The Emerald Swan

Chapter Eighteen

It was close to eight o'clock when Gareth left the house. Miranda was back in her own chamber, her nighttime's absence undetected by any member of the household, and now he had one task to perform, one door to bolt, before Henry of France arrived.

He found the cobbler's shop without difficulty. It was a stone's throw from where he'd come upon the troupe putting on their show. The cobbler was already at work at his awl but he looked up with an inviting smile when the nobleman entered the small dark shop, ducking his head beneath the low lintel.

The man jumped to his feet. Such customers were few and far between. "What can I do fer ye, m'lord?" He bowed, his nose brushing his leather apron.

"My business is with your lodgers. Are they abovestairs?"

The cobbler looked disappointed, but he hastened to the bottom of the narrow staircase leading to the upper floor. "I'll fetch one of 'em down, m'lord."

"No… no, I'll go up." Gareth gave him a nod and brushed past him. The cobbler hesitated, then he took three silent steps until he reached the tight bend in the stairs. There he waited, listening.

Gareth knocked at the door at the head of the stairs but received no response. A burble of voices swelled through the oak, interspersed with thumps and bangs and the occasional curse. With a shrug, he raised the hasp and pushed open the door.

The crowded room seethed with activity. Its occupants were rolling up bedding, repairing the precious individual tools of their trade, tending to their personal needs. Mama Gertrude, her shift pulled down and bundled at her waist, was washing her massive torso in a bowl of water. She dropped the washcloth with an exclamation.

"Lord love us! It's Lord 'Arcourt." Her huge breasts flopped over the rolls of flesh at her waist as she straightened from the basin. Her face was concerned. "Is summat the matter with Miranda, m'lord?"

"No, not as of half an hour ago," he said, discreetly averting his eyes. "Forgive me for disturbing you, but there is something very important I need to discuss."

"Concerns Miranda, does it?" Raoul demanded, setting a leather tankard down on a coffer and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"'Course it does," Bertrand rumbled.

"Where is M'randa?" Robbie piped up from the stool where he was grooming Luke's little dog. "She said she'd come back." He struggled to his feet. "She is comin' back, in't she, sir?"

This was going to be more difficult than he'd anticipated. Gareth became aware of Luke's eyes fixed upon him in a less than friendly fashion. The youth set down the horsehair hoop he had been replaiting and waited for the earl's answer.

"I think this is a discussion I should have with Bertrand and Gertrude," Gareth said, with an interrogative glance toward those two, noting with relief that the latter had hauled up her shift and was busily set-ding her breasts beneath the dingy material.

"You say she's all right?" Gertrude demanded, eyes suddenly very sharp.

Gareth nodded. "I have a proposition-"

"We'll not be sellin' the girl into whoredom… Beg-gin' yer pardon, m'lord, fer speakin' me mind, but she's good as me daughter an' I'll not-"

"Madam!" Gareth held up a hand. "I assure you that that's not what I am proposing."

"Best take this to the tavern," Bertrand declared, laying down the flute that he'd been cleaning. "You comin', Mama?"

Gertrude was lacing the bodice of her puce gown. "There's nothin' to be discussed about our Miranda wi'out I'm there. She's good as me daughter." She glared at Lord Harcourt, who tried a placatory smile.

He opened the door. "After you, madam."

Gertrude moved past him in a rustle of puce and scarlet. "Eh, you there. Can't keep yer big ears to yerself!" she cried as the cobbler, caught off guard, made haste to retreat down the stairs. Gertrude swept him ahead of her as if he were so much dust to her broom. "Right cheek ye've got, listenin' to what don't concern ye."

The cobbler scuttled back to his awl. To add insult to injury, he hadn't heard anything of interest anyway.

The Cross Keys tavern was quiet at this hour of the morning. Gareth ordered a flagon of best canary and Bertrand nodded with approval as they sat down in a secluded corner of the taproom. Gertrude looked suspiciously into her wine cup as the earl filled it to the brim.

"We celebratin' summat, m'lord?"

