a smile playing about his lips, Henry turned. “Dirick, what say you to these accusations?”

“My liege.” Dirick’s voice was easy, but laced with a hint of annoyance. “You are as well aware as I that I was at Breakston at your behest and became accidentally entangled in this nightmare.”

Maris gasped at such a bald faced lie. Whirling to face him, she countered, “Sir Dirick, how then do you explain your stay at Langumont if it were not to plot against myself and my father?”

“It may come as an enlightenment to you, Lady Maris, but the entire kingdom does not revolve about you in its every working,” Sir Dirick said, again in that mellow, smooth voice that made her want to shriek in frustration. “I hope you are not too overset to learn that I had other reasons for availing myself of your father’s hospitality than aught in regard to your fair person.”

“And what was I to think, then, when you were one of the gawkers at whose feet I was cast by my abductors? You, who made no move to assist me, even to the extent of breaking into my chamber—”

“Lady Maris, I do not believe this conversation need continue here.” Dirick’s mellow voice carried a hint of warning.

She drew herself up, suddenly aware that she stood shrieking like a harpy in the king’s chambers. Her cheeks warmed. “Well said, Sir Dirick,” she lowered her eyes as mortification swept over her. “I have no wish to continue this conversation at any other time,” she muttered to herself.

“I beg your pardon, my lady?” asked Henry, the trace of a smile still lingering.

“It was of no import, my liege,” she said with a small curtsey.

Henry glanced at Dirick, who stood next to him, then turned his regal gaze back onto Maris. “About this charge of treason, my lady. You do realize that the sentence for this crime is hanging?”

She swallowed, refusing to look at the dark haired man who stared at her mockingly. “Your grace, I—I may have misspoke myself and—and may not have fully considered the situation. I withdraw my accusation—for the time being,” she added with spirit, still keeping her gaze averted from Dirick.

The king nodded. “Aye, then. I think that a wise decision.” He stroked his beard with thick fingers as if deep in thought. “You’ll pledge your fealty to me three days hence, Maris of Langumont.”

The king might have continued speaking had there not been an urgent knocking upon the chamber door. The sole page left in their presence hurried to answer it, and Henry looked on curiously.

“Your majesty.” A royal messenger entered and swept toward the king, his bow fluid and elegant.

“Rise, Merren. What brings you in such haste?”

“’Tis terrible news. But mayhap I am interrupting?” The lanky messenger glanced at Maris, giving an expectant pause.

Henry nodded then turned to Maris. “My lady, you may return to your chambers. I will expect to see you at supper this eventide. In fact, you shall find your place as my guest this night.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she managed to stammer, stunned by his invitation and disappointed that she would not hear what terrible news the messenger brought. Picking up her skirts, she turned, avoiding making any eye contact with Dirick, who now leaned casually against the throne chair. It was not lost on her that she, and not Sir Dirick, had been asked to leave the king’s chambers.

Nervous worry and indignation accompanied her movements as Maris made a curtsey to the king. Nevertheless, she walked unhurriedly to the chamber door, acting for all the world as if she had not conducted herself the complete fool in front of her liege lord.

When Maris felt rather than heard the heavy door close behind her, she released her breath in a forceful whoosh of relief.

“Lady Maris?”

A voice from behind startled Maris. She whirled, embarrassed at being observed in such an informal state. A woman, mayhap a few years older than she, stood near one of the torches that lit the hall. She had an aura of ease and peacefulness about her, and the smile she bestowed on Madelyne was warm and friendly.

“Yes?” Maris recovered and looked imperiously at her. How could the woman know her name? She’d arrived at court less than two hours ago and had gone nowhere but to her chamber. Was she trying to be friendly, or was she looking for gossip to spread among the court?

“I am Lady Madelyne of Mal Verne. My husband, Lord Gavin, is a confidant of the king and I am visiting briefly as lady in waiting to Queen Eleanor. Her highness bade me bring you to her upon your dismissal by the king.” She gestured toward one of the hallways leading from the entrance to the royal chambers.

“Queen Eleanor?” Somehow, the thought of meeting that great lady was far more imposing than meeting her husband. “What would the queen wish of me?” Maris found herself falling into step alongside the other woman. “I’ve only just arrived at Westminster this day.”

Madelyne gave a dainty shrug, her gray eyes like luminous moonstones. “I am not privy to her majesty’s intentions, but had I to make a guess, I’d expect she should like to determine if you’ll do in her court. Come, now, she awaits—and her highness is not known for her patience.”

Chapter Sixteen

The harsh wind of April whipped violently, stinging Dirick’s cheeks and nose. He pulled the fur lining of his cloak closer, burying his mouth in its warmth. Merren, the royal messenger, rode just ahead of him, setting the urgent pace.

If he had no need for haste, Dirick would have waited a day or two for the spring weather to change to something more comfortable. He’d still be at court and partaking of a warm, filling meal in the Great Hall. Course upon course of food prepared for the purpose of impressing the king would be served to his court. Jesters and troubadours would take their turn at entertaining the ladies and lords who gathered at the king’s pleasure—including the lately arrived Maris of Langumont.

Even in the frigid winter air, the thought of that woman made his blood boil.. She had more brash than a stallion in heat, and more feminine guile than Queen Eleanor. The manner in which Maris had turned those wide golden brown eyes toward his sovereign and blithely declared Dirick a traitor…and then, mere moments later, simpering that it had been an error….God’s nails, was the daft woman out to see him hanged or merely thrown in a dungeon for life?

Over the last months since returning from his adventure in Breakston, Dirick had come and gone from the royal court while investigating the murder of his father and the other similar victims. It had been most fortunate that he’d been not only at Westminster, but actually with Henry when news of Maris’s arrival was brought to the royal chamber. Dirick had already apprised his liege of the events that took place at Langumont and at Breakston. The only part he’d declined to share was the description of Maris’s last revenge upon him.

Henry had been in an energetic, jovial humor today and had called for Maris to attend him immediately. To Dirick’s surprise, he’d invited him to stay for the audience. It might have been more prudent for him to have announced his presence immediately, but the perverse woman had such a contrary effect on him that he wanted the advantage of surprise.

She was still the beauty his mind had conjured and conjured again over the past several moons. Even travel weary and worn as she must have been, and dressed in fashions that the court had not seen since King Stephen, Maris of Langumont would have outshone any other lady at court had one been there to see her. Mayhap the exception would be Queen Eleanor…but Maris would indeed cause all to look twice or thrice at her, even in the presence of the queen.

Aye, the woman was beautiful…and spirited…and resourceful...and, aye, intelligent—though most men would not consider that an asset. She was also a drain on his patience and overly spirited, as well as tart-tongued and sharp. It occurred to Dirick, just then, how many times he’d privately vowed to strangle Maris of Langumont and he gave a little laugh.

“My lord,” Merren’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Draw near me now and I’ll show you the scene.”

All thoughts of Maris driven from his mind, Dirick urged Nick abreast of the messenger’s mount. “The bodies are here?”

“Aye, lord, there.” Merren pointed to two lumps that were covered with a smattering of snow.

They approached the bodies of Sir Harris of Bristol and his squire, the news of whose deaths had interrupted the king’s audience with Maris. When Henry learned that they had been found in a state similar to that of Harold of Derkland, he’d sent Dirick posthaste to the scene of the murders.

Now, Dirick dismounted, commanding Nick to stay, and gingerly moved toward the larger body. The new snow that covered the man was not heavy enough to obliterate the splashes of blood that colored the old, crusty snow. Nor was the posture of the man, and that of his squire, to be mistaken.

It was just as it had been described in the earlier events: both men were face down, sprawled on the ground, with their arms bent awkwardly above their heads, each hand meeting that of the other man. It looked as though they’d fallen from some great height while clasping each other’s wrists. Sir Harris’s neck was broken, and his throat slit so that his head flipped back eerily onto his shoulders, blank eyes gaping up into the falling snow.

“Try this, my lady.” Agnes knelt at Maris’s feet, holding a finely crafted leather slipper.

Maris slid a foot into the embroidered shoe, then the other into a second. “’Tis a good fit,” she mused. “I was not so certain in light of the haste in its making, but Lady Madelyne assured me the shoemaker would meet my needs.”

“Aye, and the seamstress as well,” nodded her maid as she stood to survey her mistress. “The gown becomes you, lady.”

“At the least it is more stylish,” Maris replied with a shrug. Yet, she was more pleased than her words indicated.

Upon Lady Madelyne’s suggestion, she’d retained a tailor and his seamstresses to create a gown from the store of material she’d brought from Langumont. Now, only two days after her arrival, she was dressed more like the other ladies clustering about the queen in her chambers.

The undertunic and bliaut were cut to fit more closely than her old gowns, making her feel a bit self-conscious about how well they molded to her hips and breasts. The girdle of gold links wrapped thrice about her waist, and its ends dangled nearly to the floor. And the sleeves of her pine hued bliaut were so long and wide that Agnes had tied knots in the ends of them so that Maris would not tread upon the yellow and orange embroidery that decorated their cuffs.

A heavy necklet of rubies and one large emerald sat about her neck, and three rings adorned her hands. Though Maris never wore such amounts of jewelry at Langumont, Allegra had warned that she must decorate herself so at court, else the strength and wealth of her title be questioned. Agnes had plaited her long red-brown hair into four braids and stuffed them into heavy gold hair-cases, then covered her head with a fine gold veil.

A knock came at the door and the maid opened it to find Lady Madelyne, along with her cousin by marriage, Lady Judith of Kentworth.

“You look lovely,” Madelyne said, her moonstone eyes lighting with approval. “I cannot believe how quickly the seamstresses worked.” Her hand rested on a subtly-rounded belly that rose beneath her own gowns, hardly noticeable in the voluminous folds of her skirt.

Judith, whose coppery hair shone from beneath a sheer wimple, agreed. “It isn’t that you weren’t dressed finely before, but now those lady cats can sheath their claws and keep their comments about country mice to themselves,” she said. “Although,” she added, looking at Maris with dancing blue eyes, “I suspect that you would have no problems clipping any claws that came too near you. Verily, that emerald is the size of a goose egg!”

Maris looked down at the jewel, suddenly uncertain. “Is it too large? Will the queen be annoyed?” She didn’t care if the other ladies envied her jewels, but she surely didn’t wish to flaunt her wealth if it would insult the queen.

“Oh, nay,” Judith said, laughing merrily. “’Twill just cause her to suggest that her husband raise the rents and taxes on Langumont. She will say that you obviously have too much excess in your coffers!” She looked at Madelyne, still grinning. “At the least you aren’t hiding them beneath your trunks, as Maddie tried to do.”

Madelyne gave a soft laugh when Maris looked at her in surprise. “Judith speaks the truth. I had to become used to wearing such baubles when I came to court, for I’d spent nearly a decade cloistered in an abbey, where everything was very simple. Even now, Gavin feels the need to prod me into showing off my finery.”

“Very well, then,” Maris said, comfortable now. “I shall flaunt my jewels beneath the queen’s very nose. Shall we be off?”

Upon entering the Great Hall, the three women made their way toward the trestle tables where Eleanor’s other ladies in waiting were seated. After her brief audience with the beautiful but austere queen two days earlier, Maris had been given a firm royal invitation—which amounted to nothing less than an order—to join Eleanor’s court until further notice.

The ladies had to pass in front of the royal dais as they wended their way through the rows of tables and hoards of self seeking courtiers. Intent upon her feet and their placement, Maris didn’t look up at the royal couple and their supper guests until Madelyne paused to sweep a curtsey in front of the queen.

“You look well, Lady Madelyne,” Eleanor said from her high seat. “Your condition agrees with you, and your husband too, I trow.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” Madelyne replied in her easy, serene way. “I only hope to look as fine and healthy as you have after the babe comes.”

Eleanor, who had just given birth a month earlier, smiled and gave her a look that seemed to say, Mayhap you will be as fortunate…but ’tis unlikely. “And good evening, Lady Maris,” said the queen, turning her attention from Madelyne. “I see that you have been visited by a seamstress since yestereve. And you have unearthed such lovely jewels from your trunks.”

“Aye, indeed, your Majesty,” Maris murmured, curtseying first to Eleanor and then to Henry. As she straightened, her gaze fell upon a tall figure just settling into his seat near the king.

Sir Dirick.

Their gazes clashed for a moment—his stormy blue and gray, remote and impersonal—before Maris pulled hers away.

But her heart was pounding and her palms felt clammy, and even the insides of her belly felt as if a flock of birds had taken flight therein. As her heart thumped in her throat, Maris kept her gaze averted and her chin lifted proudly. She gathered her skirts and followed Madelyne and Judith when they turned from the dais.

This was the first she’d seen of Dirick since their meeting in the king’s chambers two days earlier. One of the ladies had gossiped that Sir Dirick had been sent off on the king’s business, and Maris had hoped for his return to be long in coming.

Yet even as she took her seat, gracefully gathering up her gown to swing it over the bench, the image of his solemn face was foremost in her mind. In that brief moment, she’d noted how tired he looked. His face was drawn and deep lines creased his lean, tan cheeks. His thick, dark hair was pulled unstylishly from his face and tied at the nape of his neck.

Under the pretext of turning to fill her cup with wine, Maris sneaked another look at him. He was deep in conversation with the king, having taken a seat next to his lord instead of with a lady between them, as was proper. Their discussion seemed to be intense and humorless, and she wondered what they were discussing. Yet, even as she wondered that, she noticed the breadth of his shoulders next to that of the king, and the way his dark head loomed over that of the ginger-haired king. One sleeve of Dirick’s undertunic had fallen back to the elbow, revealing the hardness of his well toned, tanned forearm.

He looked up at that moment and Maris jerked her gaze away, lifting her cup quickly to hide her face. ’Twas her misfortune that the hasty swallow of sweet red wine choked her, and she was overcome by a fit of coughing. Once she’d regained her composure, a quick peek at the dais revealed that a complacent smirk had settled on Dirick’s face, making her certain he was laughing at her.

Feeling the warmth of a flush spread through her cheeks, Maris leaned toward Judith and Madelyne, forcing herself to concentrate on their conversation.

“Aye, an’ he’s not too telling upon the eyes,” Judith was saying with a sly look toward the high table. “But he knows it well, I vow. That kind always does. Gavin is well-acquainted with him, is he not, Maddie?”

“Aye. In fact, they both were pressed into service by the king on a recent problem related to some fief in the west. It kept Gavin traveling quite oft from here to there in the last two moons, and he would tell me naught of it.” Madelyne smoothed her hands over her pregnant belly as if to explain her husband’s reticence. “But his majesty was highly pleased at the result, and rewarded my husband well.”

Eager to join the conversation—any conversation—Maris said, “Of whom do you speak?”

“Aren’t you acquainted with Sir Dirick?” replied Madelyne.

Her face heating, Maris shook her head and took a nibble of roasted pheasant. “He and I have met but briefly, and did not find each other to our liking.”

“Is that so?” Judith turned a bemused look onto her. “I cannot imagine finding anything not to like about such a man. If I were the king, I vow I’d not allow the man to stand next to me.”

“Dirick de Arlande—” Maris began, but Judith interrupted her.

“Dirick de Arlande? Nay, you mean to say Dirick of Derkland, do you not?”

“Derkland?” Maris blinked, remembering the kind, giant of a man to whom her father had tried to betrothe her. But he’d only had eyes for Joanna of Swerthmore, and that had suited Maris just fine. “Does he have a brother named Bernard?”

“Indeed,” Madelyne said, watching her with interest. “Gavin knows the family well. There is also the middle brother, Thomas, who is a priest.”

Maris glanced up at the high table and saw Dirick looking at her with an arch expression. “Whatever his name might be,” she continued tartly, turning away, “Dirick of Whatnot is nothing like his elder brother, for Dirick is naught but an arrogant, rude, man at arms with little to his name but a fine destrier, which he no doubt won in some lucky moment of combat. He might have fooled the king, but he has naught to bring a woman but lies and tricks.”

Madelyne and Judith exchanged glances but neither spoke again, although Maris felt the latter’s assessing glance on her.

She turned away and helped herself to a soft roasted turnip, ignoring the pang in her middle. The man was insufferable. And despite what Madelyne had said, she still had no reason to believe that he hadn’t participated gladly in her abduction, confidante of the king or nay.

She was just beginning to enjoy her meal when a heavy hand settled on her shoulder.

“My Lady Maris,” purred a familiar voice in her ear. “’Tis glad I am to see you in full possession of your health.”

Startled, she looked up to see Victor d’Arcy with a cold smile on his face.

Dirick stuffed a large chunk of bread into his mouth, watching as Victor d’Arcy approached Maris. The familiar surge of dislike oozed through him at the sight of the blonde man and he chewed rapidly.

The sound of the queen’s husky, pleasant laugh rang next to him, and she leaned closely enough to speak in his ear. Her exotic scent wrapped around him, drawing Dirick reluctantly from his thoughts.

“What ails you this night, Sir Dirick?” Eleanor asked. “You have the expression of one who’s eaten a lemon.”

Willing to be distracted, he turned to her, summoning his most charming smile. “Naught, your majesty, of any import. ’Tis only that I hoped to be closer to finding the man who has murdered my father—and the other men as well. And though I have spoken over and over to those who witnessed the scenes, and even examined the most recent one myself, I cannot seem to find a path to follow.” And so he had passed his time these last months after returning from Langumont and Breakston by setting to other tasks as ordered by the king.

The queen’s smile faded. Although at the first, she might seem a woman of mere frivolity and sensuality, Eleanor was as shrewd and serious as her husband when it came to her lands and the people thereon. “Aye, ’tis worrisome to my husband as well, for when and where shall this madman strike next? But he has great faith in you, sir, and you’ve never failed him before. I know that you and Gavin Mal Verne were attending to another matter in Wales only a moon past, and the king was well-pleased on the results.”

“Aye,” Dirick replied, referring to the Welsh problem that had kept him busy for more than a few fortnights. “Nary a life lost, and a rogue castellan imprisoned for his impudence.”

“And a fief, undamaged by besiegement, returned to my husband’s control,” Eleanor reminded him. “I know you were ill-pleased at being distracted from your other task, but mayhap a bit of space from it might allow your mind to clear a bit?”

“Aye, mayhap you are correct,” he replied. “But the death of Sir Harris only three days ago has made it clear that this murderer is still about, and must be nearby as well.”

Eleanor nodded. “Aye, and the weariness and frustration shows in your face and disposition. You have traveled far in the last days, and seen a horrific sight. Oh, aye, my husband has told me all,” she added when he looked at her in surprise. “He spares me naught, for which I am both grateful and, at times, dispirited. But for this night, Sir Dirick, why do you not take your mind from such evil thoughts and join my women? They always enjoy a knight with your penchant for poetry, and I have seen you cast your eyes that way more than once this evening.”

Unease curled in his stomach at the thought of facing Maris with the trite, empty phrases praising the lips and hair and forms of other women. He’d become quite popular with the ladies of the queen’s famous Court of Love years earlier, when Henry traveled to Aquitaine to woo Eleanor. Somehow, he could not picture Maris receiving such superficial praises without making him feel a fool.

“Pray, your grace, excuse me from fulfilling your request tonight. I am rather weary, and fear that my skills may desert me under such duress.”

Eleanor looked at him shrewdly. “Dirick of Derkland,” a smirk curved her well shaped mouth, “do you not feed me such a lie. The day that your skill with women deserts you is the day I cannot hold a man to me, should I wish to do so.” Despite her confident words, they both knew that her loyalty to the king was unequivocal. Now that the seriousness of their conversation had passed, her eyes twinkled as she made a little moue with her lips. Gently pressing a long nailed finger onto his forearm, she teased, “I vow, your disinterest can only mean one thing.”

As he was well and truly a man, Dirick could not help but respond to the femininity of the queen, for she smelled lush and erotic, and her skin and figure were feminine and beautiful. “Aye, your grace,” he replied in the flirtatious manner he knew she expected. “My disinterest could mean only this: that as you, my lady, are well beyond my reach, I have no stomach to play meaningless games with women who can be naught to me.” That latter part, at the least was true.

And though his charming smile may have fooled a less artful woman, Eleanor was not taken in. “Such pretty words trip from your beautiful mouth. I do envy the woman who finally steals your heart. And I relish the day of seeing you thus befuddled.” She took a sip of wine from her native lands, her thick lashed eyes watching him closely over the rim of the cup.

When she replaced the goblet, the expression on her face had changed from that of a coquette to one of certain knowledge. “An’, by the rood, it has happened, has it not?” Before he could open his mouth, she placed a hand over his. “Save your protestations, Dirick. Though the Courts of Love over which I’ve ruled consist of worshipful love from afar and knights honorably laving attention upon ladies out of their realm, I believe there is a place for a more earthy, reachable love—such as I have with my lord.” A genuine smile warmed her face. “Aye, Dirick, even love can be found in such an alliance as that of the Angevin and the Aquitaine.”

“Your majesty—”

“You’ve long been loyal to my husband, and, through him, to me. Though Henry oft does not see what is before his eyes, and may not hasten to reward those who are true to him, I do not.” Her glance flickered to the table of her ladies, casting over them as if to measure the possibility of whom he loved. “You’ll have her, Dirick. I will see to it.”

“But I did not say that I love her. I do not love her. I do not love anyone,” he stammered, feeling unaccountably overwhelmed by Eleanor’s all knowing demeanor. “And I have not sought out a single one of your ladies—how can you think this?”

She laughed her husky laugh again. “If ’tis true love, you shall not be able to hide it from me—or anyone who cares enough to watch. You’ll have her, Dirick, unless she is promised to another.” And with that, she turned from him to rejoin her husband’s conversation.

Chapter Seventeen

Wall sconces were the only light, and they cast flickering shadows upon the rough stone walls.

Despite the lack of natural illumination, the hallway was well enough lit for Maris to see the glint in Victor’s eyes. Her hand rested reluctantly on his forearm, as it had since he’d led her from the Great Hall, and she walked sedately beside him.

Maris couldn’t help but remember the last time she’d been alone with Victor—the time she’d raced her horse across the fields of Langumont in a rash challenge to his manhood. A little shiver raced up her spine as she relived the humiliating moments when his mouth invaded hers, and his hands groped her breasts.

“Have you taken a chill, my lady?” His voice was smooth and mellow with concern. “Take my mantle.” They paused beneath one of the sconces as he slid the cloak from his shoulders.

His hands, cold and rough, brushed her chin as he pulled the fur lined wool about her, taking much too long with the fastening at her throat. A finger brushed the line of her jaw, then slid underneath her chin, lifting it to raise her face. “You’ve yet to cast your eyes upon me this night, my wife.” With a slight movement, he shifted his finger and the nail pressed into the soft underside of her chin. “If I did not know better, I should say you are disappointed at my presence.”

Maris swallowed and attempted to keep her voice steady in her reply. “Aye, I confess, ’twas a surprise to see you here. As you’ve made no chance to contact me since Papa’s…demise,” she said, “I had no choice but to presume you’d decided against our betrothal.”

A smile that was by no means meant to be soothing settled over his slender lips. “Ah, you’d like that, would you not, Lady Maris? You’d like nothing more than to see me walk away from the riches and power that Langumont would bring me.” His hand opened and slid down to cup her throat. She swallowed again and felt the constricting band of his fingers. “And the beautiful heiress that was promised me as well.”

“Nay,” she whispered, then gave a little gasp as the hand tightened—not enough to cut off her breath, but enough to threaten her. When she reached up to pull those fingers away, he was quick enough to snatch her wrists and force them down between their bodies.

“If you were not to be my wife,” he murmured, bending closer to her face, “I’d not have this at my pleasure.” His lips were cool and dry, but his tongue thrust hot and wet into her mouth.

Maris struggled to turn her face aside. His hand tightened, holding her head immobile as his mouth continued to delve into hers. She allowed her body to slacken in his grip, then rammed a knee into his belly, narrowly missing a more tender spot. Taking advantage of his shock and breathlessness, she jerked away and groped beneath her overtunic for her dagger.

As he straightened from his doubled over position, she met him with a glinting blade that rose with the level of his eyes. “Bitch!” he hissed, clumsily swiping at her wrist.

Maris easily avoided his lunge, but did not turn her attention from him as she began to back away. “If I am so unfortunate as to be forced to wed with you, you will never touch me in that manner again. Else,” she slowed her gasping breaths, “you’ll find a third party joining us in the bridal bed.” She brandished the dagger.

Victor would have grabbed for her wrist again had the sound of voices not reached their ears. As it was, he pinned her with a look filled with hatred before swiveling on his heel and starting off in the direction from whence they’d come.

Miraculously, the approaching voices faded away, leaving Maris alone in the dank hallway. She ripped Victor’s mantle from her shoulders, flinging it into a corner. A tapestry fluttered against the wall above her head, but all else was still. She slumped against the cold stone, relieved, and struggled to stop the trembling that made her knees weak.

“Bis!” came a voice from the shadows. “Well done, my lady.”

Maris whirled to see Dirick materializing from a dark alcove. “You!” she gasped, fury lighting her face. “Again?”

He stood, leaning against the wall, arms folded nonchalantly across his middle. “’Twas a close one, that, Maris. I was near ready to step in to assist you.” The hardness in his grey-blue eyes belied his seeming ease, and his gaze covered her as if to assure himself she was unharmed.

“What do you here?” she demanded, stepping back and finding the rough wall behind her. She angled the blade of the dagger as if to ward him off.

Dirick stepped closer, blocking the light from the torch behind him. Maris’s heart bumped in her throat and her breath became shallow. “I suspected you might find yourself in danger when you left the hall in his presence.”

“I do not need your help,” she hissed. “I want nothing from you!”

“Ah. But that is where we differ. I most definitely want something from you, Lady Maris.”

Her heart leapt, and sweat sprang from her palms even as a rush of heat flooded her. His eyes were so very dark and hard, gleaming with something intent, indefinable, and the hard set of his mouth bespoke of little patience. His calm intensity unsettled her as Victor’s rough anger had not. She edged the dagger in warning. “What—what is it you want?”

“I want a great many things, Maris.” He stepped into the pool of torchlight, drawing close enough that the dagger’s blade wavered near his shoulder. “But my greatest desire is to hear an apology on your lovely lips.”

Suddenly, his hand shot out and closed around her wrist. Knowing the futility of struggle, she allowed the dagger to fall from nerveless fingers and it clattered to the floor.

She looked up at him, unable to speak…hardly able to keep her breath steady. He was close, so close and tall, broad and warm…familiar. She could even smell the clean, masculine scent of him above the scent of damp wool and clinging wood smoke.

“Come now, Maris, it cannot be that words have failed you.” His smile was arrogant, then faded into bitterness. “On the last we met, you accused me of treason in the presence of my lord…and, on the time before that, you left me to die in a pool of my own leavings.”

“I did not leave you to die,” she burst out, finding her voice. “I am a healer and I well knew what I did.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, aye, of course that is what you say when faced with the other choice of admitting that you tried to kill me.” He leaned forward, so near that she could see the blue and black flecks in his furious eyes. “Did I not risk my life to help you at Breakston? First you repay me by attempting murder…and then, failing that, by trying to see me hanged for treason.” His fingers tightened around her wrist. “I should be praised for not choking the life out of you, woman.”

“Leave me be!” She wrenched out of his grip. She could have fled, running down the hall away from him…but she did not. Nay, and Maris would never understand why she did such a foolish thing and stay.

“Leave you be?” he said. His voice had changed and he was looking at her with such intensity that Maris suddenly felt weak. And flushed. And…expectant. “Do you not think I’ve tried that simple solution?”

When he stepped toward her again, she found that she still couldn’t move. Her heart was in her throat, pounding sharply and rapidly while her breathing turned shallow.

“I’ve been waiting quite some time to exact my vengeance for the dirty trick you played on me at Breakston,” he said, holding her gaze with his, the scuff of his boot brushing her hem. “And since an apology does not seem to be forthcoming, I may have to demand a different sort of boon, my lady.” His lips softened as he searched her eyes with his own. “Aye. I believe you owe me a boon.”

“Dirick—”

“’Tis sweet to hear my name on your lips, Maris.”

Then his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her to him. As their bodies collided gently, his arms went around her and Maris closed her eyes. The next thing she knew, he was devouring her mouth, tasting it as if he’d been without food for a fortnight. And as she slackened in his arms, and began to kiss him back, she felt the low rumble of a moan from deep in his chest as his arms tightened.

His rough, calloused hands tenderly smoothed over the sensitive line of her jaw, brushing their knuckles against her ear, trailing a fingertip down the sleek line of her neck and leaving a shiver in its wake. They plucked at the veil that covered her thick braids, freeing them from their confines and loosing them from the intricate plaits that held them prisoner.

Maris sighed against his mouth, against the warmth and sleekness of his kiss, the insistent delving and dancing of their tongues. He smelled of wine and smoke from the fire, of horses and leather, of wool and a tinge of sweat, of…maleness. She could not help herself, but reached to touch the thick, dark hair that had come loose from its leather thong and found that it was heavy and soft. With light fingertips, she tucked the lock behind his ear and allowed her hand to fall along his warm neck, where a pulse pounded strongly, and rested her palm on the plateau of his chest. The stone wall was cold against her back, and the heat from his body burning against her breasts, hips, and thighs. A sharp pleasant twinge surprised her when one large hand slid up to cup one of her breasts, closing over its firmness, to thumb over her thrusting nipple, to gently massage its heaviness.

“’Sblood,” he breathed into her ear, his words warm and rough. “How easily you make me lose my anger, lovely witch. And try as I may, as far as I travel, I cannot seem to banish you from my mind.” He pulled away enough to look down into her eyes.

His gaze was hot and dark, and Maris’s insides fluttered, bursting into a sharp pang of pleasure and desire. “Dirick,” she managed to whisper before he pushed her against the wall again, his mouth covering hers.

This time it was she who pulled away, for the depth and strength of her response to this man frightened her. Maris stood motionless as her breathing began to slow, as the world around her began to come back into focus.

“You say you came to save me,” her voice was husky, “yet I do not know that the danger has passed even now.” She turned, bending to pick up the veil lying crushed on the floor, stunned by the desire she’d felt…and afraid of what it meant. Even if it were more than mere passion, they could never act on it.

Thus Maris forced her voice into steadiness, hardness. “It was not so great a boon you asked, Sir Dirick Derkland. Oh, aye, I have learned your true name by now. Nay, it was no great boon you’ve taken, for I have been groped by no less than two other men…both of whom, verily, had more claim to do so than yourself.”

He stepped back as if slapped. “I am well aware that I have no claim to you…nor—” He paused, then continued, “Do not misunderstand, nor do I wish to claim you.” Dirick stepped aside, his movements rigid and his face dark. “I’ll not bother you with my presence any longer than to see you safely to your chamber.” He bent to pick up the dagger lying harmlessly in the pool of light.

When he straightened, the fierce look in his eyes was enough to make her back away. All at once, those grey eyes glittered with an anger and hatred that she had never seen before. “What is it?” she breathed, her hand going to her throat as his hand shot out to grab her arm.

“Where did you get this?” His face filled her vision, fingers tight over her skin. “Tell me, where did you get this dagger?”

“I—’twas Papa’s,” she stammered, drawing as far away as his grasp would allow. “Release me.”

“How did he come by it?” Dirick ignored her demand, staring at the silver handled dagger as if he’d seen a ghost.

Maris tried to jerk away, but her puny strength was naught against his ferocity, and this time, he was not playing. “I do not know! What is it to you?” she replied, becoming truly afraid. “You are bruising me, Dirick.”

With an oath, as if he’d just realized his strength, he released her arm. Maris backed away, rubbing the spot he’d gripped, staring at him in horror. What had befallen him?

“Where did you get this dagger?” he asked again, controlled but still intent upon the small weapon.

“I’ve told you—’twas my papa’s. I found it in a trunk when I packed to come to court,” Maris explained. Still wary of his sudden temper, she sidled along the wall.

“Do not fear, I’ll not harm you again,” he told her wearily. Then he looked at her with that intensity again. “If I replace it for you, may I keep this?”

She shook her head. “Nay, please do not ask that of me. It’s one of few things I have left from Papa.” She knew that he would keep it if he liked, so when he handed it back to her, she breathed a sigh of relief.

“I did not ever express my sorrow at your father’s death,” Dirick said, his face grave. “He was a good man. He reminded me of my own father.”

Maris nodded, sudden tears choking her throat. She’d become adept at stopping the tears of grief, now, more than three moons since Papa’s death…but the pain had not lessened. “I miss him terribly,” she admitted.

“As I do my father.”

“I did not know you’ve lost your father as well,” she said. It struck her at that moment that she knew nothing of his family or of whence he came. Only that the king seemed to place great trust in him.

“A knife such as this,” Dirick said, “the workmanship of which I’ve never seen before or since, was found at the scene of a murder…and that murder scene was identical to the one at which my father was found.” Dirick’s eyes held a sober pain. “At the king’s command, I’m searching for the man who has now killed seven people, leaving behind three scenes of the most senseless slaughter in England.”

“I’ve heard naught of such killings,” she told him.

He nodded. “And I trow you’ll hear little else. Do you not speak of this to anyone until the man is found…I do not wish him to know that I am on his trail. Come,” he was suddenly abrupt, “I will take you to your chamber.”

Ignoring Victor’s cloak, which still lay in its ignoble heap on the cold floor, Maris turned, sweeping her skirts, and without further conversation, allowed him to return her to her chamber.

Chapter Eightteen

“Lady Maris, her majesty requests that you attend her.” A page stood in the doorway of the ladies’ solar, giving a slight bow. “She asks that you bring your bag of herbal medicines, for she is in need of your skills.”

Maris sprang to her feet, at once nervous that she would be asked to personally attend the queen, and grateful that she would have something to do other than embroidering in a room filled with chattering women. Judith had been smart enough to beg off from sewing tasks today in favor of taking her gyrfalcon for a brief hunt, leaving Maris with the idea that mayhap she would acquire herself a hunting falcon.

“Please tell her majesty that I will be at her service anon,” she told the page.

He gave another bow and remained at the door. “I will take you to her, lady.”

With a quick smile to the other women, who looked on with interest, Maris dropped her embroidery in a heap on a stool next to her chair, hoping to not see it again before the day was over. “I shall meet you at supper,” she told Madelyne, who was busily stitching a surcoat for Lord Gavin. Without waiting for a reply, she swept from the room and directed the page to her chamber.

Within, she unlocked one of the trunks she’d brought from Langumont, retrieving a well worn leather sack with dried herbs packed in wrappings of linen, wool, or leather. Digging deeper, she pulled a wooden box, tied shut with a silken tie, from the bottom of the trunk. The box held a mortar and pestle, tinctures and oils, knives and spoons and small wooden bowls for mixing. Though it was likely that the queen already had such tools available to her, Maris felt more comfortable with her own equipment and was determined to be prepared for any request Eleanor should make.

The trip to the queen’s presence was not long, but it was complicated, and Maris soon lost her way. Not for the first time did she wonder that a young boy could find his way with such ease. At last, they reached a large oaken door with heavy metal slats bracing it, and ornate carvings on the wood framing the doorway.

The page knocked on the heavy oak, then, although Maris heard nothing from within, bowed yet again, and gestured for her to enter.

She opened the door and stepped in.

Eleanor sat in a large, well cushioned chair lodged in a far corner. A small table next to her held a pitcher, two goblets, and a silver platter loaded with cheese and bread. The fireplace, near enough the chair to cast shadows from its flames but far enough that there was no danger of skirts catching afire, contained a crackling blaze. Another chair, positioned to face that which the queen used, was not so well cushioned; though the pillow on its seat was generous enough. A thick, heavy tapestry covered the floor, Maris noted in surprise, having never seen such a luxury before, and more tapestries hung from the walls and over the arrow slits in the stone.

“Come in, Lady Maris,” came the mellow voice of the queen.

Maris did as she was urged, closing the door in her wake, and taking in more of the room. A large, curtained bed hugged another wall, and was warmed by its own fireplace—it, too, filled with a roaring fire. A table littered with parchments, quills, and a pot of ink sat near the two chairs, and trunks bursting with gowns, cloaks, cups, plates, cloths, leather bags, and all types of trinkets lined the walls throughout.

“Your majesty.” Maris curtsied when she reached the edge of the luxurious floor covering.

Eleanor waved a graceful hand to an empty chair next to the table. “Sit.”

Maris’s quick glance about the room revealed that she was alone with the queen, and she wondered whether her grace’s affliction was that of a private nature. Placing her leather sack and wooden box on the floor, she did as ordered and sat, waiting.

“You may pour some wine, Lady Maris.”

Accepting this as an invitation to serve both herself and the queen, Maris filled two of the goblets with a heavy red wine. “How may I assist you?” she asked, placing a cup within Eleanor’s easy reach.

“You are well versed in healing and the use of physic herbs I am told. Your skills surpass even that of Madelyne of Mal Verne.”

Maris bowed her head in acknowledgement. “I have studied such medicines since I was ten summers.”

Reaching for her drink with long white fingers, the queen said, “Tell me how you were taught.”