"In a manner of speaking," he said, taking a leather pouch from his doublet pocket. He laid it on the table, then casually lifted his wine cup to his lips.

"What's this, then?" Bertrand poked at the pouch. "Fifty rose nobles."

Silence greeted this. Bertrand ran his tongue over his lips. Mama Gertrude stared at the earl with something akin to hostility. "What d'ye want from us, m'lord?"

"I want you to leave London today and return to France." Gareth drank his wine.

"Wi'out Miranda?" Gertrude demanded, turning suddenly on Bertrand, whose hand was now protectively covering the leather pouch, although he hadn't quite picked it up. "Eh, Bertrand. Leave it alone. It's blood money."

Bertrand moved his hand, coughed, spat on the sawdust at his feet, and picked up his wine cup again.

"Not quite," Gareth said. "I have a tale to tell you."

His audience listened, rapt and incredulous, to the story of the night of Saint Bartholomew, twenty years earlier. "So you can see that it's in Miranda's best interests for you to leave her to her new life," he finished.

"Aye," Gertrude said slowly. "So the other lass is 'er sister." She shook her head. "Like as two peas they are. But why 'aven't ye told Miranda the truth?"

"Because I'm not sure how she'll take it," Gareth said frankly. "And I need her cooperation. Once my plans for her future are in place, then I'll tell her, and I'm hoping that by then she'll be so used to living the life of a noblewoman it won't come as quite such a shock. But…" He leaned over the table, his expression intent. "You must understand that while her old life is still here for her to slip into whenever she feels like it, she won't get used to her new life."

"'Is lordship speaks sense, Mama," Bertrand said, his hand once more covering the leather pouch. "Ye can't say 'e doesn't."

"Aye," Gertrude agreed. "But we can't just go wi'out a word to Miranda."

"She thought you were in France before. She thought you'd left her at Dover," Gareth reminded her. "It saddened her, but she'd accepted it until you reappeared. She'll accept it again."

"It don't sit right," Gertrude said stubbornly.

"Eh, come on, Mama," Bertrand muttered. "Fifty rose nobles, woman! Think on't."

"I am!" Gertrude snapped. "I'm no fool, I know what it means."

"Think what this means for Miranda," Gareth pressed, his voice soft and persuasive. He had almost won. "You wouldn't want to stand in her way, not if you care for her."

"No," Gertrude agreed. "But it jest don't sit right to up and go wi'out a word."

"I swear to you that I will tell her the truth as soon as it's appropriate. She will know soon enough that you didn't just abandon her."

"There y'are, Mama. Can't say fairer than that." Bertrand slid the pouch closer to the edge of the table. "It's a deal, m'lord. Far as I'm concerned." He looked at Gertrude. "Come on, woman! Sentiment don't put bread on the table. The girl's set fair, an' we've a chance fer a bit o' luck ourselves."

Gareth waited, his face impassive but his nerves stretched taut. Bertrand's agreement was worth nothing without Mama Gertrude's stamp of approval. If she said so, they would walk away from his bribe- magnificent though it was.

"Ye'll tell 'er the truth. Your word on it, m'lord?" Gertrude regarded him closely now, her eyes narrowed and as intense as if she were reading his soul.

Gareth laid his hand on his sword hilt. "My oath, madam."

Gertrude sighed gustily and drained the contents of her wine cup. "Well, if it's for the girl's good, then I suppose we'd best do it."

The leather pouch slipped over the edge of the table into Bertrand's cupped palm. He stood up, beaming. "Nice doin' business wi' ye, m'lord." He extended his hand across the table. Gareth shook it, then rose and bowed to Gertrude.

"Jest tell 'er we're 'er friends. We didn't desert 'er," Gertrude said, unimpressed by the reverence. With a nod, she made her sweeping exit from the taproom, Bertrand on her heels.

Gareth sat down again. He called for another flagon of wine. It had been a bad morning's work, and even the knowledge that it had been essential didn't make him feel any cleaner.

The duke of Roissy was a most attractive man, Miranda decided from her vantage point on the gallery overlooking the great hall of Westminster. Their first meeting an hour earlier had been so wrapped around with formality, she bad had little time to take him in properly. Now, he was talking with the queen sitting enthroned on a dais at the far end of the hall and Miranda had a clear view of his profile. Lean, the chin jutting sharply, the prominent nose curved like an eagle's beak.

It was an uncompromising profile but nonetheless attractive for that, she thought again, moving along the gallery to the staircase leading down to the hall.

Not that he could compare with the man standing beside him.

She paused again to look down across the brilliant-hued crowd of courtiers. Her eyes rested greedily on Lord Harcourt. His doublet and hose of dove-gray velvet were subdued among the rainbow throng, the contrast made even more noticeable by his short scarlet silk cloak that hung from one shoulder, clasped with a diamond-and-ruby brooch that glinted richly even from such a distance.

Miranda glanced down at her own gown of silver cloth embroidered with seed pearls. Over it she wore a white velvet ropa. A circlet of seed pearls held the white lace snood that concealed her still-short hair. Very suitable for a maiden on her first introduction to the man who was to be her husband, she thought with an inner chuckle. The very picture of virginal modesty. Maude would look very well in it.

She was unaware that she was smiling as she descended the stairs. Unaware too that her step was swift, her cheeks softly pink with secret amusement.

The two men, bowing, backed away from the queen, and then turned as one as if sensing Miranda's approach.

"She is everything her portrait promised," Henry said softly. "Everything and more. I was not prepared for such liveliness. The artist portrayed a rather more serious side to the lady."

"A mere paintbrush can rarely capture all attributes," Gareth replied, wondering what had amused Miranda. Her eyes were alight, her cheeks aglow, her mouth curved in a private smile. It was no wonder Henry was already captivated. As they watched, Miranda was waylaid by a trio of young bloods, pressing close to her, vying for her attention. They couldn't hear what was said, but Miranda clearly enjoyed it. She laughed, tossed her small head, and plied her fan with all the flirtatious skill of one accustomed to the adoration and devotion of impressionable young men.

"It's to be hoped the lady won't find the prospect of an old soldier as suitor too repellent," Henry said, his mouth suddenly thinning. "I make a poor gallant, Harcourt, and your ward is clearly accustomed to devoted attention."

How wrong you are. But he couldn't speak the truth aloud. Instead Gareth shook his head in vague disclaimer. In truth he was as surprised as anyone at the ease with which Miranda was swimming in these rich waters. She still slipped up occasionally, but her technique of ignoring her slips, just as she'd ignored her abandoned shoes the other evening, had rebounded in her favor. The opinion of the court appeared to be that Lord Harcourt's young cousin was a delightful eccentric.

It was not, however, Lady Mary's opinion. Gareth's heart sank as he saw his betrothed leave the queen's side. Mary was seriously put out these days, and her perturbation seemed centered upon Gareth's ward. She never missed an opportunity to criticize the girl, and clearly found Gareth's responses less than satisfactory.

She approached Harcourt and the duke, a fixed smile on her face. "My lord duke." She curtsied. "Her Majesty requests that you join her for dinner tomorrow. And Lord Harcourt, of course." She turned her smile upon Gareth, but it lacked warmth.

"Pray convey our thanks to Her Majesty. We shall be honored to join her," Henry said with a bow. "Perhaps Her Majesty could be persuaded to include Lady Maude in the invitation? I have such little time for wooing, I'm reluctant to lose an entire afternoon." Lady Mary looked at him in startled shock. One didn't respond to a royal command with one's own guest list.

"Don't look so shocked, madam. The duke was jesting," Gareth said swiftly, clapping Henry on the shoulder.

Henry laughed, but it was a little late for true conviction, and his dark eyes glittered with annoyance at his lapse.

"Aye," he said. " 'Twas but a jest. But, in truth, from what I see of my bride-to-be, she's breaking hearts all around her and I'd best not waste time pressing my suit."