Sipping her own wine, Maris explained, “My mother, Allegra Lareux, began to teach me the simple uses of herbs. As I became more skilled and yearned to know beyond her knowledge, I studied with a midwife of Langumont. Some years ago, a man well taught in the healing of the Holy Lands lived at Langumont and shared his great mastery with me.” Emboldened by the queen’s interest, she asked, “How did you come to hear of my skills?”

A faint smile quirked Eleanor’s lips as she drank. Her blue eyes were shrewd. “I am told by a trusted friend that your skill is so great that you can bring a man—nay, a whole keep, the tale goes—near enough to death that he wishes to die, yet not so close that he does expire.”

Maris felt her face heat to what was surely dark rose in color, and she was suddenly fearful that she’d been brought here for reprimand. “I am ashamed that you should hear of my expertise in such a sorry way. ’Tis not the way I was taught—”

Eleanor laughed. “Do you not apologize, Maris, as I am of the mind to reward a woman—not reprimand her—when she rises to an occasion to save herself! Does the Church not say that God helps those who help themselves?” She reached for a piece of cheese. “I am one to espouse such actions if the end justifies the means.” She chuckled again. “It would have been an interesting sight to see an entire keep laid low whilst yourself and your maidservant tripped blithely over the drawbridge.”

“It was a more memorable moment in my history,” Maris admitted with a wry smile, “though I would never choose the words ‘tripping blithely’ to describe our hasty departure.” She took a sip of wine, wondering that Dirick had such familiarity with the queen that he should tell her of his own misfortune. ’Twas a testament to his own cocksureness that he would freely share of an event in which he was bested by a woman. “My lady, how may I assist you?”

“’Tis a minor affliction, Lady Maris—naught but an ache to my ear. I often have the same complaint during the winter months, and most often, the leeches or physicians direct me to soak my feet in a bath of hot water with ground mustard seeds.” She settled back into her chair, her gaze direct upon Maris whilst her fingers stroked the tassel of her girdle. “‘Tis not the most convenient treatment and I but search for another answer to this illness.”

Maris nodded her head in understanding. She found it not at all surprising that the beautiful and regal Eleanor of Aquitaine would not wish to do something as ungainly as to soak her bare feet, particularly among her ladies and courtiers. “Tell me, does the pain in your ear feel like the beat of a drum, or more like a sharp pinch of pain?”

“’Tis most like the beat of a drum, far inside my ear.”

“Is it accompanied with a sound like the peal of a bell as well?”

“Nay.”

“And, tell me, your majesty, have you any other complaints at the same time you have this ache of the ear?”

“Nay.”

Maris rose. “With your permission, I’ll prepare a remedy that will be easily and discreetly administered, and mayhap even decrease the frequency of the affliction.”

Eleanor nodded, watching with hawk eyes as Maris delved into her leather satchel, and then into the smooth wooden box. She withdrew a small knife, a small, empty bottle with a tight cork stopper, a second, larger bottle, and a fruit that looked like a small, bulging onion. Watching Maris peel the crisp, white skin from the onion, Eleanor asked, “Is that not a garlic?”

“Aye,” Maris looked up in surprise. “’Tis not a common fruit here in England, though it is popular near the Holy Lands. Other healers I haven spoke with complain of its rank smell, though I rather like it. It has many uses aside of which I will show you today.”

“I have seen it on my own Crusade to the Holy Land,” the queen told her as Maris used the little knife to crush then chop a clove of garlic. A pungent smell pervaded the room.

Maris adjusted her long sleeve and reached for the large bottle. “Your majesty, I’ll pour a small amount of this oil over the chopped garlic in a small vial. You should pour a tiny drop of this oil into the ear which pains you one time in the morning, and one time in the evening until the ache is gone.” She scraped the chopped garlic into the smaller bottle, then added a generous amount of oil. Using the cork to stop the vial, she shook it briskly, then offered it to the queen.

“Thank you, my dear,” Eleanor took the bottle, studied it, then set it upon the table next to her.

Expecting to be dismissed, Maris gathered up her equipment and packed it away.

Thus, the queen’s words took her by surprise. “Dirick of Derkland speaks well of you, Lady Maris.”

Unable to control the color that once more rose in her face, Maris kept her attention on the silken cord she wrapped around her wooden box. Her fingers became clumsy and would not cooperate as she sought to tie the knot. She did not know how to respond to the queen. Indeed, she was not altogether sure that Eleanor required a response.

It seemed that she did not. “Are you promised, Lady Maris?”

Maris looked up into an intent gaze. “My father arranged a betrothal but he was killed before the ceremony could take place. I do not know—I do not believe that the contracts were signed.”

Eleanor steepled her fingers. “Very good. I thank you for your service. Payment shall be rendered to you.” She smiled. “You may go.”

Maris pushed back her hood, letting the spring breeze caress her face. She tilted her face toward the sun, eyes closed. It felt heavenly to be out of the dark castle and away from the busy, smelly streets of London.

Hickory nickered next to her, as if to agree with her mistress’s unspoken thoughts. They were wading through the tall grass of a meadow just outside of the city, harvesting herbs to replenish the ones Maris had used throughout the winter. Sir Raymond of Vermille, along with three other men at arms from Langumont, stood in the road at the edge of the meadow, idly watching over his mistress.

Pleased to see that the bright blue chicory was already blooming, Maris pulled several plants from the soil, shaking dirt from the heavy roots. They were sturdy plants with bristly leaves and finely haired stems and were good for many uses. She cut the roots and wrapped them in thick cotton sleeves to later be brewed into a light tonic, then stuffed the leaves into a different cotton bag. The leaves were useless when dried, so fresh ones were always of value when available.

She strolled further across the meadow, toward a smattering of trees where she suspected raspberry bushes grew. Those leaves created the best tea, along with peppermint, for breeding women. The tea eased nausea and helped the babe root itself firmly inside the mother. As she reached the line of shade from tall oak trees with branches that spread across the sky, she noticed the shiny, dark green leaves and pale pink buds of a familiar herb.

Maris stopped, crouching in the cluster of the ground covering plant, and stilled her hands. Bearberry, the leaves of which she and Sir Dirick had gathered one chill winter afternoon. The scene, with all of its vibrant color, had imprinted itself upon her memory: she’d been clutching those thick, padded leaves, and he’d tossed the bright red berries over the snow before drawing her to his mouth for the warmth of a first kiss.

A pang of heat hummed through her as she remembered the sweetness and fire of that meeting of mouths…and how on later occasions the demands of his lips had coaxed a more compelling response, her limbs becoming liquid and her heart thudding heavily in her breast. Drawing a shaky breath, Maris plucked a few leaves, running her calloused finger over their smoothness.

Try as she might, as furious as she might be with him, Sir Dirick’s face and presence had not been far from her mind since…aye, since the eve he’d nearly trampled her with his prized destrier. She lowered her rump to the ground, sitting surrounded by tall grasses and shaded by the oak trees. Her fingers were busy, tearing the leaves into halves and pulling the petals from the flower buds, even as her thoughts rambled through the range of emotions he evoked in her: anger at his complicity with Bon de Savrille…warmth and passion from his kisses…laughter and smiles from their bantering in the stables…and, increasingly, an unsettling fear for the depth of her emotions, from her inability to forget Dirick for more than a short time.

Was it possible? Could she love him?

Maris closed her eyes tightly, trying to block away the unwelcome thought. Even if she did—God in heaven!—love him, even if it were true, there was naught she could do about it. Her life and lands belonged to King Henry to do with as he would. He’d never bestow the well landed heiress of Langumont upon a mere knight—no matter how much Dirick amused him.

Something obstructed the glare of the sun, and her eyes sprang open. A figure, a man, sat on a horse just in front of her, casting his shadow over her. Blinded by the blazing sun, at first she did not recognize him—but then he spoke.

“Lady Maris,” his voice was familiar, purring—and unwelcome. “May I assist you to your feet?”

Bon de Savrille!

Strangling a cry of surprise, Maris started to her feet, caught herself in her skirts, and tumbled back into the tall grasses. Lord Bon loomed over her, but she still could not see his features for the glare of the sun behind him. A large, blunt fingered hand reached down from the saddle and clasped her arm, pulling her easily to stand.

“Where did you come from?” she spoke at last, looking surreptitiously about for Sir Raymond.

“Do you not fear,” Bon said as his mount danced aside, blocking the sun so that she could see him. “Your men-at-arms are near—I did not come from the road, but through the forest whence I saw you start across the meadow.”

“What do you here in London?” Maris was not able to comprehend his sudden appearance.

“My lady, you are never far from my thoughts…an’ in turn, I did not wish to be far from your person.”

“What do you want?”

“Only you, my lady.”

“Bon, I—”

A far off shout reached their ears, and both turned to see Sir Raymond and his companions galloping across the field toward them.

“Ah, your saviors come.” Before she could react, Bon took one of her hands and, inclining his head, brought her fingers swiftly to his lips. “I’ll have you, my lady, if ’tis the last action I make on this earth. I find I cannot live without you. Though you nearly murdered me with your poisons, you are the water this thirsty man must sip, the meat this starving man must partake…and, make no mistake, you will be mine—lands or no.”

And with that, just as her escort came thundering up, Bon wheeled his mount and cantered off into the forest.

“My lady, are you hurt? Shall we go after him?” Raymond reined in next to her.

“Nay, I am well,” Maris replied, still stunned at Bon’s sudden appearance and disappearance.

“Did you know that man?”

She nodded. “Aye, that was none other than Bon de Savrille of Breakston.”

“What?” Raymond would have started after him had Maris not raised her hand to halt him.

“Nay, Raymond, do you not trouble yourself. He did not harm me, or even threaten me—except with his desire to have my person.” She giggled, as much with relief as mirth. “I do believe Lord Bon is quite harmless, as he could easily have swept me up and away with him. And, in truth, I prefer him to wed over Lord Victor.” Her smile faded at the ugly memory of his advances two nights earlier.

“Will Lord Victor press his suit with the king?” Sir Raymond asked, alighting from his steed. He stood close to Maris, protectively, and they stepped away from the other three men.

She drew in a deep breath. “Pray God he does not, else I’d as lief be a traitor or a murderess before I’ll share his bed!”

Raymond dashed a glance about, as if to be aware of unseen ears. “Nay, Lady, ne’er should you compromise yourself thus. ’Tis I who would free you from such an unwelcome match, know you this.” His gaze did not waver. “I should be branded murderer in your stead.”

“Sir Raymond—”

“It was your father’s wish, lady.”

She looked up a him, confused. “What say you, sir? It was my father who arranged for my contract with Victor d’Arcy.”

Raymond shielded his eyes from the sun that glared from behind her. His rugged face settled into serious lines and he drew her further from the rest of her escort. “Lady, your papa saw his error in promising you to Victor and had taken steps to reverse his offer whence we came to free you from Breakston. He sent me with a missive to his majesty on the chance that he’d not live through the battle ahead to retract the betrothal himself.”

“An’ he did not.” Maris’s words were pained. Tears welled in her eyes for the loss of the person she’d loved most in the world.

“Nay, he did not…an’ I am thus torn that I was not there to cover his back in the battle, brief though ’twas, for they opened the gates as soon as the men nocked their bows. But instead of being there, I brought the message to the king. I was your father’s man, and I am now your man for my life.”

She rested a hand on his muscular arm. “Thank you, Raymond, I thank you for your words. I could not bear to think that I would go against my father’s wishes if I were to fight the betrothal contract. Now, at the least, I know that his spirit is with me ere I do.”

He squinted into the lowering sun. “Let us back to the castle, my lady. Eventide draws near.”

She nodded, suddenly elated at the thought of returning to the city. Doubtless, she would share the evening meal with her friends Judith and Madelyne…and, mayhap, chance to speak with Dirick of Derkland.

Chapter Nineteen

“Sir Dirick, would you not play the lute for us?” Lady Gladys simpered, looking at him over the rim of her goblet. “Her Majesty praises your talent.”

He forced his attention from the entrance to the Great Hall. Why had Maris not come to dinner? “Aye, my lady, how could one not have great talent when faced with such inspiration?” His lips curved into a smile that he did not feel as he pulled a leg from the goose offered by a page. The leg twisted easily from the roasted fowl, juices running down into the trencher he shared with Gladys. “Do you wish some, my lady?” he asked, avoiding a commitment to honor her request.

“Aye, my lord, as you prepare it so prettily.” She gave him a coy glance that failed to stir even the slightest response from him, and tore a small piece of bread from the trencher.

Even as he passed the meat to his dining companion, Dirick’s gaze scanned the room, searching yet again for the absent Maris. He sought, and found, Lord Victor and his father, who sat several tables further from the royal dais than he did. Their presence, at the least, soothed some of his concern as to why she was not at dinner. But, just as he brought his wine to his mouth, he noticed a man seated near the rear of the hall, where naught but the meanest men-at-arms were seated. Dirick froze and returned the goblet to the table, rising to his full height in surprise. Aye, ’twas him. Bon de Savrille.

The bastard should have been disseizened from Breakston after his abduction of Maris, but the king had yet to do so—a fact that annoyed Dirick to no end.

And what in the name of Christ was the man doing here, when he hadn’t been to court for years? Dirick was certain he knew the answer.

“What is it, Sir Dirick?” Gladys asked from next to him.

He barely heard her as he stepped over the trestle bench with the barest glance at her. “Pardon, my ladies,” he muttered to the table at large, pushing hastily around a page holding a pitcher of wine.

Dirick made his way to Bon de Savrille’s side in moments, ignoring the surprised murmurs of the other man’s table companions when he barged along behind them. “What do you here?” he demanded, placing a firm hand on Bon’s soft, broad shoulder

The other man craned his head around, then nearly fell back off the bench in surprise. “You!”

Dirick did not remove his hand. Instead, he slid his grip down to Bon’s upper arm and propelled him away from his dinner seat. “What have you done with her?”

“Take your hands from my person,” growled Bon, making a great show of brushing crumbs of bread from his tunic. When he finished arranging his clothing, he held a dagger in one hand.

Dirick stilled. Blood rushed through his limbs and he became aware that the attention of several men-at-arms from the table was focused upon them. A glint of steel winked in the torchlight, barely flickering as Bon held the blade steadily under his nose. Dirick forced himself to breathe normally, gathering his wits enough to look at the handle of the knife gripped tightly in the hand of the combative man before him.

“What say you sir?” sneered Bon. “You demand answers from me when ’tis you who availed yourself of my hospitality under false pretenses.”

Dirick jerked his gaze to a point behind Bon, reaching to the side as if to catch something. The ruse worked and the other man lost concentration, letting his glance shift away from Dirick for the barest of moments. It was enough to suit Dirick’s purpose as he lifted his knee in a powerful thrust, ramming Bon’s wrist and sending the dagger scuttling to the floor. He stepped closer to him, setting his jaw and muttering between clenched teeth, “What have you done with her?”

Bon grasped the front of Dirick’s tunic and shoved him aside. “Leave me to finish my meal.”

Before Bon could return to his seat, Dirick clamped a hand on his shoulder and yanked him back. “Where is Lady Maris?”

“Step back, cockspittle.” He shook off Dirick’s hand and swung.

Dirick ducked, aware that more attention had turned to them. He grabbed Bon’s tunic and dragged him so that they were chest to chest. Ale from his breath blasted into his face, and Dirick could see a piece of meat stuck between Bon’s two front teeth. “By God’s bones, man, tell me what you’ve done with Lady Maris.”

Bon shoved hard and succeeded in pushing Dirick off-balance. “I’ve naught to say to you, sirrah, that cannot be said with the steel of my knife. An’ I’ll gladly speak to you with that.”

“I vow, if you’ve laid a finger on her person, I’ll carve you into little pieces—”

“’Tis just as well my person is fine and fit,” came a musical voice from behind him, “else His Majesty’s meal would most certainly be ruined by the bloodshed!”

Dirick dropped his hand from Bon and turned to find Maris, flanked by Sir Raymond and another man-at-arms, with an amused, quirked mouth. She was unharmed, he noted immediately, and she was also laughing at him with those beautiful green and gold eyes. Laughing.

An annoyed flush rose to his cheeks and he realized that more spectators had been drawn to the watch the altercation, and that even the attention of the king and queen had come to rest upon them. The hall, usually so loud that the barking of a dog or the dropping of a platter went unnoticed, breathed as close to silence as a crowded chamber could.

“My lady.” He gave a stiff bow and didn’t quite meet Maris’s laughing eyes. “’Tis glad I am that you are unharmed.” He bent to retrieve Bon’s dagger, noting its unexceptional wooden handle, and returned it to the other man. “Unharmed. And she had best remain thus,” he said, his eyes boring into the other man’s dark gaze.

As he spoke those words, the attention of the diners returned to their meals as if the entertainment had never occurred. With one more glance at Maris, who watched him with an unfathomable expression, Dirick turned to make his way back to his place at the front of the hall.

Somehow, amid the din that had started back up to accompany the meal, he heard her gasp. He spun about in time to see Bon’s dagger slashing down upon him. Dirick instinctively raised his arm and the blade, which had been meant for his back, sliced through the woolen tunic, along the back of his shoulder. With a howl of rage, he leaped at Bon, knocking him to the floor.

Kneeling over the stocky man, he pinned one thick arm in the sweet rushes and grappled with the other that held the dagger.

“I did not ever,” he grunted, “have the occasion to repay the hospitality which—” Dirick’s breath was cut off by a knee shoved into his ribs, but that effort cost Bon the battle for the knife. “—The hospitality which you provided to Lady Maris.”

The brief, close struggle ended with the point of the blade very near Bon’s throat, and a crowd of men pressing in upon the scene. Dirick pulled himself to his feet, slightly winded but enlivened from the sudden intensity of the quarrel. “Get you out of my sight, else I will well and truly repay your graciousness to the lady. And know this—you need have no fear of turning your back to me, Bon de Savrille, for when I mean to strike you, there will be no need for stealth.”

His face distorted with rage, Bon pulled himself to his feet and pushed through the cluster of spectators. Again, as the altercation dissipated, so did the viewers, returning to their interrupted meals with the aplomb of long acceptance of such scenes.

“You’ll have a care in the dark hallways, anon,” murmured a voice behind Dirick.

He turned to Maris. Her smirk had been replaced by a frown that creased her forehead. “The man is a buffoon,” he said carelessly. She stood close to him, her long cuff brushing against the hem of his tunic, and he did not move away.

“Ah, buffoon though he is, ’tis he who walked away unscathed and you who have the wound.” Concern lurked under her nonchalance as she rose on her toes to look at his shoulder. Dirick became aware of the spreading dampness of warm blood and a throbbing pain beneath it. “Come, I’ll see to your ill, as you made the fool of yourself on my behalf.”

Her brisk voice dampened any tenderness that may have been in her eyes and Dirick was strangely annoyed. “Nay, lady, I’ll not keep you from your meal.”