"Lady Maude is somewhat highspirted, my lord duke," Mary said with sugar-coated malice. "One must make allowances for her youth. But it's to be hoped Lord Harcourt's ward knows where her duty lies." She glanced pointedly at Gareth.

"Do you doubt it, madam?" Gareth raised an eyebrow, his voice cool. Chagrin flashed across Mary's pale eyes.

But the girl certainly looked radiant, even to Mary's disenchanted gaze, watching as Lady Dufort approached the girl and drew her away from her admirers. Maude was a vision in silver and white, with her blue eyes as lustrous as a summer sky, and her creamy complexion pink-tinged, her warm red mouth smiling. Mary knew she was jealous, knew her jealousy made her say mean-spirited things, knew that Gareth didn't like it. And yet she could not help herself, but she forced a smile as Imogen and Miranda joined them.-

Lady Dufort was subdued, paler than usual, two telltale furrows above her temples that told her brother she was suffering one of her vicious headaches. They almost always followed Imogen's bouts of hysteria, one reason, Gareth believed, why she had learned to control herself so much better in latter years. But occasionally, she lost the fight, and then suffered for it.

"Lady Dufort, I must congratulate you on your protege." Henry bowed over the lady's hand, but his eyes flickered sideways to Miranda. "She is a jewel, a shining credit to your care." He saw the girl's radiance just as Mary had. But he also recognized the freshness, the tenderness, of her youth and it made him smile. She was trying her wings, reveling in the attention, well aware of her entrancing appearance. And Henry felt rough and clumsy, despite the unfamiliar elegance of his courtier's silk and velvet.

"You are too kind, Your Grace." Imogen smiled faintly.

Miranda curtsied, demurely unfurling her fan and peeping at Roissy over the top. It was a little trick she was perfecting this evening. The duke's keen eyes beneath very thick, bushy eyebrows responded with a glint and his rather thin mouth curved in a smile. He stroked his well-shaped beard reflectively. His hands were hard and callused, square and businesslike. Involuntarily Miranda's eyes darted to Gareth's lean, elegant white hand. The skin of her back lifted as her body responded to the memory of those hands moving over her, playing upon her sometimes with all the delicacy of a musician, at others branding her with the searing assertion of their possession.

"Will you take a turn with me around the room, my lady?" Henry offered his brown-suited arm. "I have your permission, Harcourt?" He raised one of those bushy eyebrows in question.

"Most certainly." Gareth took Miranda's hand and gave it to Henry of France.

"Ah, I see you're wearing the bracelet, my lady." Henry lifted her wrist, holding it up to the light. "It becomes you."

"Thank you, my lord." Miranda curtsied. "It is a most generous gift, sir."

"Not at all," he said. "It belonged to your mother. As I see it, it is merely returned to its rightful owner."

"You had it from my father?" Miranda lightly touched the emerald swan, setting it swinging.

"Aye." Henry was suddenly somber. "Your father was my dear friend. He treasured the bracelet after your mother's murder. On his deathbed, he gave it to me in remembrance of that night… as a symbol of all we lost…" Then he added in a voice so soft it was almost to himself, "and of all we must avenge."

There was a short silence, then Henry shook his head, as if dispelling grievous memory. "Come, my lady. Let us walk a little and you shall tell me all about yourself."

Miranda couldn't resist casting Gareth a quick, impish look over her fan at this, but he studiously ignored her, although she could have sworn she'd seen his lips twitch.

"If you would prefer to speak French, sir, I would be quite happy to do so," Miranda ventured to her escort. He seemed to be leading her most deliberately toward the far side of the hall, to where a heavy tapestry hung over what Miranda guessed to be an exit.

"Ah, you speak my language, then?" Henry was surprised and gratified.

"Passably," she replied, continuing in French. "How was your voyage? The Channel can be rough at this time of the year."

"You have crossed to France?" His surprise became astonishment. "Your guardian didn't mention that you had ever returned to the country of your birth."

"No… no, my lord, indeed I have not," she said hastily. "But I've heard tell of the roughness of the sea on occasion."

"Ah, yes." He nodded and picked up his pace again, but there was a slight frown in his eye. "You've been in England since you were a mere infant, and yet you speak my language as if it were your native tongue."

"I had an excellent French tutor," she improvised. "He and I spoke only French for days at a time. Lord Harcourt considered it necessary that I should be fluent in both tongues."

"As indeed he is himself," Henry commented. It was an entirely reasonable explanation and her facility in his language would be a great advantage when she arrived in France. It would endear her to his people as well as to his court.

"But we'll use English while I am here. It is only courteous to adapt to one's hosts, and I could use the practice." He smiled with a touch of self-deprecation.

His smile was one of the most attractive things about him, Miranda thought. She had a feeling he used it sparingly. There was a coiled force to his physical presence that made the smile all the more appealing. Would Maude find him pleasing? Impossible to say just yet.

"Let us see what lies through here." Henry pushed aside the heavy tapestry as they reached it. "Ah, an embrasure," he declared. "A place where we may be private in our discussions."

Miranda glanced over her shoulder. "But, my lord duke, will it not be considered immodest of me?"

"We have Her Majesty's blessing on my suit," he said with a chuckle. "I approve of a modest maid, but have no fear, you'll receive no censure while the queen and your guardian smile." He swept Miranda before him with an arm at her waist and the heavy tapestry swung back behind them.

It was a small window alcove, curtained presumably to keep out the drafts. A plain wooden bench was set against the paneled wall beneath the window.

"Ah, it's so stuffy!" Henry went to the window and flung it wide. "I cannot abide being indoors for long." He turned back to Miranda, again with that somewhat self-deprecating smile. "I am a rough and rude soldier, my lady Maude. Not very domesticated. I'm happier under canvas than slate or thatch."

"Indeed, my lord duke, I prefer the outdoors myself," Miranda said. "There's nothing so…" She caught herself just in time as she was about to launch into a description of the pleasures of sleeping under the stars on a fine summer night.

"So?" he prompted, regarding her with interest.

"So pleasant as a walk in the woods," Miranda said hastily. "But I expect you'd consider that tame, sir."

"But perfectly suitable for a gently bred maid," he responded. "Come, sit down beside me." He sat on the bench and drew her down next to him. "Tell me honestly now. Are you content for this match?" His expression was very serious as he turned her face toward him with a finger beneath her chin.

"My lord, I am obedient in all things," she murmured, veiling her eyes.

"No… no… little maid, that is not what I asked you." He tilted her chin further; his voice was very grave. "I will not pursue a match where the maid is unwilling. I would have a wife who came to me willingly this time, and not at the behest of politics."

His eyes were shadowed now with anger, his mouth thinned to a bare line. God help them all if this man ever discovered the deception, Miranda thought with a little shiver.

"You've been married before, my lord?" she inquired, moving her head away from his hand, dropping her eyes to her lap. "I was unaware."

"A man of thirty-nine summers, ma chere, does not come without a history," he replied, shrugging his shoulders with an impatient gesture. This doublet fitted him too well, tight across the shoulders and chest, and the silk shirt beneath felt soft and clingy like a snake's skin. He yearned for the easy comfort of his buff leather jerkin and the coarse linen shirt beneath.

"Are you uncomfortable, my lord?" Miranda looked at him in puzzlement. He had the pained air of a man sitting in a nettle bed.

"This damn doublet is too tight," he muttered. Then realizing how inappropriate such a complaint must seem in the circumstances, he returned abruptly to the previous subject. "My wife died."

The cynical lie was easily spoken. At this moment, Marguerite was probably locked in passion with one of her many paramours. But she'd give him her blessing on this endeavor. Marguerite, although loathing the match that her mother and brother had forced upon her, had not known she had been the bait for the massacre at their wedding. She had saved her husband's life despite her unwillingness for the match and they had remained friends over the years. But she would be as relieved to be rid of the burden of their marriage as he would. In fact, he thought, she would probably like this girl.