Maris tilted an eyebrow, looking up at him. “I have little hunger left, as your talk of bloodshed sapped my desire for food. Come, if I am skilled enough to treat the queen, verily I can do you little harm. And while you stand there and dawdle, your tunic is getting soiled!”

He muttered that she could indeed inflict harm upon him, as he had the memory of an agonizing night on a cold floor to prove it, but in the end, he followed her from the hall. Sir Raymond dogged their footsteps as Maris led the way toward the main hallway to the other side of Westminster.

“I will watch over your mistress, Raymond, you may return to the hall for your meal.” The other man ignored Dirick’s comment while Maris stopped short and turned a cool look on him. “My men take orders from no one but me, Sir Dirick.” Then she turned to Sir Raymond. “Nevertheless, the man is in the right. Raymond, you may return and join the others for dinner. Though he has a wounded shoulder, I vow Dirick will allow no harm to come to me.”

“My lady,” Raymond began hesitantly, then tried again. “But Lady Maris, you cannot take him to your chamber! ’Twould be but more fuel to the fire already started back there!”

Maris shook her head, “Agnes awaits me—we’ll not be alone. I’ll give him a poultice and send him on his way before anyone is the wiser. Now, go you.”

They were silent for the remainder of the long walk to her chamber. When they reached the heavy oaken door, Dirick opened it and preceded her in.

Maris stood in the entrance, watching as he scouted the room with a sharp gaze. His attention went from the smoldering fire to the trunks lined neatly along one short wall, to the narrow bed piled with pillows from her own bedchamber at Langumont.

“Your maidservant is not here.” He’d moved back to the door and stood half in and half out of the room.

“I did not expect her to be,” she said, dismissing the thought with a wave of her hand. “Come within.”

She pushed the door closed, nudging him out of the way, then knelt beside a trunk, untying its leather straps and flinging its lid open. As she rummaged through cloths and small bags, the hem of her veil fell forward and tangled in the contents of the trunk. With a mutter of frustration, she yanked it off, uncovering the four thick braids that were looped up at her crown. Tossing the wimple aside, she delved once more into the depths of the trunk and at last retrieved a small pouch. She set it aside, rummaged further, and withdrew a small square of folded cloth.

When Maris pulled to her feet, she found Dirick poking at the fire, his back to her. The dark red stain on his shoulder had seeped further, but not alarmingly so. She reached to shift the cloth away from the wound, but he moved just as she touched him. “You must remove your tunic and shirt,” she told him.

He hesitated as his gaze rested on her unveiled head, then dropped to her hands holding the leather pouch. “Aye.”

She waited for a moment, but when he did not move, she stepped toward him. “Does it pain you to move? Let me help you.”

“Nay.” He stopped her. “It does not pain me overmuch. Mayhap—” he craned his head at an odd angle, twisting to see the blood stain, “mayhap it has stopped bleeding and I do not need nursing.”

“Dirick, do not be foolish. ’Twas a deep enough cut and I’ve seen many lesser wounds fester. Take off your tunic and I will see to it.” She gestured to a three legged stool in front of the fireplace. “You must sit, as I’ll not be able to see well at your height.”

Maris frowned at him until he acquiesced and began to struggle out of the tunic. As he sat on the stool, clad only in a thin linen shirt and breeches, she turned to find another candle. Lighting the tallow, she placed it on one of the trunks where it would cast a ready light on his shoulder. Then, she added water to a small pot hanging over the fire. At last, she returned her attention to him just as he slowly pulled off the linen shirt.

Her breath slowed, shallowed, and caught when she saw his sleek, muscled back and broad bare shoulders. She must have gasped, for he turned from his contemplation of the fire to look at her with half hooded eyes.

For a moment, she could not speak. The fire played golden and rust shadows over the planes of his arms, caressing the dip in his shoulder and the hollow of his collarbone. It tipped the curling ends of his thick hair with sunlight, smoothing over the jut of angular cheekbones and square chin. Shadows mingled with the thick covering of hair that grew from the widest part of his chest down…down to a place she could not see.…to where heavy, muscled arms rested between his knees.

She had seen many a bare torso in her work as a healer, and also as Lady of Langumont. But she had not expected to find herself so…aware…of this one.

Maris forced herself to recover. “Ah, the stab—’tis worse than I’d thought.” She moved toward him and he turned back to look at the crackling fire. She’d treated countless injuries of this type. The only cause of her sudden nervousness was that they were alone in her chamber. Pushing aside these thoughts, she bent to examine the laceration.

No sooner had she turned her attention to him than she realized this was not the same as any other time. He was not merely a patient to her, a wound to be healed, a bit of skin to be cleansed.

And that thought made her all the more aware of what she was about to do.

His skin was warm and taut, with a few wiry hairs scattered over the curve of his shoulder. There were many, many other scars healed into pale puckers of skin…and some that were purple or red, ugly and jagged. Maris wanted to touch them all, to smooth over the remnants of the dangers he’d faced in the service of the king, to be certain they were as healed as possible.

Her fingers trembled as they brushed over Dirick’s shoulder blade and little bumps erupted over his skin. One of her braids fell from its mooring and thunked onto his shoulder, and Dirick started so that it slid down his back and rested along his spine.

She felt him draw a breath when she dabbed a damp cloth over the cut, then poked gently at it. It was a clean cut from a very sharp dagger, not deep enough to slice through the tendons, but enough that it would take some time to heal. Some threads from his shirt had caught in the coagulating blood and Maris used a bit of the heating water to wash them free. As she became more engrossed in her work, he seemed to sense it and released a long, slow breath.

When she left his side to prepare the poultice, Dirick shifted on the stool, watching her. Her fingers seemed to have grown twice as long and thrice as fat, as first they dropped the leather pouch, and then could not undo its knot. And finally, when she pulled a handful of dried woad leaves forth, her fingers did not hold them tightly enough and the leaves scattered over the floor and table.

Muttering to herself, Maris stooped to scrape up the dried herb, taking care not to crumble the fragile leaves further. By the time she gathered them into a small wooden bowl, the water on the fire was bubbling and steaming. When she glanced over to check it, Dirick noticed, offering, “I’ll get that for you.”

She nodded and returned to her work. The dried woad, at one time a pretty blue green color, but now dried into a dull black, crumbled in the bowl. She took a handful of dried chamomile flowers from a different leather pouch and added them to the woad. Dirick stood at her side, holding the hot water, and she gestured for him to add some to the herbs. He poured gently, taking care not to splash it, and when the water embraced the flowers and leaves, a pungent but pleasing scent filled the air.

Maris brushed past him, lightly touching his bare arm as she reached for the square of cloth. He stiffened, stepping out of her way, and returned to his seat on the stool. She stirred the contents of the bowl, unfolded the cloth into a long strip, then turned back to her patient. The bleeding had slowed to a mere ooze, and she washed the cut once more.

Then, using a flat wooden utensil, she scooped up the mass of herbs and water and murmured, “It will be warm.” Dirick did indeed start when she smoothed the poultice onto his injury, but she felt him relax as the treatment began to work to soothe the pain and cleanse the cut. Maris placed the cloth over his shoulder, lifting his heavy, muscular arm to wrap the bandage.

Once it was in place, she patted the poultice gently, checked that none of the herbs were leaking from beneath, and tied the cloth into place.

Then, her hands did not want to leave him: they brushed his thick hair from the nape of his neck, pulled a few strands from under the bandage, and smoothed over his uninjured shoulder. Dirick’s chest rose as he drew in a single, ragged breath, and then he stilled.

“You have many hurts,” Maris said, tracing a finger over one scar, and then another, and another…. His skin was warm and smooth, the little bumps erupting wherever she touched him.

“And none tended as carefully as this one.” His voice was rough. Reaching over his good shoulder, he captured her hand and pulled it forward, turning his head to place a kiss on her knuckle, and pressing her palm to the center of his chest..

The front of him was hot from the proximity of the fire. She smoothed her hand through wiry hair over the hard swell of muscle, brushing a flat nipple and tracing the ridge of bone down his center. The tingling that began in her fingers flushed through her body, culminating in a pool in her middle that warmed and stirred her entire being. Her chest rose, breasts pushing against his back, and her breathing became shallow and labored.

She wanted more. She wanted all of him.

Maris gasped at the thought, pulling her hand away, and stepped back. Before she could speak, to explain, Dirick whirled off the stool, turning onto her with dark, glittering eyes and a taut mouth.

“Jesù, Maris,” he breathed, reaching for her. He was beautiful, dark, masculine: all muscle and thick, wild hair, haloed by the dancing fire, towering over her.

She did not resist when he pulled her flush to the long, hard length of his body. Sinking against him, fingers closing over his shoulders, she tilted her head back to receive his kiss. His mouth covered hers, desperate and hungry, and Maris felt herself swept into a maelstrom of heat and energy, kissing him back, forgetting where she was, that she had to breathe….

The warmth of his bare chest, the texture of wiry hair and heated skin, the sleek bulge of muscle…all of him pressed against her, burning through the thin cloth of her gown. Her breasts felt tight, straining against him, her core tight and swelling and damp. When she eased a hand up into his thick hair, and the other back down over his chest, he pulled away enough to look down at her.

The intensity in his eyes, the deep need there, caused a great tightening in her middle. She met his gaze, reaching up to touch his parted lips with trembling fingers. “’Tis not right,” Maris whispered in a shaken voice.

He wrapped his fingers around her hand, pressing his lips to its sensitive wrist. His mouth closed over the thick pad of her palm, biting gently, sliding full lips over the inside of her hand. His tongue slipped out to thrust slick and wet between two fingers, and Maris closed her eyes, sagging against him as the sharp stab of pleasure arrowed into the pit of her belly and lower.

His fingers closed over her shoulders. “I want you,” his words were forced, harsh, as if wrung from his very depths. “I have no claim to you, but God above, I want you.”

She shook her head, forcing herself to ease away despite the need trammeling through her body. “Nay. I cannot give what belongs to the king.”

His eyes darkened to black and his face settled, livid with shock. “Henry?”

Maris realized his mistake. “Nay, Dirick, you mistook my meaning,” she pulled firmly from him, aware that her breathing was too rapid, too shallow, and that her entire being suddenly felt bereft and empty. “I am the king’s ward, to do with what he will. And I must pledge all to him on the morrow.”

The fury drained from his face. “Aye.” His eyes still glittered with desire as his gaze swept over her. “Maris,” he said, low and deep.

She had to turn away, else she would drag him to the pillow-strewn bed. “’Tis my fate to be used as a pawn, dangled as a prize, no doubt, for some well landed baron close to the king,” she said bitterly. “And of all men in this kingdom, it could not be you, as you’ve naught to bring to the great lands of Langumont.”

Dirick stepped back as if slapped. “Aye, ’tis true, I’ve naught to bring to your great lands,” he said caustically. “And I doubt you’d lower your great self to be given to one as mean as I, even if you did not answer to the king.”

He stalked to the door, pausing to give a mocking bow before he opened it. “Good night, my Lady Maris. And thank you for your services.” With a sharp gesture to his bandage, he turned and walked through the door.

Chapter Twenty

Maris knelt in front of King Henry, holding an old, dried bit of bone that the bishop claimed to be a finger of Saint Peter. The king closed his hands over hers, drawing them under his mantle, as he looked down at her with steely blue eyes.

“I become thy woman of such tenement to be holden of thee.” Maris spoke clearly so as to be heard above all the rustling of the crowded abbey. “To bear thee and thine heirs faith of life, and member, and earthly worship against all men who can live and die on this earth, in the name of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” She bent her head to kiss his hands.

“We renew upon thee thy vassalage to the lands of Langumont, Cleonis, Firmain, and all such properties encompassed by the baronage of Langumont.” Henry pulled her to her feet, pressing a dry kiss to her cheek.

Maris gave a short curtsey, then moved aside and off the dais, turning to watch as the Lord of Southampton took her place opposite the king. The bishop took Saint Peter’s finger bone from her with reverence, and she shifted so that she could see the crowd filling the abbey.

Her gaze wandered the many faces, looking for whom or what she did not know, and rested at last upon two silver beaconed heads near the front of the chamber. The Lords Victor and Michael d’Arcy looked back at her with twin pairs of shimmering eyes, purposeful and glinting with anger.

Suppressing a shudder, she turned her attention away. Clenching her fingers so hard that her ragged nails bit into her palms, Maris closed her eyes for a moment. She feared those two men as she’d never feared before…but she could not understand why they should strike such loathing in her heart. Lord Victor was her intended betrothed, but surely he was not an evil man.

Then the memory of his brutal lips and grasping hands returned, and she felt nauseated. If he wasn’t truly evil, at the least he was greatly reprehensible. She renewed her private vow that if she were unfortunate enough to be bound to him, if he raised a hand to her or otherwise used force, he’d not live past their first moon of wedded bliss.

When she opened her eyes, Maris’s gaze fell upon a tall, dark haired man no more than a few rows from the dais. Dirick’s handsome, unshaven face as appeared to be carved of stone, and his stare was trained upon her. Abruptly, he turned away, bowing his head slightly.

A tremor of heat rushed up her spine even as her lips pursed in anger. Aye, the man could melt her with his kisses and the strength of his large, powerful hands—

“Maris of Langumont.”

The sound of her name ringing out jerked Maris’s attention back to the altar, where the king stood, looking expectantly at her. The bishop gave her a none too gentle push and she caught her balance before she stumbled onto the dais.

What was this? She had already pledged her fealty. What was happening now? Gathering up her skirts, she took two steps onto the altar.

“Monique of Trysdon.” The king’s secretary solemnly intoned another name. “Bertilde of Hyannes.”

Bewildered, but taking great care to keep her face devoid of emotion, Maris stood near the king, joined by Lady Monique and Lady Bertilde. She clasped her hands over her abdomen, tangling her fingers in the heavy silver and gold girdle that wrapped about her waist.

There was silence after the three women were assembled, and then the king spoke. “It pleases us to decree the betrothals of three of our wards on this day, to such lords of the realm who have since pledged their loyalty—and who have maintained it in instances of great adversity.”

Maris’s heart plunged to her stomach and she felt light headed. Betrothal! She’d not expected this, had had no time to prepare herself for this eventuality. She’d been certain that the king would simply collect the tithes from her lands as his ward for many years before giving her to one of his barons. Unless…her heart tripped and she flashed a glance at Michael and Victor. Had they pressed their suit to the king and did he now intend to honor the betrothal her father had made?

She dared not look at Dirick, dared not let him see what was surely in her eyes. He must not know how she felt. Instead, she returned her attention to the king, who’d just announced the name of Lady Bertilde’s betrothed—one of the powerful barons whose holdings fell upon the Welsh border.

“Lady Monique of Trysdon.”

The lady in question stepped forward, and Maris saw her gaze flicker to Dirick. Her stomach plummeted and she tightened her fists, digging her nails into the palms of her hands.

Nay, not to him. Her silent plea to God was instinctive, if not selfish, and Maris took a small step backward in her confusion, jostling the priest.

“Lady Monique of Trysdon is hereby promised to Lord Bartholemew d’Ausignan.”

A wave of relief swept over Maris, but was instantly usurped by a light headed faintness when her name was called. She steeled her features to show no emotion as she stepped toward the king, her gaze brushing over Queen Eleanor, who sat with a satisfied smile behind him. Maris gave a little curtsey, then straightened, swallowing the lump in her throat as she awaited her fate.

“Lady Maris of Langumont is hereby promised to the Baron of Ludingdon and Fairhold.”

There was a pause as the audience digested the announcement, and then, as exclamations of confusion and surprise erupted, a loud voice shouted, “The lady is already promised!”

Voices quieted as Michael d’Arcy pushed his way through the crowd, followed closely by his son. “The lady is promised!” his voice rang loudly into the sudden stillness.

Maris’s heart thudded in her chest and her limbs prickled with tension. Though she had no knowledge of the Baron of Ludingdon, verily he was a more desirable groom than the one who now stood at the base of the dais in his father’s shadow. She prayed that was so.

Henry looked down at the d’Arcys, raising his brows. “What say you, man? The lady is promised?”

“Your majesty, the lady’s father, Merle of Langumont, entered into a betrothal contract between his daughter and my son, Lord Victor d’Arcy.”

The king stroked his beard. “And can you produce the contracts to verify your claim?”

From his place in the crowd, Dirick could see a glitter of humor in the king’s grey eyes. Through his numbness, he wondered what game Henry played, even as he was desperate to learn who this Baron of Ludingdon was.

Who was to have Maris?

Who was the man?

Michael d’Arcy was speaking. “The contracts were drawn up but the lady was spirited away before they could be finalized. Lord Merle was slain during her rescue. But there are many witnesses to the lord’s intent, for ‘twas announced to the people of Langumont.”

“And ’tis your claim that the contract should be honored though it was not signed?” Henry glared down at the man before him.

Maris had been still throughout the exchange, and now Dirick saw her move as if to speak. Henry must have sensed the same, and he turned to her. “Lady Maris, what have you to say of this? Do you wish to pursue his claim of betrothal?”

“Your grace, I did not see the betrothal contracts of which Lord d’Arcy speaks,” her voice was steady, “but ’tis true that my father announced such an intention.” A grin of satisfaction creased Michael’s face, broadening with her next words. “But, my lord, ’tis my intent to abide by my father’s last wishes before his untimely demise.”

Coldness swept over Dirick. She’d honor the betrothal! The bitter tang of disappointment touched his tongue, and he swallowed back a retort of frustration. He almost missed the small smile touching her lips as she bent her head demurely. What game was she playing now?

The king shot Maris a glance, giving a slight nod and a matching smile. Sensing some undercurrent between the two, Dirick renewed his attention as Henry spoke. “Ah, aye, my lady. We, too, intend to honor the final wishes of our faithful vassal.”

Michael started to speak, confident that he’d won the battle. The king cut him off, producing a curling parchment sheet. “We have a missive writ in the hand of Lord Merle of Langumont, to ourselves, on the thirteenth day of this January. This letter, scribed as he prepared to besiege the castle where Lady Maris was held, repudiates the intended betrothal contract between his daughter, Maris, and Lord Victor d’Arcy.”

“Nay!” shrieked Michael d’Arcy in surprise, echoing his son’s shocked exclamation.

Henry looked down his nose at the furious man. “We assure you, ’tis true,” he said regally. “The contracts were not signed, and the lord recants his decision to betrothe Lady Maris to Lord Victor.”

The bishop nodded in agreement and Michael and Victor had no choice but to retreat.

Henry raised his gaze from the angry men, casting it about the chamber. The rising noise subsided when he lifted his hand. “Lady Maris of Langumont is hereby promised to the Baron of Ludingdon and Fairhold,” he repeated his earlier decree. “That is a title has been undesignated since the baron’s death without issue for some moons. This day, Dirick of Derkland shall swear fealty to us in that name of Baron of Ludingdon and Fairhold.”

Dirick felt a rush of blood to his face as shock numbed his body. His head snapped up to meet the king’s gaze and the twinkle of mischief in those pale blue eyes, and, dazed with his sudden good fortune, Dirick moved toward the dais. A barony! He’d been awarded a barony!

And Maris.

Stepping eagerly onto the altar, he could not keep back a grin. “Your majesty, you honor me beyond my belief! ’Tis my greatest pleasure to pledge my loyalty to you and your heirs.” Though intent upon the king’s presence, Dirick could not keep from flashing a glance at Maris. His look at her was brief, but her pale, wide eyed face, stony with shock, impaled its impression on his mind. She looked as though her death knell had been rung.

He could attend to that anon, but for now, he returned his attention to Henry. Kneeling on one knee before his sovereign, Dirick took the bone of St. Peter into his hands and swore his vassalage to the king with strong, steady words.

When he rose from his knees, Dirick found himself facing Maris. Her gaze was so cold and blank that he nearly shivered. Of necessity, he kept his face devoid of emotion as the bishop stepped between them to administer the betrothal vows.

Maris’s small, cold, scratched hand was placed in Dirick’s larger one, her skin pale next to the brown roughness of his fingers. He repeated the vows with a clear, strong voice as he studied her inclined head. As he spoke, a rush of energy shot through him. She was to be his.

“And to thee I plight my troth,” Maris’s voice uttering the words that would make her his brought his attention back to the present. She withdrew her fingers from him as soon as she finished reciting her promise.

They stood side-by-side, arms brushing sleeve to sleeve, as the other couples cited their betrothal vows. Dirick felt Maris’s unyielding stiffness next to him and he was overwhelmed with the sudden yearning to gather her into his arms and kiss her into a malleable handful of woman. He’d coax away any reservations she might have.

Henry announced that the wedding ceremonies would take place on Sunday next—four days hence—and that the betrothal contracts would be prepared within two days. With that, he dismissed the crowd.

“Felicitations, Lord Dirick,” purred a voice behind him.

He turned to find the queen with a complacent smile on her face. “Your majesty,” he kissed her hand, suddenly realizing his debt to her.

“Look you here,” she spoke, resting a possessive hand on his forearm, “in the space of one morn, you are entitled, enfeofed, and engaged to be married to a well landed heiress!” Her eyes danced with pleasure and mischief.

“My lady, I have never met a more fortunate man—with the great exception of your husband,” he said with all sincerity.

The teasing left her eyes to be replaced by earnestness. “As you have served us well, ’tis well deserved. I wish happiness for you and your lady.”

“I thank you with all of my heart.” He kissed her hand again, and turned to confront Maris. She was gone. He whirled back to an amused Eleanor.

“Have you lost your wife so soon?” the queen teased, tucking her hand into the crook of her husband’s elbow. “She’ll be quite the challenge for you, Lord Dirick, I trow.”

Henry chuckled in his booming way. “Aye, my love, I should say Dirick may have to raise his hand to her rump more than once in their life anon.”

“Your majesties,” Dirick bowed, his mouth tightening. “I beg excuse to leave.”

“Aye, Dirick, go you in search of her. I wish you the best of luck in taming that lady!”

Maris had made her escape from the abbey as soon as Dirick turned to greet the queen. Raymond of Vermille met her as she slipped from the crowded chamber, dogging her footsteps as she hurried down a narrow hall back to the castle.

Betrothed! Betrothed to Dirick, Lord of Ludingdon!

Her heart had been choking her since the announcement.

How had he done it? How had he convinced the king to award him not only a title, but her hand as well? Her mind spun with the incredulity of it, with excitement and titillation. She’d been unable, unwilling to react during the announcement for fear she’d misunderstood. Or that it was all a jest.

How had he done it? Only last evening had he been so below her reach.

Suddenly she became aware that Raymond had followed her from the chamber, and she slowed her frenzied pace. They paused, ducking into an alcove not far from her chamber in the keep.

“My lady,” said her faithful knight with a question in his voice.

“Raymond,” she said, leaning back against the stone wall. The hall was lit by the sun, which shone brightly through the arrow slits above her. She sighed wearily, passing a hand over her face. “I am to be married in four days!”

“Aye, lady, and not to Victor d’Arcy. Praise God!”

“Aye.” She breathed more calmly now. “There is that.”

He waited silently, as if knowing she must gather her thoughts.

“Dear God, Raymond, what am I to do?” Her voice sounded piteous even to her own ears. How could she face Dirick now? The man who was to be her husband?

Raymond rested a light hand on her arm. “Lady, lady…I’ll not let any harm come to you!” He hesitated, and his voice dropped as he edged closer. “Do you wish that I rid you of your betrothed as I promised once before?”

“What? Do you plot against me already?”

Maris jerked her attention to the spot behind Raymond where Dirick had appeared. Though his words were light and filled with humor, darkness flashed in his eyes and she knew to beware of his anger. Raymond’s face paled and he stepped in front of Maris as if to protect her, hand dropping to the dagger that rode at his waist.

“Do not be a fool, man,” Dirick said when he saw Raymond’s stance. “I am in the right, and I intend no harm to the lady anyway.” He looked at Maris as if to quell any argument on her part, then ordered the other man, “Leave us.”

Before Raymond could speak, she nodded, knowing that Dirick would have his way. “You may go,” she agreed. With a quick look to assure her that he would be nearby if she was in need of him, Raymond left their presence.

“Come,” Dirick took her hand, placing it firmly on his arm. She let it rest there, resisting the urge to close her fingers over the pronounced muscles and feel his warm strength.

They proceeded down the hallway and directly to an opening that led to a courtyard. He did not speak, but walked her out into the spring sunshine, leading her to a single bench at one end. Proffering her a seat, Dirick waited until she sank down before sitting next to her.

Maris busied herself by arranging her gown, grateful for an excuse to remove her hand from his arm. He’d sat upon the edge of her skirt, and when she looked up at him to ask him to move, she froze at the cold anger in his eyes. Suddenly, she knew why he’d brought her outside: so that they would be alone and no one could overhear.

“No sooner is our betrothal announced than you are plotting to rid yourself of me.” He leaned close to her face, close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek. Dirick tipped up her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You’ll not be rid of me that easily. You haven’t a chance in the world, Maris.”

She pulled back, disturbed by the fluttering in her stomach. “Dirick—”

But he cut her off. “I’ve just been given everything I want in this world.”

“Nay,” she whispered, wondering, hoping, that perhaps she had been part of what he wanted in the world…she, not her lands. But the hope was futile, as his next words proved.

“I’ve been given a title, and my own lands—and Langumont will bring even more leverage to the Barony of Ludingdon. ’Tis more than I’d ever thought possible.” If Maris hadn’t been so hurt by his words—for there was no mention of her, only her lands—she would have been warmed by the pride and happiness that lit his silvery-blue eyes. “If you are so repulsed by the notion of wedding with me, so be it—but do you not squander my own life for your whim.” The warmth in his eyes evaporated, replaced by the flashing anger that had been there before.

She rose, looking down at him. “It was only the concern of my loyal man that you heard, as I’d made it clear to him in the past that I’d not suffer Victor d’Arcy in my bed. He merely wished to assure me of his protection regardless.”

Dirick’s face took on a serious cast. “Aye, lady, ’tis certain d’Arcy is miffed by the dissolution of your betrothal to him. Have a care to yourself.”

Mayhap he did care for her. Nay, ’twas more likely he feared aught would happen to her before their wedding gained him her lands. Maris’s lips tightened. “Victor would gain naught by harming me—’tis you who should watch your back.” A cool smile flitted across her mouth. “In less than the space of one day, you’ve made two enemies on my behalf.”

He pulled to his feet, tall and powerful in his great height. “My dearest Maris, I have many, many enemies, and two more, especially for your sake, mean naught to me.” His gaze caught hers, holding it steadily, then falling downcast as he took one of her hands. He raised it to his mouth, brushing full, warm lips over the sensitive skin of the back of her hand. She shivered and tried to pull it free, but he held her firmly, turning it palm side up and pressing a gentle kiss to the cup of her hand. Little prickles of awareness shivered up her arm.

“Dirick,” she breathed through a heavy, tight chest.

“I require a kiss to seal our betrothal,” he told her, gathering her to his chest. “It is my right.” He was warm and solid, his arms a strong band holding her to him. Dirick looked down at her, not to seek her acquiescence, but for her to see the determination in his gaze before his mouth descended.

When their lips met, it was with a clash of heat and tenderness, a rush of pleasure. A new strength, a possessiveness, colored his kiss as bold confidence exuded from his person…and yet there was an easiness about it all. As if he had every bit of time he needed to explore, to taste, to coax and tease—as if he would do it so thoroughly that she would be left fully plundered.

And Maris, for her part, could hardly recall that she must breathe at some point. The world fell away and there was only Dirick, only his strength about her, only his clean, sharp scent the heat of his body burning into hers.

His hands slipped from her back down over her rump, pulling her up against the ridge of his arousal. He sighed, dipped his head to gently bite her neck, and released her. They looked at each other for a moment, assessing the other, gathering their wits, realizing that in four days they would be wed.

“I shall tell you this only once, my lady,” he said at last in a voice rough with desire. “Though you may find marriage to me repulsive, you will suffer me in your bed…at the least until you have presented me with an heir.”

He stepped away, his chest still moving with quickened breaths. “Call upon your faithful knight to see you to your chamber. But I shall escort you to dinner this eve.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The next morning, Maris broke her fast alone in her chamber. She had no desire to rest her attention upon her betrothed husband any sooner than her wedding day demanded. She’d been so stunned by his kisses, and then broad sided by his steely command that she bear him an heir, that she’d been able to do naught but gape after him as he left her standing in the courtyard.

Dirick had not escorted her to dinner as he’d promised, for the king had called his council of barons together to discuss the problems with his brother in Anjou. As a newly confirmed lord who also had the ear of the king, Dirick was expected to participate in this activity, and, Maris thought, ’twas no hardship to her. Verily, she hoped he’d spend the rest of his time in the company of his liege lord.

He’d left her confused, uncertain, and trembling with something that she didn’t understand. And until she could determine how she must act around him—cool and remote, giddy and complimentary, or some other way—she was happy not to be in his presence.

According to Dirick’s pronouncement that she would join him in his bed, there would be time enough for that anon.

Agnes assisted her to dress in a traveling gown for a trip into London Town. Despite her annoyance with Dirick for his blunt, offensive orders to her the day before, Maris knew that she would be wed three days hence, and the womanly part of her desired to dress the part. And she must find a wedding gift for her husband.

Raymond and five other men-at-arms waited without her chamber, following as she and Agnes started down the hall.

Their horses were ready for them at the great royal stables. Maris offered Hickory a scrubbed carrot in apology for not visiting the day before, then, using a tree stump reserved for that purpose, hoisted herself lightly into the saddle.

As they approached the market area of London Town, the six men-at-arms stayed close around the two women. Once they reached the stalls where the cloth makers were, Maris and Agnes dismounted from their horses and, leaving their mounts with two of their burly guardians, began to weave their way through the crowds of people.

Raymond and the rest of the men cleared a path for the women, stepping out of the way when they reached a vendor that interested Maris.

She spent a better part of the morning searching for cloth to make her wedding gown, fingering silks and wools and linens from France, Italy, even the Holy Lands. At last, she discovered a merchant with brilliantly colored, tightly woven fabrics of such quality that she’d not seen. Each bolt cost more than one peasant family subsisted upon in one year at Langumont, and Maris nearly went on to a different stall.

But the merchant knew his trade, and when he saw the interest in her eyes and noticed the fineness of her clothing, he pulled a special cloth from the bottom of a trunk. Maris’s eyes widened when she saw it, and her mouth opened in a soft gasp. She’d never seen anything as beautiful as the shimmering pale gold cloth. Nearly sheer, and shot through with shiny gold threads in a spider web pattern, the fabric slithered over her fingers like a mere whisper. It would make a stunning under gown. Maris fingered it thoughtfully for a moment, then acquiesced to its beauty and commenced with haggling over the cost of the bolt.

Her undisguised interest was her undoing, and, though she was normally skilled in the technique of bargaining, the merchant was able to wring rather more gold from her than she should have paid. Maris purchased a second bolt of darker gold silk for her overgown at a much lesser cost, and a light, cinnamon colored wool for a cloak from the same merchant.

The party moved along from the cloth vendors, pausing to buy meat pies and cheese for a mid day meal. The libation offered by a local alewife was strong and pleasingly bitter, sending a tingle of happiness into Maris’s belly. They found sweet pastries at yet another stall and stood enjoying them at the side of the busy street.

Now came the difficult part: a wedding gift for her betrothed.

The men-at-arms wandered along the streets in Maris’s wake as she perused stall after stall, vendor after vendor, and was able to find nothing she deemed suitable for Dirick.

At last they came to the market section that housed the jewelers and the goldsmiths. Wandering up and down the narrow aisles between stalls, Maris felt a growing sense of frustration as nothing seemed appropriate for her soon-to-be husband. And why this task of finding a gift should plague her, she didn’t know…but it did.

Finally, she paused at a goldsmith that specialized in fashioning brooches and pins for the cloaks and mantles worn by men and women alike. The thought came to her of a sudden.

“How quickly could you create a pin with my lord’s standard upon it?” she asked the smith.

The man frowned and ventured, “In six days, mayhap, my lady.”

She shook her head. “Half again as much if you can deliver it to me by Sunday morn.”

Obviously unwilling to the let opportunity pass him by, the smith considered briefly, then agreed. Maris dug out her leather pouch to give him an initial payment. When she pulled two silver coins from its depths, her dagger tumbled out onto the ground.

The smith stooped to retrieve it for her and made a little sound of delight. “Ah! Such a lovely piece. I’ve not seen this work for many a year, my lady!”

Instantly, her attention left the coins and focused on him. “You know of this work?”

“Aye. ’Tis the skill of Frederick of Gladwythe.”

“Where might one find this Frederick?” she asked, knowing that Dirick would demand the same information if he were present.

The smith shrugged. “My lady, I’ve not seen the man for five or six summers. He may be dead for all I know, as I’ve not seen any of his work for that long. He was not a young man.”

Maris dug an extra coin from her purse. “If you recall anything more about him, or where he might be found, do you send word to me, Maris of Langumont, or my betrothed husband, Dirick of Ludingdon. ’Tis a matter of life and death.”

He accepted the third coin with alacrity. “Aye, my lady. That I will do. And I will see that your husband’s pin is delivered to you by Sunday matins.”

“I thank you, good sir.” She bid him a good day and returned to Raymond and her other companions with a new bounce in her step. On their wedding day, she would have two presents for her husband.

Because the streets were so crowded, the party did not mount their horses. They were ambling along, the urgency of the trip now gone, when a loud noise behind them drew their attention.

A heavy cart was speeding down the narrow street in their direction, bouncing pell mell behind two heavy horses. Screams and shouts rang through the air, and passersby jumped out of the way.

The cart narrowly missed the stall where Maris’s goldsmith was and trundled along without pause. As the crowd surged and ebbed, frantic to escape the runaway cart, Maris became separated from her party.

“Lady!” Raymond shouted when he saw the horses running straight at her.

She tried to duck out of the way, but the cart changed direction, following her as she dodged off the street. It rumbled along in her wake, tearing stalls from their moorings and knocking displays from their tables, gaining proximity as she stumbled down an alley.

Her lungs hurt and her leg ached where she tripped against the side of a stall, but Maris did not stop. The cart came closer, the noise barreling behind her like the rush of a huge wave, and she knew she would not come out of this alive.

Suddenly, as the alley opened onto a wide street, she spied the stone enclosure of a public well. Heading for it, she said a quick prayer. Maris grabbed the heavy wooden framework that supported a large bucket and jumped up and out of the way of the cart.

The cart stormed by, leaving dust in its wake, then disappeared down a side street.

Raymond ran up, his face tight with fear, exclaiming, “Lady, lady, are you all right?”

Shaken, Maris clambered down from her perch on the side of the well. Though she knew her eyes were huge, belaying her fright, she spoke calmly, “Aye, I am unhurt but for my leg.” She looked down at her torn, dirty gown, and knew that her hair, which had come unveiled during the chase, hung in sagging braids and straggles down her back. Discreetly, she lifted her skirt to examine her bloody, bruised leg.

Rufus, one of the other men-at-arms, brought Hickory to her and assisted Maris into the saddle. Her leg pained her and her head felt light, but she was determined to ride back to Westminster on her own accord.

They were nearly to the castle when they were met by a small company of men carrying the standard of Dirick of Ludingdon. Dirick himself rode at the forefront, and drew up his reins at the approach of the men from Langumont and its mistress.

“Ho!” he called, separating from his men to ride up to Maris’s side. His eyes widened at her disheveled appearance. “Maris! What has befallen you?”

She brushed a grimy hand over her face. “Naught but a near miss by a cart. ’Twas a runaway that got loose in the marketplace and I fell while trying to evade it.”

His lips tightened. “You did not tell me you were going to London. I would have been your escort had I known.”

Maris bristled even as she felt Raymond stiffen beside her. “My men are more than an adequate escort for me, my lord, and I will visit the market when I will, with or without your permission.”

Dirick’s face became empty of emotion. He reached over and took the reins from her hands, then led Hickory and her mistress away from the group of men. It wasn’t until he looked down at her that she realized she’d never seen him that cold and angry.

“I did not demand that you ask my permission to visit the market, Maris,” he said in a carefully emotionless voice. “However, you will never again speak to me in that manner in the presence of my men or your men. I was concerned only for your safety, as you are still unwed and a desirable match for any man—and from the look of your clothing, I can see that I was right to think so.”

With that, he turned and rejoined the party of men-at-arms, leaving Maris to follow him.

“Sir Raymond,” Dirick said, trying to force his anger to subside, “ride with me if you please. The rest of you, see that my lady returns to Westminster without acquiring anymore dirt on her face.”

Raymond approached him with a set look on his freckled countenance. Dirick shielded his hand against the beaming sun so that he could look him full in the eye. “Do you not look at me with such fury, man. I did meant no insult to you—’tis only that I wish to be told of my wife’s whereabouts in the future.” He raised his hand to stop the other man from speaking. “Nay, ’tis not your task to inform me. ’Tis a courtesy I request of my wife. Verily, Raymond, I can think of no other man that I’d want to escort my lady, with the exception of myself, than you. Truly.”

The other man seemed to accept his apology. “My lord, I thank you for your trust in me. I’ve served Langumont for greater than a score winters, and I will continue to serve my lady Maris until such time as she does not wish me around.”