The demurely lowered eyes and protestations of dutiful obedience were a sham, he was convinced of it. There was a lot more to her character than she was letting him see. He had seen the way she moved when she thought she was unobserved, and he had noted the intriguing glint in the azure eyes. No complete innocent played the coquette with quite the skill of this lady, and he guessed he was being treated to another example of her skill. No, there was definitely something about her that would speak to Marguerite.

He took her hand, played with the fingers. He felt her stiffen and her hand lay limp and unresisting in his." There's no need to be afraid," he reassured, willing to play the game for a while longer. He raised her fingers to his lips.

Miranda tried to withdraw her hand. There was only one person she could respond to as the duke of Roissy so clearly wished her to respond.

Henry felt a stab of impatience. His fingers closed more tightly over hers and he brought his other hand to her throat. He stroked with a fingertip down to the pulse. The skin of the finger was rough and callused against her flesh and she raised a hand in a fluttering gesture of protest. But he ignored it, moving the finger down over the soft white skin of her breasts. The decolletage was low, accentuated by the high collar of the ropa rising stiffly at the back.

His finger dipped into the cleft between the small mounds. Miranda moved abruptly, pushing aside the exploring finger. "My lord duke, you must not."

"Is it too soon for a little loverly attention, ma chere⁷." He laughed. "But I know full well that you enjoy the game of coquette." He had felt the quickening of her skin beneath his touch, the speeding of the pulse. A swift and delightfully passionate response.

"We have but newly met, sir," Miranda offered.

"But of course, and you would be wooed and gentled as any maid," he agreed with a bluff laugh. But the frown had returned to his eyes. Games were all very well if one had the time for leisurely wooing. He must be back in France within the month and he would have his future bride coming softly to hand before he left. He would be assured that this time he had no unwilling bride.

"Will you take me back to Lady Dufort, sir?" Never had Miranda expected to wish for Imogen's company…

"I would take one small earnest of your consent first." This time, the fingers on her chin were very firm as he turned her face up. She saw his eyes, dark, sharp, and keen as a falcon's, coming closer. The thin-lipped mouth within its neat beard hovered above her. She steeled herself for the kiss, reminding herself that she was playing a part. She was Maude, a shy virgin, obedient to the dictates of her guardian, but not repelled by this suitor, not reluctant for such a marriage.

But when his lips brushed hers, she jumped, jerked her head away. "Your pardon, sir. I… I… am not accustomed…"

Henry stared at her in frustration. Certainly he was taking the game of flirtation a big step further, but the girl knew what was expected of her. And yet he had the feeling that her panicked response had not been feigned, was not part of a maidenly game of sham decorum.

"Very well," he said, not troubling to disguise his disappointment. "Come, I will return you to your chaperon. We shall have other opportunities in the next few days to get to know each other better." He rose to his feet and offered her his arm.

Gareth had watched their disappearance behind the arras and despite all his efforts to absorb himself in the conversations around him could think only of what was happening between Miranda and Henry.

"By God, Gareth, you're as distracted as a moonstruck calf!" Brian Rossiter boomed in his usual larger-than-life fashion. "Come to the card room."

"Your young cousin seems to please the duke of Roissy," Kip observed." The queen likes the marriage?"

"Very much." Gareth's eyes returned to the arras. Henry had made it clear he had little time to spend on this wooing. He would not linger over the niceties of courtship if he didn't have to.

"Then what's worrying you, dear fellow?" demanded Brian. "The wench is willing and able, Roissy is willing and able. The queen smiles. All's right with the world, seems to me."

"Maude is new to court life," Gareth offered. It sounded inadequate even to his own ears. He excused himself and moved away, aware of Kip's eyes resting on his back.

Miranda moved out from behind the arras as Henry held it aside for her. Gareth felt it like a blow to his chest. What had they been doing behind the arras? Had Henry been touching her, making whispered love to her? Had he kissed her? And why did it matter so much to him?

Miranda stood still, her eyes darting around the room, searching for him. And his own eyes pulled her gaze to him. He could do nothing to prevent it. The connection between them was suddenly as vibrant and palpable as a fine chain of spun gold.

Gareth turned on his heel and stalked away through the crowd.