Dirick nodded, recognizing that the man, while not combative, was also clearly delineating his loyalty—to Maris over that of Dirick. Such impertinence could have annoyed him further, but Dirick knew better. The safety of Maris was of paramount importance to both of them, and therefore, their intentions would be thus be aligned. “Verily, Raymond, and as you serve her, you serve me as well. And I must tell you that I am not so greatly pleased that you should take your service so seriously that you would rid her of an unwanted husband—”

“Lord Dirick,” the other man interrupted, a shameful look shadowing his face, “I meant naught—”

“Nay, do you not apologize. You meant only to protect your lady as any man should, particularly from the likes of Victor d’Arcy. However, as I am now her betrothed, I would take it as a personal affront should you attempt to rid her of my presence.” He allowed a bit of humor to light his eyes, even as he kept his voice commanding.

Raymond smiled with obvious relief. “Thank you, my lord, and you can be certain I shall take your words to heart as I know full well you can beat me at swordplay.”

“Not without much effort and a little luck,” he told him, remembering their mock battle at Langumont. “Now, tell me what passed this day in the market.”

Raymond sobered. “’Twas not a runaway, my lord, I should stake my honor on it.”

Dirick drew up in his saddle. “What say you, man?”

“It was no accident, my lord. The cart did not slow, and the horses did not act as though they were crazed…it seemed as though the driver urged them on. And,” he looked behind as if to see how far back was Maris, “it followed her when she ran down an alleyway.” He described how she had escaped from the cart.

Dirick swore, cold fear rushing over him. Someone had tried to kill Maris. She had nearly died. The blood drained from his head, rushing to throb at the ends of his limbs. “You did not see the driver to recognize him?”

Raymond shook his head. “Nay, my lord, he wore a helm pulled low and a mantle about his face. There were no markings on his clothing or on the cart.”

Taking a deep breath, Dirick looked up at the sky and offered a prayer of thanksgiving. Then he looked at Raymond. “I will investigate, and I would welcome any assistance you might give me. In the mean while, do you double your guard about her, especially when I am not near, and let us not tell her of our suspicions as yet. She will only argue or disregard them.”

With a grim smile, Raymond nodded.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Two days.

Maris had two days until she was to wed Dirick of Ludingdon.

The thought had driven her from the chamber, where she badgered the seamstresses who worked diligently on her gown, into the courtyard near the queen’s apartments. She was alone with her thoughts and sank onto a stone bench in the corner of the square garden.

An oak tree spread shady limbs over her perch, and a small forsythia bush burst with sprays of yellow flowers. Maris idly watched as a bee nipped into a blossom, then out, skipping over the expanse of the tree, buzzing happily all the while.

Dirick had not been far from her mind in the last days, though she’d only seen him briefly when they met upon the road from London. She’d angered and embarrassed him in front of his men and her men, yet he’d done naught but give her a brief, pointed warning.

She sighed and broke a twig from the forsythia. Fingering the soft, tender blossoms, she closed her eyes. In two days’ time, she’d belong to him…and though she’d fought the idea of marriage long enough, somehow she’d come to accept—nay, she must be truthful if only to herself—come to welcome that she would be Dirick’s wife.

A pleasant shiver spiraled down to her belly, fluttering and heating her insides. Her mouth became dry at the thought of his lips, his hands and that great, muscular body against hers, touching her, joining with her. The heat she’d come to associate with Dirick pooled in her middle, surging to her womanly place, causing her breasts to tingle, and she drew a deep breath.

She suddenly became aware that she was not alone.

Her eyes flew open and she saw a page standing there, just off to the side, as if waiting for her to acknowledge him. He held a silver goblet encrusted with rubies and sapphires, and when her attention rested upon him, he gave a short bow, proffering the cup.

“My lady Maris, I am sent by your husband with this gift to quench your thirst.”

Her face heated at the possibility that Dirick was nearby and had seen her mooning over him. When she looked about, however, she saw that no one else was in the vicinity, and she returned her gaze to the page. “Is he not to join me?” She tried to submerge the pang of disappointment.

The page shook his head. “Nay, lady. The lord said only that ’tis a gift to you, his bride, and that he looks to the day you shall become one.”

Maris took the goblet, admiring its weight. “Thank you, and you may thank my lord for his thoughtfulness as well.”

The page bowed, turned, and walked sedately from the courtyard, leaving Maris alone with the bees.

Ruby wine glistened in its silver cup, and she took a sip before resting it on the bench beside her. Mayhap Dirick, too, was willing to put their differences behind them as their wedding day drew near. It would be more than she could hope that he would welcome their marriage for more than the riches and lands she would bring him.

Another sigh escaped her lips. She could not deny it any longer: she loved him.

Though he caused her ire to rise at their every meeting, he was never far from her thoughts…and the memory of his touch lived in her dreams.

The soft rustle of someone’s approach brought Maris’s attention from the goblet beside her. Without looking up, she knew it was Dirick.

“My lady.” He greeted her solemnly, almost warily.

She raised her face to him and was immediately ensnared in his piercing grey-blue gaze. “My lord. I did not think you would join me.”

He looked at her, tilting his head to one side as if surprised as her reaction. “The ladies told me you’d come for some air. I thought to sit with you for a time, as I’ve been otherwise occupied with the king for the last days.”

Her heart leapt. He had sent her a gift, and then he’d sought her out. “Please have a seat.”

“Our betrothal contracts have been finished,” he began, sinking onto the bench next to her.

A sense of disappointment settled in her middle. He’d not come to be with her for any other reason than to talk of their contract, and of the lands she would bring him. “Verily they meet your approval,” she replied coolly, refusing to look at him or his gift, “and that of the king.”

She felt him nod next to her. “Aye. They are more than fair, and follow the wishes of your father.”

“My father?”

“In the missive he sent to the king, he repudiated your betrothal with Victor. He also named you as his heir, though you are not of his blood, and—”

“What?” Maris turned to him, shock numbing her. “What did you say?”

“You did not know?” Dirick’s face showed his concern.

“That I am not of my father’s blood? Nay! Nay, I did not!” She felt lightheaded, lost, paralyzed. “How can that be?”

He reached for her hand, and the warmth of his fingers over her suddenly icy ones was welcome. “I am sorry that this is a surprise. Your father stated that he married your mother though he knew she was with child, but because he was unable to father a child, he chose to accept her babe as his heir. ’Twas the agreement he made with King Stephen.” The breeze ruffled his hair, tossing a wave onto his forehead as he gazed at her.

“Who is my father?”

He stroked her hand. “I do not know that, my lady. He did not say in the missive.”

“Jesù,” she breathed. “And that is why he and my mother never had another child.” Tears dampened her eyes and an empty, bereft feeling settled with her heart. “He was my father, though I am not of his loins. I do not care that another man sired me.”

Dirick nodded. “Merle was a fine man and had I not my own father whom to admire, I’d be proud to be of his blood.” He pressed her index finger to his lips. “The contracts are ready to be signed.” He hesitated, then said, “I will have them brought to you, should you wish, before I place my seal upon them. If there is aught that you do not like, I will try to change it to your liking.”

Maris could only stare at him. He asked for her agreement before he signed the contracts? What man would do that? “My lord, I do not know what to say.” Indeed, her tongue stuck in her throat, her mind both shocked and delighted at the realization that he should care for her opinion. “I—I…I thank you, Dirick, for your consideration. If you believe they are fair, and if they allow me to retain mine own lands should you pre decease me, I shall not contest them.”

“Henry showed me the missive from your father, and his wishes were just that. Your dowry is generous and shall also be returned to you should I die, and even if we produce an heir, those lands shall revert to you upon my death. Our heir should accede to Ludingdon and Fairhill, unless ’tis a girl, and then, if you wish, she shall have Langumont.”

“’Tis more than fair.” She could barely form the words as she suddenly had an image of the babe they would produce. Her throat was dry, and she reached for the wine. “Thank you, my lord, for this beautiful gift,” she raised the cup to him, then to her mouth to drink.

The goblet never made it to her lips, as a sudden force sent it spinning to the ground. Maris shrank back from him in surprise as much from his action as the fierce look on his face.

“I did not give you such a gift.” His grey eyes had darkened ominously, turning into steel in his ferocity. “How did you come by that thought?”

She could not speak for a moment, so unexpected was his reaction. Then, sanity reigned, and she replied, “But only moments before you came to me, a page delivered it, saying ’twas a gift from you.”

“Did you drink of it?” He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her near him as he searched her eyes. “Maris, did you?”

Maris pulled sharply away. “Aye, but no more than a small sip. What ails you, Dirick?”

“It could have been poisoned. It most likely was poisoned!”

“Why should anyone poison me?” She could not contain her shock.

“For the same reason they should try to run you down in the market place. I do not know.” His face sagged into serious concern. “Maris, you must have a care! Someone here does not want you to live. Promise me, promise me, that you will go nowhere without me or Raymond until we leave this place.”

Maris nodded, the lump in her throat lodging any words she may have wished to speak inside. Why should anyone wish to kill her?

“Did you recognize the page? What did he say?”

She shook her head and described what had happened when he’d brought the wine. There were no answers there, she knew, and even only the suspicion that the wine had been poisoned. They would never know for certain.

“We will leave Westminster the day after we are wed,” Dirick told her firmly. “I will take you to Derkland for a time, to meet my mother, and then we shall go on to Ludingdon. At any rate, I shall take you away from this place and we shall stay where I know you will be safe. No one will be able to get to you in Derkland or at Ludington.”

Maris was just about to speak when another page approached. “My lady Maris?” She nodded acquiescence and he bowed. “I have been asked to inform you that your mother, Lady Allegra of Langumont, has arrived.”

“My mother?” she repeated dumbly. She had hardly given Allegra a thought in the last se’ennight.

“Aye. She has been shown to the ladies’ chamber, and wishes you to attend her.”

Maris rose, guilt blossoming inside her. “Aye. I will go to her.” She looked down at Dirick, who stared up at her with eyes that seemed to devour her. “I will look to see you at dinner this night,” she said, barely resisting the urge to touch his cheek.

“My lady, I look more to two days hence when we shall be wed.” He grabbed her hand and pressed a kiss to the inner part of her wrist, then released her. “Until then.”

Allegra had been summoned to Westminster in order to attend her daughter’s wedding. She’d had no choice but to respond to the king’s wishes, and the journey had been one of haste and discomfort.

When Maris appeared, she wore a surprised but pleased expression on her face. “Mama! How glad I am that you have come to see me wed!”

Allegra drew her daughter into a brief embrace, then set her back gently. When had her daughter grown into such a lovely, strong young woman? “You are to marry Sir Dirick de Arlande?”

“Aye, only now he is called Lord Dirick of Ludingdon.” Maris sat in a chair next to her. “Mama, why did you not tell me Papa is not my father?”

Allegra’s heart skittered in her chest, and stopped beating for a moment. “How did you come to learn this?”

A familiar expression of stubbornness crossed her daughter’s face. “It does not matter how I came to learn of it, only whether ’tis true.”

She closed her eyes, struggling to manage the sudden horrible foreboding that settled like a heavy stone in her middle. “Aye, daughter, ’tis true. Your papa did not sire you.” She clenched her hands tightly. “But how did you come to learn this? Tell me.”

“Papa wrote it in a missive to the king,” Maris explained.

“Your papa?” Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. “Your papa told the king?”

“Aye, Mama.”

She swallowed tightly. “Your Papa did not know—oh, I did not believe he knew. I did not tell him. ’Twas my greatest sin….” Dear God, she was cursed. Damned!

If Merle knew that Maris was not of his loins, it would have been no hardship to tell him of Bon’s threats…and why he could not betrothe her to Victor. Instead, she had lived the lie, protected it for eighteen years. Now Merle was dead, and she still had judgment to face. A sudden trembling overtook her and she stuffed her hands into the folds of her skirts.

“I must go to confession.” She stood abruptly, moving without hesitation and without a backward glance, to the door. She ignored Maris’s shocked stare as she swept from the chamber.

Later, when night had come, and when Allegra had said enough paternosters and Ave Marias, she hoped, to salvage her soul, she crept from the chapel, tucking her graying hair into her veil. She cast about, looking for a page, a maidservant, someone to guide her back to the ladies’ chamber.

“Allegra.”

The smooth voice from the shadows caused her heart to leap into her throat, and she whirled to face him. “Michael! Oh, Michael!”

“Sshhh,” he admonished, stepping fully into the light. He pressed a finger against her dry lips with a soft caress, “‘Tis not meet for us to be seen together.”

“Why? Why should we care?” she said, just so she could feel her mouth moving against his beloved flesh.

“Come.” He dropped his hand from her lips and grasped her own fingers, firmly tugging her along in his wake.

Allegra followed. She would do anything he bid—and he drew her along in the shadows of the dark hall. Reaching a small alcove, he pulled her inside and into a bare chamber, then into his embrace.

With a cry of delight, she pulled his face to hers, sampling his mouth with her starving lips. “Michael,” she sighed. “Oh, my beloved, how I have missed you. I thought to lose you yet again after you left Langumont.”

His hands were warm and possessive over the swell of her hips, pressing into her the need that pulsed at his groin. “You are my only love,” he told her as his mouth slid to the hollow of her neck. “Marry me. Dearling, be my wife.” He pulled back so that she could see the glitter of hope and desire in his eyes.

“Oh, aye, Michael, aye. ’Tis half my life I have waited to hear those words of your lips!” Her hands were busy, pulling his tunic up so that she could feel his warm, solid chest against her fingers.

“’Tis a lifetime I have waited to utter them.” He helped her by yanking off his tunic, then pushing his chausses down past his waist. Michael slid her to the floor, pulling up her gown so that it bunched above her hips. When he thrust inside of her welcoming body, she cried at the pleasure of it, raising and lowering herself to meet his rhythm.

With a sharp, guttural groan, he met his end, and she with him. They lay for a moment in a heap of tangled clothing, sweat, and lust.

“Let us marry on the morrow,” he suggested, pressing a kiss behind her ear, at a place that never failed to cause her to shiver.

“But, Michael, what of the banns? We cannot find a priest to marry us so soon! And what of Maris?”

“I have already paid a priest to marry us without calling the banns. I meant to ask you tonight and could not bear to wait any longer than need be. He awaits us on the morrow. And,” he slid his tongue into the depths of her ear, sending a sharp, pleasant twinge down her spine, “let us not tell Maris as yet…she may look askance at us for marrying so soon after Merle’s death.”

Allegra pulled away as a thought struck her. “Did you tell Maris that you are her natural father?”

Michael peered down at her in the dim light as if trying to read her face. “What did you say?”

“Her betrothal to Victor was repudiated and now she is to marry Lord of Ludingdon…was it you who told the king of her relation to your son so that he would deny the betrothal?”

Michael nodded. “Aye, he was prepared to formalize the contracts between them, and I could do naught but step forward and share the truth with him. ’Twas all for the best. Dirick of Derkland seems a fine fellow.”

Allegra nodded, pleased at his concern for their daughter, and overwhelmed by the comfort of his nearness. “I have never stopped loving you, Michael, and I cannot believe that we shall be husband and wife at last!”

She felt him smile against her cheek. “Aye. ’Tis all that I have ever hoped for.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Dirick leaned heavily against Raymond’s shoulder, his head reeling from the large amount of ale he’d imbibed at The Blue Goat, The Bow and the Apple, The King’s Shield…and all of the other places his men had been dragging him to.

“This way, m’lord,” directed Raymond, his voice slightly slurred. The party of men stumbled along the street, their way lit as much by the full moon as by the lanterns that hung intermittently about.

“I know where I am,” growled Dirick, struggling to hold his head upright. It was not the best thing to do the night before one’s wedding, but it had been impossible to deny his men their chance to celebrate his marriage and the betterment of his position as well—for his increase in stature with the king translated into their own improvement.

Verily, dawn could be no more than two or three hours away. Dirick groaned at the thought. Henry expected him, as well as the other two bridegrooms, to join him for a celebratory hunt not long after the sun rose…to be followed shortly after by the wedding ceremony. In a matter of hours, he would be married to Maris.

Even in his befuddled state of mind, Dirick grasped the clarity of that fact. At this time on the morrow, he’d be abed with his new wife. And despite the amount of ale his men had poured down his throat, Dirick’s body reacted accordingly, filling and hardening with desire.

He’d not seen Maris since the announcement that her mother had arrived from Langumont. Between the king’s demands on his time, his new responsibilities as Lord of Ludingdon, and Maris’s attention to Allegra, neither of them had been in the great hall for meals at the same time. He’d not see her again, he realized, until they met at the altar on the morrow.

Not for the first time, Dirick wondered if she’d become accepting of the fact that he was to be her husband. He did not want a battle in their bedchamber on the night of their wedding if she had not.

She’d ever welcomed his kisses in the past, he reflected, the heaviness between his legs growing…and if they were truly wed, she’d have no reason, and, he prayed, no desire, to refuse him.

Dirick stumbled over a rock in the street and would have pitched face first onto the ground had Raymond not had a firm grip on his tunic. One of the men in their group—he thought it might be Sir Gerald, but everything was a bleary mess—guffawed loudly in the still night, commenting that his lord had nearly fallen into a pile of dung. Dirick responded with a slurred insult, which the rest of the men found so uproariously funny that they nearly failed to spot the shadow slouching along the wall near the castle’s entrance.

“Ho!” Raymond stopped short. He was the least inebriated of the bunch, Dirick realized, and was thankful ’twas he who’d offered to guide him home. “Who goes there?”

As the shadow moved into the torchlight, metamorphosing into Bon de Savrille, Dirick pulled himself upright, standing solidly under his own balance. His muscles tensed.

“What do you here?” Dirick demanded, separating himself from his men and approaching Bon. Through the haze of drunkenness, he found the comforting handle of his dagger.

“Do not fear,” sneered the other man, “I do not wait to accost you, but only to issue a warning.”

“You seek to warn me? Against what?” Dirick choked back a deprecating laugh. Then he lashed out to grab the other man’s arm. “Is it you who seeks to show Maris to an early grave?”

Bon shook off his grip with effort. “Nay, fool! Why would I wish to see the woman dead? ’Tis why I come to warn you.”

Dirick stared at him, uncomprehending. “Speak more clearly, then, man!”

Bon leaned toward him, his dark eyes glittering with intensity. “I do not wish to see her dead, but there is one who does…and the same one wishes harm to you as well.”

“Why do you warn me, then, as I know you have no love for me!”

The other man shook his head. “Nay, I do not,” he agreed, “but ’tis Maris for whom I care…and I would see her protected.” He looked at Dirick with bleary eyes. “I love her.”

“She is mine.” Dirick snapped the words, suddenly afraid that Bon might find a way to have her.

“I am aware that the king has promised her to you.” Bon’s reply was bitter. “But that is not the purpose of my warning to you. Ask yourself why did Merle of Langumont not return from Breakston, and you will know why someone desires her dead.”

“Merle of Langumont died in the siege of Breakston, most like of your own hand,” Dirick returned slowly, the ale still swimming in his mind.

“Nay. Merle of Langumont was alive to accept my surrender,” Bon told him.

“You do not—”

Bon began to melt back into the shadows. “Nay, that is all I can tell you, sirrah, as I do not wish to be the next casualty…an’, in faith, I wish to be the one left to hold and comfort my lady when all is said and the battles done.” With that parting promise, he disappeared from sight.

“Who is it!” demanded Dirick of the shadows.

“Her father.” whispered a voice before its owner swept away into the night.

Her father. Dirick’s mind swam as he lay on his pallet, Bon’s words echoing in his memory, swirling among the ale that sopped his brain. Her father was dead, he reminded himself. What did the man mean? Nay, Merle was not her father, he remembered foggily. Ask yourself why Merle of Langumont did not return from Breakston. Why?

I love her. Those words taunted him with their sincerity. Another man loved his betrothed wife—truly loved her, if the pain in Bon’s voice was to be believed.

A heaviness settled over Dirick’s chest. His breathing quickened, then slowed, then rose faster again. If another man loved her enough to warn his enemy of danger, just to ensure that Maris should be safe, what would he do to have her?

The chamber around him spun and swam as he lay there.

Could she love him?

Nay, of course not.

Could she?

Dirick frowned at his absurd thought, fighting to crystallize the murkiness of his mind. Damn that last jug of ale!

Her father. The words returned. I love her.

Ask yourself why Merle of Langumont did not return.

He slept, dreamt, slept.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Dirick’s head felt thrice as large as normal, his ears a hundred times more sensitive, and his belly like the ocean during a storm.

The barking of the dogs was enough to drive him mad, yet he gritted his teeth and managed to smile at Henry’s jest.

“What ails you, Dirick?” the king asked, obviously noticing his pained grin.

“Naught but enough ale to drown a village,” he admitted.

Henry chuckled. “’Twould be a pity were you not at your best this eve when you take your bride to bed.” He laughed outright. “Say the word if you cannot perform your duties and would wish some assistance.”

Dirick glared at the king, finding little humor in his liege’s jest. “Nay, your majesty, I assure you—I have waited long enough for this night, and I will have no problem performing as I should.”

The king laughed again, then turned his attention to the howling hounds. “They’ve scented a boar!” he cried in excitement. With a spur to his mount, he leaned forward and the stallion leapt into the wake of the frenzied dogs.

A party of twenty some men and their horses trampled through the forest, bearing down upon the hounds. The fresh air whipping about his face dissolved the brunt of Dirick’s nausea and he began to get into the spirit of the hunt. With a cry of delight, he brandished the spear he carried and urged Nick harder, so that they gained ground on the king.

At last, the howling of the dogs indicated that they’d cornered the boar. The hunters raced into the clearing, reining up on one side, readying themselves to take passes at the snorting animal.

The boar’s red eyes blazed from its long snouted face, and angry tusks curled with enough curve to rock a careless dog before tossing it into the air. Bristling, wiry hair sprang from the beast, and hot breath rasped from flaring nostrils as it cast frantically about for an escape route. Hound, horse, or man blocked all avenues of freedom, and the boar grew more frenzied as it readied itself to rush through the blockades

“Now!” cried Henry, nodding at the three bridegrooms, who’d been given the honor of the first strokes.

Lord Bartholemew readied his spear and dug his heels into his mount’s sides. They leaped forward, crashing through the clearing, passing by the boar in a flurry of hooves, flapping cloak, and a well thrust spear. A spurt of blood sprang forth from the beast’s shoulder, and a cheer erupted from the other hunters.

Lord Richard followed shortly after, missing his stab at the boar, but distracting the howling beast from the spear wielded by Dirick. His aim was true, and the boar received another telling wound in its belly.

As Dirick halted Nick to the side, watching as the boar pawed the ground, readying itself for a vicious pass through the ring of men that surrounded it, he had a moment to reflect upon his garbled memory of Bon’s warning from the night before.

Why did Merle not return from Breakston? If he were alive when Bon saw him last, and he was not felled during the attack upon the keep, then he must have died by the hand of someone else.

Michael and Victor d’Arcy?

The thought sprang to his mind, followed quickly by the question of why.

A shout from one of the hunters distracted Dirick from his thoughts, and he saw that the boar was wavering on its feet.

Her father.

Could Michael be Maris’s father? That could explain Allegra’s odd reaction when she greeted them back at Langumont. The hair prickled at the nape of his neck. Things were beginning to make sense.

Dirick turned to Lord Bartholemew, who watched the last thrust at the boar with rapt attention. “Bart, know you much of Lord Michael d’Arcy? Is he trustworthy?”

The other man turned, a look of satisfaction on his face as the boar crashed onto its side. “Lord of Gladwythe, you speak of? Verily, the man has an oddness about him. Mayhap ’tis because of his parents’ death…findin’ them like that would have to touch anyone’s mind.”

“What of his parents’ death?”

Bartholomew shook his head sadly, turning from the bloody scene of the boar’s demise and giving Dirick his full attention now that the hunt was over. “He was naught more than a boy when his papa and mama jumped to their death from a tower at Gladwythe.”

“He found them?”

“Aye. They’d jumped together, holding hands it looked, and landed thusly in the bailey at Gladwythe.”

Dirick stared at him for a moment, a chill creeping down his back. The pieces slipped into place and he felt the blood drain from his face.

“Ludingdon, are you well?” asked Bartholomew as if from very far away.

“I must go.” Dirick wheeled Nick around, his heart slamming in his chest. He drove his heels into Nick’s sides, leaning forward over the stallion’s neck, urging the horse on. “Tell the king I’ve found him!” he shouted over his shoulder as horse and man thundered through the brush.

He felt the saddle slip as Nick leapt over a tree trunk, and before he could think, its girth loosened, then gave way and suddenly, he was falling, falling.

His last thought before he hit the ground was that he had been sabotaged.

Maris opened the heavy gold box and gasped, sinking onto her bed.

“’Tis beauteous!” she exclaimed, pulling a rope of fine gold links from the small chest. Topazes and emeralds dangled randomly from the necklet that would wrap around her neck at least thrice. Each jewel was set in an ornate, filigreed hasp, each one different and a work of art in its own right.

“’Tis a wondrous bride’s gift,” said Madelyne with a twinkle in her eye. “Lord Dirick is a generous groom.”

“Aye.” Maris looked down at the small chest that rested in her lap. The box itself was a lovely gift, and along with the bejeweled necklet it held bespoke of the value Dirick placed upon his bride. She could not hold back a smile of pure joy. Mayhap he did care for her as much as he desired her lands.

She poured the gold rope back into the chest. Delivered by one of her own men from Langumont, the box had been tied with a golden ribbon and sprigs of rosemary, lemon verbena, and violets. Maris sniffed the small purple flowers and placed them, along with the herbs, on top of the necklet, and closed the chest. Her stomach fluttered and she smiled again.

Tonight, she would lie with Dirick, would feel his lips and hands over her body, would mate with him and feel his skin next to hers, would become his. Anticipation sent a shiver down her spine.

Today, she would marry the man she loved.

The fear and hesitancy were gone, and in their place was comfort, love, and happiness that she would belong to Dirick, with Dirick, and would live with him, bear his children and rule their lands at his side. Maris took a deep breath, hardly able to credit the fact that she was welcoming—even embracing—the event of marriage after having fought against it for so long.

An urgent knocking on the door drew her from her woolgathering, and Maris and the other ladies watched expectantly as a maidservant went to answer it.

“My Lady Maris,” Michael d’Arcy nearly burst into the room when the door opened. “There has been an accident! ’Tis your betrothed husband!”

Maris jumped from her stool. “What is it? Is he badly hurt?” Her heart lodged in her throat, and she was dimly aware that Madelyne was drawing a cloak around her shoulders.

Michael shook his head soberly. “Maris, I do not know. They are summoning the physicians to him, for he fell from his horse during the hunt. They are afraid to move him. You must come with me.”

“Of course.” She moved quickly toward the door, trying to quiet the tension and fear thrumming through her veins. “I must fetch the medicines from my chamber,” she told Michael as they started down the hall.

“Nay, there is no time. He has called for you to come to his side, and ’tis best that you come with me now…Maris, ’tis no small hurt, and he wishes to speak with you.”

The fear in her middle grew and she found herself hardly able to breathe. To lose love so soon after finding it would be more than she could bear…especially coming so closely upon the heels of her father’s death.

Maris clenched her fist in the folds of her skirt as she was propelled along by Michael’s very firm grip. She would not think about that possibility. She would not.

At the stables, she was faintly surprised to find Hickory saddled and ready, with Victor holding the reins. “Come, lady, before ’tis too late,” he urged, helping her into the saddle.

Michael mounted his own horse and nudged Maris and Victor ahead of him through the bailey. They trotted quickly through the entryway, over the drawbridge, and away from the keep.

Bon de Savrille emerged from a corner of the bailey just after Maris and her escort passed by. His face was creased with concern as he hurried into the stable and selected a horse under the watchful eye of the marshal.

“Hurry, man,” he demanded, looking in the direction in which she’d disappeared.

At last, he was given the reins and he vaulted into the saddle. With a loud “Hah!” he whipped the stallion and thundered through the bailey and across the drawbridge, following the path of the two men and the woman he loved.

Dirick forced his eyes open from the darkness that beckoned him with a soothing aura. There was something…something urgent….

Voices reached his ears, as if from far away. He thought he moved…aye, he must have, for pain ricocheted up his leg and curled in the low part of his back.

The urgency came to him again…then it was gone.

Firm hands pulled and pushed at him, and he wanted to slip into that blackness and sleep…but the urgency kept kneading at him…kneading…like the hands that interrupted his comfort.

Maris.

The name struck his consciousness like a lightening bolt and he jerked awake. Something about Maris…. His eyes were open, blearily focusing on the faces that stared down at him. Maris was not there, he realized dimly…Henry…Bart…Raymond…

Maris…his mind screamed the name, the urgency, but it took all of his effort to pinpoint his concentration. The urgency had aught to do with her…. Maris, his betrothed wife, his beloved….

D’Arcy.

Dirick croaked the name as he struggled to sit upright. God in heaven, he was going to take her! “Maris,” he managed to push from a dry, swollen throat.

Faintly, he heard Henry laugh, though the concern still ringed his eyes. “The man’s worried that he won’t be able to do his wife justice this night…he must be well.” Nevertheless, the king himself bent toward Dirick. “Can you stand, man?”

Dirick gathered all of his wits and strength and nodded his head, reaching for the hand that was proffered to him. It was a beringed hand, and it belonged to Henry…but Dirick disregarded that fact as he lunged for the offered grip and pulled himself to his feet.

He was in the forest. The members of the hunt had gathered around with their mounts, and the hounds, and even the carcass of the boar. “I must go,” was all he could say once he found Nick with his gaze.

“Ludingdon, what ails you? You must come back to the castle and be tended to!” Henry boomed the order. “Richard! Marcus! Take him and bring him back to the physicians, and do not listen to his arguments! He has delayed my hunt long enough!”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“How much farther are they?” asked Maris, looking about the forest for some sign of the hunting party. She’d ridden quite far out of London with Michael and Victor and expected to find the hunting party at any time.

Neither man replied to her question, nor did they seem to acknowledge it.

“I do not see them anywhere,” she said more forcefully. “Surely the hunt did not take the party this far from the castle.” An uncomfortable twinge started in the base of her spine and she reined Hickory up. “Are you certain we are going in the right direction?”

Michael stopped his horse and turned back to her. “Come, Maris, do not question me.” He grabbed the reins from her hands and began to propel Hickory behind his own mount.

The twinge blossomed into a full foreboding and Maris felt fear curdle in her middle. “I must return to the castle for my wedding,” she said, squinting up at the sun that was beginning to climb down the sky. Panic started to blossom in her belly. Something was very wrong.

Victor laughed and the sound sent a chill up her spine. “Your bridegroom is in no condition to attend the ceremony. There is no need for you to return.”

Those words held a finality that did not sit well with Maris. It had occurred to her earlier that she’d disobeyed Dirick’s orders to go nowhere without him or Raymond…but her fear for his safety had been the overriding factor in her decision. And, in sooth, she’d forgotten her promise in the terror that he’d been injured.

Michael urged his horse into a canter, and Maris was forced to lean forward and grab Hickory’s mane. Just as she had done when Bon abducted her, she forced herself to examine the situation. She swallowed the fear in her throat. She could not escape on foot, and Michael was in control of her horse. Victor rode so close to her that his mount’s tail brushed against Hickory’s shoulder.

“’Tis not far from here,” he told his father, moving up so that their horses were neck and neck.

Maris was now just behind them, but out of their easy sight as she was towed along on Hickory. She used the opportunity to slip a hand under her skirt and pull forth her dagger. She sent up a prayer of thanks that her mother had warned her never to be without the knife and set to cutting away at the reins. If she were quick, and lucky, she could cut herself free and be off. Mayhap, she and Hickory could outrun her kidnappers. If not—

She stopped her thoughts right there. That possibility was not worth thinking on.

Once again, Maris considered the facts and the situation. Dirick should have learned of her absence by now, and of course he would search for her. That thought eased her a bit.

But as she continued to saw through the thick leather, another thought turned her cold. Michael and Victor talked so certainly of Dirick’s injury…mayhap there was a truth to it and he would not be able to come after her. Mayhap he was dead!

Angry, frustrated tears welled in her eyes and she pushed the thought away. She’d think only of one thing now: escaping from Michael and Victor.

When the reins were nearly cut through, Maris gathered herself and readied her courage, gripping Hickory with her thighs and tightening her fistful of mane. With a final slice, she cut the last bit of leather and kicked her horse to veer suddenly away.

The shout of surprise erupted too close behind her and she leaned forward, urging Hickory as they raced for their freedom. The trampling of hooves in their trail was loud and gaining proximity and she felt tears sting her eyes. “Go, Hickory, go!” she cried into the mare’s ear, kicking her again.

’Twas of no use. One of them galloped up next to her and with a swift jerk, pulled her from her saddle across his own. She landed on her stomach with the air knocked out of her and saw the ground race by at a dizzying speed. She’d failed.

“Bitch!” Michael’s voice was tight with fury as he slowed his horse to a walk. “Foolish woman!”

Victor barreled up to them. “I’ll take her, Father. ’Tis my right to enjoy what little time we’ve left together.”

Maris struggled as she was shoved over to the younger man’s mount and placed in front of him on the saddle. Michael gave her a hard slap to the face, stunning her, as Victor’s arms tightened around her waist.

“What are you going to do?” she demanded, trying to ignore the pounding in her temple from the blow.

Victor laughed harshly. “You seem so concerned about your wedding, my dear, that I should hate to disappoint you and have you forego your wedding night.” One of his hands slipped to close over her breast as he pushed his arousal into her bottom. “I would expect that to occupy us for some time, and then…well, my love, I do not see any purpose in returning damaged goods to your bridegroom…if indeed he still lives.” His fingers pinched cruelly at her breast, closing over her nipple so that she could not suppress a soft gasp of pain. “And I have no use for damaged goods myself. After all, ’twould do no good for me to beget a child upon my sister, now would it?”

“What?” she gasped from pain as much as shock.

“What, Father, you did not tell her that we are blood?” Victor asked, his hand moving to cup the full weight of her breast, fondling it roughly.

Michael looked at Maris. “Your mother, whore that she is, begat my child before she married Merle of Langumont and birthed you.”

“You are my father?” The pain from Victor’s seeking fingers faded in light of this revelation. “Nay.”

“Oh, I assure you, ’tis true.”

“But…I was to marry…your son…my brother.”

Michael shrugged. “I did not know you were my daughter at that time. I didn’t learn of it until your stupid mother told me as we set out for Breakston to save you. In truth, it didn’t matter to me or to Victor…but your papa—Merle—must have learned this, for he told me he’d changed his mind over the betrothal.” A cold smile of such evil spread his features that Maris felt nauseated. “I could not accept that decision.”

The nausea turned to cold anger. “You killed my father,” she whispered.

“Oh, nay, he did not,” said Victor, leaning forward to thrust a tongue wet with slime into her ear. He murmured, “Nay, ’twas I who loosed the arrow into his back.”

Maris jerked away from his cold mouth and was just as harshly jolted back onto a solid chest. “Nay, lady, you’ll not escape me this time. Long have I waited for the opportunity to break your arrogance and impudence, and I’ll have no more delays.” He sank his fingers into the mass of braids at the back of her scalp, pulling her head backward at an impossible angle, and kissed her forcefully.

Just then, the sound of galloping reached their ears. All three turned to see a single man on horseback careening through the trees.

Maris’s heart leapt until the man drew closer and she recognized him. Bon de Savrille. How could he be involved in this mess?

“Halt!” Bon cried as Michael and Victor started to wheel their horses about, ready to make their escape. “Unhand her!” Bon did not slow, and his momentum brought him to their sides. Maris saw that he brandished a sword that glittered in the afternoon light and she took the opportunity to pull loose of Victor’s hands.

With a quick elbow into his abdomen, Maris launched herself off the saddle, stumbled, then started running through the woods as fast as she could. There were shouts of anger behind her, and she heard a scream of pain from one of the horses, but she kept running.

There was no sound of horse’s hooves following her, but she knew in her numb mind that when they finished their battle—whoever was left—would chase her down.

Swallowing back nausea, Dirick leaned forward over Nick’s neck. His head still pounded and his entire body throbbed with pain…but his intent was single: to find Maris.

He refused to allow himself to think of what could be happening, what she might be going through, as he led the party of men through the forest. Fortunately, several people had spotted Michael and Victor with Maris and Dirick had had to waste little time in discovering their trail. The odd part, he reflected, happy to focus on some other puzzle so that he wouldn’t go crazy with worry, was the third man who had followed in their wake.

The sun was lowering and soon the forest would be dark. ’Twould be next to impossible to follow the trail in the dark, and this realization was the impetus that drove him on.

He could not lose her.

Dirick swallowed back the unmanly urge to cry in frustration. She was his, she was to be his…tonight, he was to wed with the only woman he’d ever wanted with such deep, certain need. He drove his heels into Nick’s middle, pushing the destrier even harder than he did in battle. This was the most important battle he’d ever fought, he realized numbly. He could not lose it.

He almost missed seeing the shadow that rushed out from a deep thicket, until it was nearly beneath Nick’s hooves.

“Help me!” it cried.

“Maris?” Dirick pulled back on the reins, wheeling Nick aside on his hind legs, landing just next to her. He was out of his saddle in an instant, aware of the rest of his men gathering around them in the forest.

“Dirick?” she cried. “Is that you?”

He pulled her into his arms in one fluid motion. She was shaking, and her face was suspiciously wet. She was running her hands all over his face and shoulders as if to ensure that it was really he.

“My God, I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured, burying his face in her neck, smelling the rosemary and lemon and touching the tangles of her hair. “Maris, Maris,” he said her name over and over. “Beloved, have they hurt you? How did you escape?”

She sniffled in the first show of womanly weakness he’d ever witnessed. “I am not hurt,” she told him, looking up with wide golden green eyes. “But ’twas Bon de Savrille who saved me.”

“What?” Dirick guided her back to his horse as the others gathered around, listening and yet remaining at a distance.

“Aye, he came after us and in the confusion, I managed to get away. It wasn’t far from here.” She looked over her shoulder, gesturing in that direction, “and no one came after me. I do not know what happened.”

With a curt nod, Dirick sent several of the men scattering to see what they could find. “Are you truly not hurt?” he asked, drawing them away from the rest of the party and angling Nick so that he stood between them and the gawking men. “My beloved, I cannot tell you what fears I had for you!”

She reached up and smoothed a cool hand over his face, touching a scrape from his fall. “They told me you’d been hurt, that you’d fallen from a horse. I was afraid you were dead.”

He nodded. “Aye. And I suspect it was Michael or Victor who slit the girth of my saddle, nearly causing me to be trampled among Nick’s hooves. I am fine, now that you are safe.”

She pulled him down, covering his lips with her own. He felt the dampness of her tear moisten his cheek. When she pulled back after a sweet, tender kiss, Maris was looking up at him with those green-gold eyes.

“What is it?” he asked, some new tension tightening his chest.

“I—I nearly didn’t have the chance to tell you…but you must know. I am well pleased to be your wife. I‘ve come to love you, Dirick, and I am sure you will make a find husband, and a good Lord of Langumont.”

When he would have spoken, she pressed a finger to his lips, shaking her head. “Nay, do not speak. ’Tis enough for me that you came after me…I do not expect that you should feel the same. And, in sooth, Dirick—I do not care.”

He would have spoken, but a shout drew his attention. Gathering her into his arms, he gave her a well placed kiss on her lips and lifted her into his saddle. Vaulting gracefully up, he settled behind her and they started off toward the shout.

A group of men gathered in a small clearing, and when they drew near, Raymond of Vermille caught Dirick’s eye, shaking his head slightly. Maris should not see, was the message in his gaze. But it was too late.

She slid from the saddle and pushed her way through the gawking crowd of men, ignoring Dirick’s shout. The scene that greeted her was one that would surely leave nightmares, but nevertheless, she moved forward. She had to see it.

Victor d’Arcy lay on his stomach, head turned to one side, and his back soaked with blood. Bon de Savrille was arranged so that he lay in a similar position, with his hands reaching eerily for Victor’s. His beard was wet with the blood that oozed from the spot where his nose had been, and his neck was bent at an awkward angle so that, although he lay on one cheek, his face was tilted back and his eyes looked at nothingness.

Nausea gathered in the back of her throat, but Maris was able to keep it at bay until she saw the horse. Then, she could control it no longer, and she turned to empty her belly into the bushes.

Dirick caught her in the middle of her wild retreat and held her while she vomited in a thicket. The violence left her shaking and trembling, and in the wake of her experience, Maris felt unaccountably weak.

Coughing and spitting, she raised her face and he offered her a corner of his tunic. There was gentleness in his eyes and tenderness in his touch. Placing a comforting arm around her waist, he walked her back to Nick.

“Come, let me take you back to the castle.” Despite the grimness in his face, his words were solicitous and he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Once again, he lifted her onto Nick.

“Our wedding day is ruined,” she told him tearfully, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.

“Nay, my lady, our wedding day is saved.” He pulled her back against his broad chest, pulling his cloak about them to ward off the spring evening, and turned Nick back toward Westminster.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“I do,” Dirick said clearly, looking straight into Maris’s eyes.

The bishop joined their hands, intoning, “I pronounce you man and wife. Let no man tear asunder what God has thus joined.”

Dirick’s hands closed tightly over Maris’s smaller, rough ones, and she could not help but smile up at him.

“Congratulations, Ludingdon,” the king boomed from his stance off to the side of the chapel.

“My thanks, your majesty,” Dirick did not release Maris’s hand as they walked over to bow to their king.

Though their return to Westminster had been late in the day, and the other two wedding ceremonies had already been performed, Dirick had refused to wait any longer to finalize his marriage to Maris, despite the fact that he now had an excuse. His mother would likely be furious that he had not waited for the family—and for Thomas to say the ceremony—but she would be pleased that at the least the deed had been done.

Henry, when told of the events of the day, had agreed to witness the wedding and rousted the bishop from his prayers in order to say yet another marriage. Thus, the guests and witnesses to the joining of the Lord of Ludingdon and the Lady of Langumont had been limited to Henry and Eleanor, several men-at-arms from Langumont, Madelyne and Gavin of Mal Verne, and Gavin’s cousin Judith. Maris’s mother, Allegra, had not been found in time for the ceremony.

Maris pressed close to her new husband after she curtsied to the royal couple, enjoying his warmth and solidness. Though she’d had time to bathe and dress for the ceremony while Dirick was making the arrangements, she’d been unable to shake off the horror of the scene in the wood…and the knowledge that Michael d’Arcy had not been found. There, she realized, lay the reasoning behind Dirick’s insistence that they wed immediately.

She remained in a happy daze throughout the quick meal of cold pheasant, cheese, and bread that they ate in the great hall, and she imbibed a more generous amount of wine than usual. It made her warm and trembly, especially when she thought about being with Dirick in the marriage bed. Though she’d expected this wedding between two of the more powerful nobility to be a grand affair, with feasting, dancing, and entertainment, Maris was not altogether displeased at the outcome.

Taking another sip of the rich Bordeaux from Aquitaine, she reflected that ’twas just as well that she did not have to make merry among a throng of guests and well wishers until it was such a time as to go abovestairs, else she would surely go mad from the wait.

Her heart skipped a beat every time Dirick looked at her with the hooded grey eyes that bespoke of his own impatience for the evening to end. He offered her a small bit of cheese and lightly caressed the center of her bottom lip as she opened her mouth to accept it. The lids of his eyes swept down, and he looked at them from under them. The flare of desire was unmistakable.

“Let us go abovestairs,” he told her.

“Aye,” she breathed, nervous heat rushing through her body.

They stood and the chatter of their companions stilled. “Whither are you off to, Lord Dirick?” grinned the king.

“I am certain you are wise enough to divine my destination, your majesty,” growled Dirick.

“Aye, then, be off with you.” Henry waved them away.

Maris looked at Dirick in surprise as they backed away from the king and the other well wishers. There was to be no bedding ceremony?

“Come,” Dirick hissed, taking her hand and pulling her quickly from the hall, “before they decide to follow us!”

She stumbled along as quickly as her long skirts would allow, thankful that she was not to be disrobed in front of a gaggle of women and gawking men before being urged into bed with her husband.

They reached the chamber that had been set aside for them, safely and without escort.

Dirick ushered Maris within, closing the door firmly behind him. Agnes had stoked the fire into a low blaze to keep the night chill from the damp room, and now she dozed on the floor near their bed.

Maris shook her maid awake and dismissed her. “There is no need to attend me this night,” she told Agnes, watching as Dirick sat to remove his boots. “My husband will assist me.” She found those words—my husband—to be both exciting and welcome, coming from her lips.

She barred the heavy door behind Agnes, then turned slowly to face her husband. He’d pulled off his surcoat and tunic, and was naked from the waist up: a golden statue of muscle and glittering eyes and coarse dark hair in the firelight. He sat on a stool near the blaze, watching her as he had done the night she treated his stab wound.

Maris shivered in anticipation. This night would end much differently.

“Maris, my love, come to me.” His voice was low and smooth, and his eyes never wavered.

Nervous, excited, anticipatory, she moved quickly to him and allowed him to pull her onto his lap. He drew the transparent veil from her head and thrust his fingers into the long thickness of her hair, gently combing through the braids and untangling the mass of waves and curls. “Your hair is so beautiful,” he told her, pressing a kiss to the end of a thick lock.

He stroked the edge of her chin, his touch leaving tiny sensations of pleasure, then closed his lips over her mouth in a sleek, sensual kiss that left her breathless. His long, tan fingers unfastened the golden girdle that rested on her hips and eased the heavy overtunic above her head, then flung it into a heap on the floor. And when he bent to kiss her once more, it was a long, thorough, and easy one, as if to remind her that they had all the night to taste each other.

Closing his hands over her breasts, still covered by the gossamer undertunic, he stroked his thumbs over her nipples. They tightened into miniature erections, and then he shifted the fabric across them, the soft cloth rasping over their sensitive points, Maris felt a delicious dart of pleasure shimmy down to her core.

A sort of heaviness grew low in her belly, and she felt as if she were filling and swelling in her private areas. Damp heat rushed and centered there, and Maris realized she was beginning to feel a sort of itchy, needy sensation in the pit of her belly.

Dirick’s muscles tightened and shivered as she smoothed the flats of her hands over the muscular slabs of his chest, down the sides of his ribs and abdomen. Lightly, lightly, she ran the raggedness of her fingernails over the back of his shoulders, then down and around to the ridges of his belly. Tiny bumps followed their paths and he shivered, his breathing becoming rough and unsteady.

Abruptly, Dirick stood and directed her toward the large bed where the curtains had been pulled back. Sprigs of rosemary and violets lay on their pillows, and he swept them to the side before easing Maris onto the plush bed. She watched, unafraid, as he slid his breeches down over lean hips and well defined, muscular thighs. A sigh culled the back of her throat when he came to lie next to her, pulling her to the long, warm length of his body.

Her chest rose and fell, and he placed his hand over the swell of one breast, allowing it to rise and fall with it.

“Maris,” he spoke, looking at her directly. “Do you know what is to happen?” The gentleness in his grey eyes stirred her and she reached up to smack a playful kiss onto his lips.

“Aye, Dirick, ’tis no secret to me what a man and woman do when they mate. And, I am not afraid,” she told him. “I’m not afraid of you. I welcome you.” Her fingers twisted in the thick hair that fell over his forehead, then trailed her hands lower, drifting down his chest and boldly to the hardness between his legs. When she brushed against that hot, tumescent skin, he stiffened, catching his breath in a sharp, pained groan. Maris couldn’t help a self-satisfied smile, and, with delight at his obvious pleasure, she closed her fingers over hard, velvet-skinned erection. This time, the groan that came from the back of his throat was primal and needy.

She began to explore its warm reach, not at all certain she knew what she was doing…but sliding up and down along it seemed like a good idea.

“You are bold, my lady,” Dirick said, flashing a tense grin at her. He shifted out of her greedy reach with a quick, precise movement. “And I find myself at an unfair advantage—for I am at your mercy, and you are still armored by some manner of cloth. Allow me to rid you of your protection.”

With a quick movement, he yanked the fragile cloth, rending it down the center of her body, leaving its ivory curves bare to his gaze. Maris gasped in surprise and with a faint twinge of annoyance. “Dirick,” she admonished laughingly, “you’ve just ruined the dearest piece of cloth I’ve ever purchased.”

“I don’t care,” he murmured, filling his hands with her breasts. “I shall buy you another to replace it. Two if I must.”

Then his hand smoothed over her belly, down to that warm, moist place where all of her senses seemed to have collected. She throbbed and moistened at his touch as he fingered the swollen little knob there, teasing and massaging it gently. Maris felt the most inexplicable sensation, rising and swelling inside her, blossoming into something hot and needy and all the world fell away but for the sensation of his fingers, stroking and sliding in her wetness.

“Beloved, I would not hurt you, but I cannot prevent it…and I must have you…now.”

“Yes,” she whispered, hardly aware of what she was saying. With a smooth motion, Dirick moved between her legs, anchoring up on one elbow while he guided himself to her opening. And then, suddenly, she felt him fill her, full, oh…full…and then a sharp pain surprised her and she gasped softly

“Beloved,” he whispered, holding himself poised and still over her, filling her so deeply. “Forgive me.” His breathing was the only sound in the chamber, and she could feel him waiting, uncertain and desperate.

The pain had ebbed and all at once, Maris was aware—very aware—of being filled, of the anticipation, the need, beginning once again. She gave a little twitch, a little shift, and with the gust of released breath, Dirick began to move inside her.

Any lingering discomfort melted away as he shifted, sliding in and out in a long, slow rhythm that made her tighten and reach, lifting and gathering until something exploded inside her. A storm of shivers and fluttering filled her, blossoming from her middle to the end of every limb and digit in a sharp snap of heat.

Maris might have gasped, she might even have dug her nails into her husband’s skin, but she wasn’t certain, for he was moving faster now, faster and with more urgency. His muscles bunched beneath her fingers, his skin was hot and damp against hers.

She knew, hazily, that he reached his fulfillment when he threw his head back and slammed inside her with a low groan. He froze like a beautiful god above her in an instant of vulnerability and ecstasy.

Then he smiled and opened his eyes to look down at her. “Beloved,” he murmured, rolling to the side, gathering her damp body close. “How blessed I am.”

And then his eyes slid closed and he settled against her.

When Dirick awoke much later that night…or mayhap ’twas near the morning…the first thing he saw was the unruly mass of thick, lemony smelling hair that belonged to his wife.

Joy welled inside him and he smoothed a wrist thick wave away from her face, baring the fair skin and rosy lips of Maris. His wife.

She stirred and sleepily rolled over toward him. Her eyes fluttered, then opened wide as if surprised to see him. Then, they shuttered and a smile curved her mouth before she opened them again, now fully awake.

“Good morrow, Dirick,” she told him, reaching to touch his face.

“Good morrow, beloved.” His voice was raspy with desire and sleep. “How do you feel?”

“Wonderful,” she told him, stretching like a cat. “And ’tis all you to blame.”

He grinned down at her. “That is one blame I shall not shirk, my lady.” Squinting at the sunlight filtering through a light tapestry, he said, “’Tis morn. They’ll arrive anon to check that the sheets are blooded.”

“Aye.” Maris eagerly drew the blankets away from their naked bodies to show the white sheet and its dark red drops of blood.

Dirick rose from the bed to use the chamberpot, and Maris followed. They embraced in passing, one long, lean, haired body pressing to a smaller, softer, rounder one.

Though he felt himself harden in response to her proximity, Dirick pulled reluctantly away. Their chamber would soon be invaded by a delegate to ascertain whether the marriage had indeed been consummated, and that the lady had indeed been a virgin…and he did not relish the thought of being interrupted thus.

“We will leave London today,” he told her as he settled back on the bed. He felt her gaze caress his nakedness and felt a rush of delight and victory at the realization that she was well and truly his. “Michael d’Arcy has not been found, and you will not be truly safe until he is.”

Maris wrapped a light cloth around her shoulders and curled on the edge of the bed. “He is my father,” she told him unsteadily.

Dirick pulled her to rest her head on his chest. “I learned that only yesterday. I’m sorry that I did not know sooner.”

“He killed my father—Merle.”

“I know that, or suspected that, as well. He is the man who killed my father—the one that I spoke of to you.” Dirick tightened his lips. “I will not rest until he is found.”

Maris pulled away, sitting up to look down at him. “You will have a care, Dirick. You will not put yourself in danger. Michael has killed so many—”

“I cannot let him go unpunished.” He searched her face with his gaze, seeing the love and respect that shone in her green and gold eyes. “You must know by now that I love you, Maris. I never thought to feel this way about any one woman, but you have driven me so mad that I realized I could not live without you…and I must ensure that the one who would see you dead is also gone. And then I can have no fear that you will be taken from me by a crazed madman.”

Her fingers smoothed the hair back from his forehead. “How lucky I am that my papa chose to repudiate my betrothal to Victor…else I would surely be a murderess on this morn.”

Dirick smiled. “Had that happened, I would have spirited you away before the ceremony that bound you to him…or after you had done the deed, I’d have been your escape route.” He frowned. “But even if I did that, there was no certainty you would have accepted my help—as you refused it once before. I must know, now—why would you think I could have been party to your kidnapping by Bon?”

“What else was I to think when I tumbled onto the floor and looked up to see you staring down upon me?” Maris asked indignantly.

“But…I thought you’d known me better than that…and, Maris, how could I have stolen you for someone else when I wanted you for myself? Did you not know that I wanted you? That was why I had to leave Langumont so suddenly—I could not bear to see you given to another.”

She looked at him with wondering eyes. “I did not know, truly. At the time, I could only think you had wooed me to your side so as to make your abduction of me easier. I thought ’twas you who wrapped me in that cloth and carried me to Breakston.”

“Oh, nay, Maris. On the night we first met, I wanted you…and that desire grew, and so did the despair that I could never have you. I couldn’t believe my good fortune when Henry betrothed us…and then he showed me the missive from your father.

“In that missive, not only did he repudiate your betrothal with Victor,” Dirick said, unable to hold back a grin, “but he also requested that, if the king agreed, I should be your husband and Lord of Langumont.”

She gaped at him. “It was my papa’s wish that we should wed?”

“Aye, my lady, and ’twas also the wish of my father that one of his sons should wed with you as well.”

“Aye, I certainly remember that incident. I met your brother Bernard, and although he was very kind…” Maris seemed to be considering her thoughts. “…I do not think we would have suited.”

“Thank fortune you did not,” Dirick said vehemently. Then he smiled. “He and Joanna are like moon-faces about each other all of the time. Completely besotted.”

“Aye,” she replied, with just as much spirit. “But of course, neither of us will ever look at the other in such a foolish way.”

Dirick couldn’t hold back a rueful laugh. “Mayhap that is true for you, my beloved, but I fear ’tis too late for me. The queen has already seen my moon-face, and it is because of her meddling, I think, that we are in this bed together.”

Her cheeks pinkened and she looked up at him almost bashfully. Then her eyes glinted with determination. “Our fathers have exacted a sort of revenge upon Michael d’Arcy, then.”

“Aye, they have. Yet, I still must see this through to its end,” he told her firmly.

“Dirick, you must take care…please,” she looked up at him so earnestly and sweetly, with tears pooling in her eyes, that he felt his heart jerk at the emotion there.

“Aye, my love, I will take care. After all,” he pulled her fingers to his lips, “I have everything to live for. I have everything I could ever want. It is a miracle to me. And I have no intention of letting it go.